Disclaimers: Not mine.

Summary: Dick takes a little of what he needs.

Author's Note: 'Missing scene' for Batman 631.

Ratings Note: NC-17

*

"Stop struggling. It's me." Dick can see his voice registering on Tim.
See it and *feel* it. The way it always happens. The body against
his own tenses up hard at the same time that the kick that would
probably damage the hell out of his kneecap turns into something
like a hard, slow drag.

Not hard enough.

It's probably a bad sign that he misses the feel of Tim's *boots*.

He misses a lot of things. It's been --

"What took you?"

-- a long time. Dick swallows back the smile that wants to be on his
face with an effort. "You'd be surprised how difficult it is to infiltrate
a public high school in broad daylight when that school is
surrounded by hundreds of cops, sharpshooters, bystanders,
and television cameras."

Tim's mouth twitches, and something rolls and sparks behind his
eyes. "Whiner."

Dick gives up on not smiling.

Tim gives him the sitch, Dick gives him all the toys that Bruce
had -- grimly and soundlessly -- added to his and Cass' normal
complement before they'd gone in. Whoever had found the
kid first was bound to make his day.

He's ridiculously and just a little painfully glad that it was him.

"Come on..."

And it takes a moment to figure out why Tim had trailed off,
but, in the end, he's not really all *that* surprised to see his
hand cupping Tim's shoulder. And Tim is staring at his
gauntlet like...

He doesn't know. He *wants* to.

Dick swallows and his throat feels tight and dry. He covers,
a little, by shoving the gas-grenade currently teetering on
the edge of falling out of Tim's back pocket a little deeper.

And completely fails to cover anything at all, really, because
he can't move that hand, either.

When Tim looks at him again, his eyes are hooded and
blue. Dick squeezes his shoulder for no good reason at all.

"There's not a lot of information making it through the
Drake Line, but. I've heard a few things. About Bludhaven."

When Dick swallows this time, there's a click, and he isn't
thinking of what the sound reminds him of, he isn't... He
breathes out, deep and ragged, and bites his lip when
Tim reaches to grab his wrists.

There's work to do.

They have to --

"Dick," Tim says, and squeezes. His voice isn't hooded at all.
It's -- when Dick pulls him close, a few things fall out of Tim's
overstuffed pockets. Since none of it explodes or fills the
bathroom with gas, he decides not to worry about it.

"I missed you, little brother," he says, and Tim pushes his
face against Dick's shoulder. There's a different kind of
tension in his body, and Dick holds on tighter reflexively. He
wants to feel it. He wants to know it. He --

"Nightwing," Tim says and his hands move over Dick's back.
Not much, just enough that his fingers aren't over any
major pressure points before he digs in.

It's the sort of thing that makes him think he should be
laughing. Batfamily courtesies. He doesn't feel like laughing.
He buries his face in Tim's hair, and smells nothing but sweat
and shampoo. He moves before he can think, pushing and
*gripping* Tim, and when he pushes his face against Tim's
throat the sweat smells sharper, spicier.

The sound Tim makes is wordless.

The 'spice' is cordite. Smoke and blood and Tim's sweat, and
Dick missed this, too. He feels like he's still missing it.

"*God* --"

Tim's voice bounces off the tile when Dick presses his tongue
over Tim's thudding pulse. It's loud and echoing, all around
them --

"We -- we *can't* --"

It's a breathless, stressed-out stage whisper, but it isn't
surprised, or angry, or disappointed, or -- Dick moans against
Tim's skin and sucks as hard as he dares, for as long as he
dares. There's nothing but cotton to block the feel of Tim
tensing in his hands, and Tim shoves *his* hands into Dick's
hair.

Leaves them there.

And *then* yanks.

Dick pulls back. The mark on Tim's throat probably won't
bruise.

And Tim's mouth is only hard beneath his own for a heartbeat
before it's slick and soft and open and *willing*, and some
desperately greedy part of Dick's mind wants him to know that
Tim missed *them*, too. That he maybe needs this just as
much, even if the reasons are wrong. Even if it all still boils
down to Dick taking advantage.

He's had a lot of experience, just lately, with using other people's
need.

It's one of those things he knows full well *shouldn't* get easier,
but it doesn't stop him from coaxing Tim's tongue into his
mouth, from sucking hard and rolling his body against Tim's own.

He's taller. His musculature has changed, shifting from the
whippet thin-ness of a boy who gets all the exercise anyone
could possibly need running around rooftops, to the harder
*and* softer bulk of a boy who is, probably, working out
precisely as much as he's able.

He feels a little like Jason.

It also shouldn't be easy to hide that moan in the next kiss. And
the next.

"Dick, please."

Ambiguous. They have *work* to do. They -- but when Dick
shoves one hand into Tim's hair and yanks, Tim just leans into
it, exposing the other side of his throat and panting. For a
moment, he wonders if this, too, is just because he's the first,
but the images that brings are both laughable and terrible.

He buries them deep and tries to lose himself in the taste of
Tim's skin, instead. The sound of his echoing gasps --
"*Please* --"

It only takes a second to get his free hand down where Tim's
hard. It takes longer to convince himself to stop rubbing and
squeezing --

"Oh -- oh Dick --"

-- and get them *open*.

Boxers. Tim had almost never worn them before. They're
uncomfortable and impractical under tights. They're --

Tim's hard, hot even through Dick's gauntlet. His jeans fall
down around his ankles and a few more things fall out of
the pockets, skitter and roll. He's --

"Harder -- fast, please -- please --"

Dick kisses him again, but can't ignore it, can't take it slow,
because Tim doesn't want it that way. It doesn't matter why
he doesn't want it that way, and it doesn't --

Dick strokes Tim fast and kisses him slow, and then just keeps
his mouth pressed over Tim's own so that the sounds can't go
anywhere but into *him*. He watches the flush darken on
Tim's face, watches his lashes flutter, *feels* him.

Little brother. So beautiful and so *his*, if only for right now,
if only because Dick's taking him for his own.

Tim shudders and whimpers into Dick's mouth, and Dick shifts
enough to catch his come. And lets go.

For just a moment it feels as though the only thing keeping Tim
upright is Dick's grip on his hair, and that makes him flex and
*want*, but. He still has a little control. Just enough to keep from
doing... anything else. And then Tim steadies himself on his
feet and squeezes Dick's biceps.

He hadn't even really registered that Tim was holding on. He...

"Dick..." His eyes are still closed.

Dick groans and brings his gauntlet to his mouth, licking and
sucking it clean, doing it fast. He doesn't want to tease Tim, he
just --

Tim opens his eyes too soon, anyway, and then stares,
unblinking, while Dick takes this, too.

Dick wants to kiss him again, but settles for the shiver of Tim's
hands sliding up to his shoulders, and forces himself to
understand the purposeful squeeze.

He nods, and steps back, and doesn't stare while Tim fixes his
clothes. He pulls a tangler grenade out from under the sink and
tosses it back over his shoulder, hearing it slap against Tim's
palm.

"You've got a lot of faith in my reflexes," Tim says. "Considering."

It feels like an offer, or, more probably, a bridge. Something to
stretch between the work they'll be doing in another minute and
everything Dick isn't sure whether he should try to forget. I know
how you taste, he doesn't say. "Yes," he manages, and doesn't
turn around until he's absolutely sure Tim has his game-face on.

Until he's absolutely sure about his own.

"Let's go," he says, and lets Tim lead the way.