Disclaimers: If they were mine, I'd make a lot of
embarrassing noises.

Spoilers: None, really. Takes place in some nebulous
period of canon that isn't quite now.

Summary: Investigation and exposure.

Ratings Note: NC-17.

Author's Note: I'm pretty sure this bunny came out
of a conversation with LC, who also provided some
choice bits.

Acknowledgments: The deliciouscrack crew, of
course, and also Weirdness Magnet.

*

Repetition makes everything easier.

The fifteenth time you shoot your line and swing
out over late night traffic will almost certainly be
easier than the first. The forty-seventh lie to your
parents was infinitely easier than the tenth.

The third time you... do this. Well.

At this point, the question of whether it will get
easier is still a question. Tim isn't, actually, sure
if he *wants* it to get easier. And the reasons
for *that* don't even have the decency to be
consistent with themselves. Because it would
be okay to not want this to be easier if he was
*just* concerned about the shades of grey
creeping into his moral outlook, but the fact
is...

Part of him *likes* how *difficult* this is. Part
of him doesn't want to give up the feel of
swallowing around the pound of his own heart,
and the back-brained panic of the fact that there
are only so many places he can hide out here --
and still keep his vantage point.

The fact is, if *he* were Dick, he'd know exactly
which rooftops provided which views into his
apartment, and while Dick *is* more casual
about this sort of security than Tim's ever likely
to be on his *least* paranoid day... chances
are he *does* know.

And one day he's going to look out of those
uncurtained windows and...

He's not thinking about that.

He's doing this the best way he knows how, and
he's reasonably sure he hasn't left behind any
evidence. He's not some kind of sniper, leaving
nests to be perused and catalogued by any
detective with half a brain. He's...

He's not thinking about *that*, either.

He's just... watching.

The bike gets him out here to the 'haven quickly
and easily, and sometimes he even gets all the
*way* to his actual destination, and Dick gives
him soda and they watch late night television
and it all feels so *normal*, and so *good*,
because Dick is... he isn't sure what he'd do
without Dick in his life.

But one night he'd decided to see if he could,
well, *surprise* Dick -- because it's good to
stay in practice -- but he'd never actually
made it *inside*, because a routine check on
Dick's position from *that* rooftop had...

And he had *seen*.

And Dick is frighteningly attractive. Beautiful,
even, and moreso seemingly every time Tim
looks at him. He's pretty sure he remembers a
time when he *could* look at Dick without...
wanting. More than he has, more than he
gets, more than he could *ask* for. He's
almost sure it had to be that way, otherwise
he wouldn't have been able to be *around*
Dick as comfortably as he has, as he still can.
Mostly.

They work really *well* together -- even
Batman thinks so.

Batman. And that's another thread of panic,
another sharp, sharp icicle raked down his
spine. He's worked with the man for three
years. He knows Batman *is* a man -- he's
long past the superstition -- but he still
knows that Batman is going to figure this
out. What he's doing.

And then... he doesn't know 'and then.' He
doesn't think about that, either.

To be perfectly honest, he doesn't think about
much of *anything* once he's out here, once
he knows if Dick... if Dick *will*.

Sometimes he looks tired after a patrol, and
the lights go out.

Sometimes the lights are already out by the
time Tim gets here.

This is only the third time. The lights are on,
and Dick is pacing, moving. There's a
half-read book in his hand and the television
is on. So is the stereo -- Tim can tell by the
way it's lit up. It's only the third time for *this*,
but he's known Dick for a long, long time.

Tim knew the way his body moved long before
he ever heard his voice, and now that he's
sixteen, and now that it's the third time, he's
pretty sure he knows what it means. Dick is
feeling...

He isn't sure what Dick is feeling, beyond
restless and awake and --

Tim watches through the binoculars as Dick
throws himself casually, elegantly on the couch.
He'd picked the right rooftop for this -- the
view into Dick's living room is nearly perfect.
And Dick shoves his cut-off sweats down
almost immediately, and he's not even wearing
a *jock* under them, and Tim feels his mouth
fall open and lets it stay that way.

Mouth-breathing is unfortunate to look at, but
infinitely quieter. And he's pretty sure he won't
need to moan for at least a few minutes. At
least until...

He can't ever look away. He can't.

He knows that it's possible that one day he'll
be used to this enough that he'll be able to do
all *sorts* of things, but he only knows that
on an intellectual level. His body knows an
entirely different set of facts:

Dick's legs are long. Dick's body is lean and
muscled and scarred and perfect. Dick's hand
curls around his own cock beautifully,
naturally. Dick bites his lip like he'd rather
someone else do it for him.

Tim's never going to get used to this. He's never
going to stop needing to see it.

The way Dick's mouth moves, and it's obvious
that he's speaking, but the angle isn't quite
right for lip-reading. He hasn't used his
directional mike for this. Yet. He doesn't think
he could...

He shakes his head and tightens his hands
around the mini-scope, forcing himself to be
aware of the plastic, of the gritty feel of the
roof beneath his left knee, of the faint complaint
of his spine at the way he's crouched.

He wants to know what Dick's saying. He
absolutely doesn't want to know what Dick's
saying. He wants to be *here*, in his own
body enough to not lose his mind more than
he already is at the rhythm of Dick's strokes.
Because he can feel it. What it would be like.

Maybe not *Dick's* hand -- his imagination
isn't quite that good, and he hasn't had enough
time to study Dick's calluses as much as he'd
like to -- but his own. What it would feel like to
just shove his shorts and tights and jock
down, out of the way, just so he could pick up
Dick's rhythm.

Not just yet. A few minutes more, when he's
hard enough *and* acclimated enough to the
sight of this that using that rhythm on his own
cock would be shocking, painful, would... he
can already feel it. The way it would be the
next thing to *being* in there, too close and
too hot and too needy and *exposed*.

Far more than Dick is right now, because Dick
doesn't *know* he's watching, and Tim
would. Or... it's hard to think with Dick touching
himself like that, with the way his head rolls
back and forth against the back of the couch,
with how *good* it must be for him, even
though it's just his own hand.

Dick has always been so *present* within his
own body, so graceful and sure and alive,
turning the world into grainy black and white
around him.

"I want you," he whispers to the night air,
because he has to, because there's no one to
hear, because Dick won't react to what he
*can't* hear, and because it's just this close to
honest.

The way he is.

And then Dick starts pumping his hips like the
motion of his own hand isn't good enough, or
maybe like it's more about the motion of his
body than about what he's actually getting.

Like he's imagining fucking someone, doing it
right now. And they would be spread over his
lap and holding *on*, because Dick is doing it
hard, so hard, and he wants it that way.

Tim wants it to hurt and he wants it to be
thoughtless, reflexively needy and physically
cruel. Brutal, perfect, and the plastic of his
'scope creaks under his fingers and the seam
of his jock is a punishment. He doesn't want to
move, just yet. He knows himself well enough
to know that adjusting himself will just lead to
jerking off, and then he might close his
*eyes*.

He doesn't want to so much as blink.

Dick is so close now, he *has* to be. The lamp
shines on the sweat on his forehead, and his
hips are rolling, snapping up, up, and Tim bites
his lip to hold back the moan. Not yet. Not
*yet*.

He wants to see. He has to see -- oh God,
Dick pushing his t-shirt up with his other hand,
scraping and pinching at his nipple --

"Dick," and that was too loud, but he's still
alone, it's still *okay*, even though Dick's
rhythm is beautifully ragged now, even though
he's slick with his own pre-come. Tim wants
to know what he tastes like, wants to lick
Dick's thighs and suck on his balls and taste
the skin, the difference between sweat and
pre-come, the difference between pre-come
and --

He manages to make it through, manages to
watch Dick coming, arching off the couch and --
moaning, he's maybe moaning, and that's all
Tim can take. He turns and sets his back to the
edge of the roof, ditching the gauntlets and
lifting his hips and pushing everything down,
out of the way.

His mind is scattered, desperate, and the images
aren't the right ones, not really. He's
overstimulated, and it actually takes a little while
before he can get past the old ones. Dick
flipping and tumbling through the air, Dick
smiling at him, Dick fighting his way through a
crowd of hostiles --

Tim groans and squeezes himself hard, too
hard, and thinks about Dick doing it, to himself,
to both of them at the same time.

Dick saying his name and Dick touching him,
watching him, *having* him, and there's a six
story drop about six inches behind Tim, and
he wishes that didn't make it better. He wishes
it didn't feel so right, because the last thing he
really needs right now is more proof of how
fucked-up he is.

How fucked-up *this* is, because one day he's
going to start *scheduling* this, more than he
already does, because it's only the third time
and he's already addicted.

He jacks himself harder, faster, and he thinks
he's actually farther *away* from his own
orgasm, like maybe he's still enough of a
human being to hate himself for this. And then
his mind gives him the image of Dick's throat
curved back, of the curve of Dick's mouth,
and he's --

"I thought it was a stranger."

His heart seizes in his chest before his mind
kicks in, before he can let go of his cock.

"Watching me, that is," and Dick's voice in his
ear is flatly curious, dangerously dreamy.

"I --"

"Tim."

And just like that Tim can feel Dick. The heat
and *presence* of him behind his back. He
can't say a word.

"How many times?" Dick's breath is hot and
ticklish against his ear.

He has to be holding himself up on his palms.
He had to have climbed up here by hand,
silently, or --

"Are you gonna tell me?"

Tim's cock twitches in his grip before he can
squeeze it again.

"You had to know I'd *feel* you. I just
thought... I had a secret admirer." There's a
laugh in Dick's voice, and Tim wonders if he can
make himself have a heart attack.

He's definitely tempted to try.

"Move," Dick says, and Tim's used to following
orders.

He pushes to his feet and moves forward, but
he doesn't get far. Dick catches his shoulders
and squeezes, holds on tight and pulls Tim back
against his body fast. Too fast. He doesn't have
time to hold back his gasp.

His face feels hot and he's still *hard*.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

"Do you know why I didn't stop?" Dick's voice is
so *soft*.

"No," he manages, and it sounds thick and low
to his own ears.

"There's nothing like having someone's eyes on
you, Tim. But you don't really know about that,
do you?"

He shivers, and Dick's hands tighten on his
shoulders. And then slide down Tim's arms to
his hands, to where he's trying to cover himself.
Dick tugs Tim's left hand back down to his side.
And twines his fingers with the right.

"I think you should," he says, and wraps Tim's
hand around his own dick again. "I really, really
do."

"Dick. We -- I --"

"On your knees."

"Oh God," he says, but he's doing it, and Dick
follows him down and presses closer.

"Now. Unless someone *else* is watching this
rooftop..." Dick's mouth is close enough to Tim's
face that he can *feel* Dick's smile. "It's just us. It's
just what you do... and what I can *see*."

*Everything.* He can see -- Tim squeezes his eyes
shut for a second, opens them again and tightens his
fingers. Dick's fingers slip in between his own, Dick
*moves* with him when Tim starts to stroke again.
Staring helplessly at himself, his cock sliding in and
out of their fist and he can't tell if the motion in his
arm starts with him or with Dick.

"Oh God *Dick*--"

"Is this what you wanted?" His breath curls hot and
wet around Tim's ear. "Did you want me to see you,
Tim?"

No way to answer that -- to do anything but pant
and jack himself harder, watch Dick's hand swallow
his own and watch Dick's fingers grow shiny and
*wet* and just. Moan and let Dick *do* him, and
watch him, until Tim's coming into their hands and
shaking hard.

"Oh, Tim --" Dick brings their joined fingers up to
Tim's mouth. "Suck them, let me see -- your
mouth --" And Dick kisses his jaw hard as Tim
opens for him. Lets Dick push inside, as much as
he can take, fingers slipping across his lips and his
chin as he sucks his come from their skin. Dick
hums against his throat and pulls Tim back tighter
against him.

Starts undoing the tunic with his free hand and...
there's no reason for Dick to know which panel
contains the electric charge that needs to be
deactivated, but he does. Like he's studied Tim's
suit, and every time they're out together Dick
knows -- Dick *could.*

Tim moans around the fingers in his mouth. Dick
*is,* and the tunic falls open to either side, so
Dick can press his hand on Tim's chest and just --
*hold* him there. His hand is so *hot* through
the t-shirt and he's got to be able to feel Tim's
heart beating hard enough to rattle his chest.

He presses harder, and slides his other hand
down to Tim's belt, undoing it with a flick of the
wrist and making Tim feel impossibly lighter on
top of just being more naked. Like Dick is
maybe the only thing keeping him tethered to
the roof.

Dick's hands and Dick's mouth on his throat,
Dick's tongue --

Tim hears himself moan and *feels* Dick
hearing it, and for a second he's pressing on
Tim's chest so hard Tim can't breathe, and
then he isn't. No contact at all. No --

Hands on his shoulders again, bending him
back, and Dick shifts around Tim so fast that
he doesn't have time to look down. Dick's
eyes are wild in the faint light from the streets
and Dick is pushing him down on his back,
petting him and pulling his legs out straight,
stroking up his thighs and tugging his tights
and shorts down further, down past his knees.

"Dick, I... I --"

"You could've asked, you know." The curve of
his smile is sharp and faintly wicked. "Or
touched me."

Tim bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut at
the feel of Dick cupping his sac.

"Maybe like this," he says, and gives him a
gentle squeeze before stroking back up over
him to either side of Tim's cock. "You want to,
right?"

"Please..."

Dick slides his hands up further, pushing up
under Tim's shirt, and he knows the feel of
Dick's calluses now. He'll always know.

"I'm sorry, I'm --"

"Shh. You want to touch me? Like this?"
Thumbs on Tim's nipples, hard little circles --

"Oh God, *yes* --"

"You could've," Dick says, and pinches his
nipples, making Tim gasp. "You could've
come in --" Scratching lightly up and down
his chest, and his eyes are huge and dark
and *focused.* "I'd let you. I *want* you to,
Tim," and pinches him again, harder, until
Tim bucks up into his hands and moans,

"Dick, oh god *please*--" His voice feels like it's
*pouring* out of his throat. Dick's hands are
hot and huge on his chest, and then they slide
down, out the bottom of his shirt.

Strokes over him, light and teasing. "Like this?"
Dick says. "How would you do it, Tim?" Cups
his balls again and *looks* at Tim, looks in his
eyes. "You want to suck me?"

"Yes --" And Dick bends down *fast* and takes
Tim in. "Oh *god,*" far too loud but he can't.
He can't even close his mouth.

It's all he can do not to shove his hands in
Dick's hair and pet and stroke and *pull*, but
he can't, he doesn't -- he shouldn't *have* this,
it's too good. Dick feels so -- his mouth is so
hot, so wet and sweet and good, and his tongue
is making Tim want to tell every truth he knows.

It's everything he wanted and nothing he's
supposed to have, and he isn't sure if it's just
because he's terrified or not.

Dick's palms cup his hips and Dick's thumbs dig in
hard and Tim can't -- he can't --

He sits up on his elbows and balls his hands into
fists and Dick is *looking* at him. Watching with
darkly gleaming eyes and that's -- Tim swallows
around the lump of fear and embarrassment in his
throat and forces himself to look right back, to
*see* the way Dick's seeing him, and know that it's
going to be in Dick's eyes from now on.

Because Dick knows exactly how bad he wants this,
how much he *needs* it, and there's nothing he can
do but be this naked. All the time.

"Dick," he says, and it comes out like a plea and he
doesn't know what else he was going to say
*anyway*, but Dick just narrows his eyes and sucks
harder, slipping his fist from around the base of Tim's
cock and reaching for one of Tim's wrists. His thumb
is over Tim's pulse and he *has* to feel how fast it is,
how desperate.

He presses down hard and just keeps *looking* at
Tim, and it's something like breaking, like the first
helpless gasp of air after coming out from underwater.
It's Dick *sucking* him, and it's like he hadn't really
known how good it would be before, or let himself
feel it on more than just the shallowest edges of his
consciousness.

"Dick. Dick, I can't --"

And Tim feels the head of his cock bumping hard
against the back of Dick's throat for just long enough
to moan before Dick is *swallowing* him, and he
can't keep his eyes open anymore. It's too hot, and
it's too real, and he *needs* this. He can't keep his
hips from pumping and he can't form the words to
tell Dick to hold him down.

Not when Dick is *moaning* around him, and it's
just one more thing he's not supposed to have, that
he never thought he *would*, and Tim hears himself
panting and feels Dick *squeezing* his wrist and he
can't hold it back anymore.

He curls in on himself and shakes his arm loose and
shoves his hands into Dick's hair and he can't even
make himself gentle. He can't even *just* pet Dick
the way he wants to. His hands won't listen to him,
spasming and pulling as Dick sucks, and Tim sits up
all the way and holds on, feeling himself heat all over
at the press of Dick's face against him, at the heat
and undeniable *reality* of him.

Tim feels greedy, reckless, and part of him wants
to come solely so it can *stop*, and part of him --

No, there's no other part of him anymore, because
all he can think about is what it would be like to
spill down Dick's throat when he'd barely let
himself think about Dick's *hands* on him, and he
has to pull out, get control, but Dick's grip on his
hips is *iron* and he can't even drag his fingers
out of Dick's hair.

Tim bites his lip and shakes and comes, groaning
in his throat at the feel of Dick swallowing around
him, over and over.

"Dick..."

He tries to catch his breath and fails, and fails again,
and by the time Dick pulls off Tim feels a little
drunk on too much oxygen and too much *feeling*.

It's worse when Dick kisses him, or better, because
it's the easiest thing in the world to just keep his
hands in Dick's hair, to pet him now and do it a
little too hard because his hands are shaking. To
moan into Dick's mouth and let himself get pushed
back down again. Dick's cut-offs don't hide
*anything*, and Dick kisses like he doesn't care
at all, holding Tim down with his weight and only
pausing long enough to take quick, shallow
breaths before licking his way back into Tim's
mouth.

He wants more. He wants so much *more*, and
that's something else he'd never considered. It
would've been obvious if he had -- the feel of
Dick moving on him, the taste of himself in
Dick's mouth --

But he hadn't, and that's terrifying, too, and the
only relief is that he'd have to *fight* to get out
of this, and he never would. He couldn't. He
*has* to have this, to *feel* this, and so it has
to be okay.

Even when Dick stops kissing his mouth and
moves to his throat, and there's nothing to catch
Tim's groans but the night air. Even when he
hears himself gasping in stark, obvious
counterpoint to the rock of Dick's hips against
him.

"What else did you want, Tim?"

Words. He'd *forgotten* words, and how the
sound of Dick's voice saying things like *that*
could make him shiver.

More when Dick nips at his earlobe. "What else
did you think about when you touched yourself?"

"Dick..."

The sigh of Dick's breath against him is anything
but soothing, and then he's moving, pulling
Tim's arms from around his neck and pressing
his wrists back against the roof. "Tell me."

It's an order, and it makes Tim swallow.
Somehow it doesn't matter that his mask is still
on, that the lenses are still up. Probably
because Dick knows him as well as anyone.
Maybe better now.

"Tim."

"I just -- you. I have... images in my mind." He
swallows again and thinks about turning his
head, and about what it would look like if he
did. He wants to know if it would be sexier for
Dick, *better*, and he wants Dick's weight
back on top of him and --

"More."

"What?"

Dick strokes his wrists. "Tell me more," he says,
and his voice is low and demanding. Rough. The
'you *owe* me,' is silent, but it's just as real as
the pressure of Dick's hands against his wrists..

He absolutely does. "Your hands on me. You
touch me more than anyone, I --"

And it makes Dick pull back, a little. "God, Tim,
I don't --"

"You *do*," he says, and reaches for Dick's
hands before he can get too far away. "You
touch me all the time, you... even when we're
*working*." And he thinks maybe he's saying
the *wrong* thing, because the look on Dick's
face is a little *horrified*, but it's the truth, and
it's... "I like it," Tim says, and curls his hands
around Dick's own, dragging them back to his
face. "I like it when your hands are on me. It...
it makes me..."

Warm, real, normal... *something*, only Tim
doesn't really have the words to make that
make sense, he just has the need. The hunger
and *craving* for it, and he pulls Dick's fingers
back to his mouth. He still tastes faintly of
Tim's own come, or maybe it's just the smell.

Tim licks Dick's fingers, licks between them and
closes his eyes behind the mask when Dick's
pushes in.

"You want this," Dick says, and it sounds like
he's figuring something out, like there was
maybe something even *more* in what Tim
said. He doesn't want to think about it, and he
knows how to make it so he *can't*.

He pushes the hand that isn't on his face
down, away from him, and Dick's cock is a
hard outline through the thin material of his
cutoffs.

"Tim, yes..."

Tim moans around Dick's fingers and curls his
own under the waistband of Dick's shorts, and
moans again at the scratch of hair against his
knuckles, and the slick heat on his fingertips.
Dick shoves the shorts down without a word,
without hesitation, without even looking
*away* from Tim's face.

Like it's absolutely nothing to bare himself like
this. Maybe it isn't, for Dick. Maybe it doesn't
matter at all that Tim's drooling around his
fingers and touching him with shaky hunger.
A part of his brain wants to tell him that maybe
it's *better* for Dick this way, but that's too
much to wrap his mind around.

It's enough just to get his fist around Dick's cock,
to get a better grip when Dick crawls forward
until he's straddling Tim's chest. This close he
can smell him -- he can't *not* -- and when he
strokes, Dick pushes in with his fingers and --

It's not a thrust. It's too smooth for that, too...
Dick *rolls* his hips, pushing his cock into the
circle of Tim's fist and it's so sexy Tim has to
moan around Dick's fingers and clutch at Dick's
wrist when he tries to pull out again.

"I want to hear you. I want -- oh, Tim. You...
you have to talk to me."

Tim lets go of Dick's wrist with a whimper that
just gets louder when Dick twines his fingers
with Tim's own and pushes their hands back
down against the roof.

"Talk to me."

"I don't know what to say," and he knows he
sounds pathetic, but all he wants to do is focus
on the smell of Dick's sweat and the feel of him
over him, holding him down, rocking into his
hand and watching him -- *smiling* at him.

"You like the way I touch you."

"Yes --"

"Every time I -- ruffled your *hair* --"

And it sounds like Dick wants that to be a
question, but Tim strokes him faster, harder,
tightens his other hand around Dick's own and
thinks about Dick *pulling* his hair, about all
the times Dick's tackled him playfully or
randomly put an arm around him and pulled
him close, and the way Dick's slicker with
pre-come on every stroke, the way Dick's
breathing gets rougher and rougher --

It's like permission. It's like a blanket
forgiveness for all the times Tim took those
touches the *wrong* way. And he knows he
should probably say some of that out loud, that
none of this is *Dick's* fault, but he doesn't
want to make a sound. He doesn't even want
to breathe, because he doesn't want to miss
a single second of this. The feel and sound
and *smell* of him, and those wide blue eyes
*seeing* him.

And not turning away.

Not even when the rhythm of his hips gets
ragged, though the expression on his face
is... sharper. Harder and more intent. He's
going to come. He's --

Twining their fingers together and changing
the pace, making each stroke shorter and
more brutal.

"That's not the way you --" Were doing it
when Tim was *watching*, and Dick smirks
at him, and no, he doesn't have to say a word.

Dick was playing for an audience, before.
Now he's just... having sex.

With him.

Tim licks his lips and lets himself be guided,
and he only gets a moment to be conflicted
about where he wants to look before Dick's
hand tightens around his own and he groans.
His name.

And Tim can't look anywhere but Dick's face,
at the way his eyes narrow and his mouth falls
open and stays that way for every panted
moan.

Even in the questionable light Tim can see
how flushed Dick is, how close, and when Dick
speeds their hands even more he can't help
but moan, too.

"Oh, Tim, Tim -- make me come. Make me --
*God* --"

"I want to. I've always --" Tim bites his lip and
shakes his head and lets himself just feel it. The
heat and strength of Dick's hand around his and
the way the look on Dick's face just makes him
want to never stop, never let go.

Dick's pushing Tim's other hand *hard* against
the roof, now, and every moan sounds like the
best kind of painful.

"Don't stop," Tim says before he can think, and
blushes when Dick laughs.

"Not -- a problem -- oh fuck --"

The laugh turns into a loud, breathless groan
and Dick is coming all over their fists and
spattering Tim's shirt. Tim forces himself not
to reflexively tighten his grip on Dick's cock and
forces himself to just *wait*.

It's easier when he focuses on Dick's face again.
Dick is breathing hard, and licking his lips, and
Tim wants to feel guilty for the part of his mind
that won't stop taking snapshots, but he can't.
Dick knows now. It has to be okay. Maybe
more than that when Dick pushes Tim's hand
against the roof one more time and lets go.
And... touches his face.

Tim leans in to the brush of sweat-damp fingers
across his cheek, but only gets a moment
more of contact before those fingers sweep
really *purposefully* over the mask. And flip back
his lenses.

Tim blinks against the shift in the light and then
just watches Dick looking into his eyes. And then
Dick makes them squeeze his cock again before
pulling free. Tim curls the fingers of that hand
into a fist to keep himself from petting Dick's
thighs or... or a lot of things.

"I... um." It's really time for him to go home.
The position of the moon doesn't give him a
perfectly *accurate* time, but...

"You're coming inside with me."

Dick. "Okay."

Dick's fingers are teasing almost idly at the
edges of his mask, and his other slick, sticky
hand is tracing patterns on Tim's chest. He's
not sure when his shirt got rucked up. He's
almost sure he could make sense out of the
patterns, but that would require him to stop
staring up at Dick.

It's not going to happen. "Dick --"

"I want you in my bed, Tim. And you're going
to talk to me."

"I." He has to go *home*. He absolutely
can't -- "Okay."

Dick cups his face and tilts it up a little further,
holding it there. "All I have to do is ask," he
says, and Tim thinks that maybe should have
been a question, but also...

Maybe it shouldn't. Dick hasn't stopped tracing
those patterns on his chest, and he brushes
his other thumb over Tim's mouth.

"Tim," Dick says, frowning a little. That *is* a
question.

"Yes," Tim says, and lets himself feel it when
Dick's thumb slips almost into his mouth.

And lets Dick see him feeling it.

end.