Disclaimers: So very much not mine.

Spoilers: None, really. Vague references to the fact
that the (comic) Teen Titans exist, and various older
Batman storylines.

Summary: It's kind of a rule. You have a Robin, sooner
or later you put him in a dress.

Ratings Note/Warnings: NC-17. Contains content some
readers may find disturbing.

Author's Note: Jack made me a pretty:
http://www.teland.com/clubTimWorkIt.jpg

Eventually, I found something resembling a plot to hang
it on. As for the house... yeah, I'm pretty much playing
Make Your Own Fanon. It's fun.

Acknowledgments: To Livia, Basingstoke, and Jack for
audiencing and many helpful suggestions.

Feedback: Makes me even cuter. leytelj@gmail.com

*

"I can't believe you have your *own* secret lair."

Tim opens his closet and gives Dick an innocent look over
his shoulder. "But Dick, *you* got one..."

"When I moved *out*. And got a *job*."

"Life's just not as simple as it was in your day, my friend,"
Tim says mock-sadly.

"*My* day. Right." Dick throws himself back into a chair
and puts his feet up on the desk. "You know what kills
me?"

"Do tell." Tim's going through the clothes, examining and
rejecting one outfit after another.

"You have a *house*. A nice-sized, empty house. Private.
Fully-stocked?"

"Mm-hmm..."

"You haven't thrown one party, have you?"

Tim snorts. "It's a hideout, not a freaking dorm room."

"You *have* people who know you're Robin. You have
your own *team*."

"And?"

The thing is -- the *hell* of it is, that, as amused as
Tim clearly is, it's more a function of how he relates to
Dick than it is about realizing how screwed up he is.

And he is. Screwed up.

"*And* what are you thinking? House! Privacy! The fact
that you're -- theoretically, at least -- a teenager."

Tim gives him a mild, wordless glare that Dick has come
to think of as Tim Drake: Default Setting.

"You're letting down your people, Boy Wonder."

Small, choked laugh. "My people?"

"Your people. You know, the mass of fun-driven,
light-hearted underaged types you're supposed to be
infiltrating tonight?"

"Oh, *those* my people. Got it." Tim tosses something
green on the bed and starts stripping. "Tell you what.
Why don't you let *me* worry about them? You've got
your own role to play."

He thinks about pushing it, about pointing out that his
role is an *actual* role, as opposed to Tim's, which is
just supposed to be... "Is that a dress?"

"Yep."

"You're wearing a dress?"

"I'm *supposed* to be a club kid."

"Why do you own dresses?"

"You know, I've *seen* those pictures Barbara has of
you in some of your more interesting disguises."

Which, okay, true, but "yeah, but *Bruce* bought those."

"He bought these, too. Technically. He trusts my
judgment in terms of modern fashion."

Dick isn't glaring. He isn't. He grabs the dress off the
bed before Tim can reach for it, and... it's short. And
velvet. And short. Really more of a shirt than a dress,
though Tim *is* a little guy. "What kind of club did you
think we were going to, anyway?"

Tim's sigh is deep and heartfelt. "New. 'Mixed' clientele.
Mostly techno. Scheduled Goth nights -- this isn't one of
them. Average age of attendee: nineteen and dropping.
Hence the need for me, old-timer."

"Yeah, but --"

Tim yanks the dress out of Dick's hands and smoothes it.
"And also? Sometimes I feel like being pretty."

He says it in the exact same voice he uses to say things
like 'I think that one has a boot gun,' and 'where are you
parked?' Dick looks at him. "You're getting better at the
deadpan."

"I try." Tim slips the dress on and crouches in front of
the closet again. "Docs or combat boots?"

"What are you wearing under the dress?"

"Fishnets."

Dick thinks about it. "You only have the bright green
Docs?"

"Well, I have burgundy in here somewhere..."

"Kind of clashes, don't you think?"

"Yeah, you're right. Combat boots, it is. I'll have to do
some more shopping."

Dick can't decide if he wants to see that or not. He
shakes it off and waits. Those are... definitely fishnets.
"What do those feel like?"

"Bruce never put you in them?"

"I'm just going to pretend that image never happened."

Tim snickers. "How about the one where he kneels at
your feet and tenderly slips those high heels you wore
for --"

"Watch it."

"Heh." Tim does a half-serious series of kicks and turns.
"Surprisingly comfortable, actually. Though I bet that
won't last."

"Remember, *you're* not on active duty tonight, kid."

"Yeah, yeah. But I may have to protect my virtue."

"How often *do* you go undercover?"

"Like this? Just enough to stay in practice. Strange as
it may seem, I just don't feel entirely comfortable in
dresses."

Dick snorts. "I knew we were coddling you when we
let you wear long pants."

"What *did* you do in wintertime, anyway?"

"Suffered. Are you ready yet?"

"Yeah, right. I don't even have my make-up on. Just be
happy that I shaved this morning."

"That must've made gym class interesting."

Tim flips him off, throws a smock around his shoulders,
and pushes Dick's feet off the desk, flipping up a
hidden panel to reveal a mirror. With lights.

"Your desk is a vanity table."

"Yet one more reason why I *don't* invite people over
here."

Dick grins. "Should I be flattered?"

"By the fact that I've made copies of several of those
pictures of you, just in case? If you want."

"Sure. *Tell* yourself that it's for blackmail purposes.
Anything that gets you through the night."

Tim snickers and draws on eyeliner in thick, even
strokes. "Asshole."

And it's not that he's *surprised* that Tim would be
this... thorough. About anything, really -- the kid
footnotes his grocery lists. Still, he'd never really
expected that thoroughness would be applied in a
situation like this one.

A pause in the application of mascara. "What?"

He probably *should* have expected it. "Absolutely
nothing."

Tim gives him an openly speculative look for a moment
before nodding and turning his attention to his hair.
This, at least, isn't remotely surprising. Dick's pretty
sure Tim has at least one pocket on the utility belt
devoted to emergency hair-care products.

There was no other explanation for how often the kid's
hair had been suspiciously perfect during No Man's Land.

"Shut up, Dick."

"I didn't say *anything*."

"Shut up, anyway."

And really, he *had* planned on hiding his smile behind
his hand or something, but Tim's pretty much just
asking for a smirk. Dick provides.

Tim ignores him and streaks his hair. In *two* colors.
Which is... okay, the fuchsia adds a nice contrast.

"Maybe you should buy some pink boots."

"I've only been able to find cheap ones. They fall apart
too easily."

Meaning, 'when I try to fight in them,' which, well,
considering their lifestyle... "You *could* dye your own."

"You just want someone else to have the nickname 'fairy
boots.' Don't smack me, you'll mess up my makeup."

Dick punches him in the ribs, instead. 'Pixie boots,' he
doesn't say.

Tim grunts and eyes himself critically.

"I *had* been planning to get there before tomorrow."

"Are you this impatient with *all* your dates?"

Dick blinks.

Tim smirks. "It'd explain your love life. Or, you know,
the lack thereof."

"I'm perfectly willing to make you fix your makeup again."

"It's so sad when a hero gets old and loses his discipline."

And he *would* point out that Tim is enjoying himself
far, far too much, but... how often does that happen? Dick
settles back in his chair and crosses his arms. "Fine,
*girlfriend*. Give me the run-down."

Tim brushes glitter eye shadow on, artfully careless. "You
show up, looking nice and awkward and closeted.
Metrosexual-chic yuppie looking to get a little crazy -- you
should have some product for your hair, by the way --
you'll be scouting the bar, edging the dance floor. You
get the second run at the bathrooms."

"And you?"

"You're dropping me off six blocks away, behind the sushi
place. I take a nice, leisurely stroll, arriving fashionably
late. My ID isn't the best, but it probably shouldn't be. If
I *do* get carded, I'm going to flirt about it first. I don't
seem to be the bouncer's type, but it establishes my
cover, blah blah. Pass me the nail polish. No, the
hematite."

"How long is that going to take to dry?"

"Not long. Anyway, if I *am* the bouncer's type, I do
my best not to cripple him before making my way
inside. I hit the dance floor, find the likely druggies,
flirt some more. I get the *first* run at the bathrooms --
you know we're not going to find anything there. Nobody
does bathroom deals these days."

"Yeah, we're being thorough. You might find a back
room or something."

"Nobody bothers with back rooms, either. Not for *this*
stuff."

"You're pretty much just trying to get me to lecture you
about the importance of being anal retentive, aren't
you?"

"I own my kinks." Tim blows on his nails and gives him
another innocent look.

The makeup makes it both less *and* more convincing.
Dick rolls his eyes. "What else?"

"Assuming I get in on-time, I make contact with you at
plus-seventy minutes, after I get some water from the
bar. I playfully drag you onto the dance floor, and we
make our reports. Second meet-up an hour after that,
because you just can't resist my hot underaged bod,
and come hunt me down. I'll be in the northeast corner."
Tim files at the second and third fingernails on his right
hand, and eyes the left for a long moment before
chipping at the thumbnail and standing. "Third meet an
hour after *that*, when you'll find me trying to look
inconspicuous by your bike. Satisfied?"

"Are you *ready*?"

Tim bats his eyelashes. "I'm *always* ready for you,
sweetie."

Dick snorts and shoves him out the door into the
hallway. "Save it for the bouncer."

*

He drops Tim off behind Tomo's and heads for the club,
pasting on tonight's game-face and laughing when he
realizes that he's doing his Superman impression. Which
is... probably a little extreme. He tries for something
closer to Kyle and winds up firmly behind the velvet
rope -- but only six people get in before him. Just about
perfect.

The flash of green in the corner of his eye announces
Tim's arrival, but Dick doesn't look.

The club itself confirms earlier surveillance. It's loud,
it's packed, and it's still new enough not to smell like
anything in particular -- other than way too many
different kinds of cologne. The music isn't bad, though,
and the crowd looks fun enough... it's the kind of
place Dick would go to *anyway*, whether or not he
had anyone to go with. If he was in his *own* skin,
he could probably find someone to play with.

As it is, the club is just another potential crime scene,
and he's doing his level best to cultivate the looks
he's getting -- an eyebrow raise from that one, a
giggle from *that* one... yeah. He makes for a
convincing tourist. A convincing, *aging* tourist, and
isn't that just a joy?

He orders a green apple martini and reminds himself that
he's doing this for a good cause.

And that there are *other* cool clubs. *Without*
budding new drug rings. Where *he* can be cool.
Dammit.

He's on his 'third' martini -- most of the first two making
for sticky places on the floor in a rough circle around
the bar -- and it's abundantly clear that he's in the
wrong place to learn anything remotely interesting. As
opposed to how much cleavage is necessary to get
free drinks out of the bartender (not much, considering),
how many illegal weapons are under the bar (three),
and how many people will hit on him when he's being
a tourist. (one and a half, as no one that drunk really
counts)

He checks his watch and heads vaguely toward the
dance floor, watching the crowd get younger and
younger with every step he takes. It's more obvious
than it usually is. Or... no. He's just really *feeling*
the fact that he hasn't been a regular on *any* kind
of scene for much too long. He doesn't know one
song in three, which isn't bad in and of itself, but...

It makes him feel restless, weirdly hungry somewhere
under his skin -- or at least under the ridiculous
yuppie clothes. It's really not fair that this is just
early surveillance work -- it'd be nice to have some
violence to look forward to, if he isn't going to --

"Dance with me."

Tim's voice in his ear and -- presumably -- Tim's
hands on his shoulders, sliding down to twine with
*Dick's* hands just long enough for Dick to squeeze
before sliding out again. Dick turns to face him and
gets a quick flash of green before Tim moves behind
him again.

"Too slow."

"No fair playing when *I* can't..."

Tim... *giggles*. And cups Dick's hips. "Life's not fair,
old-timer. Now *walk*."

Club kid. Right. Dick lets himself be steered, repressing
a snicker when Tim starts moving his hips to the music.
He's embarrassed. Half-drunk and embarrassed, and
being molested by... there he is. Tim throws his arms
around Dick's neck and grins up at him lazily, dancing
them together until Dick's pretty effectively plastered
with underaged boy.

Which is an odd thought to have, considering how
much time he's spent rolling around various practice
mats with this *particular* kid, but... he's not sure. He
shakes it off internally and plants his hands on Tim's
hips, vaguely enjoying the feel of velvet against his
palms and checking left while Tim checks right.

"Looks clear, Glam Wonder," he mutters.

"Don't make me stomp on your loafers, Metrowing."

Which is reassuringly Tim-ish, but by the time they're
actually looking at each other again, Tim's got his
wide-eyed and look-at-me-I'm-stoned face on.

A brief smirk. "You've never gone undercover with
me before. Not really. I'd forgotten."

"I'm being obvious, aren't I?"

More giggles for the benefit of whoever might be
listening. "Lucky for you, it works for your cover.
Keep looking shocky." And Tim turns, grinding his ass
back against Dick's crotch and lifting one arm back
around Dick's neck. And pulling.

Dick leans in obediently. "If that dye in your hair rubs
off on my skin I'm going to send *these* pictures to
your Dad."

"Stop worrying. You don't see any fuchsia on *my*
face, do you? I designed this stuff myself."

"You frighten me."

"Flatterer. Nothing in the bathrooms but skank and
semi-public sex."

Dick decides his cover should at least know how to
'dance' like this. "Nothing interesting at the bar. I'm
starting to like the dress."

"Yeah, it almost makes up for the fishnets. Almost.
Check the blonde girl in the corset."

"Left?"

"Right. Red corset."

"Tch, be specific. I see her."

"Floor dealer. Periodic trips to the southwest corner."

Dick pulls up an image of the blueprints in his mind.
"Fire exit."

"Yeah." Tim spins in his arms again, face sweaty and
blank and eyes clear. "Both times I wandered over
there I was gently encouraged to turn around."

Dick shoves his thigh between Tim's and tries to decide
if he should move his hands to the kid's ass. "There's
our supply. Any idea about the bosses?"

"There's a skinny guy with white-blond hair, glasses,
and a cell phone behind some muscle -- two big guys.
Don't recognize any of them clearly, but
muscle-with-a-goatee might have been in one of the
East side raids last year. Song's about to change."

"Get ready to reject me. I'll head over after I get my
heart broken."

"Got it."

Dick grabs Tim's ass with what he hopes comes off
as awkward ferventness.

Tim snorts and grinds up hard, leaning in with a grin
that goes from Tim-ish to something sharper and
meaner while Dick watches. "Want some, baby?"

Dick lets himself go slack-jawed. "You're so --"

"Too bad." Tim shoves him about a fraction as hard
as he's capable of doing and spins away laughing
while Dick feigns a stumble.

He works up a blush and watches Tim not-quite-sashay
into the thick of the dancers. One of them -- a boy
who may or may not have been old enough to
graduate high school -- tugs Tim closer and points at
Dick.

Whatever Tim says makes him laugh.

Dick shoves a hand back through his hair and plasters
on a scowl, stalking back toward the bar. One more
drink, his pass through the bathrooms, then a closer
look at that --

There is absolutely nothing like machine gun fire.
Unmistakable and *loud*, even with the music and
several hundred people. He shoves the two people
closest to him to the floor and --

There. Gunmen coming in through the main entrance.
Four he can see, possibly more. He glances back over
his shoulder to see Tim doing his best to herd people
back toward the bathrooms and dives behind the bar,
shooing the bartenders vaguely Timwards and stripping
down to his uniform.

He can't do anything about his shoes, but it won't be
the first time he's fought barefoot. He rips the
paper-strip off one of his temporary masks and slaps
it on his face, grabbing the sawed-off pool cue from
under the bar and heading towards the shooters.

The *first* set of shooters, because he can hear .45s
now. Which makes sense. Muscle is *always* armed,
these days.

He takes out the first two machine-gunners and flips
away from the others, throwing a small table back
behind him and diving behind another. No immediate
sign of Tim, save for the fact that the number of
bystanders has decreased dramatically. Good enough.

He tosses a handful of smoke bombs at the guys with
the handguns and a handful of shuriken at the others,
waiting a half-second for the curses to start before
diving back in.

Three guys, ski-masks, AKs. The pool cue snaps on
the head of the one who managed to keep his AK up,
and Dick breaks his nose as thoroughly as he can before
kicking back at the second -- and sincerely missing his
boots. He spins, grabbing the second guy's gun and
slamming the stock into the third guy's chin before
clubbing the second guy for good measure.

One of the first two is still moaning, so Dick clubs him,
too, and heads back toward the fire exit --

And drops, rolling, because the goatee-muscle Tim
had mentioned is stumbling out of the smoke and
shooting wildly, eyes streaming with tears. Dick reaches
for another handful of shuriken, but there's a tinkling
crash and goatee-boy drops amid a cloud of tequila
vapors.

He looks over his shoulder and sees Tim behind the
bar with a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand.

Tim holds up a finger, shrugs, and holds up two.

Dick nods and gestures for Tim to head back toward
the bathrooms, edging back against a wall and
heading for the fire exit. He manages to avoid most
of the broken glass, but the bodies are something
else entirely.

He says a silent apology and a prayer as he crawls
over a girl with pigtails and a missing face and pauses,
wincing, at the click of a gun being reloaded. Too
slow. He peers around the edge of another fallen table
and sees the blond crouched behind the bleeding body
of what had to be the other bodyguard.

Dick grabs the shuriken again, and hears an entirely
different click behind him. He shifts his aim and tosses
the blades behind him, and turns just in time to see
corset-girl start to fall. He back-kicks to get the gun out
of her hand, and back-kicks again to get her to *stay*
down.

Too slow and too *loud*, but the last of his shuriken
knocks blond-guy's aim out of true and a punch
convinces him to surrender.

Dick grabs him by the collar and gives him a shake.
"Talk."

"We didn't start this --"

"Who's we?"

"I can't --"

Dick slams him back against the open fire-door, noting
that whoever *had* been out there isn't anymore. "You
can."

"I work for Tony Angelotti. He told us to set up here.
That's all I can say."

Dick lifts him off his feet and glares.

"I don't *know* anymore, man! The other guys weren't
ours!"

"Angelotti *isn't* local."

"New York! He's from New York!"

Which Dick knew. Underboss. He thinks about hitting the
guy a few more times, maybe breaking his glasses, but
he can hear the sirens. He slams the guy's head back
against the wall and watches his eyes roll back in his
head.

There are a few people wandering back out into the
club proper, which means that Tim's probably made his
own exit. Dick takes that as his cue.

By the time he makes it to his bike, Tim has Dick's
extra boots out from under the seat and is wearing
Dick's jacket over his dress.

He looks about as pissed as Dick feels.

Dick puts on his helmet and gives his report to Oracle
to route back to the cops.

"Are you two all right?"

"No injuries," Tim says, and slides onto the bike behind
Dick.

They both know that isn't what she's asking.

There's a moment's silence before she comes back on
again. "You're off patrol tonight, R."

"Fine."

Dick thinks about reaching back, maybe squeezing Tim's
shoulder, but just fires up the bike. "Are we done, O?"

"B's probably going to want to hear from both of you."

"Right. N out." He switches to the regular helmet radio.
"Back to the Robin Cave?"

"It's a *house*."

"Yeah, but 'the Robin Faux-Tudor' is kind of lame."

And really, so's his attempt at lightening the mood, but
Tim doesn't call him on it.

They take the ride in silence.

*

Tim kicks off his boots as soon as they get inside and strips
off the fishnets, absently balling them in the pocket of
Dick's jacket. He's going to have to remember to give
them back *before* putting on the jacket again. Or
possibly wait until the next time he heads out to the
new Titans Tower.

A simple 'oh, you forgot these at my place' tends to
go a long way.

Dick leans against the counter and watches Tim head
for the fridge, putting out his hand just in time to catch
a bottled water. Tim takes a Zesti for himself and
heads back toward the bedroom without a word.

Dick frowns to himself. No practical jokes until *after*
the new kid's head is on straight again.

He finds Tim sitting on the edge of the generic,
hotel-looking bed, slumped over with his hands
between his knees. He's pulled the sleeves of Dick's
jacket up, but that's about it.

Tim's a bare-legged rumple with festive hair that's
gone from artfully-mussed to sweaty and tangled.

"Hey."

"Hey, yourself. You know... Batman *probably* didn't
mean it as punishment to take you off patrol."

Tim snorts and lets himself fall back on the bed, dress
riding up to his jockeys. "I know that, actually. It's not
that."

Dick kicks off his own boots and joins him on the bed,
sitting tailor-style and resisting the urge to yank Tim's
dress back down. "Then what?"

"Intellectually, I know we did all we could. I know *I*
did all I could -- and let me tell you, packing a couple
hundred drunk and/or stoned people into two
bathrooms and a hallway? Surprisingly challenging.
But..."

"I hear you. But you *did* do good tonight."

"Uh, huh. So did you. And I'm sure that's *exactly*
what you'll be thinking when you wash the blood out
of your suit."

Dick winces. "Point."

"Yeah."

Silence for a while, save for the small sounds of Tim
chipping idly at his nail polish. Dick looks around at
the bedroom and wonders who decorated it. It really
is disturbingly generic; everything that would hint at
Tim's personality is tucked away behind hidden panels,
or in locked-and-alarmed but equally hidden
containers.

Dick isn't even sure where the kid keeps his extra
uniforms.

And it's probably the most honest sort of decoration
Tim *could* have. It hadn't taken long at all to figure
out that the reason why the thirteen year old with the
damning folder full of photos, articles, and frighteningly
accurate detective-work was so surprisingly laid-back
about the whole issue was because he was... really
laid-back.

Or... not laid-back so much as buttoned-down. Dick
has never, actually, seen Tim lose his shit. He's only
seen the kid demonstrably *upset* a bare handful of
times. And even though he *knows* that Tim's upset
now...

He isn't sure how many other people would be able to
see it. There's nothing showing on his face but glittery
makeup. There's nothing showing on his body but a
vague sense of tension in his shoulders.

It's hard to classify "didn't put his boots away neatly"
as "upset," even considering the fact that Dick had
spent his formative years with Batman. Which makes
him grin ruefully to himself.

Tim would appreciate that comparison about as much
as he would.

"Should I be apologizing for making you brood?" The
smile is mostly in Tim's voice.

"I wasn't thinking about the club."

"No?"

"Nah. Mostly thinking about you." And what a freaky
kid you are.

The grin makes it to Tim's mouth. "Heh. We never
got our second dance."

Dick snorts. "I thought we were just going to make
another scene."

"No, no, you were going to grovel and then I was going
to think about it. And *then* we were going to dance."

"I was supposed to *grovel*?"

Tim bends one leg up and plants his foot on the bed,
shifting ostentatiously. It's a really nice view. "Oh, I'm
worth it."

"Are you always this much of a flirt when you wear
dresses?"

"How much do you actually mind?"

It's a good question. A *shrewd* question. Because,
frankly, Dick's gotten used to the rhythm of their
relationship, and the fact that all of the flirting comes
from *his* end.

But there wouldn't be any if Dick didn't think there was
a possibility -- however unlikely -- of Tim eventually
finding his own Tim-ish way of giving it right back.

"I think the better question," he says, putting his palm
flat on the loose, simple bodice of the dress, "is how
far you want to take it."

The dip of Tim's lashes would be obvious and seductive
*without* the mascara. With it...

Dick strokes along the grain of the velvet, up to Tim's
throat. Waits.

"I think, tonight..." Tim's eyes are serious and clear.
"Pretty far."

Dick nods, shifting and leaning in. "Tonight."

Tim's lip gloss tastes like cherries, and his tongue tastes
like sugar. Both of them are much too sweet for a kiss
like this, because Tim kisses exactly like he should: firm
and sure despite inexperience Dick doesn't have to guess
at.

He knows pretty much everything Tim has been doing
with his love life -- and everything he hasn't. He pulls
Tim over him and sucks the kid's tongue into his mouth,
giving Tim a moment to settle comfortably over him
before pulling his knees up to push against Tim's back,
urging him closer.

Tim laughs into Dick's mouth and pulls back just long
enough to rake his hair out of his face before kissing
him again.

This close, he smells like clean sweat and the leather
of Dick's jacket. Which is... Dick cups Tim's shoulders
and pushes him back. The jacket really *is* huge on
Tim, one of the sleeves slipping down from Tim's
elbow to puddle well past his hand.

It's more than a little disturbing how hot that is, but
Dick decides to go with 'cute' in combination with '
dated lots of people shorter than me.' Easier on his
own sanity, really. Easier than that when Tim raises
an eyebrow at him and shrugs the jacket off.

"I'm short, not twelve."

Dick slides his hands down to Tim's hips and squeezes.
"Not twelve. Got it. Frankly, I'm relieved."

Tim snickers and reaches for the hem of the dress, and
the other eyebrow goes up when Dick stops him. "Oh?"

"I own my kinks."

Tim smirks for a half-second before giving him the
wide-eyed and moderately dazed look from the club.
"Wanna call me Dylan, baby?" The high-tenor breathiness
is even more pronounced without a pounding back-beat.

"'Dylan?' Is *that* this alias' name?"

"This alias barely exists." Tim gives an exaggerated
wriggle. "But I think 'Dylan' works, don't you?"

Dick slips his hands under Tim's dress, careful not to hike
it up any more than it already is, and spends a small,
pleased moment watching his thumbs work under the
velvet. And another watching Tim tilt his head up just a
little, watching his breathing go ragged. "You know what
works for me?"

"Mmm. Tell me..."

"You."

There's a nice little flare behind Tim's eyes, and all trace
of 'Dylan' fades off Tim's face. "Yeah?"

Dick pushes his thumbs in a little harder on either side of
Tim's bulge and strokes. "Yeah."

"I don't know, I think it might be useful practice to have
sex in character."

"Maybe when I feel like being a pedophile."

Tim snickers. "You know, I deserve all kinds of favors for
not pointing out how fucked-up that last statement was."

Dick cups him and squeezes. "I'll start paying you back
*right* now."

"Oh. You... do that."

"Lift up."

Tim does him one better, standing up over him and
kicking the jockeys all the way off.

"That... is an inspiring view."

Tim blushes, but doesn't cover himself so much as...
stroke, balls swinging a little as he tries to keep his
balance on the mattress.

"Yeah. But I want more than that."

Tim bites his lip and nods, giving himself a hot little
squeeze before dropping back down to crouch, then
kneel over Dick again. Dick twines his fingers in Tim's
own and licks his lips.

"Show me what you like."

Tim shudders and blushes harder, and it's hard to tell
whether it would be better without the makeup. He's
really very, very pretty. And just plain sexy when his
gaze arrows in sharp on Dick's own as he starts to
stroke, guiding Dick slow and hard.

And it's just so *Tim* that he can keep up that kind of
focus even now, with raw and rhythmic little gasps
falling out of his mouth with every stroke. It's just
another dare, really.

Dick brings his free hand to his mouth and sucks his
thumb, watching Tim's eyes narrow and enjoying the
feel of the kid's hips working over and against his
own.

He slides his thumb out of his mouth with a wet pop.
"Trust me?"

The focus dissolves into something hotter and more
confused for a second before Tim blinks. "Yeah.
Dick..."

Dick slips behind their working hands and presses his
slick thumb up behind Tim's balls, sliding back a little
and pressing up hard.

"Oh fuck."

Tim squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip, and Dick
can feel himself *flex*. "Open your eyes."

Tim whimpers and does it, and the sight makes *Dick*
groan. Because it's like someone flipped a switch
somewhere deep and important inside Tim's mind. His
eyes are wild and *naked*, and the last time Dick saw
him look this vulnerable he was in the process of dying
from the Clench.

"Tim..."

He's not dying now. He's... hungry, and the needy little
noises he's making are going to make it difficult to hold
on to the 'tonight' thing. Which is just one more reason
to make this *good*.

He takes his hand off Tim's dick and *pulls* Tim's hand
with him. The kid looks even wilder for a second, and
Dick can feel himself doing a number on his own jockeys
with pre-come.

Tim takes a shuddering breath. "Please --"

"Come up here. I want you in my mouth."

"Oh. *God*."

Tim crawls up his body while Dick shoves the other pillow
under his head, shifting up into a position his spine will
start hating in about three minutes and grabbing Tim's
hips. "Hold on to the headboard."

"*Dick* --"

The first touch of his tongue makes Tim shake in his
hands, and Dick can't make himself wait -- even to get
a better sense of the taste. Dick pulls him in *deep* and
slides his thumb back behind Tim's balls, sucking hard
and rubbing tight circles.

Tim gasps and cries out, jerking his hips forward, and
Dick swallows and stops holding on, stroking Tim's
smooth, hard thigh.

Another high, wailing cry and then silence. He wants to
tell the kid to breathe, but mostly he just wants *this*.
Tim's ragged, desperate thrusts into his throat and --
Tim's hand in his hair, gentle and shaking.

Dick squeezes his thigh and the next cry is strangled
and the next silence is brief and punctuated with a
vicious shudder. And then Tim comes in his mouth,
gasping like a drowning survivor and tugging on Dick's
hair.

"Oh. Man."

Dick slips his hands back to Tim's hips and gives him a
gentle push.

Tim sits back on Dick's chest, whimpering and tugging
the extra pillow out from under Dick's head.

"Mm. Thanks."

Tim's laugh is a little cracked. "You're welcome." He
stares down at Dick for a long moment before brushing
his fingers over Dick's forehead, shoving back a lock
of hair. "That was... really hot."

Dick smirks and gets a half-smile and a head-shake in
return. And then Tim reaches behind himself, sliding
his palm down over Dick's stomach and beyond, riding
the bulge with the heel of his hand.

"So."

Dick folds his hands behind his head and rolls under
Tim, watching the muscles of Tim's thighs flex and
release in automatic adjustment. "Go ahead."

"Lift up."

Dick grins and does it, and Tim arches back enough
to push and pull Dick's tights and jockeys out of the
way without turning around. And then feels his way
back and wraps his fist around him.

And grins as he starts to stroke.

"You're 'practicing' again, aren't you?"

"Maybe." Tim rubs his thumb over the head of Dick's
dick and puts a thoughtful look on his face. "It's a
really good shoulder stretch."

"Make sure to let Batgirl know. We *all* have to stay
limber."

Tim snickers and squeezes, and it's a lot harder to
keep a straight face -- or even a smirk. Especially
when Tim starts stroking faster, narrowing his eyes
in concentration but not actually looking *away*
from Dick.

"Tim."

"Faster? Or slower?" And Tim pauses with his fist
wrapped around the base of his dick for one
heartbeat, two, *three*, before rocking it back up
with jerky little pulls.

"Mmph. What do *you* think?"

"I think you like it when I tease." Hard, slow circle
over the head of his dick.

"You're... not wrong."

Tim gives him a wide-eyed pout and takes a deep
breath. "I *love* the way you feel in my hand,
baby..."

Dick laughs and gasps. "Don't --"

"Ohhh, you're so *hard* for me..."

"*Jesus*, you're fucked up --"

A flash of Tim in the hard glint of his eyes, gone in a
second. "Are you gonna fuck me, Dick? Are you gonna
do it *real* hard?"

Dick grabs for Tim and gets a handful of velvet before
Tim flips back and off the bed. There's a brief
satisfaction in the awkward-sounding *thump* of
Tim's landing, but really, Tim's snickers make sure
*that* doesn't last. Dick growls and launches himself
after him, pinning Tim in four moves.

"Oooh, *Daddy*."

Dick presses Tim's wrists against the carpeting and
glares.

'Dylan's' moue shifts into Tim's smirk. "*Now* you
don't want to play?"

Which is... a good point, actually. Still. "I just want
to make sure you know --"

"That you want me. I *get* it. I've *been* getting it.
But you were hard at the club and you're ruining my
dress right now. So?"

Dick looks down between them and... yeah. Leaking
all over the dress. "I'll buy you a new one."

"Dick."

There's no trace of a smirk left on Tim's face. "Tell
me."

"I'm a virgin. Dylan... isn't."

And that's just -- "Tim."

"Doesn't mean I don't *want* it. I just..." The shrug
is a small one, awkward from the way Dick's pinning
him.

"Well, *I* feel like a bastard."

Tim snickers. "You've been hitting on me since I was
fourteen and *now* you feel bad?" Tim shifts beneath
him, but when Dick starts to move Tim wraps his legs
around Dick's waist and holds on.

"Jesus, Tim --"

"I stopped being a kid for you when I started being
Robin. I'm actually *used* to that, you know." Tim
rocks up under him, making Dick gasp.

"I don't --"

"Want to take advantage of me? Fine. Put your hands
in mine."

Dick does it, immensely and pathetically reassured by
the strength in Tim's squeeze.

"Now look at me."

Tim's eyes are open and clear.

"Do it."

Dick thrusts hard, gasping at the feel of velvet and
the skin and muscle beneath.

"Oh... I meant --"

"I know what you meant." And he doesn't have the
control for that even if he thought he could do it right
now without wanting to hang himself.

"I'd let you --"

"God, *Tim* --"

"I want you to. I want you inside me --"

Dick isn't sure whether he kisses Tim to shut him up
or because he *has* to. Either way, it's good. Hard
and wet and Tim catches his rhythm effortlessly,
getting hard against him and making small, hot noises
into his mouth.

And the velvet isn't enough anymore.

Dick shakes one hand free and arches, reaching
between them and shoving the dress up and out of
the way. He hears it tear and groans into the kiss,
and he can't stop driving his hips against Tim's own.

"Oh *God*, Dick --" And Tim clutches his hair and
pulls him into another kiss, holding on tight and
clutching with his thighs.

Dick braces his free hand on the floor and goes for
it, losing himself to hot, sweaty skin, hard muscle,
and Tim's soft, wet mouth.

*Hot* mouth, and the sounds Tim's making...

Every whimper, every groan is another several
million dead brain cells until Dick isn't anything but
his body, but the drive of his dick against Tim's
stomach.

He comes gasping, ripping himself out of the kiss
to keep from biting Tim's lip hard enough to make
it bleed.

Tim's hand spasms in Dick's hair, and it's... it's
*almost* instinct to get up on his knees and haul
Tim with him, spinning him around until his back
is pressed to Dick's chest. He wraps his hand
around Tim's dick and strokes him fast and hard,
and the sounds just get louder, hotter,
*maddening*. And he gets it. This is...

This is Tim, who doesn't show anyone *anything*,
ever. Dick pulls Tim hard against his chest, twisting
Tim's nipple and deliberately closing his eyes before
pressing his mouth to Tim's ear. "Tell me what to
do."

Wordless noise.

"Tell me how to make it easier."

"Nothing. There's *nothing* --" And Tim shouts and
comes all over Dick's fist.

Dick holds him until he stops shaking, and then Tim
twists free and crawls a few feet away, turning back
to face him before sitting down.

His hair hangs in his face, and he's breathing hard,
one knee up and the other splayed flat against the
carpet.

Dick waits, and tries to ignore the fact that the ruined
tangle of Tim's dress is still damned attractive.

"You get used to it," is what Tim finally says, and it's
almost a question.

"Yes and no."

Tim laughs, covering his face with one hand. "One
simple answer. *One*. That's all I ask." And then
Tim scrubs at his face and looks up. It's not an
*easy* grin, but it's still a grin.

"Your makeup is a *mess*."

"Yeah, it's all over your face. And neck. And suit."

Dick groans.

"You're going to be leaving glitter all over Bludhaven
for weeks, you know. I don't care how much you
shower."

"Thanks."

The grin this time is better, and Dick thinks he can
almost see Tim packing everything up and putting it
aside for later before he stands up and offers his
hand to help Dick off the floor.

He takes it and stands. "Tim..."

Darkly honest look. "I'm okay."

"You know --"

Tim squeezes his hand. "I'm *okay*." And then he
releases Dick's hand and gives him a shove. "Come
on, we've got a trip to New York to plan before we
call Bruce, and *I* still have to get home before my
parents wake up."

"I really don't know how you do it," he says, and it's
more honest than he'd intended it to be.

Tim gives him a narrow smile. "I like it that way."

And Tim yanks the dress down straight over his hips
and heads out toward the computer room.

Right. Dick takes a moment to check that the fishnets
are still in his jacket pocket, straightens his own
clothes, and follows.

Definitely worth a trip out to San Francisco.

end.