Disclaimers: No one here belongs to me.

Spoilers: Pretty much nothing. In terms of the timeline,
this takes place sometime after Outsiders #11 and
before #16.

Summary: Dick moves, Roy's choices are limited.

Ratings Note: NC-17.

Author's Note: I was in the mood to write porn.
Houie suggested that Dick porn wouldn't go amiss.

Acknowledgments: To Houie, Jack, and Livia for
audiencing.

*

It's been years since Roy's seen Dick walk on his
hands.

It was never a major thing -- and it shouldn't be
one *now*, especially since both of them are doing
their best to pretend they're actually adults. (And it
*had* seemed like a good idea to collect people
who were either entirely inexperienced, or
inexperienced in *this* kind of work -- if only to
give Dick a *reason* to focus in on all of them --
but...)

But it is.

Because when they were Titans, Dick had only really
done it when he was really restless, or agitated
about something. And because he *isn't* Mr. Calm
and Collected now.

At all.

Not since... well.

It's bad enough to think about the hand-walking thing.
He's not going to think about that, because there's
no percentage whatsoever in both of them walking
around like their personal cartoonists had just
forgotten to draw *in* the stormy rain clouds over
their heads.

And maybe he should throw that out there as a
suggestion -- it *has* to be bad business and
*inefficient* for Roy to be using up pretty much all
of his "laid back guy" credits while Dick pretty much
slacks.

Honestly, any day he can call Dick lazy -- about
*anything* -- has to be considered a good day. Has
to.

But he can -- and will -- save that one. For now...

Well, they've got a laser printer and the capacity to
build, buy, or fake damned near anything. Including
this.

Roy flips the little rectangle of cheap-*looking*
orange paper over his knuckles, back and forth, and
makes his entrance. The floor of this training room
is padded all the way to the walls -- and *up* the
walls -- but Roy prides himself on his ability to be a
nuisance.

Dick doesn't pause in his katas so much as *tense*.

"One of these days you're gonna breathe too hard
and snap a tendon, shortpants."

"What is it, Roy?"

It'd be easier if the paper was as heavy a grade as it
looks, but Roy *also* prides himself on his ability to
make pretty much anything fly true.

He doesn't get Dick on the forehead, but he *does*
get him in the shoulder. And he's Dick, so the flick
of a small, irrelevant piece of paper is *precisely*
enough to make him pause, shift his attack to an
invisible enemy moving along the flight path of the
paper, and *then* stand down.

Roy leans back against the wall.

"What...? A ticket? Roy --"

"Admit One. I'm a paying customer, flyboy..."

Dick's sweaty enough that his hair is falling in his face.
Combined with the confused scowl, he looks like the
world's most dangerous crazy homeless man. Though
the stubble is a little too short for it.

Roy shifts the lean to something a little more extreme
and crosses one ankle over the other. "Well?"

"You... you're expecting a *show*?"

At this point, Roy's pretty much expecting a
spectacularly acrobatic kick to the *face*, but he
shrugs and pulls on a comfortable smirk. "If you
can't *deliver*..."

"Roy..." And it's a different kind of scowl. Closer to
a frown, and there *are* a few things more
difficult to deal with -- and disturbing -- than a
Dick who's forgotten that he isn't, actually Bruce.
"Roy, I don't think --"

"Think of it as training," he blurts, and hates himself
a little for it. He shouldn't be playing into this,
*buying* into this fucking... *routine* of Dick's. If
he was actually cracking enough to --

"Training." Dick crouches to pick up the 'ticket' and
starts flipping it over his *own* knuckles without
standing. "You're serious." It's about twenty
percent honest question. The rest is...

The rest is something a lot closer to what Roy had
*thought* he was bargaining for when he'd
brought Dick in as field-commander. And that's
just too good to pass up. Roy lets his smirk show
a little teeth. "It's been a while since I've seen you
do anything *good*, shortpants --"

Dick snorts. "Okay, *Speedy* --"

"As opposed to just acting like a weapon which needs
someone *else* to make it fly."

Dick's expression ices over so quickly that Roy has
to work not to break character. But.... "Really," Dick
says, and that's not icy at all.

Roy punches out a little -- enough to show off the
watch on his wrist -- and gives it a good, *long*
look.

Dick's exhale is brief and low, and Roy has just
enough time to be disappointed that he *doesn't*
get a laugh -- or at least an insult -- but then Dick
is *moving*.

The crouch leads to a spring that Roy knows, from
experience, would put all one hundred and seventy
or so pounds of *weight* behind the punch that...

Dick isn't throwing. It's a pounce -- it *was* a
pounce, and Dick spends half a heartbeat on his
hands. Just long enough for his legs to go up
straight and *perfect*, and then it's a backflip --

*Two*, and Dick twists in the air -- fucking
*corkscrews* -- and comes down into another
crouch.

Roy knows *just* enough about this to guess that
that *wasn't* on purpose, but then again, he's
known Dick for the better part of the decade. The
look on his *face* told Roy that.

He's about six feet away from the northeast corner
of the room, and then he's not. Up and moving,
sprinting in a way that would be almost entirely
impractical if he was actually *working*, and this
handspring takes him --

Not as high as the backflip, and Roy --

Doesn't actually have *time* to frown before there's
another handspring, and another. Higher every
time -- something in Dick's arm strength? The
positioning?

It doesn't matter. He's *up* again, and Roy wishes
this room *had* the acrobatics equipment of the
*actual* gym, because that *had* to be a move
used to --

It doesn't *matter*. Dick's tucked into an improbably
tight ball and *spinning*. Roy *knows* it's a
somersault, but it doesn't --

The landing is on his toes. He -- he *stuck* it, that's
the word, and Roy lets out a low whistle and --

Stops, because Dick isn't done.

He's at the southwest corner of the room, and --
okay, Roy gets it. Not just an acrobat, a fucking
*gymnast*. And when you *give* a gymnast a floor --

They use it. The whole damned thing, because
otherwise their coaches withhold energy bars or
some shit.

It really, really doesn't matter, because Dick has
already tumbled and twisted his way to the
south*east* corner, and now he's going to move --
yeah.

Northwest.

The run doesn't look *half* as long as it should,
and Dick's leaping up on -- a fucking weird and
twisty *diagonal*. Whatever made him do it that
way, there's *power* in the handspring.

Roy can see it in every muscle, in the strain that's
nowhere but around Dick's mouth, in every --

Every muscle.

The handspring knocks a grunt out of him before he
can stop it, and he can feel himself *waiting* for
whatever crazy thing Dick's going to do mid-air
*this* time, but it's just -- fucking *just* -- a series
of flips.

And he can *see* Dick stopping well before he hits
the wall -- before he smashes his face on the
*corner* -- but it doesn't *feel* that way.

It feels more like the way he sometimes thinks he
can see the precise moment when the bullet
starts moving down the barrel (in his dreams, all
the time now), even though it doesn't --

Doesn't really --

*Backwards* now, and he *knows* these aren't
the pretty ones, aren't the 'good' ones. He *knows*
that these are all about getting the maximum
amount of power and lift until Dick is up, *up* --

So fucking high and arms *out* and back in again,
and no one should be able to tuck that fast. Olympic
*divers* can't tuck that fast, spin like that, bend
and *move* like that, but it's Dick.

And he can.

And the landing is so fast that Dick's hair flies up, a
little, but his *body* doesn't move. Arms out, palms
*up*, dead center, and --

And.

Roy's applause feels weak, and wrongly sardonic.
There should be cheers. There should be...

"You were right," Dick says, and there's the familiar
strain in his voice which means that pretty much
anyone else would be wheezing and possibly puking.

"Nightwing --"

"I needed that. I missed a *landing*. I haven't
missed --"

"Shortpants --"

"And I wasn't getting enough aerial --"

"*Dick*."

Dick shuts up so fast Roy hears his teeth click. And --
yeah. Checking the door as if Roy *wouldn't* have
been able to tell if they had an actual audience.
"Roy, not --"

"Here, I *get* it." He should be happy he's not
getting a lecture. He should be happy that there's
distracted frustration on Dick's face, as opposed to
the blank wall of grim. He should be --

He's *not*. He slams the door, uses the box on his
belt to lock them in from the inside and...

And it shouldn't feel like he's doing something
wrong to walk across the mats in his boots --
*Dick's* in his boots -- and it damned sure shouldn't
feel like fucking trespassing --

"Roy --"

He definitely shouldn't be kissing Dick like they're
fifteen and playing something *other* teenagers
had the free time to come up with innocent names
for, and he shouldn't be biting, and the feel of
Dick's hair on his palms shouldn't be like --

Dick moans into his mouth, and it's pretty much
the opposite of anything like a return to sanity.
It's *not* the way he used to do it. It's too quiet
for that, too *low*, and he smells like sweat
and... blood?

"Are you *bleeding*?"

"Stitches over my ribs," Dick says, and bites him
back. "It's not --"

"Fuck -- *fuck*."

For a second he thinks he's going to get away with
this -- all of it, including all the useless shit in his
own head. Dick's eyes are *narrow* behind the
mask, and his lips are wet and parted, and --

And then they aren't.

"What is it?"

He's doing this wrong. He doesn't know *what*
the hell he's doing. He doesn't know what *Dick's*
doing, and that's even worse.

Dick starts to pull away, twisting to get Roy's
hands out of his hair, and --

"Don't."

Another narrow look, but Dick stops. "Then what?"

Sometimes he wonders if he should be calling
Wally in for this. He never got *why*, not really,
but sometimes Wally could get answers out of
Dick when no one else could. Mostly...

Mostly there are a lot of reasons why he doesn't,
and possibly some of them have to do with
something that *isn't* this. Dick kisses *exactly*
the same way he used to. Like it's something his
body is never going to forget it loves, even if
the rest of him...

Even if he kisses with his eyes *open* now,
watching Roy for fuck only knows what even as
his tongue strokes Roy higher, hotter.

"Nothing. It's nothing," he manages after much
too long, and then Dick's fingers are working at
the catches of his uniform and Roy's own fingers
are working, too. He finds the stitches before he
finds anything else -- two popped out of seven --
and doesn't have time to *move* before Dick is
biting him through the collar of his suit.

"Roy."

"Sorry, man, you didn't specify left or --"

"Don't. Just --"

This kiss is hard enough to knock him back a few
steps, and Dick uses his lack of balance to send
them both sprawling, pulling back just enough to
keep them from breaking each other's teeth. "Yeah?"

Dick just looks at him for a long stretch of
heartbeats before closing his eyes and saying,
"Roy," again.

He shouldn't be taking that as an answer. It *isn't*
one, and Dick isn't --

Dick is moving, twisting and *grinding* them
together --

"Ah -- fuck --"

Dick is breathing like he'd rather be moaning,
shaky and rough. His body is a series of perfect
lines and curves over Roy's own and his face is
twisted up like... like --

"Dick, what's --"

The hand over his mouth is actually kind of painful,
but it shifts before Roy can detach his hands from
Dick's ass to *move* it. Dick's petting his face
now, stroking his mouth and -- his eyes are closed
again.

"Dick --"

It's not fair. He didn't know *what* the fuck he
was going to try to say that time, if anything. But
Dick's fingers are in his mouth, Dick's stroking
his tongue with that *gauntlet*, and there's a
part of Roy which wants to object on general
principle, but it's better just to use Dick's
distraction to roll them over and shove his knee
between Dick's thighs.

Listen to Dick grunt and watch Dick --

Watch Dick *move* under him and suck those fingers
to keep from asking if anyone had ever tied him
down, if he'd liked it, if he *would* like it --

"Roy, please, just -- just --"

Yeah.

It was harder, actually, to get Dick out of the *Robin*
suit. Too many catches and accessories and --
yeah, armor.

Dick's uniform peels off like a secondary, unimportant
skin, and under the jock he's hard and hot and *slick*.

"*Roy* --"

He wants to use his mouth, but it feels almost like
a message to just shove his tongue between Dick's
fingers and jack him.

Almost.

He watches Dick plant his feet and fan his thighs
out and -- anyone would else would be bucking, or
thrusting, but this is the same, too:

Dick fucks his hand like it's just another way to
move, like it's just another thing to be perfect at,
and --

And the fingers in Roy's mouth won't let him say how
gorgeous Dick looks, and how scary, and how
fucking *good* he feels.

Gasping like this room *isn't* as soundproofed as
the rest of HQ, moaning low and quiet in his throat
like he can't stop, eyes closed like --

Roy doesn't know, and he doesn't know if he wants
to.

When he comes, it's silent and *tense*, and Roy
moans for him, because he can't do anything else.

He gets about a second to let go before Dick slips
his fingers out of Roy's mouth. And then the
tension *shifts* all over Dick's body, and Roy
exhales before the tackle can knock the breath out
of him. And folds his hands behind his head, even
though he can't really manage a smirk to go along
with it.

Dick's lips twitch, and there's a flash of teeth,
and --

No laugh. *Dammit*.

"Roy..."

"Right here, man."

Dick sighs, and stares at something *next* to Roy's
head. "I want to. I --"

"Then *do* it," he says, and there's nothing in his
voice that has anything to do with the fact that he's
been hard since Dick was flipping all over the
room, and he can *see* Dick hearing that. Maybe
feeling it.

But all he says is, "I want to," again, before leaning
in to kiss him.

It's soft, but it misses sweet by a mile. There's
nothing sweet about a Dick who's hesitating, and
Roy...

Roy has to.

Dick pants against his mouth when Roy pushes his
hands into his hair, and sucks Roy's lower lip, and
shifts to the side enough to work on Roy's fly with
his fingers.

There's no question of keeping his eyes open, and
*none* of fighting this, or even keeping up the
protest he knows full well that *Dick* knows he's
registering.

Because Dick kisses him like he doesn't *just* want
Roy to stop talking -- he kisses like he wants Roy to
forget *how*. Slow and hard and just -- *constant*.
Showing off the fact that he'd never smoked a
cigarette in his life and that he can keep it up just
this long. Just this --

This *much*.

Stroking him with his tongue and *stroking* him.
One rhythm for Roy's mouth and another for Roy's
*dick*, and then he fucking switches off and
*smiles* when Roy groans.

Like they're still just playing. Fuck.

"*Dick* --"

"I needed -- I need this," Dick says, and the voice
doesn't sound *right* with the smile Roy can still
feel on his face. Too soft and too -- "I need... come
for me. Roy..."

"Jesus -- Jesus, *Dick* --"

"Roy."

Flat and steady, and it feels like getting jabbed in
the spine with the world's best tazer. A *Bat*-tazer,
maybe, and he doesn't want to come laughing, not
for this, but he also doesn't really have a choice.

Especially because it isn't really a surprise that it
makes Dick kiss him again, and keep kissing until
Roy's back to being short of breath because of
Dick's *mouth*, instead of his hand.

Dick doesn't pull away so much as shift until
there's a little space. Enough for Roy to get up,
or enough for him to...

To.

He remembers when Dick would fall asleep after.
When he didn't stay the *whole* night, but still
hung around just long enough that it didn't matter
that he *did* go back to his own room.

Or at least until Roy would've had to think really
hard about things he didn't want to in order to
figure out *why* it mattered.

And he gets it.

He'd *designed* this place, right down to the
fucking light-bulbs. It had taken maybe three days
for the others to figure out that this was
*Nightwing's* space -- and there's a reason all
the fun gymnastics stuff is in the *other* one -- and
also his own, whenever he and Dick could stop
snapping long enough to use it.

He knows it, they know it, *Dick* knows it.

And Dick is right there, doing an excellent impression
of someone who just happens to be lying on his side,
facing away. And a slightly less excellent impression
of someone who couldn't snap a tendon by breathing.

He could roll over, and they could fucking spoon on
the mats just like there *aren't* beds here they
could use, and rest for a few minutes before fucking
around some more, or sparring and *then* fucking
around.

Dick wants it. Roy *knows* he wants (*needs*) it.

Roy can have it.

All he has to do is understand that it all goes out
the window if he can't keep his mouth shut. Or let
Dick find a way to do it for him.

Dick wants it.

And Roy... Roy wants it, too. So fucking bad he
can --

He squeezes his eyes shut, shoves his jock and his
pants back into place, and doesn't -- *doesn't* --
listen to Dick breathe. "There's... there's a first-aid
kit upstairs." Dick knows it as well as he does, and
turns to stare at him, confused.

"I'm not..." And then his hand falls to his side. The
laugh is almost right. "Or not." He shakes his head.
"I'll --"

"I'll bring it," Roy says, before he can think twice
about it. Or once.

The almost-right smile fades off Dick's face. "You
don't have to."

Yeah, he does. "I know."

Roy unlocks the door and heads out.

By some measure of things, somewhere, it'll probably
count as a victory if Dick actually waits here for him
instead of slipping out to find a way to pop the rest
of the stitches.

Probably.

end.