Disclaimers: Not even remotely ours.  Not in any
*way*.

Spoilers: Fairly large ones for Gotham Adventures
#12 and #44.  Vaguer ones for the Gotham
Knights episode "Old Wounds."  Toon canon.

Summary: Dick tries to break the cycle of their
family's poor communication skills.  He starts by
letting Tim beat the snot out of him.

Ratings Note: NC-17.

Authors' Note: Te had massive issues after reading
Gotham Adventures #44. Weirdness Magnet
knew what she needed.

Title from Leo Buscaglia:

Perfect love is rare indeed-- for to be a lover will
require that you continually have the subtlety of
the very wise, the flexibility of the child, the
sensitivity of the artist, the understanding of the
philosopher, the acceptance of the saint, the
tolerance of the scholar and the fortitude of the
certain.

Acknowledgments: To LC and Jack for audiencing
and encouragement. To Livia for the quote.

***

Dick doesn't want to spend this much time in the
manor. He's been gone long enough that the Cave
doesn't feel like home, and Bruce holds him at
arm's length, which isn't unusual but these days
feels like punishment.

Again.

It seems as though they take two steps back for
every one forward and --

He can't care about that right now.  He's on a
mission.

Tim circles him, turning the staff in his hands.  Dick
narrows his eyes and smirks at him.  Tim doesn't
grin back.

Tim hasn't smiled at him in... a very long time.  And
just how long it took him to *realize* that is
something he doesn't want to think about.

Dick dodges the strike easily, counters with a sweep
that Tim dodges with equal ease.  Tim tries and
mostly fails to cover his impatience with an attack,
a handful of solid blows that Dick blocks. He
*hopes* it's just impatience, but the truth is...

Their spars are actual *fights* now, and Tim doesn't
even crack that smirky half-grin of his anymore.

Tim doesn't *play* with him anymore.

And he *was* going to wait for a natural moment to
bring this up, but they've already been at it for
half an hour and... he's never been very patient.
"What's *with* you?" Dick asks, ducking.

Tim draws his staff back and flicks his hair out of
his eyes.  "What? I need to train."

"I meant lately.  You've been..."

"Focused?"

"I was going to say 'pissy'."  Dick realizes his lunge
is too deep, and Tim dodges, flips and knocks
Dick's knee out from under him.  Dick rolls quickly
back onto his feet.

Tim doesn't even pause to look pleased with
himself, just spins the staff back into a ready
position.

Dick raises his staff again.  "Look, I think I know what
this is about.  The Two-Face thing..." Three *months*
ago, and had it really been that long since the two of
them had actually *talked*? "I know I was hard on
you, but --"

"Stop.  You said I needed to make a choice.  I
made it.  Now help me train or leave."

Dick watches the tightness, the *hardness* settle
over Tim's features like a layer of stone, and his
first instinct is to match it.  Channel Bruce: go stoic,
beat the hell out of Tim in the interest of sparring,
and don't talk about anything but the mission.
Let Tim live with the attitude.  Treat him the
*exact* same way Bruce had treated Dick when
he became Nightwing. And before.

Which just kicks off the *second* instinct -- the
one that actually *brought* him here today --
which is all about shutting his inner Bruce the
hell *up*, and it's an effort to lower his staff and
really *look* at the boy in front of him.  And...
God, nothing but tension, all tamped-down anger
just waiting for patrol so he can let it out on whoever
will be stupid enough to underestimate the kid in
the tights.  Dick *remembers* how that feels and how
often Bruce just *left* him like that so he'd be more
useful on the streets later.

He doesn't want to be Bruce.  Not... not like that.
And maybe he has all of Bruce's communication
'skills' when it comes to things like this, but there
are other ways.  He swings his own staff back to
ready, and gives Tim his smirkiest come-on.

A brief -- *professional* -- nod, and Tim is in
motion. Dick blocks a kick he remembers teaching
Babs, a handful of Bruce's nerve strikes, and...

The rest belong to Tim. Moves he only knows
because he's had almost two years to watch the
kid fight.  There's a *precision* to them that
belongs to all of them, but they're still very
clearly the moves of a small kid who expects
people to try to hurt him, and so has every
intention of hurting them first.

Not for the first time, Dick wonders what they're
going to do when Tim finally gets more size to go
along with the training.  His forearms hum with
the sting of blocking those punches, and he's
already seen the kid knock teeth out with them.

"Is that all?"  And it's queasy-making to take all the
tease out of the question, to leave it sounding
bored and contemptuous, but... it does the trick.

The blows come faster, harder.  There's the faint
beginning of a snarl on Tim's face, the sort of thing
he hasn't seen on the kid since the *first* days of
training, before he'd figured out that all the
frustration and pain was going to *get* him
somewhere.

He makes the next few blocks as showy as he can
manage, counting the bruises he'll have on his shins
as marks for a good cause.  He kicks Tim's fist away
before it can get close and sucks his teeth. "Too
slow."

The snarl gets wider.  Really, all Dick has to do is
be an asshole and block -- Tim's already starting to
forget that he can use the staff, *too* --  and he's
frankly pretty good at both.

He takes one more hit on his forearm, swallowing
back the wince reflexively.  He's going to spend about
a week being really grateful for every micro-thin layer
of armor in his gauntlets.  And Tim is spinning the
staff from hand to hand, nostrils flared and eyes
*wild*, and Dick braces himself for a pounce that...

Doesn't come. He raises an eyebrow.

"C'mon, *attack*."  The snarl is in Tim's voice, and
Dick knows the kid can hear it too by the way the
flush creeps into his cheeks.  "This isn't doing me
any fucking good.  Killer fucking *Croc* won't just
stand there and block. Either come at me or let
me just --"

"Tim. Just... talk to me --"

There's a flare behind Tim's eyes. "We have
*nothing* to talk about."

"Then yell at me."  Dick takes a cautious step
forward, palm up.  And for a moment Tim just
stares -- *glares* at him, and Dick can *see* him
trying to get himself back under control.  Dick bites
the inside of his cheek.  "Or maybe I'm just
supposed to assume it's your time of the month?"

"*Fuck* you!"  Tim doesn't even bother with the
staff at all this time, holding it like a forgotten stick and
punching Dick's hand aside with every ounce of brutality
he can muster.  "You *died*. You were dead, on the
ground, and Bruce was off with fucking Two-Face --"

"He *had* to --"

"Shut *up*. I get it, all right?  People could've died.
But this isn't the first time Bruce put Two-Face first,
even if no one would've died but Two-Face himself,
and you and I *both* know it won't be the last."

And Tim just keeps glaring at him, *daring* Dick to
say differently, but even if he *wasn't* remembering
Bruce's little adventure in Harvey-obsession back
when it looked like a weighted coin would drive the
crazy sonofabitch to suicide...

Tim nods grimly and finally tosses the staff aside
entirely.  "Because 'Bruce loved Harvey.'  Right, fine.
Meanwhile, all *I* knew was that you were dead.
*Dead on the fucking ground*.  And you know what?
I'm sorry that it upset me.  *Next* time you're a
fucking corpse, I'll do better.  I'll be a good little
soldier, and then maybe you won't --"

Tim's face crumples on itself and Dick watches him
very carefully not-crying.  Dick knows how that look
feels, wanting to scream the Cave down and feeling
like shit, because, after all, there's no real reason
for it, right?  Nobody's dead, and even if they are
there's nothing *he* can do about it, and -- .

"Tim --"

Tim collects himself visibly and turns toward the
free weights.  "Just leave me alone, Dick."

And... no. Just no. Dick stops him by wrapping his
arms around Tim's shoulders from behind.  He
feels Tim instinctively try to go into a half-crouch
to toss his opponent, to toss *him*, but he
squeezes and rests his face in Tim's hair
until the fight goes out of him.  Mostly.

And all he can see in his head is Tim's face at that
damned warehouse, all he can hear is his own
voice, ripping Tim a new one because the kid had
dared to be *upset*. "God, Tim, I--"

"Don't apologize." And Dick can feel the growl in
the kid's chest.  "Don't you fucking *dare*
apologize.  Because you don't believe it, you don't
*mean* it, and I don't need your fucking
sympathy.  Let. Me. Go."

Dick tightens his grip.  "You'll have to make me,"
he says, trying a smile.  "Because... I'm not
gonna."

"I needed this three months ago, Dick. I *don't*
need it now."

Not even a shiver, and nothing like a break in all the
*tension*.  "So it takes me a while to catch on,"
Dick says, doing his best to swallow back the mild
smirk in his voice.  "But I *have* caught on, and...
God, I had no *idea*, and I *should* have, and
now that I do know..." He leans in to whisper in
Tim's ear. "You're gonna have to *make* me."

"Let." Dick hears Tim swallow around the harsh,
throaty sound of his own voice and try again.
"Let me go."

"I need this, too."

"You *don't*. You don't need *anything* from
me --"

"And you *believe* that?"  He *can't* keep the
laugh out of his voice this time, and he slides a hand
up, pulling Tim closer and resting his thumb lightly on
the pulse in Tim's neck.  "No, you're right.  I don't
need anything from you, the exact same way you
don't need anything from me.  So here we are, not
needing anything from each other."  He strokes
Tim's neck with his thumb.

He was very careful to grab Tim from the back,
because this way Dick can hold him up when Tim
starts to sag, and press himself solidly against Tim's
back when the sobs finally start.  From here, he can
hold Tim while he cries, but not actually *see* it.

And it's not like Tim has ever been shy about his
emotions (except for the past few *months* and
he's the biggest fucking idiot in the universe), it's
just that if *he* were in the kid's position... he
wouldn't want anyone to see it, either.

Nobody had ever had to actually say the word
'weak' for Dick to *hear* it, and he's pretty sure
Tim's the same way.  So he makes himself as
solid and *there* as he can while Tim chokes
out the dry, heaving sobs of someone who
hadn't cried so long his body has forgotten
how.  He knows how that feels, too.

"I love you," Dick says.  "I love you and I'm
so sorry I let my own..."  How many times has he
dreamed of Bruce walking away? How many
times has he *comforted* himself that he'd
been the one to do it first?  "That I let it get in
the *way*, and you've always been so..."

Tim makes a low, incomprehensible noise and
shudders, once, all over, before whispering "I'm
sorry."

Dick listens to Tim's rough, choked breathing and
mentally curses himself in every language he
knows, because *Tim's* apologizing, and Dick
knows full well that Tim means it just as much as he
doesn't think *Dick* meant his own. He can do
*better* than this.

"Don't," he says in English.  "You didn't do
anything... I swear to God, *you* didn't do anything
wrong.  I just... *dammit*."  He spins Tim around
and holds him *that* way, because it's better to feel
his shirt getting wet, to be able to feel Tim breathing
against him.

"You were *dead*."  Tim's voice is muffled against
Dick's chest.

"I didn't mean to be."  Dick can't quite manage to
keep his voice steady, and a hitch in Tim's breathing
tells him exactly when Tim realizes that he's crying,
too.

Dick lowers them to their knees and just keeps
holding on.  "You know -- you *have* to know that
if it was you I would've been the same way.  And --
fuck. *I* knew that, and I still -- God, Tim..."

Dick squeezes him tighter, even though Tim isn't
trying to get away anymore.  Because it's *better*.
They stay that way, huddled on the floor, until
Dick's time-sense tells him that Bruce will be getting
back to the Cave soon, after a long, hard day of
being Bruce Wayne, billionaire.  He pulls back
reluctantly.

Tim knows what time it is, too.  "We should get
changed," he says, in a low, even voice.

Dick surveys Tim's puffy eyes and tear-streaked
face and smiles ruefully.  "You should wash up
first."  And then he scrubs over his own eyes and
laughs.  "We *both* should."

Not that Bruce would ever actually ask, or even
say anything, and... *really* not now. He blinks and
focuses, and Tim's wiping his nose with the back
of his hand.

And frowning.  "Okay."  He rises and heads for the
washroom, leaving Dick to get dressed alone.

Patrol is uneventful.  A few minor robberies that
aren't enough to get Dick's adrenaline going, and
the most dangerous thing he experiences all night
is the way Bruce *looks* at them.  Dick was right
about the fact that he doesn't actually say a word,
but at this point that could mean pretty much
anything.

It doesn't help that Tim doesn't utter one extraneous
syllable for the entire night, just goes through the
motions like some little pod Robin, or maybe a junior
Batman.

And Dick can't decide if it's better or worse that he's
convinced himself that it has more to do with the
kid's lingering issues about Bruce than about him.
Because, really, he always *wanted* to grow up
bitter and petty.

Moreso.

They finish their sweep around four.  Parting ways
is still awkward even now, because the Cave hasn't
been Dick's home for a while, but there's something
in the way Bruce stands that hints he's expecting
Dick to come back to the Manor *anyway*.  This
time, at least, and he can't say...

Well, over the past year he *had* been spending
more time there again, especially when Babs
stopped in before heading back home.  But it had
never stopped feeling wrong, and... not tonight.

And he can see Bruce seeing it in him by the way his
mouth gets a little harder and grimmer before he
turns for the edge of the roof. Tim gives him an
apologetic half-shrug and turns to follow Bruce,
and...

Dick puts a hand on Tim's shoulder, and watches
Bruce tense, even though his back is to them both.

"I was thinking Tim could stay with me tonight."
Dick says as casually as he can.  "He has... well.
I've got a lot of his things, still." And Dick wonders
if the clothes Tim left at his place even fit
anymore, because it's been so *long*, and he
swallows back the self-loathing and tries to keep
his game face on.

Bruce turns halfway and drops his gaze to Tim,
who clears his throat.  "It's... not a school night."

Bruce's mouth twitches, but all he does is nod
sharply and drop off the edge of the roof, heading
back alone.

Dick squeezes Tim's shoulder.  "Is this... is this
okay? I mean.  I know I'm kind of --"

"It's fine."

"-- blindsiding you.  And I just... I thought we
might not be finished."

Tim puts his hand over Dick's and says, "No, we're
not."

Dick was right: Tim's old clothes *don't * fit anymore.
The best Dick can offer him is a pair of sweats and
a well-worn t-shirt that's several sizes too big.  It's
okay, though, because when Dick flops on the sofa
and drags Tim on top, the over-washed cotton feels
soft like skin as he rubs circles on Tim's back.

Tim laughs a little and doesn't really say anything,
and Dick knows he's really pushing a *lot*, but.  God,
it feels good to listen to Tim laugh because of
something *he* did again.

"I missed this. I missed you."

"I -- me, too."

Dick hears the "I'm sorry" in Tim's voice. Dick is trying
to make everything he's doing convey "it's okay, we're
okay, I'm not dead, it's okay" but everything in Tim's
body is saying "I'm sorry, I love you, I screwed up,"
and Dick doesn't know what to *do* except dig his
fingers into Tim's hair and hold him tighter.

Tim just clings right back and buries his face against
Dick's throat.  Dick can hear Tim start to cry a little,
suck it *back* and cling harder. Tim wraps his legs
around Dick's waist and holds him that way, too,
and Dick stifles a chuckle at how Tim is holding on
to him like a small, incredibly dangerous monkey.

It makes him think about when he's seen Tim
actually *be* hugged.  Dick mentally flips through
his own memories, trying to come up with images of
people doing it, and realizes that it was always
pretty much *only* him, and that... that it's been
a long time. *Too* long.

So he holds on to Tim even tighter, one arm around
his back and one in his hair, and he can feel the few
tears that Tim couldn't hold back sliding wet down
his neck.  Tim's breathing is warm and mostly
regular again, and Dick nuzzles his cheek against
Tim's.

"It's okay," he whispers.  "I love you, it's okay."  He
can feel Tim sighing against his throat, and starting
to breathe slower. More deeply.  "I should've just
dragged you to bed."

And that was *exactly* the dumbest thing he could
have said right now.  He feels Tim tense and freeze
and Dick *winces*.

"I mean. It's easier... in a bed. I wouldn't --"

"What if. What if I want you to?"

"Tim?"

Tim squirms against him, but Dick realizes he's not
trying to get away, but firming up his grip so Dick
can't push him off.  "I love you. I --"  Tim sighs
against his throat again, and Dick shivers. "I made
*that* choice a... really long time ago."

"God, Tim..."

"So, if you... want that."  Tim looks up, and his face
is flushed and still a little tear-streaked, but his eyes
are clear. "If you want to have sex with me, I'm
right here."

Dick cups his cheek and wipes a forgotten tear away
with his thumb.  He really... has no *idea* what to
say to that.  The lizard part of his brain is flashing
through every touch, every time a sparring match
almost -- *almost* -- turned into something else,
whether they were alone in the Cave or not, and
the Bruce part is *glowering*, and Tim....

Tim is petting his chest through the wifebeater.
And Dick isn't about to take advantage of an
emotionally distraught Boy Wonder, but he's
also *so* not made of stone.

"I.... I *would* like that," Dick says slowly.  "But
you -- *we've* been... it's been a night.  And I
don't want to do anything --" And maybe he wasn't
precisely coherent, but he was doing *fine* right
up until Tim scrapes his nail across Dick's nipple.
"Advantage taking.  Don't wanna.  Yeah."  Dick grabs
Tim's wrist.  "*Stop* that.  I'm being serious."

"Yeah, I could tell by your eloquence," and the
smirk isn't *quite* on Tim's face, but it's dancing
behind his eyes and it's so familiar, so *right* --

"Tim, seriously.  I could... I'd like to, I really would.
But it doesn't have to be *tonight*."

Tim nods, and Dick breathes a small sigh of relief
which turns into another sound entirely when Tim
slides in and kisses Dick's neck.  Warm, soft on
his throat and he balls his fists on Tim's back to
keep from clutching him.

He feels Tim hum against his neck and shift on his
lap.  Dick blushes a little, because he *knows*
Tim can feel his erection despite how much he
wants to *not* be hard right now.  But then Tim
does a little grind on Dick's stomach and oh, he
can feel Tim hot and *hard* inside the sweatpants,
and those are *his* sweatpants Tim's wearing and
he's pretty sure he's never washing those again.

Hot puff against his ear.  "So drag me to bed."

Dick squeezes his eyes shut.  He tells the
glowering Bruce in his head to fuck off, cups
Tim's ass with both hands, and carries him into the
bedroom.

With Tim clinging to him, Dick doesn't really *have*
to hold on, but Tim's ass fits perfectly in his hands
and he likes the way Tim wriggles against him when
he squeezes.  He likes it more than could possibly
be healthy.

He lays Tim on the bed, bracing himself over him.
Tim is still hanging on, and Dick has a feeling that
Tim isn't going to let him get very far away.

"You sure about this?"

"Yes," Tim says, with his voice and with the way his
knees are digging in -- almost -- hard enough to be
painful. Dick slides one hand up to tangle in Tim's
hair.

"We don't... we don't have to do everything.  And
if you want me to stop, just say the word."

"I'm not gonna stop you," Tim says quietly, and
curls up for a kiss.

No, a *kiss*, because Tim kisses like a drowning
man getting a gulp of air.  There might be finesse
when he's not quite so desperate for it -- Dick
isn't actually *sure* how much experience the kid
has -- but for now Dick just tries to keep up with
Tim's searching, devouring mouth.  Tim bites and
sucks along the line of Dick's jaw, pulling off only
to yank Dick's thin tank top over his head before
planting his mouth on Dick's nipple and *biting*
hard enough to make Dick buck.

Tim's arms and legs are wrapped around him,
holding him in place while he bites bruises along
Dick's skin.  He *lingers* on the scars on Dick's
chest, and Dick shudders at the feel of Tim's
tongue trailing hot and slick across them.  Dick
forces his fists to unclench enough that he can
push Tim *off*, and he has to ignore the nearly
hurt look Tim gives him so he can get Tim's shirt
off with something resembling grace.

Pale, pale skin and not as many scars as Dick had
at his age.  Maybe the real difference between
life as a circus kid and life as a street kid.  Dick rolls
them over so Tim is straddling his lap, making it
easier for Dick to bite and suck Tim's chest.  All the
places where the kid just *might* have scars
someday, and everywhere else, too.

His nipples are hard against Dick's tongue, and he
bucks and gasps like he can't get enough air. And
really, he probably can't with Dick twisting one
while he traces circle around the other with his
tongue.  Dick just holds him in with his free hand,
growling a little at the feel of Tim's spine curving as
he leans back.  At the feel of Tim's erection
grinding into his stomach, and Dick grins around
the nipple in his mouth.

And gives the other a sharp twist, reveling in Tim's
half-scream, before pulling off.  "You like that?"

"Dick."  It's a gasp and a plea.  So he does it
again.

Tim *arches* and Dick growls a little louder and
rolls them back over.  Tim lands on his back and
Dick slides between his thighs easily, wonderfully,
grinding their cocks together through the sweats.
He can smell Tim's arousal and he knows he must
be getting the sweats dark, *wet*, and he
absolutely wants to see that, but he can't stop
staring at Tim's face.  Heavy-lidded eyes and
panting mouth, and Dick catches both of Tim's
nipples between his fingers and twists.

And then he does it again, and again, and Tim
bucks and writhes and his face is so beautiful Dick
can't stop *looking*.  Tim is begging, pleading and
Dick wants to give him everything and *has* to
move with him, meeting each roll of his hips, and
Tim covers Dick's hands with his own.  Not to stop
him, just to hold *on*.

"Please, Dick, I -- you're -- oh -- *oh*..."  Tim
arches and trembles, and Dick feels *heat*
between them and gently strokes Tim's nipples
until he stills.

Dick smiles and nuzzles Tim's cheek, kissing him
softly until his breathing slows.  God.  Just playing
with his nipples.  Tim's going to *kill* him.  The
lizard part of Dick's brain can't wait.

"I meant," Tim gasps, "to make that better."

Dick grins a little wider. "It was *great* for me."

"We're still wearing *pants*.  And you're still hard."

"You can fix that."

"I can't *move*."

"Wuss."  Dick tugs at Tim's sweats, dragging them
off.  The sweats got the worst of it, but Dick leans
down and licks Tim, anyway.  Tim gasps and
clutches at Dick's hair, and Dick makes it as gentle
as he can, but Tim's cock twitches *hard* and far
too soon.  God bless the teenage sex drive.

He winces at the sharp tug on his hair.  "Don't," Tim
says weakly.

Dick smiles and crawls up Tim's body.  He kisses
him softly, licking his way in, tracing a free hand
down Tim's chest to rest on his hip, just to cup it
for a moment.  Tim's body fits so *perfectly* in
his hands, and it just makes Dick want to touch
him everywhere, and learn all the places that make
Tim *clutch* him like he's doing now, like he can't
get enough and he's not about to let Dick get
*away*.

He feels Tim shoving his sweatpants down, and
moans into Tim's mouth when he wraps his
callused hand around Dick's shaft.  The
touch is an exploration rather than a stroke,
hardened fingertips tracing the curves and
ridges, finding the spot beneath the head that
makes him pulse.  He breaks off the kiss,
pressing his face into Tim's neck and muffling the
sounds with smooth, sweat-slick skin.

"You like that." Tim sounds far too pleased with
himself.

"Mm-hmm," Dick purrs and then groans as Tim
teases the slit with his thumb. Tim rubs the wetness
around the head, and he does... *something* to
the head of Dick's cock that makes Dick's whole
body twitch.

"You like that a *lot*."

"Oh, *fuck*."

"What do you want me to do?" Tim's voice is low
and *hungry*.

Dick shudders a breath on Tim's throat.  "You're
doing fine."

Tim tightens his grip and starts to stroke him
steadily.  "I want to make it better."

Dick thrusts helplessly and laughs a little. "That's
a good start."

"I want to make you come."

"You will, just... ow.  I think we need lube or
something."

"Sorry."  Tim loosens his grip.

"Not your fault.  I have such delicate skin..."
Dick grabs a bottle off the nightstand.  "Give me
your hand."  He pours a small pool of oil into
Tim's cupped hand.

"Body oil?"

"Shut up."

"I didn't say a *word*."  Tim's smirk is miles wide,
but his slicked hands glide over Dick's shaft.  Dick
braces himself on his elbows and thrusts as Tim's
hands play with his cock.  He loses himself in the
touch until he realizes there's only one hand
pumping him and Tim's other hand is teasing his
ass.  Little slick circles and Dick means to protest --
they really *don't* have to do everything -- but
he can only manage gasps before a too-slick finger
slides in the next time he bucks.

*In* him and not very deep, more of a tease, and
Tim bites Dick's jaw and rubs his new erection
against Dick's old one.  "Dick. Dick, fuck me. I
need you to."

"Tim," It's more of a groan than he meant, but the
insinuating finger is pushing deeper.  He knows Tim
is looking for his prostate, and knows he won't put
up much of an argument once Tim finds it.  About
*anything*.  "Tim, pull out.  Now."

He smirks at Tim's half-concealed "drat, thwarted"
expression as he pulls out.  Tim hasn't stopped
rubbing his cock, though, just keeps stroking firmly
and steadily, teasing his slit with his thumb.  Dick
sits up on his knees, pulls Tim's hands away and
pins them on the mattress.

"Are you *sure*?"

"Yes."  No hesitation at all, and Dick strokes Tim's
wrists with his thumbs and squeezes, because Tim
just spreads his legs wider and plants his feet.

Dick closes his eyes and forces himself to release
Tim's wrists, leaning in for another kiss and
grabbing the oil.

One finger makes Tim buck hard.  Dick goes
slowly, pushing in all the way and letting Tim get
a feel for it, letting *himself* get a feel for all that
tight heat.  For Tim.  He can feel Tim's prostate
against his finger, and waits until Tim looks
almost relaxed before crooking his finger.

He rides it out when Tim arches completely off
the bed, licking his teeth and pumping his hips
at nothing, *against* nothing, because there's a
flush spilling down Tim's chest, and stroking Tim
soothingly is just an excuse to *touch* him
more.

Dick pulls out and watches Tim pant.  "You're
going to love this."  And he comes back with two.

"Nnn, oh fuck, oh fuck, *Dick*--"

"Breathe.  It's okay.  You want me to stop?" It
comes out gritted, unconvincing to his own ears.
Tim's so *tight* --

"N-no, it's -- it's weird, but it's good." Tim
swallows and writhes, a little.  "Do.  Do that
thing again."

"You mean --" Dick pushes in and crooks."-- that?"

Tim arches and screams, and Dick fucks him that
way, rubbing that pleasure-lump and listening to
Tim.  His own cock twitches *hard* and he's
leaking and he isn't going to last long at all.

"Oh God, God, I'm gonna --"

"Not yet," Dick murmurs, pulling out .  Tim's body
*convulses*, and he doesn't come but Dick can
tell he was *damn* close, so he slicks his cock
quickly.  "Not yet.  I want to come with you."

"Dick..."  Tim pleads.

"I'm close," Dick whispers, pushing all the way in
and *holding* Tim tightly as he arches into it.
"I'm really close, it won't take long... god,
watching you, you're so sexy..."

He tries not to thrust too hard, too fast, but Tim
is tight and *moving* with him, his arms and legs
wrapped around Dick's body.  Dick moves
steadily, slowly as he can, but then Tim cups his
ass with both hands and *pulls* Dick deeper.

"Harder," Tim groans.  "I can take it, do it... do it
*harder*..."

"*Fuck*, Tim." The last of Dick's control just
*breaks* in his brain, and he has to bury his face
against Tim's neck, grab his hip, and *push*
himself in as hard as he can, again and again.
Tim just hangs *on*, gasping with every thrust
and using his feet and hands to pull Dick in
*more*, like Dick could fuck him through the
mattress and right through the floor and it still
wouldn't be hard enough.

"Dick, I can't -- oh God -- "

"*Yes*, come for me, oh fuck, I -- *Tim*..."

White out of his vision and he can't move, can't
breathe.  Heat everywhere, on him and *around*
him, and Tim's voice in his ears crying his name
and he can't *think*.  Dick doesn't feel anything
except *yes* and *good* until some part of his
brain registers Tim petting his hair.  It takes
long moments until he can get his hands under
him enough to lift up and look at Tim.

Who's grinning at him, just like... *God*, it's been
too long.

"Hi."  Tim's voice is *way* too chipper.

"Hi," he breathes, and locks his elbows to keep
his arms from shaking.

"You okay?"

Is *he* okay? Except that it's kind of an excellent
question. "... Yeah.  You?"

"Yeah.  Just.  Don't ask me to walk anytime
soon." Tim's grin turns rueful and Dick winces.

"Sorry."

"Don't be."  His eyes are serious, watchful, and he
strokes Dick's cheek with the tips of his fingers.
Dick feels like he should be doing a better job of
the post-coital banter thing, but he can't get his
brain to work right now.

He *does* manage to roll off of Tim -- gently -- and
falls in a heap beside him.  The sheets soak up the
oil and sweat, and they *so* need a shower.  Dick
doesn't care about that right now.  He drags Tim
over him like a small, bony blanket, rests the boy's
head on his chest and holds on.

Dick's internal clock and the pale sunlight coming in
the windows tells him that it's close to six.  He
thinks about getting up and shutting the drapes,
but that involves gross motor skills he doesn't have
quite yet.

"Almost dawn," Tim says idly.

"Mm-hmm."

"I should probably --"

"No."

Tim lifts his head.

"I'm not ready to stop doing this yet," Dick says,
squeezing him.

"I was going to say, 'I should probably call Bruce
and tell him I'll be home in time for patrol.'  But if
you'd rather I say, 'Sorry Bruce, Dick needs more
cuddle-time', I *suppose* I could..."

"Nah, you should tell him, 'Sorry, Bruce, Dick
fucked me six ways from Sunday and I can't
walk right now.'"

"Jerk."  Tim grins and settles back on Dick's
chest.

They lay there as the sun creeps higher in the
sky.

"One of us should shut the drapes," Dick
mutters.

"It's your house."

"You're more awake."

"Okay.  Here I go."  Tim doesn't move.

"Nice job."

"Thanks," he says, and his smile is soft and
palpable on Dick's skin.  "I'm proud of my work."

The sunlight touches the edge of the bed.

"We should shower," Tim mutters.

Dick strokes Tim's hair. "Mm. And eat."

"You have food?"

"I always have food."

Tim grin shifts and sharpens against his chest. "I
mean *good* food."

"I have food."

"Swear to god, if you make me anything
involving wheat grass, I'm calling Bruce."

Dick grins and tugs on a lock of Tim's hair. "He'll
just make you eat something involving *alfalfa*."

"... He totally would."

"You're safer here with me and my tofu."

"I doubt that."

Dick lets himself doze a little, playing with Tim's
hair, but it doesn't take long before the sunlight
is impossible to avoid. He drags the covers over
their heads and pauses.

"Okay, that's it.  We need a shower," he declares.

"Mmph. And food," Tim says, nuzzling Dick's chest
idly.

"But mostly a shower.  You're sticky."

"*I'm* sticky?"

"Fine.  *We're* sticky.  But when I say 'we', I
mean 'you'." He's pretty sure he can *feel* Tim's
eye-roll, and it's just something else to wallow in,
to *clutch*. He completely owns his need for
emotional life preservers.

Tim sighs. "C'mon.  Shower time," he says, and tugs
against Dick's grasp.  "Um, Dick?  The whole
going-to-get-a-shower thing works better if you
let go."

"Nope."

"Nope?"

"Not gonna."  Dick drags Tim in and nuzzles his
neck.

"No, really, it's too warm under here and we're
sticky and I'm starving.  Let go."

"See, the last time you told me to let go, it led to
sex.  So there's no incentive."

Tim sighs again and says, in his most reasonable
voice, "If you let go, there can be showers and
food, which would make it possible for me to
have more sex."

Dick peers up at him.  "Possible?"

"Highly likely.  Probable, even."

"See, *that's* incentive." And if he's thinking
more about the light dancing in Tim's eyes -- the
one that's for *him* -- than about the chance to
molest the kid again... well, he isn't sure.

It has to be better, or at least not *worse*.

Tim actually giggles before he gets up, and Dick
lets him go.  To a point.  He hangs on to Tim's
hand.

"Uh, Dick?  I'm gonna need that."

"I'm showering with you."

"So I guessed," he says, and pointedly raises an
eyebrow in a way that Dick hopes to God never
actually *reminds* him of Bruce, despite the fact
that he knows it's where Tim *got* it from.  "But,
at some point, you're going to have to let go,
because holding hands while on patrol is going
to give Gotham's criminal element ideas." He
snorts. "*More* ideas."

"I will, it's just..."  Dick sprawls across the bed
and plays with Tim's fingers.  "I *am* going to
let go, just... even when I do?  I haven't, really.
So... y'know, try to remember that."  And that
made some kind of sense in Dick's head, it really
*did*, and he really sucks at talking coherently
about feelings, but when he looks up Tim is...

Tim is looking at him.  And squeezing his hand.

"Shower time," Tim tells him.

"Right."

He lets Tim lead him into the bathroom.

~end