Into that ocean
by Te
November 19, 2005

Disclaimers: Not mine.

Spoilers/Timeline: Vague mentions of various aging
storylines. Takes place in some vague sense of 'a
few months from now.'

Summary: "Maybe I'm just... used to you."

Ratings Note: Sexual content.

Author's Note: Audrey's art makes word go. Yes.

Acknowledgments: To Audrey, Jack, and Jam for
audiencing and encouragement.


Te: *sigh sigh sigh* If everyone in fandom wrote a Dick/Tim
story around this pic tomorrow, I would be VERY VERY
Audrey: ...And you'd have to get somebody to clean up the
Audrey: Because my head would EXPLODE.
Audrey: In a happy way.
Te: *siiigh* I'm just... I'm so totally with Dick in this picture.
Sure, he's just supposed to bandage Tim and let him *go*
Te: But he *has* to touch.
Te: Just... Tim is this remarkable, wonderful *thing*. He's
Robin, and he's Tim, and he's funny and so brilliant it hurts.
And he's beautiful and *giving*.
Audrey: *encourages* *with flail*
Te: And he's warm and alive and patient... SIGH SIGH
Te: Writing Dick fetishizing Tim is so HARD
Te: I don't know why.
Te: But... THIS picture...

If Dick leans away, just a little, he can shift the way the
light -- the way he sees the light -- falls on all the old and
new scars on Tim's back. He can...
If he tilts his head, a little, and doesn't quite close his eyes,
there's nothing there but the lines and planes of a very
athletic teenaged boy. There's nothing --
And Dick knows himself, and he knows it's wrong to feel
jealous of Tim's *skin*. To feel --
Every scar is a connection.

A reason -- an *excuse* -- for the way Dick needs him.

As though bandaging the latest wounds really just boils
down to protecting the newest *scars*.
Dick laughs to himself and --
"What -- what is it?"
And he'd honestly thought Tim was dozing -- they've all
learned to sleep through this kind of 'maintenance' -- but...
well. Tim is better at just being still than all of them.
Certainly better than him. And -- he has no idea how to
share the joke. "Nothing," he says, hating himself a little for
lying. "Really just..."

Which just makes Dick laugh a little more, because, really --
"Sometimes you really sound *just* like Bruce."
"Hm. Except for how he doesn't have to rip his throat up
to sound --"
"Is this about your voice changing, *Timmy*, because..."
Dick smiles, and, yeah. He's close enough again that
Tim has to be able to feel his teeth on his shoulder.
"Asshole." It's soft and fond and it's not like Bruce's laughs
at all.

It's an opportunity -- excuse -- to let one hand slip down to
Tim's thigh and squeeze. Just the outside.
The fact that he'd convinced Tim to do this on the bed, with
Tim settled between his legs means...
Means he needs more than that to excuse an actual hug.
And Tim's too tired right now for a spar or --
"Dick...? Are the bandages..."

"Shh, I'm being --" Greedy. "A perfectionist."
"Hm," Tim says, but he also just sort of... settles himself.
 Enough of a shift that Dick can get to all of his back, and...
And Dick's aware of how easy it would be to let the hand --
still -- on Tim's thigh move, a little. How...
It would be better if he were more tired. If there was an
*excuse* to lean in like this, to use the hand that should
be double-checking the bandages to brace against Tim's
unhurt -- tonight -- abdomen and hold him still.
To kiss him. Just... just his shoulder.

Just --
He does it again, and wishes his mouth was sensitive
enough to feel more than the gross, basic changes between
scars and healthy skin. His tongue --
He'd be able to feel them with his tongue. All the ways Tim
isn't like -- anyone else. All the ways Tim belongs to this
life, and thus to --
I missed you so much, Dick doesn't say, because it's been
months since Tim has been back, and because there's too
much he'd make Tim *think* of --
Dick closes his eyes and kisses Tim again, and again, and it
feels like as much of a compromise as -- as everything
else --
It feels -- Tim is *tensing*, because one kiss -- two, three --
is just Dick being Dick, just something Dick can *do*, even
though it's greedy, but --

"I -- Dick --"
"Sorry, I --" He stops, because his voice -- he sounds --
He sounds obvious, beyond the way it's muffled by Tim's
*skin*, and he feels his hands flexing without his
permission, and --
"God, I'm sorry," and if he could just pull *away*.
"It's -- Dick, what --" And Tim pulls away for him, standing
and turning and Dick's mouth feels sensitive now, sensitive
enough to feel --
Everything he can't, with Tim this far away. It has to be all
over his face.
"I... oh."
It is.

Tim is breathing too fast -- as fast as he is, as --
Tim's breathing too fast, and Dick can't help tracking the
movement of his hands over the new bandages on his wrist,
his ribs --
"I want you," Dick says, and that's a lie, too. "I -- heh. I
think I kind of need you right now, little brother. But it's
not --"
The sound that comes out Tim's throat makes Dick wince.
It's pained and a little --
"God, don't -- don't freak, okay? I know this isn't --"
He's never really seen Tim enjoying himself during a fight.
The flying, yes, and the chance to be a detective on the
streets, but not -- he's nothing like Jason, and when he
moves, it's quick and brutal and *efficient*.
And Dick would -- he knows he *should* --  think there was
something wrong about the fact that Tim is moving just that
way to strip out of the rest of his uniform, but the feel of
his own thumbs slipping beneath the waistband of *his*
tights is a distraction.
He's stripping, too, losing the thread of --
He doesn't know. He doesn't --
"I need you," he says again, because it's the only thing he
can figure out *how* to say, right now, and then Tim is
there, on him and moving --
Straddling Dick's thighs and so -- so fucking *close*. "Let
me kiss you," he says, and he knows it sounds like an
*order*, but Tim just closes his eyes and tilts his head.

And Dick thinks -- the last time I cupped his face he'd taken
a head-shot and I'd flipped the lenses on his mask, I had to
see his eyes --
And Tim's mouth is open and the mask is -- he can't
remember where Tim had stashed it -- and the last time
he'd cupped Tim's face he hadn't been thinking about this,
he swears --
He doesn't know who he's swearing to, and Tim is moaning
into his mouth and --
"Don't shake. Don't --"
"Sorry, Dick, I -- *Dick* --"
"-- it's okay, God, you're so beautiful, little brother --"

And Tim's hair is still a little damp from patrol-sweat, making
Dick's palm feel --
"God, I think I want to take a shower with --"
Tim kisses him hard, and his hands are on Dick's shoulders
now, squeezing -- *clutching* -- and it's so easy to shift
just a little, just enough to nudge at the backs of Tim's
thighs with his own until they're overbalanced and down
and he can't --
He can't remember the last time something felt as good as
Tim sprawled over him, as being pressed down to Tim's
bed with Tim's *body*, and --
God, he can't just --
"Do you want this? Tim, do --"
"You -- I know I'm --"
"Dick, *yes* --"
And it's probably the hint of irritation in Tim's voice that
does it, that impatience he can feel in the hardening dick
against his thigh, and --
He thinks, the last time I pinned Tim it wasn't a pin so much
as a *bomb*, protecting him, covering him --
It has to be wrong to grind against Tim like this, now. It
has to be -- some kind of --
But Tim's eyes roll back in his head and he -- he licks his

And his hand looks good on Tim's face, even though it's just
splayed and needy -- *greedy* -- even though there's no
reason for any of this.

Dick closes his eyes and kisses Tim again, and he thinks --

He thinks, I always thought he'd kiss like this, I always
looked at -- God, *Steph* -- and the way she looked at Tim
so *curiously*, like she was trying to figure out where this
came from, and now --

Now he knows what *this* is, that sometime when he
wasn't paying attention, Tim just --

*His* hands are in Dick's hair, and he kisses with his teeth
as much as with his lips and tongue, and Dick's moving to
make it a better pin before he realizes that Tim's just trying
to spread his *legs*, and -- "Tim --"

"Dick. Did you... just want? I mean --"

"What do you want?"

And Tim is -- isn't easy to read, even like this, with his
mouth swollen from *Dick's* and his eyes dark and wide --

Possibly Tim is easy *enough* to read. Possibly it's enough
to just nod like either of them had actually answered a
question, pretend communication had actually *happened*,
as opposed to just the need to shove his tongue back into
Tim's mouth and brace himself on one hand while the other
curves itself to Tim's hip and *pulls*.

The need, the opportunity, the *motive*, and Dick's
laughing at himself a little -- more than a little -- but --

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

Please. "God, I --"

"You feel -- please, Dick."


He can't pin Tim's wrists over his head and go down at him
at the same time. He's too tall for that, and neither of them
are metahumans, and there are fundamental, rational
reasons for all of these things, but it all boils down to
watching Tim's fingers curl in and stiffen, to watching Tim
watching (knowing) *him* instead of --


His voice is quiet, so -- so calm and *knowing* --


"You're so fucking *dangerous*, Tim, I... "

And the smile on Tim's face is just as knowing as everything
else, but it's soft -- for Tim -- and it's. The flex of his wrists
under Dick's palms feels like a gift, and -- "Maybe I'm just...
used to you."

And he thinks -- I never touched him, I never kissed him, I
never *did* this, and why isn't there more of a -- why
doesn't *he* need a transition --

"Dick..." And the cut of Tim's eyes is deliberate, perfectly
effective communication. They're both hard. Tim is
pinned -- albeit mostly out of his willingness to be so -- and
Dick is failing to... take advantage.

Dick swallows, because... because there's more than just
'deliberate' there. There's... there's a little fresh sweat on
Tim's forehead, a little sweat making Dick's grip on him
slicker, iffier -- dangerous -- "I want you."

"I -- I'm here."


And this smile is a lot *shakier*, but Tim just tilts his chin
up -- no -- nods up toward his pinned wrists. "Maybe you
didn't notice. I mean... there've been a few... distractions."

"God --"

"Along the way --"

"Tim --"

"-- as it were."

Dick laughs and Tim laughs -- with him, and that's just --
that's perfect -- he *missed* Tim so much --

It's perfect, and it can't last while Dick is kissing Tim again,
and he isn't sure if the moans are better or not, but
they're closer to what he *needs*. And letting go of Tim's
wrists is hard, but it leads to having a strong, steady hand
in his hair and a shakier one moving on his back, moving
down, touching, *distracting* --

But that's a lie, too. Dick knows himself, and there isn't
much which could make him stop kissing Tim like this, stop
licking the teeth that keep trying to close on his lips, stop
moving and *grinding*, and he wants more, he wants so
much more --

"It's okay, oh God -- Dick, it's -- oh --"

He's sobbing a little -- too much, not enough into Tim's
mouth and he's going to come, just like this, and it's a
good thing that they're at least naked, but it's not enough,
and he hates the sound of himself growling like this, even
though it's better than cursing, better than just clutching
Tim again and --

"Oh God, *Dick* --"

-- he thinks, I could at least be pissed because this isn't
good enough for *him*, I could at least have that, *be*
that --

"-- don't stop, don't -- you feel so -- *Dick* --"

-- can't I?

It's wonderful and terrible to come on Tim's chest and
abdomen, for -- so many damned *reasons* --

"Tim, I... Tim..."

The hand on his back is firmer now, and the hand in his hair
is *pulling*, which is -- it's good, it's just that it should be
*pushing*, and Dick twists out of Tim's grip, catching and
kissing the hands that are grabbing for him, and --

Grabbing for him. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I... okay?"

There's something... actually something a little cute about
the way that Tim's half-sitting up with his hands held out
in front of him -- held by *Dick*, and maybe, possibly,
'cute' isn't the word. "Your hair..."

Tim blinks, and recovers -- Dick can see him *doing* it --
by raising an eyebrow.

"It's been a while since I've seen it this messy, kiddo."

This time, it's less of a blink then the motion Tim uses to
hide the fact that he's thinking very quickly and very deeply
about -- Dick can guess what it's about. He just can't tell
whether he should be...

He can't tell whether he should be *anything*, not until
Tim starts working his wrists back and forth like maybe
Dick's hands are *cuffs*, and --

"Then... what?"

"I want -- I need more."


"I need to... I." He squeezes, too hard and helplessly,
besides, and it makes Tim's mouth fall open on a breath, a
sigh, something not a moan. I need your moans, he
doesn't say. "I need to --"

"Make me come. I mean -- I... that was supposed to be a
question. Actually." And the pink flash of Tim's tongue
between his teeth makes Dick --

No, nothing makes Dick pull Tim up and *closer* but
everything that's been moving in him for much too long,
but it's enough that Tim's right there, and possibly also that
he's right there and his arms are crushed between them,
and his mouth is open and dangerous and inviting, and
he's moaning again, slicking Dick's abdomen with pre-come
and being *hard*. "You want -- this --"

"I want -- you --"

"God, Tim," and it feels a little ridiculous to just shove Tim
back down to the bed again, but he can't stop himself from
doing it, just like -- maybe -- Tim can't stop himself from
spreading his legs and arching *up* with his hips -- "Yeah,
yes, just --"

Slim hips, barely any bigger than they were when he'd
*met* the kid -- the second time -- only now they're
scarred and  --

"I wish I'd bandaged these --"

"*Fuck* -- *Dick* --"

"I wish I'd -- God, I remember the first time I saw this
scar --"

"Dick, please, just -- touch me, I need -- I need --
*please* -- "

And he can't reach to cover Tim's mouth, but he can still --
it's ridiculous and maybe a little insane, but it still feels like
a workable compromise to wrap his hand around the base
of Tim's dick --

"*Please* --"

-- and slip the head between his lips. It's -- it *is* a
compromise, even if he's not sure who it's for, but then --

He is, he's sure, because the only things keeping Tim
from shoving all the way *in* are Dick's hands on his hips,
and that doesn't have to last.

That --

"God -- *God* -- *mm* --"

Muffled, wrong, and when Dick looks up, Tim's biting his
own fingers and squeezing his eyes shut, and he wants to
stop for long enough to make Tim -- to make Tim *stop*,
but Tim's head is whipping back and forth on the pillow in
a rhythm completely different from the rough, ragged jerk
of his hips, and he's flushed right down to his nipples, and
Dick wants --

He wants to *stare*, but the head of Tim's dick is dragging
over his palate, over and over, and he tastes like a
stranger, but that won't *last*.

And all Dick can do is close his eyes and *ride* it, feeling
his skin prickle cold and -- *needy* -- everywhere they're
not touching -- yet, anymore, *yet* --

And every muffled sound might be his name or 'please,'
might be something to excuse Dick being hard again,
wanting again, more, even after he moves his hand and
swallows --

And Tim screams *around* his fingers, and Dick opens his
eyes in time to see Tim biting down viciously enough Dick
can almost *feel* it, and this is -- this is good, this is what
he needs, what he's --

He's making Tim need this as much, and that's -- that's
Tim's free hand in his hair and the fact that the
head-shakes start to look a little like 'no,' even as Tim's
fingers dig into his scalp and the motion of his hips become
the same kind of hungry, ruthless *grind* Dick had used

Yes, he can't say, like that, please, just like that, and he
presses up with his tongue and holds Tim in his throat until
he's sweating again, warm from the early stages of
hypoxia and stroking Tim restlessly, desperately, and he
thinks --

I never needed you like this. I always needed you just like
this, just -- don't stop --

He closes his eyes and Tim jerks, gasps, comes in his
throat and in his mouth when Dick starts to pull back for
the taste --

In his *throat*, because his little brother is strong and
needs this, needs it, and Dick feels his hands spasming on
Tim's sides and holds on.

Until Tim lets go.

"Hnh... hnh... *fuck*."

Tim jerks again under him at the feel of Dick's tongue
moving up over his abdomen. Or maybe just at the fact.


There's a part of him which can't stop cataloguing, can't
stop *seeing* Tim, and the loose, uncoordinated
movements of his limbs. Exhaustion, satisfaction -- "Yeah,"
he says, and braces himself with one elbow down on the
sweat-damp pillow next to Tim's head, and slips the other
arm behind Tim's left knee, pulling it up, bent.

Making it dig into his own side. Tim's eyes aren't quite
closed, and he's...

"You're... pretty relaxed."

The smile slips on and off Tim's face almost too fast to be
caught. "Funny how that... works," he says, and shifts
enough to rub at Dick's ribs with his knee. It would be
painful if it wasn't exactly what he wanted.

It still is. "I..." God, this is --

"This isn't... you're not okay, are you?"

And Tim's eyes are open, clear again and so damned
*serious*. Dick laughs and shakes his head. "I'm not -- I'm
not used to needing this from you."

Tim nods, and there's another one of those smiles, and the
part of Dick which is, actually, just as tired as Tim is
wondering if he could catch it with his mouth, hold it, hold
it *down* --

He shakes his head, ruefully.

"Because you want me? Or... because I want you."

And Dick thinks -- I can't stop thinking about how fucking
*blithe* you were about how our lives were supposed to
work after Jason died, how you *always* were, and
sometimes --

"Dick --"

"Sometimes you scare the hell out of me, little brother."

This smile stays right on Tim's face, even as his eyes --

"God, fuck, that came out wrong --"

"It's okay --"

"I don't --"

"It's *okay* --"

And Dick hears himself growling again, and there's no
possible use in pushing Tim's knee up to his chest and
crushing half of the breath out of him, but he does it
anyway, and then...

Then it's done, and he's left with the inescapable knowledge
of himself, in this moment -- shoving the second-best thing
that ever happened to him down against the bed and
looming, needing and *needing* --

"I -- God, Tim."

The breath Tim takes is just as shallow as it has to be, in
this position. "It's --"

"It's not *okay*!"

"I --" Tim takes another breath and closes his eyes. "All

"Tim --"

"Just -- I'm not going anywhere, either, Dick. Not -- I'm not
going anywhere."

He thinks -- I *can't* go --

"I can't," Tim says, and Dick feels himself freezing all over,
until it's just pain he can't touch, can't *help*.


"I -- I never could," Tim says, and smiles, sharp and --

It shouldn't be possible for smiles to be that *hard* when
your eyes are closed. But it's Tim, and Tim has scars from
everywhere, from all of them. He can't leave.

"Okay...?" And he opens his eyes again, and they're tired
and -- they're open. "Okay, Dick?"

It's easier to nod than it is to do -- almost -- anything else.
The only thing harder than stopping is letting go, even
though Tim just wraps his leg around Dick's waist and lets
it fall between Dick's own.

"Dick," he says, reaching up to stroke Dick's face.

"I -- am I allowed to apologize?"

Tim shakes his head and smiles.

For a moment.