Disclaimers: Not mine.

Spoilers/Timeline: No spoilers, vague sense of nowish.

Summary: They both know how to fall.

Ratings Note: Sexual content.

Author's Note: I had a sudden desperate craving for
Dick/Tim... so I made some.

Acknowledgments: To Betty, Petra, and Mary for
audiencing and encouragement. Petra also gave me the
title.

*

They've been lying to each other for years.

The fact that this is the first thought which pops into his
mind when Tim steps out of the shadows and comes close
enough to the window that they can see each other, as
opposed to just feeling --

It doesn't hurt as much as the fact that it's the truth.

And Tim can see it -- or maybe just something like it -- on
Dick's face, but he opens the window, anyway. This could
be because of the lie *or* because of the truth, however,
so that's... that's.

That's less, stupid, nothing, blessedly irrelevant against the
feel and smell and *reality* of Tim in his arms again. Has
it been weeks? No, longer than that.

They're both still alive. It's okay to hold Tim this tightly, to
be held until they're hurting each other (again), and
dangerously close to knocking each other off-balance
unless they do what could easily -- plausibly -- be reflex
at this point for two fine and finely trained vigilantes like
themselves:

Their legs are entwined now, braced.

They could stay in this position for hours -- if they wanted
to.

"Dick..."

There's a very simple, very important truth Dick began
taking advantage of as soon as Tim took the breath to say
his name: Tim won't let go until he does. He never does,
and he never, ever will.

They balance each other in this, too, loosening and shifting
their grips just enough that Tim's face isn't quite *crushed*
against his shoulder, that Dick's fingertips aren't digging
bruises between pressure points and scars on Tim's back.
But Dick doesn't let go.

And Tim is right there. Watchful now, and fully aware,
and... there. Just a moment, just a blink, and there's
nothing but trust on Tim's face, open for Dick and for the
comfortable illusion that his little brother has never been
frightened of him. That he never will be.

The illusion isn't lost -- surrendered -- with the first kiss,
but for the second, Dick's tongue is in Tim's mouth, and
Tim knows exactly what this is. Or --

He knows enough -- and he'd known long before Dick had,
anyway. He'd known and he hadn't --

Dick bites Tim's lip to keep from doing something foolish
like pushing Tim away and demanding to know why he'd
kept it a secret, why he'd let Dick keep *lying*, let both of
them just --

He bites Tim's lip twice more, and the moan chases
foolishness away like... like something dark and stern and
lost to both of them. Something with no place here.

(Liar.)

When he pulls away this time, it's a chance for Tim to say
something, or stop him, or just... it's a chance, but maybe
they're being honest with each other now, because Tim is
silent and the look in his eyes makes Dick raw all over,
desperate and guilty and hungry and *hungry*.

"Yeah, yes, l -- oh God, I almost called you little *brother*,
again --"

Tim's laugh doesn't lighten things at all, but it's still a laugh.
Easier to kiss than all that bleak confusion, all that fear and
loss. Tim has lost so -- so much.

"Tim --"

"You can call me -- what you want." And Tim bites Dick's
ear and -- twists against him, dragging his erection against
Dick's thigh. Unbalancing them --

Let it.

They both know how to fall, how to roll, fight, *think* --
maybe not the last. Tim's heel is digging into the small of
Dick's back and Tim's hands -- both -- are in his hair.
 
"I can't -- I can't suck you in this. Position."
 
Tim bucks and squeezes him tight, and now his other leg
is wrapped around Dick's waist, too. And now Dick has
another truth -- shock tactics are of dubious use with his --
with Tim.
 
Wordless and not at all silent, not at all -- "What do you
want me to call you?" It's a nonsense question, the first
thing in his mind. Just --
 
He wants Tim to say something, even though the raised
eyebrow combines with every other shift on Tim's face to
create a -- *miasma* of non-plussed-ness that's very --
very fucking loud, indeed.
 
Dick smiles, and wonders if his face is going to crack on
this one, or maybe the next. "I promise this isn't --
Robin-on-Robin kink."

Still no words, but Tim slips his tongue out between his
teeth for just a moment, a *thoughtful* little moment,
and -- "Are you sure?"
 
The necessity of Tim needing a Robin-voice -- he never
had, but times change -- had made Tim's voice actually
changing... it wasn't so much anticlimactic as *stealthy*,
hidden as everything else about his little -- dammit.
"It's -- it's probably closer to the incest. Now that I --"
Tim's left heel dragging down over Dick's ass, down the
back of Dick's right thigh to tease and jab the back of his
knee -- "... consider. Jesus."
 
It's not that having Tim on top of him makes anything any
better -- he's not sure what could -- it's just that he'd had
to move, he'd had to move *them*, and now --
 
Now Tim's hair is shadowing his eyes, and it would be
enough to make Dick twist up again, *need* again, except
that it only takes a moment for Tim to strip off the t-shirt
he'd been sleeping in, to jam his thumbs under the
waistband of the pajama pants, to -- stop.
 
Watch.
 
"Don't stop."
 
"Dick."
 
He doesn't know how he'd respond if Tim actually wanted
one. If he'd been doing more than... it's painful watching
Tim stand, even though it's at least slightly necessary in
order for the pants to get ditched without farce or --
more importantly, for Tim -- wasted energy, even though
Tim is back down and *on* him before Dick can even
remember that he needs to strip, too.
 
Naked, his -- Tim is *naked* on him, waiting, ready --
 
It's a different kind of trust, though Dick isn't sure whether
or not it's a better one. The sense that Dick, at least, will
have some idea of what he wants, beyond convincing
himself that this is happening in something other than
out-of-control thoughts and mocking nightmares.
 
This -- his palm pressed against Tim's left pectoral, nowhere
near any recent wounds, or even anywhere Tim needs
massage. There is nothing innocent about this touch, and
both of them know it. They *have* to. Is it enough?

Is it -- do they really have to --
 
"Dick..."
 
It would be incredibly honest to ask -- beg, if he has to --
to be beaten mercifully unconscious. It would also be
impossible. Tim brushes the too-long -- for him -- hair off
his forehead and holds it back, giving Dick the full force of
his *eyes*. And all Dick can do is look, feeling boneless and
weak and more than a little --
 
Is there even a word for what he's doing? What he's *done*
to just a few harmless little lies?
 
He wants to laugh, but --
 
"Would it help if you stopped trying to *stop* yourself from
calling me 'little brother?'"
 
He does laugh, and bang his head against Tim's cold, hard
floor -- carpeting wouldn't interfere with the kid's training,
he's almost *sure* -- and slips the hand on Tim's chest
around to his back, cupping Tim's vicious little shoulder
blade and drinking in every moment of speculation, every
moment of honest, ungentle *Tim* that he's being given.
"I don't think," he says, and lets his other hand move
between Tim's legs and *move* between Tim's legs --
 
"God -- Jesus, Dick --"
 
"I don't think 'help' is the right word --"
 
"Harder --"
 
"-- little brother."
 
It makes Tim arch like something galvanized, pushing his
dick into Dick's hand, eyes closed and gasping, just a little.
Or maybe that's just the way Dick's stroking, and the fact
that he's stopped bothering to pretend that he hadn't
already known Tim would want it just this way from him --
unsubtle and entirely unambiguous.
 
Something that couldn't be anything but believed.

And Tim's hands cover his own, holding it there -- no.
Riding it and stroking him and it's just -- it's too --

It's more than just wanting, and maybe he should've broken
past that lie in his head before -- before doing *any* of this.

"Tim --"

"Don't --"

"It's not... it's not that I don't -- I --"

Tim digs his nails in to Dick's wrist. "Don't *stop*, Dick,
*please* --"

"I won't, I just -- I need you to know that this isn't me
wanting you to be just one thing, or anything you're --
you're not --"

And making Tim laugh at his -- complete lack of -- timing
is something he probably could've predicted would happen,
just as Tim really *should've* predicted that Dick would
use that laughter to (breathe again) to move them, pin
Tim back against his own bed and surround him a little,
hold him there --

"Maybe -- maybe just a little of something --"

He's running out of coherence even for himself, but there's
a flush spreading most of the way down Tim's chest, now,
and his hair is falling over his eyes again, and his mouth is
open, and for a moment Dick is honestly, honestly terrified,
because he doesn't look like anyone he knows.

"Tim..."

Just... open. Flushed and panting and moaning, available,
not -- not --

"God, little brother, *please* --"

And Tim flips his hair back off his forehead at around the
same time Dick is leaning in, but Tim doesn't wind up
hitting him nearly hard enough. The kiss is better, painful
and wrong and true, and Tim comes in Dick's hand and
sighs into his mouth.

The process of moving onto the bed would get them both
benched for incompetence if Bruce ever saw it, and the
fact that that thought is more disturbing than funny is a
sign that some portion of Dick's sanity remains.

Even with Tim's thumbs digging into his hips, and Tim's
mouth --

"You don't -- you -- *fuck*, Tim --"

He has to, he absolutely has to, and honesty is a good,
wonderful. His little -- his best --

"God, I love you," Dick says, too lost in the wet swipe of
Tim's tongue to feel shame for his timing -- for now.

But Tim has always been forgiving, if not trusting, and the
hand blindly groping for his own is damp with sweat,
bonily familiar, and -- almost -- painfully tight on his own.
And Dick --

"See, if you'd let me suck you --"

A moan which makes *him* moan, which makes him arch
and -- not thrust, he can't thrust yet --

"I would've been -- I wouldn't have been able to *talk* --"

And maybe -- probably -- it's evil to make the person
sucking you off laugh, especially when it's your little, your
best, your Tim, and laughing makes him cough -- whether
or not there's a dick in his mouth -- which means it's also
*stupid* to make him laugh, but it's --

He remembers when just smiling at each other like this
was -- it was just what they did, because Tim liked to play
with him just as much as Dick liked to play with *him*,
and... "Maybe we're still playing?" Possibly -- probably --
that was incoherent. But --

Tim smiles -- with just his eyes. His mouth is busy being
wiped with the back of his good, strong hand. For a
moment. "It isn't completely dissimilar to rooftop tag."

It makes him sit up, shuddering at the brush of his dick
against his own abdomen -- *why* isn't Tim blowing him
anymore? Mostly it makes him smile harder, and kiss his
little brother just like everything between them makes
sense, like lovers, like --

Just to kiss him all over, that's -- not as suspect --

" -- and sparring. Definitely... tag and -- Dick, your tongue,
Jesus --"

And it's absolutely bad form to give up on the kissing -- he
can't, he's not, really, he wants so much more -- to cup
the back of Tim's neck and push --

'Suggestively' would suggest a degree of subtlety which
doesn't exist --

-- but.

"You want -- you want this. From me?"

No one breaks your heart like family. Right? So he puts
every trace of "I want you" he can pull out of himself -- he
empties himself down to the core and kisses Tim, holds
him, and they can *have* this.

"*God*, I -- just --"

And it isn't quite a nerve-strike -- this won't leave him
half-crippled for the next several hours -- but it *is* an
extremely effective take-down, especially considering the
tangle of their limbs, and the fact that *he* wouldn't be
able to concentrate on that sort of thing right now, but
then --

It's Tim, and it's absolutely the single most effective way
to get Dick on his back and open for -- for --

It's ridiculous; of course Tim's mouth is hot, and wet, and
all of those things his mind ('mind') is insisting are exciting
and new. Of course he uses his mouth just precisely like
it's the only part of his body which Dick will ever let touch
him, like this is something he's only ever going to get one
chance at, so he has to -- because Dick is --

"I'm not -- drugged --"

It's a singular experience to have interrogatory sounds
made around one's penis. Just -- it is.

"I mean -- this isn't a one-time -- unless you want it to be,
and I'd understand, really --"

*God*, he needs to stop making Tim need to stop sucking
him. He really, really -- "Dick."

"I *swear* I can shut up for long enough for you to make
me come."

This, in his secret heart, is the smile which always made
him *push* on that little brother threshold of appropriate
behavior. Not the big, wide one that's always -- always --
been all his. But the sly one. The *mocking* one.

The someday-I'll-be-so-far-beyond-your-reach-you'll-never-
catch-me one. "Did I mention I was screwed-up?
Because -- I am. Just not about this."

The smile is even better with the patented -- it really should
be, at this point -- eyebrow of purest skepticism.

"Okay, but not -- in that *bad* way."

"And by 'bad' you mean 'the way that makes us need to
stop?'"

"Yes. I mean -- yes."

"Dick," Tim says, and this time it sounds a lot like... a lot.

"Yeah."

And Tim touches his mouth gently -- and then *covers* his
mouth -- and protesting that would probably be...

... the stupidest, the most *asinine* thing he could do. So
he doesn't. And it's easy -- perfect -- to use his tongue on
Tim's palm precisely the way Tim's using *his* tongue all
over Dick's -- still funny -- dick.

Especially when the usage gets a little ragged, a little
messy -- *wet*.

I love you, he thinks, and tries to draw with his tongue, and
then Dick hears himself moaning, feels himself sweating,
terrified, so close, so --

God, just don't --

(Leave.)

And Tim is shaking just as much as he is. Orgasms probably
shouldn't be this traumatic, but if they weren't, would they
feel this good?

He's absolutely sure Tim doesn't know why he's laughing
this time, but it's okay, because Tim's extremely good at
coping with incomprehensible people, though he could
frankly be a little better at coping with being crushed
against Dick's body and -- well, 'clutched' is as good a
word as any.

You'd think he *couldn't* hold his breath for the better part
of three minutes.

But Tim adapts, and Dick eases up -- slightly -- and then...
then he can breathe, because the sprawl of not-so-little-
anymore-quite brother on top of him regulates the rhythm,
demands the steadiness, and he would do anything,
absolutely anything for --

He can breathe, again, finally.

"Is this where we talk?"

"I --" That's an excellent question. "Maybe? Do you want --"

Oh, that look is pure Alfred. And there's no good way to tell
the person who just sucked you off that he's making your
dick shrink.

"Okay, you don't *want* to talk, but you think -- you
know -- that we probably should."

Alfred-look gone, thank God. "Yes. Dick --"

"It's just -- it's the thought I had, little -- Tim --"

Tim head-butts him in the chin -- lightly. "Stop trying,
really. It doesn't -- I've already done some measure of...
reconciliation. In my head."

Of course he has. "Of course you have, and see, that's --
that's what was going through my head. That we'd been
*lying* to each other for *years* about what --"

"Omission makes things easier --"

"*Emptier*."

This time it's less of a head-butt than an accidental caress.
Tim's hair is a soft brush against Dick's chin and his
throat -- when *had* he quit with the product? "Easier, too."

Dick -- stops. Freezes and cringes inside, a little, just -- He
grabs Tim's shoulders and pushes and pulls on him until
he can meet his *eyes*. "Tim, do you --"

"I didn't -- I didn't say 'better.'"

"This is better. This is better?"

And Tim is wry, all over *wry*, all over his skin and it's
making everywhere they touch feel raw.

And alive.

This is better.

end.