He's suited up under his Tim Drake clothes, and so the only thing he has to do once Alfred brings him back to the manor is grab his travel bag and --

"The Wayne Enterprises jet is fully fueled, and there is, of course, a pilot on-call, young sir."

Tim pauses in the foyer. "I did have other travel plans, Alfred."

Alfred... sniffs. "Rather slipshod and hasty, don't you think?"

Alfred, I'm not married to Bruce, and let's never talk about the million different ways in which you are, quite possibly, the creepiest man I've ever known -- no. While Alfred hasn't been *his* surrogate mother, he's still Alfred, and it would be dangerous on a number of levels to ever forget that. Tim seats the bag more comfortably on his shoulder, takes a breath, and, "They're my plans, just the same."

"Perhaps it isn't my place to say, but..."

The pause is to his credit, of course. A perfect opportunity for Tim to lunge in, metaphorical non-lethal projectile weapons blazing... and into whatever trap Alfred is laying for him. The space between his shoulder blades *itches*.

"Master Bruce has only rarely, in the time I have known him, allowed himself both time and room to engage in relationships not directly related to the mission with which he has saddled himself."

"I'm aware of that, Alfred," Tim says, and -- keeps breathing. Waits. Waits.

The silence is deafening, and filled with a dozen different horrible and entirely true things which both of them could be saying. At some point, perhaps, Alfred will ask him what his *intentions* are with regards to Bruce --

Tim doesn't laugh, and he *doesn't* turn around. "Alfred..."

"You have my attention, Master Timothy."

And it bloody well better be worth it...? "I have no intention of causing deliberate hurt."

"That was never my assumption, I assure you."

"And I have no intention of narrowing my life down to --" Tim bites the tip of his own tongue. Lightly. "Let me go. Please."

Alfred doesn't sigh, or sniff again, and he doesn't ask Tim to look at him. He doesn't have to. Alfred has always had his priorities in order, and anyone else's wants and needs...

No, that's not quite right, but.

Tim shakes his head and walks out the door and onto the grounds.

When he's reasonably far out of earshot...

"Clark," Tim says, and keeps walking. "I was wondering if I could prevail on your time this afternoon."

His comm is in his ear, just in case Clark has to --

"Tim."

-- resolve out of a blur and not -- quite -- land in front of him. His wake shakes the leaves on the trees and flattens the grass in what may very well be a *precise* three foot radius. Tim smiles.

"I'd be honored to be of assistance," he says, and offers his hand. He's backlit a little too much for his expression to be entirely clear, but his smile can't possibly be less blinding than the actual sun.

Tim reaches up to clasp his forearm -- and they're in the air. Tim gives himself a moment to watch the manor become merely another part of the landscape, and then he looks at Clark. At an intensely -- warming -- smile. Tim shifts in Clark's grip enough to get a hand free, and then slides that hand over the shield. "How much time do you have?"

"I'm technically on assignment," Clark says, and uses his free hand to cover Tim's hand --

It's gone, and... had he stroked Tim's hand? Had it been the wind? Tim feels his smile changing and does nothing to stop it. "I'm -- technically -- in need of a lift to San Francisco."

"Oh, yes. I've always thought you should get to spend as much time with your team as possible," and Clark's eyebrows lift, drop --

That feeling of pressure, stroke against Tim's knuckles, again -- "Clark... I wouldn't be averse to your taking the scenic route." The kiss is very brief -- and lands just to the *side* of Tim's mouth -- but it's warm, and Clark's lips are anything but soft. Statement of intent or question? Difficult to be sure, since the contact is gone before Tim can turn into it --

"Please, allow me," Clark says, letting go -- and wrapping Tim in his cape before his body can parse the sensation into one of falling.

Tim laughs --

Clark squeezes him. "There's one particular detour I had in mind," and his voice through the comm lacks something like immediacy, if not warmth. Frustrating, though Tim would've thought he'd need far more... exposure to feel that.

Perhaps he'll have time to think about it while Clark flies them --

Down, and Tim tenses at a blast of a cold so intense it's only his hypothermia training which allows him to *register* it as cold --

"Ah, sorry. I accidentally brought in a rather unwieldy chunk of ice in my wake," Clark says, and he's a moving blur -- ah, he's heating the air *around* Tim.

"It's all right --"

"It jammed the irising mechanism and the hatch couldn't close. I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

Tim smiles and lets his eyes slip half-closed. It's warmer now than it will be in San Francisco. Without a clear view of his surroundings... "And now I'm living in summer."

"Early spring, if you wanted to be technical... which I'm reasonably sure you don't."

"Relative might suit us better than technical, Clark," Tim says, and loosens his tie.

"That's a wonderful suit," he says, and the blur stops and become Clark -- very much Clark, right down to the t-shirt, jeans, and well-used work boots.

"And yet I feel overdressed," Tim says, and gives himself another moment to relax in the dissipating heat. He can feel the tension leaving him, and -- it's not the heat. It's the source of that heat, and the way the rest of the Fortress is yawning open around them, full of potential, data, *interest*. "Clark."

"Welcome."

"Thank you," and Tim thinks about it, and then unknots the tie the rest of the way and lets the tails of it hang. "I would love a tour..."

Clark blinks. "Oh, of course --"

"Some other time," Tim says, and walks out of the last of the heat. There's no way to be absolutely sure how warm the rest of the Fortress should -- 'should' -- be, but it's still cool around Clark, cool enough that the heat from his body is almost shocking. Certainly inviting.

"Tim..." The corners of Clark's eyes crinkle in a rueful smile. "Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised by how... ah. The word that comes to mind is 'predatory.'"

"Interesting," Tim says, and rests his hand on Clark's chest again. It seems almost obscene to be able to feel the beat of his heart, and Tim is hard under far too many layers of clothes -- "Because I was under the impression that I'd been making you wait."

"You *have* -- oh. I mean..."

Tim presses his hand against Clark's chest as hard as he can. There is, of course, no give. Nothing to even fool his senses that there would be. Tim shivers. "Clark, I've been thinking about you for quite some time."

"It -- in human time that's not very... I mean, it shouldn't have seemed so for *you* --"

"In the past," Tim says, and curls his hand into a claw, "I was, of course, mostly thinking about you and Dick. What you'd done with him. How you touched him..."

"But you never let him *speak* about it -- oh. I didn't listen to every conversation. It's only --"

"You care about Dick. You love him. I love him, too," and Tim scratches his way down Clark's chest, down his abdomen --

"Tim..."

"If I could watch him more than I do, if I could listen to his voice, listen to him saying my name..."

"He's always been so beautiful," Clark says, and reaches out to cup Tim's face. "You're making me very aroused. You -- you don't need to *seduce*, Tim."

"Gratifying," Tim says, and curls his fingers in the waistband of Clark's jeans. The heat is more intense there, and it's hard to keep himself from trying to just shove his whole hand in. "I want to talk with you. Share with you..."

"That's quite wonderful. I... if I could," and Clark leans in and kisses him. Every moment of it is jarring in several thrilling ways: the hardness of his lips even as they move against his own, the heat of his breath, the slide of his tongue, and the power Tim can feel in it.

It's hard not to just stand there and *take* it, to analyze every press and push, but he knows Clark wants more than that, and the idea of Clark wanting it from him is just too heady to ignore, even for the sake of investigation. Tim cups Clark's hip with his free hand and tugs him closer --

And the vibration of Clark's hum seems to shudder right through Tim, stake him down to this spot and electrify him -- Clark pulls back. "We can talk as much as you'd like, Tim. There's so much I'd like to know about you --"

"Ask me anything. Or kiss me again -- mm --"

This time, Clark lifts Tim against him. Tim can't keep his grip on Clark's jeans, but it's a very small price to pay for the opportunity to wrap his legs around Clark's waist and suck his tongue, lick it with his own --

Tim feels them leaving the ground, feels them turning in the air until Tim is on top of Clark, gravity pressing them together. Tim smiles into the kiss and tugs Clark's t-shirt out of his jeans, sliding his hands under it. "So *warm* --"

And Clark pushes his hands into Tim's hair and pulls him into another kiss, a deeper one when Tim finds one of his nipples, hard and seemingly unassailable, a statue in deep sunlight -- his ears are expecting the sound of a scrape on stone when he scratches, but of course there's nothing like that. Nothing --

They're moving. Tim turns his head out of the kiss, giving Clark his unbruised cheek. For a while the walls are so featureless and smooth that it almost seems as though Tim had imagined them moving --

Clark *licks* his cheek, murmurs something warm and incomprehensible, something else entirely when Tim tries a pinch --

And now there's color, reds and blues, flashes of gold, oddly *sleek* furniture which only seems somewhat familiar before it changes to other things, changes again. Clark isn't murmuring to *him*. Tim smiles and turns into another kiss --

"You -- oh," Clark says, and turns them in the air, turns them again, picks up speed and Tim can't be sure which direction they're facing beyond being -- somewhat -- physically sure that they're upright again --

And then not even that, because this kiss is too much, fast and hard, *deep*. Clark is licking his tongue, stroking his back, pushing him away and breathing quick and hot against a bite mark -- where is his shirt, his jacket? Every time Tim can separate one sensation from the rest, it becomes something else. Impossible to return in kind, but Tim supposes it's possible that he's just supposed to *take* this.

Which...

Tim laughs, and struggles to get his arms free -- red. He's definitely not wearing the upper part of his civilian suit, anymore --

Clark holds him by the waist -- yes, they're upright, in the air, *somewhere* -- "Tim..."

Tim takes a breath, tastes nothing but clear and somewhat sweet air, licks his lips. They're buzzing a little, fuzzed with a little too much sensation -- "Were you looking for Robin?"

Clark only looks at him for a long moment. There's no sign of those kisses on his face beyond the shine of saliva on his lip -- and beyond the expression of hunger in his eyes. His hair isn't even mussed.

Tim reaches out and pushes a hand into Clark's hair, getting a *good* handful before he tugs. Clark closes his eyes slowly -- and then they're open again, *focused* -- "Clark --"

"Oh, did you... you should tell me what you want. I."

A very clear request, with just the slightest edge of warning to make Tim want to do... very many things. "Set me down and let me get out of the rest of my clothes," he says, and --

He's standing on a faintly golden floor, next to something which could be a chair or just some sort of low pedestal. When he touches it, the red of the walls becomes something deeper. There's a hum -- and the material of the pedestal shifts, softens, and *engulfs* Tim's hand.

There's no pain -- perhaps a light scrape -- and then his hand is free, again. Tim raises an eyebrow and looks at Clark, who is hovering a polite -- if somewhat obviously *rigid* -- five feet away, hands clasped together. Clark's expression is a fascinating blend of ruefulness and carefully banked impatience.

Tim doesn't want to tease, and so he toes off his shoes, *before* he says, "Clark, what was that...?"

"The AI... took the opportunity to... sample you," he says, unclasping his hands for just long enough to smooth his hair down. "You are a guest."

And if he was an enemy...? Tim smiles, steps out of his suit pants, and works open his day belt. He's wearing all of his uniform save for the boots, gauntlets, and mask, and Tim thinks about it -- he disarms the suit and takes a step away from his discarded clothes. "If you want me naked --"

"I *want* you."

So clear, so honest, so -- easy. Tim lifts his arms and spreads them. "It occurred to me that you could make this faster..."

"You didn't seem to want... fast," Clark says, and now he's *squeezing* his hands together.

There's a faintly mineral taste in Tim's mouth, and something familiarly acid at the back of it. A wash of need, of timely *response* to everything Clark is showing him. Tim would like to show *more* than that, push farther, offer so much -- "I know everything I do must seem painfully slow, teasing..." and for a moment Tim can't take his eyes off Clark's *hands*. Just --

How much pressure must he be bringing to bear for his knuckles to show white? How much *power*?

Tim shakes his head and resists the urge to grab at his own groin -- no. He gives in to it, squeezing himself *hard* through the jock, opens his mouth for the inevitable gasp from the pain --

"Tim --"

"I don't want to be so overwhelmed that I can't pleasure *you*, Clark," Tim says, and has to laugh again, a little, at the mildly -- so very mildly -- *perturbed* expression on Clark's face.

It's enough of a dialing-back that he can stop gripping himself and move closer, bask again in all of that *heat*, and yes, *use* his brain a little bit. Clark had immediately changed out of his uniform, changed into *this* --

Tim tugs on the t-shirt, purchasable nearly anywhere. Cheap, soft with wear, so easy to push *under* --

No, he's thinking --

"Tim, we -- I'm sorry, I only needed --"

"A moment, Clark," Tim says, and pulls his hands back out from under. Less satisfying to stroke Clark through the t-shirt, more conducive to critical mentation. Perhaps a bit less so when Tim can't stop himself from sliding his hands back, pushing them down into the back pockets of Clark's jeans. Tim sighs --

Clark's jeans, very much so, and -- it's not a difficult idea. Not really. But --

"If you wanted to be Clark with me, then why are you drowning me -- that wasn't *quite* a complaint, of course -- in Superman?"

And when he looks up, Clark has his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted... he has a beauty unlike -- almost -- anyone else's in Tim's acquaintance. It's a broad sort of thing, open and utterly free of secrets.

Seemingly. Tim squeezes Clark's buttocks as much as he can without injuring his hands --

"Tim."

"Did you think I only wanted Superman? That I only wanted you for your power?"

Again, Clark's eyes are open without Tim being able to see movement, change -- but he's searching Tim at something resembling human speed -- and then the sense of search is gone, replaced with ruefulness and something like a plea. "The differences... the differences aren't always so vast," he says, and, "please," and --

Tim is naked, fingertips buzzing a little from the scrape of denim. Tim smoothes them against his hips --

His hands are being held -- gently -- in Clark's own. Kissed -- "I'm sorry. I promise not to make assumptions. It's only that your whole mood changed when I flew to you, your scent, the flex and release of your muscles, so strong," Clark says, and licks Tim's fingers, between them --

"I was very happy to see you," Tim says, and pushes two of his fingers into Clark's mouth, into *heat* -- "I still am. And you feel... your warmth is intoxicating."

Clark hums and sucks Tim's fingers, licks them again before pulling off. "And so, perhaps, the differences are not so vast for you, either...?"

Touché. Tim smiles. "So long as you keep remembering that there are *two* of us here --"

"I couldn't forget," Clark says, and --

Tim's skin is telling him that his side has been stroked, squeezed, but it was too fast to see -- ah, Clark pauses with his hand on Tim's waist --

And raises his eyebrows in obvious question -- the request is all about wondering, perhaps, if that was 'all right.'

Tim smiles a little wider and shakes his head. "Alternately, I suppose you could always blindfold me."

"I don't mean to -- ah. *Confound* perception. If you could... mm," and he lifts Tim again, pulls him close --

He should be naked, too, but Tim has to admit that there's something -- definitely something -- about the feel of denim against the light bruising on his inner thighs, a smooth hard hand on his back and another cupping his buttocks...

"Blindfolds. That -- perhaps that's more Bruce's sort of thing...?" And now Clark's fingers are testing -- teasing the edges of one of the bite marks on Tim's back.

"Mm. I'll tell him you asked," Tim says, and wraps his arms around Clark's broad, warm neck. "Unless, of course, there's something you could tell me...?"

The blush is fascinating to watch as it spills over Clark's cheeks -- or had Clark slowed down the rush of blood enough for Tim to be able to see it happen?

Either way... Tim touches Clark's cheek, tries to *make* his hands feel the difference in heat between flushed and unflushed skin -- laughs at himself. "He calls you 'Kal.'"

"Sometimes. Only -- not when the two of you were together -- ah." The blush gets deeper, and if Clark *is* controlling it, even to only a small degree...

Clark can't be more naked than he is right now. "Bruce was working on the assumption that I -- only -- wanted Clark from you," Tim says, and leans in close enough to breathe Clark's breath. "So was I."

And Clark -- no. The words are not a murmur, and they are decidedly *not* in English. Tim catches something which may or may not be 'speak the language,' but -- he doesn't have any doubts.

<<Only a small amount,>> Tim says, and --

There's no time to gasp and no *air* to groan before Clark is kissing him hard, fucking Tim's mouth with his tongue and holding him still, hands splayed on Tim's back and buttocks, pressure, squeeze --

Tim opens his eyes and -- Clark's eyes are different. Harder, but not anything *like* colder. There's a thin edge of purple around the iris, and the heat between them --

Yes, Tim thinks, and pushes his hands back into Clark's hair --

Kal's hair --

The kiss shifts to something he can return, and while Kal hasn't stopped -- anything -- there's still a distinct sense of a pause. A chance for him to speak again, perhaps? Tim bites Clark's lip, holds it between his teeth -- no *give* -- <<I want>>, he says, and tries for something a bit more complex --

Wind, motion -- and something soft and almost slick against his back, the bottoms of his feet --

Call it a bed, he thinks, and looks up at the man -- the alien -- hovering just above the foot of the thing. He's changed nothing save his expression, and yet the clothes he's wearing look entirely wrong, almost laughable. "Kal-El."

"Tim Drake. You are not afraid."

And that was, of course, English -- but. Tim braces himself on his elbows and raises an eyebrow -- and strokes his body with one hand. His throat, his chest, the bite marks near his nipples --

Kal squeezes his eyes shut -- and when he opens them they are blue, blameless -- Clark. "Tell me what you *want*," he says, and there's absolutely a plea in his voice. It's just that there's also... more.

Tim slides his hand down to his groin and -- the feel of his own hand around himself --

His body seems to feel he's *cheating*, but there's something to be said for being as clear as possible. He doesn't stroke himself so much as he measures his own length with his fingertips, gets them wet with pre-ejaculate, stares at Clark, into him...

What *does* he want, exactly? For a while he was merely hoping for something more mutual, less designed to give the amorous Robin an afternoon to remember in the cold Gotham nights... but. "Kal," he says, stroking once and off, "is who I want."

"Are you sure."

Oh... so very *much* control, eloped, perhaps, with that missing question mark. Tim lays flat on his back and pulls his knees up, reaching between his legs to press hard on opposite bite marks.

"Tim..."

And his name seems lost, too, absent, elsewhere -- something infinitely less important than the feel of his hands being pressed flat to the bed, the feel of something wet, hard --

Ah, that would be Kal's *tongue* moving on him, and every lick feels a little like a slap against his bruises, his scars, and then back to the bite marks. He's circling them, and --

The moments of relatively dry pressure are kisses, and every one of them is hard enough to make Tim *feel* the bruises Bruce had left on his thighs, his abdomen, his throat --

Dozens of points of contact, a web of very particular pain, and Tim feels himself leaking more pre-ejaculate, feels himself trying to shift into the contact, get more, encourage -- "Kal, *yes* --"

A string of Kryptonian, or perhaps 'flood' would be a better word for something which sounds so liquid, something which seems to coil around Tim, wrap him and leave him in warmth -- more warmth.

Tim grabs Kal's hair again --

And Kal looks up, staring at him with eyes that are actually *glowing* now, and the thrill, the *power* --

<<Yes,>> Tim says, and touches the sore place on his lip with his tongue --

Hands on him, moving him, pushing fast and just gentle enough to avoid injury -- or maybe just touching him. He's still on his back, but his hands are pressed to the bed again, and his left leg is up --

*Teeth* against the back of his knee, and Tim watches his toes point helplessly, feels himself jerk, twitch --

Another wash of Kryptonian, faster and more fervent -- stopped, and -- "I know your pleasure. I've watched it and I want it for my own --"

"*Take* it --" And Kal is gone -- no. Kneeling at the foot of the bed. Tim pushes up and lunges, gets caught --

"I had to know you *would*, Tim Drake, Tim --"

"Perhaps I deserved that," Tim says, and twists his wrists in Kal's grip. Tries to, that is. "Hm. After all --"

"You made me *wait*."

"*Don't* try to return the favor," and Tim leans in, breathes against the hard, perfect lines and curves of Kal's slightly parted mouth... bites.

The growl is a low, rumbling thing, and it's extremely problematic that Tim isn't close enough to feel it, chest to chest --

He's turning in the air --

He's down on his knees and elbows. He pushes up on his hands and -- groans, because Kal is licking his spine, hard enough that it feels like he might leave a deeper *groove*. <<*Yes*.>>

Off and pressure between his shoulder blades -- *Bruce* -- but Kal is actually pushing, and there's no way to stand against that. Tim smiles and goes back down to his elbows --

"If I knew how to say 'fuck me' in Kryptonian..."

Kal may be teaching him or he may be saying something entirely different. Impossible to be sure, to separate the sounds from what they're doing to him, from how they seem to insinuate themselves into a tightening band around the base of his spine, his sac --

"I *wasn't* joking -- ah --"

Kal's biting him seemingly everywhere Bruce hadn't, licking him and Tim wonders what his sweat tastes like, if it could seem strange to an alien brought up on earth -- Kara?

Tim reaches back for his own penis -- and has his hand jerked away, brought back up --

Kal is covering him, gripping Tim's wrists and almost *surrounding* him -- "Stay. Still."

"Give me," Tim says, and doesn't bother trying to catch his breath, "a reason."

The pressure on his wrists increases to the point of pain -- relaxes, and Kal is still covering him, still... hmm.

Tim licks his lips and pushes up against Kal as much as he can, rubbing his back against his chest, dipping his head to feel that hot breath against the back of his neck. He can *just* feel the head of Kal's penis against his thigh, slick and so *hot* -- "Kal. Please."

Kryptonian again, and there's almost a slurring of the liquid sounds -- Kal bites Tim's shoulder and holds his teeth there, holds *Tim* there, because moving now would mean... absolutely futility if not actual pain.

Tim laughs, licks his lips again -- "I think if I understood that I'd start begging --"

"Do not -- *don't*," Kal says, and licks the bitten place, licks it again -- "The taste of you -- fire in my senses, in my blood -- I need to be inside you."

Tim lets his hips jerk, pants -- "I won't be silent."

"Tim Drake. I never knew," Kal says, then licks the back of his neck -- takes his heat *away*, but before Tim can protest there are hands on his buttocks, spreading him --

And Kal's tongue feels even harder and more dangerous *there*. He'd known it would, just as some part of him had known that *this* was why Bruce had brought Clark up *then* --

The *feel* --

Kal is using the flat of his tongue on him, pressing hard and licking the length of Tim's cleft again, again -- faster, and Tim can't parse individual motions, can't make them *out* against the feel of himself starting to shake, panting more --

<<Yes,>> he says, <<yes-please-please-->>

Kal growls again, groans and it's even faster, harder --

Too sweet and too good, too *much*, and he can't tell if Kal is licking inside or not --

And then he realizes that he wasn't, because of the feel of that tongue inside him, spearing him --

He *wants* to beg, beg more, but he's too far from himself to make words, too hard for this, or -- no. This is making him softer, some variety of tenderized, open, needy --

Whatever the bed is made out of, Tim can't get his fingers to grip it. He holds his hands flat against the bed, but the feel, the cool slickness his own heat can't seem to affect -- a distraction, something to hold on to, something to --

Kal isn't stopping and he might not even be *breathing*, and this is going to make him --

For a moment, shouting is a relief, making him aware of something other than what Kal is doing to him, something other than the -- the fucking tidal waves of feeling --

It's back, *they're* back, and it's hard to be sure if they're even pleasure at this point, if he's even capable of making *distinctions* like that with his penis bobbing up against his abdomen, getting him wet, making him --

And that was almost a scream, almost -- he can't --

And there's no pause, no *moment* between the feel of Kal's tongue and something harder, less hot, *longer* -- finger --

<<Yes>>, and his own voice sounds strange, roughly unfamiliar, desperate -- Tim growls and pushes back --

Kal grabs his hip and holds him still. Easily, so -- of course he does it easily, but somehow this stands *out*. He only wants to -- possibly 'help' isn't the word.

Possibly the word is in a language he really, really wants to take the time to get to know --

His body is still *reeling*, his mind completely untrustworthy, completely --

And the first real *thrust* turns all that liquid into something sharper, something which can burn, be burned --

"More," he says, and he wasn't thinking, he wasn't really --

Two fingers makes him whine, high and harsh in his throat. Clark is spreading him, *opening* him now, and the realization that Clark may have rimmed him solely to start the process of making Tim ready --

That Bruce may have been -- "Oh, *fuck*," Tim says, panting and --

He's sweating now, skin prickling with it, almost itching with the need to rub up against something smooth and perfect and warm --

<<I *want* -->>

And the rest of that is another yell, a sound he has no control over, none -- the *bend* of Kal's fingers inside him, the --

Vibration --

He can't feel the burn, anymore, he can't feel anything but shocked, laid out flat, or -- it feels a little like falling from a great height, the bare few moments of *pure* flight after the jump line is released --

Kal is saying something else, and Tim can't tell what language it's in, can't --

Can't *think*, beyond having been aware that his prostate offered a number of -- of possibilities --

The laugh shocks him, moves things around inside him and makes him aware of his erection again, of the fingers inside him as *fingers*, as opposed to nameless instruments of sensation -- the vibration has stopped.

"Kal. Kal. I --"

"*Soon*," he says, and lets go of Tim's hip, strokes Tim's back.

It's curiously slow, if also both possessive and somewhat lacking in gentleness. Kal is, perhaps, *giving* Tim something to think about other than the sensation of breach, fullness -- clenching makes Tim gasp --

Makes Kal say something else in Kryptonian, something which almost sounds purring, pleased -- Tim does it again, on purpose this time, and decides not to think too deeply about the sounds he's making, about the way he feels himself actually *hesitating* before pushing back against Kal's hand.

He's not *that* easily trained --

Or possibly he is, because when Kal starts speaking *this* time, the motion of his hips turns jerky, uncontrolled -- English. That was English --

"I -- sorry, I didn't --"

"Is this how trust looks on you? Have I earned this?"

Clark around the edges of that, soft and careful, sweet --Tim closes his eyes against the sound of his own moan, tries to think, tries to come up with *something* to say, something perhaps more plausible, or --

"Your desire is my *need*," he says, and there's a lot less Clark, a lot --

Possibly he doesn't have to say anything, think anything -- Kal's fingers are curling inside him, stretching and spreading him -- oh, he wants to be open, but then the sensations would be different. The burn is back, a warning and a *goad*.

And Kal isn't stopping him from moving his hips for this, is letting him catch his rhythm --

"Kal. Do you... do you like the way this --"

"The way you move is always so *thoughtful*, so measured, but not now. Not..." Kal sighs and *crooks* his fingers --

Tim freezes, jerks -- and by the time his mouth remembers how to open, all that comes out is air. Tim knows -- *knows* -- that Kal had wanted another scream, and it feels terrible to disappoint him, terrible to just --

*Could* he enjoy this too much? Possible, for some unknowably complex diagram of identities which includes spaces for both Robin and Kal-El. Tim shakes his head. He doesn't *want* to think --

"Faster." <<Please -->>

And Kal pulls *out*, just like he'd maybe wanted a different sort of yell -- Tim gives it to him, spreads his knees wider, pushes *back* --

Ah. More lubricant. That's entirely sensible, and there's no rational reason for Tim to resent it, or the relative ease with which Kal penetrates him again. It's just that he can't stop himself from growling, can't really stop focusing on the sleek slide -- "*More*."

More Kryptonian, brief this time, almost a little fevered --

And if Tim hadn't already been on his elbows he would've fallen on his *face*. Kal is *fucking* him with his fingers, fast and -- *fast*, and there's a twist to it, corkscrewing --

A good word, good --

He's being *thoroughly* screwed, and the motion of his own hips feels pathetic, worse than useless when he loses the rhythm and rocks away from Kal's touch, Kal's *fuck*.

It's so much of a relief when Kal grabs his hip again that he screams, seizes inside --

Suddenly, he's so *close*, so --

"*Please*," he says, and heats all over at the stop, the *pause* --

This time the vibration shakes him all over, or -- he's shuddering, trying and failing to claw at the bed, and every time he opens his mouth some horribly ridiculous sound falls out. He's helpless.

He's --

"*Now*," Kal says, loud and perfect, impossible --

Perfect --

*Heat*, and Tim has a flash of how he must look, shaking and croaking out yell after yell -- white-out, and there's nothing but the pulse of his orgasm, nothing but the fire inside him that won't go *out* --

And the sound of his name sounds like it's coming from miles away, just as the feel of Clark's fingers --

"*Kal* --"

<<Yes,>> he says, and the crook of his fingers yanks Tim back into his body, into every sensation from the mild stretch in his thighs to the sweat on his palms. His penis twitches for it, trying to get hard again *immediately*, and all Tim can think about is the way Bruce had touched him, driven him --

This isn't like that. This is... there's less of the familiar to this, or fewer things which should seem familiar --

He shakes his head and tries to catch Kal's rhythm again, tries to --

"You are *beautiful*."

Bruce, and how would it feel? How much would it *take* from him -- "K-Kal --"

Kryptonian again, something about want, something -- Kal pulls out and Tim tells himself not to hold his breath, not to --

The unmistakable sound of a hand moving on an erection -- Tim reaches back with one hand and spreads himself as much as he can --

"Oh, yes," and the first push makes Tim shake again, gasp and -- he's hyperventilating, shaking hard, pushing back in self-defense --

Too slow. Too slow and too much, and the longer it lasts the faster he'll lose his *mind* -- "Kal, *please* --"

"What you want, what you -- you *need*," and Kal slaps Tim's hand away and cups both of his hips, holds them there while he pushes, rocks --

Tim struggles against it, tries for the freedom to push back, take *more* --

"The feel of you -- oh..."

Tim grunts at the feel of Kal's hands tightening on his hips -- and then Kal hauls him back, and the scream comes out cracked and loud, injuring his throat -- he can't care about that, he can't --

Kal is *in* him, sac brushing against his skin --

"So -- so *deep* --"

"So brave. So -- sure," and the words sound like Clark's, but the voice is too rough for that. Arousal has to have something to do with it, but Tim wonders how close Kal was to the surface when he was with Dick, how much control he'd had to use when he'd made Dick feel *this* way, spread open and pinioned --

Held still by those hands, so huge and perfect, so -- something, more --

Something --

And then Tim's vision flares black and he realizes he's not breathing, that Kal is *waiting* --

Tim gasps because he has to, because the thought makes his lungs burn along with the rest of him --

"Tim Drake," Kal says, and slides himself most of the way out, *pauses*, and this should scare him, should make him tense or... or something else which has no place here, no place in *this* --

And Kal groans as he pushes in, whispers something else, gasps --

"I want you to *hear* me, every word," and he grinds against Tim, rocks both of them with easy force, shifting the pressure and making Tim cry out again, sweat *more*, he wants --

"Oh -- fuck -- <<Please I sorry -->>"

Kal groans again, and this time he only pulls out a little before pushing back, *thrusting* back -- "You should know what you do to me --"

"Show me, take -- <<Please *please* -->>"

"You should know how much I desire, how much I would *take*," and it's faster now, short, sharp little thrusts which push the burn higher, make it more intense --

Tim can feel sweat running down his face and thighs, hear it pattering on the bed when he shakes his head. He can't move, and he wants the thrusts to be harder, for the pain to be large enough to catch his attention, take it away from the feel of himself getting -- just what he'd asked for.

This wasn't supposed to be as *good* as the other things, he wasn't supposed to start getting hard for it, for the burn that matches the one in his skin, the fullness which goes beyond thrill, freedom -- There *is* a freedom here, a very particular one made up of the scent of his own sweat and come and the sound of himself grunting every time Kal *thrusts*.

"More," he says, and it comes out too weakly to possibly be *believed*, but --

"Perfect boy," and Kal slips out further and comes back harder, faster, letting go of one hip to slide his hand up Tim's back and into his hair.

The tug is nowhere near as sharp as the thrust, but he still can't let his head fall forward, can't --

Brief Kryptonian --

And the wall in front of Tim is a mirror, unforgivingly clear. He meets Kal's eyes because he has to, and it's -- he looks like he's starving and he looks like he could fuck Tim for hours, *days*. *He* looks --

His mouth is open and he's flushed all over. At some point he'd curled his hands into fists --

*Hard* thrust and the Tim in the mirror narrows his eyes, bites his lip -- opens wide -- "Oh, Kal -- this --"

"This, *too*," he says, and tightens his hand in Tim's hair, holds him still --

He can't move anywhere, now, and watching it -- watching *that* --

"Do not close... your *eyes*," and the feel -- the way he's moving and the way he's moving *Tim* with every grinding thrust. Tim can feel himself starting to lose track of everything which isn't his penis or *Kal's*, and the Tim in the mirror looks like a snapshot taken of a plea, or --

Perhaps a silent movie --

He can't possibly be *real*, can't have anything to do with him or with the rhythmic pain which is making him almost *bark* out a cry with every thrust.

"Do you feel -- oh, Tim, do you *feel*?"

And the Tim in the mirror looks like he's going to --

Tim's sobbing now, every breath, every -- he wants to *answer* Kal, tell him that he can't imagine this ending, that he'd never thought it would take him this way, but every time he tries it's just another cracked moan.

The Tim in the mirror looks so *lost*, and Tim reaches out to touch, to cover --

It's just his own image, but --

He watches Kal's hand shift in his hair and *then* feels it, a warning not to hide himself from himself, perhaps, and when Tim tries to close his mouth --

Harder, *more*, somehow, and Tim can't hold onto the perfectly rational idea that Kal is just making his strokes longer. The fact is too small for the feel, for the sight of himself crying out every time Kal shoves him forward with his body -- he could look at Kal.

The smile on his face is curved like a scimitar and his eyes are heavy-lidded, somehow both dark *and* glowing, and he croons something in Kryptonian -- shakes his head --

"You could -- not be more perfect, more fine --"

And Kal inhales sharply at the sound Tim makes, at the -- it was a *wail*, almost --

Tim feels *rearranged* by this, and the physical aspects are only a small part of it. He had considered himself as someone who could be fucked, but he'd never really --

He'd had no *context* for it, no way to fully comprehend any of this -- and the Tim in the mirror looks no more shocky, no more blown than he feels -- "Kal --"

The hand is out of his hair and pressed hard between his shoulder blades, sliding down and up and down again -- and Kal is fucking him faster, *taking* him faster, too fast now for Tim to be able to separate the feeling of *in* from that of out.

It's all burn, all sensation at once -- "Touch myself -- <<I want I want -->>"

"Ah -- *no*," Kal says, and now he has both hands on Tim's hips again, using his thumbs to spread Tim wide --

The Tim in the mirror is tossing his head and screaming, all but barking out one wordless noise after another --

Kal slams *in*, groans long and loud and -- Tim can feel him coming, filling him, and no part of Tim's body is ready to listen to Tim's brain about it being not that *much* --

Up, spread over Kal's lap, back pressed to his chest, Kal's hand over Tim's chest, and Tim wonders, helplessly, what it would be like to have fear for this, *of* this. Would it make it better? Would he spend all of his time trying not to cry out so loud, beg so *much* with all of himself?

It would be ridiculous, and Tim laughs, hoarse and choked, and grips Kal's forearm with both of his hands. "Again?"

"I would do only this until you lost consciousness, Tim," Kal says, and the feel of his hard, strange mouth on Tim's forehead makes Tim feel like he's moved, somehow, into the mythical, the fantastic --

"Perhaps -- ah. Once more. For now," Tim says, and shifts his upper body enough to drag his sweat-damp skin against Kal's -- perfection. He still can't move the rest of his body beyond flexing his quads, his calves --

"Only once," he says, kissing Tim again, and, "like this..."

And he lets go of Tim's hips entirely and wraps his hand around Tim's penis. His other arm is *locked* around Tim's chest, and his hand --

His *hand*. His penis is screaming at him about the lack of calluses, the sense of smooth-hard *wrong* -- he has to --

Tim thrusts into Kal's fist --

"*On* me," Kal says, and --

Oh, he's offering control, offering -- how much can Tim *take*, right now? The only way to know is to *do*, and that was a lesson he'd had a difficult time learning when he was thirteen and soft, but --

Tim smiles at himself in the mirror, at the roughly *sweet* pornography of it. He watches himself grinding back and down onto Kal's penis, watches himself work to add that little twist to it --

That dangerous little extra *friction* --

"*Good*, so --" Kal's moan is almost soft, something he would've expected from another sort of beneficent alien entirely --

"Clark...?"

"Tim. Tim Drake, you blur every *line*. Don't *stop*," he says, and his hand vibrates --

No, that was a *shake*. "Clark. Kal. I -- mm. You -- I'm still not interested in Superman --"

The laugh is a massive, rumbling thing, shaking them together and making it a little hard to keep the rhythm, a little *challenging* --

"Though I suppose -- I suppose we could always *try* the whole you-smile-benignly-upon-me as I -- as I jerk myself *stupid* --"

"Was that a request?" And the lips pressed to his temple are momentarily soft, artificially human-like --

And the hand around his penis tightens and speeds to something perfect, once more, something...

So many *people* know exactly what he *likes* now --

"K -- Clark --"

"Perfect. Just..." Another kiss, and another, a lick -- "I don't know if I can watch you lose control, once more, but I can't turn away --"

"Keep -- keep looking, feeling -- knowing me --"

"Always now. *Always*, Tim," Clark says, and presses just his thumb against the head of Tim's penis -- "Now," he says, and the vibration --

Tim slams himself down, gurgles and croaks, tries to get *away* --

"Not that, please -- oh, *please* --"

Pushes himself into it, into that fist, that precision and control -- he can feel Clark *moving* in him, reaching for the rhythm Tim is losing, has lost -- "I can't --"

"Of course you can. You -- oh, Tim --"

And Tim hears himself growling, feels himself striving for it against the burn, the pain and the rush, the flood of feeling coming back to him, for him --

He feels used by this, taken over by something which was never supposed to be larger than himself -- though he'd always feared it would be much, much more than he could handle.

He's small, now, clinging to Clark desperately, hoping he'll say something else, anything else to prove that this is really happening, that he's *really* driving himself on like this, fucking himself on Clark's penis and fucking Clark's strange-perfect-huge fist --

"So... beautiful," and Clark's voice is strained and harsh, edged with Kal --

He holds Tim tighter around the chest --

So *warm*, so -- Tim's shaking all over now, moving jaggedly when he can make himself move at all --

"Clark. Kal -- *help* me --"

"Yes. Right -- right now," and Clark squeezes him with both hands before letting go of his chest to grab Tim's hip, hold it steady, still -- Tim can't stop *needing* to jerk, to twist -- "I've got you..."

Bruce, he thinks, *Bruce*, but Clark would have to know what words like that would mean, have to realize --

"Oh, *Robin* -- *ah* --"

And they're in the air, or he is, moving, bending --

Flat on his back with his knees up over Clark's shoulders, *empty* --

"*Please*, Clark --"

Full again, bent double and covered, shadowed -- Tim shouts and reaches back for something to hold before --

This time, Tim thinks, the fuck might kill him. For a moment he can only flail his arms, still searching --

His palms ache with the need to touch and everything smells like sex and ozone, like the air above a sheet of ice, like the feel of a storm inside --

He can't --

The air is too *thick* to breathe, or -- he can't get enough air in this position, enough --

"I can -- I can taste --"

"*Yes*," Clark says, and Tim surrenders the last of his air to the kiss, to the musky taste of himself on Clark's tongue and all of the slickly muscular *force*. It's an easy sacrifice, and it makes his heart pound, makes him clench around Clark and whine, whimper --

Beat his fists against the bed, back against the glass-less mirror --

Better when he gets his hands into Clark's hair, when he can grip and pull and *hold*, digging his knuckles in against Clark's scalp and holding on to the feel, holding on as much as he can --

Black, soft and painless, endless --

And shaking back into himself -- no air, no *air*, and the thrill of it rides him, drives him, pressure and burn --

Black, and this time he thinks he can study it, *learn* something, he knows he's still moving, still being *fucked*, but it's so far --

Here, *right* here, and Clark is fucking his mouth with the same rhythm he's using *inside* Tim, taking him every way, making him some variety of beautiful, *needful* --

*Black*, Tim's falling through it, farther and farther away from his spasming body, his --

White-out, and he wants to scream, he wants so badly to *scream* for the feel of semen spattering his chest and abdomen, for the helpless spasm and jerk, inside and out, inside --

Black.

Black.

And a moan from another country, motion, wetness and fire, but Tim's too black to burn now, too --

Lost.

The first thought... isn't.

The second is that the pearl is nothing like this, nowhere near as comfortable and suited to him. It's like being inside a skin microscopically larger than his own, warmer and softer and worthy of a great deal of -- love.

The third is the realization that he'd passed out, and that consciousness is something he should really work toward. The next several thoughts are arguments about that, and whether it could really be considered unconsciousness if he can lay here and bicker at himself about it.

Here is --

"Tim..."

Here. Tim opens his eyes to the sight of Clark smiling down at him. It's not quite horribly benign, but it's close. "Stop -- that," Tim says, and reaches up to rub his throat -- tries to. His hand doesn't seem to want to move.

"I'm terribly sorry," Clark says, raising his eyebrows and turning his mouth down at the corners.

"Oh -- stop that, too," Tim says, and laughs. "Sorry I couldn't... play through."

"You have *nothing* to apologize for," Clark says, and settles down on the bed beside Tim, making it clear that he had, in fact, been hovering over him. Hmm.

"Well, then... thank you very kindly for the most illuminating sexual experience I've had to date."

Clark's laugh is soft, but still manages to sound somewhat shocked. He rests his hand on Tim's chest -- very lightly. "You're quite welcome."

Tim tries to move his hand again -- this time it follows orders, patiently rubbing at Tim's throat -- he needs to stop thinking about it as something which isn't *attached*. "Clark, seriously, I -- I can only hope that was a fraction as pleasant for you --"

Clark catches Tim's hand and kisses it. "I've never... not like that. I feel I should be blushing, but that would involve work I can't seem to want to do."

Interesting. In fact -- "Fascinating," Tim says, and works on getting the rest of his body back on program. "I wouldn't have thought... well. Don't you think it seems dangerous to keep part of yourself locked away with no outlet?"

"And shouldn't I, of all people, strive to eliminate dangers like that one...?" Clark's laugh is low and very, very old, and he moves his hand to cover his own face.

"Clark?"

"There are few weapons with more stopping power than the unmistakable scent of simple human fear, Tim."

And that... yes. Clark can provide -- and impose -- so very much more than rough sex. Important to remember, especially considering his current location. Just the same... Tim turns on his side and touches Clark's shoulder. "There are times when fear should be ignored."

"Or eschewed entirely? Tim, even *Dick* has flinched from me from time to time. I am... the powers at my disposal..."

"God-like, yes. But you don't have to prove your intentions, anymore. A moment of rational terror, a frisson of *thrill* -- you move in somewhat -- ah -- rarefied circles, *Kal-El*." Time, perhaps, for a judicious almost-lie. "I live with one of the most frightening men on the *planet*, but that doesn't stop me from knowing that he's also one of the best."

"Perhaps..." Clark covers Tim's hand with his own, and, when he looks, the expression in his eyes is honest, earnest, *searching*. "Perhaps, for *this* part of myself, I always needed..."

It doesn't look like he'd had to work for *that* blush, at all. "One of us, Clark?"

"Robin, you weren't frightened for even a *moment*. Tim, I mean -- oh, dear, you're going to be tempted to call me 'Superman' in a moment, aren't you?"

Oh, Clark. Don't look *too* closely... "I can be merciful," Tim says, shifting and -- oh. *Feeling*. "In fact, at the moment I'm feeling absolutely magnanimous."

"I never would have -- I couldn't have injured you."

Tim nods and squeezes Clark's shoulders. "I'm not known for my... reckless behavior, Clark. As I said, I've been thinking about you for quite some time."

"And Dick, and Bruce, and... may I call her Stephanie? Barbara. *Jason*. *Roy* --"

Tim smiles. "I've never been one of those people who is capable of meditating on nothing at all."

Clark laughs again, and it's much better than before. It still seems to highlight the nearly fifteen years Clark has on him, but it doesn't make it seem like thousands.

"Clark..."

"A moment, please," he says, and turns on his side -- and strokes Tim's bruised cheek.

Suddenly, it's very obvious that Clark hadn't touched him there at all until this point, just as it's obvious that an important part of Tim thinks that's just as it should be. "Ah -- that doesn't belong to you," Tim says, as gently as he can, and backs away, sitting up.

Clark frowns, more sad than angry, and follows. "Nothing of Jason ever did. But... I must ask --"

"Must you?"

"Tim, he *hurt* you. While he was -- no, I won't be embarrassed for hearing *that*."

"He also -- tried to -- save me. And, incidentally, provided some very useful intel -- no, I'm not going to waste time trying to justify any of this to you. He's family, Clark."

"And that's final...?"

"I'm not a blind optimist. It's possible that no one will ever be able to reach him, or bring him back from... the place he's gotten to. It's even possible that, when the time comes to *make* that decision, I won't be able to turn to Bruce --"

"His feelings -- I could never fault Bruce for only wanting to love --"

Tim holds up a hand. "Even then, Clark, even if everything goes to hell -- for this, I can't turn to you."

Clark closes his eyes for a moment -- lets Tim see him do it. When he opens them, his expression is rueful, gentle, and accepting. "I understand," he says, and very deliberately cups Tim's other cheek. He raises his eyebrows --

Tim smiles and turns into the touch. "Thank you."

"You are only -- ever -- welcome," Clark says, and leans in to kiss.

It's much slower than what had come before -- softer, too -- but it still feels like a declaration of intent. Perhaps something rather long-term...

Yes. Tim won't ever be alone again.

*

Clark does wind up giving Tim a -- brief -- tour of the Fortress, including the sanitary facilities which only leave Tim feeling a *little* violated. They really ought to have something like them for the Cave, if only for those times when Tim feels like a very, very dirty Robin, indeed.

Tim spends the flight to San Francisco bundled, amused -- refreshed in ways he lacks the words for.

He doesn't think he's ever felt so *ready* for a weekend with the Titans, though it's possible that what he really means is 'a weekend away from Gotham.' It's tempting to say something to Clark about making it an as-regular-as-possible date, but it's entirely probable that the word 'date' would write itself too large on the potential conversation.

Clark sets Tim's down on the roof of the Tower, unwraps him -- smiles. "What are you thinking?"

"Mostly? How good I feel at the moment," Tim says, and takes a moment to revel -- possibly wallow -- in watching Clark refasten his cape.

"That's quite gratifying," Clark says, and then his expression shifts to a sharper focus -- on the orange and purple blur approaching at speed.

"Superman. Why are you here?"

Starfire's posture in the air isn't *actively* belligerent, but that's a little like bringing up how the Clench hadn't actually *killed* him.

"Ah, Starfire --"

Tim coughs and shifts to let his cape flap a little in the breeze off the bay -- and they both look at them. "Superman was my ride today, Starfire," Tim says. "We just had a nice visit."

She looks deeply suspicious, but does manage to dial back the territorialism a bit -- "My apologies, Superman. I shouldn't have assumed you'd be here to cause difficulties."

"Certainly, Starfire, that would never be my intention --"

"Robin," she says, and lands on the roof. "You should know that I or any of the others would always be happy to provide you with transportation, should it become necessary in the future."

Tim considers coughing again, but settles for raising an eyebrow. "I'll keep that in mind," he says, and turns to face Clark. "Superman, thank you again for a wonderful afternoon."

"It was my pleasure, Robin," he says, and frowns at the back of Starfire's head. "I'll just be going."

Heh. "Safe flight."

And Clark is gone. Starfire watches the skies for another moment before placing a hand on his shoulder. And --

He's always known she was a large woman, of course, but there's a sort of additional frisson to the size of just her hand --

"Robin, please tell me that Superman didn't spend his time 'pumping' you for information about our team."

Yes, focus. "Starfire, I assure you that we didn't spend one moment talking about the Titans. In fact, the last time Superman brought up the matter, it was to compliment us on how well things were working out."

She frowns rather darkly for a moment -- and then, just as suddenly, she smiles. "We have a spy in their *camp*," she says, and strokes Tim's shoulders until her arm is around them.

Tempting to leave it there -- certainly to leave it there before he spends any more time thinking about Starfire's hands, because he really doesn't think he'll get a *free* pass on the whole 'having sex with *one* of Dick's ex-girlfriends' thing, much less two --

No, leaving it there would invite rather too much of the wrong kind of attention in the future. Tim pats Starfire's hand. "Actually, Superman and I have become... friends."

Another frown, but it's a small one --

And it's a terrible fact of Tim's existence that the frown could be described as 'kittenish.' "My family in Gotham... we've always had something of a special relationship with Superman."

"You're saying there's a *man* under all of that -- that --" Tamaranian, and possibly the sort of curse which could precipitate a blood feud. Certainly, the emphatic gestures would suggest that.

"That is... absolutely what I'm saying, Kory. He's a good man." And fantastic in the sack -- hm. Tim can't decide at *all* whether or not that would be a useful thing to say, given Starfire's... everything.

"Well. I suppose I will have to take your word for it," she says, and squeezes him -- smiles brightly once more. "You called me Kory! You've never done that before, Tim."

I was distracted by your biceps -- no. Tim smiles and looks down between them. "Then perhaps it was about time?"

Kory laughs, bright and loud, and flies up into the air several feet. "Yes, Tim, *yes*. Oh, every time you get closer to us, I feel *victorious*, whether the victory was mine or not," and her hair is a vast cloud with curling edges. Her eyes glow --

Tim smiles a little wider. "Well. I've been thinking about ways I could do even more to be closer to the team," he says, with the sort of perfect honesty which has started to be a little --

Yes, he's working on an erection.

"In fact, is Kon here yet? Bart?"

Starfire clasps her hands together and smiles down at him like he's the son with whom she's having a desperately inappropriate relationship.

He *is* used to that -- and not just from Bruce -- but every inch of his skin is telling him about the sexual discoveries which have been *made*, and how every last one of them requires further investigation --

"Bart is not yet here, but I believe you can find Kon-El in the game room," she says. "And, of course, I'm always here should you wish to talk."

"I remember, S -- Kory," he says, and lets his smile turn rueful.

This time, she tosses her head when she laughs, and the muscles of her neck and shoulders flex, shift --

"I'll see you at the briefing," Tim says, and heads inside.

He finds Kon -- training, in a way. He's using his speed to play a vicious game of foosball against himself, and doing an excellent job of decreasing the table's lifespan -- not that it could have ever been very long.

Kon is going *over* the table every time, and so it's really quite easy to insinuate himself into the blur and clacking sounds -- and to place a very thick fashion magazine under one of the legs.

"Oh, dude, you *bastard*," Kon says from somewhere within the blur, and now the motions -- still too fast to discern very clearly -- are somewhat jerky and uneven.

"Speed and precision, together, are even more important than speed --"

"Yeah, yeah -- fuck, look *out* --"

Tim is already down when the ball goes flying just past where his head would've been -- and that crunch is the sound of it embedding itself in a wall.

"Dammit, that was the last ball we had," Kon says, and flies to the small crater. "Oh, hey, it looks like it's still in one piece."

Tim stands up again and moves to join Kon. "The others disintegrated?"

Kon frowns and shifts some of the dust away with his TTK. "Kinda blew up, actually. I didn't know they could do that -- hey, you haven't been messing with the recreation equipment, have you?"

Heh. "Not recently," Tim says, and shifts his bag on his shoulder. Clark had been so obviously unhappy with the idea of Tim folding his civilian suit into the bag that he'd left it in the Fortress, and... possibly it's saying something that he hasn't tucked the bag away already, but...

Kon concentrating has always been something to see. An expression not entirely unlike anger spreads over his features, and he develops a touch which could only be described as delicate. Tim watches him, openly, confident that the task on hand is taking the lion's share of Kon's attention --

Abruptly, the cloud of hanging dust contracts into a small ball and flies out the open window as Kon frowns a little deeper. He presses just the edge of a fingernail against the ball -- and it flies out of the wall with a small creak.

"Damn."

It's hopelessly dented. Tim claps Kon on the shoulder. "Bart will be here soon. He can pick up another case from JayBee."

"I liked *this* ball. We've had it for two whole weeks," Kon says, and turns the frown on Tim. "*You* should pay for the next case, Mr. I'm-so-smart-I-can-knock-poor-Kon-right-out-of-his-groove."

Tim cocks his head to the side and smiles. "I could write a little apology on each of the new ones."

Kon points at him. "A *heartfelt* apology. Which includes something about my basic greatness and your fundamental lack of same."

And this... this, Tim realizes, is what he's wanted from Kon possibly more than any of the other things he could name. Kon has been treating him very, very cautiously since Tim's father's death, and while that care was appreciated and even -- he can own this -- necessary, in some respects...

"You could also put something in about how you realize you'll never be as hot as me, but that's pretty optional," Kon says, and grins openly, easily...

This is better. Tim raises an eyebrow.

"Hey, you look like you're feeling pretty good -- except for that giant bruise on your *face*. What the hell did you get hit with?" And Kon reaches out slowly, carefully...

It probably shouldn't feel different than when Clark had done the same, but it does. Perhaps it's something about the innocence of the gesture -- and the ignorance behind it.

Kon stops with his fingertips just barely teasing the short hairs on Tim's face and frowns. "Seriously, this *looks* like a punch from someone with a big hand, but there's something else, too...?"

Oh, that's very good. "You're getting better at that," Tim says, and smiles. "It was a punch followed by a pistol-whipping."

Kon winces. "That sounds... I guess it must've hurt kind of a lot." He shakes his head and the smile comes back. "So you opened up a can of tiny ninja whup-ass?"

Not quite, but -- "Frosty cold," Tim says, and doesn't push his face against Kon's hovering fingertips, and *does* take a step closer --

Kon's smile widens --

"I need to put my stuff away, but..." and Tim tilts his head up, just to see --

Kon adjusting his own position, leaning in reflexively -- mm.

"I haven't had a flight that wasn't... official, in a while." It's almost true, certainly in the particulars he's considering --

And Kon's surprise is obvious, almost blinding from this distance -- he smells like warmth, and there's a distinct scent of chocolate on his breath. "Oh yeah? I mean, yeah, sure -- hey, I didn't hear the plane today. How'd you get here?"

Ah -- well. "I had to borrow Superman for a ride," Tim says, and, again, it's true *enough* --

Kon wrinkles his nose. "Dude, learn to pick up the damned *phone*," he says, and shifts obviously unconsciously out of position to kiss him, giving Tim's shoulder a push that makes Tim need to adjust his stance.

Slightly. Tim raises his hands. "I -- we had some business to discuss, Kon."

An eye-roll, somewhat heart-clenchingly less dramatic than some of the ones Tim's remembers from the days when Kon was the Kid. "You and your damn *business*. I swear to God, you need to tell me that you're actually doing some things that are just *fun* with your days now that you aren't in school anymore."

"Well, it's not like I was having all that much fun *in* school --"

Kon waves him off, increasing the distance between them -- for only a moment before stepping in again, *leaning* in again -- "*Not* the point, Wonder Boy."

There are very few things which can make Kon be *stern* with him, and this -- this unassailable need for Tim to do more with his life than be Robin -- has always been one of them. And, well... "Since you mention it..."

"Yeah?"

I grew a hormone, Kon. Would you like to see it? "I *have* been increasing the amount of time I spend in... recreation."

Kon's expression is a marvel of purest skepticism. "Man, when you put it that way, I don't *believe* you."

Tim spreads his hands, not bothering to keep the fingertips of his left hand from brushing across Kon's chest --

Kon's eyes narrow *just* slightly --

"I'm having fun, Kon. I've discovered I like it."

A blink, a slight frown -- "Okay, you're either not going to tell me about it or you're not going to tell me right *now*. I get it. C'mon, let's get your stuff stashed so I can spin you around the sky a few times."

Yes. And --

Kon takes them right out of Tim's window, big hands -- smaller than Clark's, not as smoothly perfect -- locked around Tim's obliques. There's a sense of meaning to the sight of his open window growing smaller and less important, something surprisingly close to what Tim had felt when Clark was flying them away from the manor.

Both moments were full of everything he's leaving behind, but... what is it this time, exactly?

When he thinks about his earliest memories of Kon, Tim always has to pause at the memory of himself staring furiously at an erection he hadn't been able to will away. There had been quite a few of those at that point of his life, but *this* one was all due to the brash, ignorant, strangely *powerful* boy who had been making Tim's professional life something of a misery.

Before that time, he'd never found himself attracted to anyone *like* Kon, and he'd been working on the assumption -- quietly, at the back of his mind -- that maybe he was one of those lucky people who only had *reasonable* attractions. Who could berate him for loving Dick and thrilling to the very thought of Jason? For admiring Bruce? For wondering, helplessly, about *Superman*?

He'd been angry with himself, and he'd carried that anger with him, used it to hone his control and hold himself somewhat above, if never -- quite -- apart. He'd kept it as Kon grew and matured, only letting it dim at the latest possible moments. He'd built a friendship with barriers and, to some extent, he'd kept it just that way.

Even now.

Or -- well. *Not* now, and that's rather the point. He can count the number of times he'd allowed himself the freedom to simply *live* in Kon's regard on one hand, and at none of those times had he *also* given himself the freedom to...

Well.

It's far too awkward in this position to cover Kon's hands with his own, but he wants to, just as he wants to see how Kon would *react* to it. Narrowed eyes or widened ones? Would he pull Tim closer?

Tim has treated the attraction between them much like a badly made bomb in the living room. It was dangerous enough that everyone involved should avoid touching it, but it added a certain accent to the rest of the furnishings. Of course, with someone as attractive and -- heh -- *tactile* as Kon, that wasn't always possible, but Tim had put his metaphorical *back* into it, and --

"Hey, are you even paying attention? Those were some *sweet* loops!"

"I'm enjoying the feel of the wind," Tim says, and he is, but --

He could be enjoying it more. And that, right there, is the heart of the matter -- if not some other, lower part.

Tim twists in Kon's grip, tucks, kicks out --

"Hey, careful --"

And has *just* enough time to register that he's falling, twisting -- and then Kon catches him, eyes wide and lips parted. They're facing each other now, and Kon flies them higher --

"Jesus, if you wanted to land --"

"I'm playing," Tim says, and watches Kon's lips part just a little more --

Before he smiles -- *beams* -- "Well, all *right* --"

And drops Tim again. Tim tucks and *rolls* in the air, feeling the wind catch his cape and gravity catch *him* --

Kon whoops and pulls him out of the air, seeming to form some sort of bubble with Tim's cape as the focal point. Tim can unroll himself into an upright position, but not much more than that.

He taps his foot on nothing --

And then the bubble or whatever Kon is visualizing pops, free-fall --

Kon barrels into his midsection, bending Tim double and flying them up, up -- Tim laughs and grabs two handfuls of the back of Kon's jeans, pushes, *flips* --

And he's standing on his hands. On Kon's *backside*. He laughs again and stands on *one* hand --

"What are you *doing* back there? Lemme --" Kon sort of *jinks* in the air, and there's nothing below Tim's hand but air, the wind rushing past and playing hell with his hair, yanking his cape out straight --

Tim folds himself in half, flips upright and throws his arms out, catching his cape in both hands --

"Okay, that looks kinda awesome," Kon says, catching and holding Tim in just that position. "Don't even try to tell me you don't do that sometimes just for the fuck of it."

For the fuck of it. Yes. "I admit nothing, Kon."

"I swear, I should just *keep* you like this. Better than a picture. Maybe more like a Christmas tree ornament," Kon says, and does... something that causes Tim to move up and down and up again.

If Tim could move his head, he'd give Kon a very serious eyebrow.

"Of course, *you* can't see what you look like, so it's kinda... hm."

Well... "I'm not... unaware of the dramatic effect," Tim says --

And Kon whoops again, jiggles Tim in the air -- pops the field holding him and grabs Tim by the waist, hauling him close -- "That was *totally* an admission!"

Tim smiles. They're close enough to kiss again. "You should see the little thing I do with my arms crossed in front of my face."

"Oh, dude, with those new gauntlets of yours -- *yeah*. Okay, I change my mind, it's okay that your new uniform is so damned Bat," Kon says, and flies them high again, and higher still.

Tim breathes deeply -- yes, they're high enough now that the air quality has changed. It's an excuse to leave his own mouth open, to cup Kon's shoulders and look at him, just like this.

Until Kon stops them in mid-air. "Hey, are we -- is this too high? You look... uh."

Tim smiles and leans in.

"Oh -- uh. Wow," Kon says, and kisses him.

It's tentative, almost as if Kon expects Tim to shove him back. It's -- careful, and soft, and nothing like the sort of thing Tim would imagine back when they were both in Young Justice, but close to what he'd *come* to expect.

Tim licks Kon's lips just as slowly, if not very carefully, at all -- and Kon moans and tries to pull Tim closer even though they're already pressed together. Tim approves of the impulse wholeheartedly, and the first touch of Kon's tongue against his own --

It feels like breaking something small and sharp and scattering the pieces. He wouldn't have expected --

"Tim..."

Slurred against his mouth -- and the only thing holding Tim is Kon's power, because Kon is cupping Tim's face and kissing him *deeply*, licking in and in, fast and undeniable. Tim hums and *bites* Kon's tongue hard --

And Kon's power shifts until Tim's standing on a flat sheet of nothing and Tim can *move*. Tim lets go with his teeth, and it's a wonderful -- needful -- opportunity to stroke down Kon's sides to his hips. He *wants* to squeeze Kon's buttocks, but it's possible -- probable -- that it's not quite time for that yet.

Kon seems as though he'd be some degree of satisfied to just keep kissing Tim. Tasting him? Taking the opportunity to get a few years worth of carefully abridged attraction out in the open?

Tim sucks Kon's tongue when it stills enough that it's possible -- and Kon pushes one of his hands into Tim's hair. He doesn't pull or even tug -- he's stroking Tim's scalp and, now that Tim thinks about it, being very, very careful not to put any pressure on Tim's bruise.

Just --

"Kon," Tim says, and lets *everything* into it, everything he can feel or even think to feel --

"Oh -- shit. Fuck. *Shit*," and this time the kiss is much harder, and Kon isn't being as careful with the bruise or with -- anything. The TTK surface beneath Tim's feet shudders --

And then Kon's arms are around him --

"Just -- oh Jesus I kinda want your legs around me --"

"Yes," Tim says, and does it, watching Kon close his eyes, lick his lips -- and lick his lips again. What *does* he taste like to Kon? Something to ask, something to --

Kon's eyes fly open. "Kory's calling us in. Um -- can we --"

"Count on it. Let's go."

They fly back with Kon's hands on his obliques again, and Tim can *just* feel his fingers curling and uncurling -- something to focus on later.

The team is still in the process of gathering in the briefing room when they get there, and Cyborg stomps on the floor for quiet --

"Bomb threat at Alcatraz, and it looks like a live one. The bomb squad's already en route by helicopter, but the word reached the prisoners and a riot's started in the yard. Let's move."

There's no reason for Kon to set Tim down even for a moment, and he doesn't. Cassie has Mia, Starfire has Cyborg -- they're as good as they can be, though -- hm.

They've long since gotten the trick of moving in rough formation down, and Tim takes a moment to watch Bart's wake on the water. He's moving around and around them, widening the circuit of his run to only get closer to the island at roughly the same speed the rest of them are moving.

Tim taps his comm. "Starfire, I think we should send Kid Flash ahead to search for the bomb."

"Agreed. The rest of us will focus on the prisoners."

And Bart's gone --

"Titans," Cyborg says over the comm, "stay in pairs until we can see what we're dealing with in the yard."

'In the yard' turns out to be somewhat optimistic. There are metahuman criminals in the water and two in the air, meaning someone had gotten hold of a way to disable the regulation power dampeners. There's a massive break in the outer wall --

And the two flyers go down to Starfire's bolts. They're in the water now, and, presumably, Starfire is catching Cyborg. That's not for him to worry about, right now. Kon goes down fast enough that Tim lands at a run, right in the middle of a group of prisoners apparently too busy trying to kill each other to try to make a break for it.

Focus can be such an *admirable* thing, Tim thinks, pulling his staff with one hand and using his other to toss a few batarangs. The first two get two of the targets to drop their weapons, the last has no visible effect on the man-mountain currently using a large section of wall to flatten an enemy.

Kon goes right for him, lifting him into the sky -- and Tim focuses on the targets who are coming for him. Two of them, plus the one on the ground who may or may not be out of the game.

It's times like these when Tim wonders how Dick had felt the first time he realized that he'd need to use *everything* Bruce had taught him just to survive against one meta or another. It's a rusty feeling, and something like waking up, all over.

"Somebody already got a piece of *this* one," says the curiously bear-like individual on the right --

"I'm gonna break me off another," says the bright green individual on the left --

And then Tim is awake and moving, striking, using the steel in his boots until he hears bone crack and can be *sure* exactly how much force is necessary. He dials it back and takes them down, one and one, looks up --

Kon drops the mountain inside what's left of the wall and reaches for his comm -- "It's crazy in here, Rob, let's leave outside to the others."

Tim nods, lifts his arms --

And Kon's flying them in to a nightmare. Every prison has its internal feuds -- and even wars -- but everything's that much worse when there are superpowers to be considered. Kon drops Tim in a shrinking circle of desperately fighting guards and starts working in from the outside.

Tim pushes his way between the two guards who seem the worst wounded and lays out with his staff, looking for the most dangerous players --

And then something that looks like the love-child of a shark and a kangaroo does a standing leap *onto* Tim --

Tangler, *now* --

The toss was perfect -- for someone with closer to humanoid anatomy. As it is, some of the tangler material is blocking what seems to be the creature's nose -- its mouth is clear. Good enough.

The guards are standing a little stronger now that they have some backup, and Tim gets back into it. For a moment, he and Kon wind up back to back, and that's as good as it always is, as right to trust and be trusted to hold his own --

And they've cleared a little of the chaos. Kon immediately lifts him and flies them to another part of the yard --

And another --

"KF here I found the bomb and it's huge and it says five minutes but I can't tell if that's the truth."

Starfire gestures at him from the sky --

"KF, I'm in the yard, get me to your location," and there's just enough time to wrap his cape around himself before there are hands lifting him -- and then he's being *slammed* against Bart's body as he runs them somewhere -- stops. Bart pulls Tim's cape down for him, and --

"Yes, that's a very large bomb," Tim says, and crouches in front of what looks to be the nerve center of the thing. It's enough plastique to level the prison and everyone in it, and it appears to be constructed as neatly as something out of a very particular textbook.

Not the one they give to bomb squad members, either. There are too many wires looping around and around each other, and all of them have been carefully painted the same battleship grey. And the timer could be a lie. At least there doesn't seem to be a mercury trigger...

"Starfire, start getting the civilians out of here. This is nothing they can handle."

"Yes, Robin. Can *you*?"

It would be a fascinating problem, something to while away some rainy dawn... Tim doesn't laugh. "I don't think Batman could. We're going to have to take the wall and the floor around it, and fly the whole thing into space."

"I'm on it," Kon says, and, "get me there, KF."

For something like this... no, Kon doesn't trust his own speed or senses... how would this all have worked two years ago? Tim shakes it off and stares at the thing, trying to mark out the edges of the construction --

"Okay, what am I doing here, Rob?"

The thing is not, actually, built into the wall, but -- no, they can't risk moving it more than the barest possible amount until Kon can contain the thing. Tim points to the opposite wall. "Get that open. Wide and careful and fast. In that order."

He turns back and sketches the cuts Kon will have to make in his mind. A three foot radius all around the thing will give Kon a lot of extra weight to carry, but it will also give him room to maneuver safely --

And then there's a rumbling groan and Tim can smell the bay, feel the wind ruffle his hair and move his cape around his legs. One of the wires moves in the breeze -- nothing.

All right.

"What now?"

Tim describes a slow, folded circle around the bomb --

"Got it, get him out of here, KF. Get -- hell, how are we supposed to --"

"Focus on the bomb," Tim says, because it's the only thing he can say. "When you get it contained, fly as far as you can as fast as you can. Don't look at the clock. Don't look at anything."

"I -- shit, all the people --"

"We've got it," Tim lies, waiting for Kon's nod and then covering himself in the cape again.

Bart takes him back to the yard, where the best which can be said is that there are no more fights taking place. It's a chaotic scatter of groaning, shifting bodies, with the only bit of organization occurring in the rough field hospital the guards have made for themselves.

Places like this and the Slab... in all honesty, the guards should be receiving training close to his own, whether or not they're metahumans themselves. More of them should *be* metahumans, and -- there's just no time for that.

There's no time for any of this. It might as well be one of the problems Bruce used to craft for him in the later days of his training. How do you evacuate a full-to-bursting metahuman containment facility in less than three minutes?

Show your work.

The people out here, at least, will be -- blown into the water with most of their internal organs pulped from the concussion, actually. The people inside will die instantly.

*They*... can escape.

But they can't leave everyone behind, and so they do what they're doing, getting the rioters in some kind of order and in whatever restraints will do the job. Mia finds the pieces of the command box which had been used to open the power dampeners under a man who seems to be feeling no effects whatsoever from the girder punched through his chest.

Starfire brings the man over to the rest of the inmates waiting on a trip to a hospital --

Two minutes, his internal clock offers helpfully -- and Tim drops the man wearing the bloody fragments of a guard uniform and an extremely sly expression.

It's not sly, anymore -- where's the guard's body?

How long --

Kon flies, an unwieldy blur. It's not heavy enough to slow him down, and he's more than fast enough to do this, more than *powerful* enough.

And he won't get any faster with Tim watching.

Tim keeps working, running at an easy lope to the guards when he hears a scream. The EMTs are being held on the mainland, but at least one of the injured men isn't going to make it without emergency stitches.

Cyborg's already there, but he makes a space for Tim and helps to hold the man still while Tim works. He's going to have a nasty scar. He's going to live, because of Kon.

Bart runs up with an armful of medical supplies and then away again. Starfire is carrying two injured prisoners to join the others. Speedy is collecting new, unbroken dampeners. Beast Boy is a triceratops, and herding uninjured prisoners into groups. Kon is --

Shouting from everywhere at once, people pointing up --

At a lighter patch of sky. Kon wasn't able to get out of the atmosphere. Kon.

Kon.

The empty space inside of him seems to contract on itself as Tim stitches blindly, and the lack is almost an ache. He wants to feel. He *owes* Kon everything he can't touch, right now, everything he can't *have* --

Blur --

And Kon lands hard in an empty part of the yard, leaving a crater --

The wound is closed, but Tim has to clean it, bandage --

"Um, not that I'm complaining," says the man he's working on, "but do you think you could look at me while you're doing that?"

Tim looks at him.

"I'll shut up now. I'm sure your teammate is -- um, yeah, I'm shutting up."

He can see Cassie moving in his peripheral vision, and he waits for the scream, the cry --

There would be something. There would be --

When it comes, it's surprisingly deep -- Kon, rising up, and *this* Tim can feel, with all of himself. Tim smiles and finishes bandaging the man, stands up, and turns just in time to see Kon rise into the air, wearing...

Mostly char. And Cassie. His other boot falls off as he goes, and Tim smiles a little wider.

The prisoners who are capable of it offer a wide range of negative commentary on the situation. Those who are in range get punished for it. The only thing left is the cleanup, and that takes most of the day.

Once there are no more medical emergencies -- and there are actual EMTs present -- Tim focuses on interrogating -- carefully -- the prison staff and those few prisoners willing to talk in the hopes that their part in the riot will be forgotten.

There's the usual amount of talk about lawsuits being filed and new lines of work being searched for. The bomb threat had been more of a warning -- a woman calling from a pay phone, according to one of the police officers currently swarming the yard.

There's a canvass on for the area, but no real leads beyond the fact that whoever had placed the bomb had either full access to the prison or metahuman powers of his or her own.

If this were Gotham, Tim would already have a list of potential suspects -- but he'd also have a lot more difficulty. There are, after all, at least four attempts every year to destroy Arkham.

Homeland Security arrives in force near sunset, and, at that point, Tim is politely but firmly pushed to the edges of everything, most emphatically including the investigation.

They'll accept his help just so long as he can provide it without anything resembling access. Starfire is reading a man in a dark suit and sunglasses the riot act and Tim decides to leave her to it. She almost certainly won't attack, and nobody seems to be feeling stupid enough to pull a gun.

He finds Kon repairing the outer wall. He's wearing a very tight pair of pants obviously donated by a grateful guard and absolutely nothing else. Cassie is handing him parts of the wall and he's fitting them together. It won't hold against a blast, but it will give the construction people something to work with when they arrive.

Kon grins at Tim from over his shoulder. "How awesome am I? C'mon, give it to me straight."

Tim smiles and picks a mostly-steady pile of rubble to crouch on. "On a scale of one to ten? A solid seven and a half."

Kon blows out a breath through his teeth. "Eight. You gotta give me the eight."

"Eight would've involved you coming back with your *clothes*, Kon."

"I dunno," Cassie says, "this could be a whole new look for him."

Tim brings a hand to his mouth and rubs his upper lip. "You think so? I mean, I suppose there's something to be said for the idea of Kon simply using the force of his masculinity..."

Kon roars on cue.

"... to cripple the criminals with helpless laughter," Tim says, and dodges two small hunks of rubble.

Cassie giggles and pats Kon's shoulder with the hand not currently holding something which could be used quite easily to crush Tim's skull, should Cassie decide to do so. Has Kon told her about the kiss?

Tim really doesn't think so, but... he's never been close to Cassie. Reading her moods isn't the most difficult thing in the world to do -- she has never been a closed book -- but there are a lot of things he just doesn't know about her, including her attitudes toward... sharing.

He watches Kon, and he watches Cassie, and he watches the easy way they move together for cues and clues. They look precisely like two people who have worked together extensively, and who enjoy each other's company. He doesn't think either of them are the love of the other's life, despite the fact that Cassie has been attracted to Kon for nearly as long as she's known him.

He doesn't know how far they've gone, sexually.

He doesn't know...

He'd really like to know how Kon feels about the kissing, and what *he* intends to do about it. His own plans boil down to 'yes' and 'more' but he's willing to accept that it may not be possible.

Kon accepts the next large block from Cassie and -- holds it still with his power. He looks at Tim.

Tim raises an eyebrow.

"Hey, um... is anyone watching?"

Cassie giggles and aims a playful swat at Kon's arm. "We are *not* going to make out here!"

Kon leers at her -- and looks at Tim again. The expression on his face is rather complex for Kon, blending open plea with more open *question*. Tim nods, minutely, and then smiles for both of them. "The coast is clear."

"Robin! Stop being on his side!"

Tim spreads his hands. "I believe in the power of love," he says, and watches Kon drop the stone and reel Cassie in by a touch of their fingers. She giggles again and shakes her head, tosses her hair --

The kiss looks sweet and soft, and Tim thinks about the feel of Kon's body against his own, the hints of chocolate in his mouth which must all be gone by now. He watches, and knows this is something Kon wants to share with him -- *is* sharing with him, whether or not Cassie is aware of it, and whether or not she wants to do so.

It's a message with a lot of twists and folds, and Tim thinks he gets... most of it.

Enough of it that Tim feels he can -- has to -- slide down off the rubble and move close.

Kon lets go of Cassie and they move apart, and Cassie's hand on Tim's arm almost stops him. It's surprising, and more than a little warming. But --

"Do I get one of those, Kon?"

"Uh. Um. Cassie?"

Cassie tightens her hand on Tim's arm. Not painfully, really. Just enough that Tim's aware of the power in her relatively small hand, the potential of the magic within her. She's not looking at either of them, and her other hand is curled loosely at her side.

Kon shifts and lets the rock drop to the ground. "I mean -- uh. I'd really --"

"I saw you," Cassie says, and the look she turns on Tim is sharp and more than a little *hot*. "I've got really *good* vision, in case you guys forgot while you were playing around."

Tim nods to her and stays still.

"Cassie, I -- we'd never --"

"Never?" She looks at Tim again, searching him. He's lied to her before without much in the way of difficulty, and that makes telling the truth now feel almost anticlimactic, but.

"Never," Tim says, and twists his arm in her grip until she lets go. He clasps her hand, instead, and squeezes.

She sighs and shivers, a little before very deliberately stepping away from Kon --

"Are you sure," Tim says at the same time Kon says,

"Cassie --"

Tim looks at Kon, Kon looks at him -- and Cassie laughs, loud enough to, perhaps, carry over the sound of the waves and gulls.

"You guys have always been so --" She laughs again, and covers her face for a moment. "Go on. Kiss for me. Let me see it."

Kon moves immediately, leaning in and wrapping his arm around Tim's waist. Tim resists the urge to wrap his arms around Kon's neck, settling for putting his hands on his shoulders, again. More control, less of the sort of message he isn't entirely sure he wants to send Cassie, right now --

And Kon's mouth tastes like the Zesti-Ade they were handing out a few hours ago, but not so much that Tim can't taste *him*. He'd almost lost Kon today, and he'd known that, but --

The knowledge hits harder with Kon right here, with his warmth radiating against the skin of Tim's face and the scent of him under the smoke and dust making Tim breathe much too fast.

He doesn't mean to moan when Kon slips his tongue in, but it comes out of him, anyway --

He hears Cassie gasp --

"Titans! Together!" And that's Starfire in the comm. Tim pulls back --

Tim starts to pull back and Kon kisses him harder for a moment, holding on tight and making Tim almost forget about everything. Just --

Kon.

And when Kon lets go Cassie picks him up immediately, flying him up toward where Starfire is waiting. Cassie squeezes him a little, but doesn't say a word. And Starfire looks moments away from developing the ability to set everything around her ablaze.

"We've been asked to leave," Starfire says, not bothering with the comm.

"What? I'm totally not done with the wall," Kon says, and looks back --

"I *shit* on their wall," and Starfire whips her head to the side, sending the masses of hair flying. Her hands are glowing, slightly, where she's holding Cyborg --

"What Starfire means to say," Cyborg says through the comm, "is that the possibility of this being domestic terrorism is making the Feds rather... nearsighted on the issue of accepting assistance."

It's nothing he hadn't expected, in all honesty. It's a surprise that they'd let them stay as long as they had, especially since, in the aftermath of Luthor's disastrous presidency, every newly appointed head of every agency is eager to prove both their loyalty to the constitution and their fitness for the job. And --

The Titans are not the League.

It doesn't take very long to get back to the Tower, but Cassie flies Tim a little away from everyone else, not setting Tim down until they reach the small wooded area. There's a scent of honeysuckle and something more like what would happen if nutmeg was a sort of lemon -- Starfire's garden is nearby.

The sun is all the way down, but the moon is full enough that Cassie's hair is almost silvery. Kon is nowhere near... though he's close enough to hear everything if he concentrates. "You wanted to talk, Cassie?"

"How long have you wanted in my boyfriend's pants?"

Tim smiles and lets himself fall back against a tree. "Since not long after we met."

"Well... shit," she says, and flies up a few feet. She breaks off a dead branch and comes back down. "Why wait until *now* to do anything about it?"

Fair question, and Tim nods to her for it. "It's only recently -- very recently -- that I discovered that I'd rather make love to the people I care about than simply yearn after them when they weren't paying attention."

Cassie breaks the stick in half, then breaks the halves, and continues to do so until she's left with splinters and dust. "I'm really not sure -- I mean, the two of you looked pretty good --" Cassie laughs and flies all the way back down to the ground. "There are *words* for this in Ancient Greek history, and there have been times when I was sure Diana wanted me to learn every last one of them."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "I would think she'd focus on... other sorts of words entirely."

Cassie snorts. "She *focuses* on *everything* -- and, okay, I get that there are new words for it, too. You're gay?"

Tim raises a hand and waves it a little. "Not entirely."

"And -- you said 'people,' plural. You've been with someone else?"

Tim nods. "I'm not... I already have relationships, Cassie. I'm not looking to poach."

"But you want to have sex with Kon, and you need to know that it's all right with me."

I'd do it, anyway, given the chance. You could join in. I could always see what Bart's doing -- Tim nods.

"What happens if I say no?"

What happens if Kon decides not to listen to you? "I care about you, Cassie, and I care about this team. I'm not going to do anything to mess that up," Tim says, and discovers, to his mild surprise, that he means it. Somewhere, Dick is proud of him.

Cassie doesn't say anything for a while, and Tim closes his eyes behind the mask. It's a nice night, and he needs a shower and, at some point, a bed. He'd profoundly missed having a nap, and there hadn't been much sleep the night before -- and Cassie is moving.

Cassie is moving to him, close and -- close. She rests her hands on Tim's tree, leans in --

"We're not really friends. Just like how I'm not really *friends* with Kon," she says, and her eyes are dark in the uncertain light. The darkness isn't the only thing shadowing them.

"Just like...?"

"I'd be lying if I said I'd never thought about the two of *us*. God, who am I kidding? Cissie and I used to talk about it all the time -- Greta, too, back when she was Suzie..." Cassie shakes her head, letting her hair fall forward, a little.

Tim can smell her shampoo under the dust and the scents of the night. "Do I get to ask which of you actually wanted me?"

"Do you *have* to? Greta still has pictures of you no one is supposed to know about. Sometimes I think that thing with Darkseid never would've happened if you'd paid more attention to her."

Ouch, but... no, not a surprise. "Cassie..."

"Tim. Tim Drake, Robin, and, apparently, Himbo Wonder."

Tim laughs. "I'll take that."

"You don't do that, enough. Laugh, I mean."

"I'm working on it," Tim says, and slowly, carefully, cups her waist.

She shudders. "God, I don't think you're supposed to touch *good* guys with those gauntlets of yours."

"Apologies," Tim says, and starts to pull away --

She catches his hand and squeezes it. "I didn't say take it away," she says, and now she's looking down between them, hair hiding her face...

"All right," and he moves it back, squeezes her.

"God, your hands must sweat like *crazy*," she says, laughing -- looking up. "Tim, I'm going to -- you should just --"

He kisses her, quick and soft. And... interesting. Her mouth is nowhere near as hard as Clark's, of course, but there's something not quite human about it, just the same. A hardness a part of him wants to read as tension right up until she kisses him back.

It's a testing sort of thing, careful -- though not slow. There are a lot of smaller kisses, dry save for the sheen of saliva on their lips when they pause to lick. He's kissed Steph this way, usually when one or both of them was exhausted. Knowing the context of the association doesn't stop Tim from feeling warm, loved...

At some point, won't he have to grow tired of this? Need to not be *touched*? Of course, he's had moments of that over the past several days, times he's needed to walk away or just sleep, but...

Not many of them. Tim smiles and leans back. "Cassie, I think I've been... starving, without knowing it."

She exhales, a little shakily. "For touch? I'm not really surprised. No one can live the way you have."

"It got me through a few years," Tim says, "but yes, I think you're right. What do you think?"

"I think I don't want to have sex with you."

How about just making out for a while? "That's entirely fair," Tim says, and strokes her side --

"That gauntlet still feels so *wrong*. God, does Batman touch you with his on?"

"Often," Tim says, and tucks his other hand under her chin. "Cassie."

She shivers -- "Okay, so you're a good kisser, but -- I'm a one man kind of girl, and --"

She kisses him again, crowding him against the tree until he can feel her breasts, until the scents of her body become stronger than those of the night around them. She urges Tim's tongue into her mouth and sucks on it, flicks her own tongue against it, hums and presses closer.

If Kon is listening to this...

Tim really hopes Kon is listening to this. He pushes his gauntlet into her hair, cups the back of her head and lets her move him the way she wants to -- break.

"Oh -- Jesus. Um. I'm gonna go now," she says, and flies back several feet.

"If you're sure."

"Yes, I'm sure! God, you would totally have sex with me right *here*, wouldn't you?"

"I'd planned to suggest a bed --"

"That's not what I mean! You *know* what I mean, Tim."

He does. This was never supposed to happen, for any of the definitions of that statement he can come up with. Tim nods. "This isn't us."

She nods and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. "Right, yeah, *that* --"

"But it's fun," Tim says, and smiles.

Cassie actually freezes in mid-air, and for a moment Tim wonders if he'd pushed it too far. There *are* limits, even now, and he'd gone quite some time without thinking about any of them. Hm.

Today, had he been too vicious? Reckless? He'd let himself be taken away from the bomb, and he hadn't badly injured -- broken bones. Hm. He's going to have to --

Cassie laughs, long and almost wheezing sounds which sound close to hysterical, actually.

"Cassie?"

"Oh God. Oh -- God. Fuck. Okay, remember how we're always telling you to loosen up and have more fun?"

Tim raises an eyebrow behind the mask. "I seem to remember something of the kind, yes."

"I take it *back*. You've got the fun thing under control, do *not* try to have any more fun than you're having right now, okay? I couldn't *handle* it."

Tim laughs, softly, and pushes off the tree --

And Cassie actually flies back a little more.

Tim holds up his hands. "I'm not planning to assault you. Also, you could crush me."

"I *know*. I just --" Cassie shakes her head and flies straight up, fast and hard.

Tim waits, and when she comes back down her hair is damp --

"Okay. Okay. Fool around with Kon if he wants to, and just -- um. Leave me out of it. I'll make Kon tell me later."

Tim nods, and offers his hand. Cassie shakes it, and giggles again.

"Man, I'm *punchy*. Um -- I'm gonna fly this out."

"Noted," Tim says, and takes his hand back. "Enjoy your flight --"

"I will, thanks --"

"And you're a pretty good kisser, yourself," and Tim gives her all of his smile, more than a little aware of how it looks in moonlight.

"Oh, you..." She shakes a finger at him and goes.

Tim watches until her blur disappears into the night, and then he takes a breath. Licks the taste of her from his lips.

And walks inside.

*

There are private bathrooms off each of the bedrooms, but the team showers still get used very often -- something Tim can't help but approve of after years of sharing quietly companionable ablutions with Batman, if not always with Bruce. Still, the showers are empty by the time Tim gets there. Beast Boy had been the last, judging by the fact that he's still changing into rather spectacular civvies in the locker room.

Tim would like to know him better than he does. He has a working familiarity with the man's powers, and a good idea of what moves him in terms of insecurities, but beyond that... a mystery. He's somewhat between generations in terms of age, too young to entirely be a part of Dick's crowd, too old to be a part of his own -- though that doesn't stop him from pretending.

Drives like that could easily become weaknesses, and they'd all already seen what he'd become -- what all of them had become -- with those future Titans. Perhaps he'll ask Starfire for her advice.

Tim strips down and checks his uniform reflexively. No tears, but a large number of stains. Other people's blood, though, to be fair, most of it's from the guards he'd helped, rather than the injuries he'd caused.

How does Jason feel when he strips down every dawn? When the water runs pink down his drains...?

Tim touches the bruise on his cheek and lays the suit aside, disarming the belt just in case someone else comes in and needs to use the bench. The showers here are friendlier than the ones in the Cave -- you have to actively *choose* to get a blast of cold, and Tim has to admit that, when he's here, it's a choice he doesn't always make.

The Tower is... different.

Tim likes it that way.

He's washing his hair when the shadows tell him that someone's coming, and it's a reflex -- one he wishes, sometimes, he didn't have -- to get his staff in hand, turn, blink the water out of his eyes, crouch --

No blow comes aimed for his head, and --

"Dude, it's just me, and do you do this at home?"

Home. Home... "Most of the time, Batman lets me shower in peace," Tim says, standing up and setting his staff out of the spray, once more. "Most of the time."

Kon snorts and rests his arms on the dividing wall. "Yeah, still wondering why you moved in with the *Bat*, trust fund kid."

I couldn't sleep in an empty house, Tim -- thinks about saying. He pauses with his hand on the soap, and -- he can feel Kon looking at him, waiting for him -- Kon knows there's something he's not saying. "Kon --"

"Um. What the shit, Tim. I'm *used* to you being all beat up and covered in bruises, but those *aren't* from bad guys kicking the shit out of you and I'm sticking with what the shit. Or maybe holy crap."

Ah. Those, indeed. "I can't give you... details." Not true ones.

"I don't think you *need* to give me details, dude! Somebody totally treated you like a freakin' midnight *snack*."

"I'm more delicious than I look," Tim says, and sluices his hair.

"More... um. Okay, so I totally *came* here to talk about sex, but now we're talking about sex and I gotta admit I'm freaking out a little."

Tim smiles at Kon from over his shoulder. "*How* long has it been since you've been a virgin, Kon?"

"That is *totally* not the point, and you know it," he says, and Tim thinks about Cassie, and wonders what their conversations are like.

"Sometimes I like it rough," Tim says, turning off the water and joining Kon at the dividing wall. It's a little too tall for Tim to rest his arms on it comfortably, but he can put his hands there. And brush against Kon's forearms.

"Sometimes you. You totally just said that out loud. Dude, *who* --"

"I can't tell you that, Kon. They're their secrets, too," and Tim drags his wet fingers over Kon's forearm until he reaches his hand. "And it doesn't have anything to do with the two of us."

"Except for how you've gone from zero to freakin' sixty and -- hell, how long have *you* been having sex?"

"Kon."

"Tim, I'm *serious*, here," Kon says, and grips Tim's hand in his own. "This is *really* different for you, and I think I'm actually worried, a little --"

"Don't be. And -- Nightwing," Tim says, tugging on Kon's hand until he follows and -- yes, better to not have the wall between them. "And my girlfriend." A few others, but let's leave that --

"At the same *time*?"

-- out. Tim smiles. "No, Kon. Not at the same time."

"Okay. Okay -- uh. Would you do that? Have a threesome, I mean."

Tim catches Kon's free hand with his own and twines them together --

"By which I mean yes I *did* listen in on you and Cassie, and holy fucking *fuck* that was hot --"

"Maybe. Depends on the situation," Tim says. "Probably not tonight."

"Tonight. Because we're going to... and you're naked."

"I was hoping you'd notice," and Tim pushes close. "Kiss me again."

"Fuck, Rob --"

"That, too -- mm --"

And there's something about kissing like this, palms pressed to palms, bodies together...

It seems to highlight everywhere they aren't touching each other, aren't cupping or squeezing or stroking. It's a *tease*, and Tim wonders how much of it he can take, even with Kon's tongue in his mouth and the sound -- *feel* -- of Kon moaning for this.

Tim pulls back -- and moves back in to lick Kon's mouth, bite --

He was going to say something, do something -- he catches Kon's eye for a second and holds it. There's a kind of dazed sharpness there, a haze of everything they're doing and everything they *could* do. Tim licks his lips. And when he jumps --

"*Fuck* yes," and Kon catches him with the power, holding Tim still for a moment before reeling him in close. Tim's legs are wrapped around Kon's hips and their hands are still together. Tim turns them upside down, presses the heels of his palms against Kon's --

"This is better, don't you think?"

"I think I'm going to skip thinking for a while, Tim. I mean, I'm pretty sure it's time for me to go with -- heh -- my *strengths*," Kon says, twisting a little before rocking his hips.

Tim smiles and rocks right back, needing inside at the feel of denim against his skin, against Bruce's bruises and Clark's, as well. The pain is so mild it's almost an *itch*, and Tim's very, very tempted to have them stay right here.

If nothing else, it'll make clean-up much easier. For now, though --

Tim leans in and takes another kiss, rolling his hips against Kon's and using the same rhythm with his tongue until he feels his palms start to sweat from Kon's heat, from *this*. He tugs his hands free and cups Kon's face, opens his eyes just to see the way Kon's are moving beneath the lids, the way the color is rising in his cheeks.

He bites Kon's lip and does it again, and again --

Kon groans and bites him back and it feels like finally, like the definition of the term -- some part of Tim has wanted *just* this kiss, just this one and no others -- no, it would be stupid to say that, and Tim thinks he can manage to avoid that --

Kon pushes him against a wall -- *maybe* he can avoid stupidity. Or maybe the itchy sweet pain in his thighs is going to make him rub against Kon until he sets himself on fire. Kon isn't as warm as Clark, and it feels like he should remember that, hold onto it --

"Jesus, let me just get a little more naked, here --"

Tim pulls back and bangs his head against the wall -- lightly. Twice. "I agree with that plan of action."

"You... I always knew you'd be hot like this, that even you had to -- fucking *unbutton* a little --"

Tim smiles. "You know *me*, Kon."

Kon grunts and uses the power to push Tim *up* the wall enough that he can lick Tim's chest, edge around the bite marks and suck his nipples *hard* --

"Oh -- *yes* --"

"I swear to fucking God, that's the hottest thing you've ever said to me --"

"You know me. You know who I am. You're my best *friend*, Kon --"

Kon whimpers and drags his teeth over Tim's nipple, strokes up Tim's thighs and pushes them wide -- "Fuck, Rob, I *need* this --" 

"I'm right here, S.B., God -- you can do what you *want* --"

"Yeah? I --" And Kon pushes him higher, Tim's back skidding along the tile from sweat and water --

And Tim chokes on a moan at the feel of Kon licking his penis, root to tip and back again, and back *again* --

"You like that. You --"

"*Yes*, Kon," Tim says, and reaches down for Kon's head, searches for the warmth of his scalp, the faint buzz of his hair against Tim's fingertips. "You -- should have longer hair again --"

"I can fucking *grow* it," Kon says, and then something -- Kon uses his power to *gently* push Tim's penis flat against his abdomen -- "I just need to -- *here*," he says, and sucks at the base, nuzzles Tim there --

So good. So -- should it count as bondage? His body is telling him that he's being held around his torso, his penis, and -- knees, which are flat to the wall to either side of him. Heh. Yes. Absolutely --

"Let me --"

"Kon," Tim says, and bites his own tongue just for the feel -- "Go with 'yes.' And keep going with --"

It, he was going to say, but he thinks he can forgive the fact that it comes out on a long sigh. He thinks --

Kon's sucking on his *sac*, and he already knew that was really -- very --

Kon moans and does it *hard*, hard enough that the first wave of feeling is more of an absence, a warning --

"Oh, *fuck*, Kon --"

-- of exactly how good it was going to be, how sweet and slick, *hot*. Tim strains against the hold on him until he can convince his body that it wouldn't be much *more* of a stretch to pump his hips, encourage --

And Kon pulls off with a wet slurp, licking him again --

The hold around his penis is nothing like a hand. It's too even, too perfect, and Tim can feel himself leaking pre-come, feel himself *needing* to twitch --

"Kon, please, suck me off --"

And the hold is gone, just like that. Just like -- the other holds are still in place, *he's* still in place, and he really needs to compliment Kon on his control, his *finesse* --

As soon as he can string two words together against the feel of that mouth around him, those lips which are soft until they *aren't*. One day, Kon is going to be a living statue, too, but right now he's still -- so --

Heat. Wet. *Tight*, and Tim can see the hollows of Kon's cheeks, see the deep groove of concentration on his forehead, touch him there and watch his own hands shake until the sight is too much and he has to close his eyes. He doesn't think he'll get used to this, this power people can have over him so *easily*, just by giving Tim what he wants --

Oh, but he wants Kon to *take*, and that's reason enough to struggle a little, twist as much as he can against the perfect nothing which is holding him spread out and -- vulnerable.

Yes, that's the right word for this, for the way he couldn't stop Kon if he tried, the way he can't imagine *ever* trying --

This time, his moan is loud enough to bounce off the tile and echo in his skull, undeniable and --

"K-Kon. Kon --"

Kon moans and sucks him *harder*, swallows him in until it feels like the head of his penis is caught in the world's hungriest *vise* and Tim can't stop jerking his hips. The stretch in his thighs --

The *pain* in his thighs -- "Kon, my hands. My arms -- hold them --"

And then Tim's arms are being *yanked* over his head, pressed so hard against the wall that Tim can feel skin shifting over muscle for a moment before Kon eases back --

So much *control*, and Tim wonders, helplessly, if he'd maybe gone about the training protocols all *wrong*.

Laughing makes Kon *whimper* around him, press his hands to Tim's inner thighs and *push*, easing the stretch and making it worse, soothing the bruises and making them *burn* --

And the only possible *escape* from this is his own orgasm, his own pleasure, surrender --

Tim balls his hands into fists and tries to grind, buck, something -- anything for more of just this, more and more until he can't think, can't imagine Kon as anything but his --

Lover?

No. Not that. Not -- not for *him*, but Tim wants, and the noises Kon is making around his penis are --

"Tim, I thought I heard you -- *oh*," Starfire says, and --

Yes, oh. Tim's so hard it feels like there's a *knot* at the base of his spine and absolutely nothing where his brain is supposed to be --

Kon makes a sound --

And Tim can't keep his eyes open and *can't* keep himself from banging his head against the wall --

"Tim. Conner. You -- did you talk to Cassie about this?"

A *knot*. A *lack* -- Tim nods and *Kon* nods and Tim groans, helplessly --

"*Good* boys," she says, and Tim hears the bathroom door slowly -- achingly slowly -- close.

And pants.

Kon shifts, a little --

"If you pull off, I will kill myself," Tim says --

Kon hums and squeezes Tim's thighs, works his head up and down, down and up --

Tim feels like he's fighting against his own pounding heart, now, against the creeping bits of knowledge -- what happens, exactly, the next time Starfire speaks to, say, Roy...? He really hasn't put any thought into cross-communication at *all*, and --

When Kon uncovers his teeth for one long, slow stroke, Tim realizes that he isn't going to do it now, either. Easier just to *go* with it, let the laugh coiling at the back of his throat out, let himself --

*Let* himself, until the feel of himself laughing and panting starts to add itself to everything else, every strained muscle and every wet, *dirty* sound Kon is making around him, *for* him --

"Kon, you feel -- oh -- it's so *good* --"

And Kon digs his fingers in against Tim's thighs and swallows him again, holds him *tight* and maybe flays Tim a little with the stroke of his tongue, the power holding him more perfectly than any rope or chain ever *could* --

"*Kon*," and Tim wants to keep saying it, yelling it until he has no deniability left with anyone, ever --

Let them know him like this, let everyone know he's *available*, and always has been, always should have been --

"Never -- never alone -- *ah* --"

Released, at once and all over, and Kon steadies him on his feet -- and drops to his knees. "Hold my head and *fuck* me, Rob."

Tim shudders, bites the inside of his cheek, *shudders* -- and grabs for Kon's head, nails scratching and scraping at his scalp --

Kon closes his eyes and opens his *mouth*, and there's a fleeting moment where Tim can't do anything but *see* it, see Kon surrounded by the sterile white of the showers, the only bit of color, *life* --

And then he *drives* in, gasping at the feel of Kon choking on him, again -- "*Do* it, Kon --"

Swallowing him in and holding him there, pushing back against Tim's hands until Tim grips as hard as he can, and --

It's not a choice, anymore. It *can't* be. It's another wonderful trap, a puzzle with one solution, and -- his hips know what to do.

The feel --

Tim closes his eyes and goes for it, the image of himself, the tableau they make -- it's wrong. He needs to have his eyes open for this, needs to *see* Kon taking him in and taking him --

He owes it to both of them, perhaps as much as he owes the growl he can't keep in when he *does* open his eyes. His knuckles are white with the force of his grip, and Kon's eyes --

Kon's eyes are open, too.

Tim hears himself whimper, and the sound makes him cry out, the feel --

He's hot all over, sweating for this, for the press of Kon's lips and the slide of his tongue --

The look in his *eyes*, like there's nothing Tim can do that he won't accept, won't *want*, if only for this moment --

"Oh fuck, Kon, I don't *want* to come --"

And Kon clutches his hips hard, not stilling them so much as riding the motion Tim can't help, the way he's twisting for it, a little, almost grinding in --

In --

Kon *wants* --

And for a blank moment that might have once been terror, Tim can't remember how to stop moving, how any of the actions and commands *work*. He's trapped in his body, in this battering *pleasure*, and he's coughing out a moan every time he slams in, every --

And he's gone for it, lost to it and the feel of himself spilling out, this time, everything that makes him who he *is*. He can't see and he can't hear, can't know what he's saying, promising, begging --

The light behind his eyes wipes out everything --

Kon --

And Tim realizes his hands hurt at just about the same time he realizes that his legs won't hold him. Tim manages to pull out before he drops --

Kon catches him, holding on clumsily, warmly -- kissing him. Tim can't do anything but take it for a long moment -- he can't quite feel his *knees* -- no. Kon's holding him *just* off the floor with his power, and that --

Kon.

Tim cups Kon's face with both hands and kisses him back, licking the taste of himself out of Kon's mouth and shifting until he can support himself without Kon's help --

Kon flies them up to just below the ceiling and strokes Tim everywhere he can reach -- and then just *everywhere*, the power rolling over Tim in waves of nothing, pushing and pressing, *stroking*.

Tim pulls back --

"Tim, *please* --"

"Yes. Still *yes*," Tim says, and the bathroom door bangs open, who -- no. It's just Kon and Kon's *power*, and the fact that he's doing things now that he almost certainly won't remember how he *managed* --

And Kon flies them out the door, through the *Tower*, fast enough that it *probably* doesn't matter that Tim's naked --

Another door banging open and he's on a bed. His bed, and Kon kisses him hard and strokes him everywhere, all at once --

"Ah, Kon, not -- too sensitive --"

And then it feels like dry water, heavy smoke flowing away from his penis and *tightening* everywhere else. Kon's eyes are wide and he's panting, staring -- he looks almost frightened, and Tim realizes that he's not in control, right now. Not really.

Tim takes a breath -- tries to and fails, because Kon's power *squeezes* him, all over -- no, just his chest. It's almost tickling his legs, flowing up over his sac -- squeezing there, too --

Released and Tim pants, hyperoxygenates himself a little just in *case* -- "Kon. It's okay. I'm okay --"

"Tim, I can't -- I can feel you all over --"

"The feeling -- ah. Mutual. Really mutual," Tim says, licking his lips and getting his *tongue* caught for a second --

Kon groans, shudders -- shakes Tim like a *doll*.

"*Kon*."

"Sorry, I'm sorry --"

"Focus. You're rock hard and not really -- let's get you off," Tim says, and abruptly he's free everywhere except his wrists and ankles, and not coincidentally spread-eagled on the bed. "And let's make a note to have a good, long talk about your kinks, too --"

"Jesus fucking -- *Tim*, stop being so -- uh. Porn," Kon says, and, "I'm shutting up and going with the first thing you said," and he rises up, away --

Pulls Tim *with* him --

"Fucking *fuck* --" Kon gestures and Tim hits the bed with a bounce, free everywhere except for two hard bands around his thighs -- spread again. Tim reaches out to ease the stretch -- and his hands are caught, splayed against his own thighs --

"Kon. Breathe."

"I'm *trying*, man! You're naked and you just fucked my fucking *mouth*, and --"

"Or we could talk. Do you need to talk?"

"I *need* you to start making those noises again, and -- Jesus fucking --" Kon growls and gestures again, and Tim's hands are free --

He lays back down, calm and hopefully calming. The power whispers over his skin like silk, pushes up under his shoulders -- lifts him into a seated position again. All right. "Kon. Take off your pants and -- mm," Tim says, and decides that the power is almost more disturbing when he can feel the distinct impression of a ghostly palm covering his mouth. He licks at it --

Kon whimpers -- and rips his jeans off like a stripper. He still has his *boots* on, but --

Okay, then. His hands are still free, so he reaches for Kon, cups his calves and strokes -- and shivers, because it feels like he's stroking his own *back*. He's still gagged, so he can't tell Kon how interesting that is, and --

Possibly that's for the best.

Kon is lowering himself with slow care, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open. His hands are balled into fists -- could that be what's holding on to his thighs, right this moment? More data needed, desperately, but for now...

Tim strokes up Kon's thighs, trying to ignore the feedback, trying not to twist away from it, too much -- no.

It's exactly like he's trying to gentle *himself* to touch, and the ghostly feel of something behind him is... is -- the empty space inside contracts, pulses, *something*. Apparently, his fear should be pretty intense right now, but... but. It isn't, and Kon needs him.

Tim hums against the gag of nothing until Kon looks at him, then he nods, tugs on the backs of Kon's thighs -- Kon lowers himself down --

And they both groan at the feel of the power arcing and twisting over them, around them --

Tim's knocked flat by it, but he can still *reach* for Kon, still hum something like his name until Kon's on top of him and they're shaking together, jerking and spasming -- moving.

And, at first, it's *only* motion, Kon's power muffling everything like feeling for Kon's first several thrusts --

Spasm and Tim's arms are flat against the bed -- but he can *feel* Kon, now. Heat and muscle, sleek skin and the scratch of Kon's pubic hair against Tim's thigh, the sweet weight of his penis as he thrusts so *slowly* --

"Oh, Kon --" He can *talk* again. He can -- "Kon, just -- whatever happens, don't *stop* --"

"Tim," he says, and he sounds lost, distracted and a little slurred. "I -- you're so hard. All over me..."

Tim wants to touch Kon, hold him close, closer -- reassure and *encourage*. The power is almost painful around his wrists --

"God, *Tim* --"

And then it loosens, flows, pushes between his fingers as Kon slides his arms under Tim's shoulders, grips them from the back. "I want -- Kon, I want so *much*."

"Always. Always wanted you, watched you -- you're so fucking *hard*, I --" And the thrusts get faster, harder and better --

Kon's penis is slick and hot against him, his sac drags against Tim's thigh --

"I just need to be with you, Tim," he says, and opens his eyes --

"Kon -- *oh* --" Another wave of it, rippling over him, spreading his *toes*, cupping and lifting his hips. Tim goes with it, tries to anticipate what Kon wants --
Groans and listens to Kon sob on a broken breath as he grinds down against him, as Tim lifts his hips for it, clenches his abs to give Kon something better to stroke against, *fuck* against.

"Kon," he says, and tries to put everything into it -- no, he can say it. He can say anything at all, no matter how true it is. "I've wanted you almost since the first time I saw you --"

"*Tim* --"

"You were like nothing else in my life, no one else --"

"Oh fuck, *please*, I can't --"

And the power gathers Tim up and presses Tim against Kon everywhere, wraps his legs around Kon's waist, bends him and *presses* -- "It's okay, I promise it's okay --"

"Best friend, always my best -- my --" Kon gasps and squeezes Tim's shoulders hard, wraps Tim *in* himself --

He can't breathe, and Kon's eyes are so deep, so *open* --

They're so *close* --

And Kon comes with a sharp cry, spilling all over Tim's abdomen and chest and holding on, holding --

The power seems to *snap* free, but Kon's more standard hold on Tim is enough to keep him from falling. Tim wraps his arms around Kon's neck and squeezes, strokes when Kon shudders.

After a minute, Kon flies them the foot or so down to the bed and just kind of sprawls on top of Tim, panting against Tim's shoulder.

Tim cups the back of Kon's neck -- motion.

Tim turns, and Bart's standing in the wash of light from the still open door. His expression is difficult to be sure of -- a blend of surprise, fascination, and a curious *blank*. "Bart," Tim says, and slides one of his hands from around Kon's neck and offers it, palm open.

Bart -- blurs. Vibrates?

"Oh, dude, what? This is where we cuddle, not talk about your *other* hidden sex fantasies. Seriously, it's in the manual."

"No, Kon. Bart's here," Tim says, squeezing Kon before giving him a push so they can sit up.

"Uh. Dude." Kon scrubs a hand back over his hair and turns.

Bart's still not quite... still.

"Bart, man, what's up? Is there a problem?"

"No," he says, and -- he's gone.

Tim blinks, considers -- strokes Kon's back, because he can.

"Uh -- I'm still kinda fuck-dumb over here, man, but that was just a thing, wasn't it? Like -- a thing?"

Tim nods and scratches a spot on his chest -- ah, yes, come. Hm. Tim tastes it, and has a moment to wish he'd gone down on Clark at least once. It tastes like semen with a little something extra, and -- Tim has nothing, really.

"And you can do that pretty much anytime you want, dude. That being the whole licking thing."

Tim smiles and sucks three fingers into his mouth -- Kon hums and pulls Tim close again, maneuvers Tim with his hands and the power until they're both on their knees and Tim's straddling Kon's thighs. Kon smiles --

Bart's back, right next to them on the bed. "I think I meant yes."

Kon reaches out and cups Bart's shoulder. "'Yes' as in 'yes there's a problem?'"

"Yes," he says, and the bed shakes with his vibration -- stops. He's wearing a pair of pajama bottoms which are about an inch too short for him and a string bracelet which he's frayed -- apparently with the turning he's doing now.

"Um. Do we get to know what the problem is?"

"You're a 'we' now. And *you*, Kon, are also a 'we' with Cassie. And we used to be a 'we,' all three of us, and we're not, anymore. I'm kind of hating that," Bart says -- and moves Kon's hand off his shoulder. He's staring down at the floor.

Kon frowns --

Tim cups Bart's shoulder, himself. "I hate it, too."

"Wait, no, we're still a 'we.' We're totally a 'we.' That's kind of the point of us all joining up with the Titans --"

"We're not a 'we,'" Bart says, and Tim can feel Bart touching his hand, moving it, stroking?

Tim's hand is flat on the bed. "Bart --"

"I think I'm supposed to be okay with it, something about how we've all moved on and are different people now, and that I *especially* should be okay with it because I'm Kid Flash now and it was Impulse who was part of the 'we' I'm talking about and I don't ever want to be Impulse again --"

"Sometimes I *miss* Impulse," Kon says, squeezing Tim's waist for a moment -- "And 'supposed to' doesn't mean anything for things like that, and you should know that --"

"I'm not that," Bart says, standing up and moving a precise blurred square around the room before sitting back down again. "I'm still me, though."

Tim can see Kon frowning out of the corner of his eye, but he keeps the lion's share of his focus on Bart. There's agitation, but it's a very...

It's precise, contained, and -- familiar. Tim covers the hand Kon has on him and squeezes it once before moving out of the straddle --

"Aw, damn, Tim --"

-- and sitting next to Bart on the edge of the bed. Kon sighs and moves to Bart's other side --

"Look, I didn't really want to -- I was just going to leave in a minute. I only wanted to make sure you guys --"

"Didn't forget about you," Tim says, and puts his hand on Bart's shoulder again, twisting enough to place a very particular sort of pressure. This time, Bart will let him *keep* that hand there.

"Um. That's." Bart vibrates hard enough that the bed moves a few inches and Tim's hand goes numb.

Tim sucks a breath in through his teeth and copes with it --

Kon bumps Bart's other shoulder with his own. "Just because I'm dating Cassie doesn't mean --"

"And Tim," Bart says.

"We're not dating," Tim says, at the same time as Kon says,

"Dude, we're totally not -- um." Kon laughs a little nervously. "We're not, right? I mean, I don't think you covered that with Cassie --"

"We did," and Tim tightens his grip on Bart fractionally. "We're definitely not dating, Kon."

For a moment, Bart is still. He's still staring at the floor, and the tension in his jaw suggests it might be more of a glare -- "That wasn't just sex."

"Well, no, dude, it was really *good* sex --"

"It was the kind of sex you have with someone you care about very, very deeply, Bart." Tim smiles. "The best kind."

Bart tenses under Tim's hand, and -- if he really wanted to get away, Tim doesn't have anything like the leverage to keep him here. They both know that, and so it's just the right kind of telling that Bart stays.

"Bart, now that I've started having sex --"

"And you really need to tell me more about that, dude, because I never would've pegged Nightwing as the rough sex type, and you are just *covered* --"

"Kon," Tim says, and it really is immensely gratifying that that particular tone can -- still -- make Kon shut up immediately, raising his hands in a surrender which may be only temporary, but is still very clearly *surrender*. Tim shifts to face Bart a little more and uses his other hand to cup Bart's jaw.

Bart won't let Tim *turn* his face, but --

It's a start. "I care about you, too. I always have."

Tension, release, tension -- too fast for Tim's senses to parse, but Kon is stroking Bart's back, now, and --

The kiss is no more shocking than the sudden feel of Bart in his lap, wiry and fever-hot, endlessly mobile --

In truth, Bart is no warmer than Clark, but that has never really been the point. There's something fundamentally different about Bart's heat, about the feel of it. He doesn't seem to radiate so much as he burns within himself, or --

Perhaps it's something *about* Bart's body. He's always been so lean -- leaner, even, than Tim himself. He has always seemed on the edge of starving, and the question of what he was starving for... Tim kisses Bart back as well as he can. He can't catch Bart's tongue or predict where it will wind up next, but he can be open for it. And he can absolutely cup the back of Bart's head, push into that thick, unruly hair --

"*Dude*, I was *kidding* about the hidden sexual fantasy thing!"

Tim holds up his other hand to Kon for a moment before moving it to Bart's back. The curve of it is a perfection of bad posture, and Tim can feel the near *thrum* of Bart's heartbeat when he presses hard. There's no way to tell how Bart's feeling by that method, but it definitely makes *Tim* feel --

Feel. Yes, he thinks, and Bart's moan is so timely that Tim wonders, fleetingly, if Bart had heard it, or felt it --

Bart. Wild, strange, brilliant -- lovely. Needy.

Tim understands need, and it's the most natural thing in the world to stroke down Bart's back to his buttocks. He's a little taller than Tim, now, but he's still so *slight*, sleek muscle sketched with careless perfection onto the bone --

"I can't believe I'm *looking* at this! Jesus, Tim, yeah, he's hot now, but --"

Break --

"You think I'm hot? Oh -- you think I'm hot."

Tim glances from Bart to Kon -- yes, that *was* a very clearly readable look on Kon's face --

"Why haven't you *done* anything, Kon?"

Tim licks his lips -- faintly buzzing -- and squeezes Bart's cheeks. "He's with Cassie."

"Uh -- *yeah*, I'm with Cassie!"

Bart strokes Tim's shoulders, chafes them, warms them -- stops. "Didn't stop you from macking on Tim."

A reasonable point -- to the extent that Kon's looking to him for help -- but. "I made the first move," Tim says.

Kon takes a breath -- frowns. "Well, dude, no, I kissed *you*."

"I manipulated you into it," Tim says, and strokes up to the waistband of Bart's pajama bottoms, dips his fingertips in -- "I'd apologize, but that would be kind of a ridiculous lie."

And they're both looking at him, now. Kon's look of perturbation... sometimes he really, really does look like Clark. Bart just seems to be searching him, perhaps looking for the seams in Tim's... everything.

Perhaps just looking for a way *in*.

Tim smiles and tugs on Bart's hair with his other hand, just to see -- yes. Those golden-orange eyes narrow for him, and Bart's bow of a mouth parts.

"Uh, Tim, you're still -- uh. I mean, Bart *stopped* kissing you --"

"So he did," Tim says, and raises an eyebrow. "Did you want to kiss me, Bart? Or did you just want to shut me up?"

Bart shudders, vibrates, stops -- swallows. "Tim, you. You don't ever look at me the way you're doing right now --"

"Totally yes! That!"

"I'm discreet, Bart. You know that. And so do you, Kon," and the pajama bottoms are just tight enough to have left faintly corrugated welts on Bart's waist, already fading even as Tim strokes at them.

They won't take long to come back if Tim moves his fingers, and -- they're probably getting worse against Bart's front and sides. Tim slides his fingers along the track of the welts and watches Bart's eyes get wider and wider until they almost seem to -- glow.

"Oh -- Tim," Bart says, and it sounds like a sigh nearly as much as it sounds like a plea.

Tim opens his mouth slightly --

And Kon catches Tim's wrist. He doesn't try to pull Tim's fingers out of Bart's pants, but Tim has to admit that the potential is there. "Let me go, Kon."

"Dude, *no*. It -- he's *Bart*. And you're *you* --"

"If you're about to say I'm too young, Kon, I'm not going to like you very much," Bart says, and -- that was very much a threat far beyond the words themselves.

Mm. Tim shows his teeth for this smile --

Bart shivers --

"Will you guys just *quit* it a minute? Bart, seriously, there's a difference between wanting to be close to someone and wanting to have sex with them, and Tim, *you* should be the one giving this speech right now --"

Bart zips away -- back. And now Tim's hand is rather *deep* inside the pajama pants, and Kon's hand is hovering in the air --

"Very nice, Bart," Tim says --

"Fucking *hell*, you guys --"

"I'm *not* Impulse," Bart says, drawing himself up. "I'm just *not*, Kon, and I get that you're trying to protect me from myself -- and maybe a little from Tim -- and that's really nice of you, but I don't want that kind of protection. I want to know what sex is actually like and I want it with both of you but if I can only have Tim --"

"Oh, you can have me," Tim says, and pushes between Bart's legs from the back, teases his sac -- pulls back and out. "Give me a moment."

And Bart's simple, easy nod speaks of a depth of trust which rocks Tim for a moment. He can't look away from Bart's eyes on him, and a part of him wants the mask for this... but.

It's better that Bart can see how much the trust *means*. Better that they both can. Tim turns to Kon --

And watches Kon staring at his hands like they might do something -- else -- strange and terrifying at any given moment.

"Kon."

"Dude, you're so not allowed to use that voice on me when you're about to have sex with *Bart*."

"We were his parental figures for a while, Kon, I know --"

"And you guys were kind of terrible at that, you know. You always *left*," Bart says, and it was spoken lightly, but there's a lot of truth there, just the same.

"I know," Tim says, "and I'm sorry. So is Kon, which is why --"

"You were the *mom*, Tim! How could you even *think* of Bart this way?"

I'm dating *my* father -- no. "How could you?" And he asks the question as softly and gently as he can, but Kon still looks like he's been punched. "Kon..."

"Look, Tim, Bart -- I may be the ignorant one here, but I still know that sometimes you can't help what you feel, especially in a life like ours. I still know that sometimes things just happen --"

"*Yes*, Kon --"

"And that it doesn't mean you have to let everything *else* happen," Kon says. "We're supposed to be better than that."

"What about what *I* want?" And Bart is off his lap and crowding into Kon's space, pointing and almost bristling -- "Doesn't that mean anything?"

"Bart, Jesus, of *course* it means something. It's just that --"

"You don't trust me. You don't -- you think I'm about to stick my head in -- in a damned metaphorical *microwave*, because you don't trust me and apparently you don't trust *Tim*, either --"

Tim winces. "Bart, it really isn't --"

"No, shut up for a second and stop protecting *him*. He's a big boy, right? A lot bigger than *me*, and never mind the fact that we're both three freaking years old --"

"It's not the same, and it never *was* the same, Bart. You *know* that," Kon says. "I was fucking *programmed* --"

"And I was stuck in VR, and -- Kon, just... is it that you *want* me to still be the same? Is that it?"

"I -- *yes*. I love you, man, and I fucking hate that you're changing, that everything's *changing*, and if I have to be the one who stays in the past --"

"*None* of us have to," Bart says, and his hands blur between his body and Kon's -- stop on Kon's shoulders. "That's the point. We're all growing up, and you have to stop pretending that that's something I get to skip, Kon, you *have* to --"

"Bart --"

"*No*, Tim, I'm sick of this, I'm sick of Kon always looking just *past* me, like maybe I'm hiding Impulse behind my back, and I want -- I just want --"

Tim stands up and slides an arm between Bart and Kon, locking it around Bart's waist and tugging until Bart moves close, until Tim can hold him, and not incidentally give Kon the time to bury his face in his hands and -- catch his breath. "We all want things, Bart," Tim says, kissing his forehead and thinking about Bruce --

How could he *not* take this for himself? Everything that's on offer, everything that Bart *needs* him to take --

Different from Kon, but still vital in and of itself. This is his team, and a not insignificant portion of his -- heart. Tim squeezes Bart against him and holds on against the full-body shiver --

"Now I want to know why *you* don't have a problem with this, Tim," and Bart looks down into Tim's eyes --

"Um. This is me seconding the question. Over here. Uh."

Bart frowns, but doesn't look away. And Tim...

"I'm not afraid of losing you," Tim says. "And I'm not afraid of losing *us*," he says, and it's possible that the truth has never felt this *right*. Fear, here, would have been an obscenity. "We are, in fact, better than that."

"And you want a piece of Bart's ass," Kon says, dragging his hands down off his face and standing up. "I'm out. I -- I *do* trust you guys. It's just --"

Tim catches Kon's forearm with his free hand. "You don't have to go."

"Yeah, I really do. But, you know, I'm not actually going all that far, okay? So, like, if and when this all goes bugfuck..." Kon twists until he can grip Tim's forearm right back, and looks at Bart until he looks back. "I'm here, okay? We -- we'll figure something out, or -- I guess I'll be the one doing the figuring."

"I'm here, too, Kon," Tim says, and --

"*I'm* right here --"

Kon lets go and raises his hands. "I got it. I *get* it. And now I'm going to see if Cassie will let me stick my face between her -- uh. Yeah. Later," he says, and flies out, leaving the shreds of his jeans on Tim's floor and closing the door behind him -- gently.

Tim takes a breath -- and Bart pushes away. Tim raises his eyebrows.

"You got Kon's semen all over me, you know."

Hm. "Shower?"

"Yeah, I -- can I?"

Tim smiles -- and Bart zips them to the showers. He probably uses his hands to wash Tim, and he doesn't seem to be bothering with soap --

They're back in Tim's room almost before Tim can parse the difference between being washed and being carried. Tim watches the blur that is Bart drying himself off, and wipes himself down, too. He's still damp, but --

But.

Bart's arms are around Tim's waist and his body is hot against Tim's own. Naked, he seems even leaner than he is. Hotter, too. "Bart."

"Oh -- no. You're not going to say that you were just doing and saying all of those things to make me feel better. You're *not*, because I can't --"

"I want you," Tim says, and tilts his head up. "I haven't always found you sexually attractive, but I do now. Your becoming Kid Flash..." Tim smiles. "I've thought about touching you through the uniform, kissing you, sucking you --"

"Oh. *Oh* --"

And Bart is on Tim's bed, sprawled out with his knees up and his feet drumming against the mattress --

"Whatever you *want*, Tim."

Tempting. Very -- "Then I want you to tell me what *you've* thought about. And what you want," Tim says, and *then* moves to the bed, crawling on slowly until he's lying beside Bart with one hand on his chest. "I'm not going to tease you with this, but I think I need you to be -- somewhat exact."

"Well, I -- your new gauntlets are like *Batman's*."

"They are," and Tim twists his arm and mimes sawing at Bart with spikes. "Would you like to feel them on your skin?"

"Yes -- no. Don't move. Don't -- you feel so cool and good, and your hand -- you know what you *want*."

Tim nods. "I didn't, always."

"You -- you *waited* until you knew what you wanted and then you started taking it -- Nightwing? Was he really good? He's really -- handsome isn't the right word and if I say 'beautiful' it'll feel like I'm pretending to actually know him."

"Then I'll say it," Tim says, laying his palm flat and pressing, just a little. "He's beautiful, and he's even more beautiful without the uniform. I've always wanted him."

"He's your *brother* -- I heard him call you that, and I know you're not really brothers by blood, but that doesn't count with Bats --"

"You're right, it doesn't. That's -- one of the reasons why I don't think we could ever have a serious romantic relationship."

"But -- you still have a girlfriend. How --"

"She's out of the life. I tell her everything, and... to be honest, I don't --" Tim frowns, and thinks about the lack of messages, the emptiness where Steph is supposed to be. "I can't talk about that, right now."

"Okay. I -- would you just... touch me?"

Tim strokes Bart's chest, and wonders if he'll ever grow hair there. If one day they'll wake up to find a bearded, hairy stranger where Bart used to be. His cheeks are still only downy. Even Tim has to shave a couple of times a week to avoid looking patchy and a little desperate -- "Tell me if you need me to stop," he says, and rubs his writing callus against Bart's nipple --

"Oh --"

-- and pinches, lightly.

"I do that -- when I jerk off. Sometimes. Just -- harder?"

Tim leans in and sucks one of Bart's nipples while pinching the other --

"Oh -- wow. You -- I always thought you'd be -- that I would have to touch *you* --"

Tim sucks hard for a moment --

"*Tim* --"

-- pulls off. "You can. But I'd like to just touch you for a while, if you don't mind...?"

It sounds like a breathy moan, but it just means that Bart's panting -- mm.

"The first time I heard you make that sound, I thought about jerking you off," Tim says, and scrapes his teeth over Bart's nipple --

"Jesus Jesus Jesus -- *Tim*. You -- Is it control? You want to have control? You like to have control, and maybe -- do you want to tie me up?"

"I've thought about that, too," Tim says, and pins one of Bart's legs beneath his own. Lean heat and a faint vibration -- "It's probably better for the second date."

And Bart's laugh -- it starts out as a giggle before becoming sort of a humming snicker. Impulse.

He never has to be afraid of his own desires again, he thinks, and strokes Bart's side until the laughter fades to a croon, and then to the rapid, panicked-sounding breaths which mean that Bart is about as calm as he's likely to get. "I don't want you to be afraid --"

"I'm *not* --"

"I don't even want you to be stressed out, Bart. And you and restraints are not friends."

"We could maybe be fuckbuddies, though."

Tim laughs and licks Bart's nipple while he's doing it. And strokes down to Bart's hip. "I promise you that I'll be thinking about it. Deeply," and he strokes the bowl of Bart's hip with the calluses on his thumb, back and forth. Bart's already very hard, dark and getting slick --

The shiver moves them both -- and Bart catches Tim's hand in his own.

"Tickles?"

"Um yes. Just -- harder. Everywhere."

Tim nods and bites Bart's nipple, presses hard with his thumb --

"I can come from this, from you -- touch my *dick* --"

Tim wraps his hand around Bart and squeezes about as hard as he does himself when his erection is just sort of getting in the way of the rest of his life --

"Ah -- ah Tim -- your hand, oh your hand, please stroke me, jerk me off I can't --"

It's about as fast as Tim had expected, but it's still somewhat disappointing to already be doing this -- speedster. This is just the *first* time. Tim smiles and *strips* Bart's penis, pushing up on his elbow so he can see...

Bart has his eyes closed and his fists clenched. He's shaking them both and the bed again, making Tim's entire arm *hum*. And the flush spills up over his face and down his chest as Tim watches, as Bart opens his mouth for a long vibrato groan that makes Tim's penis *twitch*.

"You look beautiful like this, Bart. You're making me want --"

"*Tim*," Bart says, and comes all over Tim's hand and his own abdomen, arching up off the bed and groaning until he runs out of air.

Tim loosens his grip --

"No no no, not yet, I mean, it was too sensitive and it *hurt* but then it got good again, don't let go, don't -- *ah* --"

Tim squeezes again and leans in for a kiss --

And Bart almost *claps* his hands to either side of Tim's head, holding him still and kissing him softly too many times to count before settling in to lick Tim's lips, teeth, tongue --

"Let me," Tim says, and gives Bart one of Steph's kisses, slow and wet and punctuated with rhythmic squeezes.

Bart hums for it and strokes Tim's cheeks, pushes his fingers into Tim's hair, tugs and hums more -- pushes Tim back. "I don't -- maybe stop touching my dick? Or -- I want slower. This time."

Tim nods and lets go, sitting up and bringing his hand to his mouth. Interestingly, Bart smells less human than Kon does. A little too sweet to be believed -- he tastes that way, too, and Tim thinks about blood tests, semen samples -- of course Bart metabolizes everything *fast*, but shouldn't the effect... even out?

"Wow, Tim, you... I thought you doing that would just look sexy, but it also looks kinda *scary*," Bart says, sitting up, too and pulling Tim's hand to his own mouth.

"Sorry. I can't stop thinking, sometimes," Tim says, and pushes two fingers just between Bart's lips --

Bart sucks them in to the knuckle -- yanks himself back and coughs.

"Bart --"

"I know, I know, *slower*. I just -- your hands. Sometimes I used to watch you take off your big green gauntlets and *stare*. You have so many scars, and calluses, and I think there are a few burns..."

"Nightwing's hands are incredible," Tim says, and paints Bart's lips with his own semen and Tim's saliva. "Suck them."

Bart moans -- grabs his sac and squeezes viciously hard.

"Bart, I could --"

"No, no, I --" And Bart takes two of Tim's fingers into his mouth again, pausing when they're halfway in, then closing his eyes and taking the rest. It's hard to watch those eyes moving behind the lids, and harder -- in the best possible way -- to see Bart hollow his cheeks and *suck*.

Bart, of course, has, at this point, an encyclopedic knowledge -- literally -- of human and humanoid sexuality, but putting it all into practice must be at least a little strange.

Tim starts to thrust a little with his fingers and -- had he looked like this to Dick? Had Dick found himself wanting to do everything at once, and then do it all again? He'd like to *fuck* Bart, his mouth and his -- ass. No, it still feels like he's trying to prove something -- possibly to Jason -- when he's not just using that word for effect. And --

Bart's squeezing his own sac over and over now, not quite rhythmically --

"Would you like to suck me off, Bart?"

The whine is high-pitched enough that the empty space in Tim tries to *speak* to him -- perhaps it would be alarming --

Or perhaps it wouldn't. Bart comes all over himself, shaking their whole little world and *squeezing* his eyes shut. "I'll take that as a yes, I think," Tim says, and slowly pulls his fingers out of Bart's mouth.

Bart's moans sound almost harsh, desperate and a little hurt. His eyes are still closed.

Tim cups Bart's shoulders and squeezes hard. "Bart."

"I'm oh -- oh God, that wasn't -- I haven't done that in *weeks*," he says, and when he opens his eyes they're wide and blown, a thin edge of orange around a black Tim thinks he could fall into.

"But you're all right?"

Bart nods and reaches up to grip Tim's forearms -- tugs them down and pushes close -- "I want -- kiss me again? Like before?"

Tim does, and thinks about Gotham rooftops, rain and fog and the taste of Zesti-Ade --

And thinks about heat which can't frighten him anymore, can't do anything to him but drive him, thrill him, make him *want*. Tim twists his arms free and gives in to the need to stroke Bart all over. If he had Kon's power right now...

He doesn't, but he can *touch*. Squeeze those lean thighs and stroke up to the spareness of Bart's obliques, push him back enough to reach his nipples and *pull* on them, squeeze and twist --

"Oh Tim *please* --"

"Lie down," he says, and Bart shudders once, *hard*, and does it, playing with his own nipples and spreading his legs --

"Tim, just -- tell me what *you* want right now?"

And they're both pretty clean, as these things go... "Turn over on your stomach."

"Oh. Oh. Are you --"

Tim shakes his head and -- doesn't ball his hands into fists. Just -- this *boy*. All of that power and a mind which can't even be measured -- "Bart..."

"I -- I'm never going to see you without thinking about the way you're looking at me right now. Tim. Tim, I'm a little -- it's okay that I'm a little -- scared?"

Tim closes his eyes and breathes, *breathes* -- opens them and smiles ruefully. "I'm not exactly being reassuring at the moment," he says, and lays down beside Bart again. "We're okay. You don't have to --"

"Okay, but -- I want to, and I want you to do -- what were you going to do?"

"Spread you and lick you. Inside, if I can handle it. I've never done it before."

"Oh. Wow. Oh -- someone else did it to you? Rimming. You liked it?"

Tim smiles and shivers, inside, at the memory of his own cries for Bruce, for Clark -- "I loved it, actually. It made me... kind of crazy."

Bart's breathing quickens to something which registers as a soft keen. "Tim. Tim. I want -- did you want Kon to do it?"

Tim shifts onto his side and strokes Bart's chest again, leans in and licks him. More of that sweetness, yes, but more of that broad and gamy taste of *sex*, too -- Bart asked a question. "To be honest, I wasn't thinking of it. Or very much beyond 'more' and 'now.'"

"Ohh," and it's a long note, a little higher than Bart's normal voice -- "Do you want to fuck me?"

"Very much," Tim says, and licks up the center of Bart's chest, dips his tongue in the suprasternal notch and flicks it there --

Bart pushes his hands into Tim's hair and hauls him into another dozen, three dozen kisses. They're harder this time, more focused -- and then Bart eases back and just leaves his mouth open against Tim's own.

Tim fucks it with his tongue, meaning for a slow and potentially reassuring slide, but Bart *moans*, turns on his side and throws a leg over Tim's own, pushes close --

He's hard again, slick with his own come and so hot, so *hot*, and Tim knocks Bart's hand out of his hair and rolls them until he's over Bart, until he can hold Bart's head still and fuck him that way, grind his hips until Bart starts to shake, until he's groaning into the kiss, into Tim's *mouth* --

Tim pulls back and plants his hands flat on the bed, using his legs to spread Bart's own --

Bart wails and comes on him, shuddering and *sobbing* --

"Oh -- oh, *fuck*, Tim, I didn't want to that time, it's just -- oh you feel --"

"Bart, it's okay, we're okay --"

"No, no, let me --" Bart shakes his head and pushes until Tim rolls off --

"Bart --"

"I --" And then he rolls onto his stomach -- and then up on his hands and knees. "I just want -- the next time I come I want you to be inside me, your fingers or your tongue or -- oh God, Tim, I want you so *much*."

"Bart," he says, because he can, because it doesn't feel like just a name, anymore. He thinks he'll say 'Kid Flash' the same way, that it would feel the same in his mouth -- something round and sweet. Filling.

"Oh *please*, just thinking about it -- I think -- I don't know how many times you can make me come before I --"

Tim moves and cups Bart's hips, kisses the base of his spine -- "You can usually handle much more."

"Yes, I -- it's more intense. It's more -- it's *more*, Tim --"

"I understand," he says, and spreads Bart wide.

"*Oh* --"

There's something almost anonymous about this view, something blankly pornographic and not entirely what he wants -- "Don't stop talking. Making noise -- don't *stop*," Tim says, and leans in.

The oils here are musky, and there's a little sweat -- saltier, *Bart* -- no, he wants to *listen*.

He forces himself to concentrate on more than just the feel of the muscle against his tongue, the clenching potential, the power even here --

"Tim -- Tim, I -- oh God, I don't *know*, you feel like -- I don't know I don't know --"

He can't wait. He doesn't know how *Clark* had waited before just shoving in, pushing past the clench and shiver --

Bart's already shaking again, already -- "Oh, you're *in* me, Tim please don't stop, please *please* --"

Had he sounded like that? He knows he hadn't shaken that hard, but everything -- everything -- is relative. Had Clark felt like he was holding something so bright with life and need that his hands were burning?

Had Bruce wanted to stay like this until Tim was begging him to stop?

The feel of Bart clenching around his tongue --

"Oh God, oh God, I can't -- I can't I need you -- Tim, I *need* --"

The feel of those slim perfect hips bucking and jerking in his grip --

"Feels like -- you're making me into something I'm not or -- I don't *know*, Tim --"

It's okay, he thinks, and he's lying within his own mind. This is anything but *okay*, and it's making him need so much, need exactly what he's *getting*, almost --

Almost. He wants to sink into Bart so deeply he can't get out, he wants to make Bart *scream* for him, yell down the walls until someone has to come, has to *see*.

There's a possession to this he hadn't imagined, a power to this which goes beyond what he's doing to and for Bart and heads straight for what he's doing for himself. Taking this --

Listening to Bart cry out and beg, wordlessly --

*Taking* this offers a whole new range of possibilities, ways he can treat himself, ways he can *offer* himself -- Tim had never wanted Bart to *know* how much he wanted him, had never wanted to show himself as that hungry, that immune to the years of history and all of the good, appropriate ways Kon would tell him how to feel --

"*Please* --"

Now he wants Bart to have it, to *know* it with every stab of Tim's tongue. They can *have* this, and everything else, too. *Tim* can have this, the flutter and clench, the vibrating shudder --

And the scream as Bart comes for him again, struggling against his own body and everything Tim is making him feel.

Tim slips out --

"Oh *God* --"

Tim kisses Bart, soft and wet, and pulls back onto his knees. The flush has spilled all the way down Bart's back, and Bart's head is hanging down between his shoulders. There's a shake in just his arms which may or may not be fatigue, and it feels like approximately eight years since Tim has had an orgasm. "Bart."

"Huh -- hunh -- Tim. I -- that was -- I think I might've -- wow."

"Gratifying," Tim says, and tries to push past the strain to something like acceptance, warmth -- Bart deserves --

Bart is in his lap, straddling Tim's thighs. His arms are shaking around Tim's neck. "At first I thought you were mad or distracted or just weirdly done with me in the worst possible way but then I remembered that you haven't come since Kon and I -- you're okay, right?"

Fever-heat and wide eyes and that *mouth*. Tim grits his teeth and nods. "Just -- very aroused."

Bart kisses him -- pulls back. "Wow, okay, never thought I'd taste my own ass."

Tim laughs -- and seizes a little. Everywhere Bart's touching him, everywhere he *isn't* -- "Bart. Please. You should pick -- something."

"Something to get you off. Something to get you off. Um. I don't think -- I think I'd probably cry if you fucked me, and that would freak me right out --"

"Noted --"

"But --" Bart kisses him again, and this time stays long enough for Tim to get a hand in his hair and *pull*. "Oh *fuck*, Tim -- yeah. Yes. *Yes*," he says, and pushes against Tim's hold until he can kiss again --

And then he twists free, nimble and careless of the hairs Tim is still holding. "Bart --"

"Just -- you *said*," Bart says, and suddenly he's on his stomach again, one hand around the base of Tim's penis and the other holding on to Tim's hip. "You have to let me know if I'm doing it right," and --

In.

*In*, and the heat is incredible, blinding -- he *had* said, yes, and apparently that's good enough. Apparently --

"Bart, that's -- you. Suck me -- *ah* --" Bart's moan --

Bart's tongue -- Tim has to focus, has to control himself at least to a certain *extent*. Kon had wanted it rough from him, but Kon has experience and the benefit of a large amount of mutual context. Bart --

Tim is the *mom*, or used to be, and that still has to mean something. He can't hurt Bart. He *can't*, and especially not for this. Tim clenches his hands at his sides and focuses on not pulling, not thrusting, not --

Oh, but he can at least cup Bart's shoulders, stroke the back of his head -- not push. Not *push* --

"*Bart*, it's -- you're perfect. You -- I want you. I want you, and you feel --"

Harder suction and Tim thinks his eyes might be crossing. He's almost positive that this would be painful if he wasn't this hard, and that possibly he'll be feeling it to some --

Extent. He --

Bart's *tongue*, fluttering against the underside of Tim's penis like something independently *alive*. Bart --

"So -- that's good. That's." Tim shakes his head and squeezes Bart's shoulders, rocks his hips -- *no*, he wasn't going to do that. He --

He hears himself grunt and balls his hands into fists again -- releases and grabs the increasingly disreputable duvet -- Bart's tongue -- Bart's *lips*, pressing hard around him --

"Bart -- *please* --"

The hum is interrogative, and it's not that Tim doesn't understand the question, but --

"I can't, Bart. I'm too close -- oh, *fuck* --"

Bart's working his head up and down, doing it -- doing it *fast*, only slow enough that Tim can feel the motion, feel the *fuck* --

*Think* -- "Pull. Off."

Bart hums again and now his tongue is working against the head, trying to stab into the slit -- Tim has to --

He'd just seemed so --

Tim hears himself moan, long and loud, and it's a relief, release --

He gives up and cups Bart's head, holding it as gently as he can as he pumps, short thrusts, keep them *short*, steady --

And then Bart makes his hand vibrate and Tim can't tell what he's doing, can't be sure and can't even *try* --

Can't --

Orgasm hits like a wall of fire, searing hot and deadly, perfect, blinding --

So *hot*, and he has just enough of himself to hear Bart coughing, just enough to feel it and have it take him even *higher* --

Tim shudders through it and tries to *make* himself aware of more than pleasure and the fuzz on his senses. Bart isn't coughing anymore, and he's -- out of range. Sitting up against the head of the bed with his knees up and his hands clenched together.

He's looking in the direction of the windows, but doesn't seem to actually be seeing much -- focus.

Tim moves up to sit beside Bart, and carefully cups his knee. "Bart. Are you all right?"

"Kinda blown. Kinda -- I'm sorry I didn't pull off, but I knew you were going to come and I wanted to see what it was like."

"I completely understand," Tim says, and squeezes Bart's knee. "Did you like it?"

"I like the way you taste. I'm not sure how much I like you actually coming in my mouth."

Tim nods. "Entirely fair. And the rest?"

"I'm not a virgin anymore. I'm --" Bart drums his feet against the mattress and sighs. Looks at Tim. "It feels pretty -- big."

"It does for a lot of people, Bart."

"Well, *yeah*, but -- not for you. That's not a question. I *know* it wasn't, because you're you, and nothing ever counts as surprising and big, because then you wouldn't be Robin."

Tim laughs and squeezes Bart's knee again. "I wouldn't go that far. But it's true that I wasn't really shocky or anything after my first time."

"Why not, do you think?"

"Because, in my mind, I'd been having sex with Nightwing pretty much since I hit puberty." Also, I've been gassed. But mostly... well.

"I -- hm. I haven't really been having sex with you in my mind," Bart says, and shifts closer, "so much as I've been thinking about you while I jerked off. And I hadn't thought the two things were different before, but -- yes, I think I get it."

Mm. "How much contact do you want, right now?"

"Kind of a lot. Um. If that's okay. I mean, I know I didn't give you and Kon a chance to -- I hadn't realized how *important* --"

"Lean forward a little," Tim says, and when Bart does, Tim puts his arm around him and squeezes. "You can stay here, if you want. I have some things I need to work on before I eventually crash, but they won't take long."

"You mean -- sleep here?"

"I like having you here, Bart. I've always -- well. I think I've gotten tired of being alone, all the time."

Bart smiles at him, and it makes him look both older and younger. Tim can see the man he'll grow into and he can see -- a little -- Impulse. Tim leans in and kisses the corner of the smile.

"Let me just go borrow Cyborg's systems for a few minutes, and then I'll be back."

"Okay! I'll -- um. Change the sheets and maybe flip the mattress."

"I'd appreciate it," Tim says, kissing Bart again before swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up. For this particular 'mission...'

Tim throws on the standard-issue Titans robe instead of anything more Robin-ly. Chances are, everyone in the tower knows exactly what he's been doing for the past couple of hours, and it would look decidedly odd if he suited up again just to track down a little information about his 'case.'

He finds Cyborg in the kitchen with a mug of steaming coffee well within scent range.

"Cyborg. Good evening."

He grunts and waves the coffee at him. "This is brewed fresh. You should feel free to drink it after I've had another few whiffs, Robin."

Tim smiles. "A tempting offer, considering the quality of your coffee, but I plan on getting at least six hours tonight."

Cyborg raises his eyebrow. "'Sleep?'"

"Actual sleep," Tim says, and leans against the sink. "I think I've earned it."

Cyborg snorts and sets the coffee down again. "I didn't think I'd ever live to see a day when you reminded me of *Roy*, kid." 

Ah -- heh. "I didn't mean --" He's blushing. There should be more people here to see him do it and help him nail down his plausibility, but at least Cyborg can see it. "I really didn't mean it that way, as opposed to a casual sort of -- I think I'll leave the verbal showboating to Kon."

"Mm-*hm*. You do that. But you're not here just to talk your foot into your mouth. What can I do for you?"

"There's a case I broke off working in Gotham to come here," and that's absolutely true, "and I was wondering if I could use your systems to run down a lead. An alias."

"Robin -- Tim. You never have to ask me that. My systems belong to the *team*."

Tim nods and spreads his hands. "Just the same -- there's a difference between taking time on Batman's systems and taking time on *yours*, Victor. Or Oracle's for that matter. The difference between sharing tools and sharing... a way of life."

The expression on Cyborg's face is deeply wry. Combined with the cybernetic portions, the effect is somewhat -- some*how* -- reminiscent of the Fortress.

Tim chooses not to examine that thought too closely right now --

"You were thinking I'd find it too intimate, Tim?"

"I'm very concerned with intimacy these days, Victor. You might say it's a consuming interest."

"Heh. I *might*, yes," Cyborg says, and takes a deep breath of the coffee he will never get to drink. "My systems are yours to command, Tim. Just remember that you *do* want to get to sleep at some point."

"Oh, I have incentive waiting for me -- ah, yes. Thank you, Victor. Good night."

He leaves Cyborg laughing at the kitchen table, secure, perhaps, in the knowledge that certain Robin-ly traditions remain alive and well in an ever-changing world. Though --

Dick would've probably blushed and stammered a little more than that, maybe showed some measure of shock. Jason... he's not sure how well the other Titans knew him, though of course it's a sign that Roy had felt so comfortable talking about him.

Something to ask Jason himself, the next time he finds Tim. Somewhere between whatever violence is on offer and whatever... other things Jason might be interested in.

Tim smiles to himself and adjusts the main chair at the console down to something a little friendlier to his stature. It's an odd chair with a lot of grooves and spaces for all the wires Cyborg can use to jack himself in directly. Despite the computer being -- as ever -- a useful weapon against the never-ending waves of crime, this is pretty firmly Cyborg's domain, with everything in comfortable reach for *him*.

As such, it's a little -- a little -- like being in the Clocktower again, with the same sense of entering a world in which he could only ever be a visitor. While most everything in the Cave is set to Bruce's specifications, there has always been, in his experience, ample room and welcome for Robins.

This...

Well. It's entirely possible that he wouldn't feel like quite so much of an interloper were he here for another, more official purpose. As it is, Tim runs down fourteen random names before he tries for Owen T. Em's, checking his backtrail for monitoring agents or any little hint of surveillance.

It's not that he thinks Oracle would give herself away with anything so crude if she were actually onto him, but if she's just making a casual check of things across the country, keeping her hands in...

There's nothing, and, in the end, Owen T. Em is listed as the CEO of record for a small real estate company with holdings -- the shock may kill him -- in Gotham City.

One small warehouse and office space. The latter turns out to have been foreclosed on by Gotham National, the warehouse is in danger of being seized for tax purposes. It makes something itch within himself -- he knows what he'll *find* in that warehouse, and he can't risk the places being turned over by clumsy and ignorant property managers.

It has been in arrears for the better part of a year, though, and nothing has happened... Tim knows how bureaucracy works. In all likelihood, Crane will escape again -- and make his discreet little payments -- before anyone gets around to those places.

He *doesn't* need to get back to Gotham immediately, and any attempt to do so -- no matter what sort of excuse he makes about 'hot leads' -- would turn the heat up rather uncomfortably.

He has the addresses memorized, and he'll be able to check the places out himself on Monday. Tuesday at the latest. For now, he erases all sign of his presence from the systems, puts Cyborg's chair back the way he'd found it -- motion. Scent.

There's no one in here with him, but there are shadows moving oddly in the hall. He isn't armed with anything but himself, and the robe could get in his way if he needs to fight. Tim loosens it and creeps up to the door in a crouch, moving fast and silently --

And the small mystery resolves into Starfire standing in the hall with a candle -- nutmeg and cinnamon. She's looking at one of the old photographs -- the Titans with a group of neighborhood children in what looks to be Brooklyn. There's a hydrant open. Dick is soaked to the skin and laughing. Beast Boy is an elephant spraying children and Titans indiscriminately, Starfire and Wonder Girl are each flying little girls up out of the frame...

"Did Cyborg take that photo?"

"I almost didn't recognize your scent, Tim," she says, and smiles warmly at him. She's wearing the same sort of robe he is, and the differences are both obvious and a little... warming.

It's not that the robe is too small for her -- it's that her body seems to reject all efforts to cover it with any degree of modesty. Someday, someone will knit her a sweater and it will unravel itself to threads before she finishes lifting it from the box. And -- hm. "I imagine you had already compensated for the scent of the candle."

"Mm," and she nods. "You smell like love. When you arrived..." She wrinkles her nose.

Tim tightens his own robe. "Ah -- I'd just been rather thoroughly... cleaned."

"You smelled sterile, bare and wrong. Of course, your scent is usually buried under that of your armor, but that was different. Distasteful."

"Noted. I don't think I'll be making those sorts of... ablutions, very often."

"Mm," she says again, and snuffs the candle between her fingers. The scent of spice and smoke is briefly almost choking, but not in an unpleasant way. "You told me you were going to work to become closer to us, Tim."

Tim nods. "There were reasons why I held myself aloof, and some of them were quite good, but... the Titans are not Young Justice."

"Or anything but themselves," she says, quiet and sure. "Do you plan to join Gar's watch tonight? I know the hours you keep make such things natural to you."

"I was actually just planning to go up to bed --"

"With Bart," she says, and her smile is sharp and pleased and inviting. "He met me on his way back to your room with fresh linens."

"Ah." Tim smiles ruefully. "I imagine you could offer some advice about... this sort of thing."

"Are you asking me for it, Tim?" A hint of surprise, a tease which may or may not be reflexive.

Tim spreads his hands. "It's a brave new world."

"Hmm. I read that book. Humans are such cynical creatures about themselves... but Roy once told me that it was a mistake to judge the species by the people I came to know as a Titan."

"The best and the worst, I think... Kory, I don't think I can ever live outside of this life."

"Why would you? I do not know you very well, Tim, but I have seen you in the heat of battle many times now. *This* is in your blood."

Tim looks at his hands. She's right, but... "Once I imagined myself out of things. A civilian, retired --"

"You will always go where there is need. And there will always be need."

"Heh. The never-ending battle," Tim says, and watches Starfire... shift. She seems to rise within herself, to broaden and glow with something more than her eyes and hands.

"A chance for what you would call 'heaven' while we still live, Tim. Is it not fine?"

"I -- Kory --"

"*No*," she says, and cups Tim's shoulder with her free hand. "You wear your bruises and scars like the glories they are. I will not listen to you doubt yourself. Not about this."

Tim smiles ruefully and nods. "All right. Is there any more information about the bombing?"

"They are 'stonewalling,'" she says, and squeezes Tim's shoulder viciously hard before letting go. "They will not even tell us if they have suspects, and they accepted Cyborg's list of individuals with known demolitions experience like... like..."

"A child's drawing to be placed on the refrigerator and promptly forgotten?"

She hisses between her teeth. "A child would have received more *respect*."

"Mm. I don't think we should let it lie. Whoever made that bomb had a great deal of experience and creativity. Whoever *placed* the bomb had the sort of access which could just lead to this happening again -- and next time we might not be able to get away as clean as we did."

"When I saw Kon-El fall..." She shivers, once, and the sound of her hair moving against the robe is a stage whisper of softness. "I know you understand. The two of you have always been very close."

"He's my best friend," Tim says, and -- "Kory --"

"Use your contacts, Tim. *Sleep* now, yes, but use your contacts tomorrow. We will bring these criminals down if I have to crush Homeland Security beneath my heel to do it."

Possibly that's not the right attitude to have toward the federal government if one is a barely-tolerated alien vigilante, but... Tim nods. "Good night, Kory."

"Sleep well."

When he gets back to his room, Tim sees that Bart has somehow found Robin-red sheets. He wasn't aware there *were* any of those in the Tower, but -- Bart has resources and motivations of his own.

And Tim rather likes the effect against Bart's skin. It brings out faintly gold undertones to his skin, and Tim is expecting his brain to offer up images of Clark or Kon, but --

He gets Batgirl. Batgirl in flight, Batgirl in *fight*. Batgirl taping her hands and wrists and ignoring a bleeding cut on her cheek -- a rather lucky hit from the last time they'd sparred. The surge of want is powerful -- massive and almost blind, rooting within his backbrain for every dirty sexual *possibility* --

What would it take to make her cry out?

He --

"Oh, Tim, I was asleep but I totally just felt you looming and that's -- really disturbing, actually. Does Batman do that to you?"

"Often," Tim says, and knows he sounds absent and distracted, but -- where had that *come* from? He has to avoid Batgirl. He has to -- she'll know something is different about him, immediately, and she would never understand, never let him be *free* --

"Tim? Are you okay? Did everything go okay with the computers or are you just not sure you want me here? I mean I can go I won't vibrate the bed much unless I'm dreaming -- you should say something."

"Gotham," Tim says, and crawls into bed. "I was thinking about Gotham, and -- it's been a while since I've seen... certain members of my family." He covers his face -- scrubs at it with his hands. "It just hit me really hard for a second."

"Oh. Oh. Are you okay, though? Do you still... I mean, subjective time has really... I'm kind of out of the afterglow, here, is what I'm trying to say."

And that -- "Unfortunate," Tim says, turning on his side and pushing on Bart's chest until he lies back.

"Ohh. You. You just totally pushed me down in your *bed*."

"I did. Does it bother you?"

"Bother. Bother. Nn -- no."

"Good," Tim says, and strokes down the center until Bart's hair is tickling his fingers, then back up again to Bart's throat.

"That's really possessive. I mean -- that's what it was before. And now, but oddly more before."

"I was making assumptions about your... desires, Bart."

"Yes! And now you're just sort of petting me. Which is nice. I'm tired."

"So am I," Tim says, and leans in to kiss Bart's shoulder before scraping short nails over Bart's carotid.

Bart shivers, but it doesn't move the bed. Much. "I think -- I think eventually I'll get used to you being like this, and being like this with *me*, but it might take a while."

Tim kisses him again, and then shifts until he can kiss Bart's cheek. "Even with subjective time?"

"Even then. I've still had *forever* of you *not* being like this, and -- I guess I could see it *in* you, when I thought about what you'd be like if we had sex, but it still feels -- I thought it would feel easier. And harder, all at once."

"Because I wouldn't be quite so focused on you?" And Tim shifts back and pushes, a little, until Bart turns on his side, too, and Tim can push up against him.

"Oh. Ohh. You feel --" Bart shivers and pushes even closer, rubs up against Tim for a long moment --

He's absolutely nothing like a *cat*, but there's something animal about it just the same, primal and heedless sensuality. Tim splays his hand against Bart's chest and presses hard.

"Tim Tim -- Tim, I don't know if I can *sleep* like this, I."

"We don't have to. I'd noticed that you sleep on your side..."

"*You* sleep on your stomach," Bart says, and covers Tim's arm with his own, holds it hard against him.

"Most of the time, yes. I imagine we'll shift during the night," and Tim kisses Bart's shoulder again. "You smell like... dessert. Something sweet, spicy, and faintly burnt."

"I ran through some honeysuckle on my way back here. And an orchard -- I did it slowly enough not to ruin anything, it's just that I really wanted to find *good* sheets."

"I like them," Tim says, and presses again.

"It's a good color on you and I -- I was going to watch you sleep. Once you are asleep. I've done it before."

"I know. I have the footage."

Another shiver. "I never -- did anything."

"Once, you nearly touched my cheek while I was having a nightmare."

"Um. Do you *always* monitor the footage of your room? I mean, isn't that really time-consuming?"

"You'd left a burn mark on my carpet," Tim says, and nuzzles the back of Bart's neck. Bart's last haircut must have been a few days ago -- it's already more hair than fuzz. His hair smells like the wind.

"Okay, that's fair. That's -- that's really nice. I like that."

Tim kisses him there. "Me, too."

"So... who else are you sleeping with, now?"

Tim smiles. "I can't give you an entirely honest answer to that question."

"Oh, but -- okay, how *many* other people are you sleeping with?"

"Eight."

"Holy *shit*, *really*?"

"I know a lot of wonderful people who happen to be either unattached or not *firmly* attached, Bart."

"Well, yeah, we all do, but -- *grife*. Go to *sleep*, Tim!"

Tim laughs and kisses the back of Bart's neck, long and slow, until it seems like there's no tension left in Bart whatsoever.

Bart sighs. "I love you, Tim."

"I love you, too," Tim says, and closes his eyes.

*

Tim wakes up alone with the sun well up in the sky. There's a thermos on the bedside table which turns out to be full of Cyborg's coffee -- the first brew of the day, judging by the scent.

Tim gives himself leave to just drink it in bed, in the particular quality of quiet -- not silence -- which means that the rest of the team is doing things some variety of deliberately far away from the sleep quarters.

It's officially a very, very good morning.

The showers are empty when he gets there -- someone had taken the time to fold yesterday's uniform for him on the bench -- and they stay that way. No alarms, no attacks --

And a massive, teetering stack of somewhat uneven pancakes is waiting for him under plastic in the otherwise clean kitchen. Speedy is nursing a coffee and donut.

"Good morning," Tim says. "Are these for me?"

She smirks at him. "Good morning back atcha. Bart got me to help him fix them for you," she says, and it sounds exactly like *everyone* knows what he's been doing.

It's surprisingly easy to deal with, internally. "I think he might have overestimated my... appetites."

Speedy turns in her chair and looks him up and down, slowly and a quite friendly variety of obnoxiously. "Not all of them, I'm betting."

Tim nods in acknowledgment, and takes down a clean plate. Three of the pancakes will be entirely sufficient, and -- someone had stocked the refrigerator with orange juice. And milk. Several gallons of both. Tim turns to Speedy and raises an eyebrow.

"I think he wants to make sure you keep your stamina up, Robbie."

Robbie. That's... absolutely correct for someone who lives with Oliver Queen. "Noted. Is he around?"

"Last I saw he was dragging Superboy off for a private chat. I don't suppose you know any more about that...?"

Bart is Bart, but Kon is still Superboy. Interesting. "I..." Tim sits down at the table with his plate and glass. Speedy hands him the syrup, and Tim draws a precise 'R' on his first pancake.

She laughs --

"I have my suspicions, but no more than that."

"Hmph. *You're* no fun."

Bart might disagree with that -- no. "I think I may have started enough rumors this weekend, Speedy."

"Heh -- okay, that's absolute truth," she says, and knocks back the rest of her coffee in a gulp. "You know, I don't get tired of the Speedy thing, but you *can* call me Mia."

Tim smiles around his bite of pancake. There's a great deal of vanilla extract in them, but it's perfectly good. When he swallows. "All right, Mia. You can call me Tim. Unless you're really attached to 'Robbie.'"

"Who am I to argue with tradition?" And she stands, pulling on her hood. "I'm gonna get in some target practice. If you feel like being a victim, you know where to find me."

"Noted," Tim says, and watches her go. He has her dossier memorized along with everyone else's. The first time he read it he found himself thinking of Jason and of Steph, and that hasn't changed so much as become deeper, more positive and less neutral.

Tim likes people who have things to prove to the world and to themselves. They tend to be more conscious than others, better equipped to adapt to dangerous situations, and less likely to thoughtlessly cause pain for others. Everything he's had to work for and think deeply about comes to them naturally, and it tends to make them very easy to be around, in ways they may or may not understand about themselves.

He'd like to be Speedy's friend, and while he'd be lying if he said -- even just to himself -- that tradition had nothing to do with it, it's really only a small portion of the whole. The fact that she seems to approve of him is really just another reason to feel good, today, and Tim can't help hoping that it stays just that way.

Still, he has an assignment. He finishes his entirely un-surreal breakfast and heads for Cyborg's systems again.

It isn't that he thinks Cyborg hadn't already pored through his records for similar bombing cases -- the dates and notations on the files are clear enough about *that* -- but there's always something to be said for being thorough. There are a few names which stand out in terms of expertise, but none of them would have either the resources or the motive to take out the Slab as thoroughly as their guy would've done.

Cyborg has the two who are local scheduled for visits from the team, and it's really something they could use *him* for -- he has far more experience with interrogation full stop -- but Tim wants a better lead than what he has here.

He pops in his comm, finds the right channel... "R to O."

"Flying in daylight. Hnn. Don't get your feathers singed."

The scrambler turns cheerful flirtation into something flatly sinister -- and pleasantly familiar. Tim makes sure the smile is in his voice when he says, "I'll keep that in mind. I need some information."

"What about my needs."

The scrambler turns questions into flat moments of *threat*, and Tim can't help laughing, a little. "Always a concern. Perhaps I can swing by sometime soon."

"Hnn. What kind of intel."

"We had a bombing out here yesterday. I'm sending you the specs and a sketch of the device as we speak. There's no one in our radar with the skills, resources, and motivation at present, but you..."

"Got it. Give me five."

Tim takes the time to examine Cyborg's sketch. It's nearly perfect, considering the fact that he'd never seen it up close. Tim adds a few more wires and one more block of plastique, scans it in, and sends it to Oracle with his corrections noted --

"Ooh. Even nastier. I'm taking the search international."

"Noted," Tim says, and waits -- freezes. The chair is set to his height again. *Exactly* to his height. Starfire would've talked to Cyborg about his thoughts on the case, but to Bart?

Bart might've asked, decided to anticipate him...

Would he --

"Tell me you love me."

"My love for you swells within me like the shockwave of a neutron bomb held under level ten containment, Oracle."

"Hnn. You have what I do. Green Arrow went up against some local talent -- vigilante talent, that is. Incendiary devices in metahuman containment units in local jails. The group was strictly small-time, but the report which made it to the JLA noted that Green Arrow was sure the cops had missed some of them. Ask Speedy."

"Absolutely. Thank you."

"I'm free Wednesday afternoon. O out."

Mm. There isn't much more in the records than what was in Oracle's précis, in terms of strictly useful information, but...

The group -- The Day Children -- had been responsible for the deaths of two guards and a slew of injuries to civilians and criminals, alike. The bombs were all homemade things -- of the fertilizer variety -- but the one they'd gotten intact had showed a level of knowledge, complexity, and terrible *whimsy* not usually found in such things.

And people like that don't really *stop*. Green Arrow had noted that the ones he'd caught had seemed utterly shocked that he would attempt to stop them in the moments before they'd settled down into trying to kill him.

The police reports and court transcripts certainly suggest that they'd gotten the bomb-maker, too -- the bomb-sniffing dogs had smelled the materials all over him -- but.

In the end, the average civilian's opinion about metahuman criminals veers more and more toward the death penalty practically every time some polling company asks the question.

There *could* have been more than one craftsperson in the bunch, and that person could've decided to go underground rather than joining the -- heavily monitored by Homeland Security, judging by Oracle's files -- protesters who'd picketed the courthouse during the Day Children's trial.

Tim types up a summary of the information and prints it out.

Speedy is still practicing when he finds her near their still quite new archery butts.

"Robbie," she says, nocking and releasing, "Bart says you can *catch* arrows."

"Sometimes Batman is a little mean about training," Tim says.

She laughs and keeps working, splitting one practice arrow after another after another. She really is quite fast. Whether she's as fast as either her namesake or Arrowette is a question for another time.

He thinks it might have been before her time, but... "Did you work the Day Children case?"

"Up in Star City? Never heard of it. What's the deal?"

"It might have something to do with the bombing yesterday -- same sorts of target, same style."

"I guess you'd have to ask GA. I --" And then she's whipping the arrows out of her quiver and shooting almost faster than Tim can track. She makes three bulls-eyes, but the fourth goes a little wild, just clipping the last butt. "Damn," she says and tightens her grip on the bow -- releases.

"You missed two the last time I saw you try that," Tim says.

"Yeah, but I got 'em all the last time *I* tried. I should lay off the coffee," she says, and stands down. "What's the protocol for this? Do we just call him or head up there or what?"

"The call is the first step, but I'm reasonably sure that there'll need to be some legwork."

"I -- you know, it seems like it would be kinda weird. I mean, it's *my* turf, but I'd be going in as a Titan... how does that work in Gotham?"

Tim raises an eyebrow. "It hasn't, yet, and I'm grateful. Batman is... well."

She brings her hand up to her chin. "Oh, let me see, *what* did GA call him the last time it came up?"

"Oh... I think I can guess," Tim says and offers her one of the standard, 'yes, I know exactly what kind of prick Batman is, but he's *mine*' smiles.

"Got it," she says. "I'll track down Starfire and give her the word. Come with?"

"Please. And I'd like to go to Star City with you. I haven't gotten to see GA *II* in quite some time."

"Oh, yeah, you guys are buds, I'd forgotten," and the look she gives him is a curious one, full of a search which doesn't, technically, need any input from him.

Connor is her family now, and Tim -- is an outsider. Tim waits --

"Uh, huh, right, okay -- let's go."

They find Starfire in her garden meditating, but she's pleased enough by the information -- and the chance to steal a march on the Feds -- that she doesn't even frown when Speedy accidentally crushes something which looks like a cabbage made of felt.

It's decided that he, Speedy, Kon, and Starfire herself will go, leaving the others to hold things down at the Tower, with Bart capable of running any one of them up at speed, should it become necessary.

Technically, Kon and Starfire can fly them both up, but the length of the trip makes the jet a reasonable -- if not precisely *necessary* -- choice, especially since both he and Starfire are checked out on its controls. The flight takes a little more than an hour, and then they head for the r-point Green Arrow had designated.

He squeezes Speedy's shoulder when he arrives, but otherwise greets them as a team, laying out the city for them. As it happens, he has names and addresses for some of the original Day Children's family members and loved ones -- including a few who had somehow managed to avoid getting on the Homeland Security radar.

When Connor joins them on the roof, he smiles at Speedy -- and at him. Tim allows himself his own smile for Connor, and then it's just a matter of splitting up.

Green Arrow takes Kon for the trip to the prison -- known locally as the Star Chamber -- Starfire and Speedy take the first half of the names on the list, and he and Connor get the last half. It's exactly the way he would've split them up in terms of age, experience, and local knowledge, and it's *exactly* what he'd wanted.

Kon punches his fist before picking up Green Arrow -- whatever Bart had said to him had apparently been useful. Speedy...

Gives him a look.

"That looked potentially mysterious," Connor says, and makes it sound like 'hello,' 'how are you doing,' and perhaps something complimentary.

"You would know far better than I," Tim says, and tries to put at least as much into it as Connor had --

Connor's smile suggests success. "It's good to see you."

"It'll be better to work together, again," Tim says, and gestures toward the edge of the roof.

"Oh, no -- you're my guest."

Tim smiles and takes the leap.

Their first target is the home of Grant and Wilma Fellowes, parents of the Darien Fellowes currently incarcerated for leading the Day Children. It's a comfortable looking condo on the northeastern edge of the city, and the neighborhood has the imposed quiet of affluence.

"I imagine you don't spend a lot of time around here," and Tim steps off the back of Connor's bike.

"Assumptions based on socioeconomic class are dangerous, Robin," Connor says, stowing their helmets.

"Hmm. I suppose I could just ask where -- and when -- you learned to drive," Tim says, keeping his voice low and his face still as they move up the walk.

"Arsenal insisted. Vigorously. I do suspect that some of the ways he taught me how to make turns were less than... practical."

Tim allows himself a moment to enjoy the hinting flash of Connor's teeth, and then the door is opening and a woman who appears to be in her late sixties is giving them a very dirty look.

"Mrs. Fellowes," Connor starts --

"*You*. I know who you are and you have no business on my property! You took our son away!"

"Your son was a terrorist, Mrs. Fellowes," Tim says, and carefully does not look directly at the way Connor is subtly wedging his foot in the door, just in case. "In the end, he took himself away."

"I don't have to listen to you, and I don't have to talk, either! What you do is *just* as illegal as what my Darien was doing. Maybe I should just call in your dirty cop buddies!"

How is the Arrows' relationship with local law enforcement? The report had suggested something reasonably positive, but it's both daytime and a neighborhood which -- Connor's gentle chide aside -- does not tend to require caped assistance --

"Mrs. Fellowes," Connor says, using the quiet, soothing voice which probably makes all sorts of people pay attention, "we only have a few questions --"

"Wilma! Who's that at the door?"

A male voice with an undertone of mild to moderate pulmonary distress. Grant Fellowes, and he's moving closer --

"It won't take much of your time," Tim says, and now she's trying to slam the door, a look of almost comical panic in her eyes. They aren't, technically, here to terrorize.

"We're just curious about your son's contacts," and Connor has pitched his voice louder --

"Darien! They're here about Darien, Wilma? Why didn't you say something?"

"Grant, they just want to make more trouble for --"

"They *can't* make more trouble for that no-good --" Grant cuts himself off with a wheezing, dangerous-sounding cough, almost doubling over with the force of it. His skin is the color of parchment except for two spots of red strain on his cheeks.

"Dammit, you people just *go*," Wilma says, trying and failing to close the door --

"Where's his oxygen," Tim says, and pushes -- gently -- past her into the house. The shadows tell him that Connor's moving to back his play, and -- there. The canister is on its wheeled cart, next to an armchair which has probably been the sole property of Mr. Fellowes for at least a decade.

He looks back, and Connor is helping the man toward it.

For a moment, Wilma stands framed in the doorway, half-slumped with the sort of defeat certain kinds of artists would love to capture -- and then she slams the door and comes to join her husband, fussing around with the mask and tubing until she's satisfied that he and Connor had fixed it perfectly.

"I won't have you upsetting him!"

"Oh, *quiet*, Wilma. They just want to make sure that Darien doesn't screw anything else up. Am I right?"

Connor nods. Tim scans the room for signs of... anything. There are a handful of pictures of Grant and his wife, and a lot of empty spaces where pictures of Darien must once have been. The empty spaces are the scars of an argument which hasn't ended.

"I suppose I should just put on some tea for these -- these *people*? I suppose you would like that just fine?"

"Oh, give *over*," Grant says, eyes widening as something grates in his throat -- he doesn't start coughing again.

"I suppose you'd feel just *fine* if you let these people *kill* you and leave me all alone?"

"Wilma," he says, quiet and low and rough with more than just his disease. "I forgot to bring my slippers down from the bedroom. Could you get them for me?"

"Grant --"

"Please," and he doesn't look at his wife, and, after a moment, she goes. More quickly than is, perhaps, healthy for someone of her age. "Now why don't the two of you hurry up with your questions so I can get some peace back?"

Connor nods and moves slightly to the man's left. Tim crouches at his right --

Grant barks out a laugh. "I don't even know *you*, red boy. You know, Darien tried what you're doing before everything all went to hell. Had himself a costume. Red and orange, of all things. Was gonna call himself Flamethrower... ah, God. Just hurry up, will you?"

Connor nods again. "Mr. Fellowes, we're interested in Darien's contacts. Anyone who might not have been arrested with the rest of the Day Children."

"Ex-girlfriends, people he might have hung out with to play sports, go to movies... that sort of thing," Tim says.

Grant sighs and closes his eyes. "He never had too many friends. Always shut up in his room with those damned superhero fan magazines..."

"We know which ones you mean," Connor says, and rests a hand on Grant's shoulder. "Really, anything you can think of would be helpful."

"Is this about what happened at Alcatraz? I thought... thought the Feds were handling that. I -- Darien's in jail, himself. He can't have had anything..."

"We don't think he did," Tim lies. "But groups like your son's don't always fall apart overnight."

"He was so proud. So *proud*. It was the first time, he said, that he really felt people were listening to *him*. I... the cops rounded them all up, as far as I know. Them and Green Arrow. The other one, that is."

Tim nods. "And his former girlfriends?"

"Hannah Barrett is the only one I can think of. She went to Star City University with Darien, but I think she broke *up* with him over the bombings. She... she was a real nice girl," Grant says, and sighs. He looks ten years older than he had a moment ago, and the kind of exhausted rest won't touch.

"Thank you," Connor says, and squeezes his shoulder. "We'll see ourselves out."

Outside of the house, the day seems infinitely brighter and more pleasant than it had when they'd walked in, but then...

"Do you often find yourself visiting the families of people you've helped to incarcerate, Robin?"

Tim shakes his head. "Sometimes we get the time to check up on parolees and violent criminals who've had sentence reductions for one reason or another, but..." Tim takes his helmet back and climbs on behind Connor, pulling his palm-top.

For this, he has access to Oracle's tertiary systems, which always feels a bit like carrying a bazooka to the world's ongoing knife fight.

"Barrett's address is on Seacrest, assuming she's Darien's age and works at the Bouncing Beagles pet store," Tim says.

"The pet store is on our way to the Crafts', and -- ah. Your level of access is a bit... exhilarating."

Tim smiles and tucks his palm-top away. "Oracle makes us all look like amateurs," he says, putting his helmet on and wrapping his arms around Connor -- carefully. Connor doesn't wear the sort of armor *Tim* does, and the spikes are sharp. "In any event, it's a nice break from having to deal with the family."

"I believe this may be the first time I've done it. Rather sobering," Connor says through the radio. 

"I wasn't aware that you were ever... intoxicated," Tim says, leaning in once Connor starts the bike.

"Hmm. I grew *up* with monks, Robin. I'm not one, myself. I try not to let myself focus too much on the more thrilling aspects of the work, but there have been times when the smile of someone I've saved... stays with me."

Connor's letters never mention that sort of thing save for in the most oblique of terms. His own are the same. It's the sort of politeness Tim thinks is reserved for people like them, and perhaps for police officers and firefighters. No one wants to seem too... high. "We're human, GA."

"Of course. I -- hm."

"Yes?"

"I'm not sure how I feel about you calling me 'GA,'" Connor says, and picks up speed.

"We never sign our letters, and, technically, we're not supposed to know who we are."

"You're right. It still seems... impersonal? Perhaps I mean that I can't quite imagine calling you 'Rob' or 'Robbie.'"

Tim laughs. "Other people don't seem to have that difficulty, but yes, I see what you mean. Our correspondence really wasn't between Robin and Green Arrow II." And he can hear Connor breathing. He would like, very much, to know what expression is on his face --

"I'm glad that you feel that way. I have to admit that I wasn't... sure."

"I think of you as a friend," Tim says and squeezes lightly. "I asked to be on this mission specifically so we would get a chance to meet again."

"Well..." There's a smile in Connor's voice, bright and clear. "It was my turn to play host."

Bouncing Beagles turns out to be a warm, clean place full of friendly-looking people which nonetheless almost certainly receives most of their animals from the sort of factory 'farms' which leave the pet lovers who learn about them deeply horrified.

Hannah Barrett -- she looks very much like her driver's license photo -- blanches impressively when they walk in the door, and the two kittens she was pulling out of the window display promptly leap from her arms and head for freedom.

"Good instincts, but no," Tim says, catching both of them and handing them back. "Ms. Barrett, we're here to talk to you about the Day Children."

"Oh... shit. Could we just -- um." She gestures awkwardly toward the door.

He nods with Connor and tracks her progress to the counter, where a family is waiting to take the kittens home. Maybe they won't wind up with painful health problems. Anything is possible.

The other patrons are more focused on the two of *them*, and one young man snaps a picture which will undoubtedly be all over the internet in less than an hour. It's an uncomfortable feeling after years of working mostly below the radar in Gotham, but he *is* here as a Titan...

Tim looks directly at the man with the camera-phone until he puts it down and takes a step back. Then, he smiles.

Connor covers one of his own with a cough --

And Barrett walks out with them, the subject of a large number of stares and the annoyed or possibly despairing noises of the animals.

"They like you," Connor says, and everything in his voice implies that this is proof of Barrett's fundamental rightness as a person.

"Oh, I... well, I've always -- um." She pulls out a box of cigarettes, opens it, puts it back in her pocket and rubs it. She blushes hard.

"You don't have to be afraid," and Connor moves in a way that suggests -- *just* suggests -- that he might be protecting her from him.

Well, if they're going to do it that way... "She does if she knows something she's not telling," Tim says, and moves a half-step closer.

"Robin. This is *my* city," and Connor places a hand on her shoulder before glancing back at him. There's the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Tim crosses his arms under his cape and keeps his head oriented toward the woman. She's nervous enough that she probably wouldn't notice if he shifted his focus in a more obvious way than the behind-the-mask technique that he's using, but it's always better to keep this sort of thing up.

"Miss Barrett. We know you were dating Darien Fellowes. Is there anything you can tell us?" And Connor actually *pats* her shoulder, which is the sort of thing Tim can only get away with with children who are too young to expect his affect to be anything other than what it is.

"Quickly," Tim says, flat and threatening --

"Oh -- *Jeez*. I broke up with him when I found out about that crazy group of his. I thought he'd been *cheating* on me, so I followed him around --"

"You were stalking him," and Tim sort of *leans* in.

"No, no, I swear," and she's focused on Connor, sweat beading at her temples. "I just wanted to know and -- and I followed him to this old bookstore --"

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Scrivener's, previously owned by Henry and Constance Carter?" Their son is on the list...

"Yes, yes that one. We'd gone out to dinner with them once and all they and Dar talked about was crime and vigilantes, all night long. He'd never introduced me to any of his other friends, so at first I was excited..."

Tim doesn't tune out, but he does step back. It was a good idea to push her a little, make her *want* to tell every detail she could remember, but in the end it's something of a wash, save for the interesting detail that she'd called the police about the Day Children days before their last bombing and been blown off entirely.

She might have saved lives, otherwise, and, watching her tell Connor about 'Dar's' favorite foods and television habits... it's clear that it weighs on her. Tim checks the police reports on his palm-top and... yes. The police had gone to talk to her, and so had the DA, but she'd never wound up on the stand, and her information had come too late.

She doesn't know anything.

Connor thanks her warmly and gestures her back into the pet store.

"Does that sort of thing happen often with the SCPD?"

"Too," Connor says, and sighs. "This *isn't* Gotham, but there are a lot of police on the force who aren't corrupt so much as they are... hm."

"Lazy? Waiting on their pension?"

Connor nods. "It's a problem. Dad would dearly like to have a hand in things, help to reorganize the force the way your Commissioner Gordon did."

"He had an uphill battle," Tim says, and pulls the helmet back on. Once they're on the bike again and Connor has his helmet radio on, "I know Batman did a lot of work behind the scenes to help. I know it's kind of an insane thought, but..."

"Get my Dad to ask *Batman* for suggestions?"

"Heh. Possibly I'll just e-mail you my thoughts and you can work them into dinner conversation."

Connor's laugh is soft and a little breathy. "You have a natural talent for conspiracy."

"Gotham tends to eat those who don't."

"You don't think it would spit you right out, Robin...?"

Tim squeezes Connor lightly, and -- yes. They're flirting. The question is whether or not Connor is aware of that fact. "I can be a tempting snack... GA."

This time the laugh is harder. "You know my name. I know you do -- Arsenal told me that Nightwing told *him* that you make something of a hobby of learning secret identities."

"Really, it's more of a vocation --"

"Robin," he says, and his voice is low, serious -- inviting and chiding at once. Connor is older than he is, and while nearly everyone he's had sex with in the last few days is *also* older...

It's different with Connor. His brand of maturity has nothing to do with the life they all live. He supposes it *should* remind him of Clark, but... it doesn't. It's something different, and it's very tempting. "I'd rather not say your name while we're using a radio," Tim says, and does his best to let everything he's thinking into it.

Connor is silent for a moment, perhaps focusing on the drive. The feeling that he's thinking about *Tim* is somewhat irrational, but it's there, just the same.

Tim leans with a turn --

"Some other time... I'd like you to say my name, Robin."

"The feeling is entirely mutual."

Estella and Marcus Craft have a large and spacious apartment close to downtown Star City. They also have two of their three children in prison -- their older son and daughter having decided to join the Day Children.

They get in the door, but not much more than that. Marcus is unshaved and still in his morning robe. By the look of the broken capillaries on his nose and cheeks, he isn't just taking a day off from work. He gives them the information that Estella is at her job as an advertising executive, and then simply sits on his couch and ignores them in favor of his coffee -- heavily laced with whiskey, by the smell.

Tim is about to suggest that they show up at Estella's work when a key in the lock announces the arrival of the youngest Craft child -- Maria.

"Oh, Jesus, what -- why are you *here*?" She drops her backpack by the door and moves to the couch, whispering to her father.

She doesn't get responses, either.

"Maria," Connor starts --

"Oh, it's fucking *creepy* that you know my name -- fuck --"

"Watch your language, Maria," Marcus slurs. He never looks up.

Maria flushes hard, embarrassed and obviously angry at having her embarrassment seen.

Tim turns slightly away --

And Connor steps close. "Miss Craft. I'm sorry I was informal. Is there some place we could talk?"

She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, balling her hands into fists --

"It's really very important," Connor says, and --

"Fine. Come on," and she leads them into the kitchen. It's clean, but not very neat. Marcus' bottle is out on the counter, and Maria closes it and puts it under the sink, stashing it amid bottles of cleaning fluid and rarely used pots almost reflexively before turning back to face them. "I know this is about my brother and sister."

Connor nods, sympathy written all over his features. "There's been another bombing of a prison."

"I saw the news," she says, and folds her hands over her chest, stares down at the floor -- "I was going to join them. I wanted to."

Tim shifts to complete the triangle of their position. "What stopped you?"

"*They* did. Esteban and Isobel. They said I was too young."

Connor folds his hands together. "How did you know what they were doing?"

"They were always on the superhero message boards, always fighting about who was the best. Isobel really liked Huntress."

And Huntress might not have disagreed with Isobel's methods very strenuously. But --  "Is that where they met Darien and the others? The message boards?"

She hugs herself. "I don't know. I mean, I always thought so. The police asked a bunch of questions about it."

And never got very far with their answers. The SCPD Technical Response Unit had placed a few spies online on some of the more popular message boards, but any mention of the Day Children which went farther than expressing mild upset that they'd been arrested had been either ignored or jumped on by people tearing the posters a new one, judging by the reports.

There had been no attempts to contact the spies privately.

"Miss Craft," Connor says, "did they ever meet here? Or were there ever any hangers-on you noticed that might not have been directly involved with the group's activities? Were your brother or sister seeing anyone?"

"I've had more boyfriends than Isobel ever did. For a while we all thought she was gay, but she had a real crush on Darien. She would've done anything for him. My brother... I don't know, he never really did anything but mess around on the computer. As for the other..." She sighs and looks at both of them, a sort of pleading in her dark eyes which they can't do anything about.

Tim can see it affecting Connor and -- yes. In some ways, the victims' families are much easier to deal with, if never precisely *easy*. "You knew Darien," Tim says, as gently as he can.

"Yeah, they brought him over to the house once or twice, always when my parents weren't home. This is when... this is back when my father worked," she says. "He was really intense, and that's when I could tell Isobel really liked him. I don't know. If there were any others that they didn't catch, I couldn't tell you."

Connor nods and so does Tim. Connor hands her a card and they go, leaving her in the kitchen and her father on the couch.

"Local Alateen?"

"Sort of a family services clearing house. I hope she calls," Connor says, and pushes open the door to the stairs. "Do you think Oracle will be able to help with those message boards?"

"She monitors them as a matter of course. If there had been anything... heh. There was a time when *I* monitored them. Every free moment."

Connor smiles back over his shoulder. "Somehow, I have a difficult time picturing you burning the midnight oil on your computer, Robin."

"You'd be surprised. I once happened to catch a glimpse of a life I might've had if I hadn't sought out Nightwing... it's entirely possible that I wouldn't have looked very different, on first glance, from Esteban Craft."

"Hm. I've thus far managed to avoid those alternate universe sort of... adventures. I think I'm glad," Connor says, and moves out into the lobby. "And -- is this why you wanted to run down this sort of lead today? Instead of going to the prison?"

"Green Arrow made the dispositions quite well, I think."

Connor laughs. "And that's not an answer."

Would you prefer it if I said something about wanting the chance to see you in motion? Tim smiles to and for himself. "To be honest," in part, "I'm usually the one on duty for trips into prisons and Arkham. There's only so much I can stand of that without feeling... somewhat restless."

"Restless?"

Tim puts on his helmet.

Connor puts on his own and gets on the bike. Tim moves in behind him and says, over the radio, "Prisons tend to make me very angry, and less inclined toward being gentle with the people stupid or desperate enough to put themselves in danger of being sent there themselves."

"Ah," and Connor starts the bike. "You told me you meditated, sometimes...?"

"At least once a week. I haven't found it to be helpful with that particular feeling."

"I -- hm. Never mind," Connor says.

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Tell me. Please."

Connor laughs, but he sounds somewhat embarrassed. "I was going to suggest we go to my temple after we finished with the case, but that assumed... quite a lot."

Mm. Really. "I don't mind assumptions like that one. Though I was going to suggest something more like a cup of coffee. Dinner, perhaps."

"Oh. That -- that would be wonderful, Robin. I'm just... ah. We don't have much left on our list."

A moment of hesitation. Telling, but in which direction? "The Carters' son -- William."

"Yes. We'll be there soon," Connor says, and puts on a burst of speed which --

Is also telling. Tim resists the urge to squeeze him -- or stroke his abdomen -- and focuses on the ride.

William Carter manages a video store in the northwestern part of the city, and --

It's obvious, immediately, what had driven his parents to do what they did. Well -- Tim supposes it's possible that the man's paralysis and aging burn scars could be due to some more mundane sort of accident --

"Some supervillain went by the name of Carnage, before you fellas ask," he says, and wheels out from behind the counter. "Green Arrow -- the other one -- took him down years back."

They nod, together, and the man squints his one eye at Tim. "Don't think you're local. You're one of those Titans?"

"That's right," Tim says. "I spend most of my time in Gotham."

"Yeah, well, they need all the help out there they can get, I guess. What can I do for you two? I don't think I've had any real bad guys renting videos from me just lately."

"Actually," Connor says, "it's about your parents."

Carter looks down at his lap. "Ah, hell. Can't you guys leave bad enough alone? They're already gonna be in prison for the rest of their lives."

A twenty-five year sentence for two otherwise average people in their late fifties... yes, they'll die there. "We need to know more about their organization, and any friends or customers they may have had who were on the fringes of it, Mr. Carter," Connor says. "It's important."

"Heh. I want to say that they were just normal people with a bookstore. They *were*. They got into this stuff... at first they were just going to support groups. Victims' groups -- you know what I'm talking about, right?" And he looks up at Tim.

Tim raises his eyebrows and nods.

"If I'd known what kind of people they were getting mixed up with..." Carter shakes his head. "Maybe I should've known. They were both so *angry* about what happened to me. They felt helpless. Hell, how many people were *you* just a little too late to save? How many mothers' sons and daughters have you watched get injured or maimed because of some psycho in tights?"

"You weren't among the demonstrators at their trial," Tim says.

"A lot of people who sympathized weren't there," Carter says. "And if you didn't know that already then maybe you're in the wrong line of work."

Connor nods, this time, taking Carter's attention.

He's fiddling restlessly with his keychain. It could be nervousness or upset, or it could be something... useful.

"We do... understand, Mr. Carter, but they committed murder, and not everyone they killed was responsible for harming others," Connor says.

"I *know* that. Don't you think I know that? Ah, damn, I --" He stops playing with his keychain and brings a hand to his scarred cheek, which has begun to jump and twitch. "Sometimes this happens when I get agitated. Really turns off the customers."

"It's all right, Mr. Carter," and Connor moves a step closer. "We really just need to know if anyone comes to mind. Anyone you saw your parents speaking with often, regular customers who didn't buy that many books, out of the ordinary visitors to their home --"

"I lived with my parents. I would've known -- I would've *thought* I'd know --" He shakes his head.

Tim thinks about it -- hm. "Did your parents spend much time online?"

"What? Oh, no, I used to have to do all their books for them. They were hopeless on the computer."

Tim sees Connor look at him. "Tell us more about those support groups."

And the hand which was still jingling the keys -- stops. And Carter sighs. "Look, I... she's a really nice woman, a *good* woman. She hasn't done anything wrong, I swear --"

Tim rests a hand on his belt. "Who is she, Mr. Carter."

"I -- she -- she hasn't done *anything*. She's the one who called the cops in SF!"

"Carter," Connor says, and his voice isn't very hard, but it's a threat, just the same.

"She -- she's my girlfriend. Beth -- Elizabeth Watts. She runs the Survivor's Power group --"

"I've heard of it," and Connor moves into the man's space. "Where is she."

"She's still in San Francisco! Or, at least I think she is. She flew down on Thursday to try to track down the guy she thought might try to do something stupid. I told her to go to the cops, but --"

Tim holds up a hand. "Do you know the 'guy' in question?"

"Just someone from the group! Carl something, with a 'C'. I -- I guess you'd have to talk to Beth."

Assuming she hasn't been caught by their target, assuming that she isn't working *with* the target... they hadn't been on quite the right track, but how long would it have taken them to start trying support groups if they hadn't had the Day Children to think about?

About support groups in *Star City*? Tim shakes it off internally and gestures to let Connor know that he's leaving the rest of the questioning to him, then finds a quiet corner.

"Robin to Cyborg."

"Here, go ahead."

"We're looking for an Elizabeth Watts. She flew to SF on Thursday and is probably checked in at a hotel somewhere. According to her boyfriend, she thinks a man named Carl-with-a-C -- no last name as of yet -- may be the bomber."

"Got it, anything else?"

"Not at this time."

"I'll fill in the others. Cyborg out."

When Tim taps the comm, he sees Connor waiting for him and follows him out the door.

"He gave me her address," Connor says, and gets back on the bike. "I thought we could check through her records."

There's something wonderfully obscene about the image of *Connor* rifling through the possessions of a stranger, despite the fact that he almost certainly has to do it at least sometimes.

It's something to think about on the way to the woman's apartment. Long, dark fingers with a callus pattern somewhere between Roy's and his own, shadows and slanting sunlight, a look of concentration... Tim wants. He'd wanted when he first met Connor, when his warmth and *difference* had been something to fill the Redbird with a new sort of companionship. He'd asked Connor to remain in Gotham for a time, and had been regretful that he couldn't.

He has treasured their correspondence, and -- yes. This is something else he can have, something he might have tried for even without Crane's gas -- assuming everything else had remained the same, and he'd gotten the chance to come up here --

Would he have taken it? Would he have asked for it the way he had? It's terrible to think that he might *not* have done it, but he can imagine himself thinking words like 'presumption' all too easily. It would've been easier to stay in San Francisco with what and who he knew --

"Are you all right, Robin?"

He will never give up this *power* over himself. "Musing on opportunities, caught and missed."

"I -- you're not speaking about the case," Connor says, and he sounds almost apprehensive.

"No, I'm not. Are *you* all right?"

"Dinner. Dinner would be wonderful."

The interesting thing about non sequiturs is how many of them make perfect linear sense within the minds of the people who utter them. *What* was Connor thinking to make that the first thing he wanted (needed?) to say? "I'm glad," Tim says, pressing against Connor's abdomen --

"You weren't this... physical. Before."

"No. Does it bother you...?" And let that pause be filled in your mind with the sound of me saying your *name*, Connor --

"I don't think that's the right word for it, Robin. I -- we'll be there in a few minutes," he says, and continues taking them back southeast.

The apartment building is in a shabbier part of town. Star City is, in general, both more and less affluent than Gotham City -- a more *even* sort of place, overall -- but Tim's willing to bet that this neighborhood gets exciting after dark.

There are already dealers out on the corners, and they know the sound of this bike well enough to start doing fades as they roll past.

"I'd like to bring you here with me after dark," Connor says, stepping off the bike, and it's almost a growl.

"Oh, I think I'd enjoy that."

And when Connor looks back over his shoulder, his smile wouldn't look unfamiliar on Roy's face. Or Dick's, for that matter. It makes Tim want to hit someone very hard, and then chastise himself for letting sublimation get the better of him.

Tim laughs to himself and follows Connor up the fire escape. Picking the lock on the window takes moments -- Connor doesn't reach out to touch Tim's false fingernail, but he looks as though he *wants* to -- and then they're inside. There's a lot of comfortable-looking clutter and well-chosen second-hand furniture.

The prints on the walls favor Impressionists.

Her computer is surrounded by paperwork of varying degrees of importance, with no signs whatsoever of prioritization -- beyond vague concentric circles centering roughly on her chair. This is something she was worried about, and this is clearly the most important area of the apartment. Or...

"Kitchen," Tim says.

Connor goes without a word as Tim boots up the system, half-idly letting his eyes track over the nearest papers. There are a lot of different papers with phone numbers scrawled on them, most either unlabeled entirely or labeled with cryptic strings of initials and non-standard abbreviations. He would have to know this woman a lot better to be able to guess who or what was 'Gro. She.'

Still he marks everything initialed 'C' and -- the computer is up. Somewhat shockingly, attempts have been made to organize here, and there are several folders with names on them. None of them are Carl. He runs a search for the name in the background while he keeps digging for other things.

The folder labeled 'Group' turns out to be documents for and about Survivor's Power, but the member list has no Carl listed. It also hasn't been updated for six months. The only documents that have been are expense sheets and plans for group outings.

Tim frowns and checks the search --

"Anything?"

"Not so far," Tim says. "You?"

"There are approximately eighty phone numbers written on sheets taped to the wall by the phone, but nothing which looked promising. Nothing on first glance in either the bedroom or bathroom."

Tim nods. "We might have to run down the other members."

"And hope the man is traveling under his own name," Connor says, and crouches beside Tim's chair. "Anything I can do?"

"Contact the others and tell them we've got a new search. I'm going to use my palm-top to get addresses for these phone numbers."

"Got it."

It's the kind of grunt work he'd used to do for Batman toward the end of his initial training, boring and satisfying as a bowl of noodles. By the time he's finished printing out the three lists, Kon is flying in to retrieve them and Connor is checking his mini-scanner for rush hour traffic congestions to plot the best possible route.

Kon arrives with a rush that bends the struggling trees outside Watts' windows, takes two of the sheets, and leaves with a bright smile and a quick salute.

"Fast," Connor says on their way out the door.

"Faster every day, though not at the same rate as Kid Flash. There's every sign that he'll have all of Superman's powers in addition to his own by the time he finishes maturing."

"You're close, I know... and you follow his training?"

"I've known him since he was a couple of months old," Tim says, and puts his helmet on. "He's my closest friend, and it would've been inconceivable not to help him with his powers as much as possible."

"Sometimes... I've mentioned, I think, the feeling of disconnection I have from many of the other heroes."

"You jumped right to the League without growing up in this life. It's understandable."

"Mm. I help Speedy when I can, but I've often wondered what it would've been like to be on a team of my *peers*."

He can't possibly be suggesting he wasn't a useful -- needed -- member of the League. "Green Arrow..."

"I -- please don't mind me, Robin. A moment of jealousy."

Really. "Well... you did tell me you weren't a monk," Tim says, thinking about it -- letting his hands splay against Connor's abdomen.

"Never, never that," he says, and they ride in silence.

It turns out that the first two people on their list had dropped out, the former to spend more time caring for his gravely ill wife -- ongoing complications from a run-in with Freeze back in Gotham -- the latter because she felt the group had nothing to offer her.

They're on their way to the third when --

"Starfire to Robin."

"Robin here."

"One of the contacts has proved fruitful. The name is Carl Jameson. He's a man in his late forties or early fifties, originally from Keystone. Is that enough information for you to get the rest?"

"Almost certainly. I'm on it. Robin out," Tim says, and switches back to the helmet radio. "Pull over. That was Starfire calling with intel."

"Got it."

Oracle's systems provide with hardly any effort of his own -- the man even has a record in Kansas for arson. He sends the old mug shots along with the driver's license photo to Cyborg, where the information will be provided to Homeland Security -- just as soon as the Titans' own search has begun.

Connor watches their backs as Tim works, nodding as Tim fills him in. Starfire and Speedy are closest to Jameson's home, and will be staking it out for the local bomb squad's arrival, as well as for Green Arrow and Kon.

There's very little else to do, but -- hm. "Robin to Starfire."

"Yes, Robin."

"Do we know anything about Jameson's friends? Girlfriends or boyfriends?"

"As of now, all information suggests a 'loner.' We are hoping for more information from the house itself."

"Got it. Robin out."

Speedy's history and Starfire's and Green Arrow's experience... they're more than capable of doing the search themselves, short of something unexpected -- at which point they can call Tim and Connor in. Tim smiles.

Connor raises an eyebrow.

"Patrol...?"

Connor smiles back.

They hit the town. The town, for its part, has very little opportunity to hit back -- which is, of course, exactly how Tim likes it.

It's a very different feeling to have Connor at his back, and there are a few moments early on in which Tim has to work not to treat Connor's arrows as crossfire, as opposed to an entirely good thing. Connor seems to sense it, and begins to rely more and more on his martial arts abilities -- the courtesy of a truly excellent host at work, though it makes Tim wonder how he'll ever be able to return the favor.

They keep it simple, fighting as allies rather than trying to do it as partners, and...

There remains an intimacy to it, though not a precisely familiar one. The moment of surprise buried at the back of Tim's mind -- where it can do no harm -- when Connor has anticipated him enough to reach back for his arm just as Tim is reaching for his. Eye contact through the masks which leads to them switching targets to better accentuate their strengths. Their now-comfortable rhythm of interrogation, with Tim playing the ruthless -- if not reckless -- outsider.

Not *quite* partners, but -- yes. More than merely allies.

Perhaps best of all for Tim is that the need for constant *consciousness* keeps him on high alert -- sensitive to his own strikes and blows to the point where every last one of them is in the safe range, and...

Sensitive to Connor.

He works as silently as Bruce, but there's an expressiveness to his silence which Tim can't help but appreciate. Every frown of concentration, every act of calmly precise violence, every brief thrilling smile of exhilaration -- or response. Tim knows precisely how blank he's failing to be, and while he can blame some of that on the fact that a Robin who isn't working alone is *supposed* to be a Robin with a bit of extra flair...

It's not all of it. This is what he's missed with Connor, this is what he's craved and hunted for between the lines of every brief letter. This --

A perfect moment as they turn to face each other before striking back and up with their fists, and another two men are taking naps instead of committing crimes.

Tim blows out a breath and grins for it, and Connor stares, the smile on his face a seemingly caught at the corners of his mouth, or in the folds of his mask. The stare is gratifying, but Tim wants -- needs -- to know what's pausing the smile. "GA...?"

Connor winces.

"It's still not time," Tim says, softly, and reaches out --

"I..." Connor looks down at Tim's hand and laughs, quiet more for the street than, Tim thinks, for the two of them. "That really won't..."

Tim frowns. "Tell me."

"I was going to say -- that really won't help," Connor says, and clasps Tim's forearm.

Tim returns the gesture. And taps two fingers against Connor's arm. "We can't work together if we don't --"

"I know," Connor says, and squeezes. "There's a diner Arsenal introduced me to nearby. It's hardly the sort of place I was thinking of when you said you'd like dinner, but..."

"A place we can talk?"

Connor looks deeply frustrated. "Yes. If still not to the degree I would wish."

"We all make compromises," Tim says, releases Connor, and taps his comm for an update.

There are signs that Jameson has *been* in San Francisco, and even a six point thumbprint match off one of the bomb fragments that had hurtled back to earth -- impressive that the Feds could *find* the thing, really -- but he's still eluding capture.

And there's no sign of Elizabeth Watts.

Tim shares the -- lack of -- news with Connor and zip-strips their unconscious targets for the SCPD's convenience. The diner turns out to be literally around the corner, and... it's a diner.

There are pictures of both Green Arrows, Arsenal, and Speedy -- former and present -- but, otherwise, the place is entirely unremarkable. The same plain tile on the floors and walls as Tim would expect, the same faintly depressing fluorescent brightness, the same bored-looking employees.

They take a table in the back corner -- it can't be coincidence that the lights, here, are slightly more aged and dimmer than in the rest of the place, and the waitress -- a tall, slim-nearly-to-the-point-of-gauntness woman named Mariel -- immediately brings them a carafe of water and two glasses.

"Thank you, Mari," Connor says, and smiles at her.

"Sure thing, sweetheart. You want the usual salad? The tomatoes we got in are actually pretty good today."

"I'm a little hungrier than that. Could you also bring me an order of the fried cheese?"

"Aw, now, *that's* what we like to see," Mariel says, and her smile takes ten years off her face. "What about you, hon?"

Ah, yes, Connor is a vegetarian. "I'll take the cheese omelet with a side of hash browns," Tim says.

"Robin, you don't have to --"

Tim raises a hand. "I know I don't. I haven't had a cheese omelet in a while." And if he asked for one at the manor, Alfred would almost certainly give him something which would make the pickiest food critic whimper through an orgasm. Absolutely not the same.

Although... how angry is Alfred at him, right now? He certainly isn't above showing his disaffection at the dinner table. And everywhere else. And Mariel is looking at him -- she'd asked him if that was all.

Does he want coffee? How long is this night going to be? He knows how long he *wants* it to be -- "Coffee, please. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Robin. And -- hey. Isn't your uniform supposed to have some green in it?"

"I decided it was time for a change," Tim says, and smiles.

She smiles back and goes, and Tim turns to Connor... who is frowning slightly.

"It really won't kill me to have a few vegetarian meals. My stepmother..." Tim bites back the wince as much as he can. "She used to prepare --"

"That's not what bothered me, Robin, though I wonder... I don't think I was ever able to adequately express my sympathies."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "It does always feel better to do such things in person, doesn't it?"

Connor's smile is rueful. "Whether or not it does for the person meant to receive those sympathies... yes, I understand. To awkwardly change the subject..."

Tim nods, gratefully.

"What had bothered me earlier is that you seemed somewhat distracted...?"

"Potential trouble at home," Tim says. "I'd been successfully not thinking about it until that moment."

Connor reaches across the table and covers one of Tim's hands with his own.

Perhaps having a table between them makes that sort of thing easier...?

"Is there anything I can help with?"

Actually, you could help me make it even worse -- no. Tim shakes his head. "It will work out because neither I nor the individual in question have the luxury to let it *not* work out."

"That doesn't sound especially comfortable, Robin."

That -- "I... think I'm starting to understand -- more deeply -- your objection to my referring to you as GA. GA."

Connor's smile is rueful. "You know my name. And I -- think -- I know yours. The fact that we've never had the freedom to use them with each other almost had to begin to grate."

Tim nods -- it's the inevitable result of Connor being *Roy's* younger brother. "You should know -- I wouldn't be averse to taking this somewhere more private."

And, again, the smile on Connor's face loses some of its internal cohesion, becoming a shaky, unsure thing...

"Ah," Tim says, and pulls his hand out from under Connor's own. "I wasn't hitting on you."

Connor raises his eyebrows.

"That time," and the smile on Tim's face almost certainly has a great deal of similarity to the sort of expressions he offers to... Bruce.

"I see."

"The point is -- I'm perfectly willing to stop."

Connor nods -- and cuts his eyes toward the counter.

"We're still clear," Tim says, and, "the last thing I want is for you to be uncomfortable."

"When we met..." Connor clears his throat and frowns at the table.

"I was a lot younger." I was a lot younger a week ago, too -- no. *That* isn't what counts here, he doesn't think.

"I enjoy being your friend -- I. Perhaps we could look at each other meaningfully when we mean to use an actual name?"

Tim laughs, quietly. "We can try. But I can't promise that all of my meaningful looks will seem entirely chaste."

"A risk I'm willing to take," he says, and looks at Tim, his lips slightly parted --

Oh. Connor has one of the most beautiful mouths Tim has ever seen -- focus.

And it's Connor's turn to laugh. "A mixed result, at best...?"

"Sorry," Tim says. "Look, I really enjoy being your friend, too, C -- damn, I --"

Connor shivers -- and covers Tim's hand again. "I'm not sure what I want. That is, perhaps, the most important thing I can think to say."

Promising. But -- Tim flips his hand under Connor's and grips. "Then the most important thing *I* can say is that it wouldn't bother me, at all, if, when we parted company once more, you *still* weren't sure. I didn't exactly... *do* anything about my sexuality the first time I noticed it."

"Well, this is hardly the first time --"

Tim gestures with his free hand, and Connor closes his mouth and nods, pulling his hand back. Mariel is already returning with their food... Tim takes another look around the diner. It really is *just* that empty. Clearly, they choose not to advertise the Arrows occasional patronage beyond the framed photographs. Interesting.

They both smile for Mariel. Connor gets a shoulder-pat out of it, Tim, an extra smile. Connor's salad looks exceedingly dispirited about its state of being, save for the tomatoes. Tim's omelet seems to be a murder weapon aimed at the aged and cardiovascularly infirm. Mm, diner food.

"You were saying, meaningful look?"

Connor laughs. "I was merely going to protest too much. Nothing to worry about."

"All right," Tim says, and offers Connor another smile before digging in. Perhaps he means 'setting to.' It really is that sort of meal.

They eat in silence for a time, and Tim chooses not to comment about the fact that Connor's expression seems more stoic than Zen. Tim only makes it halfway through the omelet before his body starts screaming at him about the fat content, but there's more than enough hash browns and coffee to ease his... hunger. Some of it.

And when he's finished, Connor is looking at him. Tim checks -- he'd managed to take out all of the fried cheese, but there's still one hunk of tomato left on his salad plate. Tim raises an eyebrow.

"If you don't eat that tomato I'm going to be thinking about what you *did* eat all night. I would rather think of... other things," Connor says, looking down and -- It occurs to Tim, desperately belatedly, that Connor's complexion is a little too dark to show a blush.

Well. Tim wipes his fork with a napkin and reaches across the table to spear the tomato. "Your wish," he says, and Connor looks up just in time to watch Tim pulling the tomato off the fork with his teeth.

"Oh -- that's --" It's the first wholly unreserved laugh Tim has seen since the last time they were together.

Since the first time.

His shoulders shake and he covers his face with one hand...

"Too much...?" And Tim makes his voice as light -- *bright* -- as possible.

Connor raises two fingers and pinches them almost together. He's still laughing.

"I suppose I'll have to save the lap dance for another time, then."

And Connor actually throws his head back for that laugh. When Tim checks, Mariel is smiling vague encouragement toward their table. Connor presses his fingers against his mask in the universal symbol of 'there's moisture behind the mask and now I'm hating life, a little.'

"Gratifying reaction, but -- ah...?"

"Arsenal. The last time I was here with *him*, it was right after he'd brought me to a *strip club*," Connor says, shaking his head and smiling wide and amused.

"A strip club? He took *you* to a --" Tim thinks about it. "All right, no, ultimately I'm unsurprised."

"Yes, you see my point. Would you *please* tell me what it is about my virginity that makes that sort of thing so *tempting* for my family?"

Heh. "Not *just* yours, meaningful look --"

"Oh -- please stop --"

"I'm sorry, your amusement is far too attractive. Even better than the mortification," Tim says, pushing his plate aside so that he can lean in. "Listen, the sort of things Nightwing would do, or say, or do *and* say to me... well."

Connor leans in, too. "Arsenal speaks about it as the inevitable result of having been a Titan. I don't suppose you've noticed...?"

Well... "Counting my own... activities?"

Connor looks down between them -- yes, that's another blush.

"Honestly, *seriously*, I think it's more a matter of having been a Titan while Arsenal and Nightwing were there than it is anything else. There's a difference between having a sex life and mining that life for every morsel of questionably appropriate humor," and Tim takes a deliberate breath. This close, Connor smells like leather and something... woodier. Balsa, or maybe cedar... something.

And Connor has stopped laughing entirely and is looking at... Tim's mouth.

Tim takes another breath and doesn't do a thing to hold back his shiver. "Privacy doesn't have to mean anything other than a place for us to speak *freely*."

Connor starts, leans away -- leans in again. "There's nothing I need to say quietly, but being close to you, right now..."

Mm. "That alone is enough, I'd think. G --"

"Don't. Not again. Not unless it's absolutely *necessary*," Connor says, and covers Tim's hand and forearm with his own, again.

"All right --"

"I think I'm a terrible liar. I think I was -- waiting."

This is probably not the time to stare at *Connor's* mouth. This is... "What were you waiting for?" What did you *find* --

"A friend. The company of the like-minded, something -- something that *doesn't* disdain everything I've been given," he says -- almost growls. "I don't know --"

"It's all right --"

"This time of night... come home with me. We can..." Connor's laugh is breathy and low. "I can't promise... anything. But -- please."

Tim feels himself flushing and smiles. "You should imagine me making a brilliant, erudite speech about how we should ignore the fact that we've been working all day and finish our patrol, distraction and exhaustion be damned."

"You were very nearly convincing," Connor says, and stands, leaving thirty dollars on the table.

"It's all of those years of training," Tim says, and follows Connor out the door.

As it happens, there's an armed robbery in progress on their way to Connor's bike, and Tim has to admit that Connor's presence is less of an influence than his own impatience -- he breaks a wrist.

He splints the woman while Connor takes care of the zip-strips, and --

They're on their way. And --

It's not a long drive, and Connor's not stinting on the speed. It still feels like they've been going for an hour before they reach Oliver Queen's -- new -- neighborhood. A fair amount of affluence is apparent in the size and upkeep of the brownstones, but, overall --

Overall, Tim doesn't really care. Connor pulls into a private garage which doesn't seem as stealthy as it really should -- and then they're driving underground. The Arrowcave, and Tim thinks it probably speaks well of some part of him that that part would like to investigate, but, in the end... it can wait. Tim moves off the bike, stashes his helmet -- his palm-top vibrates. He can't ignore that.

He holds up a hand and checks --

Yes, he *had* set Steph's messages to be registered at level two importance rather than level one. All it says is, 'We need to talk in person. When you can.' Damn.

*Damn* --

"Robin -- *Tim*."

Oh -- yes. "Connor," he says, and he feels too harried by everything within him -- and everything absent -- to smile the way it feels like he should, the way he wants to when Connor takes a step closer and slowly, carefully, pinches the palm-top between his fingers. He's taken his gauntlets off.

And Connor raises his eyebrows -- Connor strips off the mask with his free hand, and Tim had known that his eyes were green, but --

"You're gorgeous," Tim says, tucking the palm-top away and taking the last half-step closer. "You are... I don't think I have the words."

"That's reassuring, because I'm honestly unsure of what I *can* say," Connor says, and cups Tim's face. "Tim."

"Connor," and the kiss is waiting for him when he leans in, soft and dry -- careful and hesitant. Tim lets it stay that way for a time, for long enough to get his hands on either side of Connor's waist, to try to find the feel of him through his uniform.

*Then* he pulls back just enough that it's easy to lick Connor's lips, follow the curve and softness of them, *taste*. He wishes he tasted like a better grade of coffee. He wants --

Connor licks the underside of his tongue, does it again -- he's trying to coax Tim's tongue into his mouth, and Tim decides he wants just that. It's good to know that Connor has *some* experience, but he really would like to know with whom.

If it were Roy... no, Roy may actually be someone who can think of someone like a brother and not also have some degree of sexual attraction for them. Possibly. Perhaps he can find a way to phrase the question so that Dick won't be too shocked to answer --

"Oh -- Connor." Or, perhaps, he can forget all of that and focus on how he feels about being turned and shoved against a wall. Verdict at present: quite good.

"I -- I'm not..." Connor looks down between them.

Gay? Fragile? Sure? Tim squeezes Connor's waist until he looks up again. "Connor," he says again, because he can, and strokes up Connor's back, slipping between quiver and armor. "Please tell me."

"I'm not sure why I just -- did that. No, that's another lie. I'm not sure what to do *next*."

"I thought the kissing was working out rather nicely."

"Yes, I --" Connor smiles, ruefully. "There was an urgency. You were rougher than you usually are on the street, than you *should've* been, and the way you looked at me..."

Ah. Well. "The faster we do this, the less you have to think about it. I'm not sure how I feel about that."

Connor rests his hands on Tim's shoulders lightly -- squeezes. "I'm not sure how I feel about the fact that you seem to want me *to* think."

"Heh. Not that much, really," Tim says, and strokes around to Connor's abdomen, up over his chest --

"Tim --"

"Just *enough*. I need to know that you want this, Connor -- with more than just your admittedly distracting body."

Connor strokes Tim's arms -- catches his wrists and moves them to either side of Tim's body. "I..."

Or you could pin me against this wall and we can ruin our jocks -- no. No. No. "Why don't we go inside, sit down, and use our names indiscriminately?"

"Inside... is a very good idea," Connor says, and opens the door.

Inside turns out to be a home, warm and somewhat stereotypically masculine. A lot of exposed wood, a lot of deep, dark colors. Perhaps Speedy likes it that way, or perhaps her own room is completely different. Connor leads them upstairs, and Tim would know this was Connor's bedroom whether or not he'd been led there. It's quite spare and spacious, and most of the room's personality comes from a handful of plants situated to catch the most light.

It's...

"Restful," Tim says. "I like it."

"I'm glad. I -- should've offered you something to drink, something to eat which won't hasten your death --"

"I'm neither hungry nor thirsty," Tim says, and pulls the solvent out of his belt, sprays -- pauses. "Would you like to take it off for me, Connor?"

"Oh -- yes," Connor says, and his smile seems softer than the fingers on his cheek, than the touch which is making Tim want to take a lot more off than his mask -- but --

Tim blinks at the slight change in light quality and smiles. "Better?"

"I'd imagined a much deeper blue. This..." Connor presses his palm flat against Tim's cheek and pushes -- a little -- into Tim's hair. "Do people ever tell you that you seem cold?"

"Fairly often. Possibly because I am," Tim says, and turns to rub his mouth against Connor's palm.

"Hm. Perhaps a side of you I haven't yet had the opportunity to see," Connor says, quiet and decidedly non-committal.

Tim kisses Connor's palm, licks it -- Connor's hand twitches, once --

"We were going to sit down."

Tim breathes against the slick spot -- focus. "Yes, I -- sorry about that --"

"Oh, no. You don't have to -- I didn't plan to make you sit at my *desk*," Connor says.

Tim smiles and reaches for the collar of his cape. "All right. Do you mind...?"

"No. Not -- no," and he takes off the quiver and sets it down near the closet.

Tim sits down on the bed -- it's probably the firmest mattress he's ever been on, far more like what he'd imagined Bruce Wayne slept on back before he'd actually met the man. It's not that Bruce's bed is a welcoming pile of softness, but this is nearly a *pallet*. Tim prods it a bit --

And Connor is smiling ruefully, again. "Should I apologize for the bed?"

"Only if you throw me at it very hard," Tim says, and bends to take off his boots.

Connor sits next to him and does the same, and it's all very... domestic, Tim thinks, and wiggles his toes in his socks. Hmm. Tim spins until his back is to the wall at the head of the bed, plants his feet, and raises an eyebrow.

Connor turns enough that they're facing each other between Tim's knees --

Probably he could be more subtle. Understanding. Something --

"I like seeing you here very much, I think," Connor says, and cups Tim's knee.

Or maybe not. "I tend to take these opportunities with my family whenever possible and welcome, Connor. It's... a different sort of luxury."

"Luxury... I hadn't thought of it that way. Hm. I do get to live with both my father and Mia, though. *You* live with..." Connor laughs. "No, I can't actually say it. Knowing the secret and believing it are two very different things."

"And you've never had to attend a party with... the mask he wears."

"*Does* he ever... relax? You told me that he was the one who *taught* you meditation, but..."

"Another two very different things, yes," Tim says, and pulls his gauntlets off, flexes his hands. "He has... ways of relaxing. Recreating. They're really not like the ways other people do it, even within the family."

And Connor is watching Tim's hands. Tim reaches out and Connor catches them, pulls Tim a little away from the wall -- pauses. "Tim. You're very... accommodating."

"I'll let you know if you do something I don't like -- mm."

Connor's mouth isn't the furnace of Clark's or the liquid *blaze* of Bart's, but his skin is telling him that it doesn't matter once Connor sucks two of Tim's fingers into his mouth, licks them --

Pulls off and licks a stripe up each of Tim's palms --

And sucks two fingers on Tim's *other* hand for a long, *hard* moment -- off.

Tim sighs. "Connor..."

"I have... thoughts, fantasies. Impulses and urges. Trying to decide which -- if any -- to listen to at any given time... I'm reasonably sure it's not supposed to be this complicated."

"There are ways to make it easier," Tim says, and reaches for the catches of his tunic -- Connor doesn't stop him.

"I assure you, you have my utmost attention. Tim."

Tim strips to the waist, setting the belt on the immaculate bedside table --

"That -- that sight probably shouldn't make me think the word 'obscene.'"

"Context is everything," Tim says, and rolls forward and onto his knees. "Let me kiss you again."

Connor opens his mouth and leans in, and, this time, there's no hesitation before Connor is licking his tongue, urging Tim on. There's some question as to whether this is what Connor prefers or if it's what he *knows*, but the moan once Tim starts fucking Connor's mouth is entirely promising.

It's a little awkward -- Connor still has one foot on the floor -- but it's also an excellent opportunity to stroke Connor's chest a little, hint -- broadly -- about what would happen if he were to get just a bit more naked. Tim strokes down to Connor's waist and bites his lip, lightly, before pulling back. "All right?"

"Yes, I -- everything," and he laughs again, soft and somewhat distracted.

Tim bites his lip again, holding it between his teeth for a little while before stroking down over Connor's groin, cupping --

"I need to feel that -- more, I --" He cups Tim's face again, pushes into Tim's hair and pulls him into another kiss, harder this time. His eyes are closed, searching behind the lids. His mouth --

Tim thinks he could spend a significant amount of time enjoying Connor's mouth. It's not like any of the other mouths he's kissed, it's broader, softer -- perhaps not quite as welcoming as Tim's penis would have him believe, at the moment. Tim strokes Connor through his tights, trying to find the shape of him through the jock, trying to reach the *heat* --

"Tim. Oh --" Connor's panting, showing his teeth a little -- He covers Tim's working hand with his own and squeezes.

Tim stops and breathes -- breathes in *Connor* -- focus. Tim exhales. It sounds more like a pant. He stops. "Connor --"

"I know -- I know about you and Roy," he says, and --

Yes, that could explain some of the frowns, some of the distraction... what to say? 'Yes?' would be much too flip. 'It just happened,' would be weaseling. "I... wondered," Tim lies, as sincerely as possible.

Connor laughs -- he's doing his own panting. "Were you aware that Dick and Roy had originally planned to try to fix the two of us up?"

*That's* new. Tim starts to move his hand -- Connor stops him. All right. "I can honestly say that Dick never brought that up with me."

"When we talked... Roy thought he hadn't. He actually told me about this plan over a year ago. I believe he wanted to see the look on my face, I -- Tim."

"I'm listening," Tim says, and tries to bring more of his focus to *bear*. This is at least as important as his need to make Connor come for him, and -- focus, *focus* -- "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

Connor laughs again, and it's a little high-pitched. "*Shouldn't* it? No, oh, that's not an answer. Not a *true* answer -- Tim, you... the way he spoke about you..."

And he really should've guessed that 'I won't say anything about it' would, to Roy, actually mean, 'I won't say anything about it to anyone but *family*.' "Connor... I'm not sure what you want me to say."

"I think... when I thought about you, I imagined that the two of us had some of the same sorts of ideas about... this."

Sexuality. Well, take the gas away... "I used to be a lot more afraid," Tim says. "And then... Bruce seems to think I'm acting out of grief for my family. I don't know if he's right or wrong. I just know that everything I've done has felt *right*," and he tries to will Connor to see it in him, all of the things they can do, everything they can be and *have*.

"You're so *sure*, now."

Tim smiles. "Positive reinforcement helps, but... yes. But it's still all meaningless if it doesn't feel right to *you*," and he tugs against Connor's hold.

"No. I -- unless you want to, I mean -- Tim, working with you today... *being* with you..."

"All day. And I want as much of the night as I can *have*, Connor, but --"

Kiss, and this time Connor's fucking *his* mouth, stabbing in and holding on hard to Tim's face. He wants to focus, wants to --

He *wants* to want to focus, to do anything but cup Connor through his pants and squeeze, suck on his tongue and moan his own approval, his own need -- had Roy helped make this happen? Does he owe the man for the stroke of Connor's tongue and the needful press of his fingertips?

It's not something he's in any way capable of *minding* --

Connor bites him and Tim heats all over, wants -- and Connor pushes him back.

"Connor --"

Connor stands up and pushes his tights down, his jock -- and singularly fails to protest when Tim pulls him back down for another kiss. A little wetter, messier -- perfect when Connor pulls back to lick Tim's mouth, his cheek, his throat --

Oh, the *bite* marks. He hadn't even thought -- he's gotten so used to the feel of them on his skin, the way the uniform chafes them and the way open air makes them need to be chafed -- "*Connor*," Tim says, twisting, pulling -- and Connor's on top of him, moving against him --

He's naked from the waist up, Connor has his tights around his knees -- they're making something of a mess of this, and laughing about it makes Connor kiss him hard *directly* on one of the bite marks -- "Roy didn't do this," he whispers, pants against Tim's skin.

Are you sure about that? No -- "No," Tim says, and tries to convince his hands to leave Connor's skin for long enough to get his *own* tights down --

"I -- had to be *sure*. Of something, any *one* thing -- no, don't try to tell me you wouldn't mind stopping, Tim. Don't --" And Connor sucks his throat, thrusts against him --

"I won't anymore. I promise. I --" Tim laughs again and drags his nails over Connor's buttocks. "The hardship might kill me --"

Connor's laugh is absolutely a victory, something to drink right down with *this* kiss, with the way Connor is bracing himself over Tim and almost *pushing* into the kiss.

How could this be wrong? How could he ever keep this from himself, keep himself from *this*? Connor's skin is warm and smooth, nowhere near as scarred as his own, dark and sleek and beautiful -- he has to get his tights down. He pushes against Connor -- "Just a moment --"

And Connor goes with the roll, stroking all the way down Tim's back once he's flat on his own, pulling Tim close and kissing again, again. "Tim, you feel wonderful. You --"

"I need to feel you *more*," Tim says, and reaches down, trying to push his tights down, get his shorts to *cooperate*, at least a little -- Dick, he thinks, and feels himself flushing harder, feels himself getting clumsier by the second -- "Help, please --"

And Connor shoves his hands *into* the back of Tim's tights and squeezes him hard --

"Or that. That counts as help. That..." Tim pants and gives up, leaning in for another kiss and wriggling and pushing as purposefully as he can. He needs to get his hands back on Connor.

He needs to be naked. He needs an easier uniform to *deal* with -- there. Freedom, and Tim grins his way out of the kiss and braces himself on one hand.

Connor grins back and hauls Tim close, and the first brush of his penis against Connor's skin -- Tim can't grin, anymore. He hears himself hiss, whine -- He thrusts, meaning to do it just once, just enough to quiet the itch in his skin --

Connor grabs his buttocks and makes the motion longer, harder -- *more*. He's more than strong enough to *move* Tim this way, and he does just that. Just --

"Connor, I -- this won't last if you --"

"No, it *won't*," Connor says, and moves Tim into another thrust, and the drag of his penis against Connor's own, the slick heat, the *feel* --

Tim shakes and drops down to his elbow, turns his head enough to lick Connor's collarbone, cup his face with his free hand. No stubble, and barely any fuzz. It's just another wonderful place to *touch*, another way to feel Connor, take him for himself -- no. Not like that. Not --

Better to have Connor taking *him* a little, driving them both higher with archer's strength and a more fundamental sort of hunger. Tim rides it as much as he can and tries to keep his eyes open and on Connor's.

He's watching Tim, perhaps studying him for clues or cues -- or maybe just points of similarity. "I -- I feel you, Connor --"

"Tim. It's so --"

"Intense, yes, yeah, let me --" And Tim twists his hips until Connor loosens his grip -- and can't help moaning at the loss --

"*Tim*..."

Tim nods and closes his eyes, licks his lips and wants Connor in his mouth, enclosed in his fist and so hot, so needy like *he* is --

Never *alone*, Tim thinks, and adds a twisting grind to his thrusts, drives against Connor's penis unevenly until it stops being a tease and starts being just another perfect *thing*.

"Oh, I -- I've missed your *scent*, Connor, and the sound of your voice, the way you look at me --"

And those hands move on him, unfamiliar calluses dragging against bite marks until Tim can't keep himself from struggling a little, fighting until he's not sure if he's trying for less contact or more -- no, it's more. It's *always* more, now, and it's exactly like having someone new and better to be.

"I wish -- oh, you could know everything about me, Connor, everything real --"

And Connor *bucks* beneath him once, again -- he's shaking and squeezing Tim's buttocks again, moaning and guiding him again, demanding more of just *this* touch --

"*Yes*, show me, show me what you need --"

Connor gasps, moans -- shudders *hard*, and he's lost the rhythm. His hands are shaking on Tim's *hips* -- another moan and Connor closes his eyes, shakes his head against the duvet -- beautiful. Tim tries to catch the rhythm Connor was demanding before, but he can't --

He's moving *just* as badly, taking what he needs because he can't stop himself now --

"*Tim*," Connor says, and comes all over him, all over Tim's penis and abdomen. He's gasping and jerking, almost spasming -- Tim leans in and takes a kiss, doing his best to hold himself still until Connor can function again.

It's a broad kind of kiss, open and wet -- *hot*. Tim's shuddering every few seconds now, but he wants this *kiss*, that mouth so soft and generous against his own, and Connor's soft sounds making his own mouth feel full and almost stroked.

Tim pulls back enough to catch Connor's lower lip between his own, to press it between his own and wallow a little in the feel before doing the same with his upper lip --

Connor laughs and reaches up to cup Tim's shoulders, pushing a little -- Tim follows the push and tries to focus on not just driving against Connor like the horny teenager he is.

But... "Connor. How are you?"

"I..." Connor shivers. "Surprised. Less guilty than I imagined myself being. Very -- good.'

Tim smiles and pushes against Connor's abdomen a *little* bit. "Guilty?"

"You *are* a bit younger than I am, Tim," Connor says, and squeezes Tim's shoulders.

"If we eschew the sodomy, I'm entirely legal pretty much everywhere --"

"*Tim*," and Connor laughs, pushes under Tim's arms and wraps his own around Tim, holds Tim close enough that air *might* get to be a problem --

Though laughing like this would be the real cause of that, as well as making things move around *enough* that Tim's hips aren't listening to him anymore --

"Oh... Tim. I think I'd like -- I'd like to touch you, hold you in my hand --"

"We can -- that would be -- here," Tim says, and twists his upper body until Connor loosens his grip and Tim can straddle him, kneel up --

Connor sits up and kisses him again -- "This freedom --"

"*Yes*," Tim says, because that's exactly right, and because there really isn't much Connor could do, right now, which wouldn't make things better. Just -- the feel of Connor pushing his hands between them, gripping Tim and squeezing -- "Oh, God, your hands --"

"Yours are --" Connor pants, sighs -- "Tell me how you like this."

"Hard right now, and -- *oh* --" He hadn't forgotten how Arrow calluses feel, but his body had, or -- something like -- "So *strange* --"

"*This*?" And the surprise in Connor's voice comes through clear, demands explanation --

Tim can't really -- Tim shakes his head. "Your -- it's your hand, the power in it, where your -- your calluses -- please don't stop --"

"Oh, Tim. Now I think I might need to feel your hands on me --"

Tim opens his eyes and can't remember closing them, smiles -- "It can be -- arranged, just -- a little faster --"

"Will you... let me feel you moving your *hips*, Tim --"

He wants Tim to fuck his fist. He wants... Tim can *do* that, and laugh a little more while he does, look down between them --

Connor's big, dark hand and the blood-darkness of his own penis, pushing up through his fist, getting squeezed and leaking pre-come all over Connor's fingers --

Pushing and pulling back, *pushing* --

"Oh, Tim..."

And when Tim looks up, Connor is watching it, too -- no, *kiss*, and it feels so good to moan into Connor's mouth, let him hear and feel how perfect this is for Tim, how much he *wants*.

And then Connor is pushing and maneuvering with his other hand, brushing against Tim's thighs -- brief, hard pressure against one of Tim's bruises makes Tim moan again --

And *again*, because Connor has his sac in his hand, Connor is rolling it in his fingers, pressing so *gently* and fucking Tim's mouth with his tongue, squeezing Tim's penis --

It's possible Tim won't *stop* moaning, more than when Connor pulls back out of the kiss -- "I think I'd like to touch you everywhere, Tim. Feel this -- *have* this about you when you leave again --"

"Oh -- oh, please, Connor --"

"Yes, *please*," he says, and strokes Tim faster, licks his lips -- *bites* his lip, teeth sinking in against all that softness --

Tim squeezes his eyes shut and groans, falls into the knot tightening at the base of his spine, into the feel of himself surging groaning *needing* --

Connor, he thinks, and then there's nothing but the feel, the sound of his own cries fading under it, pushing him on --

Orgasm is a spreading flare, impossible power and raw *yes* --

Until he knows that he's shaking for it, that the slick heat around him is his own semen, that Connor is moaning, that *he's* panting and squeezing his eyes shut so tight that there are colors in the black --

Tim opens his eyes and fumbles between them until he has a grip on Connor's wrists. "Connor. Connor, I --"

"Sorry. I -- it's difficult to let *go*," he says, but he does it, and Tim lifts their hands to mouth level.

"I know the feeling," he says, and licks Connor's fingers. There's some guilt involved there, small and nagging -- he isn't doing a very good job. It's just that he keeps getting distracted by unfamiliar scars, and a little embarrassingly by the sight of his own hands against Connor's -- Batgirl.

Batgirl's skin -- *no*.

Tim shakes his head and laughs at himself quietly, getting semen on his cheek --

"Tim."

And that -- was a tone immensely difficult to ignore, even assuming he wanted to. Tim looks up and Connor is staring directly into his eyes. There's a warmth behind the green Tim kind of wants to live in, for a time, but there's an entirely separate *heat* -- "Connor," Tim says. "Tell me what you want."

"I was hoping that 'more' would be an acceptable answer," Connor says, freeing his hands from Tim's grip and -- licking them himself.

"Oh, it -- really is. And now I can't stop picturing you doing that after jerking yourself off..."

"In the monastery..." Connor's laugh is brief and a little hard with old embarrassment.

"I'm listening," Tim says, and moves off the bed to get the rest of his uniform *off*.

"Oh, that's --" Connor does the same, pulling -- finally -- his top off over his head, standing hipshot for a moment... his musculature is a fascinating blend of power and grace, different from everyone Tim has been with, unique and beautiful, penis rising in a curve --

Tim has his hands on Connor's waist before he can think about it, before Connor has the shirt fully off --

Connor smiles down at him and covers Tim's hands with his own, pushes them, urges them *back* --

Tim smiles back and cups Connor's buttocks, moving closer until Connor touches his face, rough fingertips gentle on the skin around his eyes -- his mask --

"You're shockingly naked without it. It can't possibly be the same for you, with me..."

Tim shakes his head. "Once I feel close to a person, the mask isn't... an impediment."

Connor nods. "It would almost have to be that way, for you... I think I was saying something?"

"About the monastery," Tim says, and moves close enough to feel the head of Connor's penis brushing and dragging against his skin.

"Ah, yes. You mustn't think the monks were ever harsh with me about my physical desires."

Harsh? No. But... Tim only nods.

"The thought of being touched, enjoyed on a purely physical level... sometimes the thoughts would almost *drive* me, pushing out every other thought or wish... I learned to resent them, a little," Connor says, and cups Tim's face.

"Resentment probably didn't help your spiritual path very much...?"

Connor's smile is sharp and a little old. "No. But it was a kind of control. And difficult to surrender."

Tim nods, and does it again just to feel Connor's palms against his skin. "I had... similar feelings toward my own sexuality. I was surrounded by all of these wonderful, brilliant, *driven* people, and I couldn't stop myself from noticing their physical beauty."

"And how did you reconcile things for yourself?"

Gas, gas, gas -- well, not *entirely*... "I gave up and just always made sure I had sufficient time to work off the day's frustrations and moments of breathtaking physical perfection. I'd always had an active fantasy life, and I just let it... run free," Tim says, and, "Bed?"

"Bed, yes," Connor says, but he's frowning as they settle themselves on their sides, facing each other. "You didn't feel you were taking something for yourself which didn't belong to you?"

"Yes and no," Tim says, stroking Connor's hip and just enjoying, for a moment, the scent of him in the bed and right *there*. "Dick was always there to tell me -- in one horrifyingly embarrassing way or another -- that everything I felt was natural, and even right. *Correct*, I mean."

"Hmm. Roy has... tried that. Kyle did, as well. Perhaps if they'd gotten to me younger," Connor says. "Let me kiss you again?"

"Happily," Tim says, and leans in. Connor has his arm wrapped around Tim's side, pressed up against his back, hand cupping the back of Tim's head. Connor's mouth will not stop feeling impossibly *lush* against his own -- or perhaps he means that *he* won't stop being a little stunned by it.

For a moment, Tim thinks a little about what Connor might have been like had he left the monastery when he was younger, and *what* his relationships with Roy and Kyle Rayner would've been like...

The images are attractive -- more than -- but then *Tim* wouldn't have gotten to have Connor the way he has, wouldn't have had those sweet -- and they were sweet -- moments with him and the knowledge of themselves as two people with much in common, if only internally...

Tim knows himself, and knows that he has become -- or perhaps has always been -- greedy enough that he's glad Connor *hadn't* had that. *This* might have still happened, but it wouldn't feel like this:

The two of them in a very hard bed, tangling their legs together and kissing themselves closer, kissing themselves messy and a little drunk with everything they can do with each other, *be* for each other.

"Connor... I'm glad for this. I'm really -- I want you to know that."

"I do. And I'm... glad doesn't feel like a large enough word, Tim. I..." And Connor kisses him again, rubs his leg between Tim's own -- pulls back and pulls Tim's head back by his hair.

"Oh -- I like that," Tim says, and Connor tightens his grip slightly --

"I must admit the feeling -- the look of it, too --"

"Gives you ideas...?" Tim smiles and tugs against Connor's grip once, twice -- mm. "Would you let me suck you?"

Connor sucks in a breath -- kisses Tim again, brief and hard, knocking their teeth together a little -- "I -- sorry, but I -- that --"

"We don't have to --"

"Don't *do* that, please," Connor says, letting go and rolling onto his back.

Tim follows. "*I'm* sorry, I just didn't think -- oh --"

Grace, yes, but the power is important, too, and impossible not to consider -- deeply -- once Connor hauls Tim over him by his obliques and kisses again, again --

Again, and the kisses get slower and longer, become part of the feel of their bodies together, moving together again, and Tim can absolutely do this, instead --

"Tim. You -- your mouth --"

"Not like yours," Tim says, and sucks Connor's lower lip until he closes his eyes again and strokes down to Tim's hips, squeezes and lifts them, squeezes and presses them against himself -- pulls back out of the kiss and pants.

"You want -- you want to suck me."

"Not if --" It's a very *unique* feeling to be glared at by Connor. Tim's going to have to remember that. "Yes, I do. I want to take you in my mouth, I want to lick you, taste you, feel you --"

Connor stops Tim with fingers on his mouth -- no, he's petting Tim's mouth, dragging Tim's lip away from his teeth and stroking the inside. Tim opens his mouth and Connor pushes two fingers in, pressing down against Tim's tongue --

Tim hums and lets Connor do what he wants, watching his pupils start to dilate again and rocking his hips a little. I *like* this, he wants to say, wants Connor to *see* on him --

"Tim. You... show me --"

And Tim closes his eyes and *sucks* Connor's fingers, pushes down until Connor's hand is splayed against his face and Tim can lick out and taste the salt between his fingers and suck harder.

"I want -- we can do this together. I -- can't we?"

Mutual fellatio... yes, absolutely. Tim drags his teeth lightly against Connor's fingers as he pulls off. "We just have to get on our sides, and --"

"*Let's*," Connor says, letting go --

It would probably be easier to get into position if Tim were to stop stroking, touching -- kissing the sparse scars, the places where Connor's skin is light and much too smooth --

"Tim --"

"Sorry, really, I --" Don't say 'force of habit.' Do *not* say -- Tim finishes turning and licks his way down Connor's abdomen, feeling the tickle of hair against his lips -- it's darker here, and there's a slight curl, and -- "I love the way you smell," Tim says, and gasps at the feel of Connor pushing his thighs apart.

Tim kicks one leg up and keeps it there, buries his face against Connor's mound and *breathes* -- moans at the feel of Connor stroking his thighs *hard*, either heedless of all the bite marks or deliberately giving them just what they need --

What *he* needs -- he can't wait. Tim wraps his hand around the base of Connor's penis --

"*Tim* --"

And, oh, he can hear that, *feel* that against his own penis, Connor's lips so soft against the head --

Tim takes Connor *in*, graceless and hungry. He would've done this in the Redbird if he'd had anything like the courage to push, to try, to *show* --

He wants to worship, a little, to make Connor aware of his own beauty as something other than the thing which makes too many people presume and assume -- oh.

Oh --

Connor's kissing him, over and over, lips working and pressing against the head, tongue sleek and slick, teasing --

Tim hums and squeezes hard, willing Connor to take the hint --

And that good, wonderful, *strange* hand is wrapped around him, squeezing him -- Tim hums again and feels it become a moan as Connor leaves a little pre-come on his tongue, paints it on --

Connor pushes with his hips -- stops kissing him. "Tim, I -- so *hot* --"

Tim moans a yes that means a dozen different things, including yes, *please* --

And the feel of Connor taking the head of Tim's penis into his mouth, the press of his lip against Tim's circumcision scar --

So perfect, and he wants to be perfect, too, wants to make this something Connor doesn't want to live without, *can't* live without -- he kisses his own fist and swallows back saliva and pre-come --

Connor gasps, breath cool against Tim's penis, maddening -- warmth again, heat and suction, the flutter and press of Connor's tongue --

His own against the underside of Connor's penis, and maybe they can synchronize a little more... Tim hums and squeezes again --

Connor squeezes hard and hums back, and that --

Tim's hips jerk without his permission, but Connor *thrusts*, pushing through Tim's fist and into his mouth --

Tim moans and Connor does, too, long and low, humming around him, and Tim cups Connor's sac --

Connor cups him and *squeezes*, and Tim's eyes want to roll back in his head, but a message is a message, and Tim squeezes back and pulls back to work his tongue into the slit --

Connor shakes and jerks, and it's Tim's turn for a slow thrust, for a moan that moves both of them, makes Connor stab at him with his tongue --

Makes Tim suck hard and work his head, up and down, and he doesn't mean for Connor to do the same, he just wants to --

To --

*Oh* --

And they're both moaning again, taking each other, and Tim can keep himself from thrusting, hold himself on that *edge*, but Connor has his rhythm now, moans continuous and hips working, *working* --

Yes, Tim thinks, and squeezes him again, sac and penis, before moving his hand and swallowing --

Connor pulls off and *shouts*, reaching down to clutch at Tim, tug his hair, pet him and shout again --

"*Tim*, I -- I can't --"

Tim swallows and swallows, spit and pre-come sliding down his chin. He can't stop --

"You're making me feel -- oh, Tim --"

He *won't* stop, and his own penis doesn't matter, nothing matters but the feel of this, the perfect slide of Connor's penis into his throat, the tight fullness --

"Oh, *please*," Connor says, and licks Tim roughly, using the flat of his tongue either because he wants to or because he wants to drive Tim *crazy* --

Either works. Anything works, anything -- he can't breathe and he can barely think, but there's something more right than anything else in doing this with Connor. Roy had showed him how, and --

Perhaps this is what it would feel like to have him here, even though he can't really imagine it. How *would* he feel seeing them do this, seeing Connor licking him and moaning, dragging the head of Tim's penis all over that soft mouth, that good *mouth* --

Tim works Connor's sac as best he can, tries not to forget -- anything. He wants all of this, and it almost isn't enough to have Connor in his throat, or --

No. It's his own pleasure distracting him. If he'd thought -- if he'd been able, or just better -- he would've remembered that he'd wanted this to be *just* for Connor, and the fact that he's getting close again --

Tim wants to groan for it the way Connor is, be able to do more than just *take* this, or --

No, this has to be just right. This -- Connor's hand in his hair and Connor's mouth on him, kissing him again, kissing him until he can't breathe --

No, that's -- oh, Connor *inside* him, and now the noises Tim's making sound helpless, lost --

*No*, that's Connor, because he's doing this just that well, just that *properly*, and Tim feels himself flushing all over, sweating and needing exactly what he's getting --

Connor sucks him hard and the world goes black, fuzzed and soft, warm --

Air loss, he's back, he -- he hadn't really *prepared* for this, but that's all right, that's --

Connor moans and it sounds like Tim's name --

Black and warm, perfect --

Better when he can feel the sweat running down his back, when he can feel Connor pulling his hair and sucking him, pressing his lips against Tim and still *moaning* --

Shouting around him, rhythmic as a beating from Batman --

Bruce, Tim thinks, and holds on, holds *on* --

And Connor thrusts *hard* and comes in Tim's throat, shaking them both through it and gasping --

Tim has to hold *on*, just for a little while longer, just to have this, hold it to himself -- he can't, and he lets Connor pull him off --

Connor spatters his cheek, his forehead. Tim licks his lips and gasps, deep whooping things --

Connor shudders, moans -- takes Tim back *inside*. And Tim has just enough of himself to register the pressure and heat --

The black takes him *hard*, feeling rolling through him and it's impossible to be sure it's pleasure, impossible to be sure of anything, at all -- Connor --

The *feel* --

And then he's only himself again, shaking and groaning -- he can hear Connor coughing. The first attempt to move goes exactly *nowhere*, and makes him shake more, besides.

The second is a little better, but it still feels like an hour of listening to Connor cough before Tim can get himself turned around and back up to him. "Connor..."

Connor shakes his head and coughs again, holding up a hand between them. Tim doesn't lick it. He *does* stroke Connor's chest and throat, and, eventually, the alarming darkness *under* Connor's skin starts to fade as he breathes.

"I really should've warned you --"

"That you were about to have an orgasm?" Connor laughs and coughs a little more. "I picked that *up*."

Tim laughs, too. "Well, all right, but still --"

"Next time I'll be a little more prepared," Connor says, and raises his eyebrows.

Mm. "I like the sound of that."

"I thought you might," and Connor strokes Tim's face -- and pulls his hand away sticky. "I don't suppose you have something in your belt...?"

"Heh. As a matter of fact..." Tim reaches over to the night table and pulls the wipes out of his belt. It's not the most thorough clean-up, and it's possible -- even probable -- that the kisses get in the way, a little, but it's effective enough.

And Connor falls back against the bed and blows out a breath. "I feel like I'm missing important parts of my mind -- *not* in a bad way."

Tim sits up against the headboard and works his jaw a little -- smiles. "I've come to enjoy that feeling."

"Mm. What was the word you used to describe my incredibly boring room?"

"Restful," Tim says, and draws idle patterns on Connor's shoulder.

"Yes, I think that's the right word for it. I..." Connor turns on his side and presses against Tim's thigh until Tim lays it flat against the bed, then squeezes. "I have to admit, the bite marks were a little... intimidating."

"I -- heh. I have to admit I'd forgotten all about them."

Connor raises his eyebrows again. "And where you acquired them?"

"Oh, I -- yes, I suppose that sounded *exactly* like that," Tim says, and scrubs a hand over his face. "No. Not that, Connor. I'm not... I don't think I could be that sort of... blithe."

"Hmm, no, you're right. 'Blithe' isn't a word that I could imagine applying to you unless you were somehow heavily drugged."

*About* that... Tim smiles and covers the hand Connor has on his thigh. "Sometimes I can be quite carefree."

"Oh, I'd never assert otherwise. Not now -- ah. Did you black out there, for a moment?"

Tim raises his other hand and pinches his fingers together.

Connor frowns. "Is that... usual?"

"Oh, I'd have to say it's extraordinary," Tim says, and watches his tone *affect* Connor -- watches Connor laugh.

"Tim, you are --"

The door bangs open --

"Jesus, Connor, I've been trying to raise you for twenty -- what the *hell* is this?"

Oliver Queen, in the doorway, bristling -- now that Tim considers it -- with weaponry.

Connor sits up. "Dad, I'm sorry about that, Robin and I were just --"

"I *know* what you were *just*," Queen says, and his nostrils actually flare. "This whole room *reeks* --"

"*Dad*, calm down --"

"*You*," and he points at Tim. "You get the hell out of my house, you fucking pervert!"

Interesting... Tim starts to move off the bed -- Connor stops him with a hand around his bicep.

"*No*, Dad, and watch your *mouth*. Tim and I are --"

"Oh, I'm supposed to relax because the little freak let you know his name? What the hell were you *thinking*?"

"I was *thinking* that I'm an adult and can make my own choices --"

"Connor," Queen starts -- stops and glares at Tim. "Why are you still *here*, kid?"

Tim glances at Connor's hand on his arm and then raises his eyebrow.

Queen *growls*. "So help me, if you give me *one* excuse --"

"You won't do a *thing*," Connor says, letting go and moving between Tim and his father. He's very, very naked and -- yes.

Queen backs off. "Listen to me, Connor, I'm not -- there's nothing wrong with your... your lifestyle --"

"No, there *isn't*," Connor says, and advances a step. "Nor is there anything wrong with Tim, or with the fact that we made love."

"I -- Jesus fucking *Christ*, son, did it have to be with *him*? And why the hell weren't you on *patrol*?"

"I'm sorry about leaving patrol. I am -- but you really need to start coping with this *quickly*."

Tim stands up and Queen glares past Connor at him -- Connor sidesteps.

"Look at *me*, Dad --"

"Then put some clothes on, and --" Queen growls again and balls his hands into fists. "There's news about the bombing. Get dressed and come downstairs *now*," Queen says, and --

He doesn't quite *stomp* out the door, nor does he slam it, but the potential is there, presumably waiting for Tim to give him an excuse.

"Damn," Connor says, quiet and rough -- Tim reaches up to cup his shoulder.

"I'm sorry about that --"

"No, Tim, *I'm* sorry. I never thought he'd react quite that *badly*, considering all the times he's hinted and coaxed and tried to *goad* me into finding some woman --"

"Some *woman* may be the operative term," Tim says, and lets go --

"He's not a *homophobe*, Tim. I mean, he's always been very open-minded about different things --"

"You're his son," and Tim starts getting dressed. "Some people can have... double standards."

And the way Connor looks at him, bleak and a little hurt --

Tim winces. "Ignore that, I'm sorry --"

Connor waves him off. "No, I know what you're saying. I really do. I..." Connor reaches for his top. "He has a point about me missing patrol."

"I -- you took your comm out?"

"You left yours *in*?" Connor looks both incredulous and a little offended --

Tim raises his hands. "That's the kind of habit that's bred in the bone in Gotham, Connor," Tim says. "Sometimes I sleep with it in."

Connor shakes his head. "I suppose I can understand," he says, and pulls his top back on. And smiles at Tim from over his shoulder. "I would've been a little offended if you'd stopped to take a call, though."

Connor's fingers on his palm-top... heh. "Noted," Tim says, and smiles back.

They finish getting dressed and head downstairs -- Connor decidedly leading the way. They find Queen in the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee. He looks calmer --

"I've already called your boss back in Gotham about this, kid," he says, and -- well, yes, that *was* calmer... but.

Tim raises an eyebrow behind the mask --

"*Hell*, Dad, why would you even *do* that?"

To his credit, Queen looks a little chagrined. "Connor, I'm only looking out for your interests --"

"My *interests* are my business," he says, and glances at Tim --

And Tim supposes that counts as warning enough. Connor pulls him in for a kiss, hard and obvious and with a great deal of tongue. Tim hums into it and puts a hand on Connor's shoulder --

"*Jesus*, Connor --"

Connor wraps an arm around Tim's waist and kisses him even harder for a moment before pulling back. Tim resists the urge to lick his lips. Connor doesn't. "Tim is my *friend*, Dad, and you will *treat* him that way."

That may be asking a little much, at the moment -- "Connor, it's all right --"

"No, it *isn't* --"

"*You* don't get to talk --"

"Dad, I swear if you say one more word, I will walk out of this house *with* Tim."

Queen's expression looks a lot like Tim feels. He didn't come here to break up a *family*. Tim rests his hand on Connor's forearm brace and Connor looks at him and smiles. It's a very tight thing with a lot of anger behind it, and it makes Tim think of Dick for reasons he's not sure about -- focus. "Connor," Tim says, "it's probably better if --"

"I'm sorry," Queen says, abruptly and with a lot more actual sincerity than Tim would've guessed possible.

They both turn to look at him, and Queen glares at Tim -- stops. And punches the cabinet behind him. Tim winces internally at the sound of the crack and wonders how well he'd *survive* trying to break up a fight between Connor and his father --

Connor shifts on his feet and balls his *own* hands into fists. "You're sorry?"

"*Yes*, dammit, I'm sorry. I acted like a jerk. I *am* acting like a jerk. It's your life and you can... be friends with whoever you want to be friends with." And he glares at Tim again.

Tim folds his hands under his cape and waits, hopes --

Connor's laugh doesn't have much humor in it, but it *is* a laugh. "Apologize to *Tim*."

It's quiet enough in the kitchen that Tim can hear Queen gritting his *teeth* -- "Connor --"

"*Do* it."

"I'm sorry I called you a freak and a pervert," he says, and the *complete* lack of sincerity is absolutely a relief. Tim was starting to worry about dangerous mood swings.

Tim nods. "I accept your apology." Please don't drive your son into trying to elope with me, because I don't think it would work out very well for anyone concerned.

Connor frowns. "I'm really not sure you should --"

Tim raises a hand. "But we all have jobs to do, and, ultimately, I don't need to be your *father's* friend."

Connor blinks -- smiles. "Robin. All right," he says, and turns back to Queen. "You said there was news?"

"The staties down in Oakland picked Jameson trying to smuggle a bomb into a county meta-jail. He'd shaved his head and plastered on a fake mustache. It looks like it's over," he says, and turns to look at Tim again. This time, the glare looks reflexive. "Your team-mates are heading to the airport. I was supposed to have Connor take you there --"

"I'll do it right now," Connor says.

Another ride on the bike sounds wonderful -- especially the part where he gets out of this house and away from the man who's starting to look like several different varieties of painful murder again -- but. "Was there any word on Watts?"

Queen sighs and looks down at the floor for a moment. "She didn't make it. It looks like Jameson took her out in his motel room before trying for that other bombing.

Damn. Tim nods --

"Dad, did anyone contact William Carter? She was his girlfriend, and he shouldn't find out from the news."

"Heh. I guess the two of you *would* have missed that: it's already all *over* the news, Connor. Carter found out the hard way."

Connor frowns. "I see. I... I think I'll go see him tomorrow night," he says, and reaches to cup Tim's shoulder. "We should go."

Tim nods, and tries to come up with something not guaranteed to start a war -- or make it worse -- to say...

He's got nothing.

"I'll be back in an hour or so, Dad," Connor says.

"I'll be here," and Queen turns his focus on the coffee machine, sparing himself *and* Tim.

Gracious of him, really.

The ride is a quiet one, the streets beginning to empty. After everything they've done, riding like this feels both fraught with potential and like the post-sex cuddling they'd mostly missed. He thinks -- he's reasonably sure -- Connor feels the same.

Once at the airport, security waves them right onto the tarmac, and... really, Tim can absolutely understand some of the issues Homeland Security has with vigilantes, despite the help they all offer. They are -- all of them -- a kind of chaos which can't be banked or contained in any way, lest they lose their effectiveness in dealing with the things civilian agencies can't.

Connor pulls up to the jet and parks, pulling off his helmet. Tim hands Connor his own and, "Farewell...?"

Connor smiles and ducks his head for a moment. "Yes. Fare well," he says, emphasizing the difference.

"I don't suppose you're planning a trip out east anytime soon...?"

"Well... Roy *is* always inviting me to spend a little time with him and the Outsiders..."

Tim smiles. "Go with that thought. It's only a two hour drive from Gotham to New York. Less, sometimes."

Connor nods. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Connor."

"Tim," Connor says, and puts his helmet back on -- flips the visor up. "I can understand your not wanting to give me a goodbye kiss with your team looking on through the windows of the plane," and Connor nods up toward the jet, "but now I believe that you owe me."

Heh -- and mm. "I always pay my debts."

"Good," Connor says, and flips the visor back down. Tim watches him drive off, then jogs up the steps.

Starfire, Speedy, and Kon are waiting for him inside --

"Dude, I could've flown back to the Tower myself by now. What took you?"

Well... "GA II missed GA I's messages," Tim says, entirely truthfully, and moves up to take the co-pilot's seat.

"Yeah, but what were you *doing*?"

"Yeah, Tim," Speedy says, and leans out into the aisle. "What *were* you doing with GA II?"

"Well..."

Starfire, for her part, is looking at him very, very knowingly. When she flares her nostrils, she doesn't look a thing like Oliver Queen.

"Seriously, dude --"

"Well, we went on patrol while the rest of you were at the Jameson residence. Then we had dinner together -- I believe you know the diner, Mia...?"

"Ew. He took you *there*? I thought he liked you."

"Mariel was quite friendly," Tim says, and straps himself in. "And GA II and I had a very nice conversation."

Starfire laughs beside him, softly enough that the others -- probably -- can't hear her doing it.

*

The first thing Tim does upon getting back to the Tower is head for the showers, especially since Kon seems intent in staying close. He doesn't really know how good Kon's senses are, and now doesn't seem like a good time to test it. He gets the distinct feeling that Kon would probably be upset with Tim about his having sex with Connor -- and would be upset on *Bart's* behalf.

In the end, they wind up showering side by side, which is never less than pleasant -- especially when Kon uses his powers to wrap Tim in a shining ball of water. There's enough oxygen -- and Kon popping the bubble sluices him nicely.

"See, I deserve points for that one. That was freakin' *pretty*."

"Yes, Kon, it was. And I hereby award you... nine points," Tim says, and grabs his shampoo.

"Just nine? C'mon --"

"The sphere was a little uneven near my calves."

Kon sighs and makes Tim's shower split into three distinct streams, none of which actually hit him. "Too many minerals in the water," he says, and -- looks a little furtively at Tim.

"Yes?"

"So -- um. Bart talked to me about what you and him did last night."

Tim nods. "I figured he would."

"You kinda rocked his little world, man. I don't know whether to congratulate you or keep looking at you funny."

Tim sluices his hair and looks at him. "You seemed... calmer about it earlier."

Kon soaps his chest and arms. "I *was*. I *am*. It's just that now that we're all here again... are you planning to do it again, tonight?"

And is Bart being very, very still just beyond Tim's peripheral vision? "Depends on what he wants. I'm a little tired, but... it was good with Bart."

Kon laughs. "It fucking *better* have been, you pervert. Jesus, I can't believe you fucking *rimmed* him on the first date."

"First date. I've known him for *years*, Kon --"

"That doesn't count and you know it, Wonder Boy."

Wonder Boy. Kon really only calls him that when he's at least a little bit agitated, and... he's not looking at Tim, anymore. "Kon."

"I'm fine, dude. I really am --"

"He's lying he's worried that you're changing too much and he's worried about the fact that it turned him on when I told him everything we did," Bart says, and is almost certainly moving between the drops of shower spray.

"Noted," Tim says, and turns off the water -- and gets an armful of Bart. It's a hug, rather than a kiss -- Bart is crouching a little -- and it's hard and hot and really kind of wonderful. Tim shakes the excess water off his hand and strokes Bart's hair.

"Dude. I wasn't *that* turned on."

"I believe you," Tim says, and keeps looking down until Bart pulls back and looks up. "Hi, Bart."

"Um hi. And you really shouldn't believe him," Bart says, and stands straight. He's vibrating fast enough that the water is steaming and misting off of him, and his eyes are wide.

"Oh?"

"Oh, dude, guys, come *on*," Kon says, and turns his own spray on them both --

"Hey, I'm *dressed*," Bart says, and zips away -- doesn't come back immediately.

Tim turns to Kon and crosses his arms. "I want us to be okay."

Kon sighs. "We're okay, man. We *have* to be okay --"

"I want us to be okay because we're *okay*, not because we have to be, Kon --"

"No, I know -- I just meant that I can't ever imagine *not* being okay with you. Sometimes I still feel a little messed up about that one big fight we had back in YJ."

Tim nods. "It was pretty bad."

"And I just... it's *weird* that you're doing Bart now, and that there are apparently other *people* -- yes, he told me that, too -- but the weirdest thing about it is that you're still you, so... I don't know," Kon says, and turns off the water. "So we're okay."

Tim smiles. "Good. Do you think there's pizza?"

"I *think* you need to eat another dozen of those pancakes Bart made for you."

"Mm, carbo-loading. I suppose I could make another attempt to 'fill out.'"

"Dude," Kon says, and grabs two towels. "*We've* all accepted the fact that you're going to be approximately eight inches tall and three pounds for the rest of your life. It's time for you to come to *terms*."

Tim catches the towel Kon tosses and starts drying off. "Three pounds of 'whup-ass,' Kon. Get it straight."

"Heh. So that was kinda like detective work we were doing today, hunh?"

"To a large extent. The leg-work is almost always what solves the case."

"Hunh, yeah. Most of the time when I think of you fighting crime, you're *fighting*."

"Some nights that's all there's time for, unless there's a really big case that makes it necessary to ignore everything else going on," Tim says, and wonders if he wants to get suited up again. It's late, but not especially late for the Tower -- especially on a Saturday when everyone knows that most everyone will be leaving sometime the next afternoon.

Recreation is a possibility. Movies, popcorn -- pancakes. Kon, still watching him kind of closely.

"Kon...?"

"The two of us, man," Kon says, moving into Tim's space and generally being big, warm, naked, and tempting. Cassie has either not changed her mind about things or -- and it's possible -- has chosen to keep her own counsel for a time.

A dim, boring part of Tim suggests drawing himself up, raising an eyebrow, and generally being as cold as possible. Drawing *lines*. Heh. Tim smiles, instead. "Yes. The two of us."

Kon's answering smile is bright. Warm and happy. "Rock," he says, and punches Tim's shoulder before leaning in.

Tim swings back into the kiss -- and rolls his towel and tosses it around Kon's neck. Kon's laugh makes the kiss miss its target, a little, but there's nothing to say that Tim can't kiss the corner of Kon's mouth, map its shape and know its growing hardness with his own.

Kon cups his hips and turns into it, licking Tim's tongue into his own mouth and humming a pleasure which seems entirely uncomplicated. This is what he wants, and what he wants from *Tim*, and perhaps...

Perhaps, back when they were only Robin and SB, Kon had imagined something like the way Tim's life looks *now*, the way Kon's life has -- more or less -- always looked. Friendship, warmth, and the ability to relax in the arms of whatever loved one happened to be nearby. Nothing in Kon's life has ever taught him to try for otherwise, or even to entertain the possibility that another way of doing things would be better.

Loss is *always* possible -- more than. Building memories against the bad times is the only sane response, and so this --

The smell of the faintly musky soap Cassie had picked for Kon, cool tile beneath Tim's feet and droplets of water running down his back, Kon's hot mouth and expert lips, Kon's mobile tongue and Kon's big, smooth hands on his hips --

This good, good thing is only natural, and perhaps even better when Kon pulls back and smiles into his eyes. And uses his power to take the towel Tim had wrapped around his neck and slap Tim's buttocks.

"Really, Kon. Spankings aren't until at *least* the third date."

"Uh."

Tim pats Kon's cheek, retrieves the towel, and finishes drying himself off. Kon's still looking at him, but it's the kind of wary Tim honestly can't help loving to see... "Yes, I really did say that out loud."

"Just checking."

Tim does, in fact, eat another couple of pancakes in the kitchen -- mainly because Cyborg is there, and Tim can't help wondering how long it's been since the man had been able to eat them. They talk idly about Dick, and the differences between Outsiders and Titans while the others take pizzas into the rec room.

Cyborg doesn't ask about Jason very, very loudly, and Tim finds himself thinking about rumors and secrets, and how the latter can only stand up to the former with the help of many disparate individuals choosing to let it do so. In that way, Gotham seems hardly part of the wider world, at all, and Tim can understand why Dick had always been so eager to see Tim on a team, and always so conflicted about his own involvement in them.

Tim finds himself feeling an odd and uncomfortable mix of homesickness and embarrassment, as if Batman -- or, more accurately, the Robin who belongs to the Bat -- was a sickly and cantankerous relative better left in seclusion.

It isn't the first time he's had that feeling -- or something like it -- but it's the first time it has been so clear...

And Tim realizes that he's been erasing all of his lines, thoroughly and diligently, and that if he's not careful he won't know which side he belongs on. And if 'sides' are even appropriate, anymore... no.

He's still going to go home, and he's still going to have to be the person Gotham needs him to be. There's no margin for error, but that doesn't mean there's no margin, at all. There's freedom there, too. He's already discovered that -- already *proved* that, on and off the streets. The problem -- if it can be considered a problem -- is that there's a lot more freedom with the Titans, as well as several wholly new and different definitions of the term.

Part of it is the safety inherent to being one among many, but only part. The rest is *this* sort of thing -- quiet companionship with an experienced veteran of the war they're all fighting, and the tacit assumption that of course Tim would be this relaxed, this *disarmed*, even though the Tower is hardly an impenetrable fortress, and even though the secrets-which-really-aren't hold dozens of lives in the balance, and the future of communities all over the country. The world --

"You okay over there, Tim?"

Cyborg. One eye faintly glowing red, the other dark and warm and full of concern.

More of it when he reaches across the table and very carefully covers Tim's hand with one of his own. As always, the chill of the metal feels like a lie.

Tim smiles, ruefully. "Just thinking about home."

"You know... Dick always said he thought he needed an adjustment period between being Robin in Gotham and being Robin with *us*," he says, and raises his eyebrow. "Were those the kind of thoughts in your head?"

Experienced, yes. "I spent months being barely a part of this team. I think I've had my adjustment period, Victor."

"Sometimes I need to recharge my systems. I'm not saying you're a walking computer, but... you could do worse than thinking about us as your living battery."

"You're more than that -- and you should take that in every possible way."

Cyborg's laugh is low and echoes, a little, with a tinge of inhuman sharpness. "Don't turn this around on me, now, boy. I've been around the block a few too many times for *that*."

Mm. Tim taps his fork on the table -- stops. "All right," he says, and meets Cyborg's eye. "I have to be a different person at home, and that does and doesn't have to do with... levels of intimacy."

"Your new consuming interest."

Tim nods. "I've been -- spectacularly -- off my guard this weekend, and I've found that I like it. That's not possible at home." Except with Steph, of course --

Not 'of course.' Not any longer -- no, she'd just said she wanted to *talk* --

Tim frowns and shakes his head. "The best course of action would be to continue doing just what I've been doing, with a mind to using it to clear the internal decks for the week ahead."

Cyborg inclines his head. "That's about the size of my advice."

"I'm not sure I'm clearing any decks," Tim says, and gets himself more juice from the refrigerator.

Faint clanks as Cyborg shifts, the creak of his chair... "You're wondering if you're just making your life more complicated than it already is."

And that -- hm. Tim turns the thought over in his mind, over and over. For most of his tenure as Robin, 'complicated' had been something of an understatement. He'd had to lie to nearly everyone in his life, and had started to do it reflexively even when it wasn't strictly necessary -- staying in the habit. Keeping himself in the game.

With the loss of his father, with becoming a Titan in truth as opposed to only name... yes, there had been a great deal of simplification. The good kind as well as the sort that makes Tim feel very -- cold. Is it possible that he's looking for something like the same feeling? The sense of moving through a very narrow and dangerous world, constrained on as many sides as possible?

How many *lies* has he told lately? How many truths has he conveniently failed to mention? And what happens when it all starts falling down around him? No. Alfred, Steph... it already has. Tim finishes his juice and smiles ruefully at Cyborg again. "I'm definitely making my life more complicated. Now I just have to figure out if I like it that way."

"Mm-*hm*. Keep us posted on that, Tim."

Tim tucks his dishes into the washer and nods. "Will do."

Meditation doesn't feel...

He can't quite get in the right headspace. He would've thought it would be easier, now, but somehow the feeling of peace and acceptance keeps slipping away from him. It's not that he feels particularly *tense*... though he supposes it's possible that some small and otherwise quiet part of him is still trying to come up with a painless solution to the Ivy problem.

He tries thinking about it, imagining the almost inevitable fire, the children who would almost certainly be crying as he led them out. TV cameras and happy families, triumphant families, smug and broken families... the harried social workers ready to take custody of the children with no families at all. The loss of Ivy's good opinion, which hurts more than it ought.

He thinks about it and realizes that he's already made his decision, and that it was the only decision which *could* be made, no matter what he thinks -- knows -- is right... for some of the children.

He doesn't feel any more capable of meditation. He doesn't...

Right now, he should be calling Steph. He could talk to her about nearly all of this, even though they've tacitly agreed that they wouldn't do anything of the kind. She would be there for him, and almost certainly find a way to make him feel reconciled within himself, if not, precisely, better.

The truth is that he *could* call her, that she *would* be there for him, for this. It's just that it would be unfair to both of them. There simply haven't been many times when she's used her right as his girlfriend to demand to see him in person, and so it really is just that important that he not take advantage of his own drama.

And there are other people he could call, other people he could talk to and share everything with. Some of them are here, all of them are within reach of a call. With one, all he would have to do is call his name -- and choose to ignore the complications that would engender.

He catches himself opening his mouth to do it anyway, touching his tongue to his palate to make the voiceless velar plosive... would he hear if he only said it with breath?

Dick is smiling in his mind, and offers 'Well, is he paying *attention*?'

A good question in and of itself -- and something for another time.

Tim steps off the bed, strips down to his briefs, and focuses on his katas. It's another sort of meditation, dependent on nothing more than his training and skill.

After a while, Bart zips in with two very large slices of pizza on a plate. He watches Tim for long enough that Tim can register the act -- how long, subjectively? -- and then places the plate on Tim's night table before leaving again --

Coming back and settling on the floor, just beyond the range of Tim's kicks. He sits tailor-style, elbows on his knees and chin on his fists, tracking Tim silently.

All right.

Tim speeds up, entering a different level of the false meditation and staying there until his lungs are burning and his muscles are starting to complain. In truth, Bart has the sort of speed that he could've left and returned hundreds of times in the time it takes Tim to wear himself down, but Tim doesn't think he has.

The focus is pure Kid Flash, the -- relatively, now -- new patience its own sort of goad and strain. How long before Bart *has* to move?

It's a game of chicken Tim neither wants nor needs to play right now, and so, when he stops, he offers Bart his hand. Bart takes it with a smile, and uses it to pull himself up and close.

It may or may not be imagination that he's even more taller than Tim than he was yesterday -- Bart cups his face.

"Yes, Bart?"

Tim manages to count seventeen individual kisses before they're too fast and his lips buzzing too much for him to parse them.

Tim closes his eyes and widens his mouth against the soft assault --

"Oh -- *yes* --"

And now it's only one kiss, wet and noticeably slower, though still a little too fast to do anything more than get his -- heh -- licks in, when he can. It doesn't have to be. Tim pushes one hand into Bart's hair and makes a fist --

Bart moans, knees knocking against Tim's thighs and body slumping hot and hard before he's standing on his own again, and -- the kiss is nearly at human speed now, and Bart's tongue is a very particular brand of soothing on Tim's lips.

Tim turns his head and licks Bart's cheek, and tightens his grip on Bart's hair when he tries to get Tim's mouth back.

"No?"

"Not right now --"

"Oh, should I go? I mean I know I didn't ask if you were in the mood and I know I'm probably in the mood a lot more than you are. And -- sorry?"

Tim shakes his head. "Nothing to apologize for. Come to bed with me. There's something... there's something I want to talk to you about," and when he lets go of Bart's hair --

Bart's in the bed, under the covers, and, judging by the trail of clothes on the floor, naked. Tim smiles and strips off his shorts before crawling onto the bed. He doesn't want to be beneath the covers, yet --

Bart is on top of the covers with him, and lying flat on his back with his arms at his sides, his penis rising, and his eyebrows up...

Tim laughs, settles on his side, and strokes down the bridge of Bart's nose. "I did say 'talk.'"

"You seem to like me in this position. And I've been thinking about you all day. And -- I've been thinking about you all day."

"Flattering," Tim says, and cups Bart's cheek. "Can you focus, right now?"

"I'm focused! I can focus and wow you really do want to say something important to me I can tell because you're frowning even though you're smiling. Not many people can manage that as well as you do -- you love me."

"I do."

"What's more important than *that*?"

"I -- that's a very good question, actually, Bart."

"This is what I'm saying! I want -- I want you to be right here, with me, for as long as you can and I'll do anything to make that happen and I know you know that, already, you have to know that already because you're *you* --" Bart takes a breath -- no, he pants, fast and high. "Tim. Tim."

"I'm listening."

"You have a life in Gotham and I can't be a part of that even though I would, even though I want to -- you know I want to."

Tim nods.

"But we're *here*, now, and I stayed away and I didn't complain about not getting to go up to Star City with you because Mia said you *asked* to go and that means there was something -- someone? -- something you wanted there -- we're *here* now, Tim, and everything else is okay. It has to be okay."

And there's a lot he could say -- Bart should have more than that, he could ask -- no, he already knows Bart wants more than that, from him, and he already knows he can't give it. And so does Bart. Tim shakes his head --

"Tim, no, it's *okay* --"

"You need to stop... I don't want you rearranging your life for me, Bart. We can *have* this, and --"

"And I can do things for you if I *want*. I'm not trying to make you fall in love with me or anything. I'm *not*. I don't even know if I'm in love with you, but I know I feel good when you're with me, when you stop looking at me like I'm a case you have to solve and start looking at me like I'm something you want. Something you you you -- you *need* --"

"I do need you, Bart. There's no one like you --"

"And so maybe there's no one like all the other people, too. I get that. Maybe I'll make Kon see -- maybe --" Bart sits up, makes a face, and then gets up on his knees. "I kind of hate that position."

"I -- that's fair --"

"Except when you make me love it, and maybe you can start now?"

Tim breathes and reaches up -- Bart catches his hand and presses it against his chest --

"I know you probably can't tell, but my heart's beating really fast and some of it's fear of what you wanted to say and what you maybe still want to say, but --"

"Bart."

"Tim, you *love* me, and I guess I always knew you cared, but it's different now because I know what it *feels* like --"

Easy -- too -- to drop Bart to the bed, right back down to the position he hates, right back to a place where Tim can make him love --

"Oh please --"

Tim pushes Bart's chin up and to the side and kisses his throat, bites it hard to hear the sound -- he gets a gasp and something like a croon, and something loosens inside Tim, something he hadn't realized was *clenched*. He sucks Bart there, cooling the fever-hot skin with his tongue and his breath, and slides his hand down Bart's chest to his erection.

Impossibly hot in his hand, and Tim wishes his palm was more sensitive, more capable of feeling scalded by that heat. He pulls back and watches the mark he'd left bruise, watches it yellow and fade and shrink all while he holds Bart down with his body and the touch on his penis which must be too light.

"Bart, is there anything in particular that you want?"

"Oh -- I want you to fuck me," he says -- his eyes are closed.

His eyes are *closed*, and that's something to hold onto, some little thing to hang his *sanity* on, because he's hard now and getting harder. It's what *he* wants, but --

"Tim?"

His eyes are open again, and one of them is a little too naked. Right? Tim tightens his hand around Bart -- "Say it again." That's not what he was going to say. Surely he had something --

"I want you to fuck me, Tim, I want to feel you -- I tried earlier with my fingers, and then I went out and bought a toy -- it took a really long time because they kept kicking me out of stores and I thought about doing it as Kid Flash but that wouldn't really work --"

The laugh feels like it punches him on its way out. "How did it go with the toy?"

"Um. Mostly it felt like I was shoving cold hard plastic up my ass, but after a while it got kind of nice, especially once I started thinking about you and maybe Kon -- *ohh* oh Tim oh -- your hand I think I want you to put the gauntlet on --"

"It's cold and very slick," Tim says and speeds his hand --

"Your *old* gauntlet, the one that was all rough and heavy and oh oh Tim, Tim, I don't want you to, not that, please don't --"

Tim forces himself to stop. "What *do* you want?" That came out too harshly, much too -- "Bart," Tim says, and breathes. "Would you like me to find one of my old gauntlets?"

"I -- I know where you keep them but they're all locked up and it would take you too *long*, oh Tim just -- do something, do anything, I didn't really mean to stop you --"

"Yes, you did. I'm not going to do anything you don't --"

"*Please*, Tim, I'm too close now --"

Tim kisses Bart hard and squeezes, tight around the base --

"Please please please --"

And moves, shifting until he can get Bart in his mouth --

Bart screams and *bucks*, and Tim has just enough time to pull off before he can do more than graze his mouth with his fist -- "Sorry, sorry, oh God please do that again I'll be still I promise --"

Still, Tim thinks, would be asking a little much, right now, but Tim can handle the vibration so long as he doesn't do anything more complicated than holding on tightly with his lips and pressing hard with his tongue and swallowing constantly because -- There. Bart's punching the bed and shaking even harder, spurting into Tim's mouth and making Tim want to cough -- not need. He tastes saltier than he had yesterday, and Tim wonders if it will be different every time --

"Ow God yes no -- oh Tim, you feel so *good* --"

Perhaps, someday, he'll be able to time himself well enough to avoid irritating Bart when he's oversensitive. For now, he'll take the transition for what it is. Bart's only shaking a little now, and so it's safe to work his head for this a little, take him *in* -- though Tim can't imagine it ever being safe enough to let Bart fuck his mouth.

"Ohh I'm not complaining I'm really not complaining but I want -- I want --"

Tim pulls off. "Lube my fingers."

Bart pants and grabs his sac, forearm flexing with effort -- he's gone -- he's back, with ten different bottles and tubes of lubricant. "Which one?"

Tim considers the medical grade -- which has been his close, personal friend and assistant to a hundred different fantasies over the years, enough that the sight of the tube makes him harder --

He wonders what, exactly, Clark had used on *him*, and what Bruce would use --

"Which do you prefer, Bart? Your choice."

"Um. Um. Um --"

And Tim's hand is slick with *something*. A part of him feels he ought to be able to tell by the feel. Another part is smiling smugly and murmuring something about giving him time. The rest is already letting his fingers slip and slide in Bart's cleft, already watching Bart wriggle and *twist*.

"Could you -- I mean -- your mouth, too?"

"A moment," Tim says, and makes himself take a moment to really *feel* Bart's hole, the pucker of it, the terrifyingly small *size*... is Bart strong enough to hurt Tim by accident?

What if he hurts *Bart*? Of course Bart has thought about this in *depth* -- subjective time would offer no less -- and taken a great deal of initiative. Of course he'll heal quickly from any mistake Tim makes. Of course --

"Bart -- tell me you're sure," he says, and his voice is too harsh again. He wants this too *much*.

"Tim *please* --"

"You won't stretch. You heal too fast for that. This is just me lubricating you inside. It will always be --"

"Like the tattoo, I know, and it'll hurt, but once you're inside me my body will just have to take it, and I won't --" Bart sits up on his elbows and bites his lip. "We can try, right?"

And Tim's nodding before thought has a chance to kick in again, assuming it even will -- in. Just one finger and Bart shakes, drums his feet. "You're hot inside. Hotter here than your mouth --"

"You like it. You like it and you want to feel it on your dick, I know you do, your face always changes a little when you're close enough to feel me, now, and -- oh, I want to feel so good for you, Tim, I love you --"

"Shh, I know, I --" Tim twists his finger and Bart arches up -- into the touch. He's clawing at the duvet and working his hips -- "Easy. Easy, I just need to get you --"

"Your finger is different from the toy I mean it's still cool but it's not cold and it's you and it's *different*, you're *in* me --"

"Hold still. Let's try to... I need you *relaxed*," Tim says --

And Bart drops back down to the bed, whines -- pants, again and vibrates when Tim wraps his other hand around his penis. Tim twists his finger and searches -- Bart shakes the bed and cries out loud, louder when Tim squeezes and strokes.

He's not even moving his finger, but Bart's clenching around him, doing it faster -- "Bart, please --"

"I'm sorry I *know* I --"

Bart comes wailing, numbing Tim's hand with the vibration. Tim lets go and Bart wails again, shudders hard --

Stills and clenches *hard* around Tim's finger. "Okay. Okay -- um. Let's try this again -- oh Tim oh Tim --"

The safest possible time to get his mouth around Bart again, to actually start thrusting with his finger and try to convince his own penis that it's *better* that he's waiting, that he's not just shoving himself in, burying himself *deep* --

Tim moans and swallows around Bart. Just once. Just -- he needs --

And he needs the sound of Bart keening for it, the feel of the vibration in his *throat*. This is something he can focus on, something to pull his mind away from the feel of all that heat, the knowledge that it's for *him* -- or Kon, he'd said.

Tim imagines it and promptly gets a little lost. Kon's hands would seem even bigger on Bart, and Kon could hold him *still*, go as slowly as he wished -- to have Kon here for *this* would be --

"Pull off pull off pull off I can't --"

Tim yanks himself back and watches Bart thrust into the air, powerful motions from a lean and powerful body. His finger slips out --

"No *please* --"

Tim wraps his arm around one of Bart's thighs and holds it hard against him, tracking the motions of Bart's hips until he can find the rhythm -- there. He pushes back in and Bart freezes, all over -- was that too hard? "Bart --"

"Don't stop don't stop I can --"

And now Bart's less frozen than *rigid*, sweating and trembling and beautiful. Tim shakes his head. "Relax --"

"I -- make me come again and then maybe -- oh Tim I want you so much and I can't -- it's so hard -- just, please, your finger --"

All right. All -- okay. Tim starts thrusting slowly and -- can't. Bart's slick inside, and he's not going to *get* more open --

No, if he can give Bart a few more orgasms -- he's *seen* Bart relaxed, had him here, that way. Tim wraps his hand around Bart's slick penis and strips him as fast as he can, following the spasms and jerks when they come and crooking his finger *hard* --

This time when Bart arches off the bed Tim stays in, though he loses his grip on Bart's thigh. His arm is jerked up --

Down again as Bart ejaculates all over himself and keens -- pants? Tim can't tell, anymore, and it's rapidly becoming less important --

"Try -- oh, try putting two in?"

*Much* less important, and -- he can *get* two in, but the tightness feels more like a warning than a goad. He can twist his fingers, but when he tries to push them apart even a little those muscles clamp down *hard*. Tim winces --

"Oh damn please Tim please don't change your *mind* --"

"Tell me how it feels. I --"

"Strange hot weird wrong *good* -- I mean it hurts a little, but you're in me and I think the emotional f-feedback is altering -- I mean -- oh, Tim, fuck me, please fuck me --"

He's hard again, and to Tim's senses he'd never gotten soft. He's spread as wide as he can be, sliding his hands through the semen on his abdomen, fingertips just brushing his penis once, again, again -- "Touch yourself for me. As slow as you can."

"Y-yes -- oh --"

One hand on his penis and one on his sac, and Bart follows orders a little too well for Tim's sanity. He shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have pushed Bart *this* way, because he's putting on a *show*, less stroking himself than slicking his penis with his own semen, flexing his other hand on his sac, squeezing hard enough that the motion of his knuckles seems like its own tease --

"Do you like this? Is it hot? I never really --"

"How do you think you would feel if I did that for you?" And he has to get control of his *voice* --

"I couldn't wait. I'd have to -- I don't think I *ever* want to see you jerking off, or even know about it because if I couldn't do anything, couldn't touch you --"

"All right," Tim says, and, "I like it. You look incredible. You're making it hard for me to think about how tight you are, how much I'll hurt you --"

"Oh don't think don't think just -- *ah* --"

He shouldn't be thrusting this hard. It shouldn't feel this *good* to do it, and to watch Bart pull his knees up to his chest -- oh. He can't move as much in that position. "Hold yourself there."

"Yes, okay, what -- oh, your *mouth* --"

Tim licks Bart's hand and between his fingers, licks up the shaft and takes just the head in his mouth, sucking hard and humming for the taste, the feel --

And Bart starts petting his mouth with his slick fingers, stroking around it and making a *mess*. Tim fucks him harder -- and realizes that he's moving his hips to the rhythm of his hand. Bart can't see him doing it, but --

He's humping air, tightening inside at the taste and the feel, at the wild sounds Bart is making for him --

Thinking about him all day, wanting him and wondering if he was touching someone else. Loving him, and doing everything he can to make things *easier* for Tim, when all Tim wants is to *take*.

Tim squeezes his eyes shut and tries to tell himself that fucking Bart wouldn't make anything better, and certainly wouldn't make him a better relationship choice. He doesn't ever want to give Bart pain, no matter how much Bart teaches himself to like it -- oh, and the images are getting stronger now --

Kon holding Bart still for *him*, bending him over the side of the bed or just pushing Bart down to his knees -- nothing is as good as the stillness though, as the idea of *restraint*. Bart had said he would take that from him, and Bart doesn't lie --

"*Please*," Bart says, and he's trying to thrust, now, trying to roll his hips, push further into Tim's mouth --

Tim pulls off and pulls *out* --

Listens to Bart scream and slicks his penis with the first bottle which comes to hand -- "*Now*, Bart," he says, and maybe in some universe that can count as a warning, if not the apology he knows Bart will never take from him.

The first touch of the head against Bart's hole makes Tim's penis twitch in his hand and makes Bart try to work himself down and back against it --

"Breathe. Just --" Tim shakes his head and pushes in, biting his lip against the groan and trying to go slow -- he *has* to go slow. The slick doesn't change the fact that Bart's tight, that --

Oh, that no mouth could ever feel as good around him as that muscle, and nothing could ever sound as damningly arousing as Bart's high-pitched whine. The empty space within Tim seems to *convulse* with everything he's not feeling, with all the fear which *should* be in the room with them but isn't.

He doesn't want to hurt Bart, but the only thing which can stop him is the kind of control he surrendered with the realization that he liked feeling good, feeling *this* -- no.

Nothing's like this and nothing can be. The heat *alone* --

"*Tim*, you -- oh, you feel like you're going to -- no, don't listen, don't listen just fuck me I'll do anything please don't *stop* --" And Bart's breath hitches once, again --

Bart *sobs*, reaching to spread himself wider, and the heat of him, oh the heat is going to make Tim -- slow, he's going slow, even though he can feel the potential for more than that, even though Bart will *heal* if he doesn't --

"Yes, oh it's *different* from your fingers and you're in me, you're *in* me --"

"*Yes*," and he's all the way in. He can shift, push -- *move* Bart, and it's only a little bit, but a part of his mind just leaves him for that. He thinks about Clark and how he'd looked in that mirror, he looks at Bart and only sees wide eyes and acceptance --

Hurt, too. There is -- the tightness at the corners of Bart's eyes and mouth, the shake which isn't a vibration at all --

"Talk. To me."

"I -- I don't know -- you're inside and it's what I wanted, but it feels -- um."

"It hurts."

"I'm scared again, Tim, but I want --"

"I *want* you, Bart, and I'm going to start thrusting, and I need you to -- just relax, as much as you *can*."

"Please, Tim. I -- you know I can take it and I -- I want you and you feel so good inside me, even though it hurts --"

"*Breathe*," Tim says, and tries to follow his own orders, tries to find a way to both take in oxygen and still keep thinking more than he's feeling, more than he's wanting and needing --

Taking, when his hips start working without his permission again. He's barely slipping out at all, it's -- it's more of a *rock*, moving them both -- his eyes are closed.

He opens them and Bart's eyes are wide and almost shining, lips parted for the soft whimper he lets out every time Tim pushes in. Closer. He needs to be -- he leans over Bart, bracing himself on his elbows with his arms under Bart's shoulders.

Bart sobs again and it doesn't quite sound like Tim's name --

This close, he can see everything, taste Bart's breath -- kiss him, wet and slow, slipping his tongue in for every thrust until Bart wraps his arms around Tim's neck and kisses him fast and hard and everywhere he can reach. There's something new, something *important* about the feel of a whimper against his cheek -- more than the sound.

More, even, than the feel of himself *inside*, constrained and held, heated and some variety of loved --

"Bart," Tim says, and he doesn't know what comes after that, doesn't know what should or even *could* be said for this act, this pleasure which doesn't seem to care about anything but itself, and how to make itself *more*.

Bart's arms shake around his neck, briefly vibrate -- Bart stills them with an effort Tim can feel all over his skin, hear in the sound of Bart's long, high whine --

"It -- it won't last, Bart --"

"I know I know I know -- don't *stop* --"

His eyes are closed again, and Tim thinks about questioning that reflex, really putting it under examination -- he's thrusting harder, now, and he doesn't have to see what it does to Bart, even though he can hear the way the noises are almost chopped, punctuated by Tim's thrust, the stab of himself *inside* --

"Tell me you like it -- Tim please tell me, tell me it's good or I don't know --"

"It's good, Bart, it's -- I love the way you feel around me. Even -- even though I know I shouldn't --"

"No, oh no, it's perfect, you should feel --"

Kissing Bart solves nothing and soothes less, but it's better than listening to him, better than having to know in *every* way that this is far better for him than it is for Bart, than having to know that there's no way he could *stop*. He can feel Bart's penis against him, feel that Bart is still hard, or had become hard sometime between blinks --

His eyes are still closed --

Bart locks his legs around Tim and presses hard, hot skin and bone and every small sound he can swallow, every rhythmic little moan --

Tim pulls out of the kiss and opens his eyes -- Bart's are closed, now, tracking fast behind the lids, lashes two smudges against Bart's wet *cheeks* --

And Tim might as well be disconnected from his lower body. He can feel -- oh, he can *feel* -- but he can't do, can't slow down or ease off. He can smell his own sweat and Bart's, smell semen and the cooling pizza on the night table.

He can see --

He can see Bart open his eyes again, wide and full of a dozen things he can't name and more that he thinks he can. The empty space inside him throbs and screams, and Tim knows that it just makes it better. This is his freedom, too.

This is what it looks like.

This is how it *feels* --

"Tim," Bart says, a whimper amidst many others, soft and so *accepting* --

Tim hears himself growl and knows it's a warning, but he can't be sure which of them it's for. He's *pumping* his hips now, over and over, panting and grunting like an animal --

And now Bart's sounds aren't rhythmic anymore. It's just one long cry after another, spiraling higher and louder --

And when the vibration starts, Tim realizes that was a warning, too. That --

Under him, against him -- wrapped *around* him --

"*Bart* --"

"I can't I *can't* --"

Ride it. Just -- ride it and ride this until his skin is *humming* with the buzz and the knot around the base of his spine yanks tight enough that it feels like he should be bleeding, paralyzed, *lost* --

So *fucking* lost, and now he's shouting, too, buried as deep as he could ever go and unable to make himself move anymore, or -- he's not sure if he's moving or *not* --

Not sure if he can *survive* this, and Bart's holding on to him with his legs, with his body --

Ride it. Just --

Orgasm hits like a two-by-four, yanking Tim out of his body with an intensity that may actually *be* pain --

He's screaming air --

He slumps -- and immediately has to haul himself back up to avoid getting his face *battered* by the way Bart is still shaking. "*Bart* --"

A scream, a *wail* --

"*Come*," Tim says, and lets his voice be just as harsh as it wants to be, listens to it cut off Bart's wail with the precision of a *blade* --

Bart comes on him, spasming and silent. Hotter than the blood in Tim's body and damning -- somebody. He stills quickly, and it's absolutely time for Tim to move, to get out and get off, but when he tries to kneel up Bart's legs are still locked around him.

"Bart --"

"Oh -- oh *God*, Tim, no, just -- please no stay there. Stay right there for just another -- until I --"

"All right," Tim says, and just focuses on flexing individual muscles until it seems like everything is reporting in as it should. He's still humming all over -- it feels almost entirely unlike a sunburn -- but internally, everything seems to be fine. For him.

Bart strokes Tim everywhere he can reach, keeping his eyes closed for one circuit of his hands, two -- open. And very bright. Bart strokes Tim's mouth. "You should really stop worrying about me. I meant to say that while you were fucking me --"

"You did manage to imply," Tim says, and knows he's frowning too much for Bart's comfort. *He* is too much for Bart's comfort. He has to be. So *tight* -- "Bart..."

"You liked that, but you also really really didn't."

"I... yes."

"It was your first time, *too*, so it's okay that it wasn't perfect," Bart says, soft and sure.

Tim raises an eyebrow.

"And also there were um. Physical *concerns* and I think I need you to pull out right *now*."

The legs around his back are gone and Tim kneels up, starts pulling out --

"Faster faster *please* --"

Which means -- no time to point out that it will almost certainly *hurt* more. Tim pulls out as fast as he can and Bart almost *howls*, reaching down between his legs, sitting up -- laying flat again and turning on his side, curling in on himself -- "Bart --"

"Just give me a minute or -- oh God I can feel your *come* in me and I think --"

And Bart's gone -- no, Tim's bathroom door is open and the light's on. Tim covers his face with his hands -- no. "Bart, did you want privacy?"

"Yes I think so I'll let you know if I want you oh my God that feels so *weird* I'm going to use your shower."

"Noted," Tim says, and for a moment he just has to sit there, listen to the water running and just -- find a way to *be* himself after this. The wetness on his chest is a distraction, though, and he certainly doesn't want it to *dry* there -- Tim walks over to where his uniform is waiting for him to be someone who Tim can actually *recognize* and grabs the wipes.

And -- he can't put it off any longer. He looks, and there's blood streaked on his penis. There isn't much, and it's possible that Bart was healed before he left the bed, but. Tim wipes it off with a growl and remembers Roy's comment about the evidence bags.

His freedom.

Once upon a time, he would've been *exactly* as frightened as would've been necessary to keep himself from *doing* that --

Bart, wet and almost cool, wrapped around him from the back. His chin is on Tim's shoulder.

"Bart, I'm --"

"Don't brood. You've been doing really well with that and I like it and I think you shouldn't brood."

"There was blood --"

"I know. I felt myself tear, a little bit. It was really scary and I knew it would happen and it was *still* scary but it was also -- I came *really* hard. Could you tell? I mean, I know I always come really hard with you, and there's a lot of shaking and moving around and vibrating but --"

"Bart --"

"Please don't brood," he says, and his breath is warm and soft against Tim's ear. "There has to be a way for me to make you stop brooding, and just because I never found it back in YJ doesn't mean I've stopped looking," and Bart squeezes Tim hard and presses closer, making Tim need to brace to keep from stumbling.

"I think --"

"Sorry, I just -- I'm *okay*, Tim, and that was really --"

"We're not going to do it again," Tim says, flat and even -- Bart squeezes him harder.

"But --"

Tim twists out of the hold, carefully -- and now Bart's pressed to his front, holding Tim's wrists -- sliding his hands down to twine with Tim's own. All right. "We're *not* doing that again, Bart."

Bart bites his lip and frowns. "And -- what about all the other stuff?"

"I -- we really need to talk about the very strange ways you do and don't trust me," Tim says, and -- "I'm not giving you up."

"Oh --"

"I can't."

Bart squeezes Tim's hands and searches him, looking for the lie or just whatever truth Tim isn't quite telling. It's obvious on him, and always has been.

It has never been difficult to lie to Bart, and so Tim has done it -- too much. Tim stands still for the search. For the *inventory*. And feels his own tear when Bart frowns. "Bart --"

"You'll make me believe you. I know you will," Bart says, and very deliberately lets go of Tim's hands.

Tim flexes them at his sides before reaching up to cup Bart's face. Bart leans into the touch immediately, rubbing his cheek against Tim's palm -- smiling.

Perhaps it's the small moments like this, more than anything else Tim can do or say. Contact, warmth, and welcome. Or -- he's not sure, and he's not sure he wants to think about what it means that people could *need* reassurance from him, even after he's given...

Not everything. It would be a mistake to think otherwise. "I need a shower," Tim says, and strokes the line of Bart's cheekbone. "You're welcome to join me."

Bart closes his eyes -- not all the way. When he opens them again, his expression is one normally -- but not always -- reserved for Kid Flash. Sly, knowing, and -- knowing. "Or I could just leave you alone and let you brood in peace."

Yes, he really could. And neither of them would actually benefit, but... Tim offers him a smile Bart may -- still -- believe belongs only to Robin. "It's a choice. Make it."

"I already did," Bart says, and lifts Tim -- deposits Tim in the small, technically only for *one* person shower. "Okay?"

"Yes," Tim says, and reaches past Bart to turn on the water. He means it. He means it... enough, and even though it probably isn't a good idea to let other people determine how concerned he should be at any given moment...

He's still in the Tower, and that sort of choice is nearly traditional.

*

Sunday is usually for mop-up and training as a team, but there are always prisoners who need to be transferred to or from Alcatraz, and this week's excitement had brought the schedule to a halt.

There are a lot of civilians earning time and a half -- and who hopefully aren't too exhausted or strung out to actually be of assistance. Most of the prison staff had spent the last couple of days being brutally -- if still legally -- interrogated in order for the loose ends of the Jameson case to be tied up.

The bad apple -- a guard who'd lost a sister to a metahuman attack eleven *years* before -- had been found and is currently being hustled through the system to what will either be a long jail term, or -- depending on how good her attorney is and on how good a job *they* do at keeping civilian casualties to a minimum -- perhaps a good, old-fashioned case of jury nullification.

It's both something to watch for and something about which neither Tim nor his extended family can do anything.

What's left is prisoner transport duty while Kon and Cyborg help out with repairs on the island. Surprisingly, Cyborg had nothing but respect for the original construction when Tim had asked, but Tim knows that *doesn't* mean the man won't be offering suggestions for immediate improvement. With Kon's power to back him up -- and immediately implement the suggestions in question --

Tim feels good about the whole matter.

For the rest, it's a long, slow morning of the sort which leaves Tim free to think, and plan his course for the rest of the day -- his trip back home -- and the coming night.

He knows Bruce is going to have something to say, and that that particular something is going to be the sort of thing which is almost guaranteed to cause friction. The questions are as follows:

Will he actually say it out loud?

If so, how will Tim spin his own responses so as to best foster both peace and the continuation of their... eased relations?

For that matter, what -- if anything -- will he have to do in order to get Alfred to call off the metaphorical dogs?

There's no question as to what Tim will have to do if Bruce chooses to go the silent, brooding route -- that can't stand. As to the Alfred matter... well. What's said and done on the plane back to Gotham will of course be vital to the whole plan, but, in the end, that *doesn't* let him off the hook for what transpires back at the manor. It isn't that Tim is going to have to be on his best behavior so much as that Tim is going to have to apply some of the lessons he really does think are better left for his life with the Titans to *Bruce*.

He thinks he can do it -- more than that: He thinks he'd rather *enjoy* doing it, especially once he can get Bruce to play *with* him, as opposed to merely sitting there acting like a wall for Tim to bounce off.

Mm.

Tim nods internally and focuses on checking restraints for the latest group of convicts. The creativity in play for the prisoners of less standard physical configuration is, in some cases, truly impressive. It's just that the Titans have been doing this long enough to know, deep down where it counts, that 'creative' is far less important than 'sturdy.'

Tim finds two prisoners well on their way to destroying important parts of their restraints and calls Cassie in to hold them with her lasso until Starfire can fly in some of the things Cyborg had designed in his free time. This doesn't hold up the process much longer and, eventually, the others can head back to the Tower and Tim and Starfire brief the guards on how to handle the restraints and make sure Alcatraz's records are up to date on the new prisoners' powers and prejudices.

By the time Starfire drops him gently on the roof of the Tower, there's only about an hour left before Batman is due to pick Tim up.

This is his time. Often it's his time with Kon, but he's never begrudged Cassie's desire to spend the last few hours with him before they both have to go back to civilian lives which make little to no sense to either of them. Some weeks Tim uses the time to imagine a life outside of Gotham, to wonder what will happen with him when it's time for there to be a new Robin.

Some weeks he thinks about nothing of the kind, because the idea of Bruce letting him go somewhere else and giving Gotham to someone unseasoned -- if not untrained -- is more than a little ridiculous. Gotham isn't the same place it was even five years ago -- even *three* -- and whether or not it'll be time for a new Robin, it *won't* be time for him to go anywhere.

Gotham belongs to him, for one, and, for another --

It's only a matter of time before Bruce *has* to at least try to call Dick home.

This week, he finds a shadow and stays there, watching sunlight sparkle on the water and generally failing to manage anything resembling meditation. If this keeps up, it will be something to be concerned about. He frankly has no idea how losing this aspect of his life would affect him, and the fact that most heroes do nothing of the kind means absolutely nothing -- he doesn't *want* to know how it will affect him.

He already has enough trouble staying green on the streets without causing more damage than can be excused by a normal night's vigilante work, and the whole point of his plan -- of his new way of *life* -- is to keep everything he likes about his existence and ditch the rest.

He doesn't want any babies in his bathwater -- no, think about Gotham.

Think about, perhaps, how *easy* it would be to handle the Ivy situation if he briefed a metahuman thoroughly, gave him or her the usual battery of anti-toxins and a rebreather...

Bart could have the children out of the park before Ivy even knew what was happening. There wouldn't have to *be* a confrontation. And the children would talk about what happened, and the word would get out, and then there'd be people like Mirror Master running around. Grodd at a Knights game.

Grodd at *Arkham* --

And thinking of it that way leads uncomfortably to the question of whether or not Batman's presence encouraged people like Ivy. Joker. Of course, for him, there *is* no question -- and that's the uncomfortable part. There are horrible crimes -- and crime *sprees* -- which wouldn't have happened without Batman there to goad, by his very existence, one criminally insane individual or another.

There would've been other goads -- that's the way that kind of insanity *works* -- but when you consider the specifics -- Bart.

With an umbrella and two deck chairs held awkwardly under his arms. Of course.

Tim stands and gestures at the part of the roof currently getting the most direct sunlight. Bart sets up -- leaves.

And comes back with a tray on which there are two tall glasses and a pitcher of something lavender and full of ice. Tim settles on the red and black chair, comfortably in the shadow of the umbrella, holds out his hand -- and there is a glass, with a straw.

Tim drinks and tastes berries, lemon, and a frightening amount of sugar. Bart would've had to make a syrup in order to get that much to stay in solution. It's the sort of long-term planning and execution which marks the difference between Impulse and Kid Flash.

"You didn't ask what it was first!"

"I trust you," Tim says, and wonders idly, if diabetes can come on suddenly. *Probably* this is no worse for him than Grape Zesti, but he's had a long and positive relationship with high fructose corn syrup, while this... hm. "Is this sugar organic?"

Bart -- the only word for it is 'beams.' "It totally makes a difference! I mean it's more expensive and I always feel like maybe I shouldn't use so much of it --"

"A possibility --"

"But it's *better*," Bart says, and sort of flings himself into his own deck chair. Surprisingly, it doesn't immediately collapse. It bodes well for the thing's future.

Tim drinks more and starts feeling things pop and fizz a little behind his eyes. Possibly he should be taking this with food.

"You should note that I haven't asked if I'm welcome. This is me, assuming I will be," and Bart mimics Tim's pose exactly, including a carefully vague stare into the middle distance. 

Tim nods and sets his drink down on the roof. "So far, so good."

Bart is silent for a few minutes, and Tim closes his eyes behind the mask, remembering to tilt his head a little to make sure Bart knows that he isn't brooding about anything in particular.

It really is a nice day, just warm enough that the uniform feels like the perfect thing to be wearing, as opposed to either suffocating him or leaving him a little too cold unless he's working. The deck chair makes it feel as though they're on a beach, somewhere... *why* can't he meditate?

"What are you thinking about?"

"The future," Tim says, and it's not really a lie. "Not that it's a good idea to do that with the lives we lead."

"Well, you always have to think about the consequences of your actions. That's thinking about the future -- is that the kind of future you were thinking about?"

Tim smiles. "Yes and no."

"You come up here when it's time to leave us, and when you first get here. It's your transition place and I respect that a lot and sometimes I wonder if I should have one, too, especially since it's always hard to go back to Wally after this and -- do you ever think that life with the Titans might be *too* good?"

Surprising -- and not. There are any number of reasons why Bart is so... needful. "Yes, I do."

Bart nods. "Not that I'll ever say that around Kory or Vic or Gar. Everything the Titans mean is their life and that's... I don't really know how that can work. It seems like it should be too easy, only that's really insulting and not what I mean at all -- do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Yes, and -- we may not always be part-timers."

"*You* will. You're never going to leave Gotham, even if you think you want to," Bart says, and, "are you going to finish yours?"

Tim hands it over and Bart downs it, throat working a little too fast for it to be *just* moderately arousing to watch -- he's done. "Bart... what aren't you saying?"

"I told Kon to stay away so I could have more time with you."

Ah. "I see."

Bart turns to face him. "Do you? Sometimes I think I have too much time to think about you, time to go over every little thing you say or do, time to *read* you, and I know you don't want to tell me everything, and maybe *can't* tell me everything, but I know that there's something you're *not* telling, and I want to know if there's anyone you trust that much. More than me."

I'm not afraid of anything anymore, Bart. Including the fact that you're in love with me. But. "There's no one, no, Bart."

"I'm sorry, Tim. I'm sorry but I'm also glad."

Tim nods, and reaches across the little distance between them. Bart catches Tim's hand in his own and squeezes it tight.

They stay that way until the unmistakable sound of the Batjet separates itself from the rest of the day's noise, and then Tim lets go and stands. Bart takes the chairs and umbrellas away, comes back with Tim's travel bag, and kisses Tim once on either corner of his mouth.

This time, when he zips away, he doesn't come back.

The plane lands perfectly, the hatch opens, and Tim walks in without looking back.

*

Bruce doesn't turn away from the controls when Tim moves through the plane to stow his gear, and he doesn't say a word. It's not *yet* time to assume he's going to have to work to bring Bruce out, but it's getting there.

Once Tim buckles in on the copilot's side, they go over the controls together. The routine is a comfortable one, and may or may not be something Bruce is using to make Tim let his guard down.

A part of him would like to sneak a glance at Bruce's face, but a) he already knows it won't tell him anything, and b) he doesn't like the message it would send. Instead, Tim waits until they're in the air and then turns the chair to face Bruce. And waits.

Not long -- Bruce pushes the cowl back and off. A rather good sign, and a little surprising. He would've expected Bruce to try to stay business-like with him for just a little bit longer. Tim takes off his mask -- and Bruce makes a sound, soft and almost certainly related to the small bruise over his left eye Tim had discovered this morning.

Bart, and the inevitable result of Tim's failure to be careful when Bart was still... in extremis. But. "It's as minor as it looks."

"It *looks* very close to your eye," Bruce says, and increases their altitude.

"A slip on my part. It won't happen again."

"Really."

And how much did you use those bugs and cameras you've planted, Bruce? How about the ones I've planted *for* you? "The fact that certain activities require a greater degree of care than others does not automatically make those activities... unrewarding."

Bruce runs a hand over and around the console. "I'm not unsympathetic."

"To my needs?"

"Your free time is your own."

Tim thinks about it. There is, in this, an invitation to let things drop, for them both to pretend that Bruce wants nothing more than what Tim has given, and that everything between them is as all right as it can possibly be. Generous of Bruce, and the result -- perhaps -- of some significant amount of time spent washing his metaphorical hands of all of it.

The sentiment is welcome -- even relieving -- but the lie behind it is deeply problematic. There shouldn't be lies between them. There *can't* be.

Tim crosses his legs and presses his fingertips together. "A certain amount of my free time also belongs to you, Bruce."

The twitch at the corner of Bruce's mouth is slight, but visible. "No, Tim."

"Bruce --"

"It pleases you to imagine your life as something which can be parceled out to your loved ones, and that, once offered, you have no real choice or power to define those parts of your life. Again, I am not unsympathetic -- the feeling must be akin to euphoria, and the implied freedom must be intoxicating. But it's not true."

Interesting theory -- one worth considering in depth, really, *but*. "Are you saying that you *don't* have the lion's share of choice with regards to how our time together will go, Bruce? I can suggest, offer, and even plead, but, in the end, it's up to you."

"And if you honestly believed that you had no power... hn," Bruce says, and briefly shows his teeth. "You'd rather I ignore your other activities in favor of simply taking advantage of what time -- you choose -- to allow the two of *us*."

"It would be the logical thing to do," Tim says, and spreads his hands.

"Logical. An intriguing choice of words."

Well, perhaps, but -- "Bruce... I was never chosen for any of this. As such, I have always been aware of my position as the member of this family least likely to have any say in any of the choices and decisions to be made, least likely to be chosen as confidant or confessor --"

"Tim --"

"I'm not the 'go-to guy.' I've long since come to terms with that, and have long since accepted that everything I was offered, everything I've been *given*... would have to be enough."

Bruce stills, all over. It's not that he was particularly mobile a moment ago, but now...

The tension is obvious and difficult not to respond to with his own. Tim waits --

"Is this revenge?"

Revenge. The word sounds like a curse, the shock in Bruce's tone highlighting it until it seems to hover between them, loud and foul. And Tim... "All right, you're right -- it does sound exactly like that. But it's not what I meant. I was only offering my own perspective on the matter --"

"This is the first time..." When Bruce shows his teeth, this time, it's nothing like a laugh -- not even a dark one. "This is the first time you've so much as implied that you wanted more from me than what I *have* given. You've held yourself aloof --"

"I'm tired of doing that. I don't want to be aloof from you, anymore, Bruce. I want us to be as close as we can be --"

"No," Bruce says and lays his hand flat on one of the few empty places on the console. "You want us to be as close as you can *control*."

Tim smiles. "I don't see very much difference between the two. After all, it wouldn't be safe to encourage the sort of intimacy between us that neither of us could... handle."

"And how recently, exactly, did you decide that danger was something you *didn't* want?"

Touché. In a way. "Bruce. We're partners, we're family, we're lovers --"

"No --"

"*Lovers*," Tim says, "because that's the only word for people who know each other as well as we do, who live so much in each other's space and have so much power to affect, to change and to *direct* --"

"There is nothing I can change within you, Tim."

"Correction," and Tim holds up a finger, "there is nothing you can do about who I love, and how I choose to show it. In everything else, I am in your hands in a way unlike everyone else in my life. You are everything I admire and everything I've come to... fear. I could -- and would -- continue in this life even if you chose to fire me --"

Bruce grunts like he's been hit.

"But I would be -- lost. I need you, Bruce. I need to know that I'm still someone you approve of, and I need you to give me everything you can stand to, I need you to *show* me --"

"Tim, don't."

"I was in love with Batman for a very long time, Bruce. I'm not, anymore -- he's hollow without *you* -- but..." Tim leans over and rests one hand on top of Bruce's. Their gauntlets are made of the same materials now, and slide and shudder against each other, creak and catch. "Don't tell me you don't understand. I won't believe you."

For a moment, nothing. Then... Bruce looks at their hands on the console. Stares at them, eyes focused and cold.

Tim doesn't move, and --

"Alfred is somewhat wroth."

"He made that clear," Tim says, and slips his fingers between Bruce's own.

"I can't give you my anger, even if I was sure you wanted it from me. You've learned about acceptance. You've *tasted* it from so many sources..."

"You were surprised by my own acceptance of you. I think you could be... similarly surprised."

Bruce's laugh is more of a choked grunt than anything else, low and rough. "Shall I let you lead me by example?"

We could go to the Clocktower together on Wednesday, leave Alfred to circle through downtown Gotham for a few hours... "It's a choice," Tim says, and pulls his hand back, turning his chair around and glancing over the controls.

Bruce makes an entirely predictable non-committal sound and begins the series of commands which will lead to Tim getting some flying practice in -- pauses. "What are your plans for tonight?"

"Patrol. Jason, if he chooses to find me. Ivy. I -- Steph."

"Hesitation. That... has become unlike you," Bruce says.

"I believe she plans to break up with me because she feels I've cheated on her."

"You know perfectly well that you did *not* only give the others -- including myself -- your body," Bruce says, in a way which manages to be nearly breathtakingly paternal despite... everything.

And he's right, but... is that the most important thing? "Bruce, you realize what you just admitted --"

"*Yes*, Tim," he says, and turns over the controls before leaning back in his chair and curling his hands around the arms. Squeezing. "You have been ruthlessly, unfailingly, unassailably generous. In your own *deeply* unique way."

Mm. That's better --

"And you have cheated on the woman you claim to -- no, you love her. You have always loved her, and you must have known that your actions would hurt her, if she knew."

And I also knew I would hurt *you*, yes, but -- "It's not her life." And it's not yours.

Bruce takes an audible breath -- and now he's looking at Tim openly, all of that focus *turned* on Tim like the weapon it is. The look has made hundreds of criminals confess, and hundreds of informants wish they *had* something to confess. It has made Robins weaken in their resolve, and Batgirls strive to push themselves harder than anyone ever could.

It makes Tim hard in his jock. It makes Tim want to laugh, fly, do, *play*. It makes him -- need to think, hard, because that focus remains dangerous to him, and it always will. Bruce can't *know*. Tim takes his own breath -- and a moment to make sure all of the indicators are as green as they should be. "I don't know," he says, "how I could've done things differently."

"You don't."

"Once I made the decision to be *open* for this, for everything, to let myself love the people in my life with as much of myself as possible --"

"You used to define 'possible' differently, Tim."

"I was wrong, Bruce," and for this... Tim turns to meet Bruce's eyes, to *hold* the look between them until it's as solid and perfect a moment as it can be. "I'm not wrong now."

And Bruce looks... sad, for a moment. Stricken, in some way, by grief.

"Bruce --"

"You've already given her up."

Tim blinks, tightens his hands on the throttle -- stops. "No, I --"

"You have, Tim."

"Bruce, it's not like I sat down and played the *numbers*, one against many or -- whatever you're thinking --"

"I am... ignorant of many parts of life. I have always been so, and my efforts to change that have been alternately laughable and pathetic," Bruce says, and looks down at himself, runs his hands over the restraints -- releases them and comes close, crouching at Tim's feet. "I do not claim to understand relationships which have nothing to do with criminal enterprise."

Tim watches Bruce's hand settle on his arm and then just watches Bruce's *hand*, hard and big, covered and protected from *him* -- no. The empty space inside him cries out for Tim to do *something*, *be* something else --

"You never planned to lose her, and that means you never *planned*, and now you're shoring yourself up against fallout that..." Bruce shakes his head. "Tell me what's wrong, Tim. Tell me what you're *hiding*."

Tim feels his lip pulling back from his teeth -- stops. "Bruce. We talked about this. I understand that I haven't been the easiest romantic entanglement in the world, but you have to stop assuming that I'm lying to you about something --"

"Look at it," Bruce says, and squeezes Tim's arm lightly, "from my perspective."

From Bruce's perspective it's damning, of course. A careful boy, a cautious boy likely to check every possible angle before doing anything about *anything*... and that same boy had shot himself in the foot with a gun he had to know was loaded.

Bruce *knows*, but he can't understand what he knows, and that -- that's something to work with. Something to *use*, and never mind the consequences. The *only* consequence Tim needs to focus on, right now, is the one which gets him out of this clean, safe, and still *free*. All right.

"I saw a chance, Bruce," Tim says, quietly and more than a little low. "A chance -- to have something I've always wanted, always needed..."

Bruce frowns, but he's thinking about what Tim had just said. Tim can *see* it.

"A moment, with Dick. I... I saw it in his *eyes*, Bruce," and yes, now he sounds like he's pleading. He *is*.

"Tim..."

"I've been so..." Tim closes his eyes, just for a moment. Thinks about it. *Feels* it. The look in Bart's eyes, the feel of Dick hauling him close and not saying no for an answer. Jason starting to shake and Clark's -- in retrospect -- *daring* caress of his cheek... he shivers and swallows.

"You..." Bruce frowns a little harder, squeezes Tim's arm again. "You found a way to stop being alone."

That's what I *said* -- Tim smiles and lets the laugh out, listens to how high and cracked it is, how *true* it is -- let it. For this, *let* it be true --

"Tim..."

And oh, Bruce's voice belongs to nothing which could ever be safe on a Gotham street. It's so warm and so very *open*, so very willing -- he can't fall into it. Not yet. He laughs again and tears his arm away from Bruce's touch --

"Don't --"

Tim covers his face, and tenses as much as he can when Bruce touches him again.

And, after a moment, Bruce stands beside him. And then moves back to his chair. Tim stays where he is until he hears the restraints click closed.

And then he focuses on flying the plane.

Alfred is waiting with a late lunch when they get back to the Cave -- a simple-for-Alfred cold spread for the both of them. As such, Tim is reasonably sure that it isn't an attempt to poison him, and he settles in to enjoy it in silence.

Bruce finishes as quickly and efficiently as he does every meal, and Alfred hands him the day's papers without a word.

Bruce thanks him and -- sets the papers down by his plate. And watches Tim. Watches Tim eat, watches Tim *not* make eye contact... should he?

No, that performance on the plane should leave him feeling just as raw as he does, right now, and... he's not so much hungry as focused on providing his body with nutrients. He has to own that before he makes himself sick.

Tim finishes his juice -- what kind *was* it? --

Tim sets the glass down, leans back, and closes his eyes. Every Tim in this skin needs something.

Every Bruce beside him has to know it.

And so, when Tim finally looks to Bruce, he does nothing about the roil of emotion he knows is obvious behind his eyes, he doesn't bother to press his lips together, and he *waits.*

There's anger behind *Bruce's* eyes, but it may or may *not* be -- directly -- related to him. But --

Tim lets himself flinch, too --

"Stop."

"Bruce --"

Bruce shakes his head. "I told you, Tim. I will *never* deny you. No matter how much you *use* yourself to manipulate --" Bruce growls and stands.

Oh -- really? But -- Tim blows out a breath and pushes away from the cleared work table, stands, too -- Alfred, at the foot of the stairs with a tray of coffee --

And then there's only Bruce, pulling him close, surrounding Tim -- holding him, and the kiss is brutally hard and exactly what Tim needs, especially once Bruce cups the back of Tim's head and holds it *still*. Tim takes it, closing his eyes and moaning at the slide of Bruce's tongue against his own, the *fuck* of it between his lips.

Bruce's other hand is on Tim's wrist, expertly avoiding the spikes on the gauntlet and not -- quite -- grinding the bones together.

This is --

"No," Tim says, when Bruce pulls back, lets go --

Bruce shows his teeth, once more, and it's a promise and it's everything, absolutely everything. Tim's hands are working on his cape, his belt, and Bruce nods, once, and begins to strip himself.

Perhaps this would be better upstairs, but Tim doesn't think so. There's something here which belongs to every part of themselves, and so it *has* to be here, has to --

Tim's not sure, and he realizes, in a moment of clarity which makes the empty space inside him *seize*, that he isn't sure what he *wants* right now, beyond Bruce and... maybe --

"I do want your anger," he says, and thrills inside to mean it, to be *this* honest.

Motion -- Tim looks, and Alfred is moving very *quickly* up the stairs --

Bruce has him by the jaw, careful of the healing bruise on his cheek and of absolutely nothing else. "Here. With me."

Tim lets his eyes slip half-closed and feels his hands grow clumsy with hunger -- he'd nearly tripped one of the suit alarms --

And he knows Bruce had seen it by the way his lips part -- close once more in a firm line which is anything but unbreachable -- naked.

They're both naked, and the uniforms aren't precisely in the *way* of that, but there are human needs to be considered, petty realities present in the way that Tim can already feel himself beginning to sweat in the cool air of the Cave, in the way the light shines differently on Bruce's scars once they're exposed.

When they're down to their shorts, Bruce stops him by the simple expedient of catching Tim's wrists and holding them away from his body, but when Tim meets Bruce's eyes again...

Yes, he could've been stopped by that *look*, too. Anyone could -- there's too much *in* it. Anger and sadness, hunger and *plea*, all at once --

"Bruce --"

Bruce lets go and Tim's wrists feel cold, too naked for this place and moment. Bruce turns away -- "Follow."

Oh... yes.

He can't really imagine why they're heading for the acrobatics equipment -- Bruce is still holding his *belt* -- but he's more than willing to go with it. He won't be denied. He won't be *denied*, and maybe, right now, he's finally hearing it with all of himself, finally knowing what it means --

Or maybe he'd need his fear for that -- no. *No*. Not here and not now and not ever again --

Bruce stops by the uneven bars. "Arms up," he says, and he's not quite looking at Tim... he's not quite looking, which means *he's* not sure. Which means Tim really should be... thinking.

About something. Or -- "Bruce..."

Nothing but the tension in Bruce's shoulders and the slight creaking sound which means that Bruce is holding the belt very, very tightly. Tim wants --

He wants that hand on *him*, and the other one, and Bruce's mouth, Bruce's *teeth* -- he won't be *denied*, which means... it means *something* right now, in this place, but Tim can't really make himself consider it beyond all of that tension he can almost *taste*. Breathe. He has to breathe, think --

Tim exhales on a moan he hadn't seen *coming* and shudders once, all over. Bruce starts to turn to him, and -- there. Tim can see it clearly. The apology that would hang between them like polluted air, the loss of surety and security, the moment *lost*. Tim moans again and all but *throws* his arms up, unsteady on his feet and hungry, so --

So raw and so damned *hungry*, so quickly -- no.

He's been hard since the plane, practically since leaving the Tower, and the zip strip holding his wrists to the high bar is, really, only a start on the problem. He thinks about Bruce twisting a shirt around his wrists... had he wanted this even then?

Tim closes his eyes and tries to make himself breathe a little more evenly, tries to remember all the grace he's been taught -- gives up and lets his arms hang. The thing is only eight feet high --

"Oh, *fuck* --"

Shock, whether it should've been there or not -- the first smack had lifted him to his *toes*, and the next one comes before Tim can really think about whether or not it had hurt, or --

And the next one has him on his toes again, because that *had* hurt --

"Open your eyes," Bruce says, and -- it's not an order in any way save for the fact that it's Bruce, and that he's giving Tim a *spanking*.

It's their *fourth* date, Tim thinks, and --

And the laugh becomes a cry for the next smack, open-handed and brief, strange, *hard* --

"Bruce --"

Hand on his jaw, turning Tim toward the sound of Bruce's own uneven breathing --

Tim opens his eyes and, if anything, there's even more in Bruce's eyes than there was before. "Oh," Tim says, and thinks about the kind of love that can drive you to the floor, that can make you want to hide and want to be seen, always seen for exactly what you are -- "Bruce," Tim says, and the grip on his jaw loosens enough for Tim to turn.

Enough for Tim to kiss Bruce's fingers, drag his lips across Bruce's palm --

Enough for Tim to lick, to taste sweat and gauntlet --

"Tim."

"This, too," Tim says, and forces himself to meet Bruce's eyes again, to watch them narrow against the knowledge of this and everything Tim is saying. "Be sure, Bruce."

Bruce pants, once, and slides his hand down to Tim's throat, putting pressure on the arteries. He'd *kissed* Tim there, and, oh -- Tim will be able to pant and scream as much as he *wants* --

And he makes a good start on that pretty much immediately, because Bruce doesn't let go or move a muscle before he starts spanking Tim again, over and over, alternating cheeks --

And then not. There's nothing to read in Bruce's eyes except everything, and everything isn't very helpful in terms of figuring out where the blows will land -- no, that doesn't matter.

He twists for them, anyway, trusting Bruce to catch him no matter how well he accidentally anticipates a strike and gasping out a cry every time he manages to twist *into* it.

Bruce never looks away from him, and it turns every blink into something almost solemn and very much *important*, a loss which isn't touched by the burn in his cheeks, which can't be soothed or healed --

Something.

He's too hard to *think* for this, beyond the horrible realization that Bruce won't -- *can't* -- keep this up for long enough to incapacitate Tim in any way. Tim bites his lip hard --

Air. No -- no oxygen reaching his *brain*, yes, remember that, he has to --

And Bruce kisses him, soft and wet, sucking at Tim's lower lip until he stops biting and then sucking more. This is the sort of kiss Bruce has wanted, and has wanted from him. He never stops striking, and like this --

Like this, it's easier to take, and easier to give. Lovers, yes, and lovers *do* this, give each other what's needed and take pleasure from the act and from the pleasure received.

Bruce pulls out of the kiss and searches Tim's face, eyes narrow and so full Tim has to shiver, has to twist *more*, let his eyes fall closed. It's getting harder to --

To.

Oh. The feel. He's still in his briefs, and the material is scratching at him, teasing him every time Bruce pulls back --

*Working* him every time Bruce's hand lands, every time Tim shifts enough that the material pulls between his buttocks and Bruce's hand --

He --

He's gasping now, he can't help it. His lungs *want* to be burning for this, for the black --

Tim feels himself slumping, dropping until he's hanging from his hands and the zip strip is forcing his wrists together awkwardly --

The sensation brings him back, and he stands -- and he realizes Bruce has stopped, and has let go of his throat. Tim shakes his head hard, tries to say Bruce's name --

It comes out a stuttered moan, and Tim's skin prickles with fresh sweat. He must be flushed all over, and he has no idea what he *looks* -- no. Barbara had shown him. Clark had, too. Tim squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head again. This time, when he opens his eyes, he can actually *see* things. The mats beneath his feet, the pommel horse *there* -- Bruce.

Watching Tim with his hands at his sides. He's obviously hard beneath his own briefs. The bulge makes Tim's palms ache, and -- Tim realizes he's in the process of dislocating his own thumbs in a probably futile attempt to get himself free. He stops. "Bruce."

"Somehow, I was expecting you to *warn* me when you became close to losing consciousness."

That was a rebuke, and really -- a deserved one. But. "I'm not accustomed to that... ah. Method."

Bruce's suspicion is a razor Tim wants to slice himself on, but... that was entirely true.

"Ah -- no one has actually *choked* me, Bruce. I wouldn't be surprised if Clark has guessed that it's something I enjoy, but I do believe you -- and possibly Barbara -- are the only ones who know I cut off my air when I masturbate, sometimes."

"Often," Bruce corrects.

Tim inclines his head -- stops himself from dislocating his thumbs.

Bruce's glance takes in Tim's hands. "I wholly approve of your reflexes."

Tim smiles. "I have very fond memories of you instilling them. You *rebuilt* me."

Bruce frowns, lifts his hands -- drops them to his sides again. "You were never broken."

"But I was rather poorly put-together," Tim says, and rolls his shoulders. "Trust me. I was there."

"Tim --"

"You have no idea what you look like when you're in your own skin, Bruce. I never really thought about that before, but... it's true, isn't it? When you're being Batman, you're stern and hard and frightening -- and it's all conscious. When you're being Bruce Wayne, you're flighty and dim and -- also frightening. Conscious again. But here, now..." Tim watches the tension take Bruce again, watches that massive, punished body tighten and flex here, there.

"Say it," Bruce says, and Tim realizes, with an internal start, that the tension is all about waiting for a blow.

"I..."

Bruce steps close again, close enough that it's necessary for Tim to crane his neck a little, spread his arms to keep from blocking his own view -- "Say it, Tim."

And that was a threat, but it -- none of it belongs here. Not now. Tim shakes his head. "Bruce, I was only going to say that I'm having a deeply shallow moment of *lust*."

More suspicion, and this time Tim has to try to get himself closer, feel the mild shock of Bruce's hair against his legs, his chest, Bruce's scent high in his nose, driving out the scent of his own sweat and need and replacing it with something much better, sweeter in a way which has nothing to do with the actual *smell* --

"You're *attractive*. Standing there like you're wondering what to do with yourself now that you've spanked your partner -- your *lover* -- raw, like you're wondering what it says about you that you liked it, like you're wondering when I'm going to lie to you again --"

"I never knew you had such an attraction for indecision, Tim."

And it doesn't matter that the smile is nowhere to be seen -- it was all over that particular sentence. "I wasn't done."

"No?"

"You've learned to ignore your own arousal in favor of a dozen, hundreds and thousands of different things, but it's there when I look for it. It's in the way your eyes don't narrow quite as much as they can, and the way you can't keep your hands entirely still. The potential is... awesome, Bruce. Intimidating."

"You're *not* afraid."

Don't think about that, beloved -- no. If he calls Bruce that he'll wind up tied to a *gurney*. Tim laughs, instead. "Let me... what was that you said? Yes. Let me lead by example, Bruce," Tim says, and pushes up onto his toes. "Bite my lip."

Bruce sighs, tension shifting and leaving him -- not all of it. The bite, when it comes, is much harder than Tim had expected. Dangerous enough to make Tim's hips jerk, and that --

Oh, *contact*. Just against Bruce's thigh, but of course his penis is insisting that it's more than *enough*. Tim humps twice -- four times more before he can stop.

Before Bruce lets go. "What now?" His voice is low, promising. Promising both of them.

"You lifted your hands before. You were going to do something. You *wanted* to do something."

"Tim."

A warning? A request? Yes? "Do it," Tim says, and waits --

And Bruce lifts Tim easily by the hips, holding him up so their eyes are level.

Tim raises an eyebrow and -- slowly -- bends his legs up until he can wrap them around Bruce's waist. The position is a little easier on his shoulders, and that matters exactly nothing against the feel of Bruce's skin against his thighs, against the bruises *he* had given Tim. Well... some of them are Clark's but... Clark's not here.

"And now, Tim...?"

"You've given me what I needed," Tim says, and presses his groin hard against Bruce's abdomen. It's possible that he'd just made himself a liar, but... but. That's not new and it's true where it *matters*. True enough... "Make love to me. The way I wouldn't let you before --"

"And if it's not what I want, now?"

"*Take* what you want -- no. Let me give it to you. Teach me something else, Bruce. You know you can. You know you can *make* me --"

Bruce's thumb on his mouth, hard and *firm*. "I would change nothing about you."

Tim raises his eyebrow *high*, shifting enough to handle the fact that Bruce isn't supporting quite as much of his weight -- 

"I would change *nothing* about you," Bruce says, again, and taps Tim's lips with his thumb. "That's a truth I have to live with. And now, so do you."

Tim rears back away from Bruce's hand -- "We already know we love each other. Surely that's punishment enough."

"Is it really," Bruce says, and brings his hand back down to Tim's hips -- to Tim's buttocks. And the squeeze --

"Oh, God -- ah. Ow." Tim laughs at the feel of his skin prickling again, at the sweat running down his spine...

And Bruce smiles at him from behind his eyes, leans in -- pauses. "Say it again."

"Make love to me," Tim says, and grinds back against Bruce's hands, forward -- kissed, soft and slow, then slow and wet. The motion of Bruce's tongue... Bruce doesn't seem to want anything but that their tongues meet and slide against each other, and Tim has to admit that there's something to be said for that approach.

It's soothing, and Tim hadn't known that he could want that, but maybe there's something to be said for headspace. His buttocks are hot and aching, his penis *hard* and aching... and he's relaxing into Bruce's touch.

Taking this, and giving it back.

Tim closes his eyes and goes with it, following the kiss everywhere it goes, sucking at Bruce's lips, teasing himself with Bruce's tongue -- until Bruce pulls back and squeezes Tim's hips.

Tim unwraps his legs from around Bruce's waist, Bruce sets him down -- and pulls the knife Tim has strapped to his back. He cuts through the zip-strip and Tim lets his arms just fall before shaking them --

Bruce catches them and chafes them, one at a time, wordless and firm.

"Where, Bruce?"

Bruce pauses with his hands on Tim's left arm, then cups Tim's shoulders and moves to stand in front of him. His eyes are full again, but there's something calmer about it. Steadier, perhaps.

Tim smiles up at him. "It could, perhaps, set the wrong tone if we let location determine our actions."

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "And it wouldn't if we didn't?"

The image of Bruce gently laying Tim down on the Batsignal, slowly peeling the gauntlets from his hands -- "Okay, you have a point. But --"

"So do you," Bruce says, and strokes his way down Tim's arms, squeezes his hands, and then lays his own hands flat against Tim's abdomen, stroking his way back up to Tim's shoulders.

His hands are warm and soft over hard -- it just hasn't been that long since the gauntlets were on. "Your touch..."

"It's the sort of touch you've had to learn how to accept. I know."

"I'm still learning, Bruce --"

"I know that, too," he says, and kisses Tim again, sliding his hands around to cup Tim's shoulder blades and tease the sweat in the hollow of Tim's spine. Tim wraps his hands around Bruce's waist and pushes closer, letting the kiss tilt his head back and generally make him feel like something both movable and -- moved.

There are so many different ways to not be denied, including the ones which are all about being affirmed. Bruce is kissing *him* -- not the Tim who could accept this without pain, without some acknowledgment of all the terrible and broken things between them.

There's no ground glass beneath Tim's knees when he drops to them, but there doesn't really have to be, and possibly there shouldn't be --

"Tim..."

"I know this isn't what you want," Tim says, and strokes Bruce's thighs. "It isn't -- the end -- of what I want. Just -- let me?"

Bruce nods and strokes Tim's hair, letting his fingertips brush against the tip of Tim's ear. It's very... it's warm, and a part of him wants relief from that, but he can choke it off by focusing, a little, on the pain in his cheeks.

Tim tugs Bruce's briefs down carefully, indulging himself with the feel of Bruce's scarred shins and calves as he steps out of them. If he wraps his hand around the base of Bruce's penis, he'll have a much harder time stopping himself than if he simply... leans in, licks away pre-come and presses his lips to the vein, licks along the shaft and strokes his cheek against it --

Bruce never stops petting him, and Tim listens for the sound of his breath. It's not quite rough, yet, but it's audible, a quiet sort of feedback to let Tim know that, yes, they can both enjoy this, both *have* it. Tim opens his mouth and goes down, holding Bruce lightly, lifting him with his tongue --

Bruce's breath hitches but he doesn't change the stroke of Tim's hair.

The taste --

He wants to remember this, hold it in himself against everything and everyone else. *This* is what Bruce tastes like, how he feels when he pushes so gently deeper before pulling back. Tim hums a moan and sucks hard --

Bruce tugs on his hair.

Right. Other things, what *Bruce* needs. Tim pulls off and wipes his mouth --

And Bruce drops to his own knees and cups Tim's face, tilting it up for another slow kiss. Tim holds on to Bruce's wrists, strokes Bruce's forearms --

Scars and hair, the kind of muscle Tim will never be able to grow. Bruce is actually somewhat smaller than Clark, shorter and lighter, but he doesn't *feel* that way... and for a moment Tim feels like the only Robin there ever was, faced with the best and the biggest, the *only* -- "Batman," Tim says, when Bruce pulls back.

"Is that what you want?"

A darker tone, a clip to the words... Tim shakes his head and smiles. "I'm having a moment, don't mind me."

"Tim --"

"I want everything in you. I don't want to -- I don't want to hide, or fight, or --" Tim shakes his head again. "Not right now. Show me, and then, maybe, we'll both be able to figure out *exactly* what we want from each other."

Silence, and Tim would like, very much, to know what Bruce is thinking. Does he believe he *already* knows what he wants? Is it more that he wants to know what Tim is hiding, or is it that he wants to believe that Tim is hiding nothing?

Do the acts *truly* matter between them? With *their* history? "Please, Bruce --"

"Lay down," Bruce says, and takes his hands away from Tim's face.

Tim nods and does it, pushing off his shorts and settling himself on the mats. Bruce lies beside him and strokes Tim's chest -- Bart. No, not here, not *here*, even though he thinks he could come to hate this position if Bruce keeps touching him slowly, keeps --

Tim deliberately rubs his buttocks against the scratch of the mats --

And Bruce smiles behind his eyes. He knows *exactly* what Tim is doing. "Think of it as grounding," Tim says, and pulls Bruce's hand over to one of his nipples.

"Mm. At some point, I'd like for you to let me simply touch you, all over, until I know every part of you with my fingertips."

"Don't you already?"

"Much of my knowledge is clinical, Tim. Uncomfortable on a number of levels to try to... enjoy," Bruce says, taking his hand from under Tim's and bringing it to Tim's mouth. "Lick."

Tim does so, as slowly as he can. He already knows the taste of Bruce's hands -- he always will, now -- but he doesn't think he'll get tired of reaffirming the knowledge. And --

Bruce brings his wet fingers back to Tim's nipple and begins to twist and pinch. It's not gentle, but it isn't the lightning-sharp feel of their first time, either. It's a touch no one else has given him, and whether that was a matter of preference or of Tim managing to be distracting...

It's an *uncomfortable* sort of pleasure when it's this careful, vaguely feminizing, and a part of Tim wants to say something nasty about the makeup kits and dresses in another part of the Cave in self-defense -- no, he's tensing up again, and Bruce can see it in him --

Bruce twists hard and bends down to Tim's other nipple, licking and sucking. That's better, twisting a wire through him between his chest and his groin, heating it up like a coil... Tim cups the back of Bruce's head and arches into the touch -- earning a bite that just keeps going on, and on --

"Bruce, *yes* --"

And *on*, until Tim feels himself leaking more pre-come and digs the fingers of his free hand against the mats. Then Bruce moves to the other nipple and does the same thing, dragging his wet fingers down Tim's abdomen to tease at his navel.

Another wire to his penis, or maybe to the base of his spine -- "I like this. I -- I can *do* this -- ah --"

Bite, and Bruce hooks the tip of his finger *into* his navel, pulling and digging in a little, and Tim thinks of Clark's fingers inside him, Bruce's finger -

Tim groans and spreads his legs, planting his feet on the floor and pushing up against Bruce's touch, *taking* it --

"Open your eyes for me."

"Easier... easier to visualize with them *closed*," Tim says, and pushes his hands into Bruce's hair, pets *him* --

"Just the same," Bruce says, and pulls back from Tim's nipple. Tim opens his eyes, and Bruce's lips are wet and a little red...

Will Tim have suck-marks around his nipples? They'd be surrounded by the bite-marks which Connor found so intimidating...

Bruce pulls his finger from Tim's navel, pats him there and moves his hand to Tim's face, tracing a mask lightly -- and not avoiding the new bruise. The smile lurking around the edges of his wet mouth is wry.

"Yes, Bruce?"

"Tell me about your... adventures," he says, and strokes back down to Tim's navel, dips in and *tugs* --

"I -- really didn't expect that to feel that good --"

"It doesn't, for many. A lucky guess. Tim."

"Oh... do you really want to know? Or -- my room at the tower --"

"Thoroughly bugged, yes," Bruce says, and leans in to suck one of Tim's nipples again -- hard.

"Hnn... is this incentive? Bruce, if you hadn't watched --"

Bite -- but only a light one. No more than he can stand, no less than makes his hips work --

"Bruce, I need -- clarification," Tim says, and brings his hand to the nipple Bruce is currently mouthing -- gets his fingers caught and licked, sucked -- "Or. You stopped watching after a certain -- point."

Bruce pulls off Tim's fingers with a wet sound. "I stopped watching," he confirms -- only somewhat ambiguously. "And I want to know how you will talk about this, Tim. I..."

The kiss starts at his jawline and migrates slowly over Tim's chin, Bruce's tongue warm and wet in the space just beneath Tim's lower lip. Tim parts his lips, breathes --

Bruce pulls back again. And raises his eyebrow.

Tim laughs softly. "All right. I asked Clark to... detour before taking me to the Tower."

"After you had made *quite* sure that he would have... an interest."

"He'd been entirely... proper, before. I knew about his ongoing relationship with Dick, and Dick had told me a rather funny story about how Clark had... approached Jason..."

Bruce's eyes narrow with a very cold -- perhaps even cruel -- sort of pleasure.

Heh. Tim shifts -- winces pleasurably at the drag of the mats against his buttocks.

Bruce's eyes narrow a little bit more --

"I plan to learn Kryptonian. As much as is possible," Tim says, and strokes through the saliva on his own chin --

"Is *that* the sort of encounter you precipitated."

"It would be a mistake to ignore even a little about what has made Clark who he is, I think. Not to mention an unforgivable waste. *You* call him Kal."

Bruce strokes the length of Tim's thighs, the join of thigh to torso -- Bruce slides his thumb there, short nail catching Tim's abdomen, and --

Tim isn't sure why it makes him feel more naked, more *obvious*, but -- it does. He shifts again, and this time lets the wince become more of a hiss --

"Were you making love *for* me, Tim...?"

"Ah..." Bruce rests his hand on Tim's chest again, presses and strokes, warms him in the cool air of the Cave --

"Tell me."

"I wasn't... there was some need for investigation. Your files on Clark are exhaustive, but hardly *complete* --"

"Were you thinking of me when he took you with his tongue?" And Bruce cups Tim's penis in his hand -- squeezes *hard* --

"*Yes*, but I wasn't -- it quickly grew difficult not to focus on what was -- at hand. Ah. Bruce --"

"He told me, once, while we were both drugged... hmm," Bruce says, and leans in to suck Tim's nipple again, squeeze him and *suck* --

"What -- tell me. Please --"

Wet sound, almost a *slurp* -- and Bruce is meeting Tim's eyes again. "He told me how much he enjoyed that particular sexual act. There was nothing I could do to *stop* him from sharing that information. He said that anyone who offered him the opportunity... well."

Well, indeed. "You might've considered making your files more *complete*."

The wry look is back on Bruce's face. "Perhaps you'll correct the... oversight in your own records."

Put that way... all right, yes, he's being a little ridiculous. A little --

Bruce squeezes him again, strokes the underside of Tim's shaft with his index finger -- callus --

"Nn -- Anal intercourse."

Bruce *pauses*, and he's not -- quite -- looking at Tim.

Tim takes the opportunity to sit up on his elbows and raise his own eyebrow. "You're surprised."

"Yes."

Interesting, but... "I was hoping the two of us --"

Bruce takes his hand away from Tim's penis, and it's not quite worth another hiss, but Tim frowns, arches.

"Bruce --"

"You did not ask for that act with the *sole* purpose of making it available for *us*, Tim."

"Mm, no. Did you, perhaps, think I'd ask someone *else* for that?" Tim reaches down and cups his sac, works it between his fingers and lets his own eyes narrow. "I wanted someone with significant experience." And Clark was very, very good about leaving Tim too aroused to think very, very deeply --

The suspicion is back in Bruce's eyes. Tim sits up all the way, turns and wraps his arms around Bruce's neck, kneeling up to get them on something like the same level --

"I've been thinking about having you inside me, Bruce. We can... was my deduction about you *not* wanting to be my first in any way an incorrect one?"

"The way you chose to go about making sure that didn't happen, Tim..."

"We don't have to talk about anyone else," Tim says, and knee-walks over until he's straddling Bruce's thighs, until he can press himself against Bruce's abdomen -- he sighs, a little helplessly. "Or I could tell you everything. I *would* tell you everything."

Bruce closes his eyes and cups Tim's hips, strokes them slowly, gently --

"As soon as you figure out exactly what you want from me that I can give --"

Bruce's hands on his buttocks again, and Tim tenses -- forces himself to relax for it. He doesn't *want* to be braced -- and Bruce can feel that, know it... He opens his eyes again and just watches Tim as he pets Tim's rear, as he drags his fingertips over Tim's raw, hypersensitized skin.

Tim pants a little, swallows -- yes, *watch* me, he tries to say with all of himself. See me, have me. Let me give this to you --

"The -- Kon-El," Bruce says, and -- drags his nails over Tim's cheeks.

It's enough of an apology for Tim to ignore what was *almost* said. "Culmination. Sweetness -- the chance to watch him -- feel him use his power without overthinking, second-guessing --"

"Sweetness."

"I am a large --" Tim stops himself, licks his lips -- realizes his eyes are closed and opens them again, thinks about bright smiles and big, warm hands... "I'm a frighteningly large part of his existence. He was... he made me feel very..."

"Important? *Loved*," Bruce says, cupping him and pulling him close --

"He manages that nearly every time I see him. It -- he finds it easy, or -- no. It's natural to him. I've often considered him too... vulnerable."

Bruce hums. It's non-committal, but speaks of further thought which, really, can only be *useful*, ultimately...

"Bruce..."

"Kid Flash."

And that was almost an order, sharp and clipped... Tim looks a question at Bruce --

Bruce shakes his head and closes his eyes, opens them -- kisses Tim, hard and slow. His penis is slick between them, hot and hard, and Tim wonders how much of this he would've been able to *take* were he not...

Oversexed? Just sexed enough? Tim smiles into the kiss --

Bruce moans and sucks Tim's lower lip, and the upper -- kisses him again while pushing Tim *back* a little --

Ah and -- mm. Bruce wraps his hand around both of them, squeezes and strokes, and Tim wants a harder kiss, or a deeper one. He takes a breath and leans in against the hold Bruce has on him --

"Tim. Tell me."

"Oh... he's young. Brilliant and increasingly beautiful in a way which makes me... it's almost consumptive, or consuming --"

"He's very... lean. More so than you," Bruce says, and it's a question punctuated by the press of his penis against Tim's own, by the stroke which is making Tim *sweat* --

"Less trusting than he used to be, more aware of his effect on others -- conscious of every misstep. Too conscious --"

"Because he doesn't wholly trust you?"

Well, when he puts it like *that*... Tim laughs -- moans for Bruce's *hard* squeeze --

"That didn't mean you shouldn't answer," Bruce says, and he's annoyingly, horribly *clear*, focused even though his voice is rough and his breathing is... palpably uneven.

"I -- all right. You have a point. You -- oh, please, a little faster --"

"Open your eyes."

He hadn't *meant* to close them -- ah, the smile is a lazy thing, almost more of a *companion* to the curve of Bruce's lips, rather than entirely a part of it. Tim pants, licks *his* lips --

"Yes, Tim...?"

"The car --"

"The one you chose to appropriate," and Bruce's eyes are sharp and hungry, inviting --

"That one. Yes," Tim says, and Bruce loosens his hand just *enough* for Tim to thrust into it, drag himself against Bruce's penis. "He happened to bend over it. He was excited, curious. Avid as a... bird."

Bruce grunts and squeezes almost *painfully* hard, and Tim has to groan, but --

"Yes. *That*, Bruce. That's how he touches me, how he makes me *feel* --"

"I. I understand --"

And Tim has to kiss Bruce again, cup Bruce's face in his hands and tell him, show him, lick his tongue back into Tim's mouth where it belongs and *suck*.

Bruce gives it back to him, it feels like he's giving Tim everything with the kiss, and it almost makes his hand irrelevant.

This feels -- *is* -- closer to what Tim wants, to the potential between them, what they can just --

"Tim," Bruce says, and it's a call for attention, pause --

"Please, Bruce --"

"When you took him."

Tim hears himself make a sound he can't classify, harsh and high, protesting --

"Please. Tim."

He'd closed his eyes again. He -- he opens them and lets Bruce see the pleading in his eyes, the loss and need --

Bruce moans and never takes his gaze away, never stops *stroking*. "Please," he says again --

"It was a mistake. It was -- one of the best things I've ever felt. I couldn't stop. I couldn't -- I needed him so *much* --"

"You hurt him."

"*Yes*," Tim says and growls -- stops. "I'll never do that again. I -- his body won't *take* that, and possibly -- possibly it never will --"

"He wanted your pleasure. It gave him... Tim. Look at me."

He keeps closing his *eyes*, but this -- yes, he owes this to Bruce, too. His *shame* --

"I understand that, too."

Tim whimpers, bites his lip -- "Bruce --"

"It's all right, Tim. It's -- I promise you --"

"You *can't* promise that. You --" Tim shakes his head and thinks about blood, thinks about hot skin pressed against him, a high whispered voice begging him to be all right with what he'd done --

And Bruce's other hand is on his face, covering Jason's yellowing bruise, pressing against it just -- so.

Distraction, and a welcome one --

"Tim. There are always complications. This can't ever be -- you've made it seem easier than I could ever have imagined, but --"

"I know. I know. I -- I just can't think about that right now. I don't want to. Just."

"Just me, Tim?"

Tim closes his eyes on purpose this time, panting and -- how long has he been rocking his hips? Pushing into Bruce's fist, driving against -- oh, and now he can't stop feeling it, stop thinking about it --

"Tim."

"Yes. I --" Look at Bruce. Show him. *Show* him. "Just you -- no. Just *us*."

"I..." Bruce sighs and rocks his own hips. "I believe you now," he says, and the laugh is a breath, brief and a little staggering. A little --

Tim feels like he's swaying on his knees, like one good thrust would knock him over. *Bruce* --

"Thank you," Bruce says, low and serious, and then he strokes them both faster, hard and fast --

"I -- I -- wait --"

"*Just* this. For now," and the calluses are familiar, correct and tortuous. The strength of his hand, the power --

"For *now*," Tim says, and braces his hands on Bruce's shoulders, strokes them, feels the motion -- looks down between them at the beautiful obscenity of the two of them together, *pressed* together and leaking, pre-come shining in the light of the fluorescents --

"I can never -- never deny you --"

Different from a promise. Different -- oh -- That was more of an *accusation*, and it's in Bruce's eyes, now, the anger and the plea, the --

"Tim --"

The love, and Tim wants to be open for it, wants to be spread out and taken, stabbed with it, over and over, until it's the only thing he can feel, the only thing he *knows* -- "Ah -- *please* --"

"More. I know. I -- I *know*, Tim," and it's a growl, an order, promises and *threats*.

Tim reaches down and twines his fingers with Bruce's own, feels the slick heat the two of them are making and rides Bruce's hand, feels *that*, too, and it's not enough. Not --

And Bruce's other hand is in his hair, gripping it hard and holding Tim's head still -- *yes*. Let them look at each other --

Let himself fall into the expression in Bruce's eyes and think of shadows, black-covered hands and all the fear which never has to keep him from what he *wants* --

"Beautiful," Bruce says, rough and panting, voice coiling around the base of Tim's spine and maybe around everything that makes him who he is --

Holding him still --

Making him *take* it --

Tim moans -- shouts and spasms, jerks --

"*Yes*."

Coming hard and lost to it, spilling out everything for Bruce, for himself -- it drives him, making him awkward, needy and grasping --

"I'm here, Tim. I..." Bruce groans and the sound seems to yank Tim back into his body, seems to ground him, again -- *Bruce's* pleasure, and another quality of his own --

"Let me suck you, Bruce. Let me feel you again, in my mouth --"

"Tim..." And Bruce has let go of Tim and is squeezing himself viciously, eyes narrowed almost until they're closed --

"Say yes. Let me *have* this --"

"Yes," Bruce says, whispers -- and he sounds almost hurt, almost --

Tim's wincing for both of them, clumsy on his knees as he moves back just enough -- there. He doesn't bother to try to move Bruce's hand, just takes as much of Bruce as he can with it there, working himself until the head is moving against his palate, until Bruce's other hand is back in his hair --

"There's so little you have to... have to show, like this -- Tim..."

He hadn't thought about it that way. He hadn't -- Bruce is right, but that's not the only reason. Like this, he can still have some measure of control of himself even with Bruce inside him --

"*Control* --"

*Bruce* inside him, and no one else. No one else could know this much about him and still want --

"Oh, Tim... don't ever --" Bruce growls and pants, each breath catching on a low note.

Tim flushes and presses with his tongue, presses his lips against Bruce's big, hard fist and sucks, wonders, *wants* --

"I need you. I..."

He doesn't. He -- he *can't*, and if he knew -- if he understood, he couldn't -- he can't *know*. Tim has to have this, has to keep it for himself --

"Tim," and Bruce's hand is shaking -- both of Bruce's hands are shaking, on his head and against his mouth --

He wants to take Bruce *deep*, wants to hold Bruce in his throat and make him feel the way Tim does when the black takes him, wants to share all the warmth and perfection --

Sweetness, even here, even now, and why hadn't he known that was possible? Why had he tried to hold himself *back*?

And Bruce is silent now, still and heavy on Tim's tongue, heavy with the potential for even more, always *more*. Tim braces his hands on Bruce's thighs --

Bruce's thumb is restless and hard on the back of Tim's neck --

The taste of his own semen, of Bruce's pre-come -- Bruce's slick-sticky hand tracing his lips now, Bruce giving him *room* --

Tim moans and goes down further, swallowing -- choking off his own moan and curling his fingers against Bruce's thighs, scratching at them because he can, because they're as big and hard as everything, absolutely everything Tim needs --

For now --

Bruce gasps, twitches in Tim's mouth --

Comes down Tim's throat, *gripping* the back of Tim's neck and pumping his hips once, again --

Again --

Tim swallows and fights for it, tries to keep from getting lost for the taste as Bruce pulls out and spills on his tongue --

Pulls Tim *back*. "*Bruce* --"

Bruce throws his head back. He's trying to get his breathing under control, and the hand not locked on Tim's neck is clenched into a fist.

Tim has to admit the view is a bit... spectacular. Certainly warming. All right, he can live with not being able to stay on, but -- "That's a reflex you're going to have to work on."

Bruce hums a laugh -- and unclenches his fist.

Mm. "I was *busy*, Bruce --"

"Tim," Bruce says, and looks forward again. His eyes are a little too wide -- no, his pupils are blown.

Tim smiles. "Really, Bruce. It was just inconsiderate," Tim says, and twists his neck until Bruce -- relaxes his grip. He doesn't let go.

"I've been a tyrant. Possessive. Unfair."

"Your cruelty would make stone weep," Tim says, and moves close again, wrapping his arms around Bruce's neck. "All the other vigilantes pity me, and remark upon my fortitude."

"Hm," Bruce says, and raises an eyebrow.

Why, yes, that *was* almost entirely true...

Bruce leans in and catches Tim's lower lip between his teeth.

Mm. More?

Bruce lets go. "Shower. Patrol."

"And when we get back...?"

Bruce kisses him softly and wraps his arm around Tim's back -- *lifts* them both until Tim's toes are just brushing the floor. Oh, yes. Tim hitches himself higher, wrapping his legs around Bruce's waist again and letting Bruce walk them to the showers.

The kiss -- the *tension* in Bruce's mouth --

Bruce is smiling, just a little, and -- perhaps Tim can let Bruce haul him around like this --

Sometimes. *Just* sometimes. Not something to make a habit out of by any means, but... Tim pulls back enough to *just* kiss the curve of Bruce's smile, slow and lingering. *Some* things need encouragement.

Bruce turns on two of the showers, bites Tim's *cheek* -- and sets Tim down on his feet.

Actual ablutions, yes. Tim sets himself under the spray and wonders if he's washing the last of the Tower from himself for another week. He's certainly not washing away *Bruce* --

"Connor Hawke."

Heh. Tim does not lose his grip on the soap. "I don't suppose you appreciated that call from Green Arrow."

"On the contrary," Bruce says, and catches Tim's eye from the side. "It was a singular experience to be told that I needed to keep my *boy* on a *leash*."

"He really doesn't seem to care for me very much."

"Hmm. I wonder what he'll say to me when he finds out about you and Roy Harper."

When, not if... well, yes. He's a Titan, and that sort of thing *will* get around, even though he's quite sure *Connor* won't say a word. "I imagine it will be... colorful. Vivid, even."

"I would ask you to try to avoid involving me in your future liaisons, but I understand that could prove difficult. When you turn your attentions to the Lanterns, or perhaps the JSA..."

Tim chokes on a laugh. "Bruce, I really wasn't --"

"Hn." Bruce shows his teeth. "Tell me about Hawke."

"You know the two of us have been corresponding for years, now --"

"Tim."

Hmm. "He's staggeringly beautiful, of course. Graceful, talented, polite. Open. Warm and loving. Retiring, but not precisely shy... hungry in ways he'd rather deny. Rather *want* to deny," Tim says, and thinks about deep green eyes, a soft mouth, a deft *touch*...

"You were his first."

"Bart's, too, but... yes, it's different. He was unsure of himself and his own desires --"

"You were ruthless," Bruce says, and sluices his hair. "Do *not* try to deny it."

Well -- but -- "If he had asked me to stop, I would have --"

Bruce catches his gaze again. Holds it.

"All right, not the point. I think -- I hope I convinced him that there was little percentage in that sort of self-denial. He could hardly center himself while he was busy resenting his need for *touch*."

Bruce hums a laugh. "You might have chosen to meditate with him. Perhaps have a conversation."

Tim bends his own head under the spray. "I got the opportunity to work with him, Bruce, and even patrol a little of Star City. It was... thrilling, if not precisely a partnership."

"Mm. He has always been... quite professional," Bruce says, and --

Yes, Bruce *had* worked with him. Closely, for a brief time... Tim raises the eyebrow nearest to Bruce.

"I never said I didn't understand the attraction, Tim. He was an excellent member of the League. A conciliatory influence," and Bruce turns off the water.

Tim turns off his own and imagines, idly, Bruce's hand on Connor's face, a pale thumb pressing hard against that mouth, a hitched breath...

"I'm not sure I want to know what you're thinking, Tim."

Tim smiles. "Then don't ask."

*


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