Tim works from the center of his portion of the city toward Grant Park, mostly targeting dealers and doing his best to keep an eye on the runners and lookouts. Many of them get away from him as he's handling their superiors, but he manages to catch a few.

They're defiant to a one, though a couple are obviously terrified. Many of the actual dealers have some degree of experience with one or more of them, but the children aren't used to that kind of attention.

If he can frighten *any* of them out of this life... hm.

He catches one on a rooftop just as he's gearing up for a leap across the gap between the buildings. He'd looked around twelve as he was running, but once Tim spins him around, he can see the boy is just large for his age --

Tim dodges the spit the boy aims at his face and bends him backwards over the balustrade, bracing him with his legs and with a grip on his throat. So long as he doesn't struggle too much... "What's. Your. Name."

"F-fuck you!"

"*Name*," Tim says, and squeezes a little harder. "Now."

"You can't do this, I'm a *kid* --"

"You're trying my patience. I hurt people when I'm impatient."

"Tyler! My name's Tyler --"

"Last name. Quickly."

"B-B-Brandon."

"Your mother's name," Tim says, and it doesn't take long to get a fair view of the boy's history and home life, as well as to give him the sense that Tim will be watching him.

There are no drugs on his person, and he doesn't know the location of any stash houses, but it's possible -- even probable -- that he'll talk to his friends, maybe get one or two of them to stay off the street... no, it won't work that way, and he knows it.

There's no real reason for this beyond -- urge. Tim lets the boy go and dives off the rooftop. He needs a real body count for the night, another stash house takedown or something similar, something to give him a foundation to steady himself on when he goes to Ivy.

He heads for the gang territories, groups with organization, money -- a lot of targets to take down, quick and efficiently. There aren't too many guns on the street tonight -- something which always makes his job easier, but there also aren't a lot of opportunities for interrogation.

For some reason his targets really want to put up a fight, want to *push* him, and... hm.

It's definitely possible that word had gotten around about the stash house he'd given Narcotics, that certain of the more ruthless gang leaders would tell their people to get themselves beaten unconscious rather than talk --

Tim dodges a very accurate knife slash, drops and gets a leg-sweep on the lump of muscle currently trying to make Tim's night difficult. The knife skitters down the alley, toward the sound of running feet. This one has backup on the way, probably because of the lookout Tim hadn't been able to stop.

Tim growls and gets back to his feet, kicking the man in the ribs to keep him down and turning to face the new threat with two batarangs in his hand. Guns, this time -- but they don't last.

Neither does his time to prepare. Three opponents, all larger and more inclined toward lethal force. Tim readies himself --

Two opponents, because Jason is sharing the alley with him, and that loud crack was the sound of a bone being broken. Jason's target screams, and Tim turns to the other two, striking and moving, striking and striking again, trying to keep *one* capable of talking --

Jason takes the target on his left, dropping him with a blow to the back of the head the man had no time to see coming.

Tim kicks the last man hard, bouncing him off the wall of the alley. Jason readies himself, and Tim gives him a wait gesture they both know from Bruce. The only question --

Jason stands down.

Tim closes the distance between himself and the man sliding down the wall, pushes him down fast, and steps on his crotch. "Stash house."

"Shit, I'm not gonna tell you -- *fuck* --"

The steel is in the *heel* of Tim's boot, but pressure is pressure. "I can tell you right now -- I'm not going to cripple you for life."

Jason shifts behind Tim, probably disapproving --

"Well, I'm not going to *try* to cripple you for life," Tim says. "This kind of work isn't always exact --"

"Fuck you, you fucking fairy -- *agh* --"

"I've got your testicles in a tough spot, in case you hadn't noticed. How even is the ground beneath them? Is there maybe a rock or piece of broken bottle down there?"

The man bites his lip and shakes his head. There's sweat beading on his brow and his nose is bleeding -- only a little. Tim strikes down and breaks it -- wait -- oh, hell.

He's slipping again. He's -- but. But. "I didn't mean to do that. It just seemed like a good idea at the time."

Jason laughs behind him, quiet and -- *pleased*.

"You should really tell me where the stash house is. I'm not having the best night," Tim says, and the man stills --

Acts like he's reaching for his nose --

Tim *grinds* down with his foot, and the scream overpowers the street sounds, makes the rest of the world seem watchful and quiet... "Talk now."

"Two -- two doors down. Nine forty-four --"

"Good boy," Tim says, stepping back --

And Jason pushes past him and kicks the man in the head, dropping him instantly.

Tim winces. "That was dangerous and unnecessary."

"Funny how that would've gone down better *before* you broke that fucker's nose, birdboy," Jason says, and smiles at him. Cups Tim's *shoulder*.

"I --"

"Didn't mean to do that. I know. There's a special kind of thrill about being honest with a perp, don't you think?"

Tim closes his eyes behind the mask. He'd slipped, and Jason saw it, and Jason was making -- *is* making -- the kind of assumptions about him which are too true to be comfortable --

"Don't punk out on me now," Jason says, and pats Tim's shoulder with the kind of open, friendly companionship which wouldn't be at all out of place with *Kon*. "Why don't we see what this *nice* man just gave us for Christmas."

Tim's aware now. *Conscious* now, and he can't help turning the statement over and over to look for something problematic, something he should protest, at least pro forma --

"Seriously, kid --"

There's nothing. "Just going over my... schedule," Tim says, and knows it was weak by the non-plussed look on Jason's face, the impatience with him, and --

("Never lie to him.")

"All right, no, I was 'punking out.' I really don't know why I --"

"You broke 'im, fast and thoroughly, with barely any damage to speak of. Nothing to freak Daddy out. *I* used to do that kind of thing all the time while he *watched*," Jason says, and the impatience is clear in his tone --

Tim nods. He can see it. He *has* seen it, really, and it's not like they're *less* brutal on the streets now, overall. There are all sorts of people who force them to use things Bruce had only taught them in case things became really bad, really *dangerous*. The fact that Tim has to use some of them as much as once a week...

"C'mon now, birdboy. Work it out. You're supposed to be the *quick* one," and Jason squeezes Tim's shoulder again, pressing in confidence, want, and something like the *hunt*. Tim wants.

Tim *wants*, and Bruce wants this for him, to at least some degree. *Batman* doesn't but -- "Let's play."

"Heh. After *you*," Jason says, stepping back and into a little bow as he gestures toward the mouth of the alley.

Tim moves.

Two doors down is a building Tim had previously marked out as a squatter's nest, and one of the better ones in the city. The windows are bricked up rather than boarded, and it had been a decent place to see out a Gotham winter. Now it's tagged and the entrance is surrounded by cigarette butts -- Newports -- and empty 40s. The muscle currently dozing uncomfortably in the alley had come from *right* here, and when Tim checks his memory for his initial scan of the street...

Yes, he'd seen them. He just hadn't cared.

Inside, the smell of old urine is almost covered by the smell of bleach and other disinfectants. This place had been used to *process* the drugs --

"Busy, busy little brownstone," Jason murmurs, and drags his gloved fingers along the wall.

"Indeed," Tim says, and keeps moving -- there. A rickety old table, surprisingly long and once of very good quality, indeed. Stacks and bags and more bags, and the haul *isn't* as good as the one he'd gotten last week -- there's no money to be seen -- but... "Mm."

"You ever think about how much of this stuff just walks itself right out of the evidence lockup downtown, birdboy?"

"Too many people live around here to make it safe to burn it," Tim says, and pulls the night's burner cell -- and gets smacked on the head. Almost lightly. Stating the obvious. All right. "Forgive me if I don't always trust you to keep the safety of your fellow man close to your heart, Jason."

"You should know by now -- civilians don't have a damned thing to fear from me."

"Except in terms of whatever loved ones they may have who *aren't* civilians."

"Details," Jason says, and the smile bobbing and weaving around the corners of Jason's mouth says it's more than that, says he's *amused*. And that...

Tim makes sure Jason can *see* him watching, see him paying *attention* before he calls in the tip to Narcotics, referencing last week's haul just to make *sure*...

"*You* need a contact there if you're gonna keep this up," and Jason hefts a g-pack before letting it fall, once more. In a way, *that* was stating the obvious, which means there was more there than just what was stated -- ah.

"You'd like it if I did."

"You people *react* too much," Jason says, moving into Tim's space, absolutely heedless of anything Tim might do -- no, his body is loose and easy, making a simple slight loom into a ready position, non-standard but doubtlessly effective.

Impressive, especially since Tim is reasonably sure he's doing it unconsciously. Something to learn from --

"What is it now?"

"Admiring your form," Tim says, entirely honestly. "You could take me a dozen ways -- more -- from that position, despite the fact that you *seem* off-balance, even a little agitated. Passionate."

The frown makes it to Jason's forehead -- pauses there. "Jesus, you're a freak."

Tim smiles. "What can I say? You're inspiring me to actually *use* my powers of observation," he says, and thinks -- *finally*. Where *was* he tonight? Lack of fear can only explain so much, only *forgive* so much --

"Really. Well *my* powers of observation are telling me that you're getting a little tangled up in your own head, again, birdboy --"

"I messed *up* tonight, Jason --"

"Tim," Jason says, and the smile that steals over his face is avid, sharp and more than a little cruel. "How did that feel...? Tell the truth now."

The truth... Tim suspects Jason's expression would be entirely different if the truth wasn't written all over his *face*. Tim -- closes his mouth. *Presses* his lips together --

Jason catches him by the jaw -- lets go and strokes a line through the center of the bruise he'd left on Tim's cheek with two fingers. "Keep it up for me, birdboy. Show me what you can do."

Bruce. *Bruce* -- "Say my name again. Let me --"

Jason shows his teeth. It's a smile, but the word is too small for the pleasure on Jason's face. The *triumph* -- "Tim."

Tim lets his eyes narrow behind the mask, and wonders -- no, he knows Jason can see it. *Feel* it, along with all that history they don't -- quite -- share. His own training has had so much to do with Jason's *death*. His *life* has been Jason's death, but -- there's more.

There's so *much* more, and Tim can't deny --

("I will never deny you.")

Tim turns and walks out, giving Jason his back again, showing him everything he can, because this is serious, even though it feels like the best possible game. This is the only real game in *town*, and it doesn't matter that Kon would never understand, that Bart would be a little hurt, and maybe a little lost --

This is Gotham, and when Tim gets back out on the street, he only spares a few moments to drag *one* of the unconscious guards out of the shadows to make sure they'll get medical attention. It's enough, and Jason's already in flight. Tim follows --

And finds Jason on a rooftop which overlooks the stash house. He's crouched in perfect stillness, but the impatience -- the *desire* is obvious. Tim crouches at his side because he *can*, because he hasn't really *smelled* Jason tonight, taken any of him into himself --

Leather, but not like Connor's. Gun oil and big, clean *male* -- he'd been working before this, just enough to work up a little sweat. Will there be signs of what he'd done?

How much will Tim *care*?

"I was thinking we could take a bite out of the Massive next," Tim says, quiet and careful.

"*Were* you, now...?"

"Jason," Tim says, for no reason at all, or maybe just to change the silence between them, *charge* it and make it as heavy as he feels between his legs, as needful --

"You think I needed to hear that from you? You think I don't already know what you want? *Everything* you want from me?" Jason doesn't look away from the street, doesn't shift, doesn't -- the smile is back on his face. "How did a nice little boy like you *ever* get so hungry?"

"I *could* give you the psychological run-down I've done on myself -- or the one B left on the computers for me to see, if you'd prefer --"

Jason snorts. "Careless of him around a hacker."

"Oh, I think he did it on purpose. Just to make sure I knew he... understood."

*That* makes the smile slip, just a little, makes Jason start to turn -- stop. And tense, just a little.

*His* Bruce wouldn't have taken such a roundabout path. The one Tim left in the Cave is a very different story. "I *am* hungry, Jason. All the time. I can distract myself from it, and even push it down, sometimes, but it never, ever goes away. Never *leaves* me."

Jason is silent, and watchful with every inch of his person. It makes the space between Tim's shoulder blades itch.

It makes Tim want to be naked. "Jason," Tim says, again, and exhales long and slow.

It takes about two more minutes for four radio cars to show up, and then there are two unmarked cars. One of the uniforms scans the rooftops and Jason smiles from within their shadow, waggling his fingers in a greeting the uniform won't be able to see.

Once they're inside -- a few of the uniforms move for the alley, instead -- it's time to move.

Jason takes point. They are, technically, moving closer to Grant Park, but now it's more of a spiral than a direct line. The BTM have pockets of control all over the city, working more like a collection of terror cells than a gang.

One day, perhaps, there'll be real Federal consequences and attention for gangs as powerful as the BTM, but it won't happen until they start branching outside of Gotham. That's just how the world works, and it's why *Gotham* is always so hungry, always needs them just that much.

It's not hard to find their street people, but there's only so far up the chain you can get just by talking to them. The trick is to find the mid-level people, the ones who can call in the troops -- and get the attention of the actual suppliers.

To that end, they have to work *quietly*, striking hard and fast and getting to the people with the *good* guns -- and the most burners.

The street-level dealers won't break easily -- Tim already knows that they have far more to fear from their bosses than they do from him... but it doesn't have to be that way.

Tim goes after the runners and lookouts while Jason sets down to work, restraining them in the shadows with their burners broken to shards beneath Tim's heel.

When he gets back to where they'd started, Jason has a likely one up against a wall with a gun to his head.

"Somehow -- and I know you'll find this downright odd, birdboy -- this one seems to think I won't pull the trigger," Jason says, and everything in his stance says show me, prove it to me, *show* me --

Tim moves close and presses two fingers against the gun barrel. Jason lets him move it until it's pointed at one of the man's eyes, the other, back again... "It can be so hard to make people understand, sometimes," Tim says, and taps the barrel.

Jason moves it until it's pointed at the man's temple again. "You're *so* right. I don't know, though. We could always try to be a little educational about this. Make ourselves *clear*," and it would be the perfect moment for Jason to click off the safety -- if he hadn't already.

The target is stone-faced and staring into the middle-distance. He's perfectly calm, as befits a BTM lieutenant.

"You think so? I mean, there's something to be said for giving people what they *do* understand," Tim says, and moves to make a triangle with their target at the apex.

Jason cocks his head to the side and drags the barrel down the side of the target's face -- and back up again. "Maybe you should demonstrate for me."

"Oh, all right," Tim says, and rips out the man's earring --

The target hisses, eyes squeezed shut and knees buckling slightly.

"Like that," Tim says, and bounces the bloody hoop in his palm.

"Oh, yeah, that was pretty old-fashioned," Jason says, and waits for the target to stand up straight again before using the gun to crack the man's cheekbone. "Is that more like what you meant?"

"Indubitably. Cover his mouth --"

The target makes a move --

Which ends with Jason bouncing his head off the wall. "That wasn't very bright, Mr. Drug Dealer," Tim says, and waits for Jason to get his free hand over the target's mouth. Tim notes that the man doesn't try to bite, or fight it again...

And so he only *dislocates* the man's kneecap with his kick. He wouldn't have shattered it. He wouldn't --

Oh, but Jason is watching him now without turning or moving a muscle. He's *watching*, and smiling... Tim steadies himself. "We know you don't know the location of any stash houses. But we also know that you know who does."

There are tears in the target's eyes, a shake in his hands -- the stink of fear. They still haven't made the man urinate on himself, and he hadn't screamed. Something to consider. Something to --

Jason punches the target hard in the stomach and the man doubles over, coughs, *hitches* --

They give him room to vomit.

"You really should consider talking to us," Tim says, once the target is down to dry heaves.

Jason grabs him by the throat and lifts, slamming him back against the wall.

"Everything we've done, so far, is relatively easily repaired -- though you'll be off your feet -- and feed -- for a while," and he pulls the shuriken off his chest, and -- pauses. The 'R' in his hand is a weapon, but it's also more than that.

*Bigger* than that --

Jason shifts, but Tim had caught him looking. He knows. They both know. But this -- it's still not pushing as hard as they could. Tim slices a thin red line along the target's unwounded cheek --

"Shit! It's Shaheed Benjamin! I don't know where he is! I don't *know*!"

"But you know where he could be," Tim says, and makes the bloody shuriken dance over his fingers.

The target gives up and offers them three locations. Two are apartments of the man's girlfriends -- almost certainly in *their* names -- and the third is a local restaurant Tim already knew was much favored by the local heavies.

The man is crying now, shaking with the need to see just how badly Tim had cut him, most probably...

Jason lets him drop, and -- doesn't kick. Tim knows that he's waiting for Tim to offer the coup de grace. Tim drops into a crouch and flicks the man's torn ear. "You're damaged goods, now. If I see you in Gotham again, it will probably be your bullet-riddled corpse," and Tim traces a line under the man's jaw until he's looking into the blank eyeholes of Tim's mask. "Limp fast."

And when Tim stands up, Jason is looking at him like...

It's the way Tim had always imagined, back when he'd held every dream and glimpse and fantasy of Jason close within himself, hidden away from the object lesson Bruce -- *Batman* -- had tried to make of him.

A boy like him.

And the empty place inside him wants him to shiver, to back away from this, say something or *do* something to build a wall between them --

Jason holsters his gun, slowly and deliberately. His lips are parted and his head is tilted back, just slightly. He isn't quite offering his throat to Tim over the bleeding body between them. He isn't --

"Let's go," Tim says, more to keep himself from losing the thread entirely than to really --

Motion helps. It always does, and this is something *Dick* had taught him -- no, Dick has no place in this. Not now. Not...

He'd crossed no real line but his own, and he'd done it to... it hadn't all been a lie, that song and dance about old ways and new. There *is* a middle ground between Jason's methods and what had been his own -- no. He'll go back to it, he'll *manage*, but ---

There's a middle *ground*, and it's worth the sacrifice of his own sense of self to find it, and his own internal comfort. He hadn't wanted to know how easy it would be to do that, but now he does, and there's no losing that information, no way to fudge or soften the data.

He hadn't wanted to know how much he could enjoy it, how little, ultimately, that enjoyment would have to do with Jason's opinion. The feel of the shuriken parting that man's skin --

How well it had *worked* --

They watch the apartment building where the first girlfriend lives for a little while, long enough to see her moving behind the windows. Long enough to know that she's alone in there. It's gratifying that Jason is willing to put in the time to double-check, and very kind of the woman to have all of her lights on. They don't have to frighten her.

They hit paydirt at the second apartment -- the tricked-out SUV parked in front of a hydrant is a dead giveaway. Tim plants a bug under the bumper just in *case* the man somehow manages to get away from them both while Jason looks for the best -- and most effective -- way in.

Taking out the door would unduly punish the civilians living in this -- quite attractive -- building, but roof access is chancy unless one of them stays and tries to keep an eye on both the fire escape and the front door.

The fire exit, Tim has already seen, is illegally chained.

Tim keeps an eye on as much as he can --

Jason gestures to him from the fire escape. They go up quick and silently, and Tim sees that Jason had found them an open window. The night isn't quite warm enough for that, but it's possible that the woman just enjoys fresh air. Jason uses a less showy knife than his usual to slice through the screen, and they enter the kitchen.

It's clean enough to hardly ever be used -- lots of take-out containers in the trash. The voices are coming from the back of the apartment, and there's also low, slow music. R&B.

Jason takes point as they move through the apartment, as light on his feet as the boy he used to be really wasn't. Maybe Tim wouldn't have felt quite this way about the boy he was then.

Maybe he wouldn't have needed so much to understand or be understood -- that boy had had a Bruce Tim has never known, and never will, and, as such... there wouldn't have been a way in for *him*.

Would there?

Does the question even matter, anymore?

Tim thinks he can still smell blood and vomit from earlier, even though he'd tossed the earring, cleaned the 'R,' and had managed to avoid stepping in anything --

In the bedroom, a woman who is almost certainly Darya Jackson is sipping cognac and dancing to the music for Benjamin, who is naked on the bed. They haven't noticed Jason or his gun, yet -- Jason clears his throat.

Benjamin reaches for the nine millimeter on the night table. Tim puts a batarang in his shoulder and watches the man's hand drop to the bed. "Miss Jackson," Tim says, "you should consider putting on a robe and leaving now."

She spares a glance for her boyfriend and leaves at speed.

Tim turns to Jason and raises an eyebrow behind the mask.

Jason shows his teeth. "The little freak here with me just tortured one of your men into giving you up. Oh, I helped a little, but, in the end, it was his show. It's my turn, now."

"You think I'm afraid of you motherfuckers? Ain't neither of you the *Bat*."

"Oh, how right you are," Jason says, pulling and tossing one of his knives in one smooth motion. It enters Benjamin's other shoulder and lodges there, while the man makes a sound like someone trying to lift something impossibly heavy.

Benjamin reaches for the knife -- tries to. The batarang had immobilized his other arm -- "I'm not saying one fucking *word*!"

"Funny how they always seem to say one version of that or another," Tim says, and folds his arms under his cape.

"You'd think they'd *learn*," Jason says --

And now there's a knife pinning the man's hand to the bed. Jason's gun hand never so much as wavers.

"I already *know* you won't fucking --" Benjamin's shriek seems to shake the mirrors on the walls and ceiling. He isn't hurt badly -- Jason's knife had merely nicked his ear on the way past -- but Tim supposes he would've been tempted to make a noise for that, too.

When the echoes fade, Tim can hear blood pattering on the bed and the sound of Benjamin panting. He wouldn't have risen so far in the BTM hierarchy if he couldn't take pain -- and if he didn't know exactly what happened to people who couldn't keep their mouths shut around cops or vigilantes.

Tim has never seen him on the street, and has only a vague sense of the man's criminal history. They've never gone after him, because there has never been any proof -- however intangible -- of his involvement in murder, extortion, prostitution...

He has a bright future with the Massive.

He'd *had* a bright future. "Mr. Benjamin," Tim says, "whatever happens here tonight, your... career is finished. You're going to talk. The only question is whether that will happen before or after we've crippled you for *life*."

"As an example," Jason says, and moves fast, hard -- he drives a knife through Benjamin's left foot with a crunch which makes Tim want to wince.

He doesn't. "You still have one good limb, Mr. Benjamin."

Benjamin is panting like a bellows now, shaking and staring hard at nothing. The whites are showing all around his eyes.

"We don't *have* to leave you with that good limb," Jason says. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I don't *want* to --"

"Wait! Please! I don't even know what you want!"

"The money. The drugs. The names of the businesses doing your dirty laundry," Tim says, and watches the knife jerk in Benjamin's shoulder every time the man takes a deep breath --

"I - I *can't* --"

Jason's punch breaks the man's nose. The screams probably have less to do with that than they do with the way falling back to the bed makes his wounds pull and bleed, but they are screams just the same.

"Your life in my city is *over*," Jason says, and presses hard against the break with two fingers. "Tell us what we want to know."

Benjamin spits blood and saliva on the bed, shakes -- whimpers and flails, a little --

Jason yanks Tim's batarang out of the man's shoulder and tosses it to him. Tim wipes it off on the duvet before tucking it back away.

And Benjamin gives up names, addresses -- so much that Tim has to make sure it's all recording. Every few minutes, Jason pulls out one of his blades and uses Tim's supply of bandages to field-dress the wounds while Benjamin sobs and begs and Tim looks on in an approval that feels helpless and heavy. Thick and muffling, desperate --

In the end, Jason leaves the knife in the man's foot.

Before they leave, Tim has Jackson call 911. With the money the man has stashed away, he'll be able to afford excellent physical therapy. Assuming he gets out of Gotham alive.

Tim feels...

He isn't sure how he feels, other than a little trapped in something which feels too much like his own skin --

It's confusing, warming. It's sweat in the hollow of his spine and the feel of Jason at his back, at his side.

It's the knowledge that he'd just given the GCPD Narcotics division its biggest bust of the year, and the knowledge that he'd cost the BTM an incredible amount of money. They'll be gunning for all of them now -- harder than ever -- but that just means that they'll be able to *focus* more on everything the BTM does to damage Gotham and the people living there.

It's --

It's the knowledge that he'd crossed a line -- another -- when he'd taken Benjamin's shoulder, just as he'd also given Jason a template to work from, a way to keep him from killing the man, or even shooting out his kneecaps. Or his spine.

Tim closes his eyes behind the mask, and keeps them closed. He just needs a moment to *think*, or --

Jason's hands on his shoulders. They've found another shadowy rooftop. Below them on the street a stash house full of drugs and *guns* is being taken apart by the GCPD. Here, there are shadows.

Touch. Tim keeps his eyes closed.

Jason squeezes. "I asked you to show me something, birdboy."

"You knew what you were going to see."

"I'm pretty fucking good at reading people, yeah. But that... tonight..." Jason strokes down Tim's arms and -- leans in.

Hot breath on Tim's ear --

"How much have you been hiding from yourself, Tim? How good does it feel to let it out?"

"Jason --"

"Don't worry. You're not suddenly going to wake up with a gun in your hand and some asshole dealer's brains drying on your face. It doesn't work that way."

"Tell me how it works. I."

"One day at a time, one step at a time, and the eventual realization that there are no good vigilantes and no bad ones. Just the trained ones and the future... victims," Jason says, and breathes against Tim's ear -- presses close and nuzzles.

"Ah -- I won't. I won't become you."

"And I won't become you. But you bent over backwards to show me a nice, big grey area to play in tonight. Don't think I... heh. Don't appreciate the effort," and Jason tugs a little on the spikes on Tim's gauntlet, strokes down a little further and taps Tim's palms through the material.

An invitation to a simpler hunger, to accept -- live in -- a truth Jason already knows. Confirms for himself, perhaps, when he puts his hands on Tim's waist and Tim shivers --

("Make love to him.")

"Nobody can stand up to torture. Not if you know anything about what you're doing," Jason says, and tugs Tim back against himself.

Tim should be warmer than he is, should *feel* more than he does. The uniform is in the way. He -- the uniform should never feel extraneous, and it doesn't, quite, but --

"It will always be there as an option, and the gangs are going to figure that out... but there's nothing they can do about it. If they start torturing and killing their own people more than they already do..."

"They lose loyalty. Credibility," Tim says, and covers Jason's hands with his own. The material of his gloves creates a thick sort of silence as Tim's gauntlets rub and catch --

"They have to walk a very fine and sharp little line," Jason says, and his smile is a slick drag against Tim's ear. "They have to be big, bad, and scary... but they also have to take care of their own people. *We*... only have to make things difficult for them."

"Taking down the street-dealers... isn't enough," Tim says, and thinks about the long nights he's spent doing just that, about the time he's spent restraining people who wind up arrested and released within days. Hours.

"Action vs. reaction, and you already know which one you've been doing. Fucking around with the small fry while the sharks eat up the city one bite at a time..."

"The muggings, the assaults and armed robberies --"

"All important, I won't deny it. But how many of those perps are high on something? *Trying* to get high on something?"

Tim frowns and squeezes Jason's hands -- Jason doesn't stop stroking his way up Tim's chest. On the street below, there are even more officers present. A lieutenant or two, and Tim definitely recognizes a captain. "We can't erase the drug problem. So long as there are people willing to pay, there will be dealers --"

"Smaller ones. Pockets of infection -- as opposed to cancers."

"Lots of small gangs mean lots of turf wars --"

Jason squeezes Tim's obliques through the suit. "And what kind of peace have you brought by letting the BTM and others run wild? Civilians afraid to walk down their own streets at night, kids with a choice between locking themselves up in a million different little apartment-prisons or running for the gangs. Or did you like terrorizing that kid tonight?"

Ivy. If the children have another option, if they have other *chances* --

Jason bites Tim's ear, and -- it's not like there was any large degree of deniability two minutes ago, but every bit that was left is gone, now. Obliterated with the hot swipe of Jason's tongue. "Why don't you tell me more about that hunger of yours, birdboy? That itch Daddy won't scratch..."

And *that* -- Tim draws himself up a little straighter. "Did you think we talked about you over tea and scones, Jason? Or did you just think he warned me away from you?"

Jason stills, palpably, hands tightening on Tim's body. From this position, Tim could do some serious damage to Jason's shins and, perhaps, his feet. It would be a mistake to aim for his midsection -- Tim doesn't have nearly enough power to make that *count* with Jason --

Is Jason considering his own possible moves? Is he thinking about the danger of this or just thinking about what Tim had said? Tim takes a breath. "He told me -- ordered me -- never to lie to you, by commission or omission. And I think you have a very wrong idea about me and... B."

Jason lets go and steps back. "Enlighten me."

Tim turns to face him and gets a little -- not lost. That's not the word for this feeling, for the way it *strikes* at Tim to watch Jason letting the shadows eat his features again, to watch Jason's body become nothing but a weapon again --

"Talk."

"He likes it when I talk about you. I imagine it was much the same when he monitored your relationship with Dick," Tim says, and deliberately moves back into Jason's space. Within *range*. "A sense of yourself as -- along with everything else -- a proxy."

Jason doesn't say anything, but one of his hands is clenched into a fist, now...

Tim covers it with his own hand. "I like it. It makes me feel... closer to him. Closer to everything I wanted back when I was only watching. Stalking."

Silence.

"He told me, of course, that I shouldn't let his desires color my encounters with you, but *we* know that's several different varieties of impossible, don't we, Jason? And besides... I wouldn't be nearly as attractive to you as I am without *his* cachet. His mark on me, bloodied and a little obscured by your own."

Jason's teeth flash, once, and that's all the warning Tim gets before --

Nothing. Or, rather, the punch that might've loosened a few teeth stops before it reaches his face. Tim's block would've been too late -- and too soft, besides.

"What the fuck are you trying to pull with me, kid?"

"No secrets between us. No lies," Tim says, and strokes the fist that's still at Jason's side, curls his fingers around. "That kind of thing can really *hurt* a family, Jason --"

"Don't fuck around --"

"He misses you. I can give you to him, one bruise at a time. I can give him *hope* --"

"You *love* him," Jason says, and it's an accusation and a sneer, it's disbelief that anyone could be so *stupid* -- and it's grief.

"Easier than the alternative. More *productive*, ultimately -- I don't belong to him."

Jason -- finally -- rips his hand away from Tim's own. His laugh is derisive and brief. "And you believe that?"

Tim shows his own teeth. "As much as I believe that you're free of him, now."

This time the laugh has humor in it, but it's the kind that sounds more than a little painful.

"Jason --"

"He'll never forgive you for tonight. He'll always know, now, what you have in you."

Garzonas, anyone...? "It's true. And it will twist him inside, make the love he feels for me a little darker and more poisonous going down. But he'll *know* me. The way I want you to know me. The way I want to know you," Tim says, and steps close again, tilting his head up and back. "Tell me more about action and reaction, Jason. Teach me something I don't already know. Touch me the way you want to --"

Or, alternately, grab me by the throat and lift me off my feet again. That works, too, Tim thinks, and deliberately relaxes in Jason's grip. It's not that he was tense, before, but --

Still.

"What's the game, pretender?"

"I already know what it sounds like when you say my name, Jason --"

"What do you *get*," Jason says, and gives him an impressively powerful *shake* --

"You. And a little more of B. Everything he couldn't -- wouldn't -- give me when we all thought you were dead. Something to make the hole inside me shut *up*," Tim says, and wraps his fingers -- gently -- around the iron tension in Jason's forearm. He coughs --

Jason drops him and yanks his arm back --

"Don't go --"

"One big, happy family, and everyone gets to pretend, just as hard as they can, that they're *not* just going through the motions for a guy who still believes in the same things he did when he was *eight* --"

"It's not a bad thing to have faith," Tim says, quietly --

"I got no problem with faith, Tim. Just so long --"

And Jason tenses so hard that Tim finds himself looking for the threat, the problem which isn't strictly *theirs*. Nothing coming across the rooftops, nothing coming up from street level --

"Mother*fucker*," Jason says, and manages to get an impressive amount of affronted *admiration* in the word.

"Jason?"

The laugh sounds like a bone caught in his throat, and Jason shakes his head. "You little motherfucking *bitch*," he says, grabbing Tim by the cape and yanking him out of the shadows, pushing him --

Back against a water tower. "Is there something I'm missing? Because --"

"I got too close, didn't I? You were feeling kinda *raw* after our little adventures tonight and you couldn't handle me, anymore."

Well. He -- "I --"

"You needed something to throw in my face. Make me blind so I couldn't *see* you --"

"I *want* you to see me --"

"But only on your terms -- no, don't say a fucking word, *Tim*."

The empty space inside him -- can't help a thing. Can't *change* any of this, or make Jason any less *here*, and maybe that's why Tim's skin feels wrong, why he's choking a little in the uniform even without Jason's hand on his throat --

"I haven't said anything you haven't already thought, nice and quiet where Daddy won't suspect. You *know* it's better to go after the big guys, to hit them where they live, and --" Jason laughs and shoves Tim back against the water tower, again. "You tried to *play* me."

"I didn't lie to you --"

"And we *both* know that doesn't have shit to do with *shit*," Jason says, shoving Tim one more time before grabbing Tim's shoulders and squeezing hard enough that not even the uniform can block the slight grinding pain.

Tim closes his eyes behind the mask --

Jason lets go for long enough to flip Tim's lenses up. The night air feels harsh and cold on Tim's skin, and it's worse when he opens his eyes. Better. *Jason*, and the light quality isn't so different that everything is strange to his eyes, but it's different *enough* --

And Jason tucks his free hand under Tim's chin and forces Tim's head up.

"So you're screwing him."

"I -- among others," Tim says, and focuses on the blank white of Jason's lenses --

"Watch me not getting distracted," and Jason taps Tim's chin with his gloved thumb. "You're screwing him, and it gets you hotter to talk about *me*, and all the little things B and I used to get up to back in the good ol' days."

Sort of. In a way. And -- "I think you'd recognize some of the marks on my skin."

"And there you *go* again. I'd call it a death wish, but I'm pretty sure it's not my gun you want to eat. Try again."

What does he *want* -- no. Tim knows. He's known right from the beginning, and he'd let himself just... skate right past it, leaving conversational caltrops all over their seriously winding road. Heh. "I liked it. Tonight."

And Jason takes a breath, audible and no harsher than anything else.

"Working with you --"

"Don't you fucking backtrack on me --"

"Benjamin. The one who led us *to* Benjamin. I never let myself do things like that. It would be so easy and even *right*, even --" Tim growls and twists away from Jason, going for his shin when he doesn't let go fast enough --

"Thought I told you to save that for your *brother* --"

"And you *don't* think you have a big, nasty case of middle-child syndrome? Why don't you tell me *all* about what it was like to come after *Dick*?"

"Heh. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia," Jason says, and crosses his arms over his chest.

Tim -- pulls himself out of his ready position --

"*That's* right --"

"I just got a great big *taste* of how far I'd go for you, Jason, and no, I'm *not* happy about it," Tim says, and straightens the gorget of his cape. "But that doesn't make anything else I said tonight any less true."

"For me? Try again. You were itching tonight, hard-up for something big, meaty, and violent. And I make a *damned* good excuse."

Tim clenches his hands into fists -- releases them and looks at his hands. He'd washed the blood off his 'R.' The batarang he'd buried in Benjamin's shoulder will be sterilized before it's ever used again. They'd helpfully removed the few guards from *this* stash house so that they wouldn't be able to make trouble for the police. None of that matters. None of it...

Self-awareness is a very, very good thing, and he can't blame Jason for helping Tim have a little more of it, and it's not Jason's fault that he'd enjoyed it and wants -- more.

Tim lets his hands fall to his sides. "Come home with me."

"Because you think Daddy will love you more if I do? Come the fuck *on*, kid, you've gotta know better than that --"

"Love? It doesn't have anything to do with *love*, Jason," Tim says, and -- sirens. Somebody had finally thought to call a bus for the bodies they'd left in the alley. Nothing serious. Nothing too...

Unless, of course, one of them had had some kind of heart condition, or --

"It's not about love," and Tim turns his attention back to Jason, back to the man with too much nasty training and not enough to do with it, to the Robin he'd measured himself against and tried so hard not to be, in the hopes that it would make Bruce look at him, see him as something other than a tragedy waiting to happen -- Tim laughs and moves back into Jason's space. "You asked me to talk about hunger. Well, there's one thing I'll do anything for, Jason. One thing I've fought for, pushed for, *lied* for, over and over again --"

"The Mission," and the boredom in Jason's voice --

"*Fuck* the Mission. I did it for *me*," Tim says, jabbing himself in the chest. "I did it so I'd never have to be alone, ever again, and I'll keep doing it. I'll tell any lie I have to just to stay in *this* game, I'll bend over fucking backwards and I'll do it for B, for Superman, for my team and anyone else I can find who'll stand still for it. I'll break my own rules and I'll *rewrite* them, one word at a time, one bloody *bed* at a time -- "

"Hey, dial it *back* --"

"Fuck dialing it back and fuck you, too, Jason. I'm doing all this and you come along to fuck with me, play with me, *push* me, and I have to watch you acting like you're just fucking fine, on the outside looking *in* --"

"*I'm* not the one who needs a fucking teddy bear, kid."

Warning. That was a warning. Well. Tim smiles. "Aren't you? You could be working any city in this country. Any city in the *world* -- I know you're at least as good with languages as I am. You *never* had to come back here, but you did. You couldn't fucking stop yourself from shoving your own face in the piss puddle of everything that went wrong four years ago, trying to make fucking *Batman* act like someone he could never be just to soothe your wounded little heart --"

The shove is hard enough to stagger Tim, but he doesn't fall.

And he gets right back into Jason's space -- shoved again.

And again. He's down. All right.

"Tell me I'm wrong, Jason. Tell me the mornings don't touch you, don't fucking *scald* you when you have no one and nothing but that great. Big. Gun."

Jason's panting. Only a little, but. But.

Tim smiles and rolls up to his feet. "We're not so different. Isn't that what you've been saying, in one way or another, since you stopped kicking the crap out of me long enough to get a word in? Well, I agree with you, Jason. You're absolutely *right*. Now why don't you stop fucking around and live with it -- because that's what I'll be doing, and I really, truly, wouldn't mind a little... company."

And Tim waits. Jason's angry and maybe thinking about other cities, other families. Roy --

Would Bruce forgive him if Jason left? Could he? It... hell, maybe he *should* be in a city where the heroes regularly puncture people with arrows. The crunch of that knife going in, blood pattering on linen -- Tim shivers. "Jason."

"Are you done?"

The words are flip. The tone... isn't. Tim smiles again. "For the moment."

"Ivy."

For a moment, Tim wants to... 'demur' wouldn't be a wholly incorrect word. It's his case. It's -- It *was* his case, but Jason had invited himself in... and then waited for Tim to get back from his weekend with the Titans. "Ivy," Tim says, and steps off the edge of the roof.

The jump-line takes him close to the roofs of a couple of the patrol cars, and the officers standing around outside point and shout. Let them --

Though, considering the fact that this is only *one* of the stash houses he and Jason had 'discovered' tonight, it can't be a good thing to have so many police officers gathered in just a few places --

Which is probably why they *don't* wind up on a straight shot to the park. There are neighborhoods missing their regular patrols, and too many of the criminals own scanners.

A crackhouse just off Simon Avenue is doing such a brisk business at the door that they have to push past and step *over* junkies to get to the people doing the selling, which gives them a head start. The dealers are a lot less gentle with their customers than he and Jason, and it's ugly and awkward and takes much too long, especially when Tim doubles-back to find one of the junkies in the process of bleeding out from a stab wound whose provenance Tim can't name.

Jason doesn't pull his gun, but really...

Tonight has been all about the proof that he really doesn't have to. It's better when Jason helps him put pressure on the wound while Tim calls in 911, like somehow having *this* blood on his hands will... will.

They keep moving when they can, and a chance glance gives Tim a man running much too fast from a church -- with smoke coming out of its windows. When Tim lands in the man's path he's reeking of gasoline, and now it's fire rather than smoke. Another call in -- interrupted when Tim hears screams.

He drops the arsonist rather than taking the time to restrain him, and Jason's on his heels when Tim runs inside. *He* has a flame hood. Jason has sheer bloody-mindedness, and the ability to take a locked door with one kick. The arsonist -- attempted mass murderer -- had locked the choir in the basement, and if Tim didn't need to focus on getting the people out with Jason...

The man is still on his back when Tim gets out again, and it's not enough to zip-strip his ankles and wrists. It's not enough that the man will probably have a concussion.

It's not *enough* -- and Tim nearly strikes back at Jason when he puts a hand on Tim's shoulder. And then has to work not to shudder, because Jason's brand of comfort...

Is still comfort. He knows that, too, now.

They move, and Tim catches sight of fluttering black as he goes, but if Batman has something to say to him, he can damned well call him down for it.

Again, things get significantly quieter as they approach the park, and Tim wonders if any more children had 'disappeared' while Tim was busy being -- free.

Tim stops at the entrance to the park and puts in his rebreather. Jason, perhaps unsurprisingly, has his own. Tim checks his belt-knife, cups the pocket with his firebomb pellets, checks his small flamethrower, takes a breath, and walks in.

At the edges of the park there are a few people. Most of them are teenagers smoking and drinking, loving each other close to the danger their parents may or may not have chosen to know about. They grumble and curse when Tim gestures, but they leave, and then it's only a matter of moving deeper as quickly and carefully as possible --

The Feraks which had been stationed to either side of the path are growing across it, now, limbs in an impenetrable tangle.

"Oh, *that's* nice."

"Ivy," Tim says, and a wind which has nothing to do with the weather in Gotham rustles through the leaves and moans through the branches.

Tim pulls a flame pellet and takes a step closer --

"*Ivy*."

"You are not welcome here. You will go now. You are not welcome here and you will go. You will go. You will --"

"Fuck this," Jason says, pulling a *machete* and hacking halfway through the wall of Ferak with one blow. The screams echo through the night, undoubtedly chasing away any people they hadn't seen --

Vines whipping out, going for Jason's limbs and throat --

And Jason uses the machete like a sword on a dozen opponents, spinning and moving and slicing without a sound. It's over in seconds, and the path is clear enough.

Jason steps through. Tim follows, keeping an eye on the undergrowth while Jason focuses on threats from above.

"Keep close, Robin."

It's the first time Jason's ever called him that, and while there's some question as to whether or not Jason was really thinking about it... no, focus on getting out of here alive -- more vines, less woody and a lot thicker. Tim pulls his belt knife and Jason's boot knife --

"Fucking get your *own*."

"Later," Tim says, and sets to work against the -- throng. He focuses on keeping his limbs free, knowing the gorget will protect him from being choked for longer than he'd be able to keep his feet if any of the vines lock around his ankles -- there.

One slice and the one around his throat is leaking something which smells like mown grass and glue gone old and rank -- and still attempting to throttle him. He reaches up --

Jason yanks it from around his neck and steps on it. It's quiet again, enough so that the fluids dripping off the knives and Jason's machete are audible as they hit the packed dirt of the path. Tim gets his breathing under control and they keep moving.

"Last time I was here there were at least two more Feraks," Tim says, ignoring the deer doing its best to stare him down. "They've had time to uproot themselves."

"How fast?"

"No more than a human -- I *think*. Superhuman strength and, as you saw --"

"The vines, yeah. Okay," Jason says, and picks up the pace. Not fast enough that they'll wind up running smack into something unfriendly, but still *fast*. It's a little hard to keep up a sense of distance, but it doesn't take long before Tim knows in his bones that they've gone farther than he had before.

The path is dark behind them, and -- "This smells like a trap."

"No shit," and Jason stops. "Ivy! Let's talk about this before we start lighting fires!"

"I don't want to, Ivy, but you know I came prepared for this," Tim says, and the trees nearest the path shiver, bend --

Tim prepares to scatter the pellets and run --

And Ivy is there, in front of them, where there had previously only been a green sort of darkness. Her eyes are closed, and there's a bit more of a curl to the leaves that hide her torso than usual. A brown edge near her hip stands out like a fresh wound.

"Ivy," Jason starts, and Tim stops him with a hand on his arm.

"Ivy. Please."

"I'm doing nothing wrong," she says, and her eyes are still closed, tracking fast behind the lids --

"*Down*," Tim says, and Jason drops just in time to miss the sweep of a slim, powerful branch. The Feraks, and Tim's knives really won't work for this. He pulls his staff and drives the one focused on him back, dodging and ducking while Jason hacks with the machete --

"Robin. It does not have to be this way."

"Then don't *make* it this way, Ivy. Call them back before we have to hurt them --"

"Too late for that," Jason says, and chops off the head of the Ferak focused on him -- at which point it lunges. "Well, fucking *hell* --"

And there's not much the staff can do against something with skin made out of wood, but every time Tim knocks off a chip he gets a high-pitched sort of keen, which has to be --

Ivy groans, loud and pained.

A good thing, right. For certain values and definitions, for the fact that Tim doesn't want to *be* here, for the fact that this is worse than pointless. "*Fire*, Ivy," Tim says, and strikes for something which probably isn't nearly as much of an eye as it looks --

"*Back*," Ivy says, and the creatures settle on their roots like chastened hounds before moving -- a lot more slowly -- back to the edges of the path.

Tim doesn't put his staff away, and Jason crosses his arms over his chest, dripping machete held high.

"And what will you do when your toy loses its edge, 'Red Hood?'"

Jason smiles and reaches in his jacket, pulling out a flask. "Wanna guess what this is full of?"

For a moment, Ivy looks exactly like someone who's been living and fighting in Gotham for the better part of the last fifteen years. And there's more brown among her leaves. She should have more strength than that, more raw power to use for herself and her plants --

"You've been poisoning yourself to keep the children from getting sick from being around you, " Tim says --

And she looks even older.

"Ivy --"

"They need me," she says. "They have no one. And it doesn't... we have peace here, Robin. The children are fed and warm, loved and safe."

"And their families are looking for them," Jason says --

"Do *not* pretend to me that you don't know exactly what kind of situations some of these children are coming from," Ivy says, drawing herself up -- and up on the roots of a tree which had looked entirely stationary a moment ago. But she's pushing herself hard, now --

"You should've stuck to the throwaways, Ivy," and Jason taps the machete against his arm. "Sooner or later, the word is gonna get out to people who won't bother trying to *talk* to you first."

"Throwaways. Do you even hear yourself? How could you not understand --"

"We *do* understand," Jason says. "That's why we didn't come in here with flamethrowers, in case you didn't notice."

Tim steps up, moving close only partly because he knows Jason has his back. "Some of these children have families, Ivy. You -- I understand why you offered them shelter, and I understand why they took it, but you can't keep them. Winter's coming --"

"I've already planned for that. I -- I'll show you, Robin. Only you."

Tim shakes his head. "It's not that I don't believe you've made a good home --"

"Then *leave* us," she says. "Let me worry about what will happen when the authorities come for me. I'll take the children somewhere safe, somewhere that's only *ours*."

"No, Ivy. I can't let that happen."

Her leaves flutter, curl... she hangs her head, and is still for a long moment.

Tim reaches out and lays a hand on her shin. Through the gauntlet, it feels as firm and full as a vine. Her bones aren't really bones, any more. "Ivy --"

"Then just the newest children, Robin. Just... I knew they had families, but --"

"I know. Ivy... the children will talk. Word will still get out --"

"We'll leave tonight. I've already... there are places we could go. Warm, safe places," Ivy says, and her eyes remind him of Connor's, even though they shouldn't. Even though she *is* a murdering psychopath --

Jason clears his throat behind them and Ivy looks a lot more like herself, calculating and brimming with rage --

"Ivy," Tim says. "If we make this bargain --"

"Any information I get about... about the others is yours, right up until people stop talking where I can hear them. And if the children... if they ever start becoming ill --"

"All bets will be off then, Ivy."

"Yes. As they should be," she says, and slips down to the ground, moving into the trees where Tim wouldn't follow without at least a little napalm.

Five minutes pass -- enough time for Jason to start looking at him like he's an idiot *and* a jackass -- and then Rakeem Washington steps out of the trees with seven other children. He's taller than his most recent stats, healthy-looking, and pissed off. "She said if we didn't go with you you'd take all the children and have them put in foster care," he says, making it sound precisely as horrible as it often is.

"It was either that or see this whole park go up in smoke, kid," Jason says. "Or didn't you get the memo about how many people she's offed over the years?"

"Rakeem," Tim says, "you have no reason to take our word for anything, especially now, but I want you to know that we'll be watching --"

"Why? Gonna fuck me up when I have to start running with the gangs again?"

Tim doesn't bother to keep all of his wince internal. "There are options. Let us help you find them."

"Yeah? That's mighty fucking White of you, *Robin*. Meanwhile, you just got us kicked out of the best home some of us have ever had, so why don't you just shut the fuck up and get movin'."

"Rakeem --"

Jason puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. Tim nods. For this, Jason knows best.

Rakeem follows them. The other children follow him and... it's as good as it's going to get.

Tim puts a call through on the special MCU channel and briefs Montoya on what's going on. Some of it. There are squad cars waiting at the entrance to the park when they leave. Jason immediately shoots his grapple for the opposite rooftops, but Tim has to stay. He perches on the fence surrounding the park, keeping himself still and shadowed. He has to stay. Has to --

Just until the social workers arrive with the detectives. Just that, at least, to see if the kids will be going with people who actually seem to give a damn, who don't seem drunk or stoned or --

They're harried and overworked and all of them look older than their years. There's nothing he can do, right now.

There's -- Montoya sort of sidles to the edge of Tim's shadow. Allen is a darker smudge with a lit cigarette. Expensive and probably foreign. He should know the man's brand, by now --

"There were other kids, Robin. Weren't there."

"I didn't see any," Tim says, using the flattest possible Robin voice.

"Uh, *huh*," says Allen, and turns his back.

Montoya frowns and gnaws briefly on her thumbnail. "She can't stay in there, kid."

"I believe I managed to make that clear, Detective."

"Niño..."

A warning. "I studied the missing persons reports personally. I interviewed the families. These are the children who disappeared. Incidentally, you might want to have someone check out those families, yourself."

"Meaning the reason why you didn't bring us in sooner is all about the fact that some of those homes are for shit," and Montoya growls and snaps her hand back toward Allen...

Who promptly hands her a cigarette and the lighter. In the light of the flame, she looks precisely like someone who'd worked for everything she has, and possibly worked a lot harder than what those rewards deserved.

"I had to be sure," Tim says, quietly.

"Sure that Ivy had them or sure it was worth doing something about?" And it would be a very bad mistake to think that Allen wasn't paying attention to absolutely everything. Still, it's not like Allen to talk to *him*.

Tim turns to face him, deliberately focusing just to the left of his eyes. It's the sort of thing that people tend to sense, and then promptly start disbelieving those senses. Allen, for his part, seems to focus on his cigarette. "Sure," Tim says, again, and stands up on the crossbar of the fence. "There's nothing else I can tell you about this."

"Sounds like you *want* people wondering if your people are working *with* Ivy," Allen says, cool and casual.

Montoya is watching him over her own cigarette.

"Public relations isn't really my forte," and Tim pulls his grapple. "The kids are safe. Ivy's skipped. Grant Park is going to be safe for all the neighborhood entrepreneurs, again, so perhaps a greater degree of police presence in this neighborhood wouldn't be amiss." They're both fully aware that Ivy had been keeping this area as safe as it has ever been, and that police resources had been going elsewhere for months, so...

Allen blows a smoke ring at him.

Montoya flips him the bird, smiling around her cigarette.

Tim smiles back and shoots his grapple. "A good night to you both."

Jason's waiting for him when he reaches the first rooftop with both a good view of the controlled chaos by the park and a lot of shadows. The surprise is that it isn't a surprise, and --

Jason stands out of his crouch and looks him over thoroughly enough that Tim might as well have just been arrested, as opposed to simply liaising with the MCU.

Tim spreads his arms and turns, slowly -- and Jason snorts. Tim finishes his turn with a smile --

"Come with me," Jason says.

Where? Another neighborhood improved by Jason's methods? Tim raises an eyebrow behind the mask.

"Yes or no. Make a choice."

More than that. It has to be, now. It -- "Yes," Tim says, and Jason nods shortly, clenches a fist at his side -- releases it and goes.

Tim follows, and makes a command decision not to wonder too deeply. Jason wants to show him something, and that, right now, is enough. He doesn't fly like he used to, and Tim imagines that was one of the first things to change. The jerky, uneven footage of Jason in flight from the days when he was Robin showed a boy constantly in the high flush of exhilaration, a boy having the time of his life --

A boy.

If anything, Jason flies like Batman does now, all strength and precision, with occasional hints of the grace he can and will use to damage people deeply --  woman being pushed into an alley.

Jason's already detouring, and Tim does, too, timing his swing to send him directly into the alley. The woman is too close for Tim to use his momentum to drive the man off of her, so Tim tumbles to the ground just beyond them, instead --

The woman makes a deep, low sound of pain and Tim strikes from his crouch, kicking out for the man's knee --

"Shit, you fucker --"

Up and Tim's next kick takes him in the side, staving in one, maybe two ribs. The man staggers back, trying to keep his balance -- right into Jason, who chops down with both hands to the man's trapezii. The man falls with a groan, and Tim turns to the woman... who really isn't. Or, well... "Are you all right, ma'am?"

"Oh my goodness, you're *tiny*," he says, voice carefully high and faintly musical.

"Batman *never* feeds him," Jason says. "Keeps 'im in a little red box, most of the time."

He laughs, raising a long, slim hand to his mouth... her mouth, at least until she says different.

"How much did he hurt you?"

"Oh, just -- punched me in the stomach a few times. I'm fine -- I work *hard* on my abs," she says, and looks like she's tempted to ruffle Tim's hair. "You're really *real*!"

Tim smiles. "We try to keep that quiet, save when necessary --"

"You saved me and -- God, that guy was messing with me and my friends in the bar, but I never thought he'd come after me --"

"I'm not a fag, you ugly bitch!"

Jason stomps on the man's wrist without looking -- two cracks, nearly too close to separate.

The man screams -- and Jason back-kicks him -- lightly -- in the same ribs Tim had broken.

"We could keep this up pretty much all night if you'd like, honey," Jason says.

She beams at them both. "Oh, I'm sure he's learned his lesson by now -- maybe one more kick?"

Jason gestures to Tim. Tim nods and kicks him in the groin --

"Ooh, that was *wicked*," she says. "And you can call me 'honey' all you want, big boy. And... are you new?"

"Well, that's always good to hear," Jason says, and leans casually against the wall of the alley. "And... something like that."

"Well, then, let me be the first to welcome you in *style*," she says, tossing her wig and stepping over her attacker to kiss Jason on the cheek. She's excellent in the heels, really.

"If you keep that up he's going to be *impossible* to live with," Tim says -- and she kisses the top of his head.

"You ought to get him something more stylish to wear. More like you!"

And so Tim does a slow turn for the second time that night --

"Oh, fucking *stop*," Jason says --

The woman laughs until she coughs a little, wincing --

"Hey, are you sure you're all right?" Jason stands up straight again.

"I'm *fine* --"

"Go to a hospital anyway," Tim says. "Internal injuries can creep up on you."

When she frowns, Jason cups her shoulders gently until she looks -- down -- into Jason's eyes. "Trust us on this one, honey. We wouldn't want you getting sick because of *this* asshole."

She... the only word for it is 'melts,' and, yes, Jason is a very attractive man.

Tim uses the cell to call her a cab, and she agrees to wait for it in the bar she'd just left. Her attacker's wrist is swelling too much to risk a zip-strip -- he really can't justify risking the man's hand after everything else -- but his ankles are fine. Let him figure out a way out of it with one hand while the rest of Gotham passes him by. Tim thinks about it for a moment... he also can't justify any more physical damage, period, but... yes, a bit of unconsciousness followed by a large degree of disorientation would work *very* well. Tim gasses the man.

And when he looks up, Jason is watching him closely. And smiling rather meanly.

"Yes...?"

"So how often does he make you cross-dress? You've got the build for it, Tiny --"

"Don't say it, Jason --"

"Tim. Heh. I'm gonna guess a *lot*. You should try to track me down the next time he does it. We can do the town," he says, moving out of the alley.

"Well, if you *go* for that sort of thing, 'honey,' maybe we can work something out."

"Heh. Make sure Alfred picks out some really *nice* panties for you, kid. I'm a picky guy," and Jason shoots his grapple and flies.

Tim follows, and it's only another five minutes or so before they're in a warehouse district -- not far from the after-hours club with the shooting last week.

Jason stops on the roof of one which looks like it's been abandoned for at least the last ten years -- except for the sophisticated alarm system. Tim counts three hidden cameras before Jason has the roof access open and... base of operations.

He's been invited... the empty place inside of him seems to *flex*, but the idea of being too scared to enjoy this, to *revel* in it is patently ridiculous. This is... Tim sighs when the door opens --

"Let's go."

And Jason descends into the dark. The steps are metal by the sound and feel, the scent in the air is old dust, gun oil, and motor oil. The windows are all blacked out from the inside --

"Lights," Jason says, and Tim narrows his eyes against it, looks around. There's no sense of home here, despite the comfortable-enough looking bed in one corner. There's a wall devoted to wide variety of weapons, including as many -- more -- guns as had been in that stash house.

The Red Hood helmet is sitting alone on a table, obscene and queerly watchful. The vehicles gleam in the fluorescents, and Tim can't stop himself from moving toward them.

"Heh. Predictable, much?"

"I'm a teenaged boy and I'm not ashamed," Tim says, and doesn't -- quite -- touch the bike. The engine is massive, something that wouldn't purr so much as growl. "Power over maneuverability?"

"You'd be surprised."

"Mm." Tim tries to look at the bike like a civilian, moving around it, not assuming anything... it's an eye-catcher, gleaming with potential and very clearly well-loved. Anyone would have to take a closer look... there. Two small compartments near the seat... "Caltrops? Other weapons?"

Jason runs his hand over the bar, presses a button --

Gun, and one that chooses accuracy over stopping power. A good choice for a weapon meant to be used while in motion. Tim leans in, and the scent says that it was almost certainly cleaned within the last twenty-four hours.

Tim stands up again, looks around...

Jason's watching him, but --

But Jason has a lot of free time to do nothing but hone himself and his weapons. This is a one-man space, and it speaks of efficiency, utility... the Cave is warmer, and that's just --

"Before you say a word," Jason says, leaning over the bike and generally making Tim's space feel like a very *flexible* thing, "I didn't bring you here to read me."

Tim smiles ruefully. "Force of habit, Jason. I'm not... I'm not," and Tim raises his hands between them, gauntlets dragging on Jason's jacket. "Truce."

"Truce, hunh? What if I *want* to keep fucking you up?"

Heh. "I have confidence in your ability to find friendlier ways to do it," Tim says, shrugging his cape back over his shoulder --

Jason shifts on his feet --

Jason's kris scrapes and almost rings against the staff. They push against each other, testing and shifting. The staff gives Tim more leverage to move, but Jason has far more raw power...

And the smile on Jason's face is lazy, sharp... promising. The message is clear -- they can *spar* rather than fight. And Tim can't help wondering how long it's been since Jason has had that...

"Jason..."

"Oh, come *on*, birdboy," and Jason pushes against the staff with the kris, holding the staff expertly in one of the thing's curves. Jason doesn't want introspection right now, and Tim...

Understands. He dances back on his feet, conscious of the obstacles -- there's a car he'd dearly like to spend some time examining -- whirls the staff --

And Jason's coming for him, moving easily and slicing the air with the blade, smiling --

Smiling, and Tim keeps moving back -- stops and attacks, catching just the memory of Jason's moving wrist and striking down for his feet -- rearing back and away from the knife slash which might've given him a rakish dueling scar --

If Jason hadn't pulled back *as* Tim reared. Sparring, yes, and Tim wants to think about it, turn it over and over, *hold* it, but Jason is dropping under Tim's jab with the staff, starting a sweep --

Tim leaps over it and flips, striking down as he lands -- hitting concrete. Tim pulls back, whirls the staff in *case* --

The kris drags along it and the staff screams and vibrates a little in his grasp. Jason's too close, and Tim works himself back, to the side --

Jason's strike is *fast*, but Tim blocks with the staff, dodges and moves, drops for his own sweep --

And Jason's leap ends with a kick Tim has to throw himself back to avoid, tumble and spin the staff behind himself --

Another scream for the knife --

Tim scrambles upright, working against the pressure Jason's putting on, the drag of the knife dangerously close to Tim's fingers. Tim spins, strikes -- gets air and space to move, once more --

Jason kicks and Tim bends under it, strikes up to either side of Jason's knee -- a brush of contact, no better than that before the opportunity is gone and Tim has to get upright again --

Another slash right in front of his eyes, and this one zings, a little, against Tim's mask. Tim laughs and drives forward, using his staff to clear a space for himself and moving faster, faster --

Jason's blocks are a little heedless, his expression never losing its hectic cheer despite the fact that Tim *knows* he's punishing the man's forearms. Tim grunts and tries for faster still, changing the rhythm of his strikes as much as he can, thinking of Batgirl --

Jason spins out of the path of attack, striking as he moves -- Tim catches the blow with the staff, spins himself --

Too slow. Jason's punch takes him in the side, doubles him and Tim rears back instinctively, feeling the wind of the strike which would've renewed the bruise on his cheek quite nicely --

And Jason's coming for him again, spinning the knife over his fingers --

Tim reminds himself not to *look* just in time for Jason's punch -- with his other hand -- to only graze Tim's cheek. Once again, Jason is treating blows from the staff like puffs of air or something even less substantial. He's driving Tim back again, and it feels like every one of Jason's punches and strikes are getting closer to Tim, closer to getting past his defense --

Tim's panting now, *working*. The usual trick -- to keep moving and *fighting* -- isn't going to help him here, and really, the longer he stays up --

Another scream as the knife drags over the staff --

The longer he can *keep* this up --

Tim blocks the punch which would've sent him flying a little too hard -- "Sorry --"

And the pause gives Jason time to catch the staff. Shit. Tim pulls --

Jason *yanks* --

And Tim stumbles into the kiss, hums and slides his hand down the staff until Jason's hand is under his own, fisted tight and hard, still softer than his *mouth* --

Tim hums again and licks Jason's tongue -- gets bitten and laughs, tugging his staff out of Jason's grip and folding it down, once more. Jason pulls back --

"Did I say we were done?"

"Hmm. I'd say something here about how Daddy warned me not to go home with boys like you, but..."

Jason shakes his head, smiling just beyond Tim --

The shove sends him to the low bed. Tim reaches for the catches on his cape and kicks himself further on to the mattress --

"Boots, birdboy."

The cape releases and Tim sits up and tugs the boots and gauntlets off, stashing them by the foot of the bed and pausing with his hand on the tunic. "This sort of thing is better in company."

Jason folds one big hand at the waistband of his pants, stroking the fly with his finger. "Maybe I just want to watch you get naked for me."

Also doable. Very much so. But. "I want your scars."

"Heh. You ever find yourself thinking that people like us have kind of a pathetic number of kinks in common?" And he strokes his own fly again.

'People like us' will get old approximately... never. Tim ditches his socks and curls his toes against the simple duvet. "I find it rather convenient. But then, I'm a vigilante of simple needs."

Jason offers a non-committal grunt for that as well as an examining look, a -- study, almost. Tim Drake, relaxing on Jason Todd's bed. Perhaps he wants to know how that happened, perhaps he's simply enjoying the view -- no.

If there was anything simple about it, it probably wouldn't have anything to do with *them*. Tim kicks out -- slowly -- and rests his toes just beneath Jason's moving finger. He can feel the jock under there and very little else.

"What do you want, kid?"

"Your scars against my skin. Your penis in my hand, my mouth again. Everything is negotiable," Tim says, and curls his toes *in*, a little, before bringing his foot back down to the bed.

"'Negotiable,' hunh? I think I want to know a little more about your experience," Jason says, pulling off his gloves and shrugging out of his jacket.

"How much?" And Tim glances at the way the jacket hangs when Jason's not wearing it. It falls evenly, but it clearly has some weight to it. There are *things* in there Tim would like to examine... some other time. "Which is not to say I'm averse to sharing..."

"Because Bruce taught you to love it," Jason says, smiling and jerking the jacket up and down... entirely to tease Tim.

Heh. Tim opens his tunic and slips it off, followed by the undershirt. "It wouldn't be fair to imply that I didn't already have... inclinations in that direction."

"Uh, hunh." Jason tosses the jacket over a chair and strips off his own shirt. The body armor beneath it is clearly military issue, opening at the sides and hanging heavy over the other clothes like a threat, or...

Tim isn't sure. There's more to the look of Jason's discarded clothes than just the clothes themselves. It's *significant*, and while Tim has a fair number of ideas as to why...

It's more than just the implication of trust, or even the implication of mutual relaxation, the 'we' they're building between them...

He isn't *sure*, and he wants to be, but he wants to be naked more than that, and this, for the two of them... it has to be something done separately, and maybe also needs to be just this slow.

"Give me names, not acts," Jason says, unlacing his boots and toeing them off.

"Would acts be too clinical? No, I'm not avoiding the question. I --"

"Names will tell me more *faster*."

And -- he has a point. "Dick. Bruce. My girlfriend --"

"Stephanie Brown, high school student and formerly the Spoiler," Jason says, and raises his eyebrows again. Daring Tim.

"She's out of the life. She --"

"Is a civilian and never would've been on my radar if you hadn't been trying so hard to keep her off it," and Jason strips out of his perfectly average belt, letting it fall.

Leather, sturdy, neither particularly expensive in its manufacture nor cheap, and... Steph. "You might get along with her better than I do."

"Because you're the gayest vigilante in Gotham?"

"I *do* also like women, Jason," Tim says, and disarms and removes his own belt.

Jason opens his hand for it, and Tim... pauses. Everywhere inside -- and all of his senses -- feels primed for something electric, something...

The feel of the duvet beneath him, his bruises and some of his angrier scars, the cool air -- the scent of male and armor is the scent of home. Family. But it still feels like changing something fundamental to lay the belt over Jason's palm, to hold himself still when Jason's hand closes over it.

"Breathe," Jason says, and it would probably be easier to take it as an order if Jason's own voice didn't sound so rough. An audible breath -- just one --

Tim pants and shoves his thumb under his waist bands, looks up --

Jason is opening his fly, wincing a little --

Tim's penis twitches *hard* and Tim has to wince, too --

And Tim's still kicking off his tights and shorts when Jason covers him, slow and inexorable, warm -- Tim moans at the feel of being freed from his jock, for Jason doing it --

"Jason..."

"Tim. Heh," and Jason squeezes him hard enough that Tim has to close his eyes and arch for it, pushing up against Jason's weight --

Jason kisses Tim's throat just above the Adam's apple, soft and wet -- lets him go. Okay. All right. He can --

Jason *sucks* Tim's throat, right over one of Bruce's bite marks and just -- keeps doing it, tongue flicking out, fluttering against the skin. Tim takes a breath and it comes out a moan. He hadn't really meant to --

Not this *fast*, but --

He gets his hands on Jason's shoulders, meaning to squeeze, send a message -- scars. Dangerous ones by the feel, looping and scrawled over Jason's skin... they hadn't *looked* that bad. They'd blended in with the paleness of Jason's skin --

Blacked-out windows and dust --

Jason's *mouth*.

"Jason, I -- *fuck*," Tim says, and he really should've been expecting the bite, if not the way it makes him feel like there's some kind of hard, unforgiving cord stretched between his throat and groin, like the pain could make him come if it just keeps happening --

Jason pulls back and licks his lips. "Had to check," he says, bracing himself on one elbow and bringing the other hand to Tim's face. The bruise -- his bruise.

But -- "Check?"

"Heh. I had to be sure Bruce had a *reason* for doing you that way," he says, and strokes over Tim's mouth. "Dick, Bruce, and the untouchable Miss Brown. In that order?"

"Other than the fact that I pushed him? I..." Tim licks Jason's fingers. Blowback. "Not all of those marks are his."

Jason pauses, pushing up on one hand and looking Tim over, tracing the sharp, even lines of Bruce's bite marks and pausing *again*... before tapping on the marks which break pattern. "Sometimes I could get him to... this *isn't* Dick, and your girlfriend's mouth is too small."

It's perfect. Steph -- "Clark. But I'm breaking order --"

Jason snorts. "Okay, I'm *not* surprised he still has a hard-on for Robins. Who *else*?"

Tim catches Jason's free hand and brings it back up to his mouth, dragging his mouth against Jason's fingers until Jason makes a soft sound and pushes in with two. Pushes *deep*, and Tim closes his eyes -- opens them, because Jason is watching his mouth with his own lips parted, because Jason is still supporting himself on one arm *over* him, muscles flexed but not tensed --

Tim moans and sucks, and Jason looks into Tim's eyes again, avid and studying. It says something about them that they still have their masks on with the lenses flipped up. It --

Jason pulls out. "You were saying?"

"Barbara. Then Roy. *Then* Clark," Tim says, and strokes Jason's wet fingers, watches his eyes narrow and widen --

"Barbara? *Barbara*?"

Tim smiles and wraps his fist around Jason's fingers, strokes down then up again. "Then Superboy, Kid Flash, and Green Arrow II. That's all -- except, of course, for you. Jason."

"Well... shit," Jason says, and splays his fingers to break Tim's loose hold before laughing, briefly. And lowering himself down again. "Did you get what you needed?"

"I --" Not the question he would've expected, though now he wonders what he *did* expect --

And it feels like Jason is looking *into* him, holding him down on the bed with more than just his body, all that *power* --

Tim cups Jason's shoulders again and focuses against the need to get lost in all the scars again. "Yes. No. I -- sometimes I know exactly what it is that I *do* need, but the rest of the time..."

"You only know that it's *something*, and that you can't give it to yourself no matter how hard you try, no matter how much you *push* --"

"It's never there, Jason. It's not *in* me --"

"You're hollow inside," Jason says and cups Tim's face, pressing hard on Tim's chin with his thumb, holding Tim *still* --

"Jason, I --"

"Maybe it wasn't always that way, but it is now. You're missing the thing that'll just let you *live* in the world instead of fighting everything --"

"Lying, always *lying* --"

"And you're never, ever home. No matter how much you want to be --"

"No matter where you *are*. Jason, *please* --"

The kiss isn't hard enough for everything moving inside Tim, for everything that isn't and can't, anymore, and whimpering for it just makes Jason slow down and lick him --

Tim shudders and wraps his arms around Jason's neck, his legs around Jason's waist --

Jason rolls them over until Tim is on top of him, strokes down Tim's sides and kisses, bites so *gently* --

And now it's more of a shake than a shudder, and Tim grinds hard against Jason, digs his fingers into the pillow and sucks Jason's tongue, his lower lip and his tongue, whimpers again and shakes his head against it --

And moans when Jason brings both of his hands to Tim's face and holds him still for the kiss Tim thinks might break him. He's *punching* the pillows now, shaking in Jason's grip --

Break --

"*Please*," Tim says, and he's working his hips now, trying and failing to shake his head, trying and failing to get another kiss --

Jason lets go and cups Tim's hips --

"Oh --"

And this time Tim's driving the kiss, sucking hard on Jason's tongue, dragging his teeth and going down on it a little, crushing his mouth against Jason's own and pulling back, over and over until Jason squeezes Tim's hips hard and *fucks* Tim's mouth --

Changes the rhythm of Tim's hips and adds a grind to it --

Tim feels himself heating all over, feels the warmth all over him and wonders if this was what he was looking for, if this is the thing which will make everything right, everything *okay* --

Break -- "I've got you, kid -- oh fucking God I didn't mean that --"

"You *did* and it's okay, we're both -- we're who we *are*," Tim says and licks Jason's mouth again, sucks on his lip --

"God fucking --"

A deeper kiss this time, needful and needy, greedy and hot, everywhere Tim can feel himself pressed to Jason and everywhere he isn't. He *wants*, and he wants Jason to know it and the possibility that he does is driving him on, making him need to pant into the kiss --

"Don't stop. Don't you fucking --"

Tim groans and kisses Jason harder, claws at the pillow and thinks about bloody sheets and screams, vines trying to choke the life out of him and the feeling of being *with* Jason in everything, absolutely everything --

Just for a moment, just --

Not *alone*, and when Tim tries to take a breath it turns into a sobbing laugh, or maybe a laughing sob, Jason's teeth on his jaw and Jason's hands making this perfect, slick and so *sweet* --

"You're gonna come for me --"

"*Jason* --"

"And we're not *stopping*," Jason says and flips them over again, pulls back and grabs Tim's thighs and pushes them wide before covering Tim again and driving hard, stroking Tim's arms and pinning his wrists down --

"Oh no -- yes -- *Jason* --"

"Right here. Right -- keep saying my *name* --"

"Jason, I --" Air. He's not *breathing*.

He -- he breathes, and it makes it worse, better, everything moving, everything --

"Jason, *always* --"

"No -- Tim, no, I --"

"*Yes*, Jason," and Tim pushes against the hold Jason has on him, arches and twists -- groans and *aches* when Jason tightens his grip --

"Not -- ah -- fucking *do* it, Tim --"

Tim rears up and kisses him again, closing his eyes against the hunger in Jason's, the shock and *need* -- no, he needs to see it, needs to have this -- but Jason's eyes are closed when Tim opens his own again, searching behind the lids as he kisses Tim back down to the bed, pressing his tongue hard against Tim's teeth --

Break and Jason moans and shudders, grinding his hips down -- moaning again, and when Tim tries to say his name again it comes out low and incomprehensible, and he can't keep himself from twisting for more, fighting for it --

Jason knows. Jason *knows*, and now he always will --

And Tim only knows the shout was him by how much it hurts, how *good* it hurts, and the orgasm breaks him open until he's spilling over everything, hot and too slick, too good --

"*Jason* --"

And Jason lets go of him too fast, Tim's curling in on himself and spasming, *whimpering* --

Jason's fist around him drives Tim back to the bed as he squeezes, forces more out of him, *squeezes* --

Tim spasms again, groans and pushes for more -- *more*, because it hurts and because it's Jason and it has to hurt, has to feel just like this -- Jason lets him go --

"Ah -- *fuck*, Jason --"

"Easy. Just --" Jason's panting, but he's moving -- shoving another pillow under Tim's head before straddling his *chest*.

"Oh. Oh, yes," and Tim grabs Jason's hips, the sweat on his palms skidding over more scars --

"Kid. Tim -- fuck, I'm not gonna last this time."

"I know. I know, I --" Tim shakes his head. He can't -- he wraps his fist around Jason and goes down. It doesn't matter that he's done this before, that he'd been on his knees the first time --

The *taste* --

The feel, the tension in Jason's abdominals when Tim strokes up with his other hand --

"Ah -- your *mouth* --"

Tim hums and sucks hard, pressing into Jason's navel with a finger, scratching at warm skin, muscle and *scars*, yes, and Tim wants to know which ones belong to the life they share, to *Robin* --

"Tim. Tim, take more. Come on -- *ah* --"

Down to his fist and the head is brushing against Tim's palate, rubbing him hotter, making him feel raw *inside* -- he needs more. *Jason* needs more, and Tim can't --

He has to -- oh, *please*, he thinks, and moans it around Jason, tries to lick it into Jason's skin. He's panting through his nose, and Jason *pushes* once, again and again --

Jason *groans* and Tim can't hold onto him anymore, can't deny either of them the feel of Jason pushing into Tim's throat, twitching and *filling* Tim until Tim has to grab Jason's hips again and try to pull him deeper, more --

*More*, even when Jason's hair is tickling his lips, when Jason's hands settle on Tim's head, fingers pushed into Tim's hair and tugging -- no, *gripping*.

"I hope -- ah, fuck, *take* me," Jason says, and Tim's penis twitches hard enough to make him buck. He squeezes his eyes shut. He --

And Jason starts to thrust, head slipping out of Tim's throat --

Tim whimpers -- swallows --

Coughs because he timed it wrong and Jason grips him harder.

"Tim. *Tim* --"

And Tim drives himself down on Jason, swallowing and holding Jason's hips hard, willing him to stay right there, right *here* --

Jason groans again and pulls Tim's hair -- stops and Tim can feel his hands shaking, feel his hips start working again, short and *sharp* thrusts, and Tim knows Jason wants more, wants to be good enough at this so Jason can just *fuck* his mouth --

Tim squeezes harder and works his head with Jason's thrusts, tries for the rhythm and thinks about Roy's hands -- Bruce's hands and Bruce inside him, about how it will feel to *share* this with Bruce, about everything he can *say* --

"I -- nn -- I'm gonna fuck you so *hard*, birdboy --"

Oh -- oh fuck, oh --

"Yeah, I felt that little jerk, I -- I know what you want --"

Jason, please, *Jason* --

"Suck me. Just -- God, *inside* you --"

So warm, so good -- so --

And Jason's not gripping his hair so much as he's petting Tim there, and all over his face, dragging his fingers down Tim's hollowed cheeks --

Pushing back into his hair just to *tug*, a little, as the little thrusts get faster, more urgent --

"Gonna -- gonna finger you first, get you nice and open for me, just for me..."

*Jason*, and now *Tim's* hands are shaking on Jason's hips, he's sweating all over, he --

"I know -- God fuck *Bruce* --"

He can't breathe. He can't -- he can't *think*, anymore, and he tries to get Jason to go faster, harder, he can take it, he has to *take* it --

"So fucked *up*," and Jason laughs, cracked and a little too high for his voice, a little too lost to it  -- "I know you get it, birdboy. Kid. Timmy -- ah --"

Reflex to dig his fingernails in against Jason's skin -- to jerk and pump into the air when Jason *laughs* --

More when Jason cups the back of his head and lengthens his stroke just a little, enough to make it hard to focus on swallowing, on just staying here, like this. He can't --

"*Tim*, then. Just Tim. I -- you feel so fucking *good*, I -- I can't --"

Saliva spilling down his chin, pattering on his chest --

"Tim..."

So much blood tonight, but no fear, never -- always --

"Don't -- it's so --"

And Jason groans and thrusts in *hard*, holding Tim's head for it and --

Groaning again and Tim needs to breathe, needs to stay like this --

"Oh, fuck, just like that -- I -- be ready. Ready for me --"

Tim can't nod, can't move -- no, his hips are thrusting steadily now, he's too hard for this, it's too much -- Jason --

Jason holding him so hard and panting, holding himself still, holding himself *deep* --

"Tim -- *ah* --" And Jason tenses hard, all over for a moment --

Another --

And then he's coming down Tim's throat, shaking and gasping, petting Tim awkwardly while Tim swallows and tries to focus on staying here, staying *present* --

Black flash --

Tim's body coughs without his permission and Jason shakes harder and pulls out fast, spattering Tim's chin and throat while Tim gasps and coughs and *reaches* --

Jason catches Tim's wrists and hauls him against himself, wrapping his arms around Tim's back, stroking and panting --

"Breathe, c'mon --"

Tim's breath whoops and he stills himself hard, forces himself to slow down, stop gasping as much as he *can* --

"Jesus, I *know* you can handle more than that --"

Laughing doesn't help, but maybe it's enough of a distraction from the way he's wrapping his own arms around Jason --

Tension -- release, and there was almost no pause in Jason's strokes, almost --

Almost. Tim pats Jason's back and pushes off once he can breathe. "Sorry about --"

"Shut up."

Tim raises an eyebrow. Jason's not quite looking at him, hands fisted -- loosely -- at his sides. Tim reaches for one of them --

And then he's flat on his back and Jason's licking his chin, pushing Tim's arms out to the sides and settling half on top of him. He wants --

Another kiss is a good start, wet and messy and a little fast, a little desperate -- though that may just be the fact that Tim wants to suck Jason's tongue again, wants to suck *something*. He needs *transition* --

Laughing into the kiss makes Jason moan and cover Tim entirely again, rock against him and make Tim remember how hard he is again, how much he *needs*. "Jason --"

"Too long. I -- shit," Jason says, and rolls *off*, and there's no moment of decision, no thought before Tim is on Jason, bracing himself on Jason's shoulders and kissing him *hard*, moaning when Jason slips a hand into Tim's hair again, when Jason stops tugging and wraps his arms around Tim again, rolls them *again* -- pulls back --

And stares. Just... "Jason. Please."

Jason's face twists, lips pulling back from his teeth. "What -- what are we fucking *doing* --"

"What we *want*," Tim says and reaches up for Jason's face, strokes against the light stubble. "Jason --"

Another kiss to moan into, heat up for, and Tim knows he's flushing all over, and that the only way Jason is going to stop this is by beating Tim unconscious -- though it's possible that another broken bone would also do the trick. And Tim really doesn't want to laugh again, give Jason another chance to pull back but --

He does it, anyway, curling his fingers around Jason's ears --

Jason pulls back anyway. "Share."

"I'd ask you if you wanted me to call you Bruce, but I think we've established that that could be pretty hot --"

"Tim."

Tim takes a breath, closes his eyes and beats his head against the pillow. Twice. "It's not fair that you've conditioned me to want to sit up and fucking beg every time you say my *name*, Jason --"

"Life's not fair. *Give*," he says, and there's a smile in his voice, but it's not the best possible one. Yet.

"You've left your mark on me. Multiple times," and Tim traces the curve of Jason's ear with his fingers. "It occurred to me that that could be... another form of conditioning."

"Were you waiting for an apology?"

'Pretender' is lurking at the end of that question, but it doesn't seem very sure of itself. Tim smiles. "No. I was going to suggest you think of beating the crap out of me every time a little cuddle fucks with your head. It's *important* to me that you feel comfortable. Jason."

Jason's stare is hard, but it never quite makes it to cold before... Jason laughs. Snickers, really.

Tim strokes his ear again --

"You're fucking *damaged*, Tim."

"*Bruce* said I was just fine."

"Always listen to what Daddy says...?" And Jason grinds down *slow*.

"I -- hnn. I think you know the answer to that."

"You've given me a little evidence to work with. It's possible I could solve that little... puzzle."

"Ah. I have faith in you."

"You have a *lot* 'in' me, birdboy, and that's kind of the problem," Jason says, but he doesn't stop grinding and he doesn't pull back.

"It doesn't have to *be* a problem --"

"Tim. This isn't -- this can't be --"

"You think it'll get in the way of your *mission*, Jason? Worried about being *professional*?"

Jason's eyes narrow and he strokes down Tim's arm to his wrist, pressing it against the bed. "Can't stop pushing, can you."

"Like I said -- your options are open, with regards to me."

And Jason looks away, perhaps at the hand wrapped around Tim's wrist, perhaps just at whatever's in his own head. Tim *wants* --

"We can make our own home, Jason, I -- I meant there to be a plural, in there --"

"No, you didn't," Jason says, and turns back to him. "So *fucking* damaged..."

"Takes one. Jason --"

"The way you say my fucking *name* --"

"*Jason*," and he doesn't have anything to go after that. Not really. He doesn't *have* to have anything, and Jason has to know that, has to *see* that --

"I. I made you a couple of promises."

Tim tenses hard against the moan -- lets it out and wraps his arms around Jason's neck. "Don't fucking tease me -- tease *us* --"

"I want you --"

"I *know*, Jason, fuck, come *on* --"

"I *want* you, you little freak, I --"

Kiss, again, *finally*, and Tim thinks he gets it, the struggle and *this* anger, this barely tamped down rage which is making the kiss almost brutal and absolutely bruising. *Jason* still has his fear, and it would have to be terrible for this.

This *thing* between them --

Break, and Jason growls, pants against Tim's mouth and knocks their foreheads together --

This thing between them is too *good*, and all the blood is hidden, now, beneath the skins they're wearing, this skin Tim wants, so badly, to live in for as long as he can, but.

"Jason..."

"Tell me."

"There's something I need -- something you should know about me, about *this* --"

Jason shakes his head. "I already know --"

"You *don't*," Tim says, and moves his hands back to Jason's face -- gets them caught and -- held. Just held.

Jason's expression is almost a glare, eyes narrow and hectic with everything behind them -- and then his gaze changes, softens and *keeps* softening until Tim feels himself staring and can't do anything about it. He needs to *keep* this --

"Please --"

Jason closes his eyes, shifts his weight on Tim, his warmth and *weight* -- he opens his eyes again. "I know what I need to," he says, and his voice is quiet and low. He squeezes Tim's wrists. "Anything else... everything else can wait."

An invitation -- no, it's another promise. Tim twists his wrists until Jason lets go and then cups Jason's face again, teases his palms with Jason's stubble and pets Jason's mouth, back and forth and back until Jason bites the pad of Tim's thumb, digging in with his teeth and holding Tim's gaze for a long moment before letting go. And that -- suddenly his body is reminding him of *exactly* how hard he was getting, and of the substance of the *other* promises. "Jason. Where's your lube?"

Jason's smile is rueful enough... is it a smile Bruce remembers?

Tim strokes it with his fingertips -- "Or we could... hm." Tim swallows and tries to *think* --

"We'll use what you have in your belt," Jason says and -- kisses Tim's fingers.

Tim shivers and nods, pushing up on Jason's shoulders until he moves and Tim can sit up. Jason had laid the belt near the rest of Tim's uniform at the foot of the bed, and that's easy enough to reach --

Better than simply easy when Jason strokes Tim's back -- slaps his buttocks.

Tim looks back over his shoulder --

Jason smirks. "Anyone who pissed off Bruce as much as you pretty much *have* to..."

Well... heh. "I'm sure I don't know *what* you're talking about, Jason. When Bruce tied me to the high bar and spanked me, it was an act of sweet reason and calm."

Jason throws himself back onto his elbows and smirks more. "My mistake. I'm sure you had safewords and everything."

Tim pulls the medical grade lubricant from its pocket and sets the belt back down. "Safe, sane, and consensual in every respect," and Tim takes the opportunity afforded by being at the foot of the bed to stroke and pet his way back up Jason's body with his free hand, pausing at the tangle and snarl of scar tissue and muscle that is Jason's thigh. Would Barbara ever give him a chance like this one?

Not her back -- he doesn't think Barbara will ever trust *him* enough for that, and, ultimately, that's perhaps as it should be. He's not her Robin. But... the other places.

She'd given him her legs, but Tim hadn't really had the chance to examine the old scars... and Jason is being far more patient than Tim thinks he could be were he in Jason's position -- no. More patient than Tim would be if Tim was actually *thinking* about what he's postponing. Tim smiles ruefully --

"Who was in your head, kid? It really *wasn't* Bruce," he says, and pulls one knee up --

Tim touches his tongue to his lips. "At the moment --"

"*Before* the moment. C'mon."

"Barbara," Tim says, and follows the loop of a scar that starts at the outside of Jason's knee and trails right up to his groin.

"The wound wasn't that bad. I just didn't take good care of it, and... Babs. I... how is she?"

Tim looks up, and Jason looks almost wistful, perhaps remembering some team-up Tim had never known about. "She's good, Jason. She... have you ever thought about seeking her out?"

Jason sighs, softly, and scratches just beneath one of the scars on his abdomen. "Yes," he says, and it sounds exactly like, 'we're not going to talk about it.'

Tim nods and holds out the lubricant. Jason pauses for a moment before taking it, closing his hand around the tube and bringing that hand back down to the bed --

"I'm not going to ask you if you want this. But... are you sure you *should* want it as much as you do?"

Are you sure you want to ask *me* that question? Tim sits back on his heels and rests his hand on Jason's thigh, thinking of windburn, power, *flight* -- "We were never supposed to be strangers."

"Meaning what? You came out of the woodwork *because* I was dead."

Close, but..."I came out of the woodwork because Batman was screwing up on the street and Dick wasn't... where I thought he should be. It was too important for me to listen to my fear, then... and I wished I hadn't listened to it for as long as I had."

Jason looks at him for a long moment and then nods, slowly. "How long had it been? Since you'd known the secret."

"The better part of four years. Anyone who had seen Dick at the circus, who had really paid *attention* --"

"But it wasn't anyone. It was you, and your camera, and your little *notes*..." Jason laughs. "Four years. If I'd ever caught you..."

"Heh. I used to dream about it. About how it would feel to have that gauntlet wrapped around my throat as you dangled me off the ground..."

Jason snorts and covers his face. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that you're not supposed to *like* it when people do it?"

"I'm sure I'd be quite uncomfortable if someone I didn't care about did it. That sort of thing is for *family*, Jason," and Tim just... lets himself watch Jason laughing.

Cracks in the facade, yes, but he'd also been wrong. It's *more* than a facade. It's a philosophy and a way of life, a way of *living* when it must seem like the whole of the city wants you in the ground. Tim squeezes Jason's thigh and thinks about what it would be like to have to -- *need* to --- fight against the Mission, to know in your bones that it's not good enough, to know from *experience* that, in the end, Bruce isn't right about everything.

The greatest man he's ever known. Possibly the greatest man in the world... Tim shivers.

"*That* looked like you were thinking about Bruce."

"I was," Tim says, and, "he's never... we've never done this. He hasn't fucked me."

Jason frowns and takes his hand from his face. "What, have you only been fucking for three days or something?"

"Ah -- a *little* bit more than that. I was hoping he would today, before patrol --"

"He prefers after for that sort of thing," Jason says, and waves a hand. "How many times *have* you done this?"

"Once. With Clark."

"You let *Clark* pop your cherry? Look, it's not that I have anything against the guy, but he's kind of..."

"'Big, freaky, alien pervert' is the quote Dick offered one of the times when I begged him to stop telling me about his... friendship with Clark."

Jason snorts again. "Yeah, okay, I did call him that. He'd hit on me out of the *blue*. Bruce wasn't more than fifty feet *away*. Which is not to say that I don't think Superman is good and great and necessary, and no, I'm *not* getting over the fact that he's hearing every damned word I'm saying."

"Mm. It's my understanding that you spent pretty much your entire tenure as Robin with Bruce's tracers and bugs on you, Jason."

"*That* -- is different," Jason says, and shakes his head. "I don't know, kid. It would've been better form for you to keep it in the family. At least your *first* time."

"There's an argument for that, to be sure, but..." Tim shrugs and moves up the bed to sit beside Jason --

Jason puts his hand on Tim's thigh and strokes. "But what? He rocked your little world? Supered you all night long?"

Supered? No. Really no. But -- "Fucked me unconscious. Literally."

Jason snickers and moves his hand from Tim's thigh to the back of Tim's neck. He squeezes, tugs --

Another blow job?

Jason eases his grip and lets go. "He can't really give you what you need."

"He can certainly make the need seem less... urgent," Tim says, and turns to look at Jason's profile... touch. Stubble, and a scar beneath Jason's ear which disappears into his hair. "Jason..."

Jason smiles and then turns to face Tim. He has to --

They could be anyone, like this, so long as they were still close. Still... a different definition of 'brothers,' perhaps. Something which has everything to do with blood, and, of course, Bruce --

"Yeah," Jason says, setting the tube down and shifting until he's straddling Tim's thighs and cupping his face.

Tim smiles and closes his eyes, and the kiss is an easy thing, comfortable and slow. Tim cups Jason's sides and pulls him closer, close enough that the *position* is a little uncomfortable -- better, if only because Jason is that much bigger than he is, and his body is still unlike anyone else he's been with. He's rangier, somehow -- more so than Tim would've expected from someone who'd been that *big* as a fifteen year old.

Still, Jason's body could easily support a more Bruce-like musculature. If the training he'd received from the League of Assassins had been closer to what he'd received from Bruce, if --

If a lot of things which aren't nearly as important as the feel of Jason's warmth, the slip and slide of his tongue -- had he had this with Talia?

Does Tim really want to know? It's something of a shock that this could be even more tangled than it is, but not *much* of one. Tim smiles into the kiss and gets bitten, held --

Oh, he can feel Jason getting harder against him, pushing and dragging himself against Tim's skin --

Tim strokes his way to Jason's buttocks and cups him, marks the shape and strength of the muscle with his palms, slides his fingers along the base of Jason's spine where he's a little slick with sweat. He wants to taste it, taste as much of Jason as he can, and Tim swallows back saliva and kisses Jason harder --

Thinks about Bruce and what it would be like to have Bruce here for this, to kiss Jason knowing that he's doing it *for* Bruce, because it's one of the things Batman can't have and Robin needs to, or --

Something less than that -- or more, or --

Tim squeezes Jason and moves his hands back to his hips, tugs them down until Jason's sac is brushing against Tim's thigh and their penises can bump and rub against each other, make them hotter, make them *need* this more --

"Hungry little *mouth*," Jason says, and it sounds fervent and wonderful, perfect -- it has already been too *long* since he's had Jason in his mouth, and Tim does his best to express that by sucking Jason's tongue, humming for it --

Moaning for it when Jason starts to fuck his mouth in earnest, long, slow strokes of his tongue and promises *made*. Tim reaches around from the back to cup Jason's sac, hold it in his hand and just *feel* him there, squeeze lightly --

Jason pumps his hips for it and groans a little, pulling back out of the kiss and panting, staring down at Tim -- "Squeeze me again."

"Oh --" Tim pants and does it, getting a solid grip and watching Jason's eyes widen in the strange shadows of the mask, his lips part --

The positioning is awkward, but Tim can't bring himself to change it, to miss a moment of the soft vulnerability of Jason's sac against his palm, the fact that this is something Jason likes, wants from him --

"Jason, I love the way you feel --"

"Then feel me," Jason says, reaching back to catch Tim's wrist and drag it around between them. Tim moves his other hand and just... takes. Touch isn't a good enough word for this, for the rhythmic squeeze that's making Jason's breathing unsteady, for the feel of Jason hardening in his other hand, for his touch --

"Jason..."

"Look -- look at me."

Tim does, and immediately has to moan. Everything Jason is letting him see... do Tim's calluses feel like home? Tim makes a point of dragging them against Jason's skin as he watches Jason's face, watches Jason's eyes narrow again for a smile that makes Tim's penis twitch against his own wrist. Just --

More, and Tim squeezes with both hands before letting go and just stroking Jason everywhere he can reach, abdomen and chest, hips and thighs --

Jason closes his eyes and covers the hand Tim has on his chest with his own, dragging it over to his nipple --

Not as sensitive there as Tim is. Not -- Tim twists *hard* and Jason bucks, gasps and *grins*.

"Jason, you're making me... I think if there's anything else you're going to want me to say coherently, you should ask soon --"

"How do you want me to fuck you?"

"Hard. Like you said. Like --"

Jason squeezes Tim's hand. "On your back? Your knees? Riding me? Your stomach?"

The last suggestion comes with images so vivid they're nearly sensations. The thought of himself pressed flat to Jason's bed, face buried in his pillows as Jason drives within him, bracing himself -- Tim makes a sound he can't classify and drags his short nails over Jason's nipple, cups his sac again --

"Tim..."

Sit up and *beg*, yes, but -- "On my knees. For a start --"

"Sure --"

"You can get -- I think you can get deeper, that way, and I -- Jason," Tim says, squeezing and stroking, getting his hand tangled with Jason's own --

"Yeah. I can, and you... fuck, I think I'd love to watch you ride me, kid."

That -- "We can --"

"Assuming we don't fuck this up completely," Jason says, and pushes Tim's hands off of himself, "we can do this *again*."

*That* -- Jason had to see the lunge coming, but he lets it happen, gasping for the contact, or maybe for the way Tim is kissing his throat and cupping his hips again, steadying himself on his knees and dragging his teeth, licking --

And Jason's hands on his back feel possessive, hungry and familiar, warming -- If Clark is paying attention to him at all, tonight, Tim hopes it's to this, to the two of them holding each other, feeling and having each other --

"Jason," Tim says, *slurs* against his skin, tongue humming a little with the taste and tang of Jason's sweat -- more, Tim thinks, and licks his way to the other side of Jason's throat, to a scar Jason doesn't have.

"Yeah -- *fuck* --"

Too good to bite, and Tim's hips are pumping again, push-pushing against Jason's quad while Tim sucks around the bite, flicks his tongue and *marks*. It's possible that this should be for Bruce, and some part of him insists that it *is*. It's just that the rest of him isn't thinking about Bruce right now. The rest of him knows what Tim *wants* --

"Maybe -- nn -- maybe next time we play with *knives*," Jason says, working his arms between them with sheer muscular force and shoving Tim back down to the bed.

Tim starts to turn over --

"No, this way, first. I wanna see you," Jason says, and touches the mark on his neck -- shivers. "Tim."

Tim pants and spreads his legs. It's -- he's having a hard time focusing on the space around them, on anything but Jason kneeling up over him, shadowing him the way Tim likes, the way he always wants to *be*. It's not hiding if you're doing it in another person. It's --

Something, Tim thinks, and feels around on the bed for the lube, finds it and hands it to Jason.

"Please," he says, and his voice sounds hard to his own ears, a little insincere --

"That sounded more like '*now*,'" Jason says, and tosses the tube between his hands.

Tim watches it go back and forth, back and forth -- closes his eyes and laughs, reaching down to grab his own penis and squeeze it *hard* --

"Oh... yeah. Think you can keep that up without getting yourself off?"

Tim opens his eyes again, and Jason looks avid, eyes bright -- "For a... limited time," Tim says, and deliberately waits until his hips pump before releasing the squeeze.

"Ever given anyone a show...?"

"Barbara," Tim says. "It was... amazing."

Jason moans, low and not quite under his breath. "Stroking yourself off while she watched, maybe told you what to do --"

"*Yes*, Jason --"

"And you never got to see her up close when she was working, watched her dance on those high heels --"

"Heh. You've never watched her lift herself up on those -- those fucking *corded* arms and swing --"

Jason grunts and twitches, *hard* -- and opens the tube, slicking the fingers of his right hand. Tim slicks himself with pre-come, trying for something like the careful motions Jason's using on his fingers --

And for a moment they do *just* that, staring at each other and making themselves messier, staring until Tim's eyelids feel heavy and -- Tim has to stop. He strokes down to the base and squeezes himself again, trying to convince his penis that it wouldn't be the best idea in the world to keep stroking himself --

It feels like it's been a year since the last time he'd *really* masturbated, because what had happened in the Clocktower profoundly didn't *count* -- and this wouldn't count, either, for much the same reasons.

Tim licks his lips -- moans when Jason finally lays back down, bracing himself on one elbow and moving his slick fingers through Tim's cleft. The first touch is cool enough to make Tim's skin prickle with the need to be stroked, chafed and soothed --

"No waiting anymore," Jason says, and pushes in with one finger, narrowing his  eyes in a wince Tim knows from the inside --

"I -- I do have empirical evidence that I stretch *significantly*, Jason --"

Jason laughs and shakes his head. "Yeah, and God knows what Supes used on you instead of lube -- he *did* take you to the Fortress, right?"

"Ah -- yes," Tim says, and pulls his knees up for leverage. He knows what it feels like when the sense of pressure changes to something else, something --

Jason turns his finger as he slips most of the way out -- *shoves* in --

"Jason --"

"Did you like it there?"

"It was -- he made me want to learn Kryptonian. More than the few words I know from Bruce's files --" *Thrust* and Tim bites his lip, squeezes himself --

"Let me see you stroke yourself, the way you like..."

Tim nods and loosens his grip a little, goes for slow and teasing -- Jason thrusts and Tim's hand shakes.

"Jesus. So fucking hot for this --"

"Yes. I -- at the moment it's all. Potential, and I -- I know what it *feels* like to really --"

"Yeah. Yes, I..." Jason closes his mouth and shakes his head again, lips pressed together tightly as he finds a rhythm, a little slower than Tim wants, but paired with a *crook* that makes colors flare and flash behind Tim's eyes --

He'd closed his eyes, and his hand is working independent of thought, starting to go as fast as he wants Jason to -- Tim opens his eyes and forces himself to slow down --

"Yeah, just like that. Slow and easy -- for now."

Potential is the right word for this, for this feeling low in his abdomen of things tightening, getting ready to thrum for this, drive him on. Potential, too, in Jason's words. Another time for this, another *chance* at this. "Not -- too slow."

"Heh. *You* have to go back on patrol tonight --"

"And you won't?"

Jason looks at him -- into him, and maybe Jason's feeling the same things, because his eyes narrow again, and he looks down. "Tim..."

"You have your own things to do. Doesn't -- it doesn't mean we both won't be *out* there --"

"Heh. You realize that the first time you slip and call me Robin, I'm going to break another bone, right?"

Tim smiles and touches himself with just his fingertips. "I'll find other things to call you. Jay. *Ah* --"

The crook of his finger -- pressure *there*, and Tim squeezes himself --

Groans and pants -- "More. Give me -- just get me *open*, Jason --"

"Fuck, you're so -- all right, just let me..." And Jason pulls out almost all the way. Tim can feel the brush and push of a second finger and clenches helplessly --

Evens his breathing out as much as he can, as *fast* as he can --

And the burn is immediate, hot and full of as much potential as everything else. He can't quite feel it as pain, but it's a lot like what happens when the empty place inside him wants his attention -- something there, something he, perhaps, *should* acknowledge --

For certain values of 'should.' Tim smiles and lets his eyes close, planting his feet and rocking for it until Jason's in to the knuckle and twisting, pushing --

Jason, and everything between them, everything which could *be* between them with a little luck and, perhaps, some bloody-mindedness of his own. Tim clenches hard around Jason's fingers --

"*Relax* --"

"Not -- likely," Tim says, and strokes himself fast and hard until his body tenses again, until he's holding Jason in him hard enough that Tim can *feel* Jason struggling to thrust evenly, as opposed to the ragged -- *jagged* -- motion he's managing -- "Jason --"

"You *want* to drive me crazy --"

"*Yes*," Tim says, sitting up enough to stroke Jason's slick hand, feel the way he's stretching around Jason's fingers --

Jason cups the back of Tim's head and pulls him up and into a kiss, shifting the angle, shifting everything *inside* Tim --

Tim squeezes his eyes shut and *shouts* into Jason's mouth, and Jason pulls back for a moment -- "Come *back* --"

Jason bites Tim's lip *hard* before licking it, licking his way into Tim's mouth -- and fucking Tim's mouth with the exact rhythm he's using for his fingers, twisting in and in -- Tim wraps his free arm around the back of Jason's neck and holds himself still for it, pursing his lips a little to make sure he can feel every drag and slide of Jason's tongue --

Every *push*, and maybe he does want this on his back, want Jason to fold him in half until he can't breathe and can't *think* --

Jason slips his tongue out and bites Tim again -- shoves Tim hard enough that he bounces, that the angle shift inside makes him shout again, squeeze himself and claw at the duvet --

And Jason cups the back of Tim's thigh with his free hand and pushes it up, back against his chest -- "Oh fuck --"

"Yeah, this is what you want, this --" And Jason fucks him *hard* with his fingers, twisting them on every thrust, bending and --

Tim *can't* parse what every movement is from just the feel. It's too much, rolling through him and winding him up tight --

"You're gonna feel... Tim --"

"I want -- I want you, Jason, you know -- you *know* --"

"I do. I --" Jason pants and moans, softly. "I know, kid, and -- we both *know* --"

"Brother," Tim says and groans, his hand doesn't feel like it belongs to him, anymore, nothing that feels that good can be *just* him, can be --

"Tim --"

"Ah -- *brother*, Jason, like it's supposed to be, like I always -- always --"

"I'm gonna *gag* you," Jason says, laughing -- "Just as soon as I make you scream," and Jason pulls out, rears up and strokes himself with his slick hand, squeezes the back of Tim's thigh with his other --

"We can -- we can talk about gags. Negotiate."

"A fucking *ball* gag on a leather strap, wide enough to make your jaw *ache*, you little cocksucker --"

"And this is the kind of creative thinking the family *misses* without you --"

"Shut *up*," Jason says, and he doesn't stop laughing until the head of his penis is pressed against Tim's hole, and, "aw, God, you're too fucking *small* --"

"Jason, please --"

"Fuck, don't beg, don't beg me for this --"

"Don't *make* me beg, Jason, I -- oh. Oh --"

"Yeah, just -- breathe for me, nice and easy, slow -- you feel --"

"So thick in me, stretching me open --"

"So fucking *tight*, Tim, so hot and tight --"

Tim moans and squeezes himself, sweats for the burn and push, slide -- *in* and he chokes on his own moan, coughs and everything flares and gets a little darker all at once. It feels important to remember that he's on a bed, that it's Jason's and that they're in a warehouse, in a place where Jason's planned and plotted and *been*, alive and well --

It's nobody's home, though, and in the end -- Tim laughs and chokes on *that*, groans and punches the bed --

"*Jason* --"

"Yeah, Tim, fuck so *hungry* --"

It could be either or both of them, it could be anything so long as it's more of *this*, and Tim arches off the bed just to feel Jason's hands on his hips, to feel that stillness he doesn't have to work for, push for --

And Jason's all the way in, groaning and squeezing Tim's hips *hard*, head thrown back and throat working, the mark on it red and *blatant* --

*His* mark, and Tim wants to twist, wants to *stay*, filled and held -- "Come on, Jason, please --"

"Don't beg, don't -- I can't *think* --"

"*Please*," Tim says and slows down his strokes again, cries out for the feel of himself clenching with the need for more, faster, *something* --

Jason groans again and looks forward, looks down at Tim and his expression is shocky, lost and desperate --

"God, you're *here*, Jason, and I can't -- I can't think, either, but I want -- *ah* --"

Jason pulling back, pulling out, and Tim knows that it's only so he can thrust, but he can't keep himself from shaking his head, crying out --

Louder when Jason pushes *in*, and it feels like Jason's giving Tim everything, everything he'd taken and everything Tim had thrown at him, demanded --

He can't *think*, and he doesn't think he's *that* close, but maybe the actual orgasm won't matter as much as having this, being *here*, sweating on Jason's sheets and making Jason gasp and moan with every clench, voluntary and otherwise --

And Jason slides his hands up Tim's sides, pressing hard and making Tim feel like he's not quite real in any of the places Jason's not *touching*, cold and absent everywhere --

*Inside* him, and Jason rocks his hips once, again, two times fast and pauses, stroking up to Tim's nipples and just brushing them, rubbing his thumbs against them --

"D -- distracting --"

"Hnn. Can't have *that*," Jason says and leans in, bracing himself on one elbow and sliding his free hand up to Tim's throat, the scar -- "I could've killed you. I --"

"Would've made the sex -- less entertaining --"

Jason laughs and groans again -- "Fucking *freak*," and he cups Tim's throat and squeezes lightly --

Harder when Tim presses against the touch, wraps his legs around Jason and squeezes him that way -- the angle -- the *choke* --

"Ready for me?"

Tim clutches at the duvet with his free hand and opens his eyes, licks his lips -- gets kissed, slow and *wet*, and Jason doesn't wait for an answer before starting to rock his hips steadily, one thrust after another until it starts feeling smooth, or --

Hot and strange, *smooth* --

Every stroke taking him higher, Jason's big hand holding him down by the throat, pressing --

Tim strains against it to cry out into Jason's mouth, and Jason starts moving faster, still kissing him, only now it's a lot of smaller kisses, brief and dry and soft. It's hard to keep up with them, to respond with more than breathless noise and the way he's starting to shake, all over --

"Jason --"

"Tell me --"

"Good. So -- please don't stop --"

"Don't fucking worry about that, kid," Jason says, kissing him again and pushing back and up, breaking Tim's leg-hold and giving Tim's throat a good-bye squeeze and moving everything inside Tim, changing --

Tim shouts and arches, wanting words for this. His body can't possibly be enough --

"Begging for this, just --" And Jason's breathing is harsh as he cups the backs of Tim's knees and pushes them *both* back --

"J -- *oh* --"

"Everything I can fucking *give* you," and Jason's thrusts are harder now, pounding into him, rocking Tim and rocking the bed, and Jason grunts every time his sac slaps against Tim, Tim can't *see* --

Tim opens his eyes and Jason's staring down at him, mouth open and lips wet, a little swollen --

He's bracing himself almost entirely against the backs of Tim's thighs, yes, just -- bending Tim in *half*, and Tim can still breathe but this is good, better than anything --

*Brother*, Tim thinks, but when he tries to say it only another groan comes out, long and low and almost independent of the rhythm Jason's fucking into him, the -- he still has his hand wrapped around his penis, but all he seems to be able to do is squeeze it when the ache gets to be too much.

When it starts to feel like Jason should be making his teeth click together, or that he should be able to feel Jason *in* his penis --

Brother everywhere, *in* him, and what would this be like with Dick? He knows Dick and Jason had sex at least once, but he doesn't think... he can't quite see --

"Where *are* you, birdboy?"

"I -- Dick. And you -- God, both of you --"

"Little *slut*," Jason says, and he's laughing again, fucking him faster, *harder* -- "Think I -- think I like that about you. Especially since you're still so fucking *tight* --"

"Tell me -- tell me you like it -- Jason --"

"I love it. You're a hot little *vise* around me, and you're gonna. Gonna walk around all day tomorrow a little fucking *bow-legged* --"

Feeling Jason all day. *Feeling* him -- "Please, harder, please --"

And Jason squeezes the backs of Tim's thighs hard enough to maybe leave more bruises and does it, *slamming* in, over and over, and it feels like Jason is fucking his whole body, taking everything he *is*.

Tim tries to breathe, but he can only manage shallow little gasps, only get a little of that air which feels so cool on his skin, on his cheeks -- wet cheeks. He's -- he's crying a little for this, and Jason can *see* it, and Tim doesn't know if he wants to do it more or wants to *hide* --

He can't hide. He can't *move* and his hand is shaking too hard for him to get a good stroke -- he might not *need* it --

"Tim, you -- oh, *fuck* --"

"Yes -- please --"

Jason is losing his rhythm, too, bucking almost randomly -- "C'mon, come for me while -- while I'm inside you --"

And Tim gets his hand back, the feel like it had never *been* clumsy and useless, helpless as the rest of him -- Tim strokes himself fast, pressing against the slit and trying to work himself to the right place, or -- Some new place built out of the fire Jason's stoking inside him and the old, familiar feel of his own hand, his own calluses. He doesn't know --

"*Do* it, birdboy --"

"Jason, I -- I don't --"

"You *do*," Jason says and *strokes* the backs of Tim's thighs, almost chafes them -- "Look at me, Tim."

Tim opens his eyes and Jason's staring at him, face twisting with something which almost looks like hurt, mouth open for every panting grunt. Tim can feel him *trying* to get his rhythm back, but every few thrusts it's off, too hard, too perfect -- "Brother..."

Jason closes his eyes and shudders hard, and watching that --

God, he can *feel* it --

"Please, Tim."

"Oh --" The need. The --

He can feel the need, and he squeezes himself harder against the shake of his hands, against -- it doesn't help, and he -- he --

He's crying out as the orgasm hits, and he hears himself get louder, feels himself shaking -- and then it's only the white-out flare, everything gone but the intensity throwing everything back, making Tim --

Making Tim *push* against the hold Jason has on his thighs and get exactly nowhere, but --

He can hear Jason again, moaning for every thrust, now, working himself and working Tim --

"Oh God, fuck -- *Tim* --"

"Jason -- *no* --"

Jason pulls out, letting go of one of Tim's thighs and stroking himself hard and fast --

"*In* me --"

"Not -- I --" Jason shakes his head and keeps Tim's leg bent up and back. He's staring at Tim, looking him over and groaning. Tim feels himself flushing harder. It's a great view. It's a *wonderful* view, but --

"Jason --"

"Fucking -- *patrol*," Jason says and gasps, tensing --

"You *owe* me --"

And Jason laughs through his orgasm, semen sketching a slight arc before landing on Tim's penis, on his abdomen to mingle with Tim's own. Which is just...

It's not that Tim isn't still *pissed*, but Jason Todd has just come all over him, and that's the sort of thing which can count as a mitigating circumstance. Tim slides his fingers through the mess and watches Jason pant, watches him squeeze his penis and wince. Tim brings his hand to his mouth and waits...

When Jason looks at him again, he starts licking his fingers -- and Jason shudders.

"You can taste both of us."

"You *owe* me," Tim says again, and -- yes, he really can taste both of them. Together.

Jason sighs and scrubs his hands back through his hair. "You're going back *out* there, birdboy. I don't need you getting a beat-down because you got distracted by my fucking spunk running down your thighs."

"I took down Freeze when I had the *flu*, Jason --"

Jason throws up his hands. "All right, all right. Next time I'll come in you two or three times and you can fucking cope with the come stains on your tights."

"I'll hold you to that," Tim says, and wonders how many pairs of the green shorts had been ruined in just that way... well. He supposes he can't really blame anyone else for being fastidious. Tim licks his fingers again, sucks them into his mouth -- pulls them out with a wet sound.

Bruce...

Jason. "Come here?"

Jason's smile is soft and a little private, difficult to put into context -- and very nice to see.

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Where'd you just go?"

"Oh, just thinking about beating on you," Jason says, and moves closer. "Turn around."

Tim does -- and Jason locks his arms under Tim's and pulls him back into what may be the world's friendliest half-nelson. Tim laughs and idly flails his arms. "Do we need to talk about what an afterglow usually entails?"

Jason squeezes -- and strokes the back of Tim's neck with his fingers. "I'm thinking *creatively*, birdboy. Don't cramp my style."

"I'd never even dream of it," Tim says, and relaxes into Jason's hold. They stay that way for several moments, time enough for both of them to get their breathing back to where it should be, for the feel of Jason behind him -- against him -- to seem entirely normal. And then Jason lets Tim go and strokes down his sides, up through the mess on Tim's chest and abdomen --

Jason kisses the back of his neck. "Actually... I was thinking about the last time I had sex that was... easy."

Easy. Easy? "We're speaking relatively, of course."

"Heh. Fuck you sideways, birdboy, I'm having a moment," and the emphasis -- The emphasis is Jason using his slick hand to cup Tim's sac and squeeze.

"Very -- special. Jason."

"Yeah. Picture it: sunlight, warm day, flowers, and a cheerleader who'd decided to live a little dangerously with the oh-so-mysterious Wayne charity case," Jason says, and the smile is still in his voice, but now there's an edge to it.

It probably says something important about Tim that he can't quite keep himself from rubbing back against Jason for it. "A civilian...?"

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it. Sometimes... sometimes it's a reminder. Why we do this. Who it's *for*."

Tim thinks about softness, about Steph and the times he catches himself looking for Spoiler -- Tim shakes his head and covers Jason's hands with his own, just letting himself feel the way they are and aren't moving on him, the way it's not quite a *grip* so much as a hold...

"You don't agree."

"Some civilians can be excellent reminders. But I can't help remembering the ones who make me *wonder* why I do this."

Jason squeezes Tim's sac again and slides his other hand up to Tim's shoulder, cupping it from the front. "You can't focus on those. Or, if you do..."

"Yes, Jason?"

"Somebody loves them. *Somewhere*. Even the real pricks who you'd swear didn't deserve it --"

"I could say the same thing about the people we broke tonight," Tim says, and smiles. "But I won't, because I'm enjoying the moment."

Jason snorts. "You know what I mean, Tim. There's a line. Some assholes cross it, some never do."

Tim closes his eyes. Warmth, contact -- *this*. "Should it be that easy to draw the line?"

"Yes," Jason says, and there's no hesitation or pause. "You can talk about the thin line between us and the fuckers we go after all you want, but, in the end, we're the good guys."

Tim presses back against Jason again -- and Jason squeezes his shoulder. Tim sighs. "I've often wondered if the first step down the road to becoming something other than... other than a *hero* is to start thinking you're better than other people."

"Maybe," and Jason squeezes him one more time before letting go and giving Tim a -- push. Not a shove.

Tim turns around again and settles back on his elbows. "Jason... I really want to know. To hear this from you."

Jason's face is shadowed, literally and figuratively, for a moment... and then it isn't, and Jason lays down beside Tim -- "I really wish I still smoked."

Tim makes a face.

Jason laughs and turns on his side, looking down at Tim. His hair is mussed and his smile is sharp as he drags his fingers over Tim's mouth. "My philosophy. You're going to take it right back home to Daddy and let him chew on it until he can think of something deadly to say the next time we have a run-in."

Tim smiles back. "He might not ask."

Another laugh -- "Fine, kid. Listen close. Sometimes one of us goes bad. It happens. Maybe it's a bad day, maybe it's a *real* bad day. And when it happens, everyone starts wondering why, starts looking for little cues and clues that they missed the first time around..."

Tim thinks of Secret... of Greta. Darkseid. He nods.

"It's not that they're wrong to do it -- a lot of the time there really *was* something they should've caught, but it's also just another kind of magical thinking. 'If only I had seen *this*, or done *that*, everything would've been okay.' It's just another way to make yourself feel important in a world that spins just fine without your help. When you get right down to it, when a hero goes bad it's *their* choice. Their friends and loved ones maybe should've been a little quicker on the uptake, but that doesn't mean they could've changed things, Tim."

"Nobody changes anything about themselves *solely* because of another person's influence," Tim says, and kind of... feels it in his mouth. Thinks about it, about *Bruce*, and everything Tim had done, everything he had *become*... He might as well replace 'Bruce' with 'Dick.' Or replace it with a very specific definition of 'Tim.' Tim sighs and nods. "I think I'm hearing you."

"Yeah, you are," Jason says, and strokes Tim's mouth again. "We all make choices. Every day. The *real* first step to becoming someone you never wanted to be is to pretend the choices aren't there -- in either direction. *Any* direction."

And that... Tim sighs, and thinks about his dreams. Endless black and falling, always falling. And knowing exactly what he's falling *into*. Who he'll become, one day. "There's something to be said for the... illusion of inevitability, Jason."

"Hey, whatever keeps you warm at night -- so long as it doesn't also make you *blind*," Jason says, and strokes his way over to Tim's cheek, cupping it. "Take what you want. And pay for it."

Jason isn't talking about philosophy, anymore. Not really. Not... "I'll pay for this," Tim says, and meets Jason's eyes --

"Fuck yeah, you will. And so will I --"

"No, I mean..." Tim reaches up and covers Jason's hand with his own. "I don't mind paying for this."

"You should. Your life -- do you even know how fucking good you *have* it?"

"Did you, Jason?"

Jason taps his finger against Tim's temple. "Yes. Heh. And no. It doesn't matter, anymore. Not for me."

"Because you've made your choices."

"Got it in one, kid," and Jason rolls onto his back, cracking his knuckles and bringing one knee up.

Tim settles back against the pillow and thinks, wishes and *wants* -- more. And again, and *more*. And -- "Did you think that I was asking you to go back to the way things were before?"

Jason sighs. "Tim --"

"I know -- I know it can't ever be what it was. I wouldn't be who I am if it *could* work that way, Bruce and Dick and *Barbara* wouldn't be who they are if it could --"

"Tim. Try this on for size: it's better when you're not alone."

"*Yes*, Jason," and Tim starts to turn -- and Jason stops him with an arm against his chest. "I might've just been trying for more afterglow."

"Right," Jason says, and knocks his arm against Tim a couple of times until Tim lays back down. "You can't have everything, and you can't have every*one*."

But I can have you. Tim goes for the non-committal grunt, instead --

And Jason laughs again. "I'd tell you to stop trying, but... shit. Maybe it's just something Robin has to do."

"Certainly it's a *choice* I've made. And plan to stick with."

Jason turns his head, and the humor is still there, but... there are other things, too.

Tim brushes his knuckles against the back of Jason's hand, and gives Jason his own other things. It's quiet, the noise of the city banked and a little deniable, if not quite possible to wholly ignore. It feels right, especially against the sound of Jason's steady, even breaths...

He has things to do tonight.

Jason closes his eyes for a long moment and then sits up. "Let's hit it. The bathroom is back by the computers... you can wash up."

"All right," Tim says, and gets up out of the bed.

The facilities are minimalist to an extreme, but clean and spare. Tim can hear Jason moving around in the main area...

He's dressed when Tim walks out of the bathroom, and Tim's uniform is laid out on the -- made -- bed. Tim strokes his tunic and thinks about... a lot of things, all at once. "Jason..."

"I'll find you, kid. Don't you worry," he says, and Tim realizes that Jason absolutely has a Red Hood voice.

Heh. "Perhaps I'll find you, sometime," Tim says in his Robin voice, and starts pulling on the... accoutrements.

Jason taps his shoulder -- with the kris. "First time you wake me up when I'm trying to get my beauty sleep, I cut off something important."

"Mm. Noted," and Tim doesn't mention anything about how Bruce -- and everyone else in their family -- will now know how to find Jason, at least sometimes. It doesn't have to be said.

Especially since Tim would be deeply surprised if Bruce ever did anything of the kind without an emergency requiring all possible hands. There've been any number of occasions when Bruce might've followed Jason, before now. There are rules to be considered -- and human weakness, as well. Tim flips his lenses back down.

Jason's waiting at the roof access door when Tim walks up the stairs. When he locks it down, Tim doesn't watch him do it.

And then they fly, in opposite directions.

*

Part of him spends the rest of the night waiting for a call that doesn't come, and wondering who that call would be *from*. It's enough of a distraction that he doesn't slip accidentally when he's taking out muggers and making pimps' nights infinitely less entertaining... but he's thinking about it.

There's another part of him which wants to smile like Robin and whispers things about the importance of combating recidivism every time he fails to break the small bones in a criminal's hand, and every time a head-kick lands well enough to send a spatter of blood into the air.

It's there in him, and it always has been, but... it's louder now. More tangible. A different sort of mark on him, perhaps. Something to consider every time the ache inside him makes him want to smile and stretch, *feel*, want and feel himself wanted.

Needed.

It's just about four when he finds himself in the part of Gotham where Owen T. Em has a warehouse, and Tim takes several minutes to just fly around the area, making sure he doesn't see any black flutters in the night.

There's nothing he can do about the fact that the tracers on him will tell Bruce and Barbara exactly where he *is*, but there's no reason to be incautious.

He moves in at around a quarter after the hour. The warehouse in question is padlocked and chained, but there are no other security measures. He goes in through the roof, and moonlight shows the lab he'd been expecting.

The computers are covered with plastic, but boot up for him normally -- no passwords.

Not even one.

Tim smiles and calls up Crane's wonderfully, obsessively neat records. The language has the density one would expect from a man who'd only ever published in the most obscure journals, but Tim is only looking for *one* thing. He finds it -- and a detailed plan to disperse it in the Gotham subways at rush hour.

"Very nasty, Professor," Tim whispers, and reads on. There'd been problems with its manufacture. It didn't take much to permanently -- the word *thrills* -- affect one subject, but the compound didn't take well to warm temperatures or exposure to certain disinfectants. He'd never gotten to test it in more than just computer simulations.

If Tim had been wearing his rebreather...

Crane had also produced an antidote, which was designed to work, like the original compound, directly on the brain of the recipient via direct inhalation. 

So. He doesn't have to try to come up with a way to carry around more of the no-fear gas without being detected, but it would be a good idea -- on a number of levels -- to make sure these records are never, ever found. Bruce *would* go through everything, and it's more likely than not that *these* files would make a little light bulb appear between the Bat-ears. Perhaps it would have Bat-ears of its own.

Tim reformats the hard drives twice, and considers reducing the computers to their component parts via the judicious use of some of his explosive pellets... no. He's going to have to find a way to make the authorities -- and Bruce -- aware of this place, and he can't risk the dispersal of the other nasty things which would occur if he accidentally burned the place to the ground.

He needs a haz-mat team, and thus he needs a plausible story... he has one, and it's even mostly true.

Ivy was so grateful with his decision to let her live in peace that she'd given up the 'Auntie Em' alias. He'd checked it out over the weekend at a bored moment, and found this place. Upon checking it out, he'd discovered that Crane had wiped his records but left a treasure trove.

Tim smiles again. It will work.

"R to B."

"Here."

"I've got something you need to see. Scarecrow related." A pause --

"I have your location. Stay there."

"Noted. R out."

Tim takes a more leisurely tour of the warehouse while he waits. There are gurneys in the back -- old ones, perhaps acquired from a hospital closing -- all of which are equipped with heavy restraints. None of them look like they've been used very recently, all of them look exactly like nightmares their work had prevented.

He starts checking cabinets and finds just about everything a mad scientist would need in order to bring a city to its knees. There's no power, but the space is a large one, and all the windows are shuttered. This time of year, there probably wouldn't be much in the way of denaturing of the various compounds.

The empty space inside him... is empty. He's not going to trip and knock something terrible over, even if any of these things could have an effect on him as he is now. Crane's records on that possibility had been full of theories, but no conclusions.

He checks other cabinets -- ones which are out of the way and have a thicker layer of dust. Most of them are empty. One --

Notebooks.

Dozens of them. Just --

It's possible that Crane hadn't made any hard copies of his work, and certainly they all appear to be in order by date. He could find the right one, hide it, burn it... Tim searches, pulling them out three at a time to get to the newer ones --

Why had he put the newer ones in the *back*?

He'll find it, and then he'll... why would Crane have only one notebook missing? Would he discuss his theories for future work in other notebooks?

Why hadn't he checked the place thoroughly before calling in -- no, he knows why. He'd left this to the end of his patrol. If he *hadn't* called in at around that time, and he wasn't on his way home -- if he was, in fact, sitting in one nameless location without even any real gang activity -- it would've been suspicious. He just has to find the right notebook and then... then just hope it stays buried with the others.

Bruce would go through them all and destroy them... Bruce is going to wonder why Crane had wiped his computer records but not even tried to move the hard copies.

Well -- theirs is not to try to fully comprehend the criminally insane mindset. This is a que será, será moment if ever there was one. It would be infinitely *more* suspicious if he's found surrounded by records looking a little too focused -- if not, quite, worried.

Tim stands up --

"Robin."

"Batman," Tim says, and when he turns around -- Batgirl, too. Looking directly at him through the blankness of her cowl -- he can *feel* it. "I didn't have any luck with the computers, but..." He gestures at the cabinet. "I found us some lovely bedtime reading."

Batman looks at Batgirl -- no. Bruce looks *to* Batgirl --

Tim smiles and raises an eyebrow. "Is there something I should know?"

"Batgirl," Bruce says, and his voice is low and full of *knowledge*, full of --

"No fear," she says, and clenches her hands into fists. "No *fear*, all night. He has... he's hollow."

And Batman looks around at the lab, looks at *him*.

All night -- that black *flutter* -- "Batman," Tim says, "I don't know about hollow, but I'm definitely starting to feel a little *fear* --"

"He's *lying*," Batgirl says --

"I know," and Bruce puts a hand on her shoulder, which is good, because she looks like she wants to do something nasty to Tim in the next few minutes --

"Batman. *B*. We talked about this --"

Bruce holds up a hand. "The only one of us you didn't go to, Robin. Tim. The only one of us you *avoided* --"

"I'm *afraid* of her, Bruce! You've known that for *years* --"

"Afraid. The way you are of me?" Bruce moves closer.

Tim doesn't pull his staff. "I --"

"The way you are of being *rejected* by me, by your family and friends?"

"I'm more afraid of being *alone* now, Bruce, you know that. My father --"

"*Don't*," Bruce says, and now *he's* clenching his hands into fists. "She watched you with the computers. You wiped them."

"*Please* --"

"Do you even know what drug you were *exposed* to, Tim? What's been working in your system for *days*, changing you and everything you *are*?"

Tim takes a breath. He -- takes a *breath*. "It needed changing."

"Tim --"

"It needed *changing*, Bruce. You can't tell me you don't like me better, now. You'll be *lying* --"

"Like you've lied?"

"You like me *better* this way. I can -- I can fucking *play* with you, we can be together, lovers, and I never have to worry about you remembering that I'm not the right Robin, that I never was and never will be --"

"Tim, no --"

Tim pulls his staff and a batarang, too, letting the latter strike just between Bruce's feet. "Do *not* tell me no, Bruce. You -- you said you wouldn't deny me. That you *couldn't*. You *love* me like this!"

Bruce opens his hands and exhales, sharply. "You cannot stay this way, Tim. You have to know that --"

"I *can*. I've been doing my job, I've been making people happy, happy to be with *me* --"

"They always would've been --"

"*No*, Bruce, it doesn't work that way. It -- it never could and it never will. I had to be better, easier, less afraid of every single fucking *shadow*. I'm *better* this way --"

"No. You're more brutal and less cautious. You put two men in the hospital tonight --"

"I kept them *alive*," and swings the staff when Bruce starts to reach out, yanking it back out of range. "I showed Jason and I'll show *anyone*. The information we got is good, *useful*. We can take out the money launderers now, and -- All you have to do is let me be, let me *live*, Bruce --"

"No."

Tim growls and spins the staff. "Then fucking *take* me -- unh --"

Batgirl, he thinks -- nerve-strike.

Nerve --

No --

*

Consciousness is a sudden enough thing that Tim wonders if he'd somehow passed out while on the street, maybe in the middle of a stakeout -- no, there'd been nothing like that last night --

Last night.

Last --

Something in him is seizing, pulsing and spinning itself out all through him, something --

It *hurts*, all over, even though there's no pain. He --

Tim bites back a moan, another, tries to move -- he can't. He's tied down, wrists and ankles and *torso*. He's trapped. He's going to --

He's *trapped*, and he has to think, get free --

Last *night* --

Tim opens his eyes. He's in the Cave. He's strapped down in the *Cave*, and Bruce knows, Bruce --

"Oh, *God* --"

"Tim. Be easy. Be --"

"You did it. You -- you fucking *broke* me again," and Tim can't focus -- his eyes are rolling. He's -- he has to get *away*. He'd --

With Bruce --

With *everyone*. How could he -- they've all seen him, know everything *about* him, everything he has to hide, has to because --

"*Tim*. Your heart rate --"

"Is through the fucking *roof*, Bruce, I *know*. I'm *terrified*. Let me go, let me -- please, Bruce, please, I can't do this, anymore, I don't know *how* --"

Hands on his shoulders, big and warm -- no gauntlets. No black hands dragging him down forever, changing him, always changing -- "Tim. Look at me."

He has to. He can't -- can't let Batman see him like this, or -- something --

"Please," Bruce says, and there's so much in his voice, so much -- Batman needs --

Bruce needs -- Bruce doesn't need *him*, not this, not ever -- Tim bites his lip and tastes blood --

"*Please*, Tim," and now one of those hands is on his mouth, brushing so lightly, sliding the blood around --

Blood. So much. Bloody sheets and he'd -- he'd broken those men last night. He'd *crippled* them -- "I can't. I can't. Bruce --"

"*Robin*."

Tim opens his eyes and pants, stares up at the fluorescents, smells Bruce -- armor and sweat, *male*. Tim wants -- he wants too much, and Bruce needs him to --

He's crying. He's -- he has to get himself under control, but there's so much, there's --

"It's too much. It's *too much* --"

"Come back to me, Robin. You're here. You're safe. There's nothing -- I won't let anything *hurt* you," Batman says -- *Bruce* says, and his voice... still so much *in* it.

So much he'd provoked, asked for, demanded -- Bruce's hands on him --

Squeezing, now. Hard and implacable, and the pain -- there's pain. He can focus on that.

Pain isn't an enemy if you know what to do with it, if you know how to *fight*. He knows how. He can -- he can stop himself, calm himself down, hold on to -- something --

"You're safe," Bruce says again. "There's nothing -- please, Robin. Tim. Come back to me. Come back."

Tim hears himself sob again, but it's quieter. He feels... he can breathe, and he always could. He -- "Let me go," Tim says, and opens his eyes.

Bruce stares into them, into *him*, and Bruce knows everything, just -- everything --

How can Tim possibly *live* here --

"Stay with me."

Tim pants, pushes against the restraints -- stops. Blinking doesn't do very much about the tears still in his eyes, but he can -- he can. And Bruce lets go of his shoulders and turns away.

Turns *away* from him. He didn't -- he just wanted Tim to get himself under control again. He's going to leave, make Tim leave -- they're going to stay just like this, forever, until all the lies between them --

Bruce comes back. With a handkerchief.

Tim closes his eyes --

"Tim..."

Opens them, and Bruce has paused in the middle of reaching out, handkerchief hanging between them, monogram peeking out, glaring a little -- no. He can -- he lived with this fear his whole *life*. He can. "You could..." His voice sounds both thick and shaky -- it *will* sound like that. "You could consider opening the restraints."

Bruce's frown looks deeply pained, and that --

Tim coughs on a laugh. "Just what, exactly, do you think I'll do, Bruce?"

Bruce... doesn't raise an eyebrow. He just looks more pained, more *hurt* -- scared? Of *what*?

"Bruce... just. Wipe my eyes for me. Please."

And Bruce nods and does it, gentle and careful. When he's done, he tucks the handkerchief away again -- in his pocket. He's in civilian clothes, which means... something.

"How long was I... how long has it been?"

"It took an hour to find Crane's notes on the gas he'd given you. Cassandra watched over you while I searched. After I found the antidote, I brought you back here --"

"How long, Bruce?"

"You woke up screaming twice in the last ten hours. I'm not surprised you don't remember."

Tim closes his eyes again, just for a moment... ten hours, plus one. It's five in the evening on... Monday. It feels more like... he doesn't know what it feels like.

"Tim... you have to know --"

"I had sex with ten different people. I tortured people. I lied -- I lied so much. I."

"Not about everything," Bruce says, and there's a *question* in his voice, a -- he's not going to cry again.

He isn't going to cry again. Not for himself. "No, Bruce. Not about everything. It was... I could tell the truth, and that --"

Bruce rests one hand on Tim's shoulder. Lightly. "It makes it worse, now."

Tim -- it shouldn't feel like a relief to want to snarl. "Yes, Bruce, it makes it worse. I kept my secrets for a *reason*."

"And do you know what that reason is, again? Is the fear that great?"

"Let me go."

Bruce squeezes his shoulder *hard* -- takes his hand away. "Where."

Good question. "Upstairs, for a start. I'm -- sweaty. I could use a shower."

"And then, Tim...?"

This time he can't hold all of the snarl back. He can't -- "There is no place I could -- I'm not planning on going far, Bruce."

And Bruce is silent, watchful... there's fear there, still, and Tim doesn't know what to do about it. What he *can* do --

"Please."

Bruce makes a soft sound and opens the restraints, one at a time. And then -- he doesn't walk away.

Tim sits up as carefully as he would if he'd taken a bad blow to the ribs -- no, he's fine. He's -- uninjured. He swings his legs over the opposite side of the gurney, giving Bruce his back --

He'd forgotten, so easily, how much he hates doing that. It's *precisely* like having a very large and dangerous man with reason to be *pissed* looming over --

Tim stands up and starts stripping off the uniform. He'll wear a robe upstairs. He'll -- Bruce is still watching him. He can feel it everywhere, feel it crawling over his skin -- everything he is and everything he's *not*, and Tim's hands are shaking on the catches of the cape.

He stops them --

He *tries* to stop them --

"Tim..."

"I'm all right. I'm -- cured. I just need to. There's some adjustment, to be made," Tim says, and doesn't turn around. His voice sounds a little better, and that's -- a start. This time, when he thinks about it, his hands stop shaking.

"There are things we need to --"

"Talk about. Yes, I know, Bruce. Let's call the discussion tabled until I can reliably move around without wanting to curl into a ball and *cry*," and -- his voice was a little too harsh for that. A little too much. "Or overreact in other ways," and when Tim tries a rueful smile --

The feel of it on his face --

How many people had he given *that*, too? That *lie*. He could never feel -- focus. Tim goes back to stripping off, glad that he hadn't actually tried turning *around* before smiling.

Bruce... Bruce is still *watching* him, and how long will that last? How long before Bruce will go back to giving him Batman more than anything else? What does he have to do?

Lovers. Bruce had said it first, but Tim had thrown it back at him, again and again, demanded that from him and given him nothing -- no, not nothing.

That's the problem.

Naked, he gathers his uniform and takes it to the hamper, then gets a robe. He could take a shower here, but that would be... tantamount to begging Bruce to keep watching him, keep seeing him for something other than the operative who'd fucked up so *massively* --

There is nothing Bruce could see in him now that Tim could stand.

He heads for the stairs -- Batgirl, still in uniform, lurking in the shadows by the stairs. Watching him, too. *Seeing* him --

She pulls the cowl back off her face, and there's the usual moment of shock and mistrust. None of her scars are on her face, and she looks at least three years younger than she is. A lie.

More than that when -- she'd seen Tim recoil, inside. He is in no way capable of dealing with her, right now --

And she steps back into the shadows. Tim manages not to take the stairs at a run, but he can't say much more than that.

Thankfully, there's no sign of Alfred before he gets to his room, and the shower -- Clark. Stripping in front of him and showering in front of him, teasing and --

The way he'd looked in that *mirror* --

He's not fast enough to bite back the moan, but there's no one to hear. Unless Clark is paying attention. Kal. His body --

He's avoided mirrors, thus far, and Tim realizes that he's done it on purpose. He doesn't really want to see --

Bruce all over his skin. Clark and Jason, *Bart* -- Tim touches the bruise over his eye and it all comes back, absolutely all of it. Bart is in love with him, with the person he'd shown himself to be, so easy and casual, so *able*. How is Bart going to feel when Tim flinches the next time he offers one of those *hugs*?

So warm. He'd been so *warm* --

Tim manages to keep from moaning again and steps into the shower. The warm water isn't what he wants, but he couldn't have stayed in the Cave for the cold.

He just needs to have a little time, get himself together and think about what he's going to *say* to people. In some respects, there'll be room to maneuver. He's Robin, and many of the people in his life *expect* him to be uncommunicative -- if not entirely *absent* -- much of the time.

He'll just have to deal with Bruce, and... it's Bruce. Once he realizes that Tim isn't going to fall apart in several messy little pieces, he'll have to be invested in making things go as smoothly as possible. For the Mission. For... both of them, perhaps.

They don't exactly have the option of chalking it -- *it* -- up to adrenaline, but they can work around it, *live* with it. Lover. He'd wanted Tim --

He'd wanted the person who'd been living in this *skin* for the past week, wanted him so much that he'd begged, more than once. The attraction had been there before, they'd *established* that. But. The lies he'd told, over and over again. The way he'd pushed and rejected and *played* Bruce --

He can't stay here. He can't ask Bruce for that, along with everything else. He has -- there's money, and there are apartments all over Gotham. It wouldn't seem so strange -- Bruce Wayne's adopted son striking out on his own, but not *too* far.

He could still play the role for the society pages, attend the parties. Maybe start escorting the debutantes who are a little too young for Bruce Wayne, now. He could do it. He'll start looking for an apartment tonight --

"There you are, little brother, holy *hell* look at you."

Tim flinches *hard* --

"Hey, Jesus, are you okay? Bruce told me -- well, he told me a *lot*, and not much of it's making sense, but the whole 'Tim needs you right now, Dick' thing came through loud and clear, and -- you're still not looking at me."

Tim closes his eyes.

"Okay, I know I'm supposed to warn you when I'm about to do Bat impression, but it can't have been *that* bad. Also, you are just *covered* with bite marks. Did I mention 'holy hell,' yet?"

Tim sighs out a laugh. It doesn't sound very good -- and Dick reaches into the shower and cups Tim's shoulder.

"Did you really -- oh my God. I just realized *when* you had that run-in with Scarecrow."

Tim winces hard. "Dick, I... I don't know what to say..."

"Look at me, Tim."

It isn't quite the Nightwing voice, but that doesn't -- it's Dick. Tim turns his head, and Dick is there. He's still wearing his leather jacket from the ride in, his hair is mussed -- he's the most beautiful man in Tim's world, and his eyes are hard.

"Tim. When we made love..."

"I was drugged," Tim says, and hurts for the look on Dick's face. "It worked... very fast."

"Jesus. Jesus, Tim. You... you never would've -- I pushed you *down* and I --"

"Dick --"

"I never even realized -- God, Tim, are you *okay*?"

For a horrible moment -- moment is too small a *word* -- Tim thinks he might lose it again, fall apart right here in front of Dick -- it would feel so *good* to just find some place to *hide* --

"Oh -- please, little brother, tell me you're okay --"

"I lied. I -- hid the truth from you, and from everyone --"

And perhaps it shouldn't be a surprise that Dick grabs him and pulls him out of the shower, pulls Tim into a hug that feels like it might bruise him -- it's Dick. It's *Dick*, and so he needs to calm down and just take this, even though it's so much more than he deserves that Tim can't even *think*.

His hands are shaking when he lifts them. When he -- wraps his arms around Dick's waist and squeezes his eyes shut. He still has one foot in the *shower* and he's getting Dick all *wet* -- "Dick --"

"Just let me -- this can't be too much, can it? I mean, we did this all the time, and I -- God, I don't know. I'm so sorry, Tim --"

"*Don't*, Dick, don't -- it's not *your* fault. I knew I was drugged, and I just --"

"You're shaking now. You're -- are you afraid of *me*, Tim?"

"I was afraid -- I was afraid you wouldn't want me that way, and that if I ever tried that you would --"

Dick squeezes him harder. "I love you so much, Tim, and you did a really, *really* stupid thing, but that doesn't change -- God, let's get you dried off," Dick says, letting Tim go and grabbing one of the towels off the rack.

He lets Tim dry himself, but, if anything, he's *watching* Tim even more, even *harder* than Bruce had. It's... disconcerting.

It's Dick, and at least Tim hadn't told *him* any other real lies. When Tim's not actively dripping, anymore, Dick cups his shoulder and tugs until Tim follows him into the bedroom.

Once, here, with Bruce. On this bed... the second time they'd had sex. And Bruce had left Tim sleeping, and now Dick is sitting down on the bed as if nothing had happened -- he doesn't know.

Tim winces and sits at the head of the bed, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. He manages to avoid beating his head against his knees, but it's a near thing.

"I really can't help but notice that *distance*, little brother."

He's barely in range of Dick -- "Sorry. I --"

"You're really screwed up right now because you just got..." Dick frowns and shakes his head. "Is this normal for you? How much of this is general fear versus you freaking out about what you've been doing for the last week?"

"It's... ah. Hard to tell."

Dick nods and bends to take off his boots, and then crawls onto the bed and very deliberately sits directly in front of Tim, fanning out Tim's knees with a push. "We have to be okay, Tim. Whatever else... God, I can't believe I didn't *notice*."

"I... tried pretty hard to keep people from noticing. I didn't want... I didn't want to be cured."

Dick winces. "Jesus, it's something *Crane* made. To *hurt* people --"

"It didn't hurt *me*, Dick. I was... I'd never felt so good. So *free*. I hate -- I really hate being frightened all the time."

"Tim... fear can be a *good* thing. It helps keep you safe out there, keeps you from doing terrible things -- and you just flinched. You didn't *move*, but it was there, in your eyes... did you do something, little brother?"

"I wanted... I wanted to take a piece out of the BTM. So I went after some of their dealers, and Jason and I..." The sound of a patella being dislocated. Blood on sheets. His shuriken -- Jason's smiles. "We hurt two men. Badly."

"Oh... hell. You were with *Jason*? What made you think -- how was that a good *idea*? *Fuck*, Tim, did you kill someone?"

"No, we didn't. Neither of us. It --" It felt good. So good, and they'd given the police so *much* to work with -- Tim covers his face with his hands and listens to the pound of his own heart, the sound of Dick's breathing -- uneven and a little harsh.

"You were... you were *drugged*, Tim, and that -- it's still bad, it's still *horrible*, but you weren't in your right mind, and -- God, somebody needs to bring Jason to fucking *heel* --"

"Dick --"

"I can't believe -- did you *sleep* with Jason?"

Tim pulls his hands from his face, and whatever's there makes Dick wince again. "I think I... I really care. About him."

"Tim --"

"And the things we did... made a lot of sense. At the time."

"And now, little brother?" Dick's voice is quiet and low, gentle and a little *sick* --

The noise Jason's knife had made going into Shaheed Benjamin's foot -- yes. What *about* now? "I'm not sure," Tim says, and it's both a relief and horrible that that's entirely --

"Well. At least that was honest," Dick says, and rests a hand on Tim's calf.

Tim folds his arms over his chest and looks down between them.

"Hey -- I love you. That's not gonna change. I think you're a little *insane* for getting involved with -- with the person Jason Todd has *become*, but..." Dick squeezes hard. "Please tell me he's stopped trying to beat you to a pulp every five minutes."

Tim laughs -- inside. When he looks up, Dick is... very worried, and very sincere. "We seem to have... reached an accord. In that respect."

Dick blows out a breath. "Okay. I don't think I really want to know *how* you reached that 'accord,' but -- okay. Unless -- do you want to talk to me about it? Is he the reason why you look like... that?"

Oh -- God. There's still so much Dick doesn't know, and he'd managed to *forget* that for a moment --

"Do you *like* your sex to be that rough? Should I have --"

"Ah -- no. I mean yes. I mean -- I liked it. A lot. But it wasn't Jason. Who... God," Tim says, and looks at the bed again.

"Oookay. So, correct me if I'm wrong here, but you kind of had sex with a *lot* of people in the past few days?"

"That would be... that's a fair. Assessment. Of the situation."

Dick pats his leg. "Because you weren't afraid to tell anyone -- everyone -- how you really felt about them."

Tim squeezes himself a little harder. "Also... fair."

"And maybe *showing* seemed like an even better thing to do than telling."

Tim nods.

"So... um. I know about *us*, and Steph, and Roy, and Jason -- and *Connor Hawke*, and I need to remember to tell Bruce that Roy said that *Ollie* said he was sorry for chewing him out about -- anyway. *That*. But... Tim..."

The question is clear -- painfully so -- in Dick's voice. It makes Tim's throat feel like Gobi hardpan. It makes the room feel smaller and darker. It makes Tim -- he's actively trying to curl *in* on himself, now --

"Tim, you're kind of *scaring* me, here --"

"I'm really -- the idea of talking about it, with you --"

"With *me*? What exactly aren't you saying to me here, Tim? Did you -- I mean, I was a *little* serious about asking you not to have sex with anyone else on my teams, but it's not like I'd be mad at you for it --"

"Dick --"

"*Tell* me, Tim."

Not the Nightwing voice. Not even *close*, but it's still Dick, and it's still -- Tim looks up and knows the pleading has to be written all over his face, but in this case -- he *needs* Dick to see it --

"*Jesus*, little brother! Think about how you'll feel about *not* telling me and knowing I could find out some other way at any time. Think about how much *that* will fuck with you, *please* --"

"Bruce --"

"Yes, Bruce called me in for you, and I came running, I *had* to, I need you to be okay, *us* to be okay --"

"I slept with Bruce."

"You -- you *what*?"

"Ah. And Barbara. And... other people." Tim says, and looks down again --

Dick grabs him by the jaw and holds on -- "Say that again."

And *that* was the Nightwing voice. "Dick --"

"Say it."

"I had sex with Bruce and. Barbara. I love --"

Dick shoves Tim back and stands, starts to pace, fast and *violent*.

Tim swallows hard against the need to be sick and pulls his knees up again. He just -- he has to --

("Take what you want. And pay for it.")

He squeezes his eyes *shut* --

"You. Tim."

He can't hear Dick moving anymore.

"You -- I can't believe -- the two people I love most in this *world*, and you just..."

They don't belong to you -- Tim profoundly does *not* say that. And Dick's moving again, closer -- Tim opens his eyes and Dick's next to the bed, standing over him and staring. His eyes are wild --

"*Why*?"

Tim breathes -- tries to *control* his breathing --

"Tell me *why*, Tim, or I swear --"

"I love them. I've always... it's family, and I -- I could. Finally. Dick... I wasn't afraid to be rejected, and I wasn't afraid that they'd never look at me the same way again, and I wasn't afraid of hurting *you* --"

"God. *God*," Dick says, and punches the wall.

Tim winces -- *flinches* -- "I'm so --"

"*Don't* you fucking apologize to me, Tim. Not for this. Apologize to *them*, or -- Jesus," Dick says, and scrubs a hand over his face. "Not that either."

"No, you're right, I never should've -- I lied to everyone. I pretended to be someone brave, someone --"

"Shut up -- oh fuck, I didn't mean that, Tim, I didn't mean any of that. You're not -- "

"I *am*, Dick. You..." Tim laughs and rocks himself back against the headboard hard. "*Be* angry with me. I wasn't thinking, but I still knew that it would hurt you, and I did it *anyway*. I sought them out, and I pushed, and I. I wanted so *much* --"

"Tim --"

"I just -- it felt so right, and I wasn't." Alone. Not *alone*. But he doesn't *deserve* -- Dick reaches out and Tim scrambles away, slaps Dick's arm by mistake and feels scalded, *burnt* --

"Oh fuck, oh *hell*, little brother --"

"Dick. You should. You should go --"

"*No*," Dick says and grabs Tim's arm hard and pulls -- "*No*, Tim, God, we can't -- I'm not going to mess this up just because... Jesus, most of the time I thought you didn't even *like* Bruce, I was worried about you *living* here --"

"I love him. I really. It scares the hell out of me, Dick, but -- you should go, leave me alone to deal with this --"

Dick pulls *hard*, and he has the strength and the leverage. And Tim doesn't want to fight. In the end, he winds up sitting on the side of the bed with Dick crouched in front of him and holding his wrists.

Dick's eyes aren't wild, anymore, but they're hard and his jaw is set. "Dick..."

"Did you use them?"

"Did I -- what?"

"Did you *use* them, Tim. Were they just to scratch an itch? Get a -- a notch on your Robin belt?"

Tim frowns. "Dick, no. I couldn't --"

"I believe you. I --" Dick squeezes Tim's wrists and lets go, moving to hold Tim's hands, instead. "I *know* it couldn't be like that for you, but I did have to ask. Somehow it was a lot easier to think about you just moving through the world caring vigorously about people when the people in question weren't... those people," and Dick smiles ruefully. "I still can't fault your taste."

Tim nods slowly.

Dick blows out a breath. "Okay. Okay. You said there were still other people. C'mon, rip the bandage off."

"Um. Clark."

"I saw that one -- heh -- coming, little brother -- ooh, wincing for my puns instead of for *me*. That has to count as improvement. And?"

"Kon-El. Bart. And I... made out with Cassie. Wonder Girl."

Dick frowns. "Isn't Kon *dating* Cassie?"

"Ah... yes. We had to talk about that. First."

Dick blinks at him and stares.

Tim feels himself blushing -- more. A lot more. He looks down --

And Dick starts laughing *hard*, actually throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut with it -- "Oh my *God*. You found the time to negotiate an *open relationship* -- didn't you have that big attempted bombing and *riot* at Alcatraz to deal with this weekend?"

"Somehow... the time just seemed to be. There," Tim says, and feels his palms starting to sweat. He starts to tug them back -- Dick holds on hard.

"I'm not done with you."

"Dick --"

"I'm not going to *be* done with you until I know you're *okay*, Tim."

"Are you sure I'm the one you should be worried about? I mean -- hell --"

"And *that* sounds a lot more like you, which is good, but the answer is *yes*. You're going to have to talk to all of these people, and I don't want you driving yourself crazy with worry about it," Dick says, and shifts on his feet, widening his stance for the long haul.

"I -- I know, Dick. And I don't really know how I'm going to say 'I care about you very much but we only had sex because I was gassed with something that made me stop being afraid of you.' It doesn't really flow off the tongue all that well."

Dick winces again. "Well... no, it really doesn't. But we can work on that. I mean, you need to let people know that you weren't entirely in your right mind, and somehow also not make them feel sick about *raping* you --"

"It wasn't -- God, Dick, I don't think of it that way --"

"I know you don't," Dick says, and squeezes his hands again. "Your physical reactions were pretty terrible, but not quite like that, and -- yeah, if I think about it too deeply, I think I'll go crazy *fast* -- Jesus, Tim. It felt *that* good? Good enough that you'd risk your *life*?"

Tim closes his eyes and thinks about it for a moment, just -- he can't quite touch the feeling, right now, but... he opens his eyes again. "It felt like there was a hole inside me that I could fill with absolutely anything, like I could *do* anything, be anything, *have* anything --"

"You *can*, Tim --"

Tim tugs again, and this time Dick lets him go. "Not without second-guessing myself every step of the way, Dick. Not without letting people know how scared I am all the time."

Dick reaches for him -- drops his hands and rests his forearms on his knees. "I just don't understand *why* you're so scared, little brother. You know I love you, that we *all* love you. You *have* to know that, now."

I know exactly where I fall in your personal hierarchy, Dick, and I can't say it's a surprise -- no. None of this is Dick's fault. "I was a different person, Dick --"

"I made love to *you*, Tim, and I did it because I wanted to, because you were so open for me, for the first time, and it was wonderful. The drug didn't make you taller, or make your eyes prettier, or any other stupid thing. It just made you do what you always *should* have been doing --"

Tim stands up, moving past Dick -- he's been naked for this entire conversation, and there's only so much of that he can live with --

"Don't turn your *back* on me, Tim. Not now. *Please* not now."

Tim stops. "I just... I need my robe," he says, over his shoulder.

"I..." Dick sighs. "That's fair. But come back?"

Tim nods and retrieves the robe from the bathroom door, tying it on tight -- soft, thick cloth on his bruises, against the mark on his throat which belongs to both Jason and Bruce. Tim reaches up to touch it -- stops.

And when he turns around, Dick is watching him. He looks a little shocked and a lot rueful.

"Dick..."

"Maybe you should try to keep things like that incredibly impressive hickey in mind when you're busy telling yourself that none of us *really* want you in our lives."

He's blushing again, and there's absolutely nothing interesting on the floor.

"I mean..." Dick stands up and crosses the distance between them, not stopping until he's close enough to rest his hands on Tim's shoulders. Closer. "If *I'd* known you liked that --"

"Dick, don't --"

"I'm never going to forget what you said to me. *Any* of the things you said to me. That you love me, want me -- you're telling me to stop now, and maybe if you *also* told me that sometime between seeing you at Outsiders HQ and now you'd fallen *in* love with someone..."

Jason's fingers on his mouth. Bruce's hands on his shoulders -- Tim definitely didn't miss blushing. At all.

"Oh... hey," Dick says, and tucks his hand beneath Tim's chin, lifts his head. "*Did* you?"

"I -- don't know. I have a lot of... sorting. To do."

"Well, yes, you really *do* -- oh God. Is it Jason?"

Tim -- can't look down, and he doesn't *want* to close his eyes again. Not for this. He meets Dick's gaze. "We had -- we talked a great deal last night. It was... he's my brother, too."

Dick tenses hard, actually showing his teeth for a moment --

"Dick, I don't want you to -- I care about him."

"Oh, Tim... he's so dangerous. You *know* how dangerous he is. Hell, he was dangerous when he was younger than you are, now --"

"We're all *dangerous*, Dick. In a lot of different ways."

"I'm not --"

"You *are*, and you always have been, so just -- let me worry about it, all right? I promise you I will."

Dick frowns and just looks at Tim for a long moment, but whatever's in Tim's face seems to be enough -- no. It's the fact that Tim is meeting Dick's eyes. He could lie to him this way, tell him that he's really not sure about anything, that he realizes, now, that it had all been a terrible mistake, every last bit of everything he'd done.

He could tell Dick that he'd go right back to being himself, help Dick come up with some apologetic yet firm set speech about what had happened, something to smooth things over with everyone until there's no friction, at all. In any way.

And it's...

Tim doesn't want that. Friction makes *heat*, and Tim is still tired of being cold, and of only having a handful of memories of huddling for warmth in No Man's Land to make him feel any better, any more... wanted.

He wants more, again, and it makes his face heat, makes his skin prickle under the soft robe, prickle and *itch* --

"Tim...?"

"I... I was just thinking, Dick."

Dick raises his eyebrows and generally looks like he's *ready* to smile, to laugh -- "About *who*?"

Tim sighs and takes a step back until Dick's hand isn't under his chin anymore, though his other hand is still on Tim's shoulder. "About myself. What I *want*."

"Ooh. Any conclusions?"

Tim smiles... and it doesn't feel as wrong on his face as it could. "What I had. Everything."

And Dick looks like the frown *wants* to come back. "Tim..."

"I can't really... I don't know how I'm going to do it, Dick. Not really, but --"

"Well, of *course* you don't know how you're going to -- I mean, that's a lot of *people*, Timmy -- Tim, I'm sorry --"

"You're forgiven," Tim says, and reaches up to pat the hand still on his shoulder. "I just -- you're right. I *am* at least a little more scared than I should be --"

"Oh, thank God. See, I'm *glad* you know that, really incredibly glad, but there's still --"

Tim holds up his other hand. "Everyone I was with except for Roy... well, they're all my friends if not my family. I have to be honest with them, but part of being honest is owning up to how much I *want* them."

"Well... yes, that's true, but..." This time, the frown makes it all the way to Dick's face. "You kind of *have* to... ease back on the throttle a little there, little brother. Unless you're *planning* to date ten different people?"

Steph... Steph. "I'm not planning anything beyond being as honest as I can stand, and maybe a little more than that. It's really... I'm really *scared*, Dick. I mean, it feels like I jumped off a cliff, that I'm still *falling*, but I don't... I don't want to be alone."

"You'll *never* be alone as long as I'm here, and if you don't know that by now I really will have to hit you."

Tim smiles a little wider. He still feels... it still feels *good* to do it. "Noted. And... hm." Bruce. Bruce is part of that *everything*, but that's going to be... difficult. Exceedingly so. But it will have to feel better to make it clear which of the things he'd said were lies and which were the truth. If he has to leave... it'll hurt, but he can do it. The important thing... "I have to make choices, and I can't base those choices on the way my life looked a week ago. It's too late for that," Tim says, and presses hard on Dick's hand.

Dick is searching him a little. "You *look* a lot better, but... Tim, you shouldn't just give *up* on your life."

Or on the past, Dick? What would Barbara say to that? Tim shakes his head. "I'm not giving up on my life, Dick. I'm just going to try to... roll with the punches and see where I wind up."

"This is me, carefully not thinking about *whose* punches you plan on rolling with."

"Dick --"

"I know, I know," Dick says, moving his hand, pausing, and *then* pulling Tim in for another hug. "I'm still allowed to worry about you."

"Always."

Dick's breathing hitches once and he squeezes Tim. "Tim... what you said. Were you really in love with me?"

Tim stiffens -- forces himself to relax. He'd already said it. He can't take it back, and... he doesn't want to. "Yes."

"I wish..." Dick sighs and strokes Tim's back. "If you'd told me..."

You still would've been in love with Barbara. And Bruce. "It's better this way, Dick," Tim says, and turns to rub his cheek against Dick's damp shirt. "And you should change."

"Heh. Sometimes it *really* creeps me out that my room here is still exactly the way I'd left it. That doesn't mean I won't stay if you need me."

And Tim thinks about it. Having Dick staying here while he does... the manor would feel more like a home than it ever had. They could be brothers here, and Dick would do everything in his power to run interference between Tim and Bruce. And between Tim and *Alfred*. He *would* be there for Tim, no matter how much it hurt him, and no matter how much it twisted things in his mind.

And the first time Tim got up the testicular fortitude to try to pick things up with Bruce again, to try to *be* with him, to talk and just be as okay as they were --

"It's all right, Dick. I don't know how long I'll..." No, telling Dick about his half-formed plans to get out of Dodge would just make things worse. "I don't know how long I'll feel this... *raw*, but you've already helped make things better. I needed that reality check."

"Is that what I gave you?" Dick pushes back a little, enough to look down into Tim's eyes. "Is that really what you needed from me?"

Yes. "Well... you didn't see me while I was still in the Cave. It felt like the entire world was crushing me, flooding my senses..."

"Oh, Tim..." Dick presses his hands against Tim's back. "If I could make all of this just go away for you..."

"I know, Dick," Tim says, and thinks about it... he strokes up and squeezes Dick's obliques, feeling strength, perfection... the tangible sense of potential grace --

"Mm. I like that. You already know... heh. You definitely have a *good* sense of what I like *now*, Tim."

Tim blushes again and looks down -- no. He looks up into Dick's eyes and doesn't try to hide --

"Oh." And Dick's smile is wide and bright as he leans in --

As Tim blushes *harder* and feels himself seize, want, *seize* --

Dick pauses. "Hey... uh. I want to kiss you, but are you sure...?"

It feels like reflex to stroke Dick's obliques again, squeeze them -- Tim thinks about dragging Dick's hand to his groin, of the feel -- "Dick -- oh," his voice sounds low and rough to his own ears -- familiar, now. Tim closes his eyes.

"God, you look so good like that, little brother --"

Little *brother* -- Tim laughs --

And laughs into the kiss. Dick is gentle, but not at all hesitant. Not at all *unsure* as he pulls back just enough to lick Tim's lips and then in, humming and stroking Tim's back again before reaching back to catch Tim's wrists and pull them up --

Tim wraps his arms around Dick's neck and gets another hum -- a deeper kiss, serious and slow as Dick strokes down to the base of Tim's spine and -- stops there.

But doesn't stop *kissing*. The blush is more of a flush now, and Tim has to think --

Tim thinks about the stairs to Dick's loft, of the feel of Dick moving on him, struggling to get naked for *him* -- Bruce.

They really can't do this *here*. Tim pulls back --

And Dick catches Tim's lower lip between his teeth and bites down. Oh -- yes, Tim thinks, and feels himself thrill a little, feels himself stroking up into Dick's hair --

"You -- did you want to stop, Tim?" And Dick's eyes are a little dark, his lips *wet* --

"You are... really extremely attractive," Tim says, and feels himself heating up all over. He really hadn't meant to -- had he? Tim shakes his head and tries to remember how to breathe normally --

And Dick laughs low and so *easily*. "That wasn't an answer, kiddo..."

Kiddo. Just... Jesus -- though is it really worse than 'kid?' Birdboy?

Dick moves one of his hands -- cups the back of Tim's hand and taps with his fingers. "Still with me?"

"Kind of... blown."

"*That* sounds like fun," Dick says -- and waggles his eyebrows.

Tim chokes on a laugh -- and his arms are still wrapped around Dick's neck. "Dick... I mean. Do you really *want* to...?"

Dick finally -- *why* does it feel like a finally? -- strokes down to Tim's buttocks and cups him there.

"Dick --"

"I'm really going to have to put some time into getting used to you blushing and trailing off when you're about to say something *filthy* again, little brother. I'm kinda looking forward to the effort."

Filthy? He was just going to say... something about being backed against a wall and thoroughly molested. Again. But -- "Okay..."

And Dick strokes over to Tim's hip and -- pulls Tim closer, bending him backwards a little --

"Dick --"

"Too much? I... I really want to know where the *lines* are now, little brother..."

"I do, too. I'm not sure. I'm not --" And Dick lets go and lets Tim stand up straight again.

"Okay, Tim...?"

"Um. Yes?"

Dick smiles ruefully and cups Tim's face. "Should I apologize?"

"No? No. I'm just... Dick, you shouldn't really... mind me. I have all of these memories, but I feel a little... disconnected. From them."

"Disconnected? Like they'd all happened to someone else?"

"Not quite... that," Tim says, and reaches up to cover Dick's hands with his own. "I'm still *in* this body, and there isn't *that* much difference, really -- no. No. What it *is* -- I remember how I felt when you touched me before, and it was so *easy*. This isn't... easy."

"We could practice."

Tim blinks. "Practice?"

Dick smiles wider. "Practice makes perfect, little brother."

The thing is... Tim is absolutely sure that he *should* know what Dick is talking about, that it should all be within the realm of what he knows about Dick, and about Dick's relationship to *him*. It's just that the only thing currently coming to mind is *train-surfing*. "What... kind of practice are we talking about, exactly...?"

"Well... let's see," Dick says, and glances around the room... looks at the door to the bathroom. "Come over here with me."

Tim walks over -- and Dick pushes him hard against the door and kisses him again, wet and -- *hungry*.

There's a part of Tim which is entirely honest about wondering how this is *working* in Dick's mind, but the rest of him -- Dick's tongue is *sex*, and all the sex they've already had, everything Dick already knows he *likes* --

Dick pulls back and bites his lip again -- yes, *everything*, and now Dick is licking Tim's cheek, his jaw -- biting him *there* -- "Oh -- *Dick* --"

"I really want to *mark* you, but there's hardly anywhere *left* --"

"Um -- sorry? And -- practice?"

"Uh, huh. Like this," Dick says, and kisses down to Tim's throat -- and the hickey that has gotten the most attention. Dick *doesn't* bite him there, but he kisses Tim hard, putting pressure on --

Pain and so much more, so much *potential*, and Tim thinks about throwing his head back and just taking it --

Tim tilts his head back against the door --

Dick moans against his throat and *licks* his way back to Tim's mouth before pulling back -- "Up on your toes for me. Like --"

"Like before," Tim says, *pants, "But --"

"You said you wanted everything you had before, even though... well. Heh," and Dick kisses him hard -- briefly. "I can *help* with that."

Tim curls his hands into fists and bangs them against the door, thinks about where he is -- where *they* are, and really -- really --

"*Let* me help with that, Tim. Please. You're so... I want you open for me again, I want to *see* you, feel you -- *hear* you. God, the sounds you make... the sounds I *know* you make --"

Tim bites back the moan reflexively --

"Oh, that --" Dick cups Tim's face in his hands. "I never want to hurt you, and I never want to scare you. But we... we can make love. I *know* that, now. And I've been thinking about it since you left me high and dry at Outsiders HQ."

He really... kind of had. Tim winces. "Sorry. I was... eager. To get home."

"To get... here. With Bruce. After you and *Roy*... oh -- hell."

Tim winces a little harder. "Dick --"

"No, I've had my freakout, and I'm really not going to have another one. But -- how the hell did that *work*, little brother? Didn't Bruce *know* what you were doing?"

"There was some... ah. Friction," Tim says, and starts to reach for Dick's hips -- "Oh. I -- I think I have some odd new reflexes."

"Hunh?" Dick pats Tim's cheeks and backs up a step, looks down at where Tim's hands are just sort of *hovering* --

"Um. I... Dick."

Dick snorts. "You were about to try to distract me with sex. You --" And Dick laughs, happy and a little wild. "Okay, so long as you actually *wanted* to grab me by the hips and make me grind against you a little bit, I think we're okay."

"I think I just wanted -- ah. To touch you again. Not to... let you go," Tim says, and makes an effort not to bite his lip again --

"Oh, I think I love that look on your face, little brother. Here, *let* me," Dick says, leaning in to bite Tim's lip again and *hold* it between his teeth for a long --

Long --

Moment. "That feel better?"

"I..." Tim cups Dick's hips and it feels like his hands are directly connected to his genitals, or maybe --

Maybe it's just the potential for movement --

*Contact* when Dick reaches down to open the robe, pull it wide and *push* against him. Not hard, but -- denim against his skin, the feel -- Tim's body already knows that feel, how *good* it is, and it's not really a surprise to find himself lifting his leg to wrap it around Dick --

"Oh *yeah*," Dick says, and kisses Tim again, rocks so *gently* against him, making Tim harder, hotter all over his skin --

Practice, yes, and Tim thinks he might be getting the hang of this, more than that when Dick reaches down to cover one of Tim's hands and drag it to his buttock --

"Squeeze me, let me feel how much you want --"

Tim squeezes hard, leans up for another kiss and he's not sure about anything, about what he's *doing*, but Dick's mouth is so *warm*, so wet and open --

Open like he wants Tim to be --

Tim moans and Dick *thrusts*, and that's a little painful, but --

"Sorry, Jesus -- oh the way you *sound*, Timmy --"

"Dick --"

"*Sorry*, hell, let me --" And Dick kisses him again, lets go of Tim's face to pet his shoulders, down his arms and around to cup Tim's cheeks, actually *lifting* Tim a little --

Tim moans and tries to figure out what he wants to do with his hands other than *more* -- no. He lets them do what they want, touching Dick everywhere he can reach, reaching up to tug on Dick's hair --

"Oh, *yeah*," and Dick lets go, backs away -- "Just --" Dick shrugs off his jacket and lets it drop, pulls off his damp shirt --

And Tim realizes that, somehow, he'd gotten his hands to Dick's fly and started *working*. He stares at them stupidly for a moment -- shakes it off and looks up --

And Dick is smiling at him *sharply*.

"Oh. Dick --"

"Don't even *think* about stopping."

Don't think. That's... well, that's definitely *advice*, of a sort, but whether it's good, bad, or *possible* -- Tim's not sure. What he *is* sure of is that his body is listening to Dick, that Dick's jeans are only *just* tight enough to make getting into them --

Interestingly challenging. Tim smiles --

And Dick's breathing changes, just like that.

"Your hands, Tim... oh, I love your hands, the way it felt when you were holding me, sucking me --"

His hands are *shaking*, but not so much that he can't cup Dick through his boxer-briefs while his other hand is working on tugging the jeans down --

"Oh, yeah, squeeze me, little brother --"

Jason. *Jason*, and Tim's knees want him to know that he could be *on* them -- yes. Tim squeezes Dick once and then drops, reaching up --

Dick *shoves* his jeans down and strokes himself through his briefs, not pausing -- and not looking away from Tim -- when Tim finally -- another *finally* -- gets his fingers curled in the waistband, feels Dick's *skin*, warm and sleek, smoother when he finds scars --

"Tell me, Tim. Say what you want," and Dick's voice is low, almost purring --

"I want. I." Tim swallows, feels like he's *choking* on the words --

A part of Tim's brain points out that there are better ways to *be* choked, and now it feels like the heat of his own blush is maybe doing seriously damaging things to his brain. Denaturation is a *vivid* possibility, but --

He has to try. "I want... I want you in. My mouth. Dick."

Dick moans and narrows his eyes, squeezing himself visibly hard, tangibly *hard* --

"Dick. Please --"

"Oh, don't -- don't do that. You're on your *knees*. You -- oh, I want to be down there with you --"

"We can try that later. Um. I mean --"

Dick laughs and rubs himself again, smiles and moans -- "Have I mentioned that I love you a *lot*, little brother?"

Tim smiles back and works very hard at not looking away --

"Yeah, I'm not making *either* of us wait, anymore," and Dick lets himself go.

Tim tugs down the briefs, stroking down the artistic *dream* of Dick's hips, dragging his knuckles against the outsides of Dick's thighs... Dick's penis is dark, slick at the tip, and for a moment Tim wishes he'd thought of sucking Dick *through* his briefs, teasing them both, *giving* them both something else, something --

"My turn to say 'please,' Tim. My... come on, wrap your hand around me, again..."

"I could. Uh. I've had... a little. Practice."

"At this? Oh, *hell*. God. Of course you have, because you *like* this, I --" Dick grabs himself, squeezes and strokes -- "The way you *look*..." 

Tim can't imagine looking away, and he can't seem to *make* himself stop stroking Dick's thighs. Thicker hair than Jason's, fewer scars than either Jason or Bruce... but it's easy for his fingers to find them, just the same --

"Do you want me to fuck your mouth?"

The sound that comes out of Tim's mouth makes him want to swallow his own tongue --

And makes Dick's eyes narrow even more as he strokes himself so hard, so *slowly* -- "We can do that..."

"I'm not sure -- I really want to --"

"But you're not sure you've had *quite* that much practice," Dick says, and nods. "I hear you. I... I'm hearing everything now, I think." And Dick reaches with his free hand and cups Tim's cheek, strokes around to the back of Tim's head. "Open your mouth for me, little brother."

Tim groans -- tries to groan. He'd stopped breathing at some point. He gasps in a breath, another, lets go of Dick's thigh and reaches for his own penis --

"Oh yeah, that *too*. God, Tim, *open* --"

Tim nods, opens, strokes himself and groans again at the feel -- the *taste* as Dick slides the head of his penis over Tim's tongue, back and forth --

"Stick -- stick your tongue out --"

Tim does and Dick shudders, grips himself harder and slides the head around, brushes it over Tim's upper lip --

And Tim can't keep himself from stroking, jerking himself *off*. He'd meant to just get a deeply literal hold on himself, but this --

The look on Dick's *face* --

"God, Tim... I feel like I could do *anything* with you..."

Tim squeezes his eyes shut -- *opens* them and closes his lips around the head --

"Ah --"

Yes. Just -- yes, and maybe it's not *anything*, but it's Dick, and Tim can't think of anything he wouldn't do in this moment. He hums around Dick and presses hard with his lips --

Dick pulls out and drags his fingers along Tim's scalp, grips Tim's hair -- "This -- tell me you like this. Please, I --"

"Dick, you don't -- please, let me have you again --"

Dick tugs hard enough to make Tim wince, need to squeeze the base of his own penis and stroke *faster* --

And he pushes in again, a little farther this time, pulls out until just the tip of the head is between Tim's lips -- pushes *in*, and Tim groans, blinks until the sight of Dick's moving hips doesn't feel like it will *blind* him --

"You feel... oh, you feel so *perfect*, Tim..."

This moment, and that's important. That's -- nothing else has to *touch* this, make him doubt or fear with more than just the part of himself which maybe will *always* have to -- it's not in *control*, and maybe it can't be when he's this hard, when he can imagine saying anything, doing anything just for *more*.

And Dick keeps moving his hips, keeps pushing in and pulling back, never getting very deep, but the feel of it, the *motion* -- oh. He's moaning. He's *been* moaning, and it's constant, muffled and loud at the same time, somehow --

Dick can hear him, *feel* him doing it --

There's an intensity here Tim can't quite understand, a feeling that this is more, somehow, than it would've been... before. Or -- something like that, like the possibility that he was right when he thought fear could make this sort of thing *better*.

The questions in it --

What if Dick were to stop? What if the way Tim's *losing* it strikes Dick as being a little too much, a little too *far*? He can't *stop* losing it, can't stop moaning and trying to pant through his nose, but it's still... the questions are *there*, as tangible as the heat in Dick's gaze, the way he seems to be nodding almost unconsciously, urging Tim *on*...

Tim closes his eyes --

"Tim, no, stay with me --"

Bruce, again, and what would it be like to be on his knees for *him*? To feel him taking his mouth so carefully -- but less so by the moment as Dick's hips start to speed, as Dick grinds a little every time he pushes in to the base. The feel of Dick's sac bumping his chin -- soft, soft *skin* --

"Please, Tim, open -- open your eyes and let me *see* you -- *oh*."

Focusing is hard, but maybe he doesn't have to. It could be enough, for Dick, to see everything Tim's feeling now, from the satisfaction of having Dick slip in a little deeper every time, deep enough now that Tim has to swallow, a little --

"*Tim* --"

Satisfaction and loss, fear -- the knowledge that he really *has* burned any number of old bridges, for Dick and for all the other people in his life. The fact that this was even a possibility gives the proof of that. It's always going to be *like* this now, in one way or another.

If Dick hadn't brought Tim to his knees, then this feeling would have. This *exposure* --

And Tim sucks as hard as he can, holding himself still for every push of Dick's hips, still everywhere save for his *own* hips, which are pumping for the stroke of his fist -- he's going to come.

He's going to --

Just thinking it brings him closer, and trying to think about anything else --

The weight of Dick on his *tongue* --

"So good. So, so *good*. God, I... I can't not have this, little brother, you have to tell me we can still have this, again and again --"

Tim groans and wonders if it's enough, and wonders if the heat of this act, these *feelings* had been the same before, if they'd really been this *intense*. He's sweating for this, periodically forgetting to breathe, forgetting *how* to do it against the feel of Dick's penis dragging and bumping against his palate.

He's still moaning, and Dick's still *moving*, and it's not slow, but it's slow enough for Tim to be able to take it without coughing... it should be more than that. *Deeper* than that --

And that's a really good word. Tim squeezes Dick's hip --

"I can't -- oh, do you need me to... to pull out?"

The best possible way to answer, Tim thinks, is to pull Dick in by the hand he still has on Dick's hip.

"Oh... I'll give you what you want. I'll -- you're so *good*," and Dick scratches at Tim's scalp and *pushes* --

Tim swallows and nearly coughs Dick back out again, immediately. He can't breathe, he can't  -- he's more full than could possibly be right or healthy --

He's so warm --

Dick's *inside* him, holding himself *deep* and gasping, pumping his hips constantly without really moving, or giving Tim a chance to breathe. He'll choke, he'll pass *out* --

So warm, so *sweet*, and Dick's choking off his ability to express any of it, Dick knows what he wants and won't stop *giving* it, and Tim's stroking himself faster now, almost too slick for it to do any good --

Until Tim tightens his grip to something more like Jason's, and oh, now he really *wants* to be moaning again, to *share* this with Dick with more than just the flex and swallow of his throat, but --

"Oh... oh, I'm so close, I can't believe how perfect -- I'm so *close*, little brother --"

Close. He -- he's going to make Dick *come*, he's going to --

Somehow, Tim heats up even more, and his skin prickles with fresh sweat, there's some dripping down the hollow of his spine, more at his temples --

Dick touches him there, and the sound he makes is high, lost --

It's a goad, it's a stroke, it's the best kind of punch -- oh --

*Oh* --

Orgasm, and everything's bright, *hot*, terrifying and perfect as a drop off something -- something high and --

He should be screaming, or -- he can't --

He can hear Dick saying something, but it doesn't track, he can't parse or understand --

And then it feels like he's crashing back into his body, dropping and struggling to find his balance, keep it --

"*Tim*, oh -- God, you're shaking so much. I can feel --"

No air. No -- his lungs are burning and Tim can feel himself start to want to shake with *fear* -- no, he knows how good it will be, how warm he'll feel... it feels like he's still thrumming under the skin, it feels like he'll fly *apart* --

Dick slips out of Tim's throat and groans -- "Breathe. Breathe, Tim, please --"

Tim realizes he's trying to lunge against the grip Dick has on his hair -- breathes through his nose, hyperventilating a little until he starts getting that strangely cold feeling inside that means he's getting a little too much oxygen --

"Oh, God. God, please, quickly --"

Tim hums and taps Dick's hip --

And Dick *thrusts* in, groaning low in his throat and shaking -- "You don't know how good you look, you *can't* know..."

Possibly for the best that he can't say anything, right now, though it's true that he can't know how good he looks to *Dick*. Or -- no. Dick is *shaking*, working his hips in sharp little motions so he can stay *in* --

Dick is stroking through his hair again with one hand and petting Tim's face with the other, dragging his fingertips over Tim's cheek, through the sweat at Tim's temple --

And now it's just the hand in his hair, and -- Wet sounds, sucking sounds. Tim opens his eyes and tilts his head back a little --

"Oh, don't move. Don't -- I'm just tasting your sweat, little brother, tasting *you*. God, I think I want to just lick you all *over* -- *oh* --"

And Dick moans again, slips out of Tim's throat --

"Again, again, let me --"

Tim works his head down and swallows --

Dick *whines*, high and deadly, wonderful -- Tim feels his penis *twitch* and wants to moan, *tries* to moan and feels saliva and pre-come spilling down his chin --

More wet sounds, and he knows Dick is only sucking his fingers, but he wants to be able to *see* that, wants to know if he's trying the same rhythm Tim is, now, working his head back and forth, licking against the underside, *pressing* against the underside and rubbing as hard as he can --

Clark's tongue would be...

At some point, he knows, the flush in his skin had started to dissipate, but it's there again, now, and he's going to start sweating again for it --

He needs another shower if he's not planning to be incredibly *obvious* the next time he leaves this room -- is he really thinking about getting cleaned up? *Now*?

He'd like to laugh for this -- he can feel it building at the back of his throat, urging him to swallow more, or pull back and let it out, something --

Tim works himself a little faster, instead, pushes a little harder on every downstroke until he can press his lips *hard* against Dick's mound --

Listen to Dick choke, a little --

Pull back *for* the moan, for the way it makes Dick tighten his grip on Tim's hair reflexively before gasping and releasing him --

Hum and go back down, choking himself off --

"Tim -- *Tim* --"

Pull back --

"No, no -- oh, *fuck*, little brother --"

Go down and *stay* there, swallowing over and over, grinding his face against Dick's mound as much as he comfortably can --

And now both of Dick's hands are back on his head, his face -- slick fingers sliding over Tim's eyelids and strong, perfect, scarred hands --

He can *feel* some of those scars against his cheek, and he can feel himself *wanting* to be hard again, wanting his body to appreciate this on as many levels as possible. He strokes Dick's hip and down to his knee -- so unsteady. So --

"Oh. Oh *fuck*, just -- right there. Stay *right* there, I promise -- oh, you feel --"

Dick. He's making Dick feel this way, get this *close* --

*He* is, and it feels like holding a live wire, or maybe something dense and *coiled* with power. It feels like he's holding it *inside* himself, that it could do anything to anyone, that *he* could --

And he thinks about Roy, about the taste of him and how easy it was to get that chance. All he had to do was talk, joke the way he always would've wanted to, let it *out* --

"Oh, *please*, Tim --"

Dick. Dick and *only* Dick, right here, and Tim wonders if he'll always have to struggle against all the other memories, if he'll have to learn to *want* to struggle against them, if only to be fair, to be entirely *present* for whoever --

Oh, but he *wants*. He wants Bruce to see this, he wants Jason to want this from him, to be here and be able to feel what he feels again, to share another moment, another chance -- Barbara --

Tim digs his nails in against Dick's hip --

And that sound may have been a name, or a word, or something else entirely. Dick is loud and incoherent, pleased and pleasured --

He's doing this. He -- he's *having* this --

Dick comes with a shout, knees buckling, pulsing down Tim's *throat*, hot and perfect, so --

Tim reaches up with his sticky hand and steadies Dick as much as he can, swallowing and holding on, holding Dick inside --

*Keeping* him, if only just for the moment --

"*Tim*, I can't -- oh *God*," Dick says, grinding against Tim's mouth for a moment before pulling back -- carefully. Tim lets him go and keeps swallowing until he can remember how to breathe, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and watching Dick --

Stagger himself upright and still. Tim doesn't think it's the best possible sign that Dick's covering his face... Tim stands up. "Dick...?"

Dick moves one of his hands in a wait gesture, walks backward a few more steps -- half-sits and half falls on the bed. "Wow. Oh... *wow*."

"'Wow?' I can work with 'wow,'" Tim says, and stands up.

"I'll just *bet* you can, little brother. Holy *crap*. Do I want to know who taught you all those little tricks?"

Blushing *again* -- "Ah... you might say it was something of a group effort."

Dick sits up and *throws* himself back down to the bed, laughing breathlessly and -- he takes his hands away from his face. "Come here."

"We could... um. I kind of need to get clean again --"

"Come *here*," Dick says, sitting up and reaching out --

Dick is Dick, and there's no real way to say no to that, especially since it ends with the two of them *mostly* on Tim's bed, side by side with their legs dangling over the edge and their hands twined together. "Is this better...?"

"Yes, Tim, it's *better*. How did you not learn how to *cuddle*?"

"Well. There were time concerns," Tim says, and smiles a little --

Dick coughs and laughs a *lot*, this time, shaking with it and shaking his head.

"To be fair, I haven't just been... leaving people cold, as it were --"

"Except for *me*," Dick says, and squeezes Tim's hand. "You had to know I wanted you to stay with me at Outsiders HQ. *Had* to."

"I... one of the things which is really hitting me hard, right now..."

Dick squeezes his hand again. "I'm listening, little brother..."

"I think I might've been --" No. No weasel words. "I *know* I was... really callous about some things, with some people. I managed to avoid being really hurtful with *most* people, but for some reason..."

"You weren't afraid to be mean."

Tim sighs and scans the ceiling for distraction, somewhere to hide, something... it's just a ceiling. "I have to live with the fact that, at least some of the time, the only thing keeping me from being an *asshole* is the fact that I'm too *scared* to be. Not that I don't want to hurt people, not that I don't want to *be* an asshole -- I'm just scared." And Tim can see Dick frown out of the corner of his eye --

"And you're *sure* the drug didn't affect you in other ways you just didn't know about? I mean, I was all set to think it did something to your *libido*..."

"I -- heh. I had a vivid and extensive fantasy life, Dick. I still do."

"You never even *hinted* --"

"I was afraid to. Afraid people would be -- that *you* would be at least a little disgusted with my lack of control. I still am --"

"Oh, no, Tim, *no*," Dick says, turning on his side and resting his hand on Tim's chest -- pressing down.

"Dick, seriously, we're working with a fait accompli at this point, but you can't honestly tell me you wouldn't have looked at me at least a *little* funny if I'd told you, before, that there were at least ten people who I wanted to have sex with, and that that number was only based on the people I'd *met*."

"I --"

"Not the time to lie to me, Dick. Or to yourself."

"Oh... heh. There's that mean little boy in you, huh?"

Tim winces. "I -- sorry. I just didn't --"

And Dick moves his hand from Tim's chest to cover his mouth.

Tim raises an eyebrow --

"Okay. No lies. It's true that when I was *just* fantasizing there weren't all that many people, but hell, Tim, you know I started *having* sex a lot sooner than you did. Who *knows* what my fantasy life would've looked like if I'd waited until I was seventeen? Seriously, I probably would've been... God, I don't even *know*. I think I would've been a wreck in a *lot* of different ways," he says, and raises both of his eyebrows before uncovering Tim's mouth.

It's an invitation, and a tempting one. Dick is ready, willing, and apparently able to just... accept this. All of it. To the point where he's also ready, willing, and able to *reject* anything that smacks of Tim... pulling back. But. Tim frowns. "Dick..."

"*I'm* attracted to a lot of different people. Just because I don't... ah... share that. Around. A lot -- help me *out* here, Tim. I can't just let you beat yourself up over here, you *know* that."

"I do know that, and I understand what you're trying to say, trying to *do*, but..."

"You don't disgust me. You kind of make me feel like I've been huffing something *illegal*, and also a little like I've been doing it while also getting tossed around by *Cass*, but -- hey, why the wince?"

"It was B -- Cass who broke my secret," Tim says, and tries very hard not to blame her... the blame is smaller, now, and that's something of a shock, but... Tim shakes it off, internally. "I'd been avoiding her. I'd planned *to* avoid her until I could teach myself how to fake... oh. Wow. I think... I think a part of me had just planned to avoid her for the rest of my *life*."

"Well, *yeah*, Tim, you kind of would've *had* to," Dick says, and cups his shoulder. "We'll talk about how you're still mad at her for doing what we *need* her to do later --"

"I *know*, Dick. I know I can't really... the two of us have never really managed to be... close."

"Neither have the two of *us*, but, well, I also haven't been in Gotham with her all that much. I... come on, Tim. Tell me you're coping with this. I mean, you didn't lie to *me* all that much about how you planned to see other people, and I don't think you kept that from anyone else...?"

Steph. Kind of -- no *weasel* words. "I... I'm going to have to have a long talk with Steph. It's not going to be pretty," Tim says, freeing his hand and scrubbing it over his face.

"Ow. Just... ow. She doesn't know about *any* of what you've been doing? Do you think you *should* tell her?"

"The last time I saw her... it was only you and Bruce. I told her about it, and it hurt her, but we still made love." Passionate and *problematic*. Hurtful, he realizes. Now. No *wonder* she'd pushed him away...

"Tim..."

"I can't lie to her, but I don't want to hurt her any more than I already have. I don't... I don't know what I'll do, really, other than letting her have her say and going with whatever she decides."

Dick rubs Tim's chest. "And if she decides to break up with you?"

"Then I hurt. I hurt and I... I try to be her friend, as much as I can. There's really no one... she's always had so *much* of me, and part of that was because she was the only one who could ever see through me that *clearly*..."

Dick frowns again, but it's a light and thoughtful thing.

Tim takes a breath. "Part of it I know, now, is that I was always too afraid to *be* that much of myself with anyone else. And now I'm... still afraid. But it's too late to go back."

"I think... well, I *agree* with that, Tim, you shouldn't ever try to hide yourself like that again, not from *me*, but..."

But maybe I should hide from Jason? Or Bruce and Barbara? Tim shakes his head and sits up, rubbing his palms on his thighs. "It doesn't really matter what I want in terms of that, and it doesn't even matter what *you* want, Dick -- though it really does make me feel better. I've burned my bridges in a lot of ways, and now I have to... make my way on the new shore."

Dick sits up, too, reaching down to scratch a spot on his shin -- the zipper of his jeans is probably bothering him. "You'll have company, Tim."

Tim smiles. "Quite a lot of it, if I play my cards remotely correctly."

"God. God. Okay, you *do* realize that you don't *have* to keep sleeping with all of these people just because you did it once. Or a few times, as the case may... be. God. No, I'm okay -- but you get that, right?"

Tim nods. "I don't plan on... lying back and thinking of the Mission, if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm worried about *you*... I. Hell. What about you falling in love again? What happens then?"

Tim smiles a little wider. "I don't know."

"What... okay, maybe I don't get to ask about specifics like this, and you *can* tell me that, but..." Dick rests his hand on Tim's shoulder and rocks Tim a little. "What the *hell* are you going to do about Bruce? Who was apparently worried enough about you that he called me in *despite* the fact that the two of you have been... God, I had Bruce on that... that crazy *list* I made, but I never really thought --" Dick sucks a breath in through his teeth. "Was it more than once?"

He'd put Bruce on the *List*? *Really*? Something to think about -- deeply -- another time. "I... yes. More than once, Dick." And the smile feels a little old and heavy on his face, and... maybe it should. Tim lets it drop. "Talk to him. Apologize to him for lying so much. See how much of our partnership I can salvage."

"I can help with that. Maybe I *should* help with that --"

"No, Dick. Or -- maybe, but..." Tim cups Dick's knee and squeezes. "The *first* conversation has to be just the two of us."

And Dick looks down, hair falling in his eyes and hand very loose on Tim's shoulder.

Escapable. *This* is something... a part of Tim is honestly curious to find out what would happen if Tim brought up the fact that he still thinks of Bruce as his *lover*, that there's a difference there, something there which *isn't* with any of the other people he's been with except, perhaps, for Jason. He wants to *know*...

But he really doesn't think now is the time.

"Dick..."

"Would you tell me..." Dick looks up again, and his eyes are wide and a little hurt.

So open it makes Tim want to draw back, build a wall... anything to make that look go *away* --

"Would you tell me how long you've wanted him, Tim?"

No question who he means. None. "I... since I started training, really, but at first it was Batman, and then when it *became* Bruce..." Tim shrugs, a little. Not enough to move Dick's hand. "I wasn't always comfortable with that want."

"You didn't even... there were times when you didn't *trust* him, Tim, and I... how does that work?"

"I think he's the best man I've ever known, Dick. I *don't* think he's perfect."

Dick winces and turns away, again -- he keeps his hand on Tim's shoulder, and Tim realizes, with something of an internal revolution, that there *is* a way that Dick could be entirely *all right* about his relationship with Bruce, if never precisely happy --

All Tim would have to do is love Bruce the way Dick does, heedlessly, almost recklessly. The kind of love which *is* all about throwing yourself off something high and knowing -- always knowing -- that you'll be caught. "I... I can't love him the way you do."

"No, of course not, I --" Dick's laugh isn't very pleasant. "No, not 'of course not.' I think I've spent the past four years waiting for you to *get* it, and the fact that you still don't -- even though you've *slept* with him --"

"I know, Dick --"

"*Do* you?" Dick squeezes Tim's shoulder hard, reaches up to cup Tim's face --

He'd been about to turn away. Reflexively. Tim lets himself close his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, Dick is waiting. Waiting for him. "I'm not you. I can't *be* you, and I've known that my entire life --"

"That's not what we're talking about, Tim --"

"It *is*, Dick. What you want from me, for this... it would be tantamount to me being a completely different person, as opposed to just me --"

"Aren't you the one who just decided to take a nice, long vacation from being yourself?"

Tim winces. "Yes. And no. But the latter is as important as the former. Crane took my brakes off and let me go careening through my own life full tilt, Dick. And that *was* like being a completely different person... but still a person with the same wants and needs and ways of *thinking* as the person I was before. And now --"

"*Bruce*, Tim."

"I think. I think I might have to move --"

"*What*? You're planning on *leaving* him, now?"

Hell. "I -- if it's what he *wants*. If it's what would be better for the partnership. I know *you* never wanted to leave --"

"You always lived separately from him, from *us*. A whole separate *life* --"

"Which is gone, now. But I can't... I have to think about Batman and Robin, too, Dick. And I think Bruce would agree with... that," Tim finishes, lame and more than a little helpless.

"God, you're right... you're right, and I know you're right. Just let me sit here and be a little horrified, again..."

Tim moves his hand from Dick's knee -- gets it caught. "Dick --"

"Jason. Are you... part of you has been sitting here, being here with me and talking about all of this... you're thinking of going to Jason," Dick says, and the grip he has on Tim's hand is iron, but no more so than what's behind his eyes.

"I haven't --"

"Tim."

"Dick, I really -- I don't have *any* plans like that, I." Does he? *Would* he...? Jason had invited him *in*, first into the way he worked and then into the way he lived... and Tim's mouth is hanging open. He closes it --

And Dick nods, slow and really very *grim*.

"Dick, it wasn't... it wasn't anywhere near the *front* of my mind --"

"And we both know that doesn't matter. Tim, I..." Dick lets go of Tim's jaw and looks down at their hands, frowns and twists until the grip is something more companionable.

Brotherly, even, offers a part of his mind which really needs to shut *up*, at least for the time being. "I was really thinking of just... getting an apartment. Maybe something with a loft, like yours, Dick."

"But you weren't *not* thinking about Jason... I'm really going to have to try to *talk* to him --"

"It wouldn't be a bad plan," Tim says. "He's not... he should know how much we're all still thinking about him."

"How could he *not* know? He's here, and he's hurting people, going against everything we all *swore* to --"

"He should know he has *options*, Dick," and Tim squeezes his hand. "We'll never bring him in if we don't all --"

"Bring him in? Bring him..." Dick shakes his head. "Tim... I know the two of you are somehow getting along even though he's even more vicious and brutal than he *used* to be, and that's *saying* something --"

"You were never his brother, Dick."

"I -- was that an *accusation*, Tim? Are you seriously --"

Tim holds up his other hand. "Dick. I'm just saying -- I'm not the only one in this room who didn't love, didn't *offer* as much as he could."

And Dick draws himself up, a little... "Tim. I love you, but you don't know what you're talking about, here. Just because the two of you found... some kind of fucked-up common ground when you were *drugged* doesn't mean... I can't *live* the same way you do --"

"Exactly," Tim says, and raises an eyebrow.

"You -- you are seriously tying this back to Bruce --"

"Had we ever really stopped talking about Bruce, Dick...?"

Dick glares at him. It -- it makes Tim's heart pound in his chest. It makes Tim's feel naked in every possible way except for the good ones. It's *Dick*, and there have been times when it was bad between them, times when they didn't know each other all that well and times when they *did*. *But* --

Tim waits, as still as he can be, meeting Dick's eyes and just... waiting. For the rejection Dick will and won't mean, for whatever else Dick wants to -- has to -- give him.

"You... Tim. You can't expect me to be *okay* with the fact that you just told me you could give up Bruce easier than you could give up a *killer* --"

"That's not what I said, and that's not even what I meant on some secret, hidden level, Dick --"

"Isn't the point of secret levels that you don't *know* what's there --"

"*I* know. I know. And I don't want... I don't *want* to give up anyone. I'm going to try to make all of this right, as right as I can make it. I'm just saying that it *might* turn out that I have to leave here." Especially if the two of *us* are going to keep -- no, say it. "Especially... especially if the two of us continue to fail at having a sense of *place*."

It makes Dick blink -- and then look *horrified*, which is about as far away from Tim's intentions as is remotely possible.

"Oh -- Dick, it's okay. I mean, I think it's okay. By which I mean -- I have no idea. At all." Tim squeezes Dick's hand.

"I never once *thought*... oh my God. Do you think Bruce will... do you *know* how Bruce feels about you, Tim? Not that I can picture him even getting close to starting a sexual relationship with someone without really, *really* meaning it -- and you said your sleeping around had caused *friction* -- Jesus."

Better or worse to point out that Bruce had seemed fine with things so long as Tim had stayed within the bounds of family? Yes? No? He really doesn't have *any* idea. "I imagine... it will be something else to discuss."

Dick looks *sick* now, which may or may not be better than horrified. "I have to apologize to him, tell him -- God, *what* would I tell him? That I'd been saving that *up* for you for a few days and really couldn't stop myself? Even when I knew? What does *Alfred* think about all of this?"

"He seemed... non-plussed by my... sleeping around."

"But just *fine* with you and *Bruce*?"

Take what you want... "To be honest, Dick, I did everything in my power to escape from that conversation before it could go very far."

"I think... I think I need to --" Dick lets go and stands, yanking up his pants and briefs and pacing around the room in arcs and loops he probably doesn't realize are mathematically precise.

Tim shifts back onto the bed until the headboard is cool and soothing against his back and he can just... watch.

It looks a lot like Dick is arguing with himself vehemently, even though it's silent save for the soft sound the slightly-too-long jeans make on the carpet and the occasional whisper of Dick's hair on his shoulders. There's nothing...

There's nothing Tim can do to *help* with this, other than be here if and when Dick can start arguing with *him* again. It feels like cheating on something larger than any other person -- even Bruce -- to watch him move like this, to enjoy the sight of his long limbs, his *grace* --

It's Dick, and that has been answer and explanation for the vast majority of Tim's existence. He's still shirtless, and the jeans ride low on his hips -- no. He can at least keep himself from that kind of watching, and from wallowing in the memories of Dick asking -- begging -- to see him, to touch him *this* way and not that --

Tim shakes his head. Perhaps both of them needed to be arguing with themselves right now. *He* needs to start putting time and effort into living with all of his memories of sex, with the way they all want to make him take more, *have* more --

It wouldn't be a bad thing to talk to Roy about it. If anyone even peripherally in his life *would* have advice on how to live with the big, staggering thing that is sex with other people, other wonderful, beautiful people...

Then again, it *also* wouldn't be a bad idea to ask Bart about it. Subjective time has surely given him more than enough space to consider sexuality both as a whole and as it applies to him. And it would be easier -- on a number of levels -- to contact Bart --

And Bart would be glad to hear from him. Tim feels himself blushing and reaches up to scrub at his face with his palms, try to *forcibly* hold on to himself, his needs and emotions and so many wants he doesn't even have names for them all --

"Tim..."

Tim uncovers his face. Dick is standing near the door to the bathroom and not -- quite -- looking at him. "Dick."

"Tell me something. As someone who actually *thinks* like Bruce more often than not..."

"I... I really don't think *anyone* thinks like Bruce --"

"You know what I mean," Dick says, and turns to face him. His expression seems to be a little on the lost side, but also calm. Calmer.

Tim nods.

"If you were Bruce, would you *want* me to say anything about this? About what we --"

"No, Dick."

"No? Are you --" Dick laughs and lets himself fall back against the door jamb. "Of course you're not sure."

"I really won't be sure of *much* with regards to Bruce until I talk to him, but... you have to realize that he already knew about the two of us before I... with Bruce." That's kind of what triggered things... no. Really no.

"I... really don't want to make it worse for -- any of us," Dick says, laughing again and closing his eyes. "He called me in to make things *better* --"

"You did, Dick. For me, anyway... I know that's not really what you're thinking about, but... I was a wreck when you got here. Now I feel... well, like myself."

Dick nods, but doesn't open his eyes right away -- "I need you to do something. For me, but -- for you, too. Maybe for all of us."

"I'm listening."

"But you're not promising anything, yeah, I hear you." Dick sighs and looks at him, and he looks... older, somehow -- "Talk to Cass."

"I -- not what I expected."

Dick smiles ruefully and pushes a hand back through his hair. "I know it wasn't, little brother. Do it anyway."

"Dick --"

"She never meant to hurt you, or take anything away from you --"

"She only wanted to *help* me, yes, I know, but Dick --"

"And the whole *issue* you have with her --"

"You don't *know* my issues with Batgirl, so please don't start pretending you *do*. It's not -- attractive."

Dick smiles, and it's lazy -- predatory. It wouldn't look out of place on Jason's face -- and Tim realizes that he'd just snapped, and done it *hard*.

"I -- I'm sorry, Dick, but you really --"

"You're not sorry and I *do* know, little brother," Dick says, and pushes off the wall, walking close -- stalking, almost.

Tim decides to be silent for it, and when Dick cups his chin again, he just lets it happen, looking up into Dick's eyes and raising his eyebrow.

"The no-fear gas... it let you be yourself without being afraid of what people would think about everything you hide from the world. *Cass* -- and do you ever think about the fact that you can't bring yourself to use her name? *Cass* could always see all of you, all your lies and all the little things you think but never say -- even the really *mean* ones."

Tim presses his lips together.

"You never had any control over what your relationship with her would be like, so the only thing you did -- the only thing you *could* do -- was avoid her except when it was necessary to work with her. You gave her Robin and *only* Robin, even though she's *family* --"

"She's not --"

Dick's grip gets hard -- painful. "You never *once* gave her a chance to actually *react* to all the things she sees in you because you were afraid of what she'd say -- express. And she'll never, ever give you a chance to overcome that fear, because she will always see you. And you hate that so much that you've let that hate spill over onto *her* -- and that's not fair."

*Fuck* you, Dick. Life's not fair. She's not my *sister*, or anything -- anything -- Tim narrows his eyes, since he can't turn away.

"All done telling me off in your head?"

"For some definitions of the term... yes," Tim says. "Is there anything else you feel the need to say, Dick? Would you maybe like to explain to me in more detail why I'm not good enough for either Bruce or Barbara?"

And Dick yanks his hand back like he's been burned, eyes widening as he starts to shake his head --

A point scored, and scored well. For whatever good that does him. Tim closes his eyes and covers his face.

"Tim..." Dick's voice is almost *breathless* --

That wouldn't have hurt so much if it didn't have a big, solid kernel of truth in it -- he doesn't need to say that. He doesn't -- "I'm sorry. I'm... sorry I said that, Dick." It's entirely true.

"I... do you really think I..."

Tim uncovers his face and meets Dick's eyes. He doesn't have to say a *word* -- "I'm sorry I said that. And... you're not entirely wrong about... Cassandra."

"Tim. Please. If I ever made you feel -- if you really think *I* feel --"

Tim grinds his back teeth -- stops. "I don't think that way." When I can help it.

Dick frowns and it just... takes his whole face. Covers it.

"Dick --"

"Tim, you... *do* you know that I love you?"

"I do, Dick. And I've always loved you --"

"You just don't trust me, or -- think I trust you? Is that what it is?"

Tim stands up and raises his hands. "Dick, we can leave this, it doesn't have to -- it was a terrible thing for me to say --"

"*Don't*, Tim. Just -- don't. You said it, and it's *there*, now --"

"All right. I don't think I'm third-best for you. I don't think you don't trust me. I don't think --"

"You're usually... a better liar," Dick says, reaching out and -- not touching.

Tim catches Dick's hand in both of his own. "It's *okay*, Dick. I'm not the best man in the world and I'm not the love of your life. I *did* have sex with both of these people when you were in no position to do the same --"

"I don't want to have *sex* with Bruce, Tim --"

Tim raises an eyebrow -- *stops* --

"*Jesus*, Tim, what do you *think* about me?"

"I think that you're the man I struggled and pushed myself for, to be good enough for --"

"And you think you never *made* it," Dick says, and he's shaking his head again -- "*Tim*, how could you ever -- how could you ever make love with me if you thought I didn't care for you just as much as I care for the rest of my *family*?"

In the end -- easily. Tim squeezes Dick's hand and takes a careful step forward. "It's not about what I feel, Dick -- no, wait. It *is* about what I feel, but it's not like I can't ever be wrong. My self-esteem isn't always the best, given what I have to compare myself to --"

"But this isn't really *about* your self-esteem, Tim. It's about the two of us, it's about -- Tim, you're my *little brother*."

"And you're my big brother. And by the time I entered your life in a way that you'd notice --"

Dick frowns more and Tim has to wince.

"Not the best wording. All right. By the time I came to you about Bruce needing another Robin, you'd already lived this wide and incredible *life*, and the people in it had already had the time to influence you, shape you, change the way you looked at the entire *world*. I came *late* to the party, and that's okay."

"Late... to the party."

Tim smiles ruefully. "I didn't even bring a gift."

"No, Tim, you -- you brought yourself, this strange and complicated and wonderful -- I don't know what I'd *do* without you, Tim."

"And you never have to worry about trying to find out, so long as I'm alive, Dick. I'll never... you're my brother."

And Dick's expression... eases. Not all the way by any stretch of the imagination, but --

Dick pulls him in for a hug, squeezing Tim hard and kissing Tim's temple, over and over --

"You're *not* third-best. You could never be..." More kisses, and an even tighter squeeze.

If Dick has to believe that... all right. Tim turns his head against Dick's chest and listens to his heartbeat...

And catches himself willing his own heartbeat to slow and calm itself in reaction to Dick's.

Tim sighs and holds on. "When you talk to Jason..."

Dick sighs, too. "Look, I -- I promise I'll remember how much you care about him --"

"*Brother*, Dick --"

"You spent *way* too much time with Bruce and the Case, little brother, but fine, all right, I won't... if he doesn't push me, I won't shove him down a flight of stairs. When you talk to *Cass*..."

Tim closes his eyes. "I promise I'll remember that she's one of us, and is that way for a reason. I promise I'll try to remember that there's probably a reason why she's known me for this long without trying to kill me which has nothing whatsoever to do with the Bat."

"Just... don't push her away."

"Replace 'her' with 'him' and repeat," Tim says.

Dick strokes his back. "Tim... are we okay?"

Always -- "Always."

Dick strokes him silently for a few more moments... most of a minute before pulling back and staring into his eyes. Dick's eyes are a little wet, and Tim can't really stop himself from reaching up and stroking the soft skin beneath them.

It makes Dick smile --

"*I'm* okay, Tim. I just... you really made me worried."

Tim nods. "I... I think I understand."

Dick's smile gets wider and -- better, and he cups Tim's face in both of his hands, leaning in --

Tim opens his mouth --

And Dick laughs and -- pecks Tim's mouth. And plants a more lingering kiss on Tim's forehead. 

A sense of place. All right.

"I think it's going to take me a good, long while to get used to the fact that I can touch you almost whenever I want, little brother," he says against Tim's temple.

Tim smiles. "Well. You know what they say about practice."

Dick laughs, low and warm. "Yeah, I think I remember some idiot spouting something off about that," and this time, when he steps back, it feels... a comfortable variety of final. "You're sure you don't want me to stay?"

"I'm sure," Tim says, and reaches out to clasp Dick's hand one more time. "I'll be okay."

"I never doubted you'd land on your feet," Dick says. "And I... I don't know how to express how much it means to me that you *let* me be there for you, even though I kind of fell down on the job."

"Bruce knew what I needed. I'm not... surprised."

And the expression on Dick's face is... complex. There's happiness there, genuine *pleasure*, but there are also shadows there which Tim may never be able to touch -- and may never be able to stop making *worse*.

"I... are you going back to the 'haven?"

"New York, actually. I think I might need to spend more time with my team," Dick says, and blushes, pushing a hand back into his hair.

Tim smiles again -- wider. "You do that."

"Heh. Now I just have to figure out a way to convince them all that *I* haven't been drugged with something nasty... right. I'm heading out. Come see me when you get a chance again. We can just hang out, or we can... well," Dick says, and this smile wouldn't be out of place on *Roy's* face.

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Noted. Big brother."

"Heh. Somehow when you say that I feel *dirty*," Dick says, and turns for the door. "Call me if you need *anything*."

"I will," Tim says, and watches Dick go.

When he opens the door, neither Bruce nor Alfred are standing right there glaring, which is probably a good sign for everyone concerned. Tim takes another quick shower and thinks about his next step.

He'd never gotten to see Steph last night and, in retrospect...

In retrospect, it's something of an obscenity that he'd planned to do so. It would've been a very easy, very comfortable lie. 'Lie' isn't strong enough. *He* might not be strong enough...

And it really does have to wait until after patrol, to make sure he gives Steph enough *time* -- assuming he isn't benched. Hm.

Tim pulls on briefs, chinos, and a t-shirt and walks barefoot through the manor. There are excellent smells coming from the kitchen -- and the sound of Alfred moving around.

Alfred.

Tim takes a breath and walks in.

*

The kitchen is a cathedral to the art of cooking, massive and spacious enough to have undoubtedly been the gathering place for the army of servants the manor had supported in days past.

Alfred is moving through it with speed and precision, preparing what certainly *looks* to be the light pre-patrol meal which is neither dinner nor any other thing which could be easily labeled.

He doesn't say a word, and he doesn't *stop* moving -- and Tim realizes that Alfred's managing to both move in the ways the meal demands and in such a way that there's no real comfortable place to stand still unless Tim remains on the very edges of the kitchen.

Impressive, and a very clear message.

"Alfred... I imagine there isn't much I could say to you right now that you'd want to hear, but I'm still going to say this: I was rude to you, and dismissive, and I know exactly how wrong it was to be so. I knew it then, too, but... I'm not going to offer excuses, and I'm not going to ask for you to forgive me out of hand. I'm just going to say that I apologize, and that I hope we can smooth things out between us sometime in the future."

For a long moment, Alfred just keeps moving. Chopping radishes into a salad, checking on a pot of what seems to be a risotto --

The meal will be served in the Cave, and it's past time for him to go there, himself --

"Master Timothy."

"Yes, Alfred?"

He doesn't turn around. "I strongly suspect we shall never see eye to eye on the subject of your... dalliances, and I will never understand what made you do such a *foolish* thing with your own health..."

"I -- I know. I can tell you some of the things which were going through my head, but, in the end, I know it was a bad decision. The freedom it offered was really... another sort of prison," Tim says, and thinks about, turns it around in his mind... he never would've been able to stop lying except -- *possibly* -- to Jason. For a while it would've seemed like just an extension of the life he'd been living in one way or another for the last four years, but... Tim nods to himself. 

"Just so," Alfred says, and pulls a loaf of crusty fresh bread from the wood-burning oven. "All of that said, I respect your wish to 'clear the air' between us for the good faith it shows... and I will consider your desire for forgiveness with that spirit, as well."

"It's all I can ask. Thank you, Alfred."

Alfred pauses in the act of reaching for salad tongs. "You're welcome, young sir. I hope you will consider some of the things I've said to you, as well."

Bruce. Oh... yes. "In a way, I haven't stopped thinking about them since you said them."

Alfred makes a non-committal sound and returns to his work.

Tim heads for the study, meaning to continue directly to the Cave, but... Bruce is there. Or possibly Batman. The expression on his face is ambiguously dark. He's sitting in one of the wing chairs. Tim chooses the one opposite to it and sits down, curling his fingers around the arms of the chair and considering -- and rejecting -- leaning back and crossing his legs. Depending on how he schooled his expression, the pose would either be too casual or too cold, neither of which --

"Tim."

-- belong in this moment. "Bruce," Tim says and drums his fingers -- *very* lightly. "I'm ready to talk if you are."

Bruce hasn't met his eyes, yet. Bruce... is looking directly at the mark he'd left on Tim's throat.

The mark Jason had renewed. "Or we could... am I on, tonight?"

"Do you think you should be." And Bruce looks up -- the expression on his face makes it an honest question.

"Emotionally, I'm still a little shaky, but I feel about eighty-five percent on, and likely to get better rather than worse, in terms of the work. I can't imagine not being able to handle at least a short patrol."

Bruce's eyebrow raise speaks volumes about what Bruce had seen from him today, and last night, and about the message it would send to have Tim out there tonight after everything he'd done.

Tim sighs. "I'm not going to try to drug myself again."

Bruce's nod is slow, and he's doing that thing where he just *skips* blinking about half the times when he should.

"Batman --"

"Not here. Not now," Bruce says, and there's something heavy in his voice, something that sounds like *hurt* -- his eyes --

Tim swallows, and realizes that he's squeezing the arms of the chair *hard*. "I. Bruce. I need you to tell me. Where to start."

Humor in Bruce's eyes, wintry and a very specific variety of welcoming --

"Whenever you look at me with *that* smile in your eyes, Bruce... I..." Tim swallows again, shakes his head --

"Tell me. Please."

Please. Tim feels himself almost *wincing*, as opposed to just narrowing his eyes. "There have been times when it felt like the only thing you saw when you looked at me was who I *wasn't*. But not when you smile at me like that."

"I see," Bruce says, and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and folding his hands together. "I don't know where to start."

"Ah. I suppose we could... feel around, a bit."

Bruce nods. "Did you... was Dick what you needed?"

Oh, a blush. Just what he needed this early in the conversation. "Yes and no," Tim says, and struggles to find the words to make that answer less *useless* --

"Tim..."

"A moment, please. I... I'm still trying to figure out what to say. And how to say it."

Another cold flare in Bruce's eyes. "There's something to be said for spontaneity."

"There's more to be said for care, especially in terms of handling conversations with people you mean to go *on* with, Bruce --" 

"Go on...?"

Lover. *Lover* -- Tim takes a breath and is not at all surprised that it's shaky and uneven --

Bruce clenches his hands together.

"I... Dick and I talked for a long time, about a lot of things. Some of it was uncomfortable --"

Bruce nods. He'd listened to at least *some* of it. The question is when he'd stopped. If he'd stopped.

"I think that it will be ultimately helpful that we cleared the air so much, but in the short-run..."

"Difficult. Damaging."

Tim nods -- and realizes he's leaning forward. "Painful. And I... Bruce, I want. I want --" Tim reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose -- stops and blinks and *looks* at Bruce. "There are things I want to say, *need* to say that I don't think are appropriate -- right now."

"Your concerns are noted, Tim. Say them."

His breathing... his *skin*, prickling with the *desire* to sweat, be touched -- everywhere Jason had touched him. Every *way*. Jason -- "Jason. We made love. It was... we made love."

Bruce's lips part -- close, once more. There is nothing left of winter in his eyes.

"I wanted you there --"

"Tim, don't --"

"Sorry. I'm sorry. Oh God, Bruce -- the lies. All of the *lies*. I just... I want, very badly, to tell you all the truth I can stand, *you* can stand --"

Bruce closes his eyes and Tim closes his mouth, hears himself make a sound --

Tim forces himself back in the chair -- beats his head against the back of it --

"Tim."

"I -- yes. Sorry. Just --"

"I take it back. Say... say what you were going to say," Bruce says, and when Tim looks, Bruce's knuckles are showing white and the tension in his jaw...

Tim reaches for his own jaw and isn't shocked to find it tight. He's not quite gritting his teeth, but... "Are you sure?"

"As sure," Bruce says, giving him a *hint* of winter, "as I can be."

Tim nods once. "I wanted you there, with us. I thought... I could see it. Almost feel it."

"You kept your masks on. Your mask. You let me see."

"Oh -- Bruce." Tim frowns. "I wasn't thinking of that. I wish I had been."

If anything, Bruce's grip on himself tightens even more. "You... became lost to him."

"It was so... I can still feel him --"

Bruce stands up out of his chair and moves behind it, gripping the back instead of himself -- looking away, moving *away* -- "Tell me. Other things."

"I miss. I think I miss you. I -- I feel like I haven't seen *you* since... before. Despite everything. Because of everything."

"And yet you're thinking of --" Bruce cuts himself off and looks at Tim again, searches him the way he has been for days, over and over, and the reflex is to hide, throw out something meaninglessly true or temptingly not-quite-false --

"Leaving," Tim says, curling his hands around the arms of the chair again, squeezing -- standing up and moving until only Bruce's chair is between them. "If it's necessary."

"Necessary. Yes. We must endeavor to... hn," Bruce says, showing his teeth for a brief moment before pulling back within himself, offering the human-like face of the Bat. "*Is* it necessary, Robin?"

"Batman. I don't have the data required to make that call as of yet. It all depends on Bruce's and Tim's ability to salvage a working relationship from what they have now." 

"You've made no deductions? Formulated no theories?"

Robin spreads his hands. "I have little to work with beyond Tim's confusion and emotional... distress. I know what he wants. I don't know what he can *have*."

"Don't you."

*Lover* -- "It would." Robin clears his throat and flexes his hands in the gauntlets which are still in the Cave. "It would be entirely logical for Bruce to put an end to the romantic aspects of his relationship with Tim. It would be *healthy* to do it, to back away from someone who has lied to him repeatedly, used him to salve his own needs, and recklessly endangered his own life as well as the lives of others. Bruce puts a great deal of time and effort into behaving logically."

Batman shifts on his feet, making armor creak somewhere... else. "By that reasoning, Tim would not bother attempting to salvage the romance, as he is inclined both toward highlighting his own faults and to protecting others from them."

Robin -- loses the thread. Momentarily. "Tim has recently discovered the pleasures inherent to being selfish and even greedy. I don't believe there is much he *wouldn't* do to hold on to anything he might be able to get from Bruce, in these respects."

Batman and Robin stare at each other in a dim and well-appointed room, watchful and patient. There is a problem which needs to be solved, but they are confident that, between them, a way will be found. They are...

They *are*, and Tim can't decide whether to sit back and let the big boys talk or to keep beating against the wall of himself and screaming until someone listens, *anyone* listens -- is Robin irritated by the lack of a mask? Does he sense the leak in his containment? Does he care?

*Can* he care -- and that's a question which is, perhaps, worth an answer from someone more capable of critical thought that Tim is, right now. He just wants --

He just *wants*, and wondering if Batman is suffering from his own internal revolt at the moment is only a moment's distraction from this thing, this *need* --

"Robin."

"Yes, Batman."

"You're with Batgirl tonight," Batman says, moving toward the clock, "and every night thereafter until further notice."

"Noted," Robin says, and Tim notes the calm, the stillness. The *acceptance* of something which would smack, even to sure and stolid Robin, of both punishment and protection -- neither of which could ever precisely be welcome.

The simple fact of the matter is that Robin is very, very good at this particular game, heedless of Tim's pounding inside him, profligate with Tim's carefully hoarded sense of competent placidity. What's left without is a desire to train, to *hone*.

What's left within is a boy watching his lover walk away in the body of a machine,  a boy with no recourse whatsoever. And Robin has no time to listen to Tim whining about betrayal, about how Robin was supposed to *fix* things --

Robin has things to do.

Tim gives up and settles back into his own skin, into a control which may or may not offer rewards tangible or otherwise. Patrol, his body wants him to know, will start in a little less than two hours, which is just enough time to eat, do his stretches, and change.

He waits until Bruce is halfway down the stairs and follows, stripping down to his shorts once he's in the Cave proper and picking a uniform for the night. The belt is fully stocked -- they are *always* fully stocked -- but it's a good routine to check them, just the same.

He notes that Batgirl -- that Cassandra is on the beam and all but dancing to something only she can... hear or feel or whatever. He leaves her there and does a thorough self-check. When he jumps or stretches in certain ways, he becomes deeply *aware* of the ache inside of him, of the other 'mark' Jason had left on him.

It's not a distraction so much as it's a reward, and Tim strongly suspects that he'll be asking Jason to fuck him... often.

Assuming, of course, that the return of Tim's fear doesn't turn Jason off too much... and *that* is a strange sort of fear. It's less that he's afraid of rejection than that he's afraid that it will take a long time to make Jason grow accustomed to him, again. He already knows that he's going to try and keep trying. He knows... he knows what he *wants*. Bruce...

Bruce is working on the weights steadily when Alfred starts down the stairs, and stays there. B -- Cassandra flips her way off the beam and jogs to meet him on the steps --

Alfred, unsurprisingly, refuses to let her carry the tray, but he does shift it a bit, allowing her better access to the aromas. She looks even younger than usual this way, her smile as uncomplicated as her silence is not.

They eat together in a different sort of silence at the conference table, Bruce in full-on refueling mode, Cassandra appreciative and full of private smiles -- Alfred has left them, once more -- and Tim...

Tim suspects he's somewhere between the two of them, with a side order of watchfulness. And... "Whose territory are we working tonight, Batman?"

"Your own," he says, and doesn't look up. "I want a full report on gang activity, including theories on who is going to move in which direction when."

"Noted," Tim says, and has nothing else... nothing else. Save, perhaps, for the way that he can't bring himself to stop watching *Bruce*, being so obvious that Cassandra could read him even were she suddenly blinded, or...

Or. Sweat has put the slightest possible curl in the hair at Bruce's temples, the places where there are a few grey hairs. His swallows could practically be used to set a clock. The flex and shift of Bruce's forearms as he tears a hunk of bread apart --

Bruce had wanted him. Bruce had been hungry, almost *starved*. Bruce understood how Tim could miss him even though they'd been together just the day before. Bruce *knows*.

And Tim knows, too, and, perhaps, Bruce had wanted Tim -- not Robin -- to put up more of a fight, to show willingness to not retreat behind the red, gold, and green wall built of years of blood, pain, and adolescent determination. Tim finishes his risotto and considers the bread, the sparkling juice --

The laugh as Cassandra drinks, bubbles almost certainly tickling her nose.

Batman becomes Bruce for just a moment, achingly visible in the arch of his eyebrow. Cassandra ignores it in favor of pressing her finger against her own nose, crossing her eyes and giggling again.

And then Bruce looks at *him* --

*Bruce* looks at him --

The only thing Tim can do is look back. He doesn't bother to press his lips together and he doesn't -- *Lover*, Tim thinks, and restrains himself from reaching across the table, but not from drinking in everything in Bruce's eyes.

And not from smiling, a little, when Bruce turns away from him, again.

For this... for this, too, he has determination. Bruce had shown him a great deal while Tim was drugged. It's his *turn*.

When Tim turns away, Cassandra is looking at him, head tilted to the side and the sort of smile which gives her back her years. It's private and a little sly, the sort of 'I see you' with which she usually doesn't bother. They all *know* --

And she's still smiling at him, still --

"Cassandra...?" And Tim puts every bit of *polite* inquiry into it as he can --

Bruce looks at him *hard* --

Cassandra frowns. "You were being honest. Now you're not," she says, and goes back to her own meal.

Well... well. That was... the truth. And more than that, it was something of a declaration, he thinks. She's never called him on his polite lies *before*... burnt bridges everywhere, including ones he didn't directly set fire to, himself.

Bruce has turned away again.

Tim goes and does his stretches. By the time both he and Cassandra are suited up -- she indicates a strain in her forearm which Tim tapes for her without a word -- Bruce has already gone.

Tim takes his bike, Cassandra takes one of Tim's spares -- Bruce's are too large for either of them... he wonders, not quite idly, how long she will be staying with them.

It wouldn't be unlike Bruce to call her back from her own Cave to run some strange variety of interference between Tim and himself -- over and above the fact that there's no way Tim can slip past her for solo patrol now that she's been given the order to stay on him.

It's tempting -- in an ugly way -- to start putting his bike through its paces, to test her proficiency and ability to shadow him *that* way, but, in the end, it's entirely possible that she'd taken the opportunity to watch *Dick* ride and learn all of his moves. It could turn out to be an exercise in petty *futility*, in other words, and Tim still has to look at himself in the mirror at least a few times a day.

The smile on his face behind the helmet is a cold thing -- he can feel it -- and he lets it stay right where it is.

The quickest way to lose his shadow is to be a well-behaved little Robin, and that's just what he's going to do.

Once in Tim's territory, they stash their bikes in a roomier alley than the ones Tim usually chooses -- it *is* a good thing to change routines -- and fly. She seems content to let him take point, which is... irritating and not. The few times Tim has worked with her in the past have always been educational, including her jump-line techniques.

Has she been specifically *ordered* to always follow him? Something to ask -- he could and *should* use this as an opportunity to learn.

On a street he hasn't visited since before he was drugged, the dealers have come crawling back out of the shadows where he'd put them. Still, it's something that the first several targets of the night aren't people he recognizes, and some of them seem *very* new -- and new targets are always a little... special.

The ones who never realized *they* could be on the receiving end of vigilante attention will often strip themselves of weapons and drugs and beg not to be hurt.

The stupider ones take one look at the stature of the vigilantes bracing them and try to put up a fight. The only challenge to targets like that is making sure they don't get hurt too *badly*... no. There's another challenge which is all about making sure *he* doesn't hurt them too badly.

Cassandra appears to have no difficulty with this, but reading her body is a lot like trying to decipher the deeper meaning in a poem written in, say... Kryptonian. He has a few basics with regard to the language, and he's clear on the alphabet, but the rest...

The rest is beyond him. When they're done clearing the block, they go back and drag their targets into the light and call in the police --

Tim realizes that she'd never questioned his usual tactic of doing this sort of thing as quietly as possible so as to keep as many of the dealers as possible from running away. He honestly isn't sure if it's something she does as a matter of course, or if it was something she read in him, in the way he'd moved...

Tim closes his hands into fists --

"Robin...?"

"No," he says, and shoots his grapple.

They work block by block for a time, and it's just not as satisfying as it used to be -- and he can't, really, blame it on Cassandra. He knows, now, what sort of information he could be getting out of at least some of the targets with the application of a greater degree of force. It's not enough when they tell him which way the runners have gone, and not enough when those runners give up depleted g-packs and handfuls of cash.

It's --

Tim veers off the path and lands on a rooftop. It isn't one he'd normally choose -- there are too many sightlines *to* it and not enough from -- but he needs to stop. He needs to... talk.

Cassandra lands perfectly in front of him and waits. She can see it in him. She can see... too much, but --

"I don't understand," she says, quietly.

"What -- what *do* you understand?"

She cocks her head to the side. "You don't think we're doing enough. You want to hurt people more. You think I'll stop you. What else... should we be doing?"

*Think* she'll stop him...? Tim narrows his eyes behind the mask and lets himself think of her potential, just for a moment. She can kill a man without leaving so much as a bruise. She could break someone in the time it would take him to take a breath. She could do what Jason does *efficiently* --

And, Tim knows, she never would. Not really. She will never take another life, and she is devoted to the Bat as *Bruce* defines it. Or... isn't she?

"Batgirl... what stops you from crippling people? What..." Tim frowns. "Tell me, please."

And she reaches out for him... for the frown on his face?

For his moment of *actual* honesty with her? Tim shakes his head once and she brings her hand back to her side, and --

"It's not the way," she says, only... it sounds more like 'The Way,' and that...

"You're nothing -- you don't think you're anything without The Way."

She traces the Bat on her chest with her fingers -- and gestures as if she'd rip it away. "Killer."

Yes... that. And he hadn't seen the video Cain had sent to Bruce, but he knows exactly what's on it. Bruce hadn't been able to stop himself from including the information in Cassandra's file, and Tim had been... curious. But. "There are other Ways. Other heroes do things differently."

"I'm not them," she says, and there's impatience in the way she stands -- no. Discomfort. *Deep* discomfort when she doesn't -- quite -- reach for the Bat on her chest again.

Tim nods internally and takes a step closer. "And if I am?"

"You're *Robin*," she says, and reaches for him again. This time she doesn't stop herself, lifting Tim's cape and holding it between her fingers. And the way she's standing...

She's open for countless different blows, assuming Tim could make them fast enough. He doesn't want to hurt her. He doesn't -- he doesn't want to hurt her. And she... knows it. But... "I might not always be Robin."

She shakes her head and tugs *hard* on the cape. "Not what you do, who you *are*. It's *in* you --"

"There are a lot of things in me, Batgirl. And there are other *ways*."

She lets go of the cape -- and there's enough light for him to see her frowning behind the cowl -- and, suddenly, his shuriken is in her hand --

"Batgirl --"

She makes as if to *throw* it --"

"*Don't* --" Tim cuts himself off and feels himself *wanting* to glare, but... her point is made. Tim laughs, instead, and holds out his palm for the shuriken.

She puts it back, herself. "Patrol."

"It's not that simple --"

"*Patrol*," she says, and -- pauses. She's frowning again, but it doesn't seem to be *at* him. "I'll show you."

Tim raises an eyebrow. And nods. They fly, and Cassandra lets Tim lead her into more gang-afflicted territory. He always feels a little angrier in these parts of the city, a little closer to his own edge. Is it more intense now? Would he be able to tell before he did... something?

It is, perhaps, not an accident that Jason tends to find him in these places. Bullet-scarred buildings and shuttered, barred windows. He almost never finds civilians in some of these areas -- not even civilians in trouble. Predators and their all too willing prey, on the other hand...

Still, it's not all routine. *This* block is a little too quiet and still for territory which should -- for certain definitions of same -- belong to the Twenty-Ninth Street Kings. They tend toward loud occupations, bringing in prostitutes from other neighborhoods to work an area, holding parties -- holding *court*, really, for everyone to see.

They're not very far into their territory, but *this* block has been held steadily for quite some time. Perhaps Batman has some intel about gang movement and reorganization he isn't sharing, yet, for reasons of his own. Or perhaps Bruce had put him on this task to keep him busy, and had had the sort of luck which only comes from years of breathing the breath of a city both loved and feared.

Tim frowns and looks for a likely individual to question more seriously. There are only two corners being held by dealers that Tim can see from this vantage point. He pulls out his scope and looks... one more corner further down the block, and a busy one. He opens up the range and... yes, further *in*, it looks more like the Kings' usual territory.

Cassandra's cape brushes and flutters against his own in the wind, making Tim feel a tug. When Batman does this sort of thing, he's reminding Tim to not get too deep into his own thoughts... hm. "Not enough activity. Suspicious," Tim says.

"Interrogation," she says, not *quite* sounding out the word.

"Yes. Let's --"

"I'll show you," she says, again, and leaps. Tim follows reflexively, setting his landing to block the most attractive escape route for the dealers Batgirl is already dropping -- they're not going anywhere.

Tim goes after the lookout who'd been staying a little too close, but when he catches the kid, he has nothing on him, and he's terrified -- more terrified of Robin than he should be -- he looks close to bursting into tears.

Tim frowns. "Who's after you?"

The kid shakes his head and gasps, but he's not begging not to be hurt, or... how quickly *does* news travel in the Gotham underworld? The answer is always -- *always* -- 'too fast,' but... yes. The kid is looking around as if the threats will come from somewhere *else*.

"Tell me," Tim says, making his voice as low and hard as he can.

"I'm no snitch!"

Tim listens for some sign of what Batgirl is doing -- there's a lot more groaning and yelling from her targets than what is remotely usual. And Tim isn't going to dangle a child over the edge of a roof tonight. "I won't forget your face," Tim says, moving into a loom. "Go."

The kid runs and Tim moves back to the street. One of the targets is unconscious, the other is backed against a wall and, for some reason, shirtless.

Tim moves into Batgirl's peripheral vision --

"Watch," she says, and twists her hand into position for a nerve-strike slowly, making sure Tim can see it -- and strikes fast, twice. The target throws his head back and screams until there's no air left in his lungs, curling in on himself -- Batgirl pushes him back against the wall and looks to Tim.

Tim nods, feeling his eyes get a little wide behind the mask, feeling his body *want* to start sweating... it's not panic, and she has his utmost attention.

She points to the places where she struck, drawing circles around the slightly reddened areas. "Remember."

He thinks about doing that to another person, making them scream like that... A transitory pain, rather than a maiming. There are most assuredly possibilities in this, but... "I'll need practice."

She nods and backs away from the target. "Stand up."

The target sobs out a breath and does so, shaking.

Tim moves into position --

"Listen, you gotta keep her away from me, man, you gotta --"

Tim strikes, and the man doesn't scream again, but he does urinate on himself.

"Missed one," Cassandra says, and taps the spot on Tim's tunic.

Horrible. Interesting -- *very* interesting, and Tim can't deny that, at all, though he hopes it says something about him that he wants to. It...

It would be incredibly difficult to get to those spots in a fight without leaving yourself open for something even nastier. Additionally, there seems to be no paralysis to speak of, as opposed to just pain. Shiva had taught him nothing of the sort. But for interrogation purposes... Tim nods and turns his attention back to the target, currently in the process of sliding down the wall.

"Talk to us."

"About -- about *what*?"

Tim considers. There are two guns sitting neatly on the curb. "You were raided. Attacked by another gang."

"Yeah, *so*?"

Tim -- doesn't kick in the man's ribs. It really isn't the time for that sort of thing, and -- it really isn't the time. "Who. Why."

"It was the Grind! They're new, coming up from the Ironbound. I -- I guess they just want the fuckin' corners!"

Interesting. The Ironbound is toward the edges of Onyx's territory -- she'd pushed them there, herself. Tim nods to himself and takes a step back.

There's a question in Cassandra's entire posture --

The target starts to curl in on himself again --

"Where," Tim says, quietly, "is the stash house."

"Hey, *fuck* you, man --"

The kick doesn't knock out any teeth, and he can't call it reflexive. It may very well have given the man whiplash to worry about.

The target spits blood. "I'm not -- I can't --"

Tim strikes down --

"Oh shit. Oh shit what did you do to my *arm*, what did you -- I can't feel my fucking *arm* --"

"Prosthetics are quite advanced, these days," Tim says, and shows his teeth. "You still have another arm."

"I don't fucking *know* where the stash house is! I'm just muscle, I'm not high enough --"

"Batgirl...?"

Cassandra curls her hands into fists.

"I swear! I swear I don't know! I just got hired in, they're pulling in new troops from everywhere, there are people coming down from New York, we're going to take out the Grind where they live --"

"When."

The target grabs for his paralyzed arm and looks at them, back and forth and back. "They were saying maybe a week, could be less --"

"All right," Tim says, and knocks the man out before he can notice feeling starting to come back to his arm. Tim zip-strips him while Cassandra takes care of the other. He doesn't have much in the way of drugs or cash, but at least the police will have something to work with...

And the block is empty now, their target's screams having chased others away. "Next time we do that, we have to gag the target," Tim says, and pulls his grapple.

"The screaming -- it makes them talk faster. More."

The sound of it in their own ears... the sound of it in his own. Tim pauses within himself, trying to hold on to something. Perhaps he should be stroking his own shuriken for this. "You have a point, and a good one, but we lost our other targets. Additionally, my trick with the paralysis won't work very many times."

Cassandra frowns behind her cowl. "Other things. I will think," she says.

They fly.

When they find a mugging in progress, Batgirl waits until Tim has gotten the victim away and tests Tim on the new nerve-strikes until the mugger is crying, until Tim feels stretched within his own skin, brutal and dangerous, *strange* --

Until he has them perfected.

When Oracle pulls them away from street surveillance on what, from Batman's latest intel, may or may *not* be a new branch of the BTM and sends them to an armed robbery which had become a hostage situation, they don't try anything new. Tim gets them in through the roof and they strike clean and fast, managing to wrap things up with only one shot fired -- and that one just takes out a very ugly wall clock.

When they head back out to watch the streets, they're lucky enough to get a bead on a tricked-out SUV cruising slowly between the corners. Tim likes to think of them as mobile treasure troves, as they most often contain all sorts of goodies. He still feels a little raw, the insides of his ears echoing with screams that don't belong *here*, but... but. They track the SUV, waiting until it's just pulling up to the last occupied corner on the block before moving in fast.

Cassandra takes the occupants of the corner, Tim takes the car, using his cape to block out the windshield while he knocks the head of the driver against the steering wheel once, twice, grabs the keys and rolls off, just in time for the bullets to start flying from within the vehicle.

The driver can't help, but it's still something of a challenge to both dodge the gunfire and get his targets out where he can damage them. He moves and *moves*, feeling like he's playing a role, feeling like *Robin* at the same time -- and drawing the fire away from Cassandra until she's got her targets down --

"*Down*," Tim says, and tosses a flash-bang into one of the shot-out windows of the SUV, diving with Cassandra for the protection of a parked car --

The noise and light feel like the celebration of a holiday to a large and hungry part of him, especially once the blinded and deafened targets come staggering out of the car. He wants... he wants to be even more *raw*, he thinks, helping Cassandra take them down quickly and looking for reinforcements -- yes, they're coming, but there aren't as many of them as there could be.

That sort of problem with loyalty really *wouldn't* be the BTM, and the knowledge settles satisfyingly within Tim, making him feel more than ready for *this* -- especially once Cassandra signals him that there are only three with guns.

They go on the attack immediately, making a few of the targets back up a bit -- yes, two of them had tripped one of the others, giving Tim a mass of struggling bodies to leap over and a clear shot for two of the guns with his batarangs. The guns go flying just as they should and there's a shout from behind him, a choked-off scream -- Cassandra is doing just fine.

Tim focuses on the erstwhile gunmen, striking and moving just until they're down before turning back to the men who'd tripped and who are now -- intelligently -- moving in on Tim in a loose arc.

Tim resists the urge to make a come-on gesture and pulls his staff, cutting it between two of his attackers to make them rear back and pause, leaving the third man open to -- yes, run for him. Tim strikes down for his shins and then *up*, taking the man in the jaw and dropping him fast. One of the others lunges to grab the staff and takes a glancing shot to the nose for his trouble.

Tim leaves him to grab at his own face and focuses on the last -- Cassandra kicks the man in the back, sending him stumbling to his knees and in range for a head shot.

Tim spins for the one with a bloody nose and strikes just as Cassandra sweeps his feet out from under him, and the staff hits his cheek with a crunch Tim probably shouldn't find as pleasant as he does. Everyone's down.

Cassandra smiles -- beams at him from behind the cowl, and Tim can't --

He can't not -- Tim nods in acknowledgment and turns to zip-strip everyone save for the men from the car.

It's quick work, and it leaves them with two and a half conscious targets -- the driver having fallen out of the car while they were binding everyone else. He's singing a song Tim doesn't know, and probably won't be especially useful. Tim binds him, too, and they drag the two -- expensively-dressed -- men into the nearest alley.

They're still blinking and shaking their heads, but some of the moans have curses in them. They smell like good cologne and cordite. The car, when Tim glances, has two fat-looking g-packs in it.

When they're standing against the wall looking surly, Tim gestures to Cassandra. She reaches up and does... something to the neck of the first. It's not a nerve-strike, and the man immediately begins jerking against the wall, actually managing to hit the other quite hard before settling in to shake. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes and his face is a rictus.

"Interesting," Tim says, seeking an internal flinch and only finding its... traces. "Would you call that more of a pinch, or...?"

"Pinch, yes," she says, and gestures to Tim's throat.

"A moment, please," Tim says to the target still capable of paying attention, and reaches up to unfasten his cape and hold it.

"Hey, what the *fuck*, man? What the fuck are you doing?"

"Learning," Tim says. "Stay as still as you can, please."

Cassandra's touch is light through the tunic. Too light. Tim shakes his head --

The man tries to make a break for it, and Tim punches him in the groin and lets him fall to his knees, and then to his side. A little theater is, perhaps, in order.

"I really do find doing things of that sort uncomfortable, so I'd suggest you behave for the rest of our conversation," Tim says, and turns to Cassandra. She's frowning in thought --

"Here," she says, and tugs her tunic away from her scarred neck. The sight of her skin on the street is as staggering and wrong as it ever is, even in the shadows of the alley.

Tim touches her throat, covering it from his sight with his own gauntlet -- no.

He turns his hand and moves his fingers along her throat until she tenses.

"There. And it's a pinch...?"

"Much pressure. You have. You might not have the... power."

In his hands? Maybe, maybe not. "It will certainly be worth a try," Tim says, and turns his attention back to their targets. The one Cassandra had pinched is now standing rigid, still crying. "Can he talk?"

She frowns again. "Might be... too much pain."

Hm. Tim pats the man's cheek firmly. "She can make it worse, you know."

The man's eyes roll wildly for a moment before settling on Tim. He blinks, and his lashes shine in a stray bit of streetlight. He's actually quite attractive, for a parasite. In another life... but Tim has to live in this one. They all do.

"I don't know you," Tim says, "but that's going to change. I won't be on you every move you make, and I won't *always* have her with me, but, well... you might consider doing what you can to garner my good --"

Cassandra shifts, starts -- and Jason is in the alley with them, making it seem small, close, and a few very sharp varieties of warm.

"-- opinion," Tim finishes, and turns to find Jason smiling at him. Tim -- feels himself blushing and can't do a thing to stop it.

Jason's smile slips a little, and he doesn't -- quite -- turn to Cassandra. He raises his own eyebrows and gestures something which looks like a mix of 'wait' and 'you *will* tell me later,' and then gestures more expansively -- "The crying bitch's name is Alex Grant -- he goes by A-Game and is a recent transplant from New Haven. His bodyguard on the ground there is Deshaun "Fly" James, who you might remember as petty muscle for the BTM. A-Game here's a distant cousin of Shaheed Benjamin's."

"Ah. I had been wondering about the connection," Tim says, and tries to keep himself from watching Jason move in the small space between him and Cassandra. He seems a little restless -- right up until he crosses his arms and lets himself fall back against the opposite wall of the alley and starts seeming *very* restless. There is danger here, and Tim can't not know it. Still... 

"Mr. Grant," Tim says, "I feel obligated to inform you that the man who just joined us likes to cripple people who've upset him. I like to think of him as family, but the simple fact of the matter is that Batman doesn't approve of his methods. In fact, Batman thinks he goes too far, as does the young woman who is the cause of the large amount of pain you're in right now."

"C--cuh. Cops. You're not."

"Very astute, Mr. Grant --" Movement out of the corner of Tim's eye. The bodyguard is trying to get back up onto his knees. Tim tries out the pinch, using as much force as he can. He feels something *shift* and has just enough time to wonder if he'd done it right before James shrieks and falls down into something that looks like a convulsion.

Just that fast. Just that *easily*, and Tim swallows. He has to focus on the game -- this was never a game. Not ever.

"Now my fingers hurt," Tim says, and waggles them in front of Grant's face. "I'll have to go back to bloodier and more old-fashioned methods --"

"W-w-what the fuck do you *want*?"

Tim opens his mouth --

"Stash houses for them. For me..." Jason smiles. "The BTM gave you fourteen prostitutes and two street-pimps. For *some* reason only twelve of the girls have been seen recently."

Tim takes a quiet breath and glances at Cassandra. She isn't in a ready-position, per se, but she has shifted very, very purposefully. Jason hasn't moved a muscle, but Tim doesn't need to see the tension in his shoulders to know...

To know.

Grant's eyes are rolling again. Jason -- the last thing any of them need is for Jason and Cassandra to fight. Jason's brutality and ruthlessness, Cassandra's... everything. He honestly has no idea which of them would win. It would be *ugly*, no matter what, and --

The *question*, at this point, is how much he'll be able to diffuse things --

"Suck my d-dick!"
 
Jason breaks the man's nose, and, when he steps back again, Tim can see his other arm up for what must've been a block for Cassandra. Jason is *letting* him see. Cassandra is in a ready-stance, now, and --

Tim moves between Jason and Cassandra --

"You fucking -- fucking freaks. Fightin' each other. *Real* good --" Grant spits blood. "Good fucking *show*," he says, and smiles.

"The pain must be dissipating," Tim says, quickly. "I'm happy for you, Mr. Grant, but you have to realize that that won't last."

"*You* know how to make 'im talk, birdboy," Jason says, leaning in over Tim's shoulder, close enough for his lips to brush Tim's ear. "Which one of us are you worried about....? I already know it isn't him." A whisper, practically a *breath* -- and Jason doesn't pull back until Tim can feel the edge of his smile.

*Now* Grant looks suspicious, and Cassandra is a blank shadow. It says a great deal that she isn't looking to him, isn't *questioning* him, anymore. She's not seeing him as a potential ally, and they both know he isn't very much of a threat to her, at all...

Tim shakes it off, internally. It hasn't all gone pear-shaped *yet*. There's still a chance to find a middle ground, a compromise they can all accept and still live with themselves...

"Mr. Grant," Tim says, and pulls out his staff. "I'm about to break two of your ribs --"

"*What* --"

"I just thought you should know," Tim says, stepping and turning into his swing. He strikes once, twice, registering the cracks -- Grant was still too tense to even try to defend himself, but he groans impressively and manages to bring one shaking hand up to his chest when Tim pulls back.

Infinitely more importantly, Tim now has the attention of both Jason and Cassandra.

"In a moment, Mr. Grant, I'm going to break one of your wrists. You'll note that this -- like the rib-breaking -- is a tactic which isn't frowned upon by any of my colleagues, though it's considered to be a little too much for someone as helpless as you are, right now."

"Robin..."

Tim can see Cassandra looking back and forth between him and Jason. She's frowning hard, and Tim thinks, as hard and as loudly as he can, '*read* me.' She has to know he won't go too far, here. And she has to understand how important it is that they don't give *Jason* an excuse to use his own methods. Jason, for his part, almost certainly already knows that *neither* he nor Cassandra wants to give Grant to him, but whether or not he's thinking about the middle ground...

Tim sighs internally and strikes for the wrist still at Grant's side. It snaps precisely the way it should, and Tim uses the new-to-him nerve-strikes --

"Nasty," Jason says, appreciatively.

Grant is sucking air and shaking all over -- "I'll talk!"

And Tim is relieved right up until he starts talking about the 'stupid bitches' who'd thought, for some reason, that they'd deserved more than twenty percent of 'his' profits. They're both alive because they're 'investments,' but are currently 'too ugly to be worth anything' and are in the process of recovering --

*In* the current stash house -- a vacant apartment which almost certainly lacks both heat and hot water. Jason's expression gets harder and harder, and, when Grant is done talking, Tim very deliberately spins his staff and tucks it away.

Grant flinches and sighs with relief, but Tim hadn't done it for *his* benefit.

Cassandra shifts on her feet -- and Jason folds his arms over his chest. "This is when you tell me why this fucker should keep both of his balls," Jason says, tapping a knife against his arm.

Tim hadn't even seen the motion that put the knife in his hand, but Cassandra must have. Tim takes a breath. "She'll stop you."

"She'll try," and Jason nods and turns to Tim. "How 'bout you?"

Yes. No. He doesn't want to lose... Robin. No matter how bad a job that individual does at keeping him warm at night --

"Hey, wait, no, I told you guys everything! You can't keep torturing me like this!"

"Shut up," Tim says, and he has to *think*. The fact that he *does* have to think is telling in and of itself, and he can see that by the way Cassandra is looking at him now, searching him and perhaps willing him to remember the Bat on her chest, the shuriken on his own...

Willing him to think of *them* as opposed to of the two young women who'd been beaten to a pulp and left to rot in some hellhole. Had they been raped, as well?

Jason's smile says he's reading Tim *perfectly* well, even as it's shadowed by whatever thoughts *he's* sparing for the two women.

They do so *little* for the victims of crimes they were too late to stop... Tim turns to Grant, and the smile on his face is sickening, full of ingratiation. A slimy thing, bracketed by the blood which is drying on his face. "You should consider confessing your crimes to the police, Mr. Grant. I think you'd be safer in prison."

"I'm not -- I am *not* going to no damned prison --"

"The girls will never testify, birdboy --"

"That's *right* they won't. Not if they know what's good --" Grant cuts himself off with a yipping sound as one of Cassandra's batarangs buries itself in the wall next to his head.

"A little to the right next time, Batgirl," Jason says. "I can help you with your technique if you want --"

"No *killing*," she says --

"Killing?" Grant lurches a little way from the wall, unsteady and still tensed. More tense, now. "Hey, now, you guys don't kill, I didn't kill *anybody* --"

Jason lifts a hand in front of his face and makes a show of checking his nails before crossing his arms again. "You're a drug dealer, asshole. You kill people every day of your miserable little life. Doesn't he, Robin...?"

Jason's not looking at him, but his attention -- Tim can feel it everywhere. The hickey on his throat seems to burn against his tunic. Inside... Inside he *wants*, but it's tangled up with everything else, and when Tim forces himself to think about Grant's body on the ground, Jason standing over -- it... "I'll stop you. From killing him."

Jason shifts on his feet -- stops.

Cassandra... looks slightly more relaxed. Apparently, Tim was being honest. He isn't sure how he feels about that. He isn't -- there are so many terrible ways this could go. So many --

Tim turns to Jason and lets him see it on his face, in his body language --

"Kid..." Jason's voice is low, heavy -- and not quite the Red Hood voice. That's -- something.

"I agree with you," Tim says, and wishes he could use Jason's name. "This man doesn't deserve to breathe. We *are* better than he is. And that's -- some of the point --"

"Please... please, come on, I won't break any more laws, I'll go *straight* --"

And Cassandra spins into a kick that takes Grant in the side. No crack of more ribs breaking, but... she's reading Tim enough to know that the only thing Grant can do by opening his mouth is put himself in the ground. She's --

Tim takes a breath and rests his hand on Jason's arm. "You know what the rest of the point is. You *know*." And if you didn't care, the three of us would've already been fighting and you wouldn't be holding a *knife*. Or you would've waited until Cassandra and I were gone, Tim doesn't say, because he doesn't -- shouldn't -- have to.

And when Jason shifts, the shadows take his face save for the line of his jaw. It doesn't matter. Tim can still feel him looking, still feel him *considering*. Jason can't... he can't *like* what all of this says about him, can't feel comfortable within his own philosophy, and...

There's a guilt for that. Tim doesn't have to want to live in the world Jason had created for himself to not want it shaken too badly. It's such a *neat* world, everything concise and clear... Tim squeezes Jason's arm. "Grey areas," he says, quietly, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of Grant's sobbing breaths --

Jason tucks the knife away and raises his hands --

And knees Grant *hard* in the groin, sending him to the ground to cough and heave. Cassandra never moves, and is, in fact, very clearly standing down.

Tim takes another breath and steps out of the alley. Some of the targets are starting to move around, yanking hard on their zip-strips. One particularly enterprising target is crawling toward the car, though how he thinks he'll drive the thing is a mystery.

Tim kicks the man onto his side and calls in the police while Jason and Cassandra drag Grant and James into the light. Cassandra uses her spare line to tie Grant to a streetlight rather than zip-stripping his wrists, and Jason...

Jason is searching him hard. He knows there's something different about Tim, and Tim really has to tell him. "Stay with me -- us -- for a moment."

"I'm going with you to see about the women," Jason says, and the Red Hood voice is back.

Tim nods. That works, too.

When they get to the stash house, there's only one guard. Cassandra drops him fast, and Jason's already heading for the back. Tim spares a glance for the drugs which represent a sizeable BTM investment and follows, Cassandra on his heels. The women are sharing a filthy mattress on the floor. There's a lot of blood on the thing in extremely telling places, and the women have been beaten very, very badly.

They shrink away from Jason when he reaches out, and Jason's look doesn't have to be accusing for Tim to *feel* it. He acknowledges it with a nod and calls 911 before contacting Narcotics, and then just waits in the shadows, listening to Jason whispering to the women, promising them that they'll be okay, that he'll be watching to make sure...

Tim thinks about Grant, and about how little time inside he'll get without these women's testimony, with only a few smudged fingerprints on the g-packs in his car. Unless he already has an impressive record and doesn't get a decent defense attorney, he might all but walk, and then he'll be back on the street again.

Chastened, yes, but almost certainly only for a time --

"Right thing," Cassandra says, and doesn't quite rest her hand on Tim's shoulder. The absence of its weight is a pressure all its own. Too much.

Tim lifts his hand --

Cassandra has already pulled back, trouble moving on her face behind the cowl. There's an urge to say or do something to ease things for her -- and an attendant urge to find some way to punish her for making him feel that way. Which is...

He knows, inside, that he's never been fair to Cassandra, never offered her a chance to be close to him. Dick is absolutely correct as to why -- she knows more about him at any given moment than just about anyone Tim would share with by *choice*. This has always been the truth, but it's a little different now.

Cassandra is now one of a *crowd* of people who know some variety of 'too much' about him -- all that's missing are the pleasantly terrifying memories. He remembers discovering that he'd wanted her, and that's *something*, but the desires had been shadowy things, humiliating and strange to consider --

She brings her hand to her chest and cocks her head.

Of course she could see at least some of that. Tim smiles tightly and shakes his head once. There are sirens --

And Jason steps out of the back room before Tim has to come up with anything else to say, moving for the window without a word. Tim follows him, and Cassandra follows *him*, and they're not in flight for long before Tim realizes that Jason is leading them to an r-point which has been active, off and on, for nearly eight years.

Tim once had two pictures of Dick stopping here to eat energy bars, and one blurry one of Jason with what had almost certainly been a cigarette. Periodically they leave the place for months at a time -- despite all of its handy shadows and vantage points -- and this is, technically, one of those 'rest' periods... but Tim is in no mood to protest.

Tim lands behind Jason and moves aside for Cassandra --

"Daddy seriously gave you a tail?"

"I'm trying to think positively about the matter," Tim says, and watches Cassandra move to the far corner of the roof, giving them her back and some definition of privacy.

Jason is frowning at Cassandra's back. "You should point out that you're too *old* for a chaperon, birdboy," Jason says, turning and reaching to cup the back of Tim's neck --

Tim blushes *again* --

And Jason pauses in the middle of leaning in. "There. What the fuck?"

"Ah... do you remember seeing me throw something into a fire...?"

Jason raises his eyebrows behind his mask, and Tim tells him about the drug. When he's done, Jason stands straight again, but doesn't let go of the back of Tim's neck.

Tim meets Jason's eyes through the mask and stays still, waits and wants and fears, so *much* -- but not so much that he *can't* stay still. Tim smiles, a little --

And there's a gun pointed to his temple. "Scared?"

There's a gun pointed at his *head*, and, somewhere past Jason's shoulder, Cassandra is undoubtedly planning some variety of mayhem. Tim raises an eyebrow behind his mask and lifts a hand between them. Jason doesn't let Tim push the gun away, but he acknowledges the pressure against the barrel...

By showing his teeth.

"I have to admit," Tim says, and touches his tongue to his upper lip, "there's some degree of apprehension."

Jason slides the gun across Tim's mask, barrel clicking lightly against the lenses.

There's no way Jason can see that Tim isn't tracking the thing, but... Tim knows that Jason knows. "There might even be some flexion in my cremaster."

"Cremaster. You..."

And Tim knows, with all of himself, that Jason's eyes are wide behind the mask, that the expression Jason is currently fighting -- viciously, by the look -- is the sort of smile which speaks of laughter held *close*. Tim smiles --

And gets kissed, gun pressed to one side of his head and Jason's other hand dragging at his face, holding his mouth open and making things messier. Tim cups Jason's sides and takes it, making a command decision not to care when his moan is too loud.

Eventually, Jason lets go, but only for long enough to holster his gun. His hands are back on Tim's face before Tim has much time to miss them, gloves rough on his skin. Jason's tongue is mobile and demanding, the warmth of his mouth impossible not to *crave*. Tim slides his hands from Jason's sides up over his back, pulls Jason *to* him and moans again --

Jason moves *his* hands to Tim's shoulders, squeezing them until Tim realizes that he's tensed, until Tim can forcibly relax himself --

Jason hums -- and breaks the kiss by the expedient of shoving Tim out of it.

Tim pants -- breathes. The moonlight picks out the shine of his saliva on Jason's mouth, and Jason must be seeing the same thing on Tim's own. He wants to lick his lips. He want to touch his own mouth, press hard against his lips -- not with the gauntlets on, and there is no excuse, here, to take them off.

"Balls still crawlin' on you, kid?"

"You're welcome to check," Tim says -- blushes again. He doesn't have to look away.

And he really doesn't when Jason smiles again, smiles at him, and, for a moment, Tim can't imagine ever not feeling right in his skin, *exactly* right, even though he has no idea how that happened, how that could *work* --

"Jason..."

"Tim. Find me when you lose your shadow. And after you've checked out what the boys and girls down by Simone and Eighty-Seventh have to say about... well, that would be telling," Jason says, and walks backward off the edge of the roof.

Playdate, Tim thinks, and watches Jason fly.

When he turns to Cassandra, she's watching him, head tilted to make sure Tim knows she's curious.

"What do you already know?"

"You want him. You love him and you're not... positive that he loves you. You want to be with him now, for the work. You want to take him home. He wants to go home, but he means different --"

"Stop," Tim says. "I don't want to hear what you read in him. It's not... fair."

She steps closer. "That's a lie."

Tim laughs and it feels... really good. He loves Jason, yes. He loves... and Jason wants home -- focus. "Yes, it was a lie. But it *should* be the truth, and that's enough for now. What do you *want* to know?"

"He's a killer, and you're afraid he will hurt you or someone else you love. You love him. Why don't you like me?"

"I --" Honesty, here... there are no other options. The fact that he can't just say 'I'm afraid of you' is... a fact. Cassandra has a good -- painfully so -- point. Tim turns away and looks out on the city, but Gotham has no distractions for him, at the moment -- and Cassandra would've noticed first if it had.

After a moment, Cassandra moves to the balustrade, shifting her cape so that, every time the wind blows, Tim is hidden by it.

Tim crouches to make the move more effective, and... "You see too much of me. Things I want no one to see. I know it's not your fault, that you never asked for the ability, but it's hard not to blame you."

She nods. "Okay."

Tim settles in and moves to pull an energy bar from his belt -- stops and closes his eyes behind the mask --

"Robin?"

"It's not. It's not okay. We're supposed to be better than that. *I'm* supposed to be better than that."

"Who said?"

Tim laughs, again. It's not as good. "I did. Even if you never like *me*, you've done nothing to hurt me, and I know -- I *know* you never will --"

"You don't --"

"I *do*," Tim says, reaching out to cup her shoulder and tug until she's facing him. "You'll never hurt me."

"Might hurt Jason," and she curls her fingers over the edge of the balustrade, squeezing enough that her gauntlets creak. "Next time."

Tim opens his mouth -- and closes it again.

"You don't know if you'll be on his side. I don't know, either."

There's a part of Tim which is only interested, right now, in learning as much from Cassandra as possible against the day when they'll have to fight each other. The rest... "Sometimes I think -- I *fear* -- that you're more Batgirl than I'm Robin. Sometimes it's that you're more Robin than I am."

She dips her head, pulling her shoulders in, a little...

And Tim knows that she understands him, and doesn't want to. "We can still..." Be friends? Somehow? "Do better," he says, and deliberately squeezes her shoulder.

She's still for a time, but then Tim can see and feel her relax, and she lets go of the balustrade and reaches up to cover Tim's hand with her own -- no. She strokes Tim's hand with her fingertips, gauntlet to gauntlet. The touch is light and lasts longer than Tim had expected -- longer than he expected to be able to stand.

When she stops, Tim takes a deep breath and moves his hand again, and goes for one of his energy bars. Halfway through it, he remembers sandwiches Steph had brought on some of her patrols, and... "You haven't seen Steph since she quit."

"No."

Tim swallows. "Why not?"

"She doesn't want..." A complicated gesture requiring both hands, and vaguely reminiscent of two birds in aggressive flight. "She left," Cassandra says, and grips the balustrade once more.

"Are you angry with her for doing it?"

"No. She didn't want it anymore. *You* are angry."

Tim winces and thinks about moving to another rooftop. Possibly in another *state* -- no. He stays where he is. "Do you miss her?"

"*Yes*," she says, and turns back to glare at him through the cowl, mouth twisting.

Tim raises his hands. "You could go see her."

"No."

"No?"

"I don't know where she lives," Cassandra says, flat and even and... awful, in a number of ways.

There's no temptation to ask her why she hadn't just asked him, because... he knows why. A week ago he would've resented it deeply. Three *hours* ago he would've. Now... Tim finishes his bar and tucks the wrapper away. "Here," he says, and sketches out the direction she'd have to go on a bike in the rooftop grit.

She can read enough, now, to be able to pick out her street, but... Tim frowns.

"Do you want me to lead you there? It's outside of the city proper, and the streets aren't really on a grid -- even a skewed and broken one like Gotham's."

"I understand," she says, and frowns at the sketch on the roof. "And... I don't know. You want to see her alone."

Yes, he really does. But. "You can follow me, tonight, and once you know where you're going... you could go anytime."

She traces the path on the rooftop with her finger once, and again. "What if she doesn't want to see me?"

And something in Tim seizes hard and hurts, without complication or resentment. "You'll have to be Cassandra. Not Batgirl."

"Cass," she says, and traces the route one more time before standing. "Patrol."

They finish their night with a slow loop back around to where they'd stashed their bikes, catching an armed robbery and a handful of low-level dealers on the late shift.

He wonders, not for the first time, if certain gangs ever budgeted for vigilante-related attrition. He'd expect it from the BTM, and it would certainly help to explain the 'draining the ocean one teaspoon at a time' feeling he often gets when dealing with the problem.

Their work tonight, though... *that* could make a difference. And no one had gotten maimed. Something to think about, and remember. Tim taps his comm.

"R to B."

"Here."

"I'm heading out. You'll have your report when I get back."

"Noted," Batman says, but Bruce is... there.

Tim swallows back -- most of the smile. "You should check in with Onyx about a new gang calling themselves 'The Grind.' Unless you want Batgirl and me on that...?"

"I'm closer. Batman out."

Tim gets on his bike and looks to Cassandra. She already has her helmet on, but the visor is up. "Still want to follow me?"

"Yes. Still want me to go?"

Tim smiles ruefully. "I'm honestly unsure. Come anyway," and he puts his helmet on.

For the trip out to the suburbs, Tim deliberately skips the shortest route for the one least likely to be blocked off for construction, accidents, and other issues. It only adds about fifteen minutes to the trip for this time of night, and it will make things easier for Cassandra.

It's as silent a ride as the one they took from Bristol, but it's different, somehow... he knows how. And why. At some point in the evening, he'd stopped having to force himself to think of her as Cassandra, and that can only be a good thing, ultimately.

Even if Jason *does* force a confrontation. Tim already has a hard enough time thinking of the criminal element as individual human beings -- he really didn't need to apply that sort of thinking to his... family.

Perhaps he could invite her out to the Tower sometime, give her the chance to renew her -- fascinating -- acquaintance with Kon. She could stay for an hour or two and fly back with Bruce, or Dick. She'd look absolutely obscene there on a sunny day, and it's the precise sort of obscenity that Tim can't help finding attractive when he's wearing his Gotham skin.

Tim smiles to himself and reduces speed -- they're in the suburbs, now, and he doesn't particularly feel like mixing it up with local police departments.

And... it's easier to think of Cassandra as family when all he has to do is share his family and friends with her.

And it's far, far easier to think of *that* than it is to think about Steph.

Tim parks the bike two blocks away from her house, near a park which hasn't even had a real drug-dealer presence since Spoiler had spent a few weeks cleaning it out... a long time ago. Tim shakes it off and sets the alarms, and Cassandra sets hers.

He leads her between houses and through backyards -- checking first and always to make sure no one has any new dogs -- and stops beside Steph's house.

"Here," she says.

Tim nods and looks at Steph's darkened window. He points.

"Maybe I come during the *day*," she says. "Front door."

Tim blinks. How long has it been since *he'd* done that? "I... a possibility, yes."

"Yes," she says, and everything about her speaks of pause, hesitation --

And then she's against him, arms wrapped tightly around him and cowl brushing his cheek -- "Batgirl --"

"Thank you," she says, and squeezes him hard. And lets him go.

Tim watches Cassandra go until the shadows take her entirely, and a part of him is only interested in pointing out how unfair it is that she can move *that* stealthily *here*, where Tim is constantly aware of how very much of an urban animal Robin is... but only a part. Dick would've wanted him to hug her back, but it's possible that he would give Tim credit for having not flinched. Much.

Tim shoots his grapple, wincing *before* it makes a sound these streets haven't heard in much too long. He waits a moment, listening to the silence settle over things -- Steph's light doesn't come on.

Tim climbs and... her window is locked.

He'd *asked* her to lock it more often. It's possible that she was just listening to him about that. For the first time... ever. Tim grits his teeth, bracing himself with his feet on the outside wall.

Should he wait to come back here until it's a reasonable enough hour that he could go through the front door? It would tell her, in no uncertain terms, that he was there to be *Tim* with her. It would be *respectful*, and it's been a long time since he'd seen her mother. She probably thinks....

He doesn't know what she thinks. He doesn't know what *Steph* thinks, and... he needs to.

It takes a full two minutes to bypass the locks, as they're some of the best on the market and he doesn't really want Steph to wake up to the sound of house-breaking. The lights are still off when he's done, and he opens the window and slips inside, crouching out of the moonlight reflexively --

Steph turns on the bedside lamp and sits up on her elbows.

Tim smiles helplessly. "When did you hear me?"

"Felt you," she says, and yawns. "I think I heard that bike of yours while I was still dreaming."

"Mm. Sometimes it feels like I'm riding it into a church, as opposed to just the suburbs," and Tim stands and moves toward the bed.

She pats the place beside her and Tim moves his cape out of the way and sits. Steph scoots up until her back is against the wall. Her eyes are a little puffy from sleep, and her hair is a blonde cloud. Tim reaches up to push a lock of it behind her ear -- Steph shivers. Gauntlet.

"Sorry," Tim says, and pulls back, starting to tug the gauntlets off --

"Don't. Don't do that," she says, and Tim freezes.

It feels literal. *He* wants to shiver, and he wonders if something in him will shatter if he does. "Steph..."

She sighs and looks down, folding her hands over her abdomen. Clutching them together. "I've been thinking, Tim. About -- about us."

Tim tugs his gauntlets straight and watches her, waits for her to look up, to -- "Steph, please look at me," Tim says, and flips the lenses up on his mask.

Her knuckles show white. "I don't want to."

Tim takes a breath -- it hitches. He'd seen this coming. He -- he'd *seen* it, but it feels -- "I... all right --"

"Oh, God. Oh -- God," Steph says, and covers her face. She's not crying, but it seems very close.

It seems. "Steph. Please. We can -- tell me what I can do to make this right. I can --"

"You love other people. You --" Steph drags her hands down from in front of her face. She looks pale, terrible --

Tim reaches out --

Steph catches his wrist, and squeezes hard. "You had sex with other people, and I know you, Tim. You didn't stop when you realized it hurt me. Some part of you knew it would hurt me when you *did* it, because you're you, and I --"

"Steph --"

"I still love you so much, Tim. I'll always love you. It's just that I hate you, too, now, and I --" She lets him go with a push.

Tim clutches his own hands together and shakes his head. "I -- Batgirl --"

"You slept with *Cass*?"

"No! I -- I was just. She's going to visit you. Soon, I think. I didn't ask you... she didn't know where you lived. And I thought. I thought you'd like to see her. I know she wants to see you."

"I... shit. I never even... she didn't say hardly *anything* when I told her I was quitting for good. I never thought she'd want to --" Steph shakes her head hard. "Don't -- don't change the subject, Tim."

"I'm sorry. I didn't -- want to forget," Tim says, and searches her face, searches for something he can touch, anything he can *touch*. "Steph --"

"I can't do this with you, Tim. I can't always be wondering which superhero you're banging because you love them, *too*. I can't be a face in your -- your *crowd*."

"You're more than that. You've always *been* more than that, Steph. I don't know what I'd do without you. You've always been *here* --"

"Yes, Tim, I have. *Right* here, anytime you wanted me, anytime you could take time out from being Robin for the *world* and being Tim for other *people* -- God. Did you sleep with Superboy, too? Kid Flash? Wonder Girl?"

Tim winces --

Steph sobs -- once, and clenches her hands into fists. "I love you," she says. "I *love* you, and it's not enough, and I've been wracking my brain trying to come up with something, anything -- "

"We can do it together, Steph, we can come up with something --"

"God *dammit*, Tim, do you realize you haven't once said that you'd stop sleeping around and be faithful to me?"

"I -- if that's what it takes, Steph, I can --"

"No! No, Tim, no you *can't*, because --" Steph rears back a little and swallows. Her eyes are wet and her hands are still clenched into fists -- "Because it shouldn't be 'if that's what it takes.' It should be 'yes, Steph, you were right, I don't know what I was thinking. Sure I'm attracted to people, but not that *much*. I think I was maybe *drugged*!'"

Tim -- Tim doesn't try to reach out, again. And he doesn't... the drug doesn't matter. Not for this. "I don't want to lose you, Steph."

"Too *fucking* bad -- no. No, not that. God, I *wish* I could just --" She beats her fists against the bed three times and then opens them. Her palms are welted from her fingernails and Tim --

Tim doesn't reach *out*.

"You wanna know what the worst thing is, Tim?"

No. "Tell me."

"If I was still in the life, still being *Spoiler* out there with you, if the Birds hadn't fired me and I was somehow *good* enough to be out there --"

"You only ever needed more training, Steph, your background in gymnastics, your power --"

"*No*, damn you! You don't get to *do* that to me. Not anymore," she says, pointing at him, and -- she stops, and stares at her hand as if it doesn't belong to her. And then lets it fall to her side. "Let me finish."

"I -- yes," Tim says. His hands are starting to hurt from holding them together like this. His -- everything hurts. Everything *hurts*.

"If I was still out there, and one of the *gang*..." Steph laughs and shakes her head. "I think I'd be able to *get* it, Tim. The life you lead, the amazing and horrible things you do every day, *see* every day... it would make sense to me. Hell, maybe I'd be screwing around, too."

"It wouldn't... I'd understand."

"Yeah, Tim, I know you would. You'd be so fucking understanding I'd want to *choke* you --" And this laugh has another sob in it, and another.

Tim *has* to reach out --

"*Don't*. I'm out of that life, and I'm glad. I'm going to go to college, and have a real job. I'm not going to get beaten up every fucking night and I'm not going to die in some alley because I jumped left instead of right. It's not *me*, anymore, and you know what? I'm *glad*."

Tim nods. There's nothing else -- there's nothing else. Tim stands up --

"Oh, God, don't *go*," she says, and Tim stops, turns and crouches next to the bed --

"We can find a way, Steph, please, I won't go if you don't want me to, I can stay --"

"Until you *have* to go. Oh --" She brings her hands to her face again, scrubbing it hard with her palms. "I love you so much, Tim --"

"I love *you* --"

"But you're not for me. You -- you're *not*, and if you were... oh, honey, I don't think you'd still be you. There are pieces of you scattered all over the country, maybe all over the world. Little bits of Tim which belong to this one, or that one, or that one over *there*. Maybe it's selfish, but I need someone who belongs to *me*, Tim, and I. It's not you."

Tim curls his fingers in against the edge of the mattress. Tim breathes and listens to himself doing it. Tim curls his fingers in *hard* -- "I want. I don't want to be out of your life. Completely."

"I know that, too, honey," Steph says, turning to face him. "And I think... I think we wouldn't have been so good for the last three years if we couldn't also be friends --"

"Please."

"Not now. I... I promise I'll get in touch with you. When I can handle it --"

"It can be. You can call, or leave messages --"

"When I *can*, Tim," she says, and reaches out... she touches Tim's hair, and his temple, and traces the lines of his mask. "I love you."

Tim nods, and closes his eyes for the feel of her fingers against his cheek, all softening callus and banked strength. When she pulls her hand back, Tim sighs, and looks down at his own hands. He'll never touch her bed, again. Not the same way...

It wasn't the same way when he was drugged, either. He knows that now. He -- he knows.

And this time, when he stands, she doesn't stop him. He pauses at the window. "Lock it again..." For me.

"I will. In a minute."

Tim nods and slips out the window, rappelling down the outside wall and freeing the grapple on autopilot. He moves through the yards the same way, though a part of him is screaming, and another part is screaming that he needs to get his head back into the game.

By the time he reaches the bike, his breathing is back to normal, and he can drive.

He does so, wondering if Steph is listening to the fading sound of the bike's engine, if she's really sure, if it would've made a difference if he'd said... something. He doesn't know what 'something' is.

He drives.

*

When he gets back to the Cave, he sees that his spare bike is there, meaning that Cassandra is still around.

Bruce *had* said she'd be his partner for the foreseeable future. He wonders which bedroom Alfred had given her.

The car is back, too, but Bruce is nowhere to be seen. Tim takes his place at the console and types up the night's report, and a separate one for his theories and conclusions about gang activity.

He's tired when he's done, but not tired enough to stop thinking and feeling, so he works the heavy bag until all his thoughts turn to a physical catalogue: The tension in his shoulders, the burn in his knuckles, the sweat in the hollow of his spine. 

The smell of old leather and his own sweat. The acid taste in the back of his mouth for the crying he's not doing, and maybe can't do. Does he even have the right?

No, he's not thinking. The whole *point* of this is to not think, just do, and keep doing, and keep doing. He'd seen it coming. He'd --

It's just that he hadn't really *felt* it coming and -- his body.

He's starting to be sore, now, the tension taking him away from his own abilities to a certain extent. He pushes through it and keeps going, listening to himself pant, to the bats screech and computers hum.

He's home, and the sooner he beats that into himself, the sooner he can stop thinking that he'd just been kicked out of the only real home he'd ever had -- *no* --

He pushes himself faster, harder. He knows he's snarling now, and that makes it better, adds something to the catalogue which is holding everything else at bay. The pull of his cheek, cool air on his wet lip --

His knuckles are bleeding, but this won't be the first time the bag has been stained that way. Most of the stains are higher up.

Tim works more kicks into his excuse for a routine, turning and moving, treating the bag like opponents, faceless targets to be punished, broken and *taken*. He's growling now, grunting and pushing himself faster. This is about survival, and he --

Hands on his shoulders, yanking him back and off-balance, spinning him --

Bruce, he thinks, and gets pulled into... into a hug. It's tight, and warm -- Bruce is wearing nothing but pajama pants --

It's -- it's a *hug*, and Tim doesn't know whether he wants to rub his cheek against Bruce's chest or scream. It's worse when Bruce cups the back of his head with one hand and splays the other across his back through the tunic. It's... it's so warm, and he doesn't want to be warm, right now. He doesn't --

"Bruce --"

"Settle," Bruce says, and keeps holding him, squeezing tighter --

Tim realizes that he's shaking, and that he has no idea when that had begun. There's a logic to Bruce's actions which can't really be... denied. Tim laughs so far down within himself that it makes him want to be sick. Better to clutch at Bruce while he can, while Bruce is offering this --

It's what he had wanted. It... it's close, or --

"Bruce," Tim says again, and listens to the roughness in his own voice, the plea --

Bruce strokes Tim's hair, slowly and steadily. "Get your breathing under control."

"And then you'll let me go?"

"Yes."

Tim thinks about it -- and this time he can't hold in the laugh, at all. "I think -- I think I'll pass. On that."

Bruce stiffens just the way Tim knew he would, and Tim nods, internally, and starts to push off --

Bruce doesn't let him. "Bruce --"

"You... hn. You cannot expect me to react to statements like that without... surprise, Tim."

Surprise is better than horror, distaste -- no, Bruce *wants*. It's just that Tim is pushing too hard, right now, and Tim is not... in control. Everything is so *tangled*, and he'd made it just that way. Tim sighs. "Perhaps it would be better if you *did* let me go."

"No. You're still shaking, Tim, and I don't want you working yourself any harder than you already have, tonight."

Tim bites his lip -- stops. "You have to give me options, Bruce. I'm not." Tim shifts in Bruce's hold, and realizes that he's shaking with fatigue, *too*. He rests his arms at his sides, forcing himself not to ball his hands into fists, not to hold on, again, not to -- "Bruce. I'm. I have. Regrets."

"I can't take them from you. No matter -- I can't take them from you."

Tim frowns, shakes his head as much as he can -- Bruce's chest against his face is so -- so warm. "I know that. But you can, if you wanted to --" Tim gives up and does bite his lip. It's better than continuing with that train of thought. It's -- it's better. "Let me go. It won't take much more before I'm too exhausted to do anything else, and then I can sleep, get myself together --"

"I don't want to leave you alone."

Anger. *Rage*, and it doesn't belong here. *Bruce* hasn't done anything to deserve it, and Tim needs *control* -- "I really need to *be* alone."

"You didn't tell her that you'd been drugged."

Tim blinks. "What --" Did Bruce *listen*? To *that*? "Of course I didn't tell her. It's not an excuse and it changes *nothing*, Bruce, except to maybe make her wonder if the only reason I made love to her -- let me *go* --"

Bruce does, and Tim stands straight, ignoring the shake in his knees, the fatigue and soreness -- a little more of the bag and then a hot shower, the bed he'd only been with Bruce in *once* -- or maybe just one of the spare bedrooms. He could sleep under the dust cover --

Tim takes a breath and looks at Bruce. "You should sleep. I'll be -- I know how to take care of myself, and we both know that."

Bruce frowns and slowly brings his hands down to his sides. "Tim --"

"*Please*, Bruce --"

"This is untenable. This -- between the two of us --"

Tim holds up a hand and gets caught, for a moment, by the blood on his knuckles, by the sense of himself as something loose, dangerous and uncontrolled -- Jason --

No. Not here, not right now.

"Bruce," he says, and allows the steadiness in his voice to hearten him, a little. "I already knew that it was a possibility... that I'd have to leave. And --"

"Do you want to leave."

If I can't have. If you don't want. If -- Tim laughs, again, and pushes a hand through his hair, wincing at the pull across his knuckles -- honesty. "No."

"Look at me."

He'd stopped. He'd... he looks up, and the expression in Bruce's eyes -- anger, hunger, *trouble*, and enough of it that he thinks of Cassandra -- "No, I don't want to leave."

Bruce nods, once. "Then stop talking about it."

"I --"

"No, Tim."

"It's not as simple as what I *want*, Bruce. If we can't make this work, if the only way we can manage to be around each other is by pulling on Batman and Robin day and night --"

"Tim," Bruce says, and it's an order -- but not from Batman.

That doesn't matter -- no. It *does* matter. It's just that it matters in different ways. Other ways, and for a moment Tim feels as though he's been lifted out of his body and replaced with someone or something a lot less... thoughtful. It seems to be the only possible explanation for why he's moving closer, into Bruce's *space* again -- no, not that, either.

He has to take responsibility for everything he's done and everything he's *doing*. He has to own the fact that his hand is on Bruce's forearm, that he's close enough, now, that he has to crane his head back to keep meeting Bruce's eyes.

"Bruce."

Tension in Bruce's forearm, hard under Tim's hand.

More when Tim raises his other hand -- and has his wrist caught. Loosely. "Bruce," Tim says again, and turns his wrist in Bruce's hand, back and forth. He doesn't remember taking his gauntlets off, or his cape. He isn't sure why he'd done it, beyond a desire to *do* it, to be able to, now that Steph wasn't there to stop him.

She won't ever be there -- Tim bites the inside of his lip and closes his eyes, and keeps them closed when Bruce lets go of his wrist -- he traces Tim's mask, and flips the lenses up.

"Ah -- I'd forgotten."

"Had you?"

Tim keeps his eyes closed, but doesn't bother to do anything about the smile that wants to be on his face. "You may have noticed a failure to think entirely clearly, Bruce."

"I would understand... open your eyes, Tim."

Tim nods and does it, and only flinches a little from the sympathy in Bruce's eyes. The --

"I would understand a desire to return to the familiar," and Bruce moves his hand to Tim's temple, stroking there before pushing back into Tim's hair.

It makes Tim painfully aware of the smell of himself, of the night's sweat and drying blood, but he can't make himself pull away from Bruce's hand, or even guide it away from where it's resting against his scalp. He *can* stop himself from gripping Bruce's other forearm, and it's... it's a compromise --

"I would understand a desire to be... safe."

And that -- "You can't make me safe, Bruce --"

"No --"

"And I don't want... it's not the familiar that I want, unless we're speaking of a very narrow definition of the term."

"The past week," Bruce says, and rubs slow circles with his fingertips against Tim's scalp.

It's more soothing than it has any right to be, more... more. Tim feels his eyes wanting to slip closed and stops them. "I want you."

"Tim."

The sound of his name, in *that* voice... "I have... something of a date. With Jason."

Bruce sighs, and Tim lets himself...

It's more than a blink. Much more. Tim smiles, a little... "I think I may still have a date --"

"Barbara made a point of telling me that she still expects you Wednesday afternoon," Bruce says, tightening his grip on Tim's head and raising an eyebrow --

Perhaps for Tim's blush. "Ah, does she... no, I'm sorry, I was about to ask an exceedingly stupid question."

"Hmm. It was difficult to be sure with the scrambler active, but there did seem to be a certain degree of *relish* in her tone."

Barbara is going to make him suffer... exquisitely. Tim swallows --

And Bruce takes his hand out of Tim's hair and strokes Tim's face, instead. "In retrospect, *this* should've told me all I needed to know," he says, and taps Tim's cheek.

Tim smiles ruefully, turning away -- Bruce turns his face back. "Bruce -- ah. Sorry."

"Apology... accepted," Bruce says, and that was much, much more than for this moment, so much more that Tim has to frown, reach up to hold Bruce's wrist -- Bruce raises an eyebrow. "Tim --"

"I -- there has to be more than that. The things I did, and said --"

"You have no power to affect whether or not I choose to forgive you. Stop trying," and Bruce *looks* at Tim, willing him to...

To. Well. "I suppose this would be the best time to talk about collars. Maybe a... leash?"

Bruce hums a laugh. "That would make Oliver far too happy. You're going to have to settle for freedom."

Freedom. The things he'd done *with* freedom... Tim shivers and squeezes Bruce's wrist. "Bruce, are you *sure*?"

Bruce wraps his other hand around *Tim's* wrist, and his smile is winter, the Bat, hunger -- everything -- "Try to avoid giving Kid Flash a domino of his own," he says --

And Tim feels his face heat even more, feels himself *naked*, because he really had said that, implied and implicated *himself* -- he would very much like to already be far enough along on the new shore that he stops feeling the heat from his burnt bridges. For now, though...

"I'm also going to need you to postpone at least some of your plans to further co-opt members of the League. It could cause unnecessary friction."

For now, Bruce is enjoying -- greatly and obviously -- skewering Tim, a little. Perhaps it's meant to be comforting --

"And, Tim...?" Bruce's smile lurks at the corners of his mouth. "Once you've convinced Dick to move back into the manor, you'll have to wait before moving your things into the suite. It hasn't been aired in much too long."

It *is* comforting. It probably shouldn't be, but... Bruce wants to play with him. Tim touches his tongue to the backs of his teeth and tugs against Bruce's grip until he wraps his arm around Tim again. Warm. Just -- "I'll do my best to keep these things in mind, Bruce. As to my own needs..."

"Do tell," Bruce says, and twists his other hand until Tim lets go of his wrist.

Tim cups Bruce's waist and takes the last half-step closer, turning his face against Bruce's chest and just... staying there. Bruce's heartbeat is steady, the rhythm of his breath something Tim thinks he could live in. He sighs and squeezes. "I'm having a difficult time coming up with something witty to say."

"Tim. She won't be out of your life forever."

Tim closes his eyes. "I can't stop thinking about all the times I never touched her, never held her or told her how much I liked it when she held *me*. I wasted *time*, Bruce --"

"And I, of course, know nothing about such things," Bruce says, cupping the back of Tim's head again and stroking Tim's back.

"I never made a conscious choice to hold myself back from her. It just... it was just something I did because... because I was too scared to even think about what I was scared *of*."

"No, not that. You were afraid of her seeing something in you she wouldn't care for, something that would prove, once and for all, that you didn't deserve to not be alone."

Yes, Bruce knows that, too. But... "I was right."

"Only," Bruce says, and backs slightly away, just enough to meet Tim's eyes once more, "to a certain extent."

That... "You're not a consolation prize --"

"And neither are your other lovers, Tim. Or would you still argue the term?"

He'd like to. Very much. It would allow him to keep telling himself that he isn't really cheating on Bruce, that the messy, tempting tangle of their relationship is on a different plane, that it means something more than the sum of itself that this is his home, this *moment* in Bruce's arms... Tim sighs, again. "I have many... homes."

Bruce strokes Tim's hair again. "Better, by far, than having none."

*

Tim wakes up alone in Bruce's bed, and wonders if he could train himself to wake for Bruce leaving him at times like these. It almost certainly wouldn't be the best possible plan -- it's a recipe for sleep-deprivation -- but... still. The other side of the bed is cool enough that he might as well have slept alone.

How did Jason react to things like that? Something to ask, the next time both of them are relaxed *enough* to actually talk about 'Daddy.'

There's a covered tray waiting for him at his side of the bed, and when he lifts it there's hot cereal, coffee, juice, and a great deal of fruit. The hot things are hot, the cold things are cold. It's possible that it was Alfred's very particular kind of silence that had woken him.

Tim eats slowly, letting the fresh grapefruit clear the taste of sleep from his mouth before moving on to more solid things. By the time he's done, he's ready to face some definition of the day -- or at least the shower.

That done, he covers the empty tray, refolds the stand, and brings them both downstairs. Alfred accepts his thanks with a nod and continues to clean. It could be any day when he was allowed to sleep late, except, of course, that it isn't.

He's not sure when he'll get used to the new shape of his life.

He's not sure he wants to ever come to take it for granted.

Cassandra is in the Cave when he arrives, dressed in a sports bra and a pair of old running shorts... yes, they're his. She's using the hand-strengtheners while balanced on one foot on the beam.  He makes a note to use the things himself, more often, and moves toward Bruce on the weights. After all this time, Bruce doesn't *need* a spotter, but it's an excellent way for Tim to let his meal settle a little before beginning his own work-out.

Not to mention the fact that he can *watch*.

Bruce meets his eyes just once as he works himself, raising both eyebrows and *commenting* in a way that makes his actual silence meaningless.

Tim gives him something resembling an innocent look in return --

Blur, red and blue, *in* the Cave, and Clark's cape isn't done flapping before he's looking at Tim... sternly.

Bruce sits up unhurriedly. "Superman. What can we do for you."

Cassandra is watching Clark curiously -- and then her eyes narrow suspiciously, which is... interesting. Clark is tugging at his own cape and blinking a little too much. His posture begs the observer to ignore the uniform in favor of a cheap, ill-fitting suit -- in a light color, of course -- and his eyes...

His eyes are angry.

Tim moves closer to Clark, feeling Bruce's attention shift to him. Cassandra is still focused on Clark to the exclusion of everything else, which is... well. Clark is lying.

"Kal," Tim says. "If this is about... the two of us, I'd planned to call you on Thursday. We do need to --"

"Talk, yes, Tim. I... I needed. A little sooner than that," Kal says in Clark's voice, and nods to Bruce and Cassandra in turn. "I hope I'm not interrupting...?"

Cassandra lets the hand-strengtheners thump to the mats.

Bruce gestures to her -- stand down. She doesn't seem inclined toward paying attention.

Tim clears his throat. "Perhaps we could take a flight? I do need to be back here for training --"

"Of course," Kal says, and the set of his jaw has nothing whatsoever to do with Clark, or even Superman --

"Kal," Bruce says, and Kal stiffens, turns -- his jaw gets even more set.

"No more than an hour of Tim's time, I assure you."

Bruce's eyes have a glitter to them which -- perhaps -- has more to do with the fact that Kal had come unannounced than with anything else. Bruce almost certainly plans to make Kal -- and Clark, and Superman -- pay.

Cassandra is looking at Tim and frowning. Tim turns to face her, willing her to read him, see him -- he's all right, and he owes this.

She nods, once, and Bruce already... knows. Everything. Tim takes a step closer to Kal --

And then they're in the air, wind whipping Tim's hair and driving Tim's sweat-pants against his legs. If he'd gotten any time to work out, the sweat would be drying to an uncomfortable coolness, but, as it is, the cold is only bracing.

Tim looks down. They're high enough that it's nearly impossible to pick the manor out from the rest of the landscape. Nearly. And that's almost certainly a message -- if not as much of one as the fact that Kal hasn't relaxed any of his muscles.

Tim is getting the full living statue treatment, and more than that when Kal actually meets his eyes. The thin ring of purple around the blue... Tim shivers.

And Kal narrows his eyes. "You lied to me."

"Yes."

"You -- you let me believe that I *couldn't* frighten you, that everything between us was... Tim," Kal says -- Clark says. It's difficult to be sure, but...

"I also said that there are times when fear is something to be ignored. I still trust you."

"You *fear* me. I can smell it -- *taste* it. I..."

Kal flies them higher and pauses, seems to tense even *more*, and Tim wonders if Kal ever wishes he had Kon's powers. With them, at this moment, they could remain right where they are without the necessity of touch. As it is... Tim shifts his arms between them until he can get his hands on Kal's shoulders, crane up --

"Tim, don't --"

"You shouldn't think you are... unique," Tim says, and squeezes Kal's shoulders hard enough to make his wounded hands complain --

"What -- you'll open your wounds. Don't --"

"I'm afraid of everyone. Especially people who are close to me. Especially *now*."

Kal's nostrils flare and settle.

"They can't all smell it on me, but they can see it in one way or another. The way I blush, the way I stammer. The way I *shake*, when there's no physical reason for anything of the kind --"

"You're neither stammering nor blushing *now*, Tim -- Tim Drake," and Kal frowns and searches him...

Tim smiles ruefully at the feel of his face heating. "It was really only a matter of time. I'm sorry I lied to you, Kal. I took something important from you, demanded your secrets on false pretenses --"

"You were aware the whole time of what you were doing." It's not -- quite -- a question.

Closer to one than what he deserves, really. "I wanted as much of you as I could have. I still do --"

"Tim." Kal -- *Clark's* frown is worthy of Superman, and it seems as though the head-shake had... cleared his eyes.

"It's going to take some time to get used to being afraid, again --"

"I don't *want* to be feared --"

"Do you want me, Clark?"

"I never..." And this frown is fully Clark.

One could develop whiplash. Tim raises an eyebrow. "Was it my apprehension that stopped you, before?"

"You were reserved, and never had the... you never called to me."

"Neither did Jason," Tim says, considering... he cups Clark's face.

"That's not the *same*, and I -- I hope... have you spoken to Bruce about your relationship with Jason, Tim?"

Perhaps in some way out of your hearing, Clark...? "Not... in depth. Yet. I'm sure it will come up."

"'Come up...?' Tim, he's not a very good influence --"

"And he's still not an appropriate topic of conversation for the two of *us*."

For a moment, Tim thinks Clark will give him Kal again, that he, perhaps, won't be able to help himself. Subjective time, of course, allows Clark to shift between expressions and *miens* far faster than Tim can register --

Tim strokes Clark's cheekbone with his thumb, and that gets him --

Another frown, and one which seems rather helpless.

"In this, Clark, what you want is paramount."

Open skepticism --

"You'd *know* if I were lying --"

"And if what you believe is a lie? Tim, you *gave* me what I wanted, what I'd never even let myself consider as a possibility. You allowed me to relax my... my *controls* --"

"Do you regret it? Or is it only that I can't give you the same reactions -- and lack of reactions -- now?"

"Only? *Only*? Tim --"

"Clark," Tim says, and presses hard against his cheek. "It would... upset me if you never wanted to make love to me again, and part of that upset would be about the fact that I was more attractive to you when I was drugged --"

"Oh -- *no*, Tim. Not --" Clark shakes his head, turns and breathes against Tim's palm. When he turns back, his nostrils flare once more. "You mustn't think that --"

"And you -- shouldn't forget that I'm manipulative, and something of a... well," Tim says, and brings the hand Clark had breathed on to his own open mouth.

"I... my goodness."

Tim smiles behind his hand and presses his lips to the center of his palm --

"I'm not likely to forget... anything," Clark says, fervent for a moment before frowning again --

"It's up to you," Tim says, and reaches up to press his fingertips against Clark's mouth.

"You had been... you *became* so open. So brave and *open*. And I... I could've taken you *anywhere*," and Clark sounds almost *ashamed*.

Which... "You'd found yourself hoping you could be open with me, as well."

"Yes."

Mm. "Clark. Kal. You can. And if I become more afraid than I can handle..." Tim strokes the impossibly hard curves of Clark's mouth. "I wouldn't hesitate to stop you, just as you wouldn't hesitate to be *stopped*."

Clark raises an eyebrow. "You trust me."

Clark's breath on his fingers... "You've given me no reason to do otherwise. More to the point, you're trusted by many of the people whose opinions matter most to me --"

Kissed -- beneath his *ear*, and it lingers long enough for Tim to tell himself to focus on the movement, to register when Clark moves him *again* --

He can't. They're facing each other once more, Clark's arm around his waist, Clark's other hand on his cheek. Tim raises his own eyebrow. "Was that a decision?"

"And... something of a test," Clark says, rueful and somewhat apologetic.

His heart-rate, his breathing... "Did I pass?"

"Would you find some way to further control your reactions if you hadn't? Learn from fakirs, yogis?"

"To be fair, I could use some of that for other aspects of my life. If it happens to in some way improve my sexual experiences..."

"There's such a thing as too *much* control, Tim --"

"I agree," Tim says and stares directly into Clark's eyes. "Wholeheartedly."

Clark -- allows Tim to see him blink. Whether or not he has control of the blush is another story.

Tim strokes the spread of it over Clark's cheek. "Your choice," he says, again --

A flood of Kryptonian, moving from vehement to fervent to openly seductive...

And, yes, he has another blush of his own. <<I want,>> he says --

More Kryptonian -- "... and if you *do* learn it, your speech may lose some of its remarkably fascinating immediacy."

Immediacy. He thinks of Barbara... Tim smiles and tilts his head to the side. "I would, of course, endeavor to be pleasing."

"In all ways, Tim?"

His breathing hitches without his permission, but, by the time he'd noticed that, Clark had received any number of other cues. Tim makes a command decision to not try to hold anything back --

"Tim..."

"Yes," Tim says, and lets himself stare at Clark's mouth --

Another frown --

"Clark...?"

"*Thursday*?"

Oh... yes, he really had said that. "There's some interesting movement in the local gangs and... a *great* deal of correspondence I really need to devote as much of myself as possible to, if only to explain --"

"And Bruce. And Oracle --"

"Family, Clark," Tim says, and smiles again. "I know you understand --"

This time, the kiss lands squarely on his mouth, Clark's tongue slipping between his lips easily, if not particularly forcefully. There's the same thrilling sense of strength, a power which, if left unchecked, could easily break his *jaw*. The kiss is not *gentle*, however, and this is something to be conscious of along with all of the wallowing Tim feels entirely justified in indulging in.

It's a kiss which could belong to Clark, Kal, *or* Superman, and, as such, it's worth every bit of attention he can bring to bear, especially once Clark stills his tongue enough that Tim can suck on it, once Clark shifts his hold enough that Tim can get his arms around his neck --

The kiss becomes deeper, gravity shifting somewhat alarmingly -- Clark had moved himself to a reclining position with Tim on top of him. Tim wraps his legs around Clark's hips and kisses harder, teases the underside of Clark's tongue with his own while Clark strokes down Tim's back, pausing at the waistband of Tim's sweatpants before stroking down over Tim's buttocks and squeezing.

Moaning --

They're upright again, and Tim's gasping for breath while Clark strokes Tim's face, his hair --  the insides of his *thighs* -- "You'll call?"

"Oh, yes," Tim says, and continues working to get his breathing back under control. Clark strokes the outer edge of Tim's ear and begins flying them down again -- much more slowly than their flight up.

Tim strokes along Clark's sides, feeling him soften to something marginally believable as human, feeling him harden again with promise...

Tim's breathing is normal again by the time they land in the Cave. Tim glances around as Clark lets him go. Cassandra is ignoring the fact that it's a beautifully crisp and sunny day outside and running laps around the Cave.

Bruce is working with the free weights --

Clark is blushing again. "Ah, that was. I'll --"

"Superman. Did you have any *League* business?"

Tim covers his mouth. It's possible that Bruce's complete failure to look up from what he's doing is meant to be some Bruce-specific variety of discreet *politeness*, but... not very.

"Well, I..." Clark coughs into his fist. "I believe Wonder Woman... ah."

"A simple 'no' would suffice," Bruce says, and shifts to bicep curls. 

The payment exaction has begun. Tim... doesn't clear his throat.  "I think I'll work the weights for a while, myself."

Bruce *does* look up when Tim comes close, eyes glittering with amusement and something far, far sharper. And that... is more than worth reaching out to stroke up over Bruce's working arm to the shoulder on his way to the bench.

"Hmm. *Was* there anything else, Clark?"

That 'Clark' had to sound something like relief. Perhaps he means 'release.' Tim lays down --

"I think I've handled... everything I needed to."

Handled. *Handled*... Tim feels himself blushing still one more time -- and the fact that Bruce is between him and Clark, now, is no obstacle for Clark seeing it --

"Did you." And Bruce's voice is the sort of forbidding which has come to mean a purely sexual sort of *imminence* to Tim --

"Oh. I... I *think* I did. I could be wrong...?"

And perhaps to Clark, as well --

"I doubt it," Bruce says, and stands. "Goodbye, Superman."

"Hm. Farewell," Clark says, and Tim can see Bruce shift slightly in his peripheral vision. Clark is gone.

Tim focuses on his weight-training, letting himself get a little lost in the rhythms of it, the feel of himself as a body in the process of doing, improving and *being*. Here, where at least a large part of him belongs.

After a while, Cassandra comes to spot him, hair escaping from its tie and barely-covered body sheened with sweat. *He* would've needed to towel off long before the time he reached that point, but Cassandra is Batgirl is Cassandra.

Tim resets the machine so he can work his quadriceps. The three of them -- Bruce is working at the console -- share a silence which is no more comfortable than it should be, and it's nothing but the truth that he can do *more* with the weight-training with someone there.

It's not that he's capable of thinking for even a moment that he would've somehow become *bigger* if the realities of his training regimen had been different, but...

He likes this, and he knows Cassandra knows it when she smiles at him, and keeps smiling. But...

"If there's something you'd rather be doing --"

"No."

"All right," Tim says, and goes back to it, pushing himself just until he feels himself reaching optimum and resisting the urge to go beyond. He finishes his last rep with a sigh and rests, rubbing residual soreness out of his shin --

Cassandra brushes his hand aside and does it better, and more thoroughly.

"Thank you."

"Welcome. Spar?"

With her? *After* weight-training? "Well, it would be pretty brief..."

"There are things... I want to show you."

In the distance, he can hear Bruce stop typing. Tim raises an eyebrow for it, and Cassandra looks to Bruce.

When Tim checks... yes, a definite failure to turn around, implying... oh, any number of things. Not least some variety of *troubled* approval. Tim has never asked why he gave Cassandra a separate Cave, mostly because he's afraid he would understand the answer too *well*.

"I can always learn more," Tim says, and stands. They're of a height, and this is always a surprise. She should tower over him, hulking and strange --

She frowns --

Tim shakes his head once. "I can't always control the run of my thoughts, but I can disagree with them when they come."

She nods as if that had made perfect sense and takes his hand, tugging him gently over to the mats.

"Weapons?"

"Yes," she says, and lets go to raise her hands between them, scarred fingers in position for a chop, then a strike -- then fisted.

"Noted," Tim says, laughing and slipping into a ready position -- "Wait."

She tilts her head.

"Would you be training naked if I weren't here?"

"Bruce said I should put these on," she says, and tugs the waistband of the shorts away from her body -- not a single stitch of underwear. "They fit okay. And the... bra is comfortable always."

"I..." He wants to say something about how she shouldn't feel as though she has to do things differently for *him*, but the truth is that he'd find her nudity a little uncomfortable. As it is, that little... moment has changed the scent of Tim's small portion of the world. Warm and female, animal if not *precisely* sexual... Tim nods and gets back into position --

And barely manages to block a kick that would've loosened his teeth -- no. It wasn't meant to hit him. She's just holding herself there, not especially unlike Dick.

"I know that one --"

"Watch," she says, pretending to let the kick spin her into a strike he blocks -- and the side-kick seems to come out of nowhere. Her upper body was *extended* too much for that. Wasn't it?

"A moment," he says, and she backs away for him. Kick, spin, strike --

"No. You use the staff too much. *Your* reach."

Tim thinks about it, and then deliberately *stops*. Kick, spin, strike, *kick* --

"Almost," she says, and moves behind him to guide the strike into something that could give someone a very bad day while keeping his weight balanced and decidedly *not* extended.

"All right. The strike is something of a fake."

She shrugs. "Sometimes it hits. Then I do something else."

Tim nods and she backs away again. Kick, spin, strike, *kick*, and he doesn't stop. He lets the side-kick lead him into a flurry of strikes, another spinning kick, down, sweep --

"Yes! Now with me," she says, and urges him to attack her, stopping him periodically when he doesn't move fast enough to suit her, and when she can teach him something nastier to add to his routine.

At some point Bruce moves to stand at the edge of the mats and watch, offering neither suggestion nor correction. It's impossible to pretend he isn't there, but Cassandra is the sort of teacher Tim can't help but offer at least most of his attention to. It's not that she's particularly patient, but she's utterly ruthless. If she thinks there's something Tim *should* be able to do, Tim will damned well learn to *do* it.

He's always responded *best* to that sort of thing, and, after a while, his body is humming with the need to do more, faster, aching in that peculiarly painless way for *contact*, as Cassandra is more than fast enough to dodge anything he throws at her.

It's somewhat like training with Bruce in that respect, and Tim's not at all surprised to find himself becoming aroused. At this point of his existence, it honestly adds something to the kicks and splits --

And, of course, to the numerous occasions when Cassandra chooses not to bother explaining herself with words and simply manipulates Tim's body into the positions it needs to be in.

The question is how long this will last before Tim needs to call time, but... he's not particularly worried. For one thing, he's anything but... deprived. For another, *both* Bruce and Cassandra know exactly how he's feeling. There is not one shred of deniability to save, and that...

Tim's smiling while he works now, and Cassandra's hair tie has long since gone flying. They *are* moving faster now, Tim incorporating everything he's learned as much as possible while still changing things up, keeping himself *going* --

Contact.

Specifically, Cassandra flipping him down to the mats and dropping down into a straddle over his waist, cupping his face -- no. Clapping her hands lightly against his face, over and over until Tim laughs, breathlessly.

"I like the way you learn," she says, and her smile wouldn't look out of place on Dick's face.

"Thank --"

"He has always been an excellent student," Bruce says, and crouches beside them, resting one hand on Cassandra's shoulder.

Tim sits up on his elbows and works on his breathing. This is... well. *Interesting* would be one word for it, especially when Cassandra hums and covers Bruce's hand without once taking her gaze away from Tim.

Bruce is looking at Cassandra fondly, with a happiness which is almost open -- and which makes Tim's program of breath control somewhat more challenging when Bruce turns it on *Tim*.

Cassandra hums again and pats Tim chest twice. "Sex. Why Superman?"

"An excellent question," Bruce says, and his gaze is a *blade*... but no less happy, overall.

"Ah." 'I find him attractive' wouldn't really cut it. 'That's private' would mean more -- so very much more -- if Tim weren't prodding her with his erection. And really... "He's brilliant, warm, open --"

"He *lies* with his body," she says, and Bruce's expression twists with merciless humor.

Tim bites his own tongue lightly. "Habitually. Expertly. It's fascinating to watch."

"You want to *learn* from him," and that is absolutely an accusation.

"There's only so much he could really *teach* me, Cassandra, considering --"

"Yes! You lie too much already," she says, and pats Tim's chest again before rolling to her feet and offering Tim her hand.

Tim takes it and stands. "I'll take that under advisement," Tim says, and turns to Bruce...

Bruce stays in his crouch for a long moment, looking at them both. The smile in his eyes is a private one, but Tim can't help but find it warming. The part of him which will always be devoted, first and foremost, to making life easier for Batman is... replete.

After another moment, Bruce stands -- "Stretch, shower, eat, patrol."

In that order, starting *right* now. Cassandra has already begun her stretches. Tim gives her room and begins his own, wondering idly if Bruce plans to make Tim's shower more exciting, and if he'll bother to wait until Cassandra is finished...

It's a deeply compelling thought.

end.


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