batcesting

"He's been going for how long?" says Dick, delighted, as he crouches down in front of the computer chair Tim's sitting in.

His eyes are bright with mischief; his fingers come up to cup the inside of Tim's knees. It's all Tim can do to bite back a humiliating whimper, just at the touch.

"A week," Jason drawls. "Kind of surprised he hasn't broken, yet."

Jason reaches down, between his thighs, to resume touching. It's nowhere near enough, the barest press of his palm against the tent in Tim's sweats where his erection is busy trying to tear through the fabric. There's a damp patch, just from the precome. He kind of feels like he's losing his mind.

"I'm not going to break," Tim insists, the edge to his tone muted somewhat by the way the final word hitches slightly, as Jason shifts his hand. "I've been through harder training than this."

"He always has been stubborn," Dick says, fondly, and runs his hands up the insides of Tim's thighs. "If you're not careful, he's gonna blow straight past your record, little wing."

Jason snorts. "Hardly. I haven't even broken out the big guns yet."

He says it easy and off-handed, and Tim feels the words like a line of solid heat melting down his spine. If this isn't the big guns, he can hardly imagine what's coming, but his cock twitches in anticipation all the same, so hard he's dizzy with it.

His hips hitch up slightly, without him meaning to, chasing after the heat of Jason's palm. Jason pulls away again and gives a mean little chuckle.

"Oh, no?" says Dick, fingers creeping higher but not quite high enough. "When were you thinking?"

"Could make a day of it tomorrow," Jason offers, casual. "If you're gonna be around."

"Dick," Tim breathes, because he is so, so aware of exactly where Dick's fingers are, and where they aren't.

"Oh, I think I could make some time," says Dick, and he doesn't move his hands at all.

Tim's dreamt about this before.

Kind of a lot, actually.

He's pictured himself running his hands over the sleek, sculpted kevlar of the Nightwing suit at least twice a week since he's been old enough to know that he wanted it, wanted Dick, wanted those casual half-hugs and hair ruffles to be something that lingered.

He just never thought he'd be the one wearing it when his fingers traced the lines of the torso, padded slightly on the inside to make him look broader in the shoulders, bulkier in the chest.

He glances up at Dick, and there's something inside him that catches at the sight of his expression. He looks wistful and maybe a little... proud?

Tim gets the mixed feelings. He does. He can't quite seem to decide on just one, himself.

He thinks he likes this, though. He likes that Dick's trusted him with this.

"Well?" says Tim, and he turns a little, showing off the suit. "How's it look?"

Dick hums, thoughtful; he circles around behind Tim to do another full 360, after Tim's come to a stop. "Hmm. Pretty convincing, baby bird." Then he grins, sudden and bright and playful. "It's not all looks, though. You've got to be prepared!"

"Right," says Tim, instantly all business. "I followed up on that jewelry robbery case you're on in the Financial District, and I know you've narrowed the suspects down for the murder in the university swimming pool."

"Not that," says Dick. "I know you can do that."

Tim falters, slightly. For an instant, something very like anxiety squeezes at his chest.

Of course there's something Dick thinks he doesn't know how to pull off. Nightwing is his; he's built it from the ground up. Handing it over to Tim, with all his shortcomings, must be the hardest thing he's ever done.

"What is it, then?" says Tim. "Whatever it is, just say the word. I'll do my homework."

Dick's grin goes wide and playful. It looks out of place, there beneath Batman's cowl. "Let's hear your best pun."

Silence.

"You're joking."

"The wisecracks are part of the role, Timmy. Gotta make with the quips."

Tim has a problem.

Actually, Tim has a lot of problems, but he has one very pressing problem just at the moment.

Or, well, more like five problems that happen to be very closely related that have consolidated themselves into one much, much larger problem.

Problem 1: He does not, as it turns out, have the antidote to Ivy's most recent pollen strand at the Nest, no matter how sure he was that he did.

Problem 2: He took an entire faceful of the stuff. He inhaled it. It got in his mouth. So sue him; it's hard to avoid contamination when you're bound in creeping vines.

Problem 3: Creeping vines are very, very difficult to escape from when they're highly motivated and your brain is busy directing its entire blood supply elsewhere.

Problem 4: Whoever designed the cup in his suit is a sadist.

Problem 5: Apparently he never did get the key to his place back from Dick.

All of which coalesce into the problem to end all problems, which is, namely, that Dick walks right in through the door to his base of operations exactly as Tim manages to strip his suit free and launch it, with extreme prejudice, into the decontam shower, where he intends to follow and spend at least an hour stroking himself off. Maybe more. Probably more.

It's possible he makes the world's most humiliating relieved noise as he finally gets free of the cup, or maybe it's just from the friction of the padded interior dragging along the length of his cock.

So it's bad. Maybe not the worst situation he's ever been in, but potentially in the top five.

Oh, right, and he would probably be remiss if he didn't note:

Problem 6: He's maybe kind of been fantasizing about Dick since his very first wet dream half a decade ago, when he woke up with his sheets damp and his mind's eye filled with images of Dick Grayson's incredible smile, and hair, and body.

So.

Tim can maybe be forgiven if he freezes at the sight of Dick there in the doorway.

His brain says: turn around and walk directly to the decontam unit.

His mouth says: "Dick," and it comes out kind of a whine and kind of a plea. He spent a very, very long time wrapped up in those vines.

The best case scenario, the tiny sliver of rational brain he has remaining notes, would be for Dick to turn around and walk back out the door.

Instead he steps closer, and his eyes flicker down, to where Tim's erection is still trapped in his boxer briefs, precome leaving a damp spot on the dark fabric. The wave of heat at even that glance, even the idea that Dick is looking at him, is enough to buckle his legs right out from under him.

He'd be busy hitting the floor, if it wasn't for the fact that Dick's darted forward to catch him.

Somehow that's worse, because everywhere their skin touches, Tim thinks he may be in danger of actually combusting.

Dick's talking, he registers distantly, a background murmur of "I've got you, baby bird," and "You're alright, let me help," and Tim knows he doesn't mean it that way. He knows.

It burns going down, and it tastes awful, acrid and unforgiving. He wrinkles his nose, and he thinks, how the hell do people drink this?

Beside him, Jason barks a laugh and thwacks him on the back.

"Sorry, Timbo," he says, and he doesn't sound very sorry at all. "I only stock the real stuff. None of those fruity sugar piles on my watch."

"Congratulations," says Tim. "You've put me off drinking for life." Then he lifts the whiskey glass, meets Jason's eyes, and downs the whole thing in three long swallows.

It really is terrible, but it warms up the center of his chest and goes a little ways toward chasing out the dull, sick, cold feeling that's been plaguing him since he got the text.

Another relationship down the drain. Another few-too-many foot in his mouth moments. Another girl he thought he liked, who he thought liked him, ready to cut it off.

He can't exactly blame her. He's been extra awkward on top of his already normal levels of awkward, because he just cannot act normal now that Bruce's newest training regimen has been running for a full week and a half.

It's driving him a little crazy. It's driving him a lot crazy.

It meant that he had to ditch out on a date two nights ago when he just couldn't take his eyes off his girlfriend and the sadistic lump of metal locked into place over his trying-very-hard-to-be-an-erection kept inserting itself into the forefront of his thoughts until he thought he might actually lose his mind over it.

So here he is now, plus one ex. And here he is now, with the same damn problem.

Because Jason Todd, for all he's left Tim with entirely too many broken bones, is an extremely handsome man. And Tim, despite the lingering heartache and the roiling frustration of the last week and a half, is somehow sitting here in Jason's safe house, empty glass in his hand, and noticing that.

Noticing, too, that the ache in his pants is beginning to make itself known again.

It's ridiculous. It's stupid.

Why the hell can't he stop paying attention to the way Jason's lips come away damp when he takes a sip of his own?

"There you go," says Jason, and reaches over to top up the glass. "That's the spirit."

He's got to talk to Bruce.

This training is the worst. Worse than the worst, because it seems like it's actively causing the problem it's supposed to prevent.

"I hate today," says Tim, and he sounds petulant even to his own ears.

"Yeah, well, drink up," says Jason. "Best cure I know for a broken heart."

And Jason nudges against him, almost companionable, and Tim feels the touch on him like a brand.

They're not on rocky ground anymore, not really. On good days, there isn't even a risk of an avalanche.

But maybe he's got asshole tendencies down to his bones, because he still likes to get the drop on the little control freak; it never fails to take Tim by surprise, like he's not used to anybody getting all up in his space. Which is crazy, because he's known Dick for half a decade.

Either way, it works like a charm, the same way it always does; Tim jolts a bit harder even than usual, then scowls and shoves at him. "Get off," he grouses, turning back to the phone cradled in his hands.

"Are you seriously texting on patrol?" says Jason, and plucks the phone out of Tim's hands.

Tim squawks and makes a grab for it, but Jason glances down before he can take it, grimacing at what he sees. He almost feels a little bad for prying.

"Got dumped, huh?" he says, and he offers the phone back. "That's rough, Timbo."

Tim snatches the phone, blushing furiously. "Oh, fuck off."

"No, really," says Jason. "You kept this one for, what. Almost six months? I feel like that's some kind of record."

Tim jams the phone in one of his bandolier pouches and digs out his grapple. He's just aiming it, plainly meaning to flee the scene, when Jason sets a hand on his wrist.

He feels the kid shiver, the way he does when he's covered in pollen, and that's certainly interesting.

His eyes narrow, hidden behind his helmet. "You get dosed with something?"

"No," says Tim, and the flush creeps down his cheeks under the domino.

"Great," says Jason. "Then you can come get a drink with me."

Tim eyes him suspiciously. Which, okay, maybe deserved, but he's not that much of an asshole, these days. Mostly. Kind of.

"Why?" says Tim, slowly.

"You got dumped," says Jason. "City's quiet."

The suspicion only grows. "You know I'm not twenty-one for two more years, right?"

Jason snorts and reaches out to flick him in the forehead. "What are you gonna do next, lay off the jaywalking? This is Jersey."

"That doesn't even make sense," says Tim, sulky, despite the fact that he knows as well as Jason does that jaywalking is a time-honored Jersey tradition.

But either way, when Jason slings an arm around him again, he doesn't flinch but leans into it. And when Jason grapples away a minute later, it's with a robin in his wake.