Caveat Lector

In the dark gloom of dawn, Bart is a tall, slender shape slightlyhunched in on itself. Tim could make out the curve of his arm, a hand pressedinto his stomach, lightly rubbing at the spot he accidentally elbowed. Bartlets him wrap a hand around his wrist and pull it away so Tim could replace hisfingers with his gloved ones.

“You’re still just mad that I can.” Bart says with anaudible smile.

And just how weird is that? That Bart is one of the fewpeople who can successfully sneak up on him?

Before Tim can reply to that, Bart is taking a step closerand there are hands on his chest, sliding up the X of the red robin harness andcarefully adjusting it. He has little trouble finding all the little bucklesand straps on it even in what little light could get in through the small gaps inthe blinds.

“I thought you weren’t going on patrol until tonight.” hesays as his hands slide under Tim’s cape to check the harness from the back.

“Steph wanted to switch, said something came up.”

Bart gives an ambiguous grunt, giving his harness some lastfew tugs to make sure it’s hugging his chest snugly. He’s so close that Tim canfeel the heat of him and the soft, faint puffs of warm breath slipping out ofhis lips, close enough that all he would have to do is lean forward an inch andhis own lips would be touching sleep warm skin.

“Gotham, the ‘something came up’ capital of the world.” Bartsays, drumming his fingers against the solid concave shape of the red robinsymbol on the middle of Tim’s chest. The tinny noise of his nails hitting theemblem goes on for a few second before Tim grabs them with both hands.

He moves up Bart’s palm, to the base of his fingers slowly,carefully until he finds it. The gold band is warm around his fourth finger andTim could feel it even through the thick fabric of his gloves.  He twists the band absently, waiting to feelthe simple line of small rubies embedded in it even though he knows his glovesare too thick to feel it. He stops when Bart’s fingers gently curl down overhis thumbs.

“Dude, my ring’s on the wrong side now.”  Bart says and yawns. Tim repeats the exactambiguous grunt that Bart did earlier and lifts his hand to his mouth, kissingthe vacant space on his finger right above his ring, where another, plain goldring would be in a few months.

“Go back to bed, I’ll text you later”

Bart leans in, probably intending to kiss him on the lips,misses and ends up planting one in an awkward spot between Tim’s nose and hismouth, catching part of his upper lip with his lower. Tim wrinkles his nose butcan’t keep the corners of his mouth from curling up.

As it turned out an emergency occurred that left Barry andIris needing a baby sitter immediately. Assuming that Barry would come collectthe twins after only a few hours, Wally accepted and after nearly 8 hours ofhaving to take care of meta toddlers who are now developing their powers, Dickarrived to find Wally half passed out in a messy blanket fort. He’s shirtlessand his pants are torn at the knees in a way that Dick presumed wasn’t done asa fashion statement.

He had only raised an eyebrow after being confronted by thesight and Wally had grumbled “Don’t even ask” before making grabby hands andwhiny noises at him until Dick crawled into the blanket fort with him.

“Aren’t speedsters supposed to have, ridiculous reserves ofenergy?” Dick prods, poking at Wally’s chest as he does.

“Yes. They also have ridiculous metabolisms. And I had todeal with two of them for 8 hours. 8hours Dick.”

Dick gives his hair a half-hearted pat of sympathy and can’thelp smiling a little when he feels Wally press a kiss to his temple inreturn.  Wally rolls them over so thatthey’re both laying on their sides and Dick instinctively snuggles down intothe thick pile of blankets and pillows under him when he sinks a little intoit.

“I think I still smell a little like baby puke.” Wally says,nose wrinkling.

“You do.”

This is so romantic.

As if hearing him think the words, Wally winces and inchesaway ever so slightly and doesn’t get very far because Dick’s arms lock aroundhim despite himself. This may not be how he wanted to spend the evening butWally’s got another thing coming if he thinks Dick is going to let it slipthrough his fingers without at least getting any cuddles. And besides thisreally isn’t so bad, just a few minutes of lying in the messy, skin warmblankets and pillows has made him realize how tired he really is after nearly10 hours of desk work at the precinct and his earlier disappointment issteadily being replaced with contentment.

“Dude, seriously. I think I need to go shower. Again.” Wallyprotests even as his hands settle on Dick’s back, rubbing small, absentmindedcircles into his skin through the fabric of his uniform shirt.

“Later.” Dick replies, twining his legs with Wally’s to foilany more possible attempts at moving away.

“We are never having kids.”

Dick snorts but something warm stirs in his chest at thewords, the certainty behind ‘We’ and the ease with which it slipped out ofWally’s lips.

“No we’re not. I’d have to ask Bruce to set up a fund justfor the grocery bill alone. Besides, who even needs kids with you around?”

Wally pinches his nose until Dick laughs and lightly smackshis hand away. Wally groans loudly and moves closer, sliding down a little sohe could tuck his head under Dick’s chin.

“I want to stay inthis blanket fort forever.” He grumbles.

“Mmm. Same.” Dick says, burying a hand in his hair. It’sstill a little bit damp from the two showers he said he had to take after thesame number of times one of the twins threw up on him, it does still smell alittle off but the scent of shampoo makes it mostly tolerable.

“Initiate operation nap time?

“They might be right though.” Colin says, raising hiseyebrows. He hasn’t stopped smiling.

Damian frowns at him, confused. “What?”

Colin passes him his tablet, which he had apparently beenusing to read an article about them on the Gotham Gazette website. The story ispreceded by a black and white photo of the criminals the two of them hadapprehended just a couple of hours ago, as Damian had left them for the cops topick up, bloodied, bruised and  pinned tothe wall with their own weapons.

Colin says “It is a tiny bit much.” just as Damian skimsover the sentence criticizing his ‘violent apprehension of the offenders’. Hefrowns. He pinned one man’s hand. Hand nothands to the wall, that’s appallinglymerciful, especially considering what that scum had been up to when they gotthere.

“Tt. This coming from the guy who stamps his name oncriminals faces with his fists?”

Colin laughs. “Touché” He accepts the tablet when Damianhands it back to him. His lips remain curved in a small smile and Damian givesup trying to accurately put the natural shape of them to paper, doesn’tadmonish him about it again and works on Colin’s eyes instead. There are afterall, worse things to look at than that smile. There’s a band aid above hisbrow, hiding a bullet graze that had bled a lot during patrol but would nodoubt be gone by morning, Colin had put on the band aid there anyway, stillinsisting, even now years later, that it makes him look cool.

Damian brushes some hair away from Colin’s forehead tobetter see his eyes and Colin tilts his head back a little again to gaze up athim. The curve of his cheek stands out, highlighted by the soft orange glowemanating from the fireplace a few feet away. His eyes are dark and they lookat Damian with an absurd amount of fondness. The smile on his face grows alittle bit bigger, like he’s perfectly happy to spend the rest of his existenceright here on this couch with his head pillowed on Damian’s lap.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches Damian in a way thatsimultaneously makes him want to stare back until he could get that gaze downin perfect detail with his pencil and also look away and not look back untilColin stops.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Colin says, even as his lips and eyes communicateclear waves of something that everycell in Damian’s body picks up on based on the soft wash of heat that flowsthrough him that has nothing to do with the fire.

He watches as Colin’s eyes slide closed and he shifts alittle, making himself a bit more comfortable on Damian’s lap. When it becomesapparent that that was the end of the conversation, Damian goes back to hissketching. He finishes outlining Colin’s mouth and is in the middle of shading itwhen he realizes that his lips have parted ever so slightly and light snoringis coming from them.

It’s probably a good thing, he thinks, eyeing the steadily growing pile of empty pink and red wrappers next to Bart. Bart could probably eat an entire grocery store’s worth of food  in one sitting and not even feel remotely close to full.

“I’m sorry for this,” he begins,

Bart looks up from the teddy bear cookie he’s currently working on and blinks up at him in confusion.

“Sorry for what?” he asks, seemingly genuinely confused.

“Well, you probably don’t care as much but I think you still deserved a better Valentine’s day than this for our first one.”

Bart blinks again and the slow smile that spreads on his lips invokes the urge to smack his hands over his face.

“Ugh, that was embarrassing,” Jaime mutters.

“Kind of.” Bart says, still smiling.

“It’s the painkillers.”

“Mmm nope, I think you’re just a big ol sap.”

“Shut uuup.” Jaime grumbles, turning his face a little into the ice pack and regretting it immediately. When he turns back, wincing as much from the slight pain as the embarrassment of what he just said, Bart is still looking right at him. The smile has grown to a full blown grin now but the way Bart is looking at him is a little different. There’s still amusement there but there’s also something else, something warm and soft that makes something in Jaime’s chest flutter.

“This isn’t so bad,” Bart says, emphasizing the point by reaching into a nearby packet of heart shaped chocolates and setting his teddy cookie on his knee so he could unwrap it. Like Jaime, there’s a cut on his cheek but unlike Jaime, his isn’t and hasn’t been tended to at all. The skin around the cut is pink and irritated but is already looking better than it was an hour ago. By the end of the night, it’ll be barely anything more than a scab, a thought that gives Jaime relief. He watches it as Bart chews, eyes trailing up the cut and continuing on, over Bart’s cheek, the pale curve of his ear and the mess of red hair draped over it. There’s a butterfly bandage there, a small white shape peeking out under the red. Jaime tries not to think of what it implies, of the extent of the damage that Bart with his speedster healing needed a bandage to assist the process.

Other than the bandage and the cut on his cheek, Bart is otherwise unscathed. His bare arms, exposed by the Gotham U shirt he’s wearing, are void of any bruises and if there are any lingering scrapes, well on their way to healing by now most likely, they aren’t immediately visible. Under the shirt, his uniform pants are a little dirty and torn in a few places but the skin under the tears is pale and unmarked.

Jaime is in a more or less similar state, he’d taken a hell of a beating, but the armor had taken most of it. Other than his face and a few nasty bruises that would have him sore for a couple of days, he’s fine.

Idly, he wonders if it’s always like this, if Holidays are always going to be spent away from or worse, right beside your loved ones as you prevented widespread murder and catastrophe. Lord he hopes not, he can’t even imagine the world of trouble he’d be in if he plans a Christmas visit to his family with Bart and then spend their evening in an ER somewhere.

The thought gives him pause, face going slack at the realization that he’s just thought of visiting his family on Christmas with Bart.

He blinks and shakes his head, instantly thankful for the redness of his cheek and how easily it hid any blush that could bloom under his skin. When he comes back to himself, he finds himself staring straight into Bart’s curious gaze, realizing that he’d been staring at him the whole time.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I think it’s just the painkillers.”

Or just that it’s Valentine’s. Or maybe it’s just the light and the way Bart’s features looked in it, the way his eyes look extraordinarily green in it.

But then again, this is how Bart appears in any kind of light so maybe not.

Bart seems content with his answer and so catches Jaime off guard when instead of going back to decorating sugar cookies like he expected, Bart picks up a plastic container of pink heart cookies and pushes gently at Jaime’s shoulders, unfurling him enough to sit down in his lap.

“What are you doing?” He asks, eyeing the teddy cookie that fell to the floor, abandoned.

“It’s Valentine’s.” Bart says, giving him a look like Jaime is failing to grasp an extremely clear, simple flow of logic.

Jaime, like in most things Bart related, just goes with it. He’s in a simple shirt and sweatpants and the smooth, thick material of Bart’s uniform pants, encasing the warm solid shape of him is not an unpleasant weight on his legs. He’s also tired and despite the date that never was, Bart is happy with the mountain of Valentine’s day candy, he’ll count it as a win.

He goes to wrap an arm around Bart’s waist, and follows immediately with the other when Bart takes the ice pack from his hand and relieves it of his duty holding it to Jaime’s cheek.

“Can you open the cookies for me?” Bart asks.

“My face hurts too much for eating right now.”

“Who said you’re getting any?”

Jaime tries to level Bart with his best unimpressed look with almost half his face obscured by the ice pack. “You’re just going to eat cookies and get crumbs all over me?”

“You bought them for me,” Bart says, green eyes twinkling. Jaime looks at him dourly even as he pries the plastic container open. Bart reaches for a cookie without looking away. Jaime doesn’t envy him at all, just the thought of chewing right now makes him wince and he’d never really liked sugar cookies. He doesn’t hate them though, which is a good thing because when Bart leans over to plant a soft kiss to his mouth, his lips are sugary and thick with the taste of them.

The ice pack is lifted a little and Bart dusts sugar and the taste of frosting against the cool, red skin of his cheek.

“Thank you for the cookies.”

It’s all he says, settling in more comfortably in Jaime’s lap, wriggling closer to slot himself snugly into the cradle of his arms. Bart eats cookies in content silence, tucked against Jaime, warm and happy and Jaime lets him, arms linked securely around him.

Robbie turns to him with a smirk and Vance tries not toreact when the tips of their noses brush. This closet is barely big enough fora child, let alone two grown men.

“Because I know how to show a guy a good time?” he says witha wink before the expression slips, replaced with something that looks to behalfway between sheepish and defensive.

“How was I supposed to know that the dude is a wantedcriminal? There’s so many supervillain wannabes that pop up these days, I don’tkeep track okay?”

Vance shushes him when voices and the unmistakable sound ofconversation held over a radio filtered in from outside, way too close to wherethey’re hiding.

Robbie’s eyes are huge and bright and too blue right next tothe light from the glass and the only ever so slightly apologetic, mostlyconspiratory look they’re giving him should  probably not make something in his stomachjump like that. He looks away.

The cops talking into their radio are right outside theirdoor, Vance could see them through the narrow glass. He’s so focused on themand silently willing them to walk away that he almost jumps out of his skinwhen he feels Robbie’s thigh brush against his.

Robbie mouths Sorryat him when he turns to look. A hand settles on his hip, possibly in an attemptto reinforce the apology and does the opposite. Vance’s skin prickles under hisshirt but he doesn’t shrug the hand off, just gives Robbie a puzzled, searchinglook.

Robbie, for his part, just looks like he’s completelyunaware that his hand is gripping Vance’s hip. He turns to look out at the copsalmost immediately, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth as if concentratinghard enough would make them walk away.

Then his other hand settles against Vance’s side, lighterthan the other as if he’s just putting it there distractedly.

Vance knows he’s doing it on purpose but clearly, that’sokay with him because he lets his hands stay there.

Eventually the cops move away. The second they’re gone,Robbie lets go and reaches for the door. Vance tells himself he’s just beingsafe when he tugs Robbie back and makes him wait another minute in silence justto make sure the coast is clear.

When he feels a chest press against his, this time he doesjump a little. His lips almost brush Robbie’s cheek when he turns his headagain. Robbie is looking out the door and Vance doesn’t believe the carefullyblank look on his face for a second.

He feels Robbie’s breath on his face when he looks up atVance and raises his eyebrows, smiling.

“Well that was fun.” He says.

“Speak for yourself.” Vance says before stepping away andout of the closet.

“I’ll take you somewhere nicer the next time we’re on therun from the authorities I promise.”

“There isn’t going to be a next time,” Vance says onautopilot, glancing left then right, still keeping an eye out for any men inuniform.

“Aww, really? But we didn’t even get to make out in thecloset.”

Dick’s voice is raspybut still sounds way more alert than his probably does, the voice of someonewho is used to having to sleep in short, irregular chunks of time and be awakeand active the second they wake up.

Wally forces his eyesopen with some difficulty and rolls over, intending to tell Dick to buy him abigger bed or ask batman to buy him an entire safehouse in Palo Alto so he’dhave a place to crash the next time he’s here where he wouldn’t crush wally inhis sleep or something after he crawls away from a mission dead tired.

Dick’s eyes are alreadyopen, if just barely and they look straight into his when Wally settles on hisother side, facing him. His hair is a mess, but not in the way that it used tobe when it was shorter and would stand up in spikes after a solid few hours ofbeing slept on. Dick has the kind of bed head that magazine writers use todescribe the hair on pretentious men in expensive sports coats, skinny jeansand big scarves and the part of Wally that has (objectively of course) noticedhow puberty has been ever so graciously treating Dick is not surprised but the otherparts of his brain just cry out indignantly

“Even in the morning,really?”

He doesn’t notice that he’dspoken out loud until Dick’s bleary eyes get even squintier and he mumbles acurious “Mm?”

“Nothing, I’m sleeptalking don’t mind me.”

Dick yawns, turning hisface a little into the pillows to hide it. He only half succeeds. He staysthere when he’s done and closes his eyes and for a second, Wally thinks that he’sgoing to go back to sleep.

“Wally, you’re awake.”

“No I’m not. Maybe you’rejust dreaming.”

Dick’s eyes remainclosed but the corner of his mouth curves upwards, making him look even morelike one of the pretentious jerks you see by the dozen on the cover of glossymagazines. And the weird, vaguely fluttery thing happening in Wally’s gut rightnow is probably just jealousy.

“I don’t think any dream can live up to thereality of your morning breath.”

Dick mumbles. Wallyglares at the perfect slant of his jaw and reaches out to flick it.

“Rude.You break in to mydorm room at 5 in the morning, take up half of my very small bed and then startinsulting me before 7 am? Terrible etiquette boy wonder, I’m filing acomplaint.”

Dick snorts. “To Batman?”

“To Alfred.”

Dick is silent for a fewseconds.

“Is that a threat misterWest?”

“You bet your ass it is.Alfred will straighten you out something fierce.”

That earns him a giggle,loud enough that Dick’s face turns a little more into the pillow with the forceof it. Wally could only barely see the tip of a brow but the curve of Dick’smouth lifts higher, baring teeth. It’s the same unbridled, laugh that he’sheard a thousand times growing up and the faint feeling of being stunned hitsWally. He isn’t sure if it’s because he hasn’t realized how deep Dick’s voicehas really gotten or if it’s because of the way Dick turns his head back toface him and looks at him with amused blue eyes, completely awake now and seemingway too close to his face than they were a few seconds ago.

“He would.” He saysbefore hauling himself up and stretching, arms high above his head, backarching like a cat and ensuring that the vaguely fluttery feeling returns andintensifies three fold.

“That said, this isprobably the point where he would think I’ve imposed on you too much and shouldremove myself from your space immediately.” Dick says in a badly done britishaccent.

“Thank god for that.”Wally murmurs, maybe a bit too soft to sound as irritated as he meant it.

Dick looks over with asmirk and as the sunlight hits him, Wally wonders exactly how out of theordinary it is to be okay with your best friend (who is no longer a small,annoying 13 year old with ears too big for his face) to come in and sleep nextto you when you’re both shirtless because he didn’t want to sleep on the floor.

And before he could evenget close to figuring out an answer to that, Dick gives him something else towonder about, leaning over and kissing his temple.

“Well, that was a hellof a night honey. You didn’t even drool or snore that loud. I’ll definitelycall you again.”

“Get the hell out ofhere dick face.”

Instead of commenting onhow lame Wally’s comebacks are in the morning or firing one of his own, Dickjust gives him a mock salute, still smirking and slides out of bed, whistlingmerrily as he goes into the next room presumably to slip back into the rest ofhis new suit (Nightwing, honestly, could he get even batsier?) and probablyswipe a few things from Wally’s mini fridge.

“Don’t steal any of myfood!”

Dick just laughs thatfamiliar Robin laugh that isn’t quite familiar anymore and then silence. Wallywaits a few seconds to make sure he’s really quietly slipped out of the windowbefore rolling over to his stomach and muffle his words into his pillow.

Roy watches him as he pulls himself to his feet, wincing andgroaning the whole time, both at the various points of pain lighting up hisnerve endings like live wires and the sight of the guy slowly burning alive athis feet.

“Were you the one that dislocated my shoulder? That’sprobably you. So, you know, I’m probably not sorry.” He says as the guy’s voicegrows hoarse and weak, his writhing turning down to involuntary twitching.

The sound of his name makes him look up. The voice that saidit is sharp and metallic, almost harsh and Roy’s entire body tenses for anotherfight. He sees red in the corner of his eye and then he’s sagging in relief asJason moves completely into his line of sight, red and brown and red again. Hiscostume is stained with blood and Roy is betting most of it isn’t his.

He’s got his helmet on and so caught Roy completely unawarewhen he goes to open his mouth to say he’s glad to see him and gets interruptedby a punch. It isn’t a particularly hard one and was thankfully aimed at theside of his face that didn’t have the potentially fractured cheekbone but still-

“What the fuckman???” Roy demands, holding a hand to his cheek. “Obviously they didn’t getvery far but I did get tortured for about an hour.”

That makes Jason pause and in less than 10 seconds, catchesRoy off guard again.

It happens so fast Roy doesn’t process the arms wrappedaround him and the solid chest against his own right away.

“Next time,” Jason is saying. His voice still soundsmetallic and weird in that dumb helmet but the harsh tone that had carried hisname is gone from it now. “Next time, I’m putting a tracker in your god damnarm.”

Roy puts a hand on his back and even through the thickfabric of his vest and the Kevlar underneath, Roy could feel the soft but quickrise and fall of his back.

“Not a bad idea.” He murmurs. “I’m sure that next time, they’llmake sure there are nothing even close to tools in the entire building if they’replanning on keeping me there.”

Jason’s hands clench almost imperceptibly in the torn fabricbarely covering his back but says nothing and Roy frowns. He knows this, thesoft silence of Jason’s anger, he hasn’t encountered it much but enough torecognize it easily. He glances at the fallen bodies around them and then atthe scorched, gaping hole where the door used to be, wondering how many bodiesJason left behind out there.

“Hey,” he begins, noticing that Jason hasn’t let go of himyet. “I’m okay, more or less. Thanks for showing up before they startedbreaking my fingers. It’d be kinda hard to escape without those.”

Jason snorts but the arms around him tighten and Roy givesan involuntary grunt of pain. He feels the smooth coldness of Jason’s helmet pressinto his cheek and then, as quickly as his embrace came, he’s gone.

The walk from the building out to the hover craft that Jasonswiped from who knows which underground bureau or terrorist organization issilent and slow. Roy makes it almost the whole way without incident but has tobe helped up the ramp and into the passenger chair.

“Air bats is a pretty nice service” he comments as Jasonbuckles himself into the pilot chair. Roy watches the various lights on thecontrol panel reflect on his helmet.

“Are we going to have comfort sex when we get back? Because Ithink I might have too many cracked ribs for that?”

Jason doesn’t say anything and this silence, he doesn’tquite know how to read. He’s too tired and sore to try so he doesn’t, justsettles in for the ride home and silently wonders if the exhaustion would winout over the pain and let him sleep.

Just as it’s starting to look like it might, Jason calls hisname.

His eyelids are drooping and Jason said it so softly, Royhas to wonder if he hallucinated it.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again.” says the voice thatsounds like Jason’s and that also may or may not be a sleepy hallucination.

“Love you too Jaybird.”

His hands, wrapped around Damian’s wrists, tugging them alongwith his aimless, jerky movements rapidly slow and practically drop them and hiseyes, crinkled at him in mirth and amusement drop to the floor before veeringoff to the side. Damian prided himself in being able to read people very easilybut for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what the look on Colin’s facenow meant.

His heart rate spikes, and that he knows how to interpret.

Liar. You know what it means. You’re just-

Colin’s eyes shift again,somewhere behind Damian this time. He seems to be trying his damndest to lookanywhere except his face.

The spaces between them swell upwith the words of the song pouring out from the radio. The song that precededit grated on his ears, one of those wildly popular pop songs Graysonunashamedly listens to when he’s pondering something unimportant; loud, erraticmelody strung together with words that made Damian mildly uncomfortable. Thewords to this one make him uncomfortable too, but for an entirely different reason.

 Here I am, this is me

There’s nowhere else on EarthI’d rather be

Here I am, it’s just me and you

Tonight we make our dreams cometrue

Colin’seyes finally find his again and the way that his freckled cheeks bunch up thistime in a smile is clearly forced. Damian hates himself a little for the wayhis heart rate spikes again at noticing the freckles and how they seem to be growingfainter as the days go by.

Colintakes a step back, away from him, opens his mouth and Damian knows. He justknows that he shouldn’t let him speak. Before he’s entirely sure why exactlythat is, he’s moving forward. He crosses the small gap Colin made and winds onearm loosely around his waist, using the other one to clasp his hand.

“This,I know how to do.” He says and starts to lead them in a slow waltz.

Colinstares at him with wide eyes, clearly taken aback and it’s strange. He’d staredstraight down into countless eyes before, stared right into eyes filled withrage, fear, unflinching resolve and often in those instances there’s a lethalweapon, a dark, secluded place where no one can hear you scream and blood. It’sso strange how Colin’s feel like the hardest eyes to keep staring into, in thismoment right here, in broad daylight, in the safe haven of his bedroom.

It’s a new world, it’s a newstart

It’s alive with the beating ofyoung hearts

It’s a new day, it’s a new plan

I’ve been waiting for you

There’s no practical reasoningbehind this. Colin had grabbed his hand and tried to teach him how to dance“like a normal teenager” because he doesn’tknow how. Colin evidently doesn’t know how to waltz properly, given howstiff and uncertain he felt, trying to follow Damian’s lead. But that doesn’tmatter. Colin isn’t going to be heading out in a few hours to try and convincepeople this is something he knows how to do.

Damn if he’d be the one to pointall this out though.

Colin doesn’t seem to want to bethe one to do it either. His gaze locks on to something that isn’t Damian’sface again but his other hand finds his shoulder and he keeps trying to followDamian’s movements as best as he can. After a while, he giggles, hunching in alittle on himself; flustered and shy.

“I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“You clearly had none earliereither but that still qualified as dancing by your standards.” Damian says,despite being not entirely sure Colin meant the waltzing.

Colin smiles at him, hesitant butreal.

Damian slows them to a stop andmaintains eye contact even as he lets his arms fall away from Colin.

The lack of words between themfeels awfully fragile and Damian feels like there’s way more than the silencethat would break if he lets loose the torrent of words building up in the backof his mind.

He’s never been afraid of beingwrong. But,

The smile slowly fades from Colin’sface as uncertainty trickles into his expression.

His parents are both fiercewarriors and they taught him better than to be afraid.

“Tonight, in order to gaininformation, I may have to…use charmas well as cunning.”

The word comes out coated in hisdisdain, remembering how Grayson had said it earlier. If his tone hadn’t made allthe implications of his words clear, “You’reBruce Wayne’s son. If he could get intelalong with kisses while schmoozing, I’m sure you can do it too.” certainly did.

Colin is hardly familiar with subterfuge, his side of thecrime fighting world is frank and straightforward; if a mouth isn’t willing tospill information, you break the teeth in it with your fist or you at leastthreaten to do it. But being the gigantic loser that he is, he has seen enoughspy movies to know exactly what Damian means. A shadow passes over his face andDamian sees it despite how fast Colin is able to hide it.

“Oh, uh-“

“I don’t. I…”

There are words, there’s a way to articulate what he wantsto say. There’s complete sentences lingering at the back of his throat but theyfeel too thick, melting into each other and wanting to come out a jumbled mess.So Damian doesn’t try.

Quick but soft, he steps forward, puts a hand to the back ofColin’s neck and pulls him into a kiss. It’s short and almost too light butstill, his pulse is beating like a drum in his ears and the freckles on Colin’scheek are practically invisible, blending in with the red of his blush.

Colin blinks owlishly at him.

And the smile returns on his lips, brighter than the onethat started this whole thing and beautiful in a way it was not. His gaze, whenhe looks at Damian has no trace of hesitance or uncertainty to it. They looksure of many things, knowing in a way that makes Damian’s insides feel too warmand too heavy.

“That was my first kiss too.” He says softly.

“Good.”

Damian had just enough time to see Colin’s smile growpainfully soft before he’s stepping into Damian’s space and pressing theirmouths together again, slower, firmer.

“I didn’t want anyone else to steal your second.” Colin saysas he steps back.

Damian feels his own cheeks heating up and now it’s his turnto look at something that isn’t Colin. Still though, when Colin slides closeonce more and wraps his arms around him, the curve of his smile pressing intoDamian’s neck, he doesn’t move away.

Here we are, we’vejust begun

And after all thistime, our time has come

Yeah, here we are,still goin’ strong

Right here in theplace where we belong

Roy dared to swipe at the lock screen of his phone,studiously avoiding the notifications for 2 missed calls and 3 unread texts. Hewas starting to remember the texts that preceded them and what he’d said tohave them in his inbox. The clock on the display read 7:45 AM.

He was hungover, nauseous for reasons not having to do withit and maybe two seconds away from lying smackdab in the middle of the ruins ofhis life, which he’d just spectacularly torched with alcohol and the acidmethane of his own stupidity.

All before 8 am too.

Situation normal then. Good Job Harper.

Roy pressed the phone to his forehead and squeezed his eyesshut, as if concentrating on it hard enough could undo every word he’d sentlast night.

He clenched his teeth, inhaled and sighed loudly, wincingwhen the action made his head throb even more.

The phone gets lifted a few inches away and Roy stared at itcontemplatively. Might as well.

He thumbed at the unread messages, chickened out at the lastsecond and scrolled all the way up to the top.

Under the contact info (JAYBIRD god how long will it be before he could get rid of that contact) readthe first message he’d sent after literal years of near complete radio silence.

So i know we haven’t talked in like, two years, and thatthings ended pretty badly between us but WHAT THE FUCK do you mean you’reengaged to be married

Or at least that’s what he’d intended to say. It’sstill more or less what had translated from his brain to his fingertips,banning all the drunken typos. The message was received loud and clear if thestray bits of conversation slowly starting to trickle into his brain were to bebelieved.

Roy winced. Why oh why couldn’t he just be one ofthose people who remembered nothingafter a night of getting spectacularly shit faced?

Where was that dumb invitation Dick had so thoughtfully senthim?(Hah. Really living up to his name, that astronomical douchebag) Heshould’ve burned it before he got drunk, maybe then drunk him would’veforgotten it existed and he never would’ve-

“You need to get yourplumbing fixed by the way.”

Jason said as he breezed in through the half open door andit was so strange, seeing him again, here in Roy’s space. He looked the same asever, still unfairly handsome, eyes the same icy blue you never would’veguessed are fully capable of being warm. There was the tell-tale white of somegauze peeking out of the collar of his shirt, like he’d been out knocking headstogether before he headed over last night, like-

Jason holds out a glass of water while setting two morebottles of it on the nightstand.

-like he never left.

Roy stared at theoffered glass and sat up slowly, wincing like it’s the hardest thing he had todo all week. It was certainly the most bizarre. Here he was, accepting a glassof water from a ghost he had somehow summoned after they’d avoided each otherfor ages.

He struggled for something to say as he took slow, greedysips, eyes focusing on a random spot on the wall as Jason went to sit at thefoot of his bed.

If I’d known having atotal drunken meltdown at you would skip talking and bring you right here Iwould’ve-

Honestly, what thefuck do you mean you’re getting married

Has it been nearly asbad for you? It’s gotta be. You’re here.

What came out instead was

“Sorry,”

He wasn’t even really sure what he was saying it for: this,last night, everything?

Jason looked at him like he knew.

“Have you tried to murder Dick for sending me that invitealready?”

He expected Jason to frown, maybe look faintly annoyed, orperhaps maybe even laugh.

“There’s always some reason or another that somebodysomewhere ought to try and murder Dick but that’s not one of them.”

That made Roy finally turn to look at him and the next wordsout of his mouth made him immediately wish he hadn’t.

“I sent that to you.”

“Oh.”

There was a silence so deep and suffocating that bracketedeither side of that Oh and in the hollow spaces they offered, the urge toscream welled up, so intense Roy is at least half sure Jason and at least halfthe city heard it.

“Well,” he said instead. “I’m sure last night was prettysolid proof of how bad of an idea that was.”

A small sardonic smile graces Jason’s mouth and it ignites aquick but half formed flash of memory, like a lost puzzle piece.

A knock at his door. Asilhouette, faceless and dark but completely familiar.

The smell of leatherand gun powder. Curling forward towards that smell until his face was buried init. It smelled so good, felt so good. Like the world has never quite felt rightuntil this moment right here.

Words, drunkenlywhispered against a solid chest as arms hesitantly came up to wrap around him.

Roy took another long swig of water, wishing desperatelythat it was something stronger.

“I missed you so much”

He had imagined Jason right where he was many, many times.The look on his face had been happier but still, seeing him actually there, Roywas tempted to reach out and touch him just to be sure he isn’t still passedout and dreaming.

Jason’s hair was longer, and there’s a new scar near his lipand Roy wondered if he knew how much power he had, if he knew that all he hadto do was sit there and exist for it to feel like he’d put a bullet or threethrough Roy.

“Not too bad of an idea. At least it got you to talk to meagain.”

A flare of anger erupts at Jason’s words and Roy opened hismouth, intending to tell him exactly where he could shove his not too bad idea.

“I missed you too you know.”

Roy’s jaw snapped shut, he could feel a muscle on it jump ashis lips pursed.

“I’m not going to your wedding. I’m sure it’ll be great. ButI’m not going. I-…I can’t.”

Jason didn’t have anything to say to that, he just keptstaring at Roy with those eyes that were suddenly too big and even harder tolook at.

This was it, this was when he should tell Jason to get outand they wouldn’t speak again for another 2, 5, who even knows how many years.

“You and Isabel again huh? Hope that works out for you.”

His traitorous mouth said instead.

Neither of them were ever particularly good at this, at anyof it. And Roy waited for the match to be struck, waited for something scathingto come out of Jason’s mouth, or for something that would make it come out ofhis.  

That’s not what yousaid last night.

You said a lot of things last night.

“Thanks.”

They sit in awkward silence for a few seconds that felt likethey stretched on for hours and then finally, a shadow fell over Jason’s face.

“Aren’t you wondering why I’m still here?”

He asked, brows furrowing. Roy used to wonder if he wantedto punch him or kiss him because even his god damn eyebrows were perfect.

He blinked. “I kind of am actually.” He lowered his hands,still grasping the glass of water Jason brought him, to his lap. He looked atthe bottles on his night stand, then back at Jason and he frowned.

“Why are you here?”

Jason’s mouth opened, shut, his lips twisted and then helooked away. Roy wondered what he’d wanted to say before clearly choosing not to.

“Someone had to make sure you didn’t die from alcoholpoisoning.”

Roy waited but he didn’t say anything more. His eyes drop tothe sheets on his lap and studied them as he spoke.

“Okay. I’m not dead, Pity visit over. Thanks man.”

Please let him leave. If that’s how he wanted to play it,Roy was more than happy to oblige. Jason owed him at least this right? A littlebit of dignity. He could leave now and they could pretend this never happened.

Roy feels the mattress move as Jason stood up. He kept hiseyes pointed down and that’s why he almost jumped out of his skin when he suddenlyfelt a hand on his cheek, gently tilting his face up. Roy did, startled.

The expression on Jason’s face made the bottom drop out ofhis stomach, made something in his chest contract. Roy could almost interpretit. Almost. If he’d gotten one more second to look, he would’ve but it turnedout he didn’t need it. Because when Jason leaned down and closed the distancebetween them, Jason’s mouth spoke it against his loud and clear without using aword.

Goodbye

His mouth opened in a gasp that sounded too close to a soband suddenly his hands were flying up and grasping Jason’s arms. The kissturned brutal and it hurt, it hurt everywherebut Roy didn’t let up. There were hands in his hair and Jason was kissing himback just as fiercely.

Then he was gone, practically wrenching himself away as ifit’d taken everything in him to pull away and this was it. This was what lastnight had been leading up to. Everything was burning in chunks around him andRoy was just sitting there, in the middle of it, helpless.

Jason didn’t say anything else. He just gave Roy one long,hard look, turned and walked away. Roy was so naïve to believe that the firsttime he stepped out of the door was him walking out of his life.

This time, he didn’t even give him one last look over hisshoulder. There was no sharp frown, no angry eyes that directed blame or angeror sadness at him, just Jason’s back disappearing through his door, and intothe next, indefinite stretch of time, one that didn’t include him in it.

He thinks, noddingmechanically at the speakers on his laptop, at the voice coming from them. He’shalf aware of his own voice, throwing out a question and a name, feelinggenuinely curious despite more than half of every fiber of his being shying awayfrom any potential answers.

“Preston right? Wasn’the that scrawny kid you used to know in highschool? Did he really get hot overthe years?”

Bart whistles. “Hotterthan Kori’s Starbolts.”

His voice is accompaniedby the sound of faint clicking. He’s cracking his knuckles, a gross habit thatno amount of fussing or complaining from his end had ever managed to even reduce.

Jaime could picture itso easily, Bart sitting at his desk at home, sprawled over his computer chair,long limbs spilling out over the arm rests because sitting, like many otherthings, is something Bart rarely if ever, does like a normal person. His longpale hands would be tucked against his chest, wrapped around each other, justclose enough to his headset. That too would be haphazardly placed on his head,only one ear piece on while the other nestled in a messy nest of red hair; incase Jay or Joan wanted his attention.

­cra-crack, crack, crack go his knuckles. He’s going to get arthritis by the time he’s 30, speedster physiologybe damned Jaime thinks with a mental sigh and the scolding words rise reflexivelyup his throat, sliding up his tongue before Jaime clenches his teeth and bitesdown on them. The exasperation and fondness are both still there, wrappedaround them, thick and so tangible he could feel himself choking on them whenhe swallows the words back.

“That’s…ugh, that’spretty hot. I guess.”

Bart continues on,babbling like he was 14 all over again, endless words about how adorable andsweet Preston Lindsay is spilling out of Jaime’s speakers, completelyoblivious. Jaime has never hated that about him. Just the opposite really, evenway back when he acted as annoyed and fed up as everyone else. But now.

You can do this

Bart is talking aboutPreston’s hair. (It’s kind of weird, youknow? I didn’t know people could be that blond) Jaime tries to picture it,a golden head, bowing close to Bart’s, a beautiful contrast to the dark red ofhis hair.

“What do you think isthe best way to ask him out?”

Jaime’s breath catches.

I can’t do this

I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t

It feels like a dambreaking somewhere in his chest, a heavy, warm, ache washes over his lungs, hisguts and he feels it all the way down to his toes and all the way up to hischeeks. His eyeballs sting with it and the achey warmth grows hot with anger,directed mostly at himself.

He doesn’t realize he’sgone silent until Bart does too. Jaime looks up, startled and regrets itimmediately when Bart turns on his webcam, his face filling Jaime’s screen.

He looks concerned, andhis eyes, big and green and as stunning through the grainy quality of the videofeed as they are in real life are looking right at him.

Everything looks exactlylike Jaime had imagined it just a few minutes ago, Bart’s long legs draped overthe arm of his chair the headset askew on his head, his hair, his face. Oh god. I can’t do this.

“Are you okay?”

For the first time sinceBart called him, Jaime finds himself being honest.

“No.”

His next breath comesout in a heavy exhale and he curls forward, until his face is in his hands.Behind fingers and closed lids, his eyes throb and Jaime curses in his head, screamsat himself, trying to make the wet sting building up behind his lashes go away.

“No. I’m really not.”

Bart is quiet for a fewseconds and then, as if still completely unaware that the knife he was holdingis still lodged firmly in Jaime’s heart, he twists.

“Can I see you?”

“No. I don’t think that’sa good idea Bart.”

“I’m sorry.”

Jaime hates him alittle. Maybe more than a little. But still, hearing him sound so small andhelpless just makes him hurt more.

“Yeah me too. I’m just.I’m going to go, okay.”

It isn’t a question and thosebig green eyes know it and fuckBart needs to look away before Jaime loses it.

He nods. “Goodnight Jaime.”

It’s a frozen autumn day, the kind that hung dark grey clouds over your head and threatened to turn the rain drops they carried into shards of ice before they hit the ground and blew gusts of wind that whispered the promise of winter in its breath. The rain starts just before he reaches the crumbling concrete porch steps of the house. Leaves skitter across the threshold in the wake of the breeze that follows Sam through the door as he steps inside, as if they’re running into the promise of dry warmth like he is. Sam doesn’t bother to sweep them back out. He ignores them just as he ignores the scattered pieces of dry, crumbling leaves browned by time, all over the floor. Who even knows how many autumns before this one they fluttered through the door and ended up here? The new ones would end up just the same and they’d all fit right in next to the water stained floor boards, the cobwebs and the clutter.

The house is dark as it always is in the day and Sam passes by curtains drawn tight without daring to even disturb them, navigating in the grey-black gloom with the confident steps of someone whose feet know the disorder of boxes, tables, wires and chairs well. He drapes his coat over what he’d always assumed to be a camera from the 1800s sitting in a bathtub by the foot of the stairs, too used to it’s presence now to think it even remotely strange.

He carelessly drops his umbrella halfway up the first flight and sheds his shoes on the dusty carpet in the landing of the second. There are four of them in total and the higher up he goes, the darker it gets. The windows on the third floor are in terrible shape. One of them is boarded up, the others painted over with black paint and covered up with layer upon layer of old newspaper. Sam hates that floor, it’s easily the creepiest part of the house. The windows on the fourth and highest floor of the house are completely intact and much nicer to look at even when you can’t see them, hidden as they are by thick, wooden shades and embroidered curtains that absorb what little light filters through like a sponge.

There’s three doors there, crowded close around a short hallway that bridges them to the stairs. Sam goes straight to the middle one and knocks, loudly. When he gets nothing but silence in response, he knows immediately that what he’s looking for would not be forthcoming but still, Sam knocks again, tapping out rythms with his fists and drumming on the wood with his fingernails, completely unconcerned about disturbing anyone. The entire street is deserted and the only person who could hear him, Sam isn’t just unworried, but also delighted to bother.

“Webs, yo weeebs. Vampiderman Mcspooky webs! You still in your coffin?”

He keeps up his pestering for about a solid minute or two, until he’s almost yelling and his knuckles start to ache. Still, he gets nothing. Sam huffs softly and slowly turns the knob. The door creaks open almost as loud as Sam’s knocking.

“If this is what wakes you up, I swear,” he says as he pokes his head inside.

The shadows are even thicker here but his eyes, having adjusted to the gloom during his trek upstairs, don’t find it that difficult to make out the contents of the room; the mess of equipment, boxes and furniture that all fit together like glass shards and lost puzzle pieces and the large four poster bed in the middle of it all. Sam makes a beeline for it and despite all the ruckus he’d caused at the door, sat quietly at the foot of it, careful not to make noise as not to disturb the person curled up on the sheets, deep in sleep.

The bed’s occupant is lying on it almost sideways, his body curled at an angle that leaves his feet pointing down while his torso faced the same way, as if he’d been in the fetal position but slowly unfurled as he slept. He’s wearing jeans and a moth eaten, knitted sweater.

Looking the part Sam thinks with a mental snort. The sweater is black, making the hands and head peeking out from it even paler than they actually are.  Carefully, he reaches towards the face relaxed in slumber and pauses, fingers hovering above a cheek. Then he moves his hand down and rests his palm over the chest instead. It isn’t moving and his touch does nothing at all. It doesn’t even get him a twitch.

One of the weird things about the undead; they sure can sleep like there’s nothing un about their status of being if they want to.

“Peter,” Sam says, unceremoniously smacking his hand against the cheek he’d almost touched.

Peter doesn’t jolt awake but he doesn’t stay unmoving and silent either. A long, drawn out, irritated noise rumbles up his chest and right under Sam’s fingers on his cheek. Then there’s the slightest movement of a hand lifting and curling around Sam’s wrist.

“Is it still light out?”  Peter croaks without opening his eyes. His hand stays clamped around Sam’s wrist as it shifts upward ever so slightly to idly flick at stray bits of brown hair.

“Probably.” Sam answers.

Another irritated groan rumbles under Sam’s fingertips, petulant and crabby and he smiles, amused at how completely intimidating Peter should be and is not.

“What are you doing here then?” Peter asks. He finally moves, hand dragging Sam’s away from his head when his fingers start to burrow into the ridiculous disarray his hair had gotten into while he was sleeping. Sam’s hand ends up practically brushing the tip of Peter’s nose, his wrist inches away from his lips.

Despite how much time he’s spent in Peter’s company and how much he’s come to know about him, everything in Sam still feels like it stops at the phantom feeling of breath that isn’t there, his sense of space and his sense of danger both ringing the alarms telling him that something solid and hazardous is hovering very close.

Peter is very aware of their proximity too going by the way his fingers start to slide away from Sam’s wrist.

“You can try if you want. It’s been a long, kinda crappy day, I wouldn’t mind.”

The words come out of Sam’s lips in a murmur. Peter doesn’t reply. Then, a touch of lips that sends a jolt of fear and excitement rippling under Sam’s skin. Peter kisses his wrist wetly, his tongue brushing against Sam’s pulse quick and soft, the barest hint of contact.

“No thanks, you taste terrible.”

Sam scoffs and pulls his wrist out of Peter’s grasp, smacking him lightly one more time in the face with it before moving away to give Peter room to sit and stretch. His hair is a mess, defying gravity in varying directions, flattened in some places and fluffed up in a tangled mess in others. He flings his limbs out and stretches, all weird noises and unattractive arching, just as undignified as anyone else and from where he’s sitting, Sam could almost believe he’s just a normal person.

He gets distracted enough by the thought that he doesn’t even notice Peter’s attentions falling back to him until there’s a hand on his cheek. He blinks, startled.

“You’re cold.” Peter observes. His touch is painfully gentle and the thumb that rubs at his cheek bone almost prevents Sam from answering.

“Look who’s talking.”

Peter’s hand trails down to his neck while his other one seeks out Sam’s again. His touch is like ice and cold as he himself is, Sam still felt it.

“You’re not helping.” He says, leaning away with a wince when Peter’s fingers prod at the skin just under the collar of his shirt. Peter just hums and slides out of bed. He stretches a little bit more and turns to look at Sam over his shoulder.

“Do you want to come shower?” Peter asks, then as if realizing himself, follows it up immediately with

“Or you can bundle up in some blankets and I can turn the heater on for you.”

Sam doesn’t answer for long enough that Peter actually turns completely to face him and for a little while longer, just to watch him squirm. When it seems he’s just about to put a hand to the back of his neck and say something else, Sam lets a small smirk play at the corner of his mouth and says.

“Sure, a shower sounds nice.”

Peter’s bathroom is every bit as cramped and run down as the rest of his house. Sam squeezes in with him in the narrow shower and despite the fact that they practically stand chest to chest, no funny business happened. Peter has to press up against his back and tuck his chin over Sam’s shoulder so the water could wash the shampoo out of both their heads but Sam busies himself more with studying the stains and peeling paint left behind by water damage behind the walls than feeling every inch of Peter’s skin against his back.

The water is as hot as Sam could stand it but by the time they’ve shut it off and stepped out of the shower, Peter’s skin still feels a little cold, like how your hands feel after stepping inside, when they’re still red from the cold and you run them under hot water to try and warm them as fast as possible. He doesn’t yelp or shy away when Peter presses his cheek against a shoulder and wraps arms around his waist as Sam reaches for a towel but still, it isn’t exactly the most pleasant feeling in the world.

“Now you’re warm.” Peter says, almost happily, nuzzling a little into his shoulder like a child or a cat.

Sam snorts as he starts to pat himself dry. “Thanks?”

Peter smothers a laugh into his neck and going by the way another one comes out, louder than the last when Sam yelps and tries to get away, he did it on purpose and that was exactly the reaction he was looking for.

“Don’t make it weird Sam.”

“I’m making it weird?”

Peter laughs again, away from Sam’s skin thankfully but Sam still yelps, for an entirely different reason when Peter leans in and presses a quick but soft, lingering kiss against his jaw. He turns his head and feels his breath catch to see Peter already looking at him, eyes hooded.

Peter leans in to give him just the barest brush of lips on lips, definitely not worthy of being called a kiss but it makes him go a little weak in the knees anyway. Then Peter, infuriatingly enough, is moving away. He makes quick work of drying himself up and wraps a towel around his waist, walking out before Sam could say anything.

“You want some tea? It’s all I’ve got.”

His voice calls out from around the corner. Sam stands there for a few seconds, willing the slight tingle in his lips he could still feel to go away. He takes a breath, wraps the towel around his waist and walks out of the bathroom.

“As long as it isn’t older than me, I’d drink it.”

Sam doesn’t get back into the clothes he’d been wearing before, instead he rummages around in the bottom drawer of the dresser by Peter’s bed and slips on a plain blue shirt and gray sweatpants. They both look like they’ve seen better days but despite being kept in a musty old drawer that’s probably been here since the turn of the 19th century, they’re soft and they smell nice.

When Sam comes out, lights have been flicked on throughout the house and he follows the trail they make, all the way down to the first floor, to the kitchen where he finds Peter at the counter, still in nothing but a towel.

He’s standing by the sink, stirring something steaming in a mug. Sam walks over and snatches it away, holding the mug under his nose to take a whiff.

“Peppermint?” he asks before taking a small sip.

“Candy cane,” Peter corrects, pointing at him with the teaspoon he’d been using to stir the tea. Sam quirks an eyebrow over the mug as he takes another sip.

“Don’t give me that look. It’s the holiday season. I thought you’d like it.”

The mental image of Peter wandering in to a mall or tea shop and spotting the tin of candy cane tea on the shelf, probably staring at it in fascination and curiosity before deciding to buy it for him is actually cute and endearing but Sam of course, does not and would not ever let him know that. Instead he sets down the tea, squints at Peter and holds up a hand, palm up, knowing Peter could hear the line of silent question marks he’s sending his way.

“What? Are we really going to pretend that Christmas still has anything to do with religion?” Peter asks.

“No,” Sam says “Even if it did, your soul has probably sunk so low not even holy water from Jerusalem could hurt you. Though actually, you’re such a dumb loser, the thought of your skin blistering at the sight of jolly fat men in red jammies and flying reindeer isn’t unbelievable.”

“Ha ha.” Peter says sarcastically. He pauses, then says. “Ho ho ho.”

Sam makes a face at him. “Don’t do that.”

Peter just grins at him before turning to grab a stainless steel travel mug that Sam hadn’t noticed before. It blended in with the mess of containers and other random stuff strewn about the counter and when Peter takes it, Sam notices a whole row of travel mugs and thermoses right beside it, all stainless steel.

The lid is firmly shut on the travel mug and Peter slides up that little tab that hides a slit for you to drink out of and turns around to lean his back on the counter. He leans off to the side before he takes a sip, trying to hide it from Sam as much as possible.

“You don’t have to do that.” Sam says and takes another sip of his tea, trying to be nonchalant about it.

There’s a tinge of crimson peeking out from the inner corners of Peter’s lips when they come away from the mug and it makes it harder to make the whole thing casual but Sam tries, continuing to drink his tea and acting like what Peter is drinking out of his mug is the same thing.

Peter shrugs, avoiding eye contact as he quickly swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. He takes one last, long gulp and shuts the lid, placing the mug back with the others on the counter. The action makes Sam feel bad for calling attention to it and he opens his mouth to try and smooth the situation over but Peter beats him to it.

“You hungry?”

The question catches Sam a little off guard. He blinks and actually does a quick scan of the kitchen. Among the clutter, he spots the toaster oven that had previously been broken before Peter met him, spices and tea, cans of food and a bag of chips and candy he’d brought over from the convenience store a few blocks away when he came over a week ago. There are several things there too that are or were previously part of his kitchen and Sam knows that if he looks in the cupboards or the fridge, he’ll find more things that were from him or for him.

It’s a weirdly intimate thing to realize. Peter buys and keeps stuff he doesn’t need, for him. The both of them have slowly started to convert this space into something for him. Sam is pretty damn sure that’s a sign of a serious relationship. Oh god he’s in a serious relationship with a vampire.

“It’s a simple question, so I’m guessing you’re thinking about something deeper than whether or not you’re hungry,”

Peter’s voice interrupts him. Sam snaps out of his thoughts to see him staring at him with a curious and slightly concerned expression.

“I was just thinking of, umm…a thing.”

Peter only raises an eyebrow at that but Sam could see the amusement lurking under his expression.

“Mind sharing the thing?”

His lips curl slowly, infinitesimally and it’s odd that such a small thing makes a rush of warmth as intense as the one that suddenly blooms in Sam’s chest happen. Or maybe not so much because as subtle as the smile is, the way Peter is looking at him…like all the warmth that had long ago deserted his skin, came rushing back at the sight of him, is certainly enough to make Sam feel like he could walk out into the frigid cold with bare feet and remain warm, so long as Peter keeps looking at him like that.

Instead of answering, Sam leans over and presses a soft kiss to Peter’s shoulder then another and another, each one slower and more gentle than the last. He makes a short trail of them, up Peter’s neck and along his jaw. He pauses when he reaches his ear, taking a step closer so that they’re pressed flush together.

“I was just thinking about you.”  Sam murmurs, lips brushing the shell of Peter’s ear as he speaks.

“What about me?” Peter asks, voice gone low and soft.

“Just that I kind of want to do this,” He places a hand on either side of Peter’s head and pulls him in for a kiss. Peter’s mouth opens under his, hungry not in a way that has him fearing for his safety in any way but makes his pulse thrum in his veins nonetheless. A hand slides up his back and cups the back of his neck, angling his head so that Peter could kiss him deeper. He makes a sound of approval against Peter’s lips, fingers sliding forward and curling into his hair.

Peter’s other hand slides along the small of his back, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt to skate teasingly against the skin there. When they boldly start to dip into the waistband of his pants, Sam inhales and his hips move reflexively forward, against Peter’s. Peter moans and the sound, accompanied by his hand sliding completely down the back of Sam’s pants to grip his ass go straight to his cock. He rolls his hips again, starting up a slow, steady rhythm that makes him gasp.

He feels an answering hardness against his rapidly hardening cock even through the fabric of his pants and Peter’s towel. Sam pulls back so he could tug at the knot holding it together and watches with dark eyes as the towel falls to the floor. Peter shivers, his eyes sliding closed as his lips part so that a soft puff of breath could get through. Sam takes it all in eagerly, raising a hand to trail a finger down Peter’s chest when just looking isn’t enough anymore.

“Clearly kissing me wasn’t all you were thinking about.”

“No, it was. It’s just that actually doing it made me think about doing other things.”

Sam murmurs, following the idle trails down Peter’s body his hand is making with his eyes.

“What other things did you have in mind? Because I might be thinking of the same ones.”

Peter says and before Sam could answer, he’s grabbing the hand that was skimming below his navel and was well on its way lower and uses it to pull Sam into another kiss. Peter tugs and he follows, letting Peter guide his feet while he lets himself be busy with kissing him senseless.

Sam loses his clothes in the process of getting back upstairs to Peter’s room. He loses his shirt early on, before they even take a single step up the stairs. His pants go somewhere around the third flight where Peter pauses to pin him against the wall and trail kisses all over his body; down his neck, his chest, his stomach and right over the prominent bulge in his sweats.

Peter mouths at the head of his cock through the fabric while his hand works the rest of his length and Sam groans, hands reaching out to clench in Peter’s hair.

“These needed to be off me like yesterday.”

 He says, aiming for sexy but just falling somewhere between breathy and whiny.  A small laugh, barely a gust of breath comes out of Peter’s mouth but he tugs the pants down to Sam’s ankles in one swift move anyway, barely pausing before leaning back in to lick a slow, wet stripe up his erection. Sam’s fingers tighten in messy brown hair when Peter does it again, slower, looking up at Sam through his lashes.

He wraps his lips around the head of his cock when he reaches it and Sam’s head thumps against the wall softly when he sucks, just lightly. He doesn’t try to take him further into his mouth and Sam shudders before he can help it, wondering if it’s because his fangs, which only come out when he’s hungry or considerably aroused, have unsheathed.

Sam makes a soft, startled noise, all thoughts about Peter’s fangs dissipating when he feels a finger dip into his crack and trace it down to his hole.

“If you intend to finish what you’re starting, we need to move one more floor up.”

He gets out, voice low and rough. Peter pulls his mouth away from him but Sam can’t resent it that much because Peter scoops him up into his arms, wrapping Sam’s legs around his waist. He kisses Sam all the way up the last flight of stairs and into his bed without stumbling or running into anything once then trips on the carpet on the way to the bed, sending them both sprawling onto the messy sheets.

Sam gets an elbow to the rib and sharp hipbones jabbing at him in a decidedly unsexy way. They shatter the mood with all the grace and tact of a sledge hammer on china. Sam can’t help it, he snorts and then giggles.

“Really?”

“Shut up.” Peter mutters, sounding rightfully embarrassed. His voice comes muffled from where his face got smushed into the side of Sam’s neck by the fall.

“You didn’t just break the mood, you stomped on it, hit the pieces with a hammer and threw them out the window.”

Peter groans in a way that really isn’t helping them get back on track and Sam opens his mouth to say something again but Peter finally lifts his face so he can look down at him with an eyebrow raised, irritated and challenging.

“Really?” He asks, rolling his hips deliberately and rubbing up against Sam’s still very present erection. “Because you still feel pretty hard to me. But hey we can stop right now if you want.” He says casually, even as his hips start up a slow, steady rhythm, hands moving down to Sam’s hips to urge them into motion.  He’s every bit as hard as Sam is, so he knows he really would rather keep going too. Sam’s mouth falls open when one of Peter’s hands slide up to brush against his nipple.

“If you stop now, I’ll throw you out the window.” He murmurs as Peter leans down, bracing his elbows on either side of Sam’s head. Sam licks at the curve of the infuriating little smirk that forms on his lips and kisses it away hungrily.

“I won’t. If I remember right, someone wanted me to finish what I started.” Peter gasps as he pulls away. The words send a shivering thrill through Sam that grows stronger when Peter leans over to reach toward the night stand.

He comes back with a small bottle of lube and a condom which Sam takes, moving to rip it open while Peter uncaps the lube and pours some onto his fingers.  His fingers slip against the foil, eyes closing with a soft exhale when Peter reaches down between his legs, slick fingers brushing against his balls before pressing and rubbing at his entrance.

When he opens his eyes, Peter is looking at him. His pupils are blown so wide, there’s barely any blue left. Sam opens his mouth and instantly forgets what he’s about to say when Peter leans down and licks at his bottom lip. His tongue slides between his lips the same moment Sam feels a finger slowly work its way into him. He sighs, legs falling apart further so Peter could have more room. He gets a noise of approval and Peter pressing in closer, mouth practically devouring his.

Sam feels their teeth clack and a bolt of adrenaline shoots down his spine like lightning, brief but electrifying when he feels something pointed brush against his bottom lip.

He doesn’t have any personal experience to refer to when it comes to exactly how sharp Peter’s fangs are. No, Peter is much too careful, much too condemning of even the thought of drawing blood from Sam but Sam has touched them before, accidentally and otherwise. He’s seen Peter literally rip his shirt off him with his teeth, tearing through the fabric like paper so he has a pretty good idea of exactly how dangerous his teeth are, how easy it would be for them to serve their purpose.

I’m having sex with a vampire he thinks. I’m having sex with a vampire and I like it. It’s far from the first time this has happened and so this is far from the first time Sam has had the thought but still, deep in the back of his mind, the part of him that’s still capable of giving a shit questions his sanity and mocks him at the same time, rolling its eyes in exasperation and telling Sam he’s exactly like those weirdos in vampire novels that think a blood sucking immortal is the most wickedly alluring thing they’ve ever seen.  

Sam’s hands find Peter’s waist, and the feel of his skin banishes any and all thoughts relating to how strange and validly dangerous this might be. He trails his palms down, over the jut of Peter’s hipbones and follows the deep v leading down to his groin. He breaks away from Sam’s mouth with a soft gasp when Sam wraps his fingers around his leaking cock, pumping it once and thumbing at the head, smearing precome. Peter works another finger into him, starting up an even, perfect rhythm that Sam follows with his hand on Peter’s dick.

Looking at the soft, red line of Peter’s mouth as it falls open into a gorgeous moan around those wicked teeth, Sam thinks that there really just might be something to all those weirdly erotic vampire novels. Peter’s tongue curls upward, sinuous and sinful, to lick at them, catching a little on the longer, sharper shape of one fang when Sam’s hand moves just right along his cock and Sam couldn’t help it, he tugs him down and kisses him again, hot and hungry.

He plunges his tongue into that dangerous mouth, moaning when he feels the tip of it graze the pointed end of one fang. He presses his tongue against it, heart hammering at the faint spark of pain that blooms at just the slightest hint of pressure.

A finger worms its way between Peter’s lips and his and the next thing Sam knows he’s being pushed away, Peter’s thumb digging into his bottom lip as he puts space between them.

“Careful.” Peter murmurs but Sam is barely listening, distracted by the feeling of Peter’s skin against his lip, slick with spit. He wraps his lips around Peter’s thumb, sucking it into his mouth and making a whining noise in the back of his throat that Peter clearly understands. He slides his hand down to tilt Sam’s neck back and Sam gasps, perhaps a bit too loudly when he feels Peter’s fangs graze, feather light against the sensitive skin between his neck and his chin. He feels the hard, sharp shape of them touch him a few more times, against his adam’s apple, above his pulse, down the line of his collar bone, a faint, dangerous sensation enveloped by the soft, wet heat of Peter’s lips and tongue.

Peter continues moving lower, kissing his way down his stomach and letting his teeth graze just the littlest bit harder against Sam’s hip bone. It’s just the faintest bit of pressure, just barely there but still, Sam feels a quick whisper of pain where Peter’s fangs scrape. Peter kisses the spot immediately afterwards in apology. He’ll probably give Sam a verbal one too, knowing him so he raises his head, intending to beat him to it only to have the words disappear into a soft moan when Peter nuzzles at his inner thigh, kissing and suckling at the soft skin there.

Sam head falls back against the pillow with a thump when Peter licks up his cock and slides a third finger in at the same time. He groans, back arching when Peter starts to work him harder, his fingers curling in deeper, faster.

Sam fumbles with the condom again, ripping it open with a strangled “Fuck.” When Peter brushes against his prostate.

“Get back up here. Now.” He rasps out, reaching down to curl his fingers into Peter’s hair and tug. Peter goes easily, slamming their mouths back together. He pulls away barely long enough to take the condom from Sam and roll it on before he’s back to kissing Sam like it’s the only thing he has to live off on. The head of his cock nudges at Sam’s opening and Sam reaches down to guide it in, lifting his hips and mouth going slack against Peter’s when he pushes forward until he’s buried to the hilt.

Peter’s mouth leaves his as he starts moving, rolling his hips in slow, measured thrusts. He presses their foreheads together and Sam could feel the soft gusts of breath coming out of his mouth. Peter doesn’t have to breathe, a fact that Sam usually makes fun of because of Twilight but he could hardly spare the brain power to poke fun at it now because whenever Peter starts panting, it means he’s really keyed up.  

Peter shifts his hips, finding a different angle and starting up a faster rhythm, his hands finding Sam’s hips and pulling him down into each rough thrust. Sam moans, hands moving up to Peter’s shoulders, up his neck and settling into his hair. When his fingers clench hard in the brown locks at a particularly well aimed thrust, Peter makes a noise halfway between a growl and a moan and suddenly Sam is being tugged upright and settling into Peter’s lap. He groans in approval at the change, rolling his hips with each of Peter’s thrusts so that his dick rubbed up against his abs.

Peter makes the same primal noise he did before when Sam’s fingers tighten in his hair, nails scratching against his scalp. Experimentally, Sam leans back just far enough to see Peter’s face and pulls, tilting Peter’s head back so his neck is bared. He’s rewarded with a loud moan when he puts his teeth on the pale column of Peter’s throat. He kisses and bites his way down to the side of Peter’s neck, hands still gripping his hair tight and keeping his head tilted back. He gets a heated murmur of his name when he sucks hard at the spot where Peter’s pulse would be if he still had one and Sam nips at the skin before dragging his lips up to Peter’s ear.

“Would you want to do that to me?” he whispers.

Peter’s entire body shudders at the words and Sam finds himself on his back once again with Peter looming over him. The black of his pupils have receded a little but Sam knows he’s far from satisfied because there’s only bright, unnatural red now in place of the blue ring that’s supposed to be around them. Sam holds that inhuman gaze, transfixed.  They are at once beautiful and terrifying, a shade of red Sam has never seen anywhere else, like blood but brighter.

Peter has stopped moving, he’s just looking down at Sam like everything else stopped existing. Impulsively, Sam reaches up to place his palm on Peter’s jaw. His thumb slides over, and traces the part between his lips which opens wider at his touch, Peter’s lips soft and pliant under his skin. When Sam’s thumb nudges hesitantly at one of his fangs, Peter’s eyes do something strange. The red spikes, flashing brighter for a second, perhaps longer. Sam doesn’t know because Peter clenches his eyes shut and turns his head away.

“Don’t. I don’t want to hurt you.”

There were a lot of things he could say to that, several things he should say but instead, all that comes out of his mouth is

“You’re not Edward Cullen you dork.”

Peter huffs out a laugh despite himself but his eyes remain closed, face still turned away from Sam.

“I’m serious Sam.”

That makes something warm and achey grow in Sam’s chest and he reaches up again, touching his fingertips to Peter’s cheek and pressing gently, encouraging him to turn his head back to face him. Peter slowly opens his eyes and they’re still red but not the dangerous, luminescent red they were just a few seconds ago.

“You won’t. I trust you. Now are you going to hold me down and fuck me into this mattress or am I going to have to go to the bathroom and finish up by myself?”

The look on Peter’s face shifts into something that resembles awe, amusement and something else Sam can’t quite name but makes that achey, warm thing in his chest grow even warmer. It’s still there even as Peter’s lips curl up into a little smirk and his hands find Sam’s wrists, pinning them to the pillow on either side of his head.

“I can do that.” He says, voice gone low and soft.

He then proceeds to fuck Sam at a near punishing pace, his hips pistoning rough and fast. A strangled moan tumbles out of Sam’s lips that is immediately followed by another, higher one when he tries to move his arms and finds them well and truly immobilized under Peter’s grip. Above him, he can see the canopy of the four poster shaking with the force of Peter’s thrusts.

“Sam,” Peter pants, leaning down to whisper words right into his ear. “You’re so good and I want you so much. Sometimes, it’s enough that I completely forget about-“ he trails off, abandoning words in favor of pressing an open mouthed kiss against Sam’s pulse, adding just a little bit of suction.

 “Me too.” Sam rasps out. “God I’d let you do anything to me.” He pants, meaning every word.

And Peter knows it too because he groans loud into his neck and Sam feels him shudder his pleasure into his body.  He stays there, catching his breath for a minute. Then Sam feels a kiss pressed into his cheek and Peter is lifting himself up, enough to look down at him. His eyes have gone back to blue and they stare right into Sam’s as Peter shifts his hips, letting him feel every inch of his length still hard inside him. He lets go of Sam’s wrists and his hands immediately rise, fingers linking together behind Peter’s neck. Peter continues fucking him, slowly this time, each roll of his hips smooth and utterly perfect. He doesn’t look away.

Sam comes at the first pass of his hand when he wraps his fingers around his cock to jerk him in time with his thrusts. His spine arches up off the bed with a loud groan, hips thrusting up into Peter’s hand as he milks him through it. He’s still watching Sam, eyes lidded and lips parted and his hand keeps moving even as every last drop spills out of Sam.

He whimpers, grasping Peter’s wrist. “Stop, too much.”

Peter grips him tighter and pumps him one last time, finally pulling away with a chuckle when Sam whines and writhes weakly in a half-hearted attempt to get away. He presses a brief kiss to Sam’s lips peering down at him through his lashes.

“Good?”

Sam couldn’t quite muster up enough effort to look as exasperated as he wants but he gives it his best shot “It wasn’t horrible.” He says through soft pants as his breathing slows down. Peter jabs him between the ribs and Sam makes an irritated noise, swatting at his hand in return.

“You really want a good answer? Go look for one in the pieces of my brain that you fucked right out of my head.”

Peter grins at him, bright and weirdly adorable considering what he’s grinning about. He kisses at Sam’s forehead, between his brows, his cheek and finally his lips again, all lingering and tender. When he pulls back to brush some hair out of Sam’s eyes, his slowing heart rate hitches once, thumping against his ribcage fiercely.

“That was a good answer.” Peter says, looking stupidly proud like the big dumb dork that he is.

“Yeah, good job.” Sam mutters, figuring one dumb comment deserves another. He pats Peter’s head as he says it and Peter laughs.

His fangs have retracted. If they were more rounded, they could almost pass as normal canines and for a second, he looks completely normal; smacking Sam’s hand away before rolling off and settling beside him, still smiling. Sam feels just like any other person in a normal, loving relationship when Peter folds him into his arms and presses in close, resting his head on Sam’s chest and tangling their legs together.

Sam wraps his arms around him in return, staring up at the canopy contemplatively. He feels sleepy and content and it’s probably still early, even if the seasonal sun has long ago gone. Peter would probably let him sleep for a while and try to stay in bed with him until he wakes, fail and get up at 9 PM to start his day.

They’re not that different from a normal couple really. They’re just an “us with special circumstances.”

“What are you thinking about?” Peter murmurs. He doesn’t sound sleepy or tired at all but he keeps his voice soft.

“Why do you think I’m thinking about anything?” Sam murmurs back, just as softly.

“If you weren’t, you’d be snoring by now.” Peter says, nuzzling a little into Sam’s chest.

“Fair I guess. Why do you want to know what I’m thinking about?” Sam asks, one of his hands finding Peter’s shoulder and tracing idle, aimless patterns on the soft skin he finds there.

“Because it’s probably something dumb and if it is, I’d like to hear it so I can laugh.”

“Fuck youuu.”

“Mmm, maybe later.” Peter snickers. His fingers have settled beside his head on Sam’s chest and they seem to be copying the same movements Sam’s were making on his shoulder.

“If you must know, I was quoting cancelled TV shows from 2007 in my head.”

Peter sounds puzzled when he responds. “Okay…Why?”

Sam shrugs as best as he could with a full grown man laying half on top of him. “It feels appropriate.”

Peter lets it go easily enough, probably assuming this is just tired Sam gibberish. He mumbles an okay and settles down, hand lying still on Sam’s chest. Sam presses a kiss to his hair and drifts off to sleep, thinking about his unconventional lover and their unusual relationship and how he really wouldn’t want to trade it for anything. That probably makes him crazy or really really stupid but he just doesn’t care. Especially not now with Peter’s arms around him, the familiar solid weight of him on and against Sam.

“Touché Stephenie Meyer.” Sam murmurs to himself sleepily.

“Sam, go to sleep you weirdo.”

 ==============================

It’s a rainy Saturday morning when Jaime makes the flight from Texas to Missouri. It usually takes him about an hour and a half in the suit but this time, he arrives just under two, having spent the majority of his flight having an intense internal debate with himself and the scarab about whether or not he should really be doing this. Ultimately, his decision was made when he flew face first into a plane while he was distracted with yelling at Khaji Da and sped away, zipping towards Central city as fast as he could go, embarrassed and praying that the pilots don’t spot whatever it was that slammed directly into their cockpit.  

In total, the journey from El Paso to the Allen household took about 2 hours and 50 minutes. It would’ve been 2 hours and 20 if he hadn’t spent half an hour dithering on the front lawn, staring at the damp stains on the edges of the front steps left behind by the most recent shower, telling himself maybe he ought to wait juuust a little bit longer before he rang the doorbell.

“They’re probably all still asleep. It’s only like, 10 AM.”

He had murmured at the 2 hour, 46 minute mark and just as he turned to walk away and fly back home, Khaji, ever so helpful whenever Jaime desperately needed him not to be, piped up.

Several bodies identified. Heart rate and infrared indicate that all are fully conscious and functioning.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Unfortunately for him, it was at that moment that the door had opened and Joan Garrick had invited him in. Jaime of course graciously accepted her offer to come inside because despite how much he sort of desperately wanted to flee, his mom raised him never to turn down nice old ladies.

And that’s how he finds himself here now, awkwardly shuffling behind Joan while desperately trying not to look like it as she leads him down the hall. She doesn’t ask him why he came over, having gotten used to his presence over the years through the many, many visits (spontaneous and otherwise) and sleepovers with Bart he’d spent at their house. Instead, she makes small talk about the cookies she’s currently baking in the kitchen, the weather and relaying the story of how she decided to take Bart to spend the day at the Allen’s while Jay and some person named Max fixed several leaks in the roof. The mention of Bart increases the urge to run out the door and fly away but Jaime firmly tamps it down.

“How is he? Did you two get here alright?”

Joan laughs at that as they turn the corner, away from the living room. “Oh, the trip was fine. For me that is. It was a 20 minute drive. He had his phone and a tablet to distract him but still he complained most of the way here. He was grumpy for a little bit but I think he’s doing much better now.” she says just as they arrive at the stairs that lead up to the second floor of the house.

Jaime could hear the faint sound of yelling coming from above, familiar sounds, not unlike what he used to hear when Milagro was younger and his baby cousins came over to play.

Joan cups a hand over her mouth and calls out, “Bart! Sweetie, there’s a young man here to see you. He stood on the lawn for almost half an hour-”

Jaime looks at her in surprise, immediately mortified. He opens his mouth to spew out an excuse but she continues before he could, suddenly switching to a slight western accent.

“-he said somethin about asking for your hand in marriage.”

The mortification amps up and is joined by bafflement and he spends so long wondering just what the hell that’s supposed to mean that before he could think of a thing to say, Bart is hobbling around the corner. The look of curiosity on his face changes to delight when he sees Jaime who feels a twinge of guilt, trying hard not to frown or look as concerned as he feels when Bart maneuvers down the stairs as fast as he can. Which is really not fast at all given his current condition and the cane that just makes going down the stairs even harder than it needs to be. Bart hardly seems to notice, grinning as he parrots back the accent that Joan just used.

“Oh happy day Joan! Oh I thought I was gonna have to spend my dowry on booze and pills to numb the loneliness-”

Bart almost crashes right into him in his haste to get down and Jaime immediately goes to steady him, blinking in surprise when Bart drapes an arm over his shoulder and leans in quickly to whisper “Quick, pick me up, suit up and fly upstairs.”

He says “just do it, this is so important.” in an insistent whisper when Jaime asks why so (with some reluctance) he does, Joan’s laughter floating up behind them as Jaime carefully flies up with Bart clinging to him like an excited  damsel, yelling “A gentleman caller, hooray!”

“What the heck was that about ese?” Jaime asks after they disappear behind the corner Bart came from, carefully setting Bart on his feet.

“I was watching Easy A in the car earlier with no headphones on.” Bart says with a shrug. He’s still smiling and now that it’s just the two of them, the twinge of guilt returns, strong and awful as it twists up his insides. This is the first time in about a week that he’s seen Bart since the incident at the gym and he’s looking at Jaime like it never happened but still, Jaime could see the wide green eyes that looked at him with such pure, unadulterated terror. And he can’t get rid of the image even now, as the very same ones look at him with the same happy fondness he’s gotten used to over the years.

“So, what brings you to my neck of the woods?” Bart asks as he limp-walks down the hall, in the direction of the loud voices.  The twins most definitely. An older male voice pops up here and there; their dad, Jaime is assuming.

“I just wanted to check on you. Are you uhh, alright?”

Scans show that the Impulse has no sign of severe physical injury. Diagnosis: Psychosomatic pain

I know that! That’s not what I meant. Jaime thinks vehemently.

Bart doesn’t pause or look over his shoulder as he answers. “I’m okay.”

Jaime frowns, staring intently at the back of Bart’s head and trying to drown out the sound of him hyperventilating, the few sobs that must’ve wreaked havoc on his lungs as they tore their way out in between gasping breaths. Batgirl’s voice echoes loud in his ears, the alarm clear as day on her face as she shoves him away.

Blue, please, power down and just get away from him!

“Bart,” he calls out tentatively. He wanted to reach out and put a hand on his shoulder to stop him but didn’t dare try.

“Hmm?”

 “I’m sorry about-”

He would’ve expected Bart to jump in with a cheery, confused “about what?”, layering on the fake, peachy attitude until everything goes away. Part of Jaime actually wanted him to but he’s relieved when Bart doesn’t. Instead, he finally stops, turns and looks Jaime in the eye.

“Blu-...Jaime. It’s okay. What happened wasn’t your fault.”

When he’s met by silence on Jaime’s end, Bart tilts his head to the side and asks. “Comprende?”

Jaime startles them both a little with a laugh. “Your accent is still horrible.”

Bart puts on an exaggeratedly offended expression and puts a hand to his chest. “I do say sir, that is not how you talk to a lady.” he says, reverting to the fake western accent.

“No, stop that. That accent is worse than your Spanish.”

“You keep them insults comin, you won’t be gettin my dowry sir.” Bart says, leaning on his cane and jutting his hip out to the side, wagging a finger in Jaime’s face.

The sound of tiny feet thundering towards them, hardly muffled by the carpet, makes them both turn. Dawn and Don Allen, who both must’ve been trying very unsuccessfully to sneak up on Bart, start shrieking the moment they see that they’ve been spotted. They run straight for him as fast as their tiny legs could go and Jaime is glad that the two don’t seem to have developed their powers yet and only make Bart stumble a little when they end up running right into his legs. Bart has to quickly put a hand over his knee to serve as padding between it and Don’s face who only giggles as his cheek bounces off his future son’s palm.

“Bart! Bart!”

The twins are barely 2 years old and they’re learning to speak but they don’t quite get the hang of saying words yet. R’s are one of the letters they have trouble with and out of their mouths, Bart’s name sounds like “Bwaht”

Dawn says something like “Bart we missed you!” while Don simultaneously yells something about Bart needing to save them from a monster, Jaime isn’t sure. He’s missing a few words and misusing tenses. It’s been a while since Milagro managed to first learn how to speak flawless, coherent English and he’s out of practice decoding baby speak.

There’s a blur and a short, sudden breeze and suddenly Dawn and Don are screeching in delight as they’re suddenly scooped up and held securely against someone’s chest. Someone tall with bright red hair.

Jaime blinks once as he finds himself face to face with Wally West. So that’s who the other voice was, the cousin, not the dad. It’s been almost 5 months since Wally turned up not dead but still it was somewhat of a shock to see him. For his part, the older speedster seems just as surprised to see Jaime there. His brow furrows and Jaime feels a pang of nervousness, wondering if Wally was upset in any way with him for Bart’s panic attack in the gym.

The twist of his lips seem to point more toward confusion than anger though and Jaime breathes out a silent sigh of relief when Wally simply asks. “Blue Beetle right?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

Wally nods once and shifts Dawn up to sit on his shoulder where she immediately busies herself with playing with his hair. It’s longer now than it was three years ago when he disappeared and Dawn buries her tiny hands in it, smiling as she twists her fingers in the wavy red strands. “Wally has pretty haiiir.” She coos.

“Just like you Dawnie.” Wally says, jostling her once and making her giggle. He turns to Jaime afterward and nothing in his expression indicates anything even remotely close to concealed animosity but still Jaime feels nervous all over again.

“How you doing? Is there something wrong? Not that it’s not good to see you, but why are you here?”

Somehow “I just want to see how Bart is doing” didn’t seem like the right thing to say and before Jaime could overthink it, he opens his mouth and says “I just wanted to talk to Bart over something.” He stutters a little over the next few words that spill out, almost out of their own volition. “I. uh-I’m sorry about last w-”

His sentence sharply transitions into an expletive that would’ve earned him a cuff to the head from his mom when Bart suddenly thwacks him in the shin with his cane.

“Stop that.” Bart says firmly, eyes narrowed slightly into a glare.

Wally darts a quick glance between the two of them and Jaime suddenly feels uncomfortably transparent even though he’s pretty sure Wally (or anyone for that matter) doesn’t know about him and Bart.

“Right. Well, it sure looks like you guys have something to talk about. Good luck.”

He walks away before either of them could say anything, the twins still held securely in his arms. Wally distracts them with the promise of popcorn, kitkat bars and uninterrupted TV time to keep them from noticing that they’re being pulled away from Bart who they were very glad to see and whose attention they were probably very much planning to monopolize just a few seconds ago.

Jaime tries not to focus on the silence between him and Bart after they leave, instead listening intently to the sound of the twins giggling and egging him on as Wally hops down the stairs and Joan’s voice greeting the twins happily with them responding ecstatically in return.

“It’s rare to see Wally without Nightwing these days. Does he visit often?”

“Jaime really? I was like, a gold medalist at diversion and changing the subject. That’s not going to work on me.”

“Okay but really though, don’t you find it weird that Nightwing is dating your cousin now?”

He gets another thwack to the shin in response.

“Ow! Alright, I’m sorry. Jeez, when did you get so hit-y? You’re too young to be hitting people in the shin with your walking stick.”

Jaime says, reaching down to rub at the stinging spot at his shin that might possibly bruise later. Jeez, Bart is not happy with him. The thought gives him pause, making him consider how Bart must be feeling right now. The words he’s heard a few weeks ago, a few days after Bart came out of surgery and was proclaimed fully intact physically only 15 minutes later, start bouncing around in his head and it was all he could do not to drop to his knees and apologize until his throat is raw.  

Psychosomatic pain

Trauma induced

Emotional relapse

Sypmptoms of PTSD

Bart hasn’t said a word to him about it and he only knew about the diagnosis on why Bart was limping around and feeling pain when no test or scan could spot any flaw in his physical well-being from Batman, when he announced to the team that Bart would be temporarily out of commission. Other than the incident at the gym and a few frustrated outbursts in the beginning, Bart seems to be doing mostly okay.

It hasn’t been that long to everybody else but to a speedster, it probably feels like it’s been months and at this point, Bart is either just on the halfway mark to recovery or just about ready to snap. Jaime honestly couldn’t tell which one. Beastboy told him a little while ago that he overheard Black Canary talking with Leslie Thompkins and a Psychiatrist and the three of them are guessing that Bart suffered an intensely traumatic physical injury, in the future and getting shot in the knee must have bought it all back. Jaime doesn’t know if he should believe him or not. It makes sense but he knows he kind of doesn’t want to believe it.

“Can I just-“ his voice comes out soft but rough, like his throat was fighting to keep the words back and Jaime clears it briefly, taking a deep breath afterward to steel himself. “Can I just ask you one thing? And please tell me the truth.”

The words feel like they’re attached to strings, strings that invisible hands tug on, weak but insistent, trying to pull them back into his mouth. Jaime fights it though, telling himself firmly that he should’ve had this talk with Bart not last week, not when they started dating but years ago, after Bart came to the past to save him and the rest of the world. There would be no dancing around it now, no reluctant acceptance of Bart’s preemptive, unconditional forgiveness, he’s going to come right out and ask.

“Did I hurt you in the future? Like me directly. Did the moded Blue Beetle ever hit you, or shoot at you or anything like that?”

Bart’s lips immediately part and almost as quicky, his jaw snaps shut, eyebrows furrowing. Jaime could see him hesitating and his heart sinks.

“Beetle shot at the ground next to me once. He did that all the time to scare sla-…people though.”

“Is that all he ever did?” Jaime almost stumbles over the middle of his question, barely missing swapping he out for I, not wanting Bart to shut down now that he’d gotten a little of gritty, unpleasant truth out of him.

Bart’s eyes slide away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“So it shouldn’t make a difference whether you tell me or not right?”

“That’s not what I-”

“Bart. Please.”

Jaime carefully steps forward and reaches for Bart’s free hand, the one that isn’t wrapped around the cane. He makes sure his grip is gentle and he strokes his thumb, featherlight over Bart’s knuckles.

“Last week, you freaked out because of me. You were sitting close by watching us train, and when the armor formed the canon, you flipped.”

Though flipped might not have been the right word. Flipped would’ve meant flailing and screaming. Bart sort of did the opposite. At first at least. And it’s amazing how it got the same reaction or possibly worse out of Jaime. He felt the same immediate stab of fear when Cassie had flown over from when she was dodging projectiles from Tigress and asked “Bart, what’s wrong?” that he would’ve felt if Bart had fallen off the bench he was sitting on and screamed at the top of his lungs. He felt the same, bone deep rush of cold dread when he looked over to see Bart staring straight ahead, pale as a sheet and trembling slightly.

The wild panic in his eyes and the weak but instinctive flinch-jerk motion of his body when Jaime touched him felt the same as a punch and an alarmed yell of “GET AWAY FROM ME” would’ve he was sure.

“I might’ve seen him do terrible things to other people. And he might’ve been the cause of a few scrapes and bruises. But nothing more than that.”

Bart’s tiny reassurance does absolutely nothing and Jaime’s sure it shows on his face because Bart moves closer, possibly to hug him. Jaime steps away, shaking his head. He puts both hands to his face and takes a deep, loud breath.

“Oh god. Should we really be doing this?” He asks lowering his hands enough that he could look at Bart.

There’s a hint of worry lingering in the downturned corners of his mouth and it becomes much more pronounced when Jaime continues.

“Us I mean.”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

He’s been feeling constantly like punching himself in the face ever since the gym incident happened and the look Bart gives him at that makes him feel like throwing in a few kicks and an energy blast for good measure.

“No! Maybe? I don’t know.”

“t’noduoyevolem?”

It came out too fast and almost in a squeak but still, the scarab heard it perfectly and helpfully rights the backwards words and feeds them to Jaime’s brain. Jaime looks at Bart, stunned and Bart’s eyes find his feet.

“Sorry.  I hung out with Zatanna for an hour a few days ago and we were talking with backwards words the whole time because I could and she thought it was cute. I got really nervous so I sorta just. That just kind of came out.”

“I do. I- yeah, I really do.”

He feels something as he speaks and he can’t quite put a word to it. It feels like it’s too many things at once, all trying to take up space in his chest. He does know though, that whatever it is, he sees it reflected back when Bart looks up at him, green eyes hopeful and all the more worried because of it. It’s making this conversation even harder to have but Jaime pushes through.

“Which is why I’m wondering if I should maybe stay away. At the very least, until you’re better.”

Bart jolts forward and grabs his hand as if Jaime was going to bolt and Jaime’s breath catches in his throat.

“Bart! Cookies are ready! Bring Jaime down and come have some!”

Joan’s voice calls out sweetly. Bart looks to the direction of the stairs, a beat passes and then to Jaime’s surprise, he cups a hand beside his mouth and calls back “Okay! Be down in a minute.” He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at Jaime as he limps as quickly as he could, towards the stairs.

This behavior indicates that the Impulse is angry at you.

The scarab, ever so helpful, provides to the question he didn’t even have to ask.

“Naww, you think?” Jaime mutters under his breath, moving swiftly forward in an almost jog to catch up to Bart.  Even if the scarab hadn’t spoken, the way that Bart bats his hands away before they could even touch him and says “I got it, I don’t need help.” when Jaime tries to offer to carry him down the stairs would’ve spelled out in big bold letters that Bart is pissed at him.

Jaime follows him down the stairs hesitantly and lingers at the bottom, watching as Bart hobbles into the kitchen without him, still without hardly a glance or an acknowledgment that he’s even aware Jaime is still there. This was his idea but still, he can’t help thinking it a little bit strange, the slight wave of nausea he felt, the hollow space that seems to be slowly forming somewhere in his middle, sucking up his guts and making itself bigger by the second.

Recommended course of action: leave and let tempers cool down.

It says something about how out of his depth he was in this situation, or maybe it just says something about how sadly inept he is at handling relationship problems that he’s taking advice from the scarab of all people but either way, Jaime accepts what a tragedy it is and silently flees, going back up the stairs and sneaking out through a window so that Joan and Wally wouldn’t hear him go.

He makes a mental note to send Wally a text or something later on, to apologize for leaving so suddenly and another one to apologize in person to Joan when or if he ever sees her again.

 ===================================

He planned to stick to the scarab’s advice, he really did. Initially, he told himself that he would wait for at least a week, give Bart some space before talking to him again. He didn’t even ask about him when he sent the text to Wally he told himself he would. And Wally didn’t bring him up either, probably sensing that they had some sort of fallout and not wanting to get involved….or secretly being pissed that Jaime went and hurt his cousin. Again. He didn’t sound upset when he replied and he also didn’t say anything along the lines of “Bart isn’t sleeping or eating, what did you do?”  so Jaime was just going to leave him be.  

He holds out for about two days before getting worried and deciding to text Bart. Jaime spends most of the day deciding what to say and pretends to lock himself up in his room with homework after dinner so that he wouldn’t get distracted or be tempted to change his mind.

His parents easily believe him about the 8 page essay he really had to work on after helping with the dishes and he barely manages not to run up the stairs to his room.

A heart attack almost happens when he opens the door and finds someone sitting on his bed. Jaime doesn’t quite power up and aim a canon at the invader’s face but it’s a near thing. It’s a very near thing.

“What the- Bart?!”

He hears himself ask. The boy on his bed, who appears to be none other than the one he’s been meaning to text this evening, just gives him a somewhat pinched looking smile and an awkward wave to match. Jaime blinks once, twice. When he shakes his head and clenches his eyes shut only to find Bart still very much there, he quickly sticks his head back out into the hall, listens intently for the sounds of his family still down stairs and rushes back into the room. The door is shut as quickly and silently as he could manage and he turns the lock just in case.

When he turns back, Bart is just as he was a few seconds before; sitting at the foot of Jaime’s bed with his cane leaning against his knee. He’s wearing ripped jeans and a Flash hoodie and doesn’t appear to be sleep deprived or upset. He’s watching Jaime a little nervously, like he’s the one who did something wrong. Something lurches in Jaime’s gut.

“How did you get up here?” Jaime asks.

Bart shrugs. “I have friends with superpowers.”

“Ah.” Jaime offers dumbly, wondering which person on the team decided to sneak Bart out of the house and bring him here and how much they knew about the situation.

“About the other day…are we, you know, actually officially not a thing anymore?”

“Uhh,” is Jaime’s oh so eloquent answer. Which actually deserves that word since it’s a more or less perfect approximation of what was going on in his brain in response to the question. A moment of total chaos swarms his thoughts, with all sorts of tangled feelings, half of which point to no while the other half point to yes. Before he could even try to make sense of any of them, Bart is speaking again.

“Did you want to break up just because you’re worried that being around you isn’t good for me? Or is there another reason?”

Bart’s eyes look huge and apprehensive as he reaches the end of his question. Jaime’s instinctual reaction was to put his hands up and back away, until he realized what Bart is asking.

“No. Ese, there is no other reason, I promise.”

“So, if it wasn’t for this,” Bart says, pointing back and forth between his head and his knee. “You wouldn’t want to stop being my boyfriend?”

For a few seconds Jaime hears his own heart beat so loudly in his ears, all he could do is nod.

Bart studies him, the nervousness in them fading away to be replaced with something that makes holding his gaze suddenly difficult, something that makes him look much older than his years. It’s a look that held the kind of intensity that still slips into Bart’s expression every once and a while, the one that made whoever is looking at him suddenly remember and believe without a doubt that he had to grow up too fast and has seen and lived through things most grown-ups in this world, wouldn’t be able to handle probably.

“I’m tired. Do you mind if I just sleep here?”

A small, puzzled frown forms on Jaime’s face and he opens his mouth to speak but Bart beats him to it.

“Please?”

That gives him pause and pushes the idea of refusal back. Bart hardly ever said please. Usually, he just went and did things or he said it just before getting impatient and doing whatever he wanted regardless of anyone’s approval. So whatever it is he’s up to right now, he’s serious about it.

Jaime looks over his shoulder at his closed door, opens and closes his mouth and finally, hesitantly nods.

“Sure.”

Bart gives him a small smile, puts his cane down on the floor and slowly tilts sideways, sliding up towards the pillows and resting his head just on the edge of the left one, the one that Jaime always sleeps on. He closes his eyes. After a moment or two of hesitation, Jaime goes to sit at the foot of the bed and watches him for a little while. Bart appears to actually go to sleep right there on his bed and Jaime observes the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, the curves of his fingers where they lay half curled next to his face. His jaw is sharper, and the faint freckles that have ghosted his cheeks before are completely gone.

God he’s really not a kid anymore and Jaime’s known him for long enough now that he doesn’t feel weird or embarrassed at all anymore about realizing how beautiful he is.

Jaime reaches over and carefully brushes some hair out of Bart’s eyes, watching in silent fascination at the way his lashes flutter every other second. He stays there for a little while longer before going to sit at his desk to browse the net for a while. He contemplates sending Wally a text before discarding the idea. He’s at a little bit of a loss of what to do and he thinks that someone somewhere would definitely be worried. But hey It’s Bart, this is hardly the first time he threw a wrench in his plans before turning them inside out while somehow managing to blow things up along the way. Sometimes it takes a long time to set things right again after Bart pulls something like this so Jaime decides that thinking about what to do about this strange little situation could wait at least until Bart is awake.

Which turns out, wouldn’t possibly be until tomorrow.  By the time midnight rolls around and Bart is still softly snoring on his bed, Jaime sets his alarm back two hours with a small, resigned sigh, figuring it’s more than enough time to sneak Bart out of the house without alerting his parents or Milagro. He goes to his closet to get enough blankets to make a makeshift bed on the floor and gets about 4 heaped into his arms when he hears a soft rustle and his name, being uttered by a voice rough with sleep.

He turns to find Bart watching him through lidded eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Making a nest to sleep on.”

Bart makes a vaguely interested noise and yawns, rubbing at one eye. “Why? You have a bed.”

“It’s currently occupied.”

Bart drops his hand and the eye he was just rubbing slowly reopens. “So? There’s definitely room for you in here.” Bart says as he blinks, eyes opening all the way. They gaze at him steadily, way more alert for someone who’d just been awake for like 2 seconds and watching as the hesitation clouds his features. A hand lifts from the mess of blankets that Bart has since made out of the ones Jaime thought to drape over him about an hour after he fell asleep and reaches towards him.

“Come on. I’ll even let you be the big spoon if you want.”

That coaxes a smile out of Jaime who hesitantly puts the blankets back and shuts the closet door. “What if I wanted to be the small spoon?”

“Fine by me. You’re better for it anyway, you’re getting shorter every day.”

“Hey.” Jaime protests, even as he carefully climbs into the space between the blanket and the bed that Bart clears for him. “I’m a perfectly decent height. You’re just growing like a giraffe.”

“Oooh a giraffe. What a very poetic compliment Mr. Reyes.” Bart says, pulling Jaime flush against him as soon as he settles down.

Jaime finds himself unable to answer, suddenly too aware of the familiar pleasant warmth of Bart against him, the solid shape of his chest and arms that Jaime had grown accustomed to. He’s also all too aware of the scarab, trapped between them and pressed right up against Bart’s heart. Even if it was through their clothes, Jaime feels it and is suddenly unsettled by it in a way he’s never been. There’s been a faint worry before sure but that was before. Bart means something else to him now and-

“Do you want to know something?”

Bart’s voice is quiet and goosebumps break out on the back of Jaime’s neck where his words brush against his skin in a soft puff of warm air.

“Hm?”

“I’ve been having nightmares on and off since I got shot. I’ve been having them every night this week.”

Jaime frowns and tries to get up but Bart’s arms tighten around him, preventing him from moving away.

“Funny though, I slept just fine here, knowing that you’d be close by the whole time.”

Jaime goes very still at that, his frown rapidly fading.

“You probably thought I’m afraid of you. Even if I don’t know it. But I’m not. Everything in me knows it, I know it even when I’m literally asleep. You make me better, not worse.”

Jaime’s chest suddenly feels a little too small, too fragile for all the things he’s feeling and it’s embarrassing and stupid and a little scary. For a second he almost feels like he wants to cry but the urge passes as he takes a deep breath.

Fingertips drag across his back, sliding down until he couldn’t feel them anymore. They stop above his shoulder blades and Jaime knows that they’re still there, over the slight bump in his shirt hiding the smooth surface of the scarab.

“This isn’t you. It’s not even him, not anymore. Some small part of me is confused about that but it’ll stop. I’ll make it stop because it’s wrong. And when I do, I need you with me.”

Bart presses his face against the back of Jaime’s neck and his hands find his and hold on. They’re cold but it feels good, feels right to have them wrap around Jaime’s own.

“Te amo.”

Jaime’s laugh is too soft, too tender but he doesn’t care. “Your accent is so baaad. Do you do that on purpose? I swear to god.”

“Hey, I’m trying to have a real, heartfelt moment here.” Bart complains but Jaime could feel the curve of his mouth against his skin. It feels suspiciously like a smile.

“I mean it though. I need you with me, not away from me.”

Jaime goes quiet at that and if there had been a trajectory, a structure to things as they are now and how he thought they’d be in the future, in the space of one breath and the next, Bart disassembles that whole world and puts it back in a different order, leaving Jaime helpless in the wake of it, giving him no choice but to follow the new path Bart just carved out for him.

“You love me too right?”

Jaime is sure that the only way he should and could respond to that is to turn around and kiss Bart like it’s the only thing worth doing, like it’s what he should’ve been doing this whole time. Bart sighs into his mouth like he’s been holding his breath and Jaime had just knocked it right out of him then he’s kissing Jaime back with just as much fervor, hands coming up to rest against either side of his face.

Bart holds on, even as Jaime pulls away for air and he presses short lingering kisses to his lips like he just couldn’t wait until Jaime’s are back on his again. So Jaime obliges, leaning back in for another, slower kiss that leaves them both breathless and clinging to each other like they won’t let go.

“No more trying to decide what’s good for me. No more running. This is where you should be.”

Bart murmurs against his cheek before kissing it gently.

“Duh. This is my room and my bed.” Jaime says, chest too full to say anything else. He gets a playful nip to the opposite cheek in response. He laughs and weakly swats at Bart’s arm.

“I got you though. I’ll be right here, no more running.”

“I know. Most of the sisters at the Abbey are in the next town, delivering supplies to the other orphanages there that need some. We’re left with the older ones, they get tired easily and they need more sleep so they make everyone tuck in early.”

Damian makes a noise that barely passes for polite interest and raises his arms, beckoning Colin down with a curt command of “Come.”

This is routine for them now and the smile on Colin’s face hardly dims as he bends down and scoops Damian up into his arms. Carrying a half boy-half beast who is built to take down whales and sharks and who knows what other manner of creature down below is hardly an easy task but Colin’s been getting better at it. He only lets out a soft grunt, straightens his back and tenses his shoulders just like he would if he’s hauling sacks of potatoes or big baskets of vegetables from the markets all the way to the kitchens of the orphanage and carefully makes his way across the soft, damp sand, towards the cluster of tide pools hidden away behind the colony of rocks and boulders inhabiting the beach.

Neither of them speak as Colin walks, letting the distant sound of the waves rolling over the shore and the soft drag of the tips of Damian’s tail fin across the sand fill up the silence between them.  Colin sets him down immediately once they arrive at their usual place, a decent sized pool big enough for Damian’s tail and with just the right amount of rocks for comfortable sitting. Colin still isn’t sure just how Damian decided that, or how he can feel anything under his tail when the skin over it is as rough as stone, like a shark’s. But Colin is hardly one for arguing and besides, he likes their pool. When the moon is full, the light shines down directly on it, making the water and the stones shine black and silver.

It’s hiding behind the clouds tonight but still, a stone here, a shell there and the small ripples of water Damian makes as he settles all reflect the soft glow of Damian’s lamp like tiny blue stars. Damian sets it down next to him and it settles against the rocks with a soft ‘clink’ like glass. Colin looks at it contemplatively as he sits down on a rock above the water and dips his feet, wondering what it’s made of.

“It’s just glass.”

Colin blinks, eyes moving up to Damian’s face. “Humans have them too yes? The cage you use for your fire is made out of it.”

“You mean my lamp? Yes I think so. How do your people make glass?”

“Out of sand.”

“Yes but-”

He’s abruptly cut off when a few things simultaneously happen. First, Damian’s eyes move and spot something, then they’re narrowing and the next thing Colin knows, there’s a finger ghosting over his cheek.

“You’re hurt.”

“Oh, yes.” Colin says, suddenly remembering the bruise over his cheek bone and the light scratch under his eye that Damian is now curiously prodding.  “I got into a bit of a fight with some of the older boys from the town.”

Damian’s brows slant downwards and his lips curve into a frown. Coupled with the gold hoop in his nose, the expression reminds Colin of an angry bull.

“Kill them.” He says seriously.

“No.”

“Lure them to the beach and I will kill them for you.”

“No!”

“Tt.”

Damian looks at him like he’s a particularly dumb child and crosses his arms, leaning back against the rocks. “I still don’t understand. These boys are nasty. They pick on smaller, weaker children, cause injury to them and those who would defend them. They deserve to be eliminated.”

“Is that really how you deal with things in the ocean?”

“We recognize injustice and we would be no better than the mindless creatures who swim outside our gates if we do not rid ourselves of it.”

“Yes but it isn’t like they’ve killed anybody-“

“I advise you not to wait until they do.”

“Damian.” Colin sighs and shakes his head. “There’s a saying about an eye for an eye that the nuns always tell us. An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind. I’m still not sure I agree with it, turning the other cheek and all that but still. I don’t think taking a head for an eye would solve anything.”

Damian ‘hmph’s, frustrated. He stares at Colin intently, wondering what kind of demented god would make a creature so silly. Colin stares back at him with huge dark eyes that turn different colors in the daylight. There’s bits of skin peeling off his nose, something Colin has informed him long ago, was normal for someone with red hair if they stay out in the sun too long, as if that made a lick of sense. Stupid, stupid boy with eyes like the sea and skin so delicate it could hardly handle the sun. What imbecile of a deity decided that he belongs on land?

Before he could say anything else, Colin suddenly straightens up, blinking. “Oh! I almost forgot, I bought you something.”

Damian tilts his head, suddenly curious. He watches silently as Colin rummages around in his satchel for something and smiles triumphantly when he finds it.

“I just started as the blacksmith’s apprentice a month ago and I needed a lot of help to finish it but I think it turned out alright.” Colin says, reaching out for Damian’s hand and putting something long and flat in his palm. Damian runs his fingers over it, silently observing the texture of rough leather. He pauses when he feels the familiar, solid shape of a hilt and grips the thing with both hands. A gentle tug releases a small, curved dagger from the sheath he’s holding and Damian holds it closer to the light, watching as the sharp steel glints blue. There are carved designs that the light couldn’t get into and they stand out in inky black lines.

“You probably have a lot more like it and they’re probably all better than this one but-“

“It suffices as a present.” Damian finishes for him.

Colin beams, wide and pleased. “I’m assuming that’s Damian speak for you like it.”

Damian just quirks a brow at him, sliding the dagger back into its sheath and tucking it into the sash around his waist. Colin’s wide grin just softens as if Damian had smiled and said “yes of course.”

“I have something else for you.” Colin says. Unlike the dagger, he knew precisely where his other gift is and the hesitation that suddenly creeps into his expression is completely at odds with the confident trajectory of his hand as it goes to pull a small, velvet pouch out of his pocket. There’s no preamble this time as Colin hands him the pouch.

Damian takes it, immediately shaking the contents out unto his palm, curious. Two gold hoops tumble out, about the same size as the ones on his tail. Both have glass beads looped through them, red and yellow and green.

“I umm, made these too. The blacksmith who’s teaching me had some scraps of gold lying around and uhh-” Colin trails off, noticing Damian’s silence as he stares at the hoops in his hand.

He continues to stare at them with an intensely contemplative look on his face for several, long moments and then his brow furrows. He looks at Colin, then back down at the hoops and back up at Colin again.

“In my culture, receiving jewelry could be taken to mean that the giver is interested in you romantically.”

“Does it?”

Colin’s surprise would probably be believable if not for the slight way his voice rises in pitch near the end of his question.

“Yes. And I believe I’ve told you that before.”

“Oh. Did y- uh, you might have said something like that yes.” Colin says, looking away and focusing on one of the stripes on Damian’s tail. It’s gotten longer than when they first met and according to Damian, it could grow to be twice as long as it is now by the time he’s fully matured. Colin could imagine what Damian would look like then and goes contemplative at the image of an older Damian with wider, stronger shoulders, and a long, sleek tail as big as a full grown human, lurking in the deep, shadowy depths of the sea; inhuman and beautiful and terrifying. Would that powerful, wraithlike creature wear the gold rings he made? Should he? He startles when Damian’s tail suddenly twitches, sending ripples of water rolling every which way.

When he looks up, Damian is staring at him as intently as he had been at Colin’s second gift. In the light of the blue sphere by his tail, Damian looks nothing at all like the terrifying creature he’d just conjured in his imagination. Ignoring the long, shark-like tail that could grow to be able to squeeze the life out of creatures bigger than him someday, Damian looked just like a boy; young and soft and as unsure as Colin felt. He looked just like the unexpectedly kind creature that came straight out myth to save him from drowning that first day, like the baffled boy that thought he was gravely ill when he saw the darkened and peeling skin on Colin’s shoulder after a long day out in the sun. Looking at him now, doesn’t make Colin think he should or even could fear him for what he could become. Looking at him now just makes Colin feel like Damian has already dragged him out to sea, too far from shore and plunged him down and his heart gives a vicious kick in his chest, suddenly terrified of the words that could come out of Damian’s mouth next.

He needn’t fear because Damian doesn’t say a word. Instead he reaches out, wraps, rough fingers around Colin’s arm and tugs. He doesn’t use much force but still, Colin curls down almost helplessly, like a pebble swept out to sea under a huge wave. Damian’s lips taste of salt and are as cold as his fingers but softer than Colin expected and they move against his with a gentleness he didn’t think Damian was capable of.

Any thought about why he shouldn’t be doing this evaporates as Damian pulls him down into the water and onto his lap. The kiss gets considerably less tentative as a damp hand slides up over his shirt to rest on his chest. Colin finds his own hands wandering and shivers a little at the feel of bare, wet skin under his fingers. Damian makes a noise when he brushes against the near invisible slits along his ribs and Colin breaks the kiss with a breathless apology.

“Sorry. I’m sorry, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Damian replies and a slight thrill courses through Colin’s veins to know that someone that could probably hold his breath for hours sounds as out of it as he does.

“So…what would this mean in your culture?” Colin asks tentatively.

Damian looks a little startled before going thoughtful. He doesn’t throw Colin’s gifts or Colin himself off his lap though so Colin takes that as a good sign.

“This is not exactly a good idea, you know that right?” Damian asks, even as his fingers curl slightly into the fabric of Colin’s shirt.

Colin bites his lip and nods. “But,”