#marble replies

When Dick stumbles into his apartment, tripping in through the window at his fire escape, he doesn’t make it to his bed. He gives a little groan, manages to shut the window and close the curtains, but stays on the floor where he landed and somehow manages to reach a corner of his comforter, pulling it down on top of him from the bed. The sun’s already coming up, the light making a halo glow around the drawn curtains, and Dick tries hard to not think about how early it is.

He should have stayed at the manor to sleep. He’s pretty sure Alfred would have preferred that after seeing the bruise all along his right side, but he put on his typical smile and said he’d be fine getting back to his apartment. It wasn’t the bruise that would kill him, not even the ribs he was sure were fractured, but maybe the lack of sleep.

At the manor, he didn’t. At the manor, he sparred with Damian until the boy’s adrenaline wore off and, even if he never wanted to admit it, he’d fall asleep as Dick carried him up to bed. At the manor, he would push until Tim finally turned away from the computer screen, shoved him up the stairs to his own bedroom, and threatened to lock him in if he didn’t get at least four hours. At the manor, he called to check in on Jason. He promised to never relay the message with Bruce, but still he did. At the manor, Dick could never let himself relax.

He played peacemaker between Tim and Damian. Between Jason and Bruce. Jason and Tim. Damian and Bruce. It didn’t matter. Any combination. He made sure they slept, brushed their teeth, cleaned their cuts. Ate.

Alfred always told him to not worry. That he took care of the small things like that, but for Dick they didn’t feel small. They were tiny little things that they needed to keep going. All the things they forgot about, but he didn’t. The smallest things he could do for them. The smallest ways he could say sorry. The smallest ways to ask for forgiveness.

When Jason was fifteen, Dick was only ever present at his funeral.

With Tim, he didn’t notice the falling apart. 

With Damian, he tried to make up for everything and still in the process failed with everyone.

Dick closes his eyes and breathes, trying to fall asleep. Trying his hardest to make his brain stop trailing off towards all the things he still needs to do-- laundry, dishes, when’s the last time he sat down to eat? When’s the last time he washed his hair?-- and all the things he’s ignored.

Damian has to wake up for school in an hour, maybe a hour and a half if Alfred lets him sleep in. Tim has a phone conference at noon. There’s voicemails from Jason he still hasn’t listened to. His ribs hurt.

He pulls the blanket over his face, blocking out the small rays of sun.

There’s plenty of things he could have done differently. The day replays over in his head. The week. The years.

If he listened more. If he was a better mentor. If he was a better friend. A better brother.

Two of them died. One he barely caught in time.

Slowly works my way down prompts, but also anon are you aware of my intense feelings with bart and wally’s relationship???

He’s not…not happy. Having your cousin comeback to life or…back to this realm? Plane of existence? Having his molecules slow down to the speed of normal life forms again? It doesn’t matter. Not really, anyway, even if certain STAR lab workers are still asking a lot of questions about Wally, about all of them, and Bart refuses to let any needles anywhere near him–

It doesn’t matter. What matters is Wally’s alive. What matters is everyone’s happy. What matters is Bart’s trying to be.

He shouldn’t care. He came back from the future for one reason and he completed that mission ages ago now. Not that he was able to go back home at all, but still. He didn’t need to be here. There was no real point, so why should it matter if anyone else wanted him here anyway?

(It did. It does. To him, it really, really does.)

“Bart?”

The voice comes from behind him. Thankfully, he’s been around it so much he recognizes it, doesn’t have to turn to figure it out. It gives him a few half seconds to wipe at his eyes and nose, trying hard to clean up his face as the foot steps come closer.

“I was wondering where you ran off too.”

He’s just on the roof. He didn’t run. He snuck out of the party because no one was watching and he walked up here. If he ran, which he should’ve, he would have gone much, much, further. No one would have been able to find him, at least not for a long time.

(Bart wonders if he didn’t run because he wanted to actually see if anyone would look.)

Jaime sits down next to him. It’s always been Jaime. His heart squeezes tight with the thought of him not looking for him anymore. Not needing him like everyone else.

(It’s not a need, it’s a want. Bart’s selfish, he’s always been selfish.)

“You okay?”

He still doesn’t look at Jaime at all. His head is hanging down at his shoulders, eyes cast out towards the sand and sea, not wanting Jaime to notice anything off. Except he does, of course he does, because everything’s off right now.

He sniffles again, rubbing his arm against his nose to try and stop all the running. Jaime’s hand is gentle and warm as it touches his shoulder, silently asking the same question again– you okay? – which makes Bart want to cry even harder. He doesn’t want to lose this.

“Wally’s back.” He says, trying to keep his voice even with the ball of hurt stuck in his throat.

“Well yeah,” Jaime replies, “We’re having a party because of it–”

“It’s not!” Bart cuts in, the sentence unfinished and broken. “It’s not that! I’m– I’m happy for– that he’s–”

“…Bart?”

“You don’t need me anymore!” The words are shouted out loud, cried, with only the night and Jaime to hear them. “No one needs me anymore– they don’t need two speedsters on the same team!”

Jaime flinches with the volume, staring with wide eyes as Bart looks at him with eyes too wide and too hurt. They’re bright, wet, and red rimmed bringing out the green and flecks of gold all throughout. His cheeks are red, his chin wobbles. He looks too young and lost and broken all at once, all too much. It’s everything Jaime’s never seen from him before, even after everything they’ve been through, even after everything Jaime knew Bart has been through all on his own.

“I just thought–” he chokes, squeezes his eyes closed tight as if by sheer force he could keep the tears in. “I never figured I’d come and get attached. I didn’t think I’d ever really want to stay, I never belonged anywhere and no one ever–” he sobs, curling in on himself and all Jaime can do for the time is lean in to grip him, make sure he knows he’s not alone, and try to listen. “Ever liked me and I don’t even know if people like me now, but I like them, I really, really, do and I like you and I don’t–”

Bart lifts up, turns, throws himself at Jaime who nearly falls back against the ground from the force. Bart’s gripping his shirt so tight it feels as though the fabric will rip, arms throws around his back, face pressed so close into his chest he doesn’t so much hear the next words as feel them.

“I don’t want to leave and have to be alone again.”

(Selfish.)

There’s a lot they still haven’t talked about. About Bart’s past, his real past, everything he’s actually been through. Canary tries sometimes and sometimes she gets things out of him, but it’s never shared. It’s all just bits and pieces whispered during quiet nights, just the two of them being too tired to really know what’s being exchanged and hoping the other is too tired to remember in the morning.

Jaime knows there’s so much more, but he knows enough to not let go. He wraps his arms just as tight around Bart, pulling him as close as he can while the sobs start shaking his shoulders and the cries start wetting Jaime’s shirt. Still, he doesn’t let go.

Jaime sighs softly, pressing his nose into the top of Bart’s hair. “Bart,” he breathes into the wind blown strands. “Mi hermano, you aren’t going anywhere. Wally or no Wally, no one’s pushing you away.”

Bart grits his teeth, fingers sinking in deeper.

(Aren’t they though?)

“If they did I’d fight them.” He closes his eyes and just feels Bart’s body against his own, trying to get Bart to match his breathing. “If they did, I’d leave with you.”

It’s quiet, too soft, but there.

“You would?”

(Bart would give anything for that to be true.)

“I would. You and me against the world.”

Bart takes in a sharp, shuddering, breath and Jaime smiles, brushing his lips against his hairline, pulling Bart up so he can look him in the eyes. They’re bright and wet and wide. Green with speckles of gold. Jaime smiles.

“Besides, you’re way faster than Wally.”

Bart laughs.

The coffee is so hot in the mug, pressed between Tim’s hands, that his palms burn. The soft skin of his fingers are red hot. He doesn’t notice. He can’t feel it. He’s been staring at a spot on the kitchen wall for a long time now.

It’s not until Dick comes out into the kitchen, curses under his breathe, and tears Tim’s hands away from the ceramic mug that he finally realizes. His fingerprints feel too rough under all the heat.

“Tim, christ, are you okay?” Dick kneels down beside him still holding his hands, blowing softly against his skin. It sends a chill up Tim’s spine with a knot forming right after in his stomach.

Maybe a month ago he’d appreciate it. Maybe even last week he’d just smile and shake his head and tell Dick he’s worrying too much. Maybe he should really, really, just forget about it all.

Dick...I have to tell you something. 

He feels hollow and numb staring at Dick and he tries, he really tries, to keep all that feeling inside. He can’t lose control, let it go, he doesn’t want Dick to feel it too. Even after it all, he doesn’t want Dick to hurt anymore.

“Sorry,” Tim says and there’s something else in that word he tries to say. “I zoned out there for a second.” He tries for a smile.

It’s not his fault.

I’m sorry. I know-- I know. We wanted--

“You’ve been zoning out a lot these past few days. Everything alright?”

Tim looks at him. Stares. He feels his stomach coil even tighter to the point he’s nauseous, he feels like he’s going to actually puke. He doesn’t understand how Dick can just stand there. How he can ask if it’s alright when clearly everything’s not. When he can just lie straight to Tim’s face without a care in the world.

Tim told himself it was fine. He said he understood. He didn’t want this to be a thing; said he could get over it all and move on. They’d still be happy together. He swore. He promised. It didn’t matter.

Tears burned at the corners of his eyes.

Alpha.

“If you don’t want me anymore you can just say it.”

His voice doesn’t sound like his own. He feels detached. It hurts more saying it then he ever realized and the feelings gets worse as soon as he sees Dick’s face drop, his skin does pale and the grip on his hands loosens.

He got into this knowing Dick wanted kids. Tim grew to want them too. He just never thought--

“Tim, it’s not--”

He can’t handle another lie. “Please don’t. I know what happened. You’ve never been good with the bond.” He tries for another smile like it would help his heart to break less. It makes everything worse, like he’s still covering it up. Making excuses. Christ above, he never thought he’d be one of these Omegas.

“It was only--”

“I know you’re upset.” Tim pulls his hands away, drops them to his sides. He nearly touches down towards his abdomen. The tissue is still pink and delicate and raw. “I know it’s not like we planned, but I never thought you’d go and sleep with someone else.”

This time, Dick doesn’t try to deny it. He doesn’t meet Tim’s eyes. It’s fine, in a way, knowing it’s the truth, even if he thinks it would have been better to just act like it never happened. Act like it was fine. Act like Dick hadn’t stopped pulling him closet in bed. Act like he was still looking at passing children with a longing instead of a jealousy.

Tim can’t handle it. Everything aches. He can barely smell Dick on his skin anymore. They haven’t scented each other in days. He tries very, very, hard not to hold on too tight to Dick’s pillow when he’s left in the mornings.

“I’m going to stay at the manor for a little while.”

“Right.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t fight. Tim feels numb and cold and hollow and suddenly wonders how much of that is from him and how much of that is through their bond.

Tim goes with him to the gym sometimes. Typically, he likes to do an hour. Some quick cardio before hitting up the free weights and spending another fifteen minutes in a slow stretch that leaves people watching how far his leg stretches out from his body. But, even after that hour or so, he has to go find Kon. He waves a hand to get his attention, makes him pull the ear buds out. He’s panting softly, his face red and sweaty with the exaggeration of it all.

“Give me fifteen more,” Conner says, as usual, before putting the headphones back in and going back to the bicep curls he’s doing. Tim wonders what rep he’s on as he goes into the locker room to shower. 

Kon’s still not done when he gets out, hair damp and smelling like mint. He says just a few more reps, a few more minutes, and sure it’s the weekend but also Tim knows he needs to study, he needs to eat, and if he doesn’t stick to the schedule then he’ll forget all about everything and wake up on Monday realizing he’s gone two days with only eating a poptart and a hand full of popcorn.

After a while, Tim finally leaves without him. Conner promises to meet up with him after and gives him a quick kiss before they part ways. Tim doesn’t say anything when the next time he sees his boyfriend it’s at dinner, but he watches across the table as his muscles seem to twitch in his arm and he moves.

---

It’s more obvious on weekend when they go to the gym together, but it’s worse Tim realizes when he matches up schedules with Conner during the weekdays.

He tags along on a Thursday when he realizes he can’t sleep right now. The gym’s open until midnight, but it’s only eight right now. Plenty of time for him to run on the treadmill for a few miles to tire himself out. He knows Kon works out all seven days a week, barely giving himself a day to rest at all, but he didn’t think much on it until he’s watching him without meaning to. He’s in the free weights, as usual, doing leg presses over and over and over.

By the time ten rolls around and Tim’s finally slowing down to a snail’s crawl to catch his breath a bit, Conner’s still going. He looks at the clock and wonders. He towels off, finishes his water, and then just to see he waits.

The girl working at the front desk has to come over to tell Kon to leave. She’s nice about it, they both are, and the exchange seems so familiar it has to have happened before.

Tim frowns.

---

His fingers run along the valley dip of his pecs, tracing the feeling of tight skin over muscle. Under his head, the shoulder he’s resting on his also just as ripped. it makes for a poor pillow, but Conner’s arm around him is too warm to care about. Tim hums.

“You know you’re perfect, right?” Tim asks out of the blue, still tracing with his finger even as he feels Conner staring down at him. “I mean-- personality and all that, yeah, but also your body...”

It might comes off shallow after they just had sex. Tim probably should have thought longer before he spoke up, but he can’t take it back now.

“It’s just perfect. You’re built like a greek god.”

Under him, Kon laughs. “I think built might be the wrong word.”

The message behind the words is too easy to tear apart. Tim has been paying more attention, reading in between the lines, and it’s all clear. Kon’s not built, Kon’d worked for it. Or, at least that’s what he thinks. Tim’s seen him before all the gym stuff and even then his body was always working with him. He just got tighter, bigger, when he started lifting weights. Still, Tim doesn’t like how he uses the words.

He sits up, looking down at Conner. “I’m serious.”

Kon’s still smiling, turns his head to kiss at his arm. His lips are so soft and warm against his skin “I know you are.”

Tim doesn’t get it.

---

Tim doesn’t get it.

He watches Conner now, a lot more then he did before, and a lot more with a critical eye instead of his typical love clouded gaze. Kon watches himself a lot too. He stares back at his reflect in the gym mirrors to make sure his form is perfect, to watch how his arms bulge and bend or how his thighs push up with more and more weight.

He notices his high protein food intake more. Notices his nights usually revolve around the gym  during week days and the weekends are full of early morning sessions with hours and hours under his belt.

It’s not that Conner ever says anything really out loud. He doesn’t grab at his own body or mutter this or that under his breathe, but Tim does notice and he still can’t wrap his mind around it all when Kon has the best body he’s ever seen on anyone ever.

He is like a god. That’s not a lie. Tim isn’t just trying to make him feel better, it’s the truth. But he doesn’t know yet how to broach the topic. He doesn’t know fully how to handle that conversation, so for now he tries to learn and tries to kiss every inch of Kon’s skin when he can, worship him like he’s meant, and remind him how wonderful and loved he is.

---

“I love everything about you.”

Kon snorts, but Tim just keeps looking at him. Staring. Conner’s eyes are so, so, blue above him. He never realized before how Kon doesn’t accept compliments.

“There’s nothing you could do different to change that.”

“Nothing?”

Tim rolls him over, sitting on Conner’s hips to press against him, wrapping his arms around his neck and kissing him slow. “No, I’d love you no matter what. Doesn’t matter.”

The glue keeping his mask in place feels far too tacky against the edge of his cheek. He’s reapplied it twice already, not wanting to take it off while in the company of any of his family members. All they’d do is worry if they saw what state his eyes are in, but he figures at this point they already must know. They’re good at picking up on these sort of things, but not very good about mentioning them.

He’ll go to bed when they do or say it’ll only be another hour or bypass the cave entirely, telling them he’ll finish up the case file back at his apartment. They’re not lies, not really, because he does go to bed, he only stays at the computer another hour, he finishes the file at his place. He just...doesn’t go to sleep after.

There’s too much to do. Too many people he still needs to help. Tim figures it’s a better way to spend his time than laying in bed thinking about it all instead of doing.

But they know. Everyone knows. Cass will comment on his reflexes when she manages to get him to train with her on the mats. Dick asks how he’s doing in that ton of voice that underlines the no, really? that he doesn’t actually say. Damian will tell him straight up he looks like shit. Will scoff and roll his eyes because of course Tim would do that, he’s weak after all.

He starts coughing around day four. He’s quick to tell everyone it’s nothing; that he simply has a dry throat and needs a drink of water, but it doesn’t go away even as he sluggishly sips from a water bottle. The cough is quick to sink deep into his chest, throwing him into fits that leave him gasping. His lungs are slow to take in air, rasping as he chokes in between an inhale and an exhale turned harsh with a wheezing cough.

Bruce is quick to put him on monitor duty when he nearly falls out of the sky trying to stop himself from coughing. It turns into bed rest when he coughs so much, so hard, he pops a blood vessel in his eye; nearly throws up from the force, and Tim hates that he can barely make it up the stairs without tripping over himself. Alfred, in the end, helps him to bed, but makes the mistake of not taking his laptop away.

Two days later Damian finds him standing in the hallway outside his bedroom just staring at the empty space in his pajamas, a sheet wrapped around his shoulders. Tim doesn’t notice the curl of Damian’s nose at the sight of him. He doesn’t notice Damian at all.

“Drake. What the hell are you doing out of bed?”

Tim doesn’t response immediately. He’s still staring into the open air, still out of it, so Damian walks closer calling his name, shoving him lightly when still he doesn’t respond.

Finally, Tim looks at him and blinks. “Sorry,” he says, voice sounding rough from how sore his throat is with the sick in his lungs. “I thought I saw...” he looks back down the hallway, still empty and quiet. “Nothing. It’s fine. I just need some rest.”

He does. They know he does. His eyes are heavy, bloodshot. It’s been over three weeks since he’s had more than two hours of sleep at any given point. He looks sick and pale and too thin in his baggy pajamas.

Damian’s face smooths out from his scowl, rolling his eyes before he takes Tim by the arm and pulls him back to his room, back to bed. Still, he keeps turning his head, keeps staring down the hall as if whatever it was would come back to him.

Dick comes around next and Tim’s positive Damian must have mentioned something, because the first question out of his mouth is accusatory.

“Are you having nightmares, Tim?”

Tim blinks up at him, fighting back the need to yawn as he knows that’ll send him into another coughing fit. “Generally, yeah. If you’re asking about the other day, that wasn’t a nightmare.” It wasn’t. He knows, he’s been here before, still he can never get his brain to just stop. “I’m starting to hallucinate.”

He doesn’t catch the look Dick gives him, refuses to acknowledge it as he takes a sip from the bowl of soup Alfred brought up about an hour ago. It’s cold now.

“Ti--”

“It’s not the first time, Dick. And it won’t be the last. Normally I’m better about not indulging it.”

“When’s the last time you slept a full eight hours?”

Tim does look at him now, glares at him. He doesn’t know the answer to that and Dick’s well aware of it.

“It’s going to end up killing you, Tim.”

He sighs, laying back against the pillows of his bed and says nothing. If he responded, Dick wouldn’t like his answer. Even so, Dick’s very good at reading what the silence still says. He leaves soon after, nearly slamming the door behind him.

In the end, they drug him. At some point, Tim was expecting it. He gets on antibiotics to get better and in the mix of pills he suspects there was something to get him to sleep, because suddenly he finds himself waking up not remembering when his eyes actually closed. He doesn’t say anything, simply takes every pill Alfred brings to him and downs the entire glass of water with them.

Still, it takes him another week to feel like he won’t fall down the stairs going to the kitchen. Another three days after that before Bruce allows him to put the cape on again. Tim continues to have a slight cough for nearly a month before he notices that it’s finally disappeared.

It’s right around that time Dick says something again, because no one’s ever good with facing anything head on at the right time.

“Why do you let it get that bad?”

They’re in an alleyway, just the two of them. They’ve been following a drug dealer all night, trying to get a lead on where a supplier is located. All their recon equipment has mysteriously stopped working quickly after being planted, so this is being done the old fashion way.

Tim knows what he’s talking about. “There’s better things I could use my time doing.”

Dick glares. “Because staying in bed sick for a month was a good use of your time?”

“I’m usually better about that,” Tim sighs, trying to focus on the mission. Dick’s not having it.

“And the hallucinating part?”

Tim snaps his head back, trying to keep himself calm. Trying to not take the bait. “Like I said, I’m usually better about that.”

“Damian said you followed someone out into the hall.”

“I never said someone.”

“I’m good at guessing.”

Tim bites his tongue, catching himself before he speaks again. He doesn’t know what’s good to say and what’s not. He wishes this conversation was with someone who cared a lot less. He can already feel his chest start to tighten, his throat start to constrict. He can’t blame it on the cough anymore.

He turns away. “Maybe sometimes I want to see how good my memories actually are.”

Dick’s right behind him, his body heat at his back. He can feel the hovering hand at his shoulder, too scared to touch. “Memories of who?”

Plenty of people, Tim wants to say. He curls his hands into fists at his sides because there are so many-- people he could never get to in time, those he couldn’t keep a grip on, individuals that he is the only person on this planet that know what their final words were. They mix up into half memories of red in his mind, all people he should have spent more time, more effort, pushed just a little bit harder to save; everyone he only has a second to mourn even with the event carved into his brain leaving so many scars behind.

But there’s only ever been two people he’d follow after.

He figures if he ever gets close enough he’ll be able to recall exactly how light her eyes were. Or be able to smell the perfume she always wore. He thinks if he looks at him hard enough he’ll be able to understand why so many people say he’s growing up to look just like him. Maybe he can hear his name again. Maybe it’ll sound like he hopes.

(The rival stores AU just gave me wicked flashbacks to another fic series I used to know about and I about died, but only like 1 person will ever understand…but I just gotta write something for it because omg. ANYWAY. Think 6teen except the teen titans lol. I’m using one of my local mall food courts as reference.)

“You’re glaring at them.”

“I’m not glaring.”

“Bart, you’re glaring.”

Thankfully, it was closing time and Bart had time enough to glare, even if he should be wiping down the counters so they could get out of there before midnight. Tim didn’t mind the glaring during closing because there wasn’t a huge line of people all desperate for a burrito, but Bart really needed to make it less obvious.

“You know,” Tim pipped up again after a minute, finishing up with cleaning the floor. “You could just go over there and ask him out.”

Bart whipped around, gasping softly with wide eyes as Tim just stared back at him blankly. Now, Bart was going to glare at him.

“How dare you.”

“Bart–”

“They are our rivals!”

“You’re the only one that thinks we’re rivals.”

“They are the second most popular food in this court and you want me to ask him out!?”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Jeez, Bart, honestly. If people want chicken, they go to them. If they want a burrito, they come to us. You don’t see me complaining when Kon and Cassie’s lines are crazy, you know why? Because people want ice cream and that also means less old ladies complaining about their sour cream not being poured evenly enough. It’s not a rivalry. It’s fast food.”

Bart is still glaring. Tim really wants him to stop because he’s tired, it’s a Friday night, and Kon said he’d come home with him to watch roughly ten minutes of any movie before both of them fall asleep on the couch. Maybe if he’s lucky there will be some making out before the sleeping part. And Bart is preventing that from happening because he isn’t done cleaning yet and Tim is supposed to wait for him.

Thankfully, a saving grace comes up carrying a oreo milkshake.

“Is Bart being difficult with his crush again?” Kon asks, leaning against the dividing counter as he presents Tim with the milkshake that he takes happily.

“It’s not–”

“It is and he is.” Tim interrupts, licking his lips as he finally snatches the cloth from Bart’s hands to quickly to a last sweep to get all the last bits of burrito residue cleaned off. “Really should just go over and ask him out.”

“I’m not–”

“Hey!” Kon shouts out, body turned to face the chicken joint across from them, his voice echoing loud in the empty, wide open, mall food court. There are two people over at the ‘rival’ food counter, both also finishing up their own closing duties. Both of them pause to look over a Conner across the way. “Chicken kid!” (So descriptive, Kon, thanks, Tim thinks.) Do you like boys and if so would you want to date one? My friend over here–”

Bart physically launches himself up and over the counter, tackling Conner straight to the floor as he curses up a storm and all Kon does is laugh in return. Tim stares at them both, sucking away at his milkshake. Bart looks like he might strangle Conner at any second as he keeps wrestling with him on the floor. They should stop soon, security will be pissed if they find them there.

“Hey yourself!”

All three of them pause, looking up to find that one of the other boys across the way– not the one Bart glares at constantly, but his apparent friend who also might get tackled to the ground at this point– is shouting back at them. Tim wants to comment that shouting isn’t necessary when there are maybe six of them left in the entire food court, but that would require him to stop drinking his milkshake so he doesn’t.

“If you’re talking about the small one with auburn hair, my friend Jaime would actually really like–”

He does get tackled. There’s more, louder, cursing but this time in Spanish across the way. Tim rolls his eyes, grabbing up the keys to lock up.

GOOD.

Also please picture how it starts. Like, Bart’s totally not used to anything and it’s all completely new experiences for him because, come on, since when has he ever had time for this at all and also he really just hasn’t cared up until he meets Jaime. And then he realizes that kissing is great and touching each other is fantastic and Jaime’s skin is always really, really, warm which is so nice when his hands grab at his back or hips.

He doesn’t mean to, honestly. Like, Bart has no idea he’s literally vibrating until Jaime’s gasping, pulling away, because having the entirely of Bart’s front pushed up against him as he starts to buzz is VERY overwhelming. Not in a bad way, but in a way that’s holy-shit-my-boyfriend-is-a-living-vibrator sort of way.

They totally work with it.

After a point Jaime has to actually tell him that vibrating while giving blowjobs is not allowed because he comes so fast it’s embarrassing. Bart still does it when they’re in a hurry or someone might catch them.

He’s gotten really good at controlling it, but whenever he’s really into it or about to come, he totally forgets himself and just keeps vibrating so much and spurring Jaime on and honestly Jaime knows he’s totally screwed for any sort of normal sex now.

Jaime never thought of himself as old fashion. When he asked Bart to date he hadn’t asked his guardian first, he hadn’t brought around a courting gift, he hadn’t displayed his Alpha dominance and strength to prove he was a worthy mate. He had looked at Bart one night after a mission that left them both buzzing with adrenaline and asked him if he wanted to go get a pizza-- something that was still too vague and too familiar so he had to make his real intentions known when Bart wasn’t picking up on the dating aspect in lieu of the friends thing they always did.

Their next date Jaime had taken him to a movie, held his hand, bought him snacks, and at the end of it they kissed, just to make sure Bart really-really knew.

And he did. That much was clear when, after a few months, they spent nights together that slowly grew to involve less clothing each time.

Jaime never saw himself as old fashion, but the problem was he was dating someone far, far, removed from any sort of old or new or modern ways. Bart was from the future and they were both still learning things about that meant. With Jaime, he was learning just how physical the future apparently was.

Before they dated, he hadn’t thought much on it. Mostly he chalked it up to Bart’s hyperactive personality and how he liked to shove his way into any and every situation no matter what. He liked to talk and touch people and get too personal too quickly. It was typical for him to smile wide and grab at wrists and have his eyes light up with any fraction of attention was on him. As...inappropriate as that attention might be some times.

It was easier with the Titans. They’d formed something of a pack, so if Jaime came into the room to find Bart splayed across Cassie’s lap his inner Alpha didn’t really growl so much as grumble, like he should be the one with his hand in Bart’s hair instead, but he also knew how pack dynamics worked. Sometimes when Tim was feeling extra exhausted he would press up against Jaime’s side and drink in his scent before he was able to calm his mind and fall asleep. They were all friends. Pack. It was all familiar, comforting.

But sometimes it wasn’t just friends or family. Sometimes they’d go out and someone’s hands would fall to Bart’s hips and Jaime tries to pretend he wasn’t jealous because his scent still lingered at Bart’s neck and wrists, but apparently not strong enough as unfamiliar fingers would squeeze and all Bart would do is let out a little squeal of some sort of delight before pushing the touch away.

After, Jaime would hold him close. After, he’d drag him back home to bed and bite until his chest was littered with bruises just long enough for Jaime to see them before his healing factor caught up to the assault.

Khaji Da would comment on his hormone levels. Jaime would tell him to shut up.

It got worse because Bart just didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t care at all of lingering strangers or either voices in his ear or the way they might press up against him. He just went with it, rolled, before moving back to Jaime’s side when it was time to leave.

It’s not that Jaime ever thought Bart would actually do something like cheat on him, but still seeing him so unaffected by it all got his blood simmering under his skin. He didn’t think it would really get to him until it did and Jaime wasn’t trying to pull one of those controlling-Alpha cards but he had to know.

“Why do you always let people touch you?” he asks, finally, one night after they’d come home from a birthday party at a bar where Bart didn’t mind all the dancing and Jaime had dragged him home early to tear into his pants.

“Hmm?” Bart hums, happily just playing with Jaime’s hand that’s pressed against his stomach. They’re still naked and Bart’s still a little dazed from having Jaime pressed so close to him only minutes before.

“You. When people-- strangers-- come around and they whisper at you, touch, you don’t ever really mind.”

He pauses for a second before turning on his side to face Jaime fully, his eyes looking more focused, if not confused. “I guess I’m sort of used to it?”

That answer isn’t what Jaime was totally expecting. It leaves his stomach twisting in more ways then one.

“Used to it?”

Bart looks down. “Like-- in the future, you know? People don’t really care too much about being...formal, I guess? Physical affection of any sort was rare enough, so any time the opportunity came up it just happened.” His eyes widen and he sits up quickly, leaning over Jaime. “Not that I ever! I mean-- Iwaslikewaytooyoungstill! Some people were jerks, but-- !”

Jaime shuts him up with a kiss, calms him down with hands at his waist, stroking across the soft skin of his lower back. The tension rolls off Bart easily, he falls into laying on top of Jaime, purring into his warmth as the kiss deepens.

Jaime breaks it to breath, Bart panting softly above him. “Hey, it’s okay, I just...if you feel like you need affection you can come to me, alright?”

Bart looks like he’ll nod easily and agree before something clicks behind his eyes and he’s sitting up again, gasping. “Jaime! Were you jealous?”

Jaime says he isn’t blushing. Khaji Da counters to tell him he totally is.

“Jaime!” Bart lets out a laugh and Jaime can’t help but tackle him down to the bed, rolling to pin him down. Bart’s still laughing. “Is that why every time we’ve had sex this past month you make sure I feel it in the morning?”

“You don’t feel it, you heal!”

“But you still try!”