[ f i c ] The Quirks that Make You | Tim/Dick | One-shot
Title: The Quirks that Make You
Fandom: DCU
Pairing: optional Dick/Tim
Notes: Based on incogneat-oh's headcanon: Dick tries to give Tim at least one kiss every day he sees him. Not romantically, just on the cheek or forehead or hair, because he knows there has absolutely not been enough love and affection in Tim’s life.
Words: 1500
Dick is by far one of the quirkiest people Tim knows. Tim probably outnumbers him in quirks, but Tim’s are more hidden - the way he has to put on the left glove before the right, or how he recites the periodic table instead of using numbers or ‘one Mississippis’ to count seconds. Dick, on the other hand, has highly public quirks that involve cuddling, strange words, and bad fashion choices.
“Tim… hey, Timmy.”
Tim rises and makes his way over to the gurney, pushing Dick’s hand back down. “Stay still. You’ve got stitches in your shoulder.”
Dick blinks slowly, head lolling to the side and when that doesn’t help him see his shoulder better, he leans it back. His face is still rather pale, washed out by the strong medical lights in the Cave’s sickbay and his voice has the distinct airy timbre of painkillers. “Oh. Cool. How long was I out?”
“You slept through the night and most of today. You’ve actually woken up a few times already, but you never remember.” Tim’s hand is still on Dick’s, and Dick turns his palm over to weave his fingers through Tim’s. Tim’s thumb begins to glide back and forth over the back of Dick’s hand automatically, and he wonders what that says about him. “You don’t have a concussion, but Alfred has you under observation anyway until you’re back to normal.”
“Oh.” There’s a small bruise above Dick’s eyebrow, just a small, faded purple dot, and Tim sweeps his other hand feather-lightly over it. Dick sighs and closes his eyes, looking, as he rarely does, like a twenty-something-year-old with far too many responsibilities and ailments. It makes a patch inside Tim ache, the patch of him that empathizes so acutely with everyone, no matter how hard Tim tries to quell it.
Then Dick wiggles. And wiggles again. Tim raises an eyebrow, even though Dick can’t see it.
“Tim. My head hurts. And I’m itchy. Can you scratch my other arm?”
Tim breathes out a laugh and reaches over Dick to run his fingers along Dick’s arm, lean, corded muscles covered by rough, scratched and scarred skin, until Dick says, “There!”
He’s hovering over Dick, careful not to actually put any actual weight on him. He scratches dutifully until Dick murmurs that he’s fine, and when he looks up, he finds Dick’s eyes on him. His face is somber, features pooled into something between fondness and sorrow.
“What?” Tim asks, giving him a wary look.
Dick points to the space between Tim’s chest and his own. “You always have to leave some between you and everyone else?” His voice reminds Tim of pouring melted chocolate on a pan, the thick, heavy substance smothering everything in warmth.
Tim winces and hears the bones in his neck pop with the shrug of his shoulders. Touching is tantamount to breathing in Dick’s case, but for Tim, it’s almost terrifying. Touch always accompanies bad news - his parents patting him on the shoulder as if that will make up for the two-month absence they just announced, or Bruce hugging him after his dad died. When it doesn’t, it’s usually reserved for a special occasion - congratulations, for example, which usually follow some sort of unholy struggle.
“C’mere, Tim.”
Tim obeys, knowing why Dick is beckoning him forward. It’s one of those things that Tim files simply as Dick’s quirks. The label requires no explanation, even though Tim knows there is one. With almost reverential care, Dick combs Tim’s hair a bit to the side and then kisses the top of his head.
Touch is only for special occasions, so this daily token of Dick’s, a kiss on the forehead, the shoulder, the top of his head- confuses Tim. Tim suspects it’s Dick’s attempt to make up for the supposedly affection-less childhood he has, even though he has assured Dick that it’s not like he cared. Dick usually responds by saying he doesn’t know what he was missing. Tim usually refrains from countering that that’s the point-since he didn’t know, he never longed for it. For him, affection was measured in other ways - postcards or allowance money.
Dick looks satisfied, the black curtain of Tim’s hair slipping through his fingers as he leans back.
“Okay,” he says, eyelids drooping slightly, “G’night.”
Tim’s hand is halfway to his head before he realizes what he’s doing and lowers it again.
o0o
Tim is doing PCR on a bit of clothing found at the crime scene when he hears his name from the other side of the Cave, where Alfred is currently changing Dick’s IV bag. He hears Alfred respond, but they’re too far for him to understand. It’s most likely Dick simply asking where he is, but when Alfred glances back in his direction, Tim’s curiosity is piqued enough for him to push his chair out and head over to the sickbay. Dick is sitting up with some bland crackers in his lap, probably in case he was nauseated from the painkillers or headache. Alfred’s eyebrows are high on his forehead, one slightly bent in a way that speaks of amusement.
“Master Richard has a pressing question for you, sir.”
Tim groans and wonders what sort of ridiculous thing Dick has come up with this time.
“He looked so lonely over there in the corner,” Dick insists, even though Tim is pretty sure there is nothing remotely lonely about working at the bench furthest from the Cave center with the lights slightly dimmed. But by the slight slur to his words, Dick’s still not fully recovered, so Tim may just forgive his nonsensical logic.
Dick turns his pout on Tim. “Have you had your daily kiss yet?”
Tim sputters a bit, flushing slightly at the way Alfred raises a careful hand to his mouth and coughs. He might as well have fallen to the floor in hysterical laughter because that’s exactly what he’s doing in his mind, Tim knows it. Someday Tim will get back at Dick for all the things he’s put him through.
“Y-yes, Dick, you gave it to me a few hours ago. Remember?”
Dick looks dubious, but settles back against the bed, scratching at the IV needle. “…If you say so.” He continues fiddling with the needle until Tim slaps his hand away.
“Leave that alone.”
Dick grumbles and wiggles himself deeper into the pillow, crossing his arms tentatively as the muscles in his shoulder stretch. The cracker wrapper crinkles with the movement. “Is Damian home yet? I might be able to get a pity cuddle from him.”
Tim snorts and rolls his eyes. “Doubt it. Definitely not if I tell him you said that.”
Dick sighs, but doesn’t respond. He looks restless and weary, uncrossing his arms and crossing his legs instead. Then blows hair out of his face and leans his head back up to stare at the ceiling. His movements are all just this side of slow - as if Dick can’t help trying to push his body, but it’s not responding quite the way he wants it to. Tim always wonders how long their bodies will last under this strain-Bruce hides it well, but even his body is taking longer and longer to heal.
“Get some more sleep, Dick,” Tim suggests, patting his thigh through the covers.
Dick’s face clears and he gives him a small grin. “I’d rather you give me those case files from yesterday.”
Tim does, but not twenty minutes later, Tim has to pick them up from the floor, along with the marker Dick was using. Tim stares at it for a moment, then makes two careful dots on the side of the first knuckle of Dick’s hand, where the crease between his thumb and index finger will create a mouth to go with the two dot-eyes.
o0o
When Tim comes downstairs later with a tray of sandwiches Alfred sent, he finds Dick making hand puppet faces at Damian, complete with high-pitched voices. It’s clear Damian is two seconds away from whacking Dick on the head, which would be counterproductive to him getting better, so Tim hands him a sandwich and tells him that Alfred has more food to bring down. Which is true, but Tim had been planning on doing that himself.
Dick grins when he sees him and Tim sees that he’s added hair and a moustache to his hand puppet.
“Look what I found on my hand when I woke up!”
Tim’s lips twitch despite himself. “I see. That’s very exciting, Dick. Now have a sandwich.”
Dick obliges though he keeps staring at Tim while he eats. Tim ignores it and grabs a chair to eat next to Dick, pulling out the tomatoes in his sandwich. Alfred would probably indulge him and make some without tomatoes for him, but Tim feels that’s rude, and he doesn’t want to add more work to Alfred’s already-hefty load. Dick makes grabby hands, and Tim hands the slices to him.
“Hey, Tim,” Dick says, mid-bite, brows scrunched up as if he’s trying hard to remember something. Tim gives him a look, because thanks, but he doesn’t need a glimpse of Dick’s half-masticated food. Dick swallows and continues, “Have I given you your daily kiss yet?”
Tim blinks. His mouth opens to say, ‘for the umpteenth time today, yes’. But Dick is the first person who has made Tim feel like touch is… okay. Not wanted, necessarily, but at least acceptable. Maybe even enjoyable. So he says, “Not yet.”
Dick grins and motions for Tim to come closer. Tim leans forward, closes his eyes and focuses on the feel of Dick’s chapped lips on his forehead.