[AU Email Log: No Place Like Home]
In AU-land, IslandTim finds out what happens when you go home again and learns that some things can't ever be let go of.
He woke up cold, stiff and alone. The air was dry and crisp, tasting faintly metallic before he even opened his eyes and saw pipes and rust and concrete. For a moment, he was disoriented then memory hit clear and hard. It was January, not July. New Jersey. Gotham. Fourteenth street. Three weeks ago his father had been murdered. Four weeks ago, his girlfriend had been tortured to death.
And last night.
Last night he'd gone to sleep with limbs tangled and heart taken, the taste of fevered kisses still on his lips. It had been two years, ten months since he'd seen Gotham. He was nearly 20 years old. He was in love and in a forever relationship.
Last night he'd proved a point playing rooftop tag with Batgirl and Nightwing. He was 16 years old. He was alone and hurting and in a few months, before he even turned 17, he would lose both of his best friends violently. The brittle edge on Nightwing's every word was more than just the war.
He sat up, found that he'd been lying on a cot in one of the safehouses. His comm was blinking frantically - looking at his watch answered why - he hadn't checked in for hours, they'd be worried but wouldn't want to intrude if he needed time alone. Everyone treated him like he was made of glass. He wasn't sure that it was worse than that.
Dreams faded with each passing moment but the memories of sun-drenched beaches and tropical nights remained perfectly vivid. Was he going crazy?
He picked up his radio and tapped it. "R to N -- You out there?"
Nightwing cut a glance across his shoulder at Batgirl, handsigned for you go ahead, I've got this, and hunkered down to take the comm call. His little brother sounded rougher than he had last night, and even in the middle of this, if Robin was reaching out, then Nightwing would be there. If Tim was reaching out, then Dick would be there. "Always, R. What's your status?"
"5150," he replied, half-joking. "All right. Crashed out for a bit. Headed home now though. Got some time later? I want to talk to you." He wondered if that counted as lying when what he really wanted was his dream world back. He needed to see Dick, to ground himself back here and now so that his dream could fade again and let him go back to reality.
As he waited for a reply, he gathered his things again and prepared to leave. Home, his aching heart told him, was Wayne Manor. The house's lease had ended with his father's death and Dana was already in a hospital, her nerves shattered. She was as broken as he and she didn't have anyone to hit.
Got some time later? A call for help if he'd ever heard one. Gotham was running short enough of heroes that it couldn't afford to lose one. Nightwing wouldn't lose another Robin, and Dick just loved Tim. He exhaled softly and Batgirl did that freaky thing where she looked back from half a block away like she'd heard him, cocked her head, and looked at him. Everything in her masked expression said well, what are you waiting for?
Creepy.
"Yeah, R. I've got time. I can meet you there now if you want."
Now. He considered it but something told him that if he allowed himself to see Dick now, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from touching him, treating him like his memories -- dreams -- told him was right and natural. Dick was his brother, nothing more. The thought throbbed with the same pain as the places where his father and Steph used to be. "An hour. Meet me in an hour." It would be nearly dawn. The sunlight would help his dreams seem less real.
"I was thinking of heading in anyway. I'm beat. You sure?" Once Batgirl had disappeared, nodding her head in approval like she had some say in the matter, he felt himself give way to the endless exhaustion and the desire to just be home for awhile. To see Alfred, have something warm to drink, sleep in a warm bed after talking to Tim. "It'll take me twenty to get in from here anyway."
He was going to know there was something wrong the moment he saw him anyway. "All right. Don't rush though. I'm going to wash up first. It'll be 30 at least for me." Or you could join me. No, that wasn't his life. Dick couldn't be allowed to suspect anything more than the hero-worship he already assumed of Tim. Dick saw his broken little brother. Tim wasn't going to allow himself to even consider that Dick might remember the island. No matter how real it felt to him, it was still just a trick of the mind. There was nothing for Dick to remember. He took a deep breath and set out for the Cave.
Forty-five minutes later, his skin was red from hot water, scented by expensive french milled soap, smooth from a freshly sharpened razor. He'd lingered, indulging in the long missed (not really, it was only yesterday) simple luxuries. He pulled on clothes that were his, that fit and didn't look like the 80s attacked. His hair was neatly trimmed, just beginning to grow out from his last haircut two weeks ago, right before his father's funeral. He left off the hair gel and just finger combed it into place. It felt right. And it felt wrong.
Every experience, seemingly commonplace, was the same, solidifying his feeling that he'd been gone for years, not hours. At the same time, he battled the confusion of knowing that it really had only been hours. Far from the memory of falling apart, of loving and losing Bart, of finding Dick and healing finally, the pain was keen as ever. It didn't seem fair that he got all the pain and none of the distance.
He couldn't stand here thinking about it any longer. Dick would be waiting and he needed to see him.
Tim said don't hurry and Gotham had no shorter a supply of criminals just because his broken little brother finally wanted the hug and talk it out time he'd needed for more than a month. It ended up taking Dick two broken wrists, four dislocated shoulders, six calls to the ex-GCPD and about thirty-five minutes to get home.
Bruised, scruffy, filthy and so haunted around the eyes he couldn't bare to look in the mirror, Dick grabbed a shower, thinking he'd be quick, but the water was hot, the soap, clean, the razor, sharp and he hadn't seen a towel that didn't look as dingy as road snow for more than a week at least. Almost fifty minutes from when he said he'd be home, he came out into his room, towel around his hips, to look for a clean pair of track pants for talking and sleep.
Alfred thought Tim didn't know that the coffee was decaf. The truth was that Tim didn't care. The heat, the bitterness, the smell--it was
the experience of the coffee that Tim was looking for, long missed. He took the carafe with him, and an extra mug for Dick, up to Dick's
room, not far from his own. He knocked diffidently on the door and realized he was holding his breath.
The inescapable reality was that he was alone and he didn't want to be. What he wanted most was to open the door, go to his brother and pull him into bed. He could feel it already, the cool sheets, the heat, the weight. Tim squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the aching need to subside.
"Come on in, Timmy," Dick called back over his shoulder. It had to be Tim or there'd have been a "Master Richard?" after the knock, and if it'd been Bruce, he wouldn't have knocked at all.
His fingers closed around a pair of sweats, black, but he paused, waiting for Tim to come in. See him half-dressed. Blush and stammer. Blush and stammer more when he dropped the towel shamelessly and dressed. Maybe he shouldn't tease Tim when he was fragile, but being normal with Tim, that mattered a lot. If he treated him like spun glass, he'd bolt.
Tim let himself in and immediately found his breath stolen away again. Two years younger meant Dick didn't have all of the muscle weight that his dreams did but that didn't matter much when he'd loved Dick since he was 5 years old. Dick was beautiful and knew it; the confidence only added to his attractiveness. Tim's shoulders stiffened and his spine went straight, locking himself into place to resist moving to Dick. It was several, unfortunately obvious seconds before he could force himself to lift the carafe. "Coffee? Decaf."
Dick would know something was off, that couldn't be helped. Luckily, everything about Tim had been off for the last month. Everything said don't touch, don't care, don't pity. This reaction was different but not different enough to make Dick suspicious. He knew him well enough to know that and Dick...didn't know him that well. Not yet. He wanted him to though, wanted it more than anything.
"Yeah, sure. Hold it for me while I change?" Tim's reaction didn't go unnoticed, but with everything Tim had been through lately, it could mean anything from put something on, I need a hug to are you ever going to stop trying to mortify me? or something else entirely.
More data on the subject wouldn't hurt and he did have to change, so he dropped the towel, catching it on his hand and tossing it off to the laundry basket, and spent a full thirty seconds nude between that and stepping into his sweats. He pulled them up and tied them off, gaze zeroing in on Tim's before he held out his hand for the coffee.
"So what's up?" he asked and patted the bed, before settling, half-sprawled around his coffee mug.
Tim couldn't make himself not look, couldn't stop himself from a half-step toward Dick, before rocking back. It was not his best moment. The sprawl was even worse in some ways, when he could see exactly how he'd fit in the curve of Dick's body. Abruptly, his entire strategy changed. He'd been thinking he'd try to make this normal, try to ignore the dream memories. But that wasn't going to work. He didn't want to hurt alone, not when he had some place to turn. "After I left you last night, I lost time. Hours, at a best guess. And either I have had a break with reality or... I don't know what the other explanation is. Maybe it was just a dream."
Following that he moved to sit on the bed, just on the edge, hands clasped around his own mug. "It felt real. That's why I needed to see you. I thought that if I saw you, it would make it obvious that it was just a dream and I'd be able to get past it but.... It still feels real." He took a deep breath. "I have to ask you about something. Something you haven't told me."
For a breath, there was something in Tim's eyes he'd never seen. Sheer, naked, need. There and then gone so fast he might've imagined it, except for the half-step forward toward him. Then Tim started talking and Dick thought maybe he'd imagined it, or maybe this made sense of it: Tim was holding on by a thread and he needed Dick to gather him up and protect him when it snapped.
He could do that. His fingers flashed out from resting against the mug, warming, and slid through Tim's hair. He frowned. "No gel," he said, mostly to himself and tried to work out what it might mean, then simply nodded. "I'm here. I've got you. We'll deal with whatever this is together. Go ahead and ask."
"I'm thinking about growing it out," he replied. Dick was touching him and that made Tim relax a little. Dick would need the connection, the reassurance, if what Tim was about to ask wasn't just a product of his fevered mind, so broken by grief that it needed to create fantastic alternate realities. He didn't touch Dick back, not yet. It would be too out of the ordinary.
"You came back to Gotham because of Blockbuster's murder." He hadn't known that at the time. There had been too much surrounding the war.... No, not at the time. Now. He shouldn't know it now. Tim took a breath to steady himself and went on. Knowing about Blockbuster, if there was in fact something to know, proved nothing. What he had to ask, that meant something. "What happened with Tarantula after...have you told anyone?" He hadn't. Tim was certain of that. If his dreams weren't just dreams, then Dick wouldn't have told a single soul.
Dick drew back, stung and abruptly nauseated. Only years of training close his fingers around the coffee again before it tips after the drop to the bed. He stares, jaw tightening, and if he didn't know Tim was the creepiest stalker in their family - creepier than Babs and Bruce - he'd be accusing him of being...he didn't even know what.
"How do you know that? How do you... I haven't..." He swallowed, turned half away. Blockbuster was bad enough. But Catalina? He couldn't talk about her with Tim. How the hell did he know? "That's none of your business." He didn't mean that, not like that, but what other defense did he have against... It was over. Done. There was nothing to talk about.
Tim closed his eyes, unable to stop the shudder, sick to his stomach. He hated asking, knew his brother was just as broken as he but it was the only thing he could think of. For a moment, he let Dick pull away, protect himself. He had to let him work through the initial shock of Tim asking. Carefully, he set aside his own mug and wait, breath after even breath, all of it false calm. "I'm sorry," he whispered, voice betraying his lack of composure. "I'm so sorry, prala." The Romani word slipped out and Tim winced. One fantastic thing at a time, Drake. He reached out, fingers just brushing Dick's shoulder.
"You told me. In the dream I had. You told me about what happened." Maybe he shouldn't be talking yet. Maybe he should wait for Dick to at least look at him again. "Dick, I... When I woke up, I thought that I'd find myself in my bed on a tropical island. That I'd lived two and a half years away from Gotham. And I thought -- I wanted -- you. I expected you to be there with me. And when you weren't, when it was Gotham instead of the island, I thought I had gone crazy. And I needed you."
Eyes closed, Dick still flinched away from the touch. Still shuddered, shaking inside from words, thoughts, touch. "Please don't. Don't touch me." The words came out harsher than he wanted them to be but... he still hadn't worked out how to let anyone else touch him, and on top of everything else...
Pull your head out of your ass, Grayson. Tim needs you.
He forced himself to exhale and inhale, exhale again, and inhale, until he was doing both again without thinking about it. "Sorry, that was uncalled for. I don't want to talk about Blockbuster and Tarantula. I want to know what you mean, you thought you wanted me, all of it, but especially that. Don't jump to conclusions. What do you remember? Are you sure it wasn't a future jag or a multiverse event, how would you know?"
This he could do. He could. Even if he had to be more Nightwing than Dick, he could help Tim.
Tim pulled his hand back and shuddered again. This was worse than he'd thought. For a moment he panicked. Would he even be able to help Dick when he was this hurt? When they both were? He licked his lips and tried again. "It wasn't the future. Our theory on the island was that it was a pocket universe that copied a consciousness from a particular place in time and space. Mine was copied from...now. Tonight. Yours was from two years from now after... a lot of things. We were closer in your future and by the time you... arrived, I'd changed a lot as well." He scrubbed his palms against his thighs. "I thought you'd be there. And I wanted you there. Because I've gotten...on the island, I'd become used to that and everything that happened there is in my head. Like it's me and every second makes it seem more real."
He was afraid to say more, afraid to hurt Dick any more than he already had by forcing him to go back to what Catalina had done. But he'd said too much not to go on and he wouldn't lie. Not to Dick. "Dick, I'm in love with you. That's what I meant when I said I wanted you. I love you and on the island, you loved me too. I'm not...I don't want to push. I'm not asking for anything, I swear."
For a long time, several minutes, Dick just stared. If Tim were Roy or...anyone but Tim, he'd think it was a joke, or maybe an intervention. It sounded like an intervention, sort of, except for the part about them being together on this island Tim kept talking about. That sounded like a prank. Or a hallucination. Or... god, what did they do to you, Timmy?
Except that look and the need in his voice when he said Dick loved him too. And Tim implying they'd had sex in a completely straight face. And... He had no idea what to say. Nothing in their training covered this. Hallucinations yes, but not hallucinations of being in love with him and...It occurred to him his brain was scrambling, the combination of his own hurt and Tim's need and the situation too much to bear. He said the only thing he could. "I've always loved you, Tim, not just on your island or in this dream or whatever it is. We'll figure that out but the one thing that's definitely true is that I love you. Okay?"
"I know, Dick." He'd said what was true and now without backing away from it, he moved it to the side. It was too much and expecting Dick to accept it when Tim wasn't sure that he wasn't actually crazy was entirely unfair. He picked up his mug again and curled up around it, reconstructing his shields. With Dick inside. "You look exhausted. When was the last time that you slept?" He hardly remembered the last time he did--the missing hours don't count. There was nothing restful about thinking you were losing your mind. There was even less restful about being afraid that he wasn't losing it.
"Little brother, there's a war on. Sleep isn't exactly at a premium." Easier to tease, to chide, than to try to deal with what Tim was saying. He should be dragging Tim down to the cave, calling Bruce, doing something to verify the story, but he was tired. Jaw cracking when he yawned tired. Tim was right, he hadn't slept in forever and he needed to. "Run me through all of your security protocol checks so that we can sleep. If you pass, we can deal with this in the morning."
Tim nodded and complied, confirming his identity in all the thousand little ways that they had to use to counter impersonation, infiltration, coercion. I'm who I say I am, they said, I'm in my right mind, I'm not fighting control, I don't need rescue, everything is as it should be. It didn't take long, for all that, and Tim went back to sipping his coffee when he was done, watching Dick over the rim.
When Tim passed, every single check, without even a stutter, Dick exhaled relief then inhaled again sharply because, fuck, that meant...who knew what it meant, exactly? Either that Tim had had incredibly vivid erotic fantasies of him - not necessarily a bad thing - or that somehow in some way, what Tim had said was true. And they'd been, what, lovers? Boyfriends? He rubbed his hand over his face when he nodded his acknowledgment, drank a long pull of cooling decaf and tried to get his head around that.
Of course he'd thought about it. Brilliant, deeply loved, wearing his old uniform with a mouth that taunted, tempted and teased from beneath a dominio? Of course he had. Not to mention that the rest of Tim had been filling out steadily and Tim had had the worst kind of crush on him for years. He'd even thought about it recently, a palliative, comfort sex to get him through his grief over his dad and Stephanie, something for Timmy to hold onto that wasn't going to break out from under him.
But he'd refused to move on it, in part because Tim had been saving himself for Stephanie and Dick knew it, and in part because... he hadn't been with anyone since Catalina and as depressed as his libido had been under the weight of Gotham's fall and Blockbuster, he could feel it building under the surface. Unleashing that at Tim, even if he had agreed by some bizarre change, couldn't be a harsher introduction to sex.
He rubbed his face again, trying to clear his thoughts off this entirely unhelpful track, then ran his hand through Tim's hair again, encouraging him closer. It wouldn't hurt either of them to have a little extra warmth tonight. "C'mere, Timmy. You need sleep too. We'll deal with this fresh tomorrow and if you dream again, at least I'll be here when you wake up." That seemed like the right thing t say, even if... even if Tim was sixteen and his brother besides.
Again Tim put aside his coffee and then Dick's, stretching out beside him. He didn't reach for him, there was too much confusion-- both for Dick and in his own mind--for that to be a good idea. It would take time, no matter what happened, for this to work. Just because he remembered a relationship didn't mean that either of them were ready for one. He still hurt, keenly, and the idea of giving his heart away...he wasn't sure he could do it. But sleeping he could handle. "It's already morning," he answered pedantically, because it was the right thing for him to say, the familiar thing. "Maybe we can sleep until lunch."
"It's still today for us," Dick answered by rote, because it was what he would say, what he should say, if Tim hadn't forced him to wonder what they were like together in his dreams, and actually, it was the right thing to do to ask. To touch Tim and tease him and ask about his dreams. So he did. Rolled over on his side, leaned up on his elbow and grinned down at Tim, playing because the only way to make this not weird was to make it normal. "So what were we like? Was I hot?"
The blush that he felt heating his cheeks was normal enough. The answer that came to mind -- perfect -- was not. The other half of his brain--the one that only had ever been here, that hurt like a brand against the skin every time he so much as took a breath--supplied a better response. "Oh sure, take advantage of my possible insanity to boost your ego. Yes, Dick," he sing-songed, "You were very hot."
"Of course I was," Dick purred around a satisfied smile. He set his hand on Tim's chest and patted it twice. "I'm sure you were very hot too." It felt like he should say something else, like maybe there was something that would help Tim. Something that wasn't kiss him. Instead, he rolled to his back, slid his hand through Tim's hair and pulled him in up to his chest. "C'mere. Sleep, Timmy."
This felt so right, it hurt. Under the scent of soap and shampoo is the undefinable smell of Dick. It calmed him, relaxed him even though that would be wrong for this him. He rests his hand on Dick's chest, fingers automatically seeking a scar that isn't there yet. "Sleep well, Dick."
Tim curled into him so easily, so familiarly, like they'd done this hundreds of times, instead of like Tim was his sweet, innocent, virgin little brother who shied away from too much physical contact. His hand moved familiarly over Dick's chest, comfortable there and the weight and glide of it felt exactly right, like Tim had, in his Tim way, calculated precisely how he liked to be touched. After a few minutes, he tilted his head down over Tim's, rested his cheek against it. "How long were we together in your dream?"
His breath caught in his chest though he should have known Dick would feel the difference. He couldn't reply at first, his thoughts tumbling through his mind, never quite sure which reality was true. Finally he licked his lips and forced a hoarse whisper past his closed down throat. "Eight months." And we were handfasted. Sworn to each other. You rescued me in every way that counted. He glanced up at Dick, hesitant. "Right person, right place." Right time, then. Wrong time now. He had to take this slowly. Needed to back off before he scared Dick or asked too much of him.
"Right person, right place?" Dick asked, eyebrow arching, inquisitive. He might not know the situation, but he knew himself. That statement should finish right time, but Tim shouldn't know any of it, not even from a dream, since he'd never said it to him or explained it to him that he could think of.
His eyes closed again, shuttering and shutting himself away. His right person didn't know he needed him, because he couldn't bring himself to say what had happened. The right place definitely wasn't Gotham in the midst of an all-out war with the gangs and an effort to pull her back from the bring of death. And the right time definitely wasn't now when the thought of someone having him as completely as that right person would felt like a violation just thinking about it.
"Maybe--" His voice fell quiet, soft, rough with emotions he couldn't control or contain. "Maybe you should tell me how that happened."
Tim considered it and then carefully shook his head. "Maybe I should but right now, I don't think I can. We need to sleep and I need to...take some time to figure this out. I've only had a couple hours and I don't want to put too much on you. My head and my heart are too confused right now to talk about it." It was protection for them both.
As much as anything, that convinced him that there was something real that had happened to his little brother. The Tim who'd left him and BG on the rooftops last night didn't think like that 'not wanting to put too much on' Dick, or at least not in a way that sounded protective of Dick. It was still Tim, who always worried he'd ask too much of their relationship - like there could be too much when Dick loved him with his whole heart - but Tim felt different, wiser, warmer, more settled than Dick had ever known him. Fragile in different ways.
And Dick felt confused, raw, uncertain...or it might be truer to say he thought confused, raw, uncertain and felt warm, content, and safe with Tim in his arms. He chose feeling instead of thinking, curled Tim closer and tighter. "I believe you. I want you to know that. I'm not sure what happened to you but I believe that you experienced something with me."
"That's enough for right now. It's more than expected." Tim let himself relax the rest of the way, eyes closed with his head on Dick's chest to listen to his heartbeat. "Good night, Dick."
"Good morning, Tim," Dick answered, softly teasing before letting his own eyes close and quieting his thoughts. There was nothing he could do about this now, and possibly nothing ever. They'd work it out between the two of them. Starting when they woke.
"Tim, get home. Now." Oracle's voice is anything but human but that isn't the thing that freezes the blood in Tim's veins.
"What're you talking about? What's wrong?" But he knows. He knew from right first moment. All of it confirmed in the next breath by her next words.
"It's your dad."
They've turned around before the breath can choke in his throat. Speeding back home and he already knows.
"Barbara, patch me thr--" She's good. He doesn't even get to finish the sentence.
"Tim?"
"Dad? Dad, are you okay!?"
"I-I'm fine. I think he's in the hallway. I've got it, though...I'm fine." He's trying to sound brave. To sound like he's at least as brave as his 16 year old son who... oh God.
"Dad, this isn't some African safari! Get out of there!"
"He's definitely in the hall!"
Dimly, through the blood rushing through his ears, he can hear Bruce's voice, telling Barbara to call Wally and her reply. Taking away a little more hope and he doesn't want to hear it. "Already tried. He's not picking up."
Tim has to beg. It's his father. Bruce of all people will understand. "Bruce, please... Please help him..." He's never seen that expression on Bruce's face before. He's never going to be able to forget it. Bruce knows too. It's too late. He's always too late.
He's too late and his dad is breaking his heart. "He's at the door. Tim, if something happens," Nothing will. He'll stop it. They'll stop it. "Tim, I need you to focus. You listening, Tim? Good. Then understand one thing: if you don't get here, it's not your fault." And he can't protest anymore. The plea is stuck in his throat, "I need you to know this Tim--it's not your fault. Okay? You didn't do this." I did though. If he hadn't left. "I love you, Tim. I love you just like your mother loves you."
"Dad, please." It's all he has left.
"What you do... for all those people... it's worth it, Tim. Never question it. It's worth it."
"Dad, we're almost--"
"Tell Bruce to take care of you..."
"DAD!"
Tim woke screaming, sweat-sheened and heart-pounding. He was crying, just as he had been in the dream and God it wouldn't stop. He'd been seeing these dreams, listening to his father die for years and years. The hurt now will never go away. "Dad" he whimpered into the night.
Even before the scream, Dick woke, tense and alert for the threat, heart slamming against his ribcage. Then came the scream and the sound of sobs, not from down the hall but from beside him, with him.
Nightmare.
Tim.
"I'm here, Timmy. Shh. I've got you." The words were instinctive, the tone quiet and soothing and confident with years of practice at exactly this. He rolled toward Tim, tightening his arm around him, and pulling him beneath Dick, safe and stable. "I've got you."
Tim clung to him, sobbing, Dick was the one true thing in any reality. He could fall apart here, he'd be put back together. And as usual just knowing that that was true made it so much easier to pull himself back together again. "It was my dad. It's...same every night. Always my dad."
Warm body beneath him, warm and clinging, and beneath the forced alert, his body still shoved off the remnants of sleep. It didn't shove off the adrenaline hard-on that he'd normally have ignored but with what Tim had told him, he couldn't.
Dick was careful, very, not to move his hips against Tim the way his body urged him to. Instead, he focused on the hurt in Tim's voice. Pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. Cupped a hand around the back of Tim's neck and rolled them so he was beside Tim, not over him, then tucked Tim's head into the crook of his neck. "I know, little brother. I'm sorry. You're safe now. I've got you."
He was still shaking with reaction, pulling in wracking breaths that stabbed like knives. His nails scraped lightly against Dick's back, clutching at a shirt that wasn't there and pressed his face into Dick's shoulder, inhaling his scent to calm himself. He knew he'd be all right and it let him smile ironically. "You wanted to know how it started? It was just like this. Woke up from a nightmare just like this."
Again, the reaction, the touch, hit him so viscerally. Not even years of fantasy and voyeurism could give Tim this level of comfort with Dick's body, with touching him and being close to him. Not the boy who'd flinched away from a hand through his hair twenty-four hours ago. And he could imagine it, perfectly, how it would've played out. Tim beneath him, his body taut with adrenaline and senses heightened. It would be so easy...
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have taken advantage." He didn't let go and shove Tim away now, but the hand that slid through his hair and down his back stayed firmly brotherly, even if the heat against his throat, the slip of tears, the press of bodies...even if...
Tim lifted his head, all his memories warring with each other. "You didn't, you haven't." How much should he tell him? Keep it simple. He made his touch stay innocent. He couldn't help the familiarity but he could make this feel like brothers not lovers. Without actually putting any space between them, he added back the distance that was needed. "I'd just broken up with someone. You got me through the worst of it. I mean it when I say that I don't expect anything from you, Dick. I'm well-aware that you're not the same as that other world. You don't have to worry about doing the wrong thing or saying the wrong thing."
Dick fought back a bitter laugh, waves of hurt from being physically close, physically aroused with someone else in his arms the first time since Catalina, from it being Tim who he'd been telling himself not to think about for six months already. Softened himself and kept it sweet, brightened himself to make it sunny, and hoped, god he hoped, Tim hadn't gotten as good at reading him as he was at reading Tim. Hoped Tim wouldn't feel the war beneath the surface of his skin the way he could sense it in Tim when he teased, "So I was just a rebound for you, that's all? What about how I feel?"
"Do you really want to know the answer to that?" Not a rebound. Forever. Forever like he'd hardly ever let himself dream about with Stephanie because their lives were too violent, too uncertain and then he'd lost her. A shudder ran through his body, present time and present grief overtaking the healing that the other him had found. He squeezed his eyes closed. Dick was holding him like he wanted him but Tim couldn't, didn't dare, take that as an offer. This wasn't, yet, his love.
Did he? He'd been teasing, but the way Tim asked, the pointed certainty in it. He hadn't forgotten - relationship, in love, together - but it wasn't him and that made it hard to get his head around. "I don't know," he answered honestly and tucked Tim closer to him, not maybe as much brotherly as protectively, even if he couldn't be sure it was Tim he protected and not himself. It felt good, though, to hold onto someone. To touch someone, and feel safe doing it. "But if I'm going to help you, I think I need to understand."
Tim shifted, his calf sliding over Dick's. "That night, I thought it was one time. After that, it was...not casual exactly," Because Tim didn't have a casual bone in his body, "but not exclusive, you...he had...others." Monet, Alcuin, Jack, Roy. "I don't remember why it changed, exactly." Yes he did but that he can't talk about, not yet. Maybe not ever. "Interestingly the dynamic was reversed then. He was a good deal closer to his Tim than I am to you. It was hard for him, I think, adjusting to the distance I needed."
Scrape of fear-sweaty skin against sleep-sweaty skin and every nerve in Dick's body hit red alert. He'd been celibate for too long to be sharing a bed with and cuddling with someone he loved as much as Tim, he realized, far too late, when his cock pulsed between them, his breath caught and eyelashes started to flutter. But there were other reactions, the erratic thud of his heart, the adrenaline spike that had nothing to do with sex, the twist of nausea in his gut. He tried to focus on the words, not on the warm slightly acrid scent of Tim's sweat and the feel of him, small but solid in his arms.
"It's hard for me, too. You're...one of the most important people in my world. Whenever you open up to me, I'm happy for days, thinking maybe we're getting somewhere. Finally. And every time you close off again--" Roy listened to hours of him whining on the phone about Robins who do Bat impressions. "I hate it."
There were so many non-verbal cues in Dick's response that Tim could hardly process them all. He wasn't that good at reading people in general but this was Dick. His whole heart knew everything there was to know about Dick's reactions. His hand slid up Dick's back, cupped the back of his neck in a steadying grip that said "I'm here, I've got you" as much as Dick's protective curl around him. Of all places, this was a safe space, curled together. No pressure, no demands. "I know. I'm sorry. This time will be different."
Safe space for Tim, but way way way too much for him right now. He flinched and stiffened. Carefully, because hurting Tim physically or emotionally was at the top of the list of things he hated doing, he pried Tim's fingers off the back of his neck, squeezed them gently for reassurance even though his vision blurred around the edges. Untwining his legs from Tim, he pushed back, found some space, sat up and shoved his hands through his hair. "Sorry," he muttered, frustrated at the way his heart couldn't decide whether it was slamming against his ribs out of sexual need or sexual fear.
It hurt, but it was a dull hurt, unsurprised and unoffended. The Dick that was right here wasn't his Dick and didn't have the time or distance from what Catalina had done. Knowing that helped Tim lay back, pulling his limbs in so he could be comfortable without taking up too much space. "Don't be sorry. You didn't do anything wrong."
"It's a little heavy on the irony, even for me, that I'm telling you how much I hate you shutting me out seconds before I slam down the blast doors," Dick said from half across the bed. The space between them was no more than six inches, but he'd made it firm and fast and defended it better than the 'neutral zone' in Gaza.
"I think the irony is that it's not me." Tim propped himself up on his arm, carefully respecting the boundary that Dick had laid out. "Dick, I don't want anything to happen tonight. Whatever I remember, whatever happened, I'm also still the same person I was on the roof earlier. Being in the same bed as you is about all I can handle."
Glib quips could cover over that, but he wasn't feeling glib or quippy. Instead, he inhaled heavy and exhaled slow, chest aching from more than four ribs bruised in the shape of a boot. "It's not that, Timmy. I don't feel pressured...not really. It's just..." Things he didn't talk about with Tim: sex, the real version, topped the list. But now he had to. "It's just been a while since I've been with anyone and whether you mean to or not, you keep touching me like someone who's been fucking me."
The choice of words was deliberate, not to be crass or harsh but to tell Tim what he knew, which was that in his dreams, Tim had been topping - probably not exclusively topping, because of who they were to each other and always would be, but Tim's move to surround and protect, to hold him was a top move, one specific and comfortable to them. And it was that specifically that Dick both craved and feared right now, and why he hadn't called Roy.
"I don't...need you to stop being physically affectionate. It's me, both rooftop you and this other you know that I like physical contact. I just need you to understand that some things are going to set me off and I might need to catch my breath. Like now."
Tim considered that and nodded. "That's not the word I'd have chosen." He could tell he was blushing again and he thought it very unfair that he could be embarrassed at his own memories and experiences. And that wasn't even the part that would really make him blush. "Mostly it wasn't like that. And I've found that...I really like when you let me touch you. On the island, Bart..." he stuttered and stopped, having had no intention of going into any of the other people on the island, least of all Bart.
He put his hand on the bed between them, looked at it and noted the lack of scars from defensive wounds he never took and tasks he never started. It surprised him, part of him, that he was so pale, so thin, so young. That the same was true of Dick--both of them hurting from injuries that go all the way through the heart. And then his perspective would flip and he'd hurt so hard he felt like he'd never breathe again. "It's hard right now, because there are two very strong impulses in my head right now. The other me understands what you're saying and... then there's me. The one who I'm supposed to be. And I'd like to stop talking right now so that I can start pretending we didn't have this conversation and we can go back to being brothers."
"We're always going to be brothers, even if..." Dick stopped, faltering as it hit him, really hit him, what Tim had lived. He swallowed softly, gaze lidding, because even if he'd thought about loving Tim, playing with him, fantasies were fantasies and this... "Even if we're something else, too." Here and now, not yet, but he knew Tim well enough to know he wanted it. Even if part of Tim didn't know he wanted it yet, or didn't know how to handle wanting it. "Let's sleep, Timmy. You need rest, the you who hadn't dreamed this yesterday is grieving. I'm here for you, no matter what. I promise."
Tim nodded again, took a deep breath to make his heart stop hurting, and pulled his hand back again so he could sleep. "Good night, Dick. I'm...very glad you're here."
He woke up cold, stiff and alone. The air was dry and crisp, tasting faintly metallic before he even opened his eyes and saw pipes and rust and concrete. For a moment, he was disoriented then memory hit clear and hard. It was January, not July. New Jersey. Gotham. Fourteenth street. Three weeks ago his father had been murdered. Four weeks ago, his girlfriend had been tortured to death.
And last night.
Last night he'd gone to sleep with limbs tangled and heart taken, the taste of fevered kisses still on his lips. It had been two years, ten months since he'd seen Gotham. He was nearly 20 years old. He was in love and in a forever relationship.
Last night he'd proved a point playing rooftop tag with Batgirl and Nightwing. He was 16 years old. He was alone and hurting and in a few months, before he even turned 17, he would lose both of his best friends violently. The brittle edge on Nightwing's every word was more than just the war.
He sat up, found that he'd been lying on a cot in one of the safehouses. His comm was blinking frantically - looking at his watch answered why - he hadn't checked in for hours, they'd be worried but wouldn't want to intrude if he needed time alone. Everyone treated him like he was made of glass. He wasn't sure that it was worse than that.
Dreams faded with each passing moment but the memories of sun-drenched beaches and tropical nights remained perfectly vivid. Was he going crazy?
He picked up his radio and tapped it. "R to N -- You out there?"
Nightwing cut a glance across his shoulder at Batgirl, handsigned for you go ahead, I've got this, and hunkered down to take the comm call. His little brother sounded rougher than he had last night, and even in the middle of this, if Robin was reaching out, then Nightwing would be there. If Tim was reaching out, then Dick would be there. "Always, R. What's your status?"
"5150," he replied, half-joking. "All right. Crashed out for a bit. Headed home now though. Got some time later? I want to talk to you." He wondered if that counted as lying when what he really wanted was his dream world back. He needed to see Dick, to ground himself back here and now so that his dream could fade again and let him go back to reality.
As he waited for a reply, he gathered his things again and prepared to leave. Home, his aching heart told him, was Wayne Manor. The house's lease had ended with his father's death and Dana was already in a hospital, her nerves shattered. She was as broken as he and she didn't have anyone to hit.
Got some time later? A call for help if he'd ever heard one. Gotham was running short enough of heroes that it couldn't afford to lose one. Nightwing wouldn't lose another Robin, and Dick just loved Tim. He exhaled softly and Batgirl did that freaky thing where she looked back from half a block away like she'd heard him, cocked her head, and looked at him. Everything in her masked expression said well, what are you waiting for?
Creepy.
"Yeah, R. I've got time. I can meet you there now if you want."
Now. He considered it but something told him that if he allowed himself to see Dick now, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from touching him, treating him like his memories -- dreams -- told him was right and natural. Dick was his brother, nothing more. The thought throbbed with the same pain as the places where his father and Steph used to be. "An hour. Meet me in an hour." It would be nearly dawn. The sunlight would help his dreams seem less real.
"I was thinking of heading in anyway. I'm beat. You sure?" Once Batgirl had disappeared, nodding her head in approval like she had some say in the matter, he felt himself give way to the endless exhaustion and the desire to just be home for awhile. To see Alfred, have something warm to drink, sleep in a warm bed after talking to Tim. "It'll take me twenty to get in from here anyway."
He was going to know there was something wrong the moment he saw him anyway. "All right. Don't rush though. I'm going to wash up first. It'll be 30 at least for me." Or you could join me. No, that wasn't his life. Dick couldn't be allowed to suspect anything more than the hero-worship he already assumed of Tim. Dick saw his broken little brother. Tim wasn't going to allow himself to even consider that Dick might remember the island. No matter how real it felt to him, it was still just a trick of the mind. There was nothing for Dick to remember. He took a deep breath and set out for the Cave.
Forty-five minutes later, his skin was red from hot water, scented by expensive french milled soap, smooth from a freshly sharpened razor. He'd lingered, indulging in the long missed (not really, it was only yesterday) simple luxuries. He pulled on clothes that were his, that fit and didn't look like the 80s attacked. His hair was neatly trimmed, just beginning to grow out from his last haircut two weeks ago, right before his father's funeral. He left off the hair gel and just finger combed it into place. It felt right. And it felt wrong.
Every experience, seemingly commonplace, was the same, solidifying his feeling that he'd been gone for years, not hours. At the same time, he battled the confusion of knowing that it really had only been hours. Far from the memory of falling apart, of loving and losing Bart, of finding Dick and healing finally, the pain was keen as ever. It didn't seem fair that he got all the pain and none of the distance.
He couldn't stand here thinking about it any longer. Dick would be waiting and he needed to see him.
Tim said don't hurry and Gotham had no shorter a supply of criminals just because his broken little brother finally wanted the hug and talk it out time he'd needed for more than a month. It ended up taking Dick two broken wrists, four dislocated shoulders, six calls to the ex-GCPD and about thirty-five minutes to get home.
Bruised, scruffy, filthy and so haunted around the eyes he couldn't bare to look in the mirror, Dick grabbed a shower, thinking he'd be quick, but the water was hot, the soap, clean, the razor, sharp and he hadn't seen a towel that didn't look as dingy as road snow for more than a week at least. Almost fifty minutes from when he said he'd be home, he came out into his room, towel around his hips, to look for a clean pair of track pants for talking and sleep.
Alfred thought Tim didn't know that the coffee was decaf. The truth was that Tim didn't care. The heat, the bitterness, the smell--it was
the experience of the coffee that Tim was looking for, long missed. He took the carafe with him, and an extra mug for Dick, up to Dick's
room, not far from his own. He knocked diffidently on the door and realized he was holding his breath.
The inescapable reality was that he was alone and he didn't want to be. What he wanted most was to open the door, go to his brother and pull him into bed. He could feel it already, the cool sheets, the heat, the weight. Tim squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the aching need to subside.
"Come on in, Timmy," Dick called back over his shoulder. It had to be Tim or there'd have been a "Master Richard?" after the knock, and if it'd been Bruce, he wouldn't have knocked at all.
His fingers closed around a pair of sweats, black, but he paused, waiting for Tim to come in. See him half-dressed. Blush and stammer. Blush and stammer more when he dropped the towel shamelessly and dressed. Maybe he shouldn't tease Tim when he was fragile, but being normal with Tim, that mattered a lot. If he treated him like spun glass, he'd bolt.
Tim let himself in and immediately found his breath stolen away again. Two years younger meant Dick didn't have all of the muscle weight that his dreams did but that didn't matter much when he'd loved Dick since he was 5 years old. Dick was beautiful and knew it; the confidence only added to his attractiveness. Tim's shoulders stiffened and his spine went straight, locking himself into place to resist moving to Dick. It was several, unfortunately obvious seconds before he could force himself to lift the carafe. "Coffee? Decaf."
Dick would know something was off, that couldn't be helped. Luckily, everything about Tim had been off for the last month. Everything said don't touch, don't care, don't pity. This reaction was different but not different enough to make Dick suspicious. He knew him well enough to know that and Dick...didn't know him that well. Not yet. He wanted him to though, wanted it more than anything.
"Yeah, sure. Hold it for me while I change?" Tim's reaction didn't go unnoticed, but with everything Tim had been through lately, it could mean anything from put something on, I need a hug to are you ever going to stop trying to mortify me? or something else entirely.
More data on the subject wouldn't hurt and he did have to change, so he dropped the towel, catching it on his hand and tossing it off to the laundry basket, and spent a full thirty seconds nude between that and stepping into his sweats. He pulled them up and tied them off, gaze zeroing in on Tim's before he held out his hand for the coffee.
"So what's up?" he asked and patted the bed, before settling, half-sprawled around his coffee mug.
Tim couldn't make himself not look, couldn't stop himself from a half-step toward Dick, before rocking back. It was not his best moment. The sprawl was even worse in some ways, when he could see exactly how he'd fit in the curve of Dick's body. Abruptly, his entire strategy changed. He'd been thinking he'd try to make this normal, try to ignore the dream memories. But that wasn't going to work. He didn't want to hurt alone, not when he had some place to turn. "After I left you last night, I lost time. Hours, at a best guess. And either I have had a break with reality or... I don't know what the other explanation is. Maybe it was just a dream."
Following that he moved to sit on the bed, just on the edge, hands clasped around his own mug. "It felt real. That's why I needed to see you. I thought that if I saw you, it would make it obvious that it was just a dream and I'd be able to get past it but.... It still feels real." He took a deep breath. "I have to ask you about something. Something you haven't told me."
For a breath, there was something in Tim's eyes he'd never seen. Sheer, naked, need. There and then gone so fast he might've imagined it, except for the half-step forward toward him. Then Tim started talking and Dick thought maybe he'd imagined it, or maybe this made sense of it: Tim was holding on by a thread and he needed Dick to gather him up and protect him when it snapped.
He could do that. His fingers flashed out from resting against the mug, warming, and slid through Tim's hair. He frowned. "No gel," he said, mostly to himself and tried to work out what it might mean, then simply nodded. "I'm here. I've got you. We'll deal with whatever this is together. Go ahead and ask."
"I'm thinking about growing it out," he replied. Dick was touching him and that made Tim relax a little. Dick would need the connection, the reassurance, if what Tim was about to ask wasn't just a product of his fevered mind, so broken by grief that it needed to create fantastic alternate realities. He didn't touch Dick back, not yet. It would be too out of the ordinary.
"You came back to Gotham because of Blockbuster's murder." He hadn't known that at the time. There had been too much surrounding the war.... No, not at the time. Now. He shouldn't know it now. Tim took a breath to steady himself and went on. Knowing about Blockbuster, if there was in fact something to know, proved nothing. What he had to ask, that meant something. "What happened with Tarantula after...have you told anyone?" He hadn't. Tim was certain of that. If his dreams weren't just dreams, then Dick wouldn't have told a single soul.
Dick drew back, stung and abruptly nauseated. Only years of training close his fingers around the coffee again before it tips after the drop to the bed. He stares, jaw tightening, and if he didn't know Tim was the creepiest stalker in their family - creepier than Babs and Bruce - he'd be accusing him of being...he didn't even know what.
"How do you know that? How do you... I haven't..." He swallowed, turned half away. Blockbuster was bad enough. But Catalina? He couldn't talk about her with Tim. How the hell did he know? "That's none of your business." He didn't mean that, not like that, but what other defense did he have against... It was over. Done. There was nothing to talk about.
Tim closed his eyes, unable to stop the shudder, sick to his stomach. He hated asking, knew his brother was just as broken as he but it was the only thing he could think of. For a moment, he let Dick pull away, protect himself. He had to let him work through the initial shock of Tim asking. Carefully, he set aside his own mug and wait, breath after even breath, all of it false calm. "I'm sorry," he whispered, voice betraying his lack of composure. "I'm so sorry, prala." The Romani word slipped out and Tim winced. One fantastic thing at a time, Drake. He reached out, fingers just brushing Dick's shoulder.
"You told me. In the dream I had. You told me about what happened." Maybe he shouldn't be talking yet. Maybe he should wait for Dick to at least look at him again. "Dick, I... When I woke up, I thought that I'd find myself in my bed on a tropical island. That I'd lived two and a half years away from Gotham. And I thought -- I wanted -- you. I expected you to be there with me. And when you weren't, when it was Gotham instead of the island, I thought I had gone crazy. And I needed you."
Eyes closed, Dick still flinched away from the touch. Still shuddered, shaking inside from words, thoughts, touch. "Please don't. Don't touch me." The words came out harsher than he wanted them to be but... he still hadn't worked out how to let anyone else touch him, and on top of everything else...
Pull your head out of your ass, Grayson. Tim needs you.
He forced himself to exhale and inhale, exhale again, and inhale, until he was doing both again without thinking about it. "Sorry, that was uncalled for. I don't want to talk about Blockbuster and Tarantula. I want to know what you mean, you thought you wanted me, all of it, but especially that. Don't jump to conclusions. What do you remember? Are you sure it wasn't a future jag or a multiverse event, how would you know?"
This he could do. He could. Even if he had to be more Nightwing than Dick, he could help Tim.
Tim pulled his hand back and shuddered again. This was worse than he'd thought. For a moment he panicked. Would he even be able to help Dick when he was this hurt? When they both were? He licked his lips and tried again. "It wasn't the future. Our theory on the island was that it was a pocket universe that copied a consciousness from a particular place in time and space. Mine was copied from...now. Tonight. Yours was from two years from now after... a lot of things. We were closer in your future and by the time you... arrived, I'd changed a lot as well." He scrubbed his palms against his thighs. "I thought you'd be there. And I wanted you there. Because I've gotten...on the island, I'd become used to that and everything that happened there is in my head. Like it's me and every second makes it seem more real."
He was afraid to say more, afraid to hurt Dick any more than he already had by forcing him to go back to what Catalina had done. But he'd said too much not to go on and he wouldn't lie. Not to Dick. "Dick, I'm in love with you. That's what I meant when I said I wanted you. I love you and on the island, you loved me too. I'm not...I don't want to push. I'm not asking for anything, I swear."
For a long time, several minutes, Dick just stared. If Tim were Roy or...anyone but Tim, he'd think it was a joke, or maybe an intervention. It sounded like an intervention, sort of, except for the part about them being together on this island Tim kept talking about. That sounded like a prank. Or a hallucination. Or... god, what did they do to you, Timmy?
Except that look and the need in his voice when he said Dick loved him too. And Tim implying they'd had sex in a completely straight face. And... He had no idea what to say. Nothing in their training covered this. Hallucinations yes, but not hallucinations of being in love with him and...It occurred to him his brain was scrambling, the combination of his own hurt and Tim's need and the situation too much to bear. He said the only thing he could. "I've always loved you, Tim, not just on your island or in this dream or whatever it is. We'll figure that out but the one thing that's definitely true is that I love you. Okay?"
"I know, Dick." He'd said what was true and now without backing away from it, he moved it to the side. It was too much and expecting Dick to accept it when Tim wasn't sure that he wasn't actually crazy was entirely unfair. He picked up his mug again and curled up around it, reconstructing his shields. With Dick inside. "You look exhausted. When was the last time that you slept?" He hardly remembered the last time he did--the missing hours don't count. There was nothing restful about thinking you were losing your mind. There was even less restful about being afraid that he wasn't losing it.
"Little brother, there's a war on. Sleep isn't exactly at a premium." Easier to tease, to chide, than to try to deal with what Tim was saying. He should be dragging Tim down to the cave, calling Bruce, doing something to verify the story, but he was tired. Jaw cracking when he yawned tired. Tim was right, he hadn't slept in forever and he needed to. "Run me through all of your security protocol checks so that we can sleep. If you pass, we can deal with this in the morning."
Tim nodded and complied, confirming his identity in all the thousand little ways that they had to use to counter impersonation, infiltration, coercion. I'm who I say I am, they said, I'm in my right mind, I'm not fighting control, I don't need rescue, everything is as it should be. It didn't take long, for all that, and Tim went back to sipping his coffee when he was done, watching Dick over the rim.
When Tim passed, every single check, without even a stutter, Dick exhaled relief then inhaled again sharply because, fuck, that meant...who knew what it meant, exactly? Either that Tim had had incredibly vivid erotic fantasies of him - not necessarily a bad thing - or that somehow in some way, what Tim had said was true. And they'd been, what, lovers? Boyfriends? He rubbed his hand over his face when he nodded his acknowledgment, drank a long pull of cooling decaf and tried to get his head around that.
Of course he'd thought about it. Brilliant, deeply loved, wearing his old uniform with a mouth that taunted, tempted and teased from beneath a dominio? Of course he had. Not to mention that the rest of Tim had been filling out steadily and Tim had had the worst kind of crush on him for years. He'd even thought about it recently, a palliative, comfort sex to get him through his grief over his dad and Stephanie, something for Timmy to hold onto that wasn't going to break out from under him.
But he'd refused to move on it, in part because Tim had been saving himself for Stephanie and Dick knew it, and in part because... he hadn't been with anyone since Catalina and as depressed as his libido had been under the weight of Gotham's fall and Blockbuster, he could feel it building under the surface. Unleashing that at Tim, even if he had agreed by some bizarre change, couldn't be a harsher introduction to sex.
He rubbed his face again, trying to clear his thoughts off this entirely unhelpful track, then ran his hand through Tim's hair again, encouraging him closer. It wouldn't hurt either of them to have a little extra warmth tonight. "C'mere, Timmy. You need sleep too. We'll deal with this fresh tomorrow and if you dream again, at least I'll be here when you wake up." That seemed like the right thing t say, even if... even if Tim was sixteen and his brother besides.
Again Tim put aside his coffee and then Dick's, stretching out beside him. He didn't reach for him, there was too much confusion-- both for Dick and in his own mind--for that to be a good idea. It would take time, no matter what happened, for this to work. Just because he remembered a relationship didn't mean that either of them were ready for one. He still hurt, keenly, and the idea of giving his heart away...he wasn't sure he could do it. But sleeping he could handle. "It's already morning," he answered pedantically, because it was the right thing for him to say, the familiar thing. "Maybe we can sleep until lunch."
"It's still today for us," Dick answered by rote, because it was what he would say, what he should say, if Tim hadn't forced him to wonder what they were like together in his dreams, and actually, it was the right thing to do to ask. To touch Tim and tease him and ask about his dreams. So he did. Rolled over on his side, leaned up on his elbow and grinned down at Tim, playing because the only way to make this not weird was to make it normal. "So what were we like? Was I hot?"
The blush that he felt heating his cheeks was normal enough. The answer that came to mind -- perfect -- was not. The other half of his brain--the one that only had ever been here, that hurt like a brand against the skin every time he so much as took a breath--supplied a better response. "Oh sure, take advantage of my possible insanity to boost your ego. Yes, Dick," he sing-songed, "You were very hot."
"Of course I was," Dick purred around a satisfied smile. He set his hand on Tim's chest and patted it twice. "I'm sure you were very hot too." It felt like he should say something else, like maybe there was something that would help Tim. Something that wasn't kiss him. Instead, he rolled to his back, slid his hand through Tim's hair and pulled him in up to his chest. "C'mere. Sleep, Timmy."
This felt so right, it hurt. Under the scent of soap and shampoo is the undefinable smell of Dick. It calmed him, relaxed him even though that would be wrong for this him. He rests his hand on Dick's chest, fingers automatically seeking a scar that isn't there yet. "Sleep well, Dick."
Tim curled into him so easily, so familiarly, like they'd done this hundreds of times, instead of like Tim was his sweet, innocent, virgin little brother who shied away from too much physical contact. His hand moved familiarly over Dick's chest, comfortable there and the weight and glide of it felt exactly right, like Tim had, in his Tim way, calculated precisely how he liked to be touched. After a few minutes, he tilted his head down over Tim's, rested his cheek against it. "How long were we together in your dream?"
His breath caught in his chest though he should have known Dick would feel the difference. He couldn't reply at first, his thoughts tumbling through his mind, never quite sure which reality was true. Finally he licked his lips and forced a hoarse whisper past his closed down throat. "Eight months." And we were handfasted. Sworn to each other. You rescued me in every way that counted. He glanced up at Dick, hesitant. "Right person, right place." Right time, then. Wrong time now. He had to take this slowly. Needed to back off before he scared Dick or asked too much of him.
"Right person, right place?" Dick asked, eyebrow arching, inquisitive. He might not know the situation, but he knew himself. That statement should finish right time, but Tim shouldn't know any of it, not even from a dream, since he'd never said it to him or explained it to him that he could think of.
His eyes closed again, shuttering and shutting himself away. His right person didn't know he needed him, because he couldn't bring himself to say what had happened. The right place definitely wasn't Gotham in the midst of an all-out war with the gangs and an effort to pull her back from the bring of death. And the right time definitely wasn't now when the thought of someone having him as completely as that right person would felt like a violation just thinking about it.
"Maybe--" His voice fell quiet, soft, rough with emotions he couldn't control or contain. "Maybe you should tell me how that happened."
Tim considered it and then carefully shook his head. "Maybe I should but right now, I don't think I can. We need to sleep and I need to...take some time to figure this out. I've only had a couple hours and I don't want to put too much on you. My head and my heart are too confused right now to talk about it." It was protection for them both.
As much as anything, that convinced him that there was something real that had happened to his little brother. The Tim who'd left him and BG on the rooftops last night didn't think like that 'not wanting to put too much on' Dick, or at least not in a way that sounded protective of Dick. It was still Tim, who always worried he'd ask too much of their relationship - like there could be too much when Dick loved him with his whole heart - but Tim felt different, wiser, warmer, more settled than Dick had ever known him. Fragile in different ways.
And Dick felt confused, raw, uncertain...or it might be truer to say he thought confused, raw, uncertain and felt warm, content, and safe with Tim in his arms. He chose feeling instead of thinking, curled Tim closer and tighter. "I believe you. I want you to know that. I'm not sure what happened to you but I believe that you experienced something with me."
"That's enough for right now. It's more than expected." Tim let himself relax the rest of the way, eyes closed with his head on Dick's chest to listen to his heartbeat. "Good night, Dick."
"Good morning, Tim," Dick answered, softly teasing before letting his own eyes close and quieting his thoughts. There was nothing he could do about this now, and possibly nothing ever. They'd work it out between the two of them. Starting when they woke.
"Tim, get home. Now." Oracle's voice is anything but human but that isn't the thing that freezes the blood in Tim's veins.
"What're you talking about? What's wrong?" But he knows. He knew from right first moment. All of it confirmed in the next breath by her next words.
"It's your dad."
They've turned around before the breath can choke in his throat. Speeding back home and he already knows.
"Barbara, patch me thr--" She's good. He doesn't even get to finish the sentence.
"Tim?"
"Dad? Dad, are you okay!?"
"I-I'm fine. I think he's in the hallway. I've got it, though...I'm fine." He's trying to sound brave. To sound like he's at least as brave as his 16 year old son who... oh God.
"Dad, this isn't some African safari! Get out of there!"
"He's definitely in the hall!"
Dimly, through the blood rushing through his ears, he can hear Bruce's voice, telling Barbara to call Wally and her reply. Taking away a little more hope and he doesn't want to hear it. "Already tried. He's not picking up."
Tim has to beg. It's his father. Bruce of all people will understand. "Bruce, please... Please help him..." He's never seen that expression on Bruce's face before. He's never going to be able to forget it. Bruce knows too. It's too late. He's always too late.
He's too late and his dad is breaking his heart. "He's at the door. Tim, if something happens," Nothing will. He'll stop it. They'll stop it. "Tim, I need you to focus. You listening, Tim? Good. Then understand one thing: if you don't get here, it's not your fault." And he can't protest anymore. The plea is stuck in his throat, "I need you to know this Tim--it's not your fault. Okay? You didn't do this." I did though. If he hadn't left. "I love you, Tim. I love you just like your mother loves you."
"Dad, please." It's all he has left.
"What you do... for all those people... it's worth it, Tim. Never question it. It's worth it."
"Dad, we're almost--"
"Tell Bruce to take care of you..."
"DAD!"
Tim woke screaming, sweat-sheened and heart-pounding. He was crying, just as he had been in the dream and God it wouldn't stop. He'd been seeing these dreams, listening to his father die for years and years. The hurt now will never go away. "Dad" he whimpered into the night.
Even before the scream, Dick woke, tense and alert for the threat, heart slamming against his ribcage. Then came the scream and the sound of sobs, not from down the hall but from beside him, with him.
Nightmare.
Tim.
"I'm here, Timmy. Shh. I've got you." The words were instinctive, the tone quiet and soothing and confident with years of practice at exactly this. He rolled toward Tim, tightening his arm around him, and pulling him beneath Dick, safe and stable. "I've got you."
Tim clung to him, sobbing, Dick was the one true thing in any reality. He could fall apart here, he'd be put back together. And as usual just knowing that that was true made it so much easier to pull himself back together again. "It was my dad. It's...same every night. Always my dad."
Warm body beneath him, warm and clinging, and beneath the forced alert, his body still shoved off the remnants of sleep. It didn't shove off the adrenaline hard-on that he'd normally have ignored but with what Tim had told him, he couldn't.
Dick was careful, very, not to move his hips against Tim the way his body urged him to. Instead, he focused on the hurt in Tim's voice. Pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. Cupped a hand around the back of Tim's neck and rolled them so he was beside Tim, not over him, then tucked Tim's head into the crook of his neck. "I know, little brother. I'm sorry. You're safe now. I've got you."
He was still shaking with reaction, pulling in wracking breaths that stabbed like knives. His nails scraped lightly against Dick's back, clutching at a shirt that wasn't there and pressed his face into Dick's shoulder, inhaling his scent to calm himself. He knew he'd be all right and it let him smile ironically. "You wanted to know how it started? It was just like this. Woke up from a nightmare just like this."
Again, the reaction, the touch, hit him so viscerally. Not even years of fantasy and voyeurism could give Tim this level of comfort with Dick's body, with touching him and being close to him. Not the boy who'd flinched away from a hand through his hair twenty-four hours ago. And he could imagine it, perfectly, how it would've played out. Tim beneath him, his body taut with adrenaline and senses heightened. It would be so easy...
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have taken advantage." He didn't let go and shove Tim away now, but the hand that slid through his hair and down his back stayed firmly brotherly, even if the heat against his throat, the slip of tears, the press of bodies...even if...
Tim lifted his head, all his memories warring with each other. "You didn't, you haven't." How much should he tell him? Keep it simple. He made his touch stay innocent. He couldn't help the familiarity but he could make this feel like brothers not lovers. Without actually putting any space between them, he added back the distance that was needed. "I'd just broken up with someone. You got me through the worst of it. I mean it when I say that I don't expect anything from you, Dick. I'm well-aware that you're not the same as that other world. You don't have to worry about doing the wrong thing or saying the wrong thing."
Dick fought back a bitter laugh, waves of hurt from being physically close, physically aroused with someone else in his arms the first time since Catalina, from it being Tim who he'd been telling himself not to think about for six months already. Softened himself and kept it sweet, brightened himself to make it sunny, and hoped, god he hoped, Tim hadn't gotten as good at reading him as he was at reading Tim. Hoped Tim wouldn't feel the war beneath the surface of his skin the way he could sense it in Tim when he teased, "So I was just a rebound for you, that's all? What about how I feel?"
"Do you really want to know the answer to that?" Not a rebound. Forever. Forever like he'd hardly ever let himself dream about with Stephanie because their lives were too violent, too uncertain and then he'd lost her. A shudder ran through his body, present time and present grief overtaking the healing that the other him had found. He squeezed his eyes closed. Dick was holding him like he wanted him but Tim couldn't, didn't dare, take that as an offer. This wasn't, yet, his love.
Did he? He'd been teasing, but the way Tim asked, the pointed certainty in it. He hadn't forgotten - relationship, in love, together - but it wasn't him and that made it hard to get his head around. "I don't know," he answered honestly and tucked Tim closer to him, not maybe as much brotherly as protectively, even if he couldn't be sure it was Tim he protected and not himself. It felt good, though, to hold onto someone. To touch someone, and feel safe doing it. "But if I'm going to help you, I think I need to understand."
Tim shifted, his calf sliding over Dick's. "That night, I thought it was one time. After that, it was...not casual exactly," Because Tim didn't have a casual bone in his body, "but not exclusive, you...he had...others." Monet, Alcuin, Jack, Roy. "I don't remember why it changed, exactly." Yes he did but that he can't talk about, not yet. Maybe not ever. "Interestingly the dynamic was reversed then. He was a good deal closer to his Tim than I am to you. It was hard for him, I think, adjusting to the distance I needed."
Scrape of fear-sweaty skin against sleep-sweaty skin and every nerve in Dick's body hit red alert. He'd been celibate for too long to be sharing a bed with and cuddling with someone he loved as much as Tim, he realized, far too late, when his cock pulsed between them, his breath caught and eyelashes started to flutter. But there were other reactions, the erratic thud of his heart, the adrenaline spike that had nothing to do with sex, the twist of nausea in his gut. He tried to focus on the words, not on the warm slightly acrid scent of Tim's sweat and the feel of him, small but solid in his arms.
"It's hard for me, too. You're...one of the most important people in my world. Whenever you open up to me, I'm happy for days, thinking maybe we're getting somewhere. Finally. And every time you close off again--" Roy listened to hours of him whining on the phone about Robins who do Bat impressions. "I hate it."
There were so many non-verbal cues in Dick's response that Tim could hardly process them all. He wasn't that good at reading people in general but this was Dick. His whole heart knew everything there was to know about Dick's reactions. His hand slid up Dick's back, cupped the back of his neck in a steadying grip that said "I'm here, I've got you" as much as Dick's protective curl around him. Of all places, this was a safe space, curled together. No pressure, no demands. "I know. I'm sorry. This time will be different."
Safe space for Tim, but way way way too much for him right now. He flinched and stiffened. Carefully, because hurting Tim physically or emotionally was at the top of the list of things he hated doing, he pried Tim's fingers off the back of his neck, squeezed them gently for reassurance even though his vision blurred around the edges. Untwining his legs from Tim, he pushed back, found some space, sat up and shoved his hands through his hair. "Sorry," he muttered, frustrated at the way his heart couldn't decide whether it was slamming against his ribs out of sexual need or sexual fear.
It hurt, but it was a dull hurt, unsurprised and unoffended. The Dick that was right here wasn't his Dick and didn't have the time or distance from what Catalina had done. Knowing that helped Tim lay back, pulling his limbs in so he could be comfortable without taking up too much space. "Don't be sorry. You didn't do anything wrong."
"It's a little heavy on the irony, even for me, that I'm telling you how much I hate you shutting me out seconds before I slam down the blast doors," Dick said from half across the bed. The space between them was no more than six inches, but he'd made it firm and fast and defended it better than the 'neutral zone' in Gaza.
"I think the irony is that it's not me." Tim propped himself up on his arm, carefully respecting the boundary that Dick had laid out. "Dick, I don't want anything to happen tonight. Whatever I remember, whatever happened, I'm also still the same person I was on the roof earlier. Being in the same bed as you is about all I can handle."
Glib quips could cover over that, but he wasn't feeling glib or quippy. Instead, he inhaled heavy and exhaled slow, chest aching from more than four ribs bruised in the shape of a boot. "It's not that, Timmy. I don't feel pressured...not really. It's just..." Things he didn't talk about with Tim: sex, the real version, topped the list. But now he had to. "It's just been a while since I've been with anyone and whether you mean to or not, you keep touching me like someone who's been fucking me."
The choice of words was deliberate, not to be crass or harsh but to tell Tim what he knew, which was that in his dreams, Tim had been topping - probably not exclusively topping, because of who they were to each other and always would be, but Tim's move to surround and protect, to hold him was a top move, one specific and comfortable to them. And it was that specifically that Dick both craved and feared right now, and why he hadn't called Roy.
"I don't...need you to stop being physically affectionate. It's me, both rooftop you and this other you know that I like physical contact. I just need you to understand that some things are going to set me off and I might need to catch my breath. Like now."
Tim considered that and nodded. "That's not the word I'd have chosen." He could tell he was blushing again and he thought it very unfair that he could be embarrassed at his own memories and experiences. And that wasn't even the part that would really make him blush. "Mostly it wasn't like that. And I've found that...I really like when you let me touch you. On the island, Bart..." he stuttered and stopped, having had no intention of going into any of the other people on the island, least of all Bart.
He put his hand on the bed between them, looked at it and noted the lack of scars from defensive wounds he never took and tasks he never started. It surprised him, part of him, that he was so pale, so thin, so young. That the same was true of Dick--both of them hurting from injuries that go all the way through the heart. And then his perspective would flip and he'd hurt so hard he felt like he'd never breathe again. "It's hard right now, because there are two very strong impulses in my head right now. The other me understands what you're saying and... then there's me. The one who I'm supposed to be. And I'd like to stop talking right now so that I can start pretending we didn't have this conversation and we can go back to being brothers."
"We're always going to be brothers, even if..." Dick stopped, faltering as it hit him, really hit him, what Tim had lived. He swallowed softly, gaze lidding, because even if he'd thought about loving Tim, playing with him, fantasies were fantasies and this... "Even if we're something else, too." Here and now, not yet, but he knew Tim well enough to know he wanted it. Even if part of Tim didn't know he wanted it yet, or didn't know how to handle wanting it. "Let's sleep, Timmy. You need rest, the you who hadn't dreamed this yesterday is grieving. I'm here for you, no matter what. I promise."
Tim nodded again, took a deep breath to make his heart stop hurting, and pulled his hand back again so he could sleep. "Good night, Dick. I'm...very glad you're here."