in a house by the tracks, in a dress faded black
Who: Dick Grayson and Tim Wayne
When: Sunday night, 11ish PM
Where: 8D
Summary: We're starting to figure out the problem.
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence and mild suggestiveness.
He'd meant to talk.
They were supposed to talk. He's been telling Dick he'd open up, that he'd be willing to explain, that he would be honest if he needed help. And in all honesty, he does need help. He has for a while, and after what happened with Timothy last night, he's starting to get worried.
So that explains what he's doing at Dick's door. It doesn't necessarily explain why he showed up when he knew Dick would be sleeping, or why he feels the need to pick the lock instead of just knocking, or why he's standing over the sleeping man now, just--watching. Dick's body swells and ebbs with dozing breaths, and Tim easily imagines the air rushes through him, cleaning him out. Easily imagines the lithe body catching and kinking up if he cut that cleansing air off. His eyes snag at Dick's partly-open lips, and his own press together tightly.
It must be his training. The roughness of the last few weeks. The fact that ninety percent of his imagery involving Dick lately has been bloody. His own fracture state of mind right now. It must be any of those things--all of those things--that has him leaning against the mattress. He plants one hand on the opposite side of Dick's head, the other carefully, carefully running a middle finger over Dick's bottom lip.
When: Sunday night, 11ish PM
Where: 8D
Summary: We're starting to figure out the problem.
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence and mild suggestiveness.
He'd meant to talk.
They were supposed to talk. He's been telling Dick he'd open up, that he'd be willing to explain, that he would be honest if he needed help. And in all honesty, he does need help. He has for a while, and after what happened with Timothy last night, he's starting to get worried.
So that explains what he's doing at Dick's door. It doesn't necessarily explain why he showed up when he knew Dick would be sleeping, or why he feels the need to pick the lock instead of just knocking, or why he's standing over the sleeping man now, just--watching. Dick's body swells and ebbs with dozing breaths, and Tim easily imagines the air rushes through him, cleaning him out. Easily imagines the lithe body catching and kinking up if he cut that cleansing air off. His eyes snag at Dick's partly-open lips, and his own press together tightly.
It must be his training. The roughness of the last few weeks. The fact that ninety percent of his imagery involving Dick lately has been bloody. His own fracture state of mind right now. It must be any of those things--all of those things--that has him leaning against the mattress. He plants one hand on the opposite side of Dick's head, the other carefully, carefully running a middle finger over Dick's bottom lip.