[Fic: DCU] Untouched - Tim/Tam angst and sweetness
Title: Untouched
Fandom: DCU, Red Robin
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2,650
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Cass didn't save Tim. Pru did. But not so punctually. A drugged-up Tim is left to contemplate his overall exposure to physical contact in the last several months while a furiously terrified Tam Fox attempts to care for him. Tim/Tam. Mention of Tim/others.
A/N: Apologizing in advance for however inconsistent and rambly-ish this may seem. I started it after the incredible cliffhanger of issue #take-a-wild-guess of Red Robin, and stumblingly finished it to procrastinate on something else.
The drugs were apparently correct. As was the dosage. But the time-delay... the number of seconds (forty) actually needed for the real compliance and suggestiveness to kick in... that was where Promise and her sister got it wrong.
It was all the time he needed to finish picking the lock--nobody ever checked under the fingernail, not even Bruce--slip under their noses, and knock out the guards before he was truly on his way. A simple signal to Lonnie got the rescue going, and before he knew it, he was passing out to the rough feel of Pru's studded leather gloves hoisting him into the back of some nondescript vehicle. The screech of tires was the last thing he heard before waking up on Tam's couch.
Or was it their couch, technically? They tended to share suites when they traveled, though if it was a two-bedroom, did that make it--
"The guy on the computer said you might have some trouble focussing."
Tam.
Waitaminute. Hotel room? And what time was it? Because if it was after eight a.m. the following day...
"And yes, Tim. I saw the news. And yes, I am royally--royally--ticked at you."
Tim's eyes flickered closed.
Was furious better than heart-broken? Because he remembered her crying on his shoulder only hours ago, and he remembered holding her, warmly snuggled to his side with wet sniffles in his collar--it shouldn't stain. But it wouldn't matter if it did, would it? Alfred might insist that he could clean nigh anything, but Bruce might just hand him a card to go buy a new one. Not that he didn't keep his closet pretty stocked. Not that he didn't keep his secret hideaways all across Gotham stocked with every basic need--ticking, ticking, ticking. Bomb? No. Really annoying clock. What was more annoying: Damian or a clock that sounded like a ticking bomb? Ticking time-bomb. What was the time again?
"I'm losing you, aren't I? I can't even... I can't even be mad at you properly. My dad is alive. Alive and you didn't tell me."
Tam.
Lucius. More secrets. Secrets, secrets... Why did his thoughts refuse to organize?
He cracked his eyes open.
She was pacing in front of him, looking out a window, rubbing her hand at her temple. He could see the telltale twitch of her hand. Tam was always surrounded with people who ran their hands through their hair as a nervous habit (her roommate, her friends, Tim himself). But Tam went through so much trouble to straighten her hair, she always fought developing the habit. When her hand twitched like that, it meant she had come close. Wanted so badly to relax and just be like everybody else. Just for a moment.
Tim fuzzily remembered that Foxy Lady had no problem with such things. She let her fingers curl into that dark mass of hair like she didn't give a damn about anything at all...
"The computer guy--Lonnie--says that you can probably hear me, and understand me, but the cocktail in your system is just making it so you can't quite um, focus on much. They didn't want you able to escape because they were gonna... gonna..."
Tim blinked. She was in front of him now, tears in her eyes. Angry, scared, anxious tears. Not that Tim was terribly familiar with any other kind.
"But they didn't, did they? I mean, you're smarter than any of them, and Pru said she got there in time. She did, right? Right? Tim?"
He understood, technically, that he should pay attention to everything Tam was saying, and not just every other thing, but something in him just pulled. Rebelled at even thinking about it. Like refusing to believe Bruce was dead.
And there was an artificial sort of warmth creeping through his veins. It didn't feel--bad wasn't the word, not really--but it wasn't real, and didn't belong, and some nagging thought process at the back of Tim's brain told him to sleep through it until it went away. That otherwise...
Her hand brushed his forehead. It was a light touch, not particularly invasive or enticing or even notable... but he felt everything.
The artificial warmth surged, and he felt the skin, the sweat, the roughness of her writing callus, the almost imperceptible movement as she brushed the edge of his hair, the precise gentleness, and how the sensation blossomed outward, pulling a gasp from his lungs.
Epidermal hypersensitivity. Not common in Rohypnol, GHB, or Ketamine. Meaning, at least, that his captors were somewhat creative...
"You're... you're analyzing. That's definitely your analyzing face. That's good. I think. Tim?"
"T-Tam?"
His voice came out... lower... than he intended. He hoped she'd just chalk it up the drugs. It would make everything easier.
"Okay, I'm not that mad at you anymore. I understand why you didn't tell me. I know my poker-face sucks, so it's not like I would have made a very convincing grieving daughter if I was faking, but ohmygod, Tim, I didn't know that the only thing scarier than finding you bleeding out on a hotel bed was finding you not bleeding out on a hotel bed... I couldn't see what was wrong, and it took forever to set up the computer so I could talk to--"
"You'rree..r.rambling."
Tam sniffed. "Yeah. Sorry. Umm... Imadecoffee?"
Tim tried to shake his head. Tam's coffee was good, but sleep was... sleep was...
He only ended up moving his head under her hand, and the contact stamped itself firmly on his momentary consciousness. Just... touch. Tim was always so aware of it, drugs or no.
The feel of a hand on the other end of those crazy black eyes yanking his hair forcibly, to the punches and kicks of assassin-trained guards... even shaking a board-member's hand all the way to feeling Lynx's fingers brushing his throat as her teeth nipped at his jaw.
Tim shuddered.
Positive contact withdrawal. He'd jokingly diagnosed himself with it when he caught himself jealously watching Dick ruffling Damian's hair. He was glad to be talking to his family again, but he didn't kid himself about it being exactly the same. Dick didn't feel quite as welcome in Tim's space as he used to. Tim didn't know how to change it, and didn't even know if he was ready for it to change. Bruce... Bruce tried. He really did. But Bruce was a total neophyte when it came to hugs, to say nothing of hair ruffling. Though Cass... Cass was good at it. When she was around.
The blooming sensation raced through him again, bringing him to the present, as he felt it emanating from his wrist.
Just Tam. Just Tam checking his pulse. Counting under her breath. Never mind that he could almost feel the air she exhaled on his cheek and she listed off the numbers.
She was looking at him. Wide, brown, pretty eyes. They conveyed intelligence and pragmatism. He wondered if anyone had every told her that. He wondered if he ever did, if she'd take it the wrong way and smack him. Except, no. Tam wasn't the smacking sort. Tam was nothing like Steph...
... but Lynx was. It was almost the same as far as first impressions went, that assumption and surety. The confidence that she was perfectly welcome--at all times for any reason--in his personal sphere of space, and that any touch--brush of the lip, grip of the hand, caress of the arm--was hers to take at will. It was overwhelming, frightening, fascinating, and addicting, and while Tim never had the chance to say "Yes," he couldn't ever imagine saying "No," either.
"Nope. Looks like you're gonna live, ninja-boy. Just... you're kind of scaring me, y'know? I think you're awake, but I just can't be sure. And I'm just seconds away from calling Mr. Wayne or your brother, or someone, but I don't know if you want that. Lonnie says we can wait this out. That he's already analyzed that sample I took. But I just... Please be okay? Please?"
A more crazy, instinctive, fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants-like-Robin part of him wanted her to call the Titans. Not because he was dying, or drugged, or depressed, or anything, but simply because it had been so long since he'd just been with them. He promised himself that the next time Bart called for a group hug, and he and Conner and Cassie all wrapped their arms around him, he wouldn't stand there like some shocked idiot. He almost asked them to do it again, so he could hug back, but the moment had passed, and they had work to do.
He always had work to do. Work, analysis, deception, hiding, hiding, hiding. And even as everyone came back to him--Steph, then Kon, Bart, Bruce--he felt them slip through his fingers. Whether because he couldn't forgive enough, take time enough, or just trust enough, he didn't know. But here in this place where he couldn't run from his own thoughts, he felt the loneliness like a tangible heavy thing. He could feel it as solidly as the touches that cut through it like a knife.
And though he became more aware--every moment--of Tam right in front of him... bright, helpful, warm--always warm--he shuddered because there was still a gap that he didn't know how to bridge. He'd forgotten how to ask for forgiveness and he'd never known how to ask for a hug. He could receive them... from his friends who knew when it was crucial and would simply dole them out. He could even give them... to people like Bruce who were even worse than him in so many ways. But to ask... he never dared when he was eight, and he certainly had no habit of it at eighteen.
But the need was written in the hunch of his shoulders, the flicker of water at the corner of his eyes, and the grit of his teeth. Tam, being the not-blind person she'd always been, saw it, and wrapped herself around him.
Warmth moved like a ripple from every physical surface straight to the core.
He didn't know if he made any noises. He supposed he must have, with the way her grip seemed to tighten. He reciprocated till he could feel the framework of bone and baby-fat hiding under her thin cotton shirt. Buried his face into her neck until the scent of lavender body-wash replaced oxygen. Hugging her was unlike hugging anyone else he knew. Where there should have been armor and muscle, there was gentle cloth and soft curve. And where there would be a mental stopwatch counting the seconds before ceasing, back-patting, and carrying on--there was instead a settling. A rubbing of soothing circular patterns across his shoulder blades and medium-length fingernails winding through his hair.
A tangle of legs and synching heartbeats.
"Tam?"
"Yeah. I'm here, ninja-boy. Not going anywhere, okay? I'll stop asking questions and you won't have to worry about them. I'll just reach over and turn off that lamp. And we'll stay like this. You like the dark better, right?"
"Yeah."
The lights went out.
"See? Best assistant ever. I not only know how you like your coffee, I also know how you like your lighting--"
"She didn't."
"What?"
"Promise's pycho-sister. She didn't... um... she came close, but she didn't. I... I held out long enough for Pru to get there."
"That's--"
But 'good' never passed her lips. It wasn't really good--not really--just better. Just like it wasn't 'good' when the number of murders in crime alley dwindled down to ten per year. It couldn't be good unless nothing happened there at all.
Tim allowed one side of his mouth to quirk.
"So, yes. I'm still fit for the unicorns."
Her brow wrinkled.
"Still fit for--?"
"It's a joke. Meaning--"
"Virgin."
It was cute the way she said it. Like announcing the presence of a pink elephant at the dinner table.
"Yeah. A+ for cultural literacy goes to Foxy Lady."
"Oh, God. You're never gonna let that go, are you?"
"The afro was really cute, by the way. I was really digging it."
Her nose began to wrinkle, but she didn't move away.
"I'm not wearing an afro."
"Why not?"
"Why not you and those finger-stripe things on the costume?"
Tim winced. "Because I don't want the person I mentally stole them from to ever know I fantasized about raiding his proverbial closet."
Tam sniffed. "Maybe I'm the same way with my hair."
"Wait, so Tiffany--"
"Did I say Tiffany? I did not say Tiffany--"
A shushing finger on her lips brought everything back down to silence.
Silence. In the dark. On the couch. Legs, hips, arms, and shoulders touching. And one finger humorously tapping on full warm lips.
His head was clearer, certainly. But his attention... still veered towards his nerve endings. He made a note of it. As clinically as he could. In the dark. On the couch. Touching.
Tam made a "tsk" noise as her lips parted, as if to speak, before closing them again.
He lifted the finger away.
"So. Virgin. Do tell."
Tim half-shrugged. "What's to tell? Aside from how funny it is that I'm expected to care."
Tam paused for a moment, before turning her face into the couch a little. It took body-language to tell she was blushing. The dark hid every other sign.
"What?"
Tam shook her head into the couch again.
Tim leaned forward a little more. Foreheads touching.
"C'mon. What?"
"I forget sometimes. I really do. I forget... that you're younger than me. I forget that you're young at all sometimes. You just blaze into a room--so in control--until suddenly you're not and then I'm reminded all over again. Crazy, ninja, stalker, undercover, suit-wearing, bossy, self-educated, sad-eyed, masochistic teenager."
Tim blinked.
"You think I'm bossy?"
She snorted.
"Far be it from you to deny the rest..."
"No point."
It went unspoken between them that they would sleep just so. Even though he had no way of knowing what time it really was, or if she had anything else she needed to do, or if she was even as comfortable as he was--though it looked like it--the way she shifted and settled deeper into the cushion next to him, told Tim straight-up that she intended to stay.
He felt the tension in his shoulders give way, a tiny unwinding. Tam snorted.
"Finally."
He exhaled and smirked.
Sleep didn't come quickly or quietly. Tam occasionally had to shift while Tim remained still. A clock ticked nearby and the air-conditioning went on and off. Traffic moved beyond the window. They both breathed and waited patiently for consciousness to slip away.
Tim blinked awake to sunlight peeking through the closed drapes. He couldn't remember if those rays of light had been there before or not. He breathed a sigh of relief once he realized his mind was his own again. No pesky side-trips. No hypersensitivity. Tam was already awake, smiling at him.
A nervous sort of please-please-tell-me-you-woke-up-as-yourself-and-not-some-mind-controlled-bat-entity sort of smile.
He grinned a reassuring yet sarcastic I'm-definitely-me-so-you-better-hope-that's-what-you-want sort of grin.
She sighed a long sigh before shifting on the couch and turning on the lamp, rising as if to get up completely.
Tim grasped her arm. With his mind intact, and his courage mustered, he gently pulled her back down and kissed her.
A squeak of surprise. Then the lamp turned off. And then he was in the midst of a soft, warm Tam-hug again, lips included.
Several minutes from then, they would get off the couch, open the drapes, begin the day...
But in that moment, lavender, cotton, sarcasm, courage, and care surrounded him.
And the loneliness, for a little while, was too vague and insubstantial to touch.
f . i . n .
Fandom: DCU, Red Robin
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2,650
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Cass didn't save Tim. Pru did. But not so punctually. A drugged-up Tim is left to contemplate his overall exposure to physical contact in the last several months while a furiously terrified Tam Fox attempts to care for him. Tim/Tam. Mention of Tim/others.
A/N: Apologizing in advance for however inconsistent and rambly-ish this may seem. I started it after the incredible cliffhanger of issue #take-a-wild-guess of Red Robin, and stumblingly finished it to procrastinate on something else.
The drugs were apparently correct. As was the dosage. But the time-delay... the number of seconds (forty) actually needed for the real compliance and suggestiveness to kick in... that was where Promise and her sister got it wrong.
It was all the time he needed to finish picking the lock--nobody ever checked under the fingernail, not even Bruce--slip under their noses, and knock out the guards before he was truly on his way. A simple signal to Lonnie got the rescue going, and before he knew it, he was passing out to the rough feel of Pru's studded leather gloves hoisting him into the back of some nondescript vehicle. The screech of tires was the last thing he heard before waking up on Tam's couch.
Or was it their couch, technically? They tended to share suites when they traveled, though if it was a two-bedroom, did that make it--
"The guy on the computer said you might have some trouble focussing."
Tam.
Waitaminute. Hotel room? And what time was it? Because if it was after eight a.m. the following day...
"And yes, Tim. I saw the news. And yes, I am royally--royally--ticked at you."
Tim's eyes flickered closed.
Was furious better than heart-broken? Because he remembered her crying on his shoulder only hours ago, and he remembered holding her, warmly snuggled to his side with wet sniffles in his collar--it shouldn't stain. But it wouldn't matter if it did, would it? Alfred might insist that he could clean nigh anything, but Bruce might just hand him a card to go buy a new one. Not that he didn't keep his closet pretty stocked. Not that he didn't keep his secret hideaways all across Gotham stocked with every basic need--ticking, ticking, ticking. Bomb? No. Really annoying clock. What was more annoying: Damian or a clock that sounded like a ticking bomb? Ticking time-bomb. What was the time again?
"I'm losing you, aren't I? I can't even... I can't even be mad at you properly. My dad is alive. Alive and you didn't tell me."
Tam.
Lucius. More secrets. Secrets, secrets... Why did his thoughts refuse to organize?
He cracked his eyes open.
She was pacing in front of him, looking out a window, rubbing her hand at her temple. He could see the telltale twitch of her hand. Tam was always surrounded with people who ran their hands through their hair as a nervous habit (her roommate, her friends, Tim himself). But Tam went through so much trouble to straighten her hair, she always fought developing the habit. When her hand twitched like that, it meant she had come close. Wanted so badly to relax and just be like everybody else. Just for a moment.
Tim fuzzily remembered that Foxy Lady had no problem with such things. She let her fingers curl into that dark mass of hair like she didn't give a damn about anything at all...
"The computer guy--Lonnie--says that you can probably hear me, and understand me, but the cocktail in your system is just making it so you can't quite um, focus on much. They didn't want you able to escape because they were gonna... gonna..."
Tim blinked. She was in front of him now, tears in her eyes. Angry, scared, anxious tears. Not that Tim was terribly familiar with any other kind.
"But they didn't, did they? I mean, you're smarter than any of them, and Pru said she got there in time. She did, right? Right? Tim?"
He understood, technically, that he should pay attention to everything Tam was saying, and not just every other thing, but something in him just pulled. Rebelled at even thinking about it. Like refusing to believe Bruce was dead.
And there was an artificial sort of warmth creeping through his veins. It didn't feel--bad wasn't the word, not really--but it wasn't real, and didn't belong, and some nagging thought process at the back of Tim's brain told him to sleep through it until it went away. That otherwise...
Her hand brushed his forehead. It was a light touch, not particularly invasive or enticing or even notable... but he felt everything.
The artificial warmth surged, and he felt the skin, the sweat, the roughness of her writing callus, the almost imperceptible movement as she brushed the edge of his hair, the precise gentleness, and how the sensation blossomed outward, pulling a gasp from his lungs.
Epidermal hypersensitivity. Not common in Rohypnol, GHB, or Ketamine. Meaning, at least, that his captors were somewhat creative...
"You're... you're analyzing. That's definitely your analyzing face. That's good. I think. Tim?"
"T-Tam?"
His voice came out... lower... than he intended. He hoped she'd just chalk it up the drugs. It would make everything easier.
"Okay, I'm not that mad at you anymore. I understand why you didn't tell me. I know my poker-face sucks, so it's not like I would have made a very convincing grieving daughter if I was faking, but ohmygod, Tim, I didn't know that the only thing scarier than finding you bleeding out on a hotel bed was finding you not bleeding out on a hotel bed... I couldn't see what was wrong, and it took forever to set up the computer so I could talk to--"
"You'rree..r.rambling."
Tam sniffed. "Yeah. Sorry. Umm... Imadecoffee?"
Tim tried to shake his head. Tam's coffee was good, but sleep was... sleep was...
He only ended up moving his head under her hand, and the contact stamped itself firmly on his momentary consciousness. Just... touch. Tim was always so aware of it, drugs or no.
The feel of a hand on the other end of those crazy black eyes yanking his hair forcibly, to the punches and kicks of assassin-trained guards... even shaking a board-member's hand all the way to feeling Lynx's fingers brushing his throat as her teeth nipped at his jaw.
Tim shuddered.
Positive contact withdrawal. He'd jokingly diagnosed himself with it when he caught himself jealously watching Dick ruffling Damian's hair. He was glad to be talking to his family again, but he didn't kid himself about it being exactly the same. Dick didn't feel quite as welcome in Tim's space as he used to. Tim didn't know how to change it, and didn't even know if he was ready for it to change. Bruce... Bruce tried. He really did. But Bruce was a total neophyte when it came to hugs, to say nothing of hair ruffling. Though Cass... Cass was good at it. When she was around.
The blooming sensation raced through him again, bringing him to the present, as he felt it emanating from his wrist.
Just Tam. Just Tam checking his pulse. Counting under her breath. Never mind that he could almost feel the air she exhaled on his cheek and she listed off the numbers.
She was looking at him. Wide, brown, pretty eyes. They conveyed intelligence and pragmatism. He wondered if anyone had every told her that. He wondered if he ever did, if she'd take it the wrong way and smack him. Except, no. Tam wasn't the smacking sort. Tam was nothing like Steph...
... but Lynx was. It was almost the same as far as first impressions went, that assumption and surety. The confidence that she was perfectly welcome--at all times for any reason--in his personal sphere of space, and that any touch--brush of the lip, grip of the hand, caress of the arm--was hers to take at will. It was overwhelming, frightening, fascinating, and addicting, and while Tim never had the chance to say "Yes," he couldn't ever imagine saying "No," either.
"Nope. Looks like you're gonna live, ninja-boy. Just... you're kind of scaring me, y'know? I think you're awake, but I just can't be sure. And I'm just seconds away from calling Mr. Wayne or your brother, or someone, but I don't know if you want that. Lonnie says we can wait this out. That he's already analyzed that sample I took. But I just... Please be okay? Please?"
A more crazy, instinctive, fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants-like-Robin part of him wanted her to call the Titans. Not because he was dying, or drugged, or depressed, or anything, but simply because it had been so long since he'd just been with them. He promised himself that the next time Bart called for a group hug, and he and Conner and Cassie all wrapped their arms around him, he wouldn't stand there like some shocked idiot. He almost asked them to do it again, so he could hug back, but the moment had passed, and they had work to do.
He always had work to do. Work, analysis, deception, hiding, hiding, hiding. And even as everyone came back to him--Steph, then Kon, Bart, Bruce--he felt them slip through his fingers. Whether because he couldn't forgive enough, take time enough, or just trust enough, he didn't know. But here in this place where he couldn't run from his own thoughts, he felt the loneliness like a tangible heavy thing. He could feel it as solidly as the touches that cut through it like a knife.
And though he became more aware--every moment--of Tam right in front of him... bright, helpful, warm--always warm--he shuddered because there was still a gap that he didn't know how to bridge. He'd forgotten how to ask for forgiveness and he'd never known how to ask for a hug. He could receive them... from his friends who knew when it was crucial and would simply dole them out. He could even give them... to people like Bruce who were even worse than him in so many ways. But to ask... he never dared when he was eight, and he certainly had no habit of it at eighteen.
But the need was written in the hunch of his shoulders, the flicker of water at the corner of his eyes, and the grit of his teeth. Tam, being the not-blind person she'd always been, saw it, and wrapped herself around him.
Warmth moved like a ripple from every physical surface straight to the core.
He didn't know if he made any noises. He supposed he must have, with the way her grip seemed to tighten. He reciprocated till he could feel the framework of bone and baby-fat hiding under her thin cotton shirt. Buried his face into her neck until the scent of lavender body-wash replaced oxygen. Hugging her was unlike hugging anyone else he knew. Where there should have been armor and muscle, there was gentle cloth and soft curve. And where there would be a mental stopwatch counting the seconds before ceasing, back-patting, and carrying on--there was instead a settling. A rubbing of soothing circular patterns across his shoulder blades and medium-length fingernails winding through his hair.
A tangle of legs and synching heartbeats.
"Tam?"
"Yeah. I'm here, ninja-boy. Not going anywhere, okay? I'll stop asking questions and you won't have to worry about them. I'll just reach over and turn off that lamp. And we'll stay like this. You like the dark better, right?"
"Yeah."
The lights went out.
"See? Best assistant ever. I not only know how you like your coffee, I also know how you like your lighting--"
"She didn't."
"What?"
"Promise's pycho-sister. She didn't... um... she came close, but she didn't. I... I held out long enough for Pru to get there."
"That's--"
But 'good' never passed her lips. It wasn't really good--not really--just better. Just like it wasn't 'good' when the number of murders in crime alley dwindled down to ten per year. It couldn't be good unless nothing happened there at all.
Tim allowed one side of his mouth to quirk.
"So, yes. I'm still fit for the unicorns."
Her brow wrinkled.
"Still fit for--?"
"It's a joke. Meaning--"
"Virgin."
It was cute the way she said it. Like announcing the presence of a pink elephant at the dinner table.
"Yeah. A+ for cultural literacy goes to Foxy Lady."
"Oh, God. You're never gonna let that go, are you?"
"The afro was really cute, by the way. I was really digging it."
Her nose began to wrinkle, but she didn't move away.
"I'm not wearing an afro."
"Why not?"
"Why not you and those finger-stripe things on the costume?"
Tim winced. "Because I don't want the person I mentally stole them from to ever know I fantasized about raiding his proverbial closet."
Tam sniffed. "Maybe I'm the same way with my hair."
"Wait, so Tiffany--"
"Did I say Tiffany? I did not say Tiffany--"
A shushing finger on her lips brought everything back down to silence.
Silence. In the dark. On the couch. Legs, hips, arms, and shoulders touching. And one finger humorously tapping on full warm lips.
His head was clearer, certainly. But his attention... still veered towards his nerve endings. He made a note of it. As clinically as he could. In the dark. On the couch. Touching.
Tam made a "tsk" noise as her lips parted, as if to speak, before closing them again.
He lifted the finger away.
"So. Virgin. Do tell."
Tim half-shrugged. "What's to tell? Aside from how funny it is that I'm expected to care."
Tam paused for a moment, before turning her face into the couch a little. It took body-language to tell she was blushing. The dark hid every other sign.
"What?"
Tam shook her head into the couch again.
Tim leaned forward a little more. Foreheads touching.
"C'mon. What?"
"I forget sometimes. I really do. I forget... that you're younger than me. I forget that you're young at all sometimes. You just blaze into a room--so in control--until suddenly you're not and then I'm reminded all over again. Crazy, ninja, stalker, undercover, suit-wearing, bossy, self-educated, sad-eyed, masochistic teenager."
Tim blinked.
"You think I'm bossy?"
She snorted.
"Far be it from you to deny the rest..."
"No point."
It went unspoken between them that they would sleep just so. Even though he had no way of knowing what time it really was, or if she had anything else she needed to do, or if she was even as comfortable as he was--though it looked like it--the way she shifted and settled deeper into the cushion next to him, told Tim straight-up that she intended to stay.
He felt the tension in his shoulders give way, a tiny unwinding. Tam snorted.
"Finally."
He exhaled and smirked.
Sleep didn't come quickly or quietly. Tam occasionally had to shift while Tim remained still. A clock ticked nearby and the air-conditioning went on and off. Traffic moved beyond the window. They both breathed and waited patiently for consciousness to slip away.
Tim blinked awake to sunlight peeking through the closed drapes. He couldn't remember if those rays of light had been there before or not. He breathed a sigh of relief once he realized his mind was his own again. No pesky side-trips. No hypersensitivity. Tam was already awake, smiling at him.
A nervous sort of please-please-tell-me-you-woke-up-as-yourself-and-not-some-mind-controlled-bat-entity sort of smile.
He grinned a reassuring yet sarcastic I'm-definitely-me-so-you-better-hope-that's-what-you-want sort of grin.
She sighed a long sigh before shifting on the couch and turning on the lamp, rising as if to get up completely.
Tim grasped her arm. With his mind intact, and his courage mustered, he gently pulled her back down and kissed her.
A squeak of surprise. Then the lamp turned off. And then he was in the midst of a soft, warm Tam-hug again, lips included.
Several minutes from then, they would get off the couch, open the drapes, begin the day...
But in that moment, lavender, cotton, sarcasm, courage, and care surrounded him.
And the loneliness, for a little while, was too vague and insubstantial to touch.
f . i . n .