(no subject)
Title: In the Linen Closet
Character/Pairings: Dick/Tim, Cass
Word Count: 1503
Summary: Cass gets tired of Dick and Tim dancing around each other. So she decides to do something about it
Warnings: slash, robincest
Rating: PG-15? R to be safe
Disclaimer: All familiar characters and situations belong to DC Comics. I just play with them sometimes.
Author's note 1: This was written for
darthbatgirl as a belated birthday gift and get-well-soon present. Inspired by a discussion with
greeneyelove.
Author's note 2: Tim is at least eighteen here. I don't care how you have to bend continuity, Tim is eighteen.
"What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" Dick asks, walking backward so he can look at Cass while he talks to her. She won’t let him walk into any walls. Besides, he knows Wayne Manor too well to be in any danger. They're in the oldest wing, which only holds guest rooms and storage rooms now. Nothing terribly threatening.
"I want to show you something." Cass replies, cryptically. Dick takes a breath to demand more details but freezes before he can ask the question. Muffled noises are coming from somewhere nearby. Exactly the sort of muffled noises someone makes when they try to shout through a gag. Dick whirls and races through the wing, listening carefully, searching for the victim.
There! There's a figure bound and gagged on the floor of the linen closet. A figure that looks a whole lot like Tim. Dick races forward. Cass can take any leftover thugs, he needs to get to his little brother right now! If they hurt him . . .
Dick skids to a halt on the closet floor, groping for his pocket knife. Oddly, Tim doesn't seem to be calming down. His eyes are wide above the gag, staring at something behind Dick's back and the muffled noises are louder than ever.
"Shh, little brother. It's okay. I've got you. And Cass is coming. Best back-up in the business. It'll be okay, Timmy." This does not seem to calm his brother. Dick has cut two thirds of the way through the gag when he hears Tim gasp. Whirling into fighting stance, Dick sees the door to the closet slam closed. He tenses and, behind him, Tim stops trying to speak. In the sudden silence, they both hear the deadbolt slide home.
Eyeing their prison warily, Dick walks back to Tim and finishes cutting through the gag. "Want to tell me what's going on, little brother?"
"How could you have fallen for that? In a hostage situation, you always get intelligence first. What were you thinking?"
Dick sits back on his heels, blinking. "I just. . .I thought you were hurt. And I had Cass. I thought she could --"
"She's the one who did this, you idiot. How do you think she knew where to lead you?"
"Okay, so it was a rookie mistake -- What? Cass? She wouldn't do that to us!"
"Then how do you explain that?" Tim asks pointedly, looking meaningfully at the room’s back corner. Investigating, Dick finds a tube prominently labeled ‘Personal lubricant’, a pile of condoms, and a card with two words scribbled on the front in Cass childish hand-writing: Have fun!
Dick stares at the note. "Cass set us up."
"Brilliant. Are you some kind of detective or something? Now how about getting these ropes off so we can look for a way out of this trap."
"You're awfully critical for someone tied up on the floor of a linen closet. Before you start yelling at me, let's talk about how you got here. Must have been interesting, to leave you in this mood."
Tim turns red and clamps him mouth shut. Dick smirks at him and resumes sawing at the ropes. Ingenious girl, that Cass. All the knots are out of Tim's reach and, based on their tightness, his Timmy has been squirming a lot. Wouldn't it be nice to leave the ropes on a little while? Touch his little brother when he can't twist away and glare at him? He could make it brotherly, turn it into a tickle attack or something. He'd still get the contact.
No. That wouldn't be fair to Tim. Just because Dick wants to touch him does not mean that Tim wants anything of the sort. He finishes sawing through the rope and scoots back to sit with his back against the door. In front of him, Tim disentangles himself from the ropes and moves to the opposite end of the closet. He tries to mimic Dick’s pose, but the wall, covered with shelves, is too uneven to lean against. Finally, he settles cross-legged on the floor.
"So, now we talk?" Tim voice is tentative. Well, coming from anyone else, this voice would sounds calm and controlled. But for Tim, it’s tentative.
"Well, you could finally tell me how Cass captured you. That would pass the time."
Tim hides his face in his hands. Through his brother’s fingers, Dick can see a his forehead and neck blushing a deep rose shade that he wants to taste. He wants to rip Tim’s shirt off, to see just how far down the blush goes. Follow it down with his tongue . . .
Instead, he relents. "Or we could discuss just what got into Cass, that she decided to lock us up with a bunch of condoms."
The blush does not fade. Dick spends several seconds trying to convince himself that this is a bad thing.
Tim’s voice distracts him. "I vote temporary insanity."
"I guess that’s a fine working hypothesis, until we get to examine her. Next question: how do we get out of here."
Tim looks around. "I did look around some, while I was waiting for you to show up. We have an oak door, stone walls, nine wooden shelves, thirteen queen-sized fitted sheets, ten king-sized, and five twin-sized, same numbers of top sheets, about fifty pillow cases, about four comforters, and - " he glances at Dick - "one pocket knife."
"All right, Timbo, exactly how long have you been in here?"
"About half an hour. I spent most of it working on the ropes."
Over the next five hours, they establish that the mortar between the stones is too strong to scrape away with the knife, the door is solid, no one is on the other side is listening for cries, Robin’s communicator has been completely disabled, and Nightwing’s communicator has been programmed to play the Beatles’ Greatest Hits in an endless loop. They plan out three revenge pranks with a good chance of success against Cass and Babs (someone must have messed with the communicators, and the Beatles’ music has Oracle’s dainty little fingerprints all over it). They do not touch once.
Seven hours in, Dick is turning back flips in the middle of the closet and Tim is curled in a corner, watching him. Dick really wishes that he had the space for some real tumbling. His body is itching with nervous energy and he can feel Tim’s gaze pressing against his skin. He has to do something to keep from following that hot gaze back to Tim, to keep from pressing his little brother against the wooden floor and biting along his neck. His little brother! God, he must be sick! So he flips and stretches and wishes for a trapeze.
He pushes himself into a handstand and holds it until his arms ache, then slowly lowers himself to the floor, flat on his back. His hair is sweaty and sticking to his neck and that nervous, static electricity is still crawling over his bones. He sighs.
"C’mon, Timmy, uncurl. It isn’t fair for me to take up the whole closet."
Tim looks at him. His cheeks go pink. "Thanks, but I’m fine over here. I don’t need much room."
"Uh huh. Like I can’t see your legs cramping from here. Get over here."
Looking more resigned than anyone ever should after an invitation to cuddle (in Dick’s humble opinion), Tim uncoils from his corner and stands. He stretches briefly, then steps over and sits next to Dick, carefully not touching.
Dick snorts. Clearly, someone is unclear on the concept. He reaches over lazily and tugs Tim to sprawl across his chest. Much better.
Except for the way the contact zings through him like a shock and the itching, directionless energy suddenly has a perfect focus. Without stopping to think, he’s flipping them over and pinning Tim under him and claiming his mouth in a desperate kiss and -- God -- Tim is writhing under him and -- and feeding the sexiest little moans into his mouth.
He yanks him lips away and tries to think. "We need - God - we need to stop. I - so sorry. Can’t do this to you." Tim’s hips jerk against his and the words trail off in a moan. Gathering his tattered will power, Dick reaches down to hold his brother still. It takes him a while to convince his hands that they want to pin Tim’s hips, not cup his ass, but eventually they obey.
"Tim? Timmy? You want this? Are you sure?"
Beneath him, Tim closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Repeats the exercise twenty times. Finally, he opens his eyes and nods shyly up at Dick. Then a smirk breaks across his face.
"If we end up using some of Cass’s supplies, does that mean we don’t get to take revenge?"