fic: Habits of a Performer(Tim); gen
Title: Habits of a Performer
Author: Kezzy
Spoilers: None, I think
Rating: G
Disclaimer: They're not mine, I don't think they are.
Summary: Tim's a master at what he does and so is Dick.
Author notes: A beta-offering would be so, so pretty. I pay in fic and ass-kissing.
It isn’t that Dick becomes aware of being watched so much as he opens beneath it. ‘Flower to the sun’ is a stupidly trite cliché in this instance, but it is still true and Tim refuses to waste his thoughts on thinking of a better metaphor. At any rate, he supposes it is the habit of being a performer that Dick never kicked.
That he never tried to kick.
So he performs and Tim pretends it isn’t a flush stealing across his cheekbones at the thought of Dick performing for him. He shifts his crouch on the rooftop’s ledge, cape rustling slightly against the wind as it carries across the rooftop and into him. Bludhaven smells nothing like Gotham and he knows both scents war in Dick’s skin after a patrol, one gaining dominance and the other not understanding how to let go.
Here, where Dick is performing and Tim feels as if ten years has melted away from their lives, Dick’s kicks stylize themselves to give a show-spinning kicks to the head instead of the simpler ones to the body, a throw instead of a pin, a foot sweep instead of the clothesline. He isn’t showing off-not consciously-and that’s just one of the reasons Tim likes to watch.
His mouth can’t help but twitch into an almost-line of a smile at the sight. There’s also a twitch playing along his fingers, to a camera that has been long-since replaced by a deadlier sort of weaponry. Dick is beautiful, and though he is certain Robin joining would be more than welcome, he cannot bring himself to jump down to the alley below. It would disrupt(force him to stop watching) the other’s flow and isn’t, at this juncture, necessary.
For now, the crouch he maintains is perfect and if he adds a mental note to bring along one of the mini-cams for not-so-official use next time, it’s just because Dick is a masterpiece. Because no one that has ever watched Dick fight, watched this Robin or Nightwing move-unless, of course, they were the cause of his violence-could claim that it isn’t something to pause and, just for a moment, watch. Or a few moments, as it were.
Later, Dick will grin up at him, sling an arm around his shoulder and tug him in close. They’ll share body heat, then pizza and a lame movie, maybe popcorn if Dick has any.
Tim will spend several moments in deep contemplation over the idea of sucking the salt and butter from Dick’s fingers and say nothing when the other’s hand ruffling his hair makes him shiver.
Later, he’ll think about pushing Dick in against the corner of his very ugly couch but will, instead, get up for another drink.
Now, Tim watches Dick because he doesn’t know how to do anything else. Because watching Dick is observing art and joining in feels like sacrilege.
.end.
note: . . . am I seeing LJ attempting to spell correct me, or is it a hallucination?
Author: Kezzy
Spoilers: None, I think
Rating: G
Disclaimer: They're not mine, I don't think they are.
Summary: Tim's a master at what he does and so is Dick.
Author notes: A beta-offering would be so, so pretty. I pay in fic and ass-kissing.
It isn’t that Dick becomes aware of being watched so much as he opens beneath it. ‘Flower to the sun’ is a stupidly trite cliché in this instance, but it is still true and Tim refuses to waste his thoughts on thinking of a better metaphor. At any rate, he supposes it is the habit of being a performer that Dick never kicked.
That he never tried to kick.
So he performs and Tim pretends it isn’t a flush stealing across his cheekbones at the thought of Dick performing for him. He shifts his crouch on the rooftop’s ledge, cape rustling slightly against the wind as it carries across the rooftop and into him. Bludhaven smells nothing like Gotham and he knows both scents war in Dick’s skin after a patrol, one gaining dominance and the other not understanding how to let go.
Here, where Dick is performing and Tim feels as if ten years has melted away from their lives, Dick’s kicks stylize themselves to give a show-spinning kicks to the head instead of the simpler ones to the body, a throw instead of a pin, a foot sweep instead of the clothesline. He isn’t showing off-not consciously-and that’s just one of the reasons Tim likes to watch.
His mouth can’t help but twitch into an almost-line of a smile at the sight. There’s also a twitch playing along his fingers, to a camera that has been long-since replaced by a deadlier sort of weaponry. Dick is beautiful, and though he is certain Robin joining would be more than welcome, he cannot bring himself to jump down to the alley below. It would disrupt(force him to stop watching) the other’s flow and isn’t, at this juncture, necessary.
For now, the crouch he maintains is perfect and if he adds a mental note to bring along one of the mini-cams for not-so-official use next time, it’s just because Dick is a masterpiece. Because no one that has ever watched Dick fight, watched this Robin or Nightwing move-unless, of course, they were the cause of his violence-could claim that it isn’t something to pause and, just for a moment, watch. Or a few moments, as it were.
Later, Dick will grin up at him, sling an arm around his shoulder and tug him in close. They’ll share body heat, then pizza and a lame movie, maybe popcorn if Dick has any.
Tim will spend several moments in deep contemplation over the idea of sucking the salt and butter from Dick’s fingers and say nothing when the other’s hand ruffling his hair makes him shiver.
Later, he’ll think about pushing Dick in against the corner of his very ugly couch but will, instead, get up for another drink.
Now, Tim watches Dick because he doesn’t know how to do anything else. Because watching Dick is observing art and joining in feels like sacrilege.
.end.
note: . . . am I seeing LJ attempting to spell correct me, or is it a hallucination?