[fic] Reform it altogether (Kon/Tim, Clark/Tim, NC-17)

[glossing]

Title: Reform it altogether (reference)
Pairings: Kon/Tim, Clark/Tim
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Superman gets the mustard out.
Setting: Vaguely early TT v.3/Jon Lewis era. Pre-War Games.
Notes: petronelle and inlovewithnight audienced with good cheer and great patience; Petra incited this and I can't thank her enough. thenotoriousg beta'd like the champion she is.

This is for the birthday lady, in all her glorious talent and warmth of heart. I hope this suits.


Tornado season over the heartland, far too dangerous to fly for man or machine, so Kon and Tim are grounded here in San Francisco for the night.

Tim's not sure why he thought it would be a good idea to tell Kon he was going to Metropolis tomorrow.

Kon's freaking out.

"What? Why? Is this about -- the --" Kon's hand circles too fast for Tim to make out. He glances around, then drops his voice even though they're already alone. Gar's at a speed-dating thing, Kory's in New York (possibly with Dick, possibly not), and Vic's somewhere in the Napa Valley hunting down venture capital. "The *thing*."

Tim is tempted to say 'yes'. "It's not like you've got a canker sore. It's --" Both more and less serious than that.

Kon throws back his shoulders. "Of course I don't. Hello, *invulnerable*? That'd be the least of my problems."

"You are weighed down, aren't you?" Tim asks.

It takes Kon several moments to catch Tim's tone, but when he does, a grimace slides across his face, twisting up his grin. "It's not funny, Rob."

He hasn't called Tim *that* name for. A long while now. "Sisyphus and Atlas's love child," Tim adds and leans back on the couch, spreading his arms along its back.

"Shut *up*, man. Jesus, that's not fucking *funny*, that's --"

Tim rests his cheek against his left shoulder and scratches the edge of his mask. It doesn't itch, but it serves as a reliable distraction. Sure enough, Kon's tracking the motion of Tim's finger with his eyes.

"I'm not saying anything," Tim says when Kon's fists have relaxed.

"You so are," Kon protests. He's coming closer, though, heavy footfalls and now he drops onto the couch beside Tim, rolling his head back and forth against Tim's arm. "You so very much are. Saying stuff."

"Nope." Tim tips back his head, too, watching Kon's profile.

They could be looking at the stars. If they weren't inside.

"You're not going to..." Kon says finally, wetting his lips. The tendon in his neck stands out with the effort it's taking not to turn and look at Tim.

"No," Tim replies. "I'm not going to walk into the *Daily Planet* and give them the scoop of the century. 'Hey, didja hear? Superboy's half-Luthor'. No."

"That's --" Kon *does* turn and look at him now. His eyes are wide and blue. Tim used to wonder if Kon learned that look, beseeching and hopeful, from Bart. Or vice versa. He decided it had been an instance of spontaneous generation, unpredictable synchronicity. "Not what I meant."

"I know," Tim says gently. "And, no. I'm not going to tell Superman, either."

Kon closes his eyes. "I -- I *know*, but --"

"I told you I wouldn't." Tim knows he should be more offended. But Kon's feelings for, about, around Clark are...contradictory. And quite intense. "And I won't."

Kon swallows a couple times and nods slowly. "I *know*. It's just --" His right hand rises, palm to the ceiling, like he's cupping, weighing, the air. "You know."

"Yeah," Tim says and when Kon's hand drops, he grips Tim's knee and squeezes. Through the tights, his palm is hot, wide, and familiar. "I know."

*

"It's not a field trip," he tells his father and Dana over breakfast. "It's sort of extra credit."

They're being careful these days, but no good parent can argue against an extra credit trip to the National Planetarium. Though he had allotted half an hour for explanation, justification, and eventual permission, he's back in his room within ten. He didn't even need to play the uncomfortable trump card of 'I remember Mom taking me there'.

Clearly, his estimates need work, but this way he can take an earlier train to Metropolis. He stops at the planetarium, because additional veracity is never a bad thing. He'd memorized the recorded voice, however, by the time he was eight. They'll never change; Hubble went up, geopolitics have done several shimmies and rejiggings, new moons have been discovered, but the voice still drones on as it always did.

He has a lunch date with Clark. He arrives at the Planet's front desk three minutes early.

"Draper, Draper, yeah. Go on up," the woman behind the desk tells him. "Twenty-second floor, take a left--"

"I know," Tim says. He's never actually been here, but Bruce's files are useful in any number of ways. The blueprints of the Planet building are trifles. He had expected to meet Clark at the desk, but contingencies must be accepted.

The warren of offices is far quieter than Tim had imagined. He had not been aware, until he's tiptoeing past cubicles and keeping his face friendly, blank, and inoffensive, that he had imagined anything at all.

Imagination is the refuge of the weak; he's still not sure if Alfred was joking when he'd said that.

Tim hasn't been home to catch the Late Late Movie in years, but that's what he's thinking of now. A newsroom ought to be filled with scurrying people, the din of typewriters and telex machines, woman in heels and hats, men in ties and shirtsleeves, the whole floor shaking with the activity of the presses.

"Alvin? Can I call you Al?" His voice sounds different. Because they're inside, perhaps, because he's being Clark Kent. He wears the right costume -- tie loosened and sleeves rolled up -- just as Tim wears his, white golf shirt and dark khakis.

Clark actually looks, to Tim's appraising eye, *too* right.

Straight from Central Casting, while the rest of the newsroom is occupied by people in Gap-casual clothes, people who need haircuts and a good night's sleep.

"Al's fine," Tim says, shaking Clark's hand. "Thanks for seeing me."

"Anything for a National Merit Scholar," Clark says, pushing open the door behind him. "Hope it's okay if I make this a working lunch."

"Sure," Tim says.

"Thanks." Clark closes the door, waving Tim to a chair, then brushing past to scoop off the pile of file folders leaking faxes and note papers like snow. "Sorry, sorry." He drops the folders on top of another pile, this one on the windowsill, and pushes his hand through his hair. "I called for sandwiches, but I wasn't sure what you'd like."

"Anything's fine."

Clark's cheek twitches. Tim starts to smile back before he realizes it's a tic to push his glasses up. "Lots of kids these days are vegetarians. We did a piece in the Healthy Living section a couple months back."

"Really?" Tim's tone, he realizes, is the same one he uses with classmates. He coughs into his hand and tries to look interested. "I guess that makes sense."

"Generation Y's Commitment to the Future." Clark makes air quotes with his fingers; he's still holding a file folder, however, so the contents drop all over his feet. "Dang, sorry."

Tim leans over to grab the papers. Clark drops to one knee as he does and their hands meet in the drifts of sheets and curling Post-Its. Tim opens his mouth to say something, just parroting Clark's persistent apologies, when their foreheads bump and he rocks back, off the chair.

"Oh, *jeez*, oh, Al, I'm sorry!" Clark's standing over him, offering one hand to help him up while the other clutches at the knot in his tie. "Are you okay?"

Tim rubs the side of his head. "Fine. I'm --" It was like knocking into a fire escape when he let the line out too far. He blinks away the black shimmer over his eyes and gives Clark a small smile. "I'm okay."

He gets a shoulder squeeze for that. It feels like a reward. Tim swallows a shiver at the heat of Clark's touch, both familiar and *not* all at once, and straightens his deliberately poor posture.

"I could come back. If you're busy," he says but Clark shakes his head.

"No, no, no time like the present --" Clark shuffles through another set of piles, chewing his lower lip. "Sandwiches! Yes." He claps and turns, scanning the teetering bookshelf behind the desk.

Tim watches as Clark opens various drawers and paws through them. It may not be entirely an act, the clumsy doofus thing. Because Clark resembles no one so much as *Kon* when he's hunting down the remote or an extra Dreamcast controller. He's even got the cheek-sucked-in and low-grade mumbles going on.

Tim has never given much credence to the genetic foundations for behavior. But it isn't as if Kon's spent enough time with Clark to pick these tics up. Nor is Kon all that capable of playing any kind of role very well at all.

"Here you go!" Clark thrusts a grease-stained paper bag at Tim. He's grinning like a kid at Christmas.

No, children smile when they *get* presents, not give them. "Thank you," Tim says as he takes the bag.

"Like I was saying, I wasn't sure what you liked, so I got a selection, but then --" Clark looks around apprehensively. Tim wonders just how thoroughly Luthor has this building bugged. "I got hungry. So I hope that one's okay."

"Sure," Tim says, opening the bag and taking out a lumpy sandwich oozing mustard. "Pastrami? This is fine."

"Roast beef," Clark says. "Did you want pastrami? I can --"

"This is fine, Mr. Kent."

Clark's eyes widen. "Al, please. Call me Clark. Please. Mr. Kent's my --"

"-- father?" Tim doesn't bother to hide the smirk. He can play these games for...a long time. He doesn't want to calculate just how long. "Roast beef's good."

They've met thirteen times in the past two years. In his journals, Tim refers to Superman as *532*, one of a string of randomly generated numbers, the narratives stripped of any identifying details. He needs to remember to use a different code for this meeting. A new number, a different face.

"So, what brings you to the big city?" Clark asks him when Tim has finished half the sandwich. "Planning a career in journalism? Where are you looking to go to college?"

Tim wipes the mustard from the corners of his mouth. He isn't, actually, very hungry at all. When his father's friends ask him these questions, he has one set of answers. When Bart decided he wanted to go to the Sorbonne and started asking Tim about *his* plans, he had another set. Alfred has been leaving pamphlets for Hudson in the changing room.

The only ones who don't ask are Bruce and Kon. It's just about the only thing they have in common, though their motivations are, as usual, directly opposed.

"I've been thinking about taking some time off," Tim says.

Clark's sitting sideways in his chair, elbow up on the desk, *listening*. "Really?"

"Sure. You know --" Tim shrugs and fights the urge to touch his mouth again. He got all the mustard off the first time. Clark's stare has nothing to do with that. "See the world, maybe? Travel a little."

Clark's nodding along. "Right, right. I have to say, Al --. Hm." He leans forward, steepling his fingers against his mouth and nose. The stare never lets up. It's friendly, not intimidating at all, except in the way that it's not moving. "You don't strike me as the bumming-around type." He waves his hands dismissively. "What do I know? We just met."

"It's cool," Tim says and hates himself for a moment. He knows the language, and the posture, but he's *not* this guy. His neck itches slightly and his cheeks prickle warmly.

He cannot make himself blush on command. He's tried for years now. But he's blushing and he can't look away.

"Cool," Clark says and sounds like he means it.

Tim doesn't have to narrow his eyes, but he does. Clark is --. Well. He's not Superman, that much is clear. He's not playacting, either.

"Al, you okay?"

This must be how Kon feels every time someone (Clark) calls him 'Conner'. Tim bunches the napkin in his hand. "Sorry, just thinking." He laughs, three notes, then a broken fourth. "I didn't come here for therapy." He takes his notebook from his backpack and clicks down his pen.

"No?" Clark makes the word sound kind. Encouraging.

"What made you become a reporter?" Tim doesn't look up. He hears a soft sound, a distant cousin of Bart's speed-whoosh, and Clark is back on one knee, in front of Tim, crouching so that now Tim's looking right at him.

Tim lives in compartments and file directories. Nothing ever needs, nor should, to touch anything else. His father, Bruce, and Kon: Separate. Batman and Bruce, Dick and Nightwing: Separate.

But Kon is Superboy, no one else, and Clark is right *there*.

Tim closes his pad. Clark licks his thumb and presses it against the side of Tim's mouth.

"Mustard," he says.

Tim nods. The spiral binding digs into his palm. If he ever breaks his promise to Kon, now would be the time. Clark's blocking the light from the window, peering at him, and you ought to be able to ask Superman for help.

Even if his shirt has ink-stains and dribbles of mustard on it and his glasses are smudged. He's still *him*.

But Tim hasn't believed in heroes for a long time. The mission is more important than flying men and capes.

Not that he's ever told Kon that.

"Robin," Clark breathes.

Tim's blinking fast, losing the thread of this new game already. He thinks his way through two mantras then meets Clark's gaze. "Who?"

Clark's smile isn't as broad as Kon's, but it's the same nonetheless. His hand on Tim's cheek is bigger. Warmer. His thumb traces the line of Tim's lower lip and --.

It tickles. He hasn't been ticklish since first grade. Tim suppresses a laugh, then fails, and turns his head to meet Clark's hand. "I'm fine. Really, I --"

Clark's glasses are gone, tucked into his pocket, and the muscles in his forearm shift visibly as he curls his fingers around Tim's skull. That he has not turned his attention to control of humanity, Batman's files read, must be considered something of a miracle. For those of us who do not believe in miracles, however --

Tim is not the acrobat that Dick is, not even the athlete that Bruce is, but he's naturally quick and has trained himself to be quicker. So when he leans forward, dragging Clark's hand with him, and presses his mouth to Clark's, it's easy to pretend that he has surprised Clark.

Easy, but not welcome. "I --" he says against Clark's lips.

In reply, Clark's mouth opens and Tim's fingers clench and release in the fabric of Clark's shirt. He kisses deeply, thoroughly, as if this were one more investigation technique, like listening and reporting. But -- no. Tim shakes himself, lets himself *feel* the heat of Clark's hand against his scalp, the strength of Clark's arm around his waist, and it's nothing like investigation.

One must be prepared at all times to-- Bruce's files aren't any help. Not here, and Tim can't think of the wary blue eyes on him, can't let himself hear the throb of machinery and generators that defines the Cave. He's kissing -- Superman. Clark.

*Kon*.

Tim yanks himself backward, crossing his arms over his chest, setting his jaw. "You wanted to talk to me."

Clark puts his glasses back on, so fast that he's a blur. "Tim --"

"On the Tower, it was you. Your invitation, and --"

Clark hasn't moved from the floor. Tim can *hear* the whine undercutting his tone and, if this were any other situation, he would wince at the sound.

He squares his shoulders instead. Intending to tug out his shirt, he finds himself checking his pulse. Clark watches him. The steady gaze isn't anything like Bruce's appraising one, nothing like Kon's wide-eyed appeal, but Tim thinks of them both.

"I enjoy spending time with you," Clark says. He looks down at his hands, held loosely in his lap, then back up at Tim. "I hope that's all right. I'd like to --."

Tension has crept over Tim's skin since --. If he's honest, since he entered the planetarium, but certainly he saw Clark. The tension he wears on patrol, even during sparring, is tight but electric. Crackling, attentive. This is not. This is liquid, and almost weighty, like the pressure of a riptide against your shaking legs.

Except all over his skin. "I'd like to, too," he says and when he laughs, it's for real. "Obviously."

Clark grins at him and clasps Tim's hand in both his own. It's like being congratulated, promoted, and given lottery winnings all at once. "Good, I'm glad."

Tim takes a deep breath and curls his free hand atop Clark's. His spine dips, like a current's been cut, and he kisses Clark again. More slowly now, the sensation seeping like oil spilled through him.

"That," he says, pulling back fractionally, "is --"

He can't remember what he was going to say. He can't remember what he's *supposed* to say. He's relieved, then, when Clark kisses him again, arm around his shoulders, holding Tim's hand between them. He gasps a little when Clark rises, knee planted on the seat between Tim's legs, and leans *over* Tim, covering him. The kiss deepens, becomes full-body, Clark gripping his hands hard enough to bruise, his tongue sweeping in and out like flocks of birds.

Tim thinks he might be going crazy. If he *knows* he's crazy, however, then he really isn't. Or something like that. He works one hand free, wishing he could shake the pins and needles out of it, but there's no room.

Clark's pressing him back, though the chair doesn't recline, and Tim gulps in air, spreading his legs, his fingertips skating over the warm fabric on Clark's back.

"Office," he finally says when Clark lets him breathe. The chair is back on two legs and he has no idea how he hasn't yet fallen. "Uh --"

"Yes," Clark says regretfully. He kisses the tip of Tim's nose. "Smart boy."

I'm in love with Kon, Tim doesn't say.

Kon's other donor was Luthor, he doesn't add.

But it's all *there*, he's sure, somewhere against Clark's body. As if secrets were as legible as scars.

His cell phone rings as the door bursts open, a gruff voice yelling "Kent!", and before the sounds end, Clark is back at his desk, perched on the edge, his tie slightly askew.

"Coming, sir," he says, sliding off. "Perry White, Alvin Draper, Al --. Do you need to get that?"

"Yes," Tim says. The display shows Smallville's area code.

"Kent, the world's not going to spin backward for one lousy reporter," White says.

"Use the office," Clark tells him. He squeezes Tim's shoulder and maybe-on-purpose stumbles over Tim's backpack as he hurries after White.

"Dude. Where *are* you?" Kon says before Tim can say hello.

"Metropolis. You know that."

Kon sighs heavily. "Yeah. Shouldn't you be home by now, though?"

Reflexively, Tim checks his watch. "No. Shouldn't *you* be in chem?"

"Fire alarm."

"Really. All on its lonesome?"

He can hear a whistling sigh behind Kon and realizes he's flying. "Yes, all on its lonesome. I don't cry wolf."

"I know," Tim says. He lets himself close his eyes and just listens to the wind around Kon for several moments. "So. Can I --"

"Nope," Kon shouts. "Can't I just *call*? Do you always need a reason?"

"Um. What?" For a split-second, various scenarios unscroll in Tim's mind. Kon's super-hearing has kicked in. Kon was right outside the window the whole time. Clark flew to Smallville and told him.

Kon's laughing now. "Got you. No, seriously -- wait, hang on." The wind cuts up to a shriek, then drops back to a whisper. "Sorry, cloud. So. How's the big city lights?"

"Fine," Tim says. "I went to the planetarium."

"Why?"

Tim grins at the bookshelf. Kon's genius for cutting through *sediments* of bullshit and pointlessness could, in other hands, be pretty scary. "Felt like it."

"Aww, you wanna see the twinkly lil' stars?" In the background, traffic sounds start to gather: lots of honking and the rumble of engines.

"Yes, I did," Tim says. "Where are *you*?"

Kon doesn't say anything for a while. The connection's still good, because the traffic keeps going. "Um. Heh." Tim can't hear it, but he can clearly see Kon scratching his neck. "I-60?"

"You're in Gotham."

Another pause. "Maybe?"

"Conner --"

"I could be in Bludhaven, man. You don't know."

"Right," Tim says. "Because you've got so many close friends *there*."

The wind sounds like the sea, caught in the depths of a conch, and Tim tries to match his breathing to its rhythm.

"So, like, you want me to pick you up?" Kon's voice is too casual, far too deliberately light, for anyone to be fooled by. Especially Tim, and he wonders whether Kon's even aware of that.

Clark's office is cluttered and *lived-in*, much more so than the files' descriptions of the apartment across town that he shares with Lois. The thought of Lois makes Tim rub his temple, hard, and he stands up. The bag from the deli crunches under his foot. There won't be any sign that Tim was ever here.

"Yeah, that'd be *cool*," he tells Kon as he reaches for his backpack. "Planet's roof?"

*

It's the middle of the week, late enough that the sky over the harbor is getting that pearly sheen that means morning, when Tim gets home from patrol. His civvies aren't quite warm enough for this early-autumn chill, especially not on sweat-soaked skin. He's shivering from cold and exhaustion by the time he climbs to the roof four buildings down from his own. Easier to walk home, then go in through his own window, though Cass doesn't understand why he doesn't travel by roofs alone.

Tim vaults over the lip of the roof, lands more sloppily than he'd like, and --.

And finds Clark there. He's got his arms crossed and his toes just touching the ground. The cape rustles, but Tim doesn't feel the breeze.

"Superman?" he asks before he manages to get his guard all the way up. "Hi."

"Tim." Superman's tone is terribly grave and Tim would shudder if he wasn't already cold.

"Is anything wrong?" In the cavalcade of Weird Things Done and Seen, finding Superman on his roof doesn't even rank. All the same, Tim keeps his voice pitched low and his gestures controlled. "Why --"

The speed-whoosh is harsh this time, a sudden, high whine that spins Tim around and presses him back against the wall. It's only thanks to training that he keeps his balance.

"-- are you here?" he finishes.

Superman's got both hands on Tim's shoulders. They don't *have* to be there, he's not planning on going anywhere even if he could, and it doesn't hurt.

"You seem more comfortable," Superman says and bites the corner of his mouth. The corner of the cape flaps against Tim's ankle like an anxious cat. "When I'm in this...guise."

Tim's mouth forms 'no', but Clark's already bending in to him, ghosting his lips over Tim's cheekbone. "It's all right," he whispers, and his warm mouth moves down Tim's jaw, around his ear, and -- *finally* -- back to Tim's lips. "I don't mind."

Tim is uncertain whether to believe him. On the one hand, he's Superman and does not lie. On the other --.

"I --" Tim starts but Superman smiles against his mouth, then kisses him, his hands kneading Tim's shoulders, working heat back into his muscles. He tastes different tonight. No mustard, and Tim's hand skates down Superman's side, spasming with repressed laughter at that. He tastes like wind and that's like Kon and Tim has to close his eyes.

Superman murmurs something at that, arm going around Tim's waist and lifting him. Up, until Tim's a foot off the ground, eye-level with Superman, only *not*. Because he's got his eyes squeezed close and his mouth hanging open and there's *wind* shouting through his body. His arm's wrapped around Superman's neck and he's not breathing. Not under *this*, furnace-hot, slick *mouth* nibbling at his, sucking his tongue in, nipping at it, and Tim's body is rippling before he quite knows what to make of that.

*Waving*, really, like a banner, and he's been in the air often enough to trust that he won't fall. So from head to shoulder to waist to knee to toe, he's waving. Undulating, pressing against Superman, the cape wrapping around them both, and they're not going anywhere.

"There are three cameras showing snow right now," Superman says against his ear. "On the bodega, across the street, and on your roof."

"That's --" Tim presses his lips together and seeks some sanity. He pushes uselessly at Superman's shoulder. "That's not good. We --"

"I'll fix them," Superman says and goes to set Tim down.

Tim presses himself closer, burying his face in Superman's shoulder. "Take me with you."

That's a chuckle he's hearing, but this close, it sounds *geological*, working its way up Clark's throat. He swallows and thinks the name again. No one kisses Superman. But Clark, Clark can be kissed.

It's easier with Kon. Maybe that's the danger, the absence of boundaries with a guy who wears his costume as a T-shirt.

They speed around, fixing the feeds, and Tim refuses to let himself think.

"I wouldn't let anything happen," Clark says apologetically at the bodega's security camera.

"I know," Tim says from the curb. "Of course you wouldn't." Clark's mouth is still tight at the edges, a shade paler than the rest of his face. Tim stands and tilts his head. "Thanks for lunch, by the way."

Clark grins at him, sudden and pleased, his face dipping down. "I enjoyed it," he says. "But then --"

"I left."

"Yes."

Tim puts up his arms. He has to shunt aside the *strong* sense he has of resembling nothing more than a baby asking to be picked up. Since that *is* what he's doing -- and Clark knows, he's staring, surprised and *pleased* -- he ignores the embarrassment in order to enjoy the sudden *swoop*. Clark's gentle, always gentle, but he's got his hands under Tim's arms, lifting as he jumps into flight.

"I had to go," Tim tells the wind.

Clark nods and says, "Well, I had to work."

He reaches down, hooking Tim's leg around his waist and settling him into the crook of his elbow, before turning his face to Tim's. He kisses like he flies, strong and sure, and Tim's vertigo is new. *Thrilling*, because it's not about getting dropped. Not about being held, either. He's been flown plenty of times ("Us normals gotta hitch a ride wherever we can," Dick said once).

This is how he felt driving the Super-Cycle. It's stupid, feeling nostalgic for a piece of machinery that was never really even *his*, but as he rides Superman in lazy figure-eights over his neighborhood, that's exactly what he feels.

"You look happy," Superman says when Tim laughs.

"I --" He exhales through his nose. "Yes."

"Good."

Clark slows his speed, dropping them at a low angle toward Tim's building. He knows that tar paper's checkerboard like he still remembers the wallpaper in his first bedroom. Before they land, however, Clark kisses him again, letting Tim dangle from his hands, sweeping his toes back and forth over the roof.

Tim's not afraid. He holds on more tightly, arm around Clark's neck, head tilted back. He's breathless, lips swollen and sore, jaw aching, but he's not afraid.

Superman is *playing* with him. This becomes all the clearer when Clark breaks right, Tim dangles, and then Clark catches him from behind, pulling him back straight up into the sky.

"Cl--" Tim feels the exhilaration hiss and fizzle across his nerves, as lightly, as quickly, as they're moving. "Superman."

"I won't drop you," Clark says as he turns them upside down, the cape falling slowly past them. "Robins don't --"

"I know." Tim lets his hands slide down Clark's arms, thicker than his own legs, until he's hanging by his fingers and Clark is floating, *smiling*, over him. "Robin doesn't fall."

Tim knows he must feel like nothing, like a dangling shirt, to Clark, but it's still a surprise when Clark effortlessly spins him back upward and lands.

"You know," Clark says, then pauses. He's kissing Tim again, lingeringly, both hands on Tim's cheeks, thumbs sweeping back and forth over his pulse points. "The only place near here without cameras --"

He stops, frowning slightly, and Tim realizes belatedly that Clark's mirroring his own expression when Clark's fingers move over his forehead, smoothing away the wrinkles.

"Yes?" Tim asks.

"Beautiful," Clark says to himself, then focuses again. "Is your bedroom."

"I --"

"It's true," Clark says earnestly. "I asked Bruce."

Too late, gravity finds Tim again, and he stumbles, watching the roof tilt up to meet him. He catches himself on Clark's arm and shakes his head. "You asked --. About --. Batman."

Clark laughs, easily and loudly, and slides his arm around Tim's shoulder. "It came up."

"I don't think I want to know."

"Really?" Clark cocks his head. "I don't believe that."

He has Superman on his roof. Talking about his bedroom. And the sun's starting to come up. Tim pinches the bridge of his nose, willing away the headache threatening. Clark lifts his hand away, tipping up Tim's chin in the same gesture.

"Tim?"

"I --" Tim just lets himself *look* for a long moment. Clark is worried, and concerned, and there are the lines of Kon's face there, superimposed and faint. "Let's go inside."

So *this* is how Bart lives. The world's a beautiful blur, as Clark holds him close, diving down three stories and then inside the open window. Tim bites back a laugh and wonders if this is what being drunk is like. He doesn't have the time to *swallow* that laugh, because Clark is wrapping his arms around him again, kissing him, moving them to the bed.

He should worry about dirty sheets. About his father, or Bruce. Kon.

But Tim lands, and rolls, and ends up crouched over *Superman*. Clark. Wide blue eyes taking him in, large warm hands moving up under his t-shirt, and he can't even remember being cold.

Moving like a flag again, dipping and waving, hands on warm fabric, seeking warmer skin. And Clark is -- is --.

"Here," Tim says, falling forward, mouth on Clark's neck, tasting all the skin he can find. "You're *here*."

Clark chuckles at that as his hands drift down Tim's back. Tim has the fleeting impression of being *mapped* before Clark squeezes his hips and pushes him up until Tim's braced on his hands, hair hanging in his eyes.

"Yes," he says, like this is just a conversation. Only interrupted -- *supplemented* -- by physical investigation. Touching, pressing, kissing.

Tim's panting, mouth hanging open, as Clark opens his fly and works his pants down to his knees.

"Is this --" Clark starts to say when Tim shudders hard and drops down, molding himself to Clark's body. "Oh."

His shoulders are heaving. "Yes," Tim says. "Whatever you were going to say."

"I was going to --" Clark's hand works between them; he opens his legs, making room, and Tim's curved like a comma over him. "Ask if that felt good."

"*Yes*," Tim says and tries to breathe through the impatience. Clark narrows his eyes and cups Tim's cheek with his free hand while he strokes two fingers up and down Tim's thigh. "Hell, *yes*."

Clark chuckles again and he's talking. Tim can see his mouth work, but he can't hear through the pounding roar of his own heartbeat and stuttering breaths. He butts his head against Clark's hand, twisting until he gets his mouth on Clark's thumb. Clark's eyes widen for a moment before he smiles even more widely and Tim sucks his thumb up against his palate.

It's blunt, and *hot*, and tastes like Ivory Spring. None of which is surprising, but taken together, it's making Tim rock his hips into Clark's hand, making him buck and grunt and bite.

Clark's lashes flutter at each bite, and Tim does it again, harder, glaring at Clark until --.

*Finally*, Clark wraps his hand around Tim's dick, soft and *secure*, and he pulls in time with the jolting rocks of his hips.

"That," Clark says and Tim's eyes fly open. He's drowning. Or maybe flying. The sweat stings down his bare back, across his chest, and he's about six seconds from coming.

No, four, and he's *moaning* around Clark's thumb until Clark pops it out of Tim's mouth and pulls his head down.

"That," he says again, "do that again. Look just like that --"

"Clark," Tim says and the desperation's making him whine. "I'm going to --"

"Yes, good." Clark nods and smiles and *kisses* him, flipping them over, until Tim's on his back and he's coming and Super-fucking-man is between his tangled-up pants and legs and catching it in his mouth. Drinking him, *sucking* him and Tim's bones melted long ago and now they're draining out and he gets his wrist between his teeth to stifle the grunt that will not end.

Clark won't move. He holds the head of Tim's cock between hot lips and suckles gently. *Painfully*, and Tim tries to push his head away, or pull off his pants, or *something*, but Clark won't move. He dips his head and pushes Tim's legs farther open, and now his mouth is everywhere, tracking hot and wet over Tim's shaking thighs and clenching belly and tight balls. Behind his balls, wide tongue dipping down and back, sending Tim's hips up and a shout out his mouth. Clark moves his hands on Tim's legs, soothing the shivers that his mouth's intent on bringing up, pushes his face in and down, tongue spiralling deeper.

"Cl -- *Please*, just --. *Enough*. Clark, I --"

Ages later, Clark finally looks up and meets Tim's eyes. It's like he's been watching the whole time. Letting Tim see his face now is just a courtesy.

"You're hard again," Clark says, pulling himself up to cover Tim's body. Push him into the mattress, twine his arms around Tim's neck, and this isn't happening. He isn't rolling his hips and feeling the familiar burn stir again, he *can't* be. And he's certainly *not* rolling in time to meet Superman's own thrusts, to rub himself against Superman.

Except he is, and Clark is kissing the breath out of him and Tim shudders harder. "I --" He coughs and tries to sit up. Clark lets him, lets Tim push against the wall. His eyes are amused, but he looks like he's trying to keep a straight face. "I want to --" Tim fakes one more cough and pats Clark's thigh. "I want to. Taste you."

"Oh," Clark says. He sounds genuinely surprised. "I'd -- I'd like that."

"I want to," Tim says patiently. "But. Um, I haven't --"

Clark puts his hand on Tim's shoulder and the gesture would be funny. If he wasn't Superman, if they weren't half-naked, smelling like sex. "I thought you had," Clark says. "With --"

"No," Tim says quickly. "And --. Maybe I."

Clark's hand curls around his neck while the other eases Tim downward. And his tights are coming off and Tim's kissing the smooth stretch of Clark's belly, downward to black hair and. Oh.

"You don't --" Clark says and then Tim touches him. And his eyes close. His mouth opens and the muscles in his thighs tense and he *breathes*. Tim touches the length of his dick, up and down, and it's -- familiar. If he just doesn't think, if he just lets the hunger storming through him have its way, he's going to be fine. "Oh. *Tim*."

"Right." Tim wants to close his eyes and he wants to see everything. He touches the delicate skin, all that heat and the tensile *weight* within, and Clark shudders at even the lightest stroke. He whines out a breath when Tim wraps his hand around the base and moves his mouth forward.

He knows what to do. He knows what he wants to do. And Clark pets his hair and holds himself still and Tim's mouth *fills* up. First with spit, then with -- *Clark*.

It's probably the worst blowjob in the history of stupid virginal blowjobs. Tim's on his knees and soaring and sliding his lips, even his teeth, bracing himself on Clark's knee, *tasting*. Doing it.

Clark strokes his cheek and Tim looks up. Clark, hand on his own nipple, other hand on *Tim*, and his eyes are narrowed. Darker than blue, *shadowed*, and his mouth works and Tim swallows convulsively.

"Please?" Clark asks, brokenly, and Tim doesn't know what he's asking for. But he says yes anyway, opening as wide as he can and staying where he is when Clark tries to push him back, and his own dick's throbbing, trapped between his thighs, pulsing in time with Clark's blood. With the weight pushing into his mouth, nudging him farther open. "Please, Tim, I --"

He turns his face away and Tim presses his head forward, choking a little, the tremors wracking through Clark passing straight into him. When Clark comes, he pulls on Tim's hair then abruptly pets his scalp and his neck is twisting, his hips lifting, and Tim rises with him. He pulses inside Tim's mouth, hard and fast enough that it spills out Tim's lips, and then -- Tim sees black and Clark gasps.

He opens his eyes to Clark's kiss, to heavy awkward hands moving over him, and the first thing he thinks of is Bruce, checking for injuries after a blast or fall.

"I'm here," Tim says and his mouth tastes. Like Superman.

"Good," Clark says. His hand glides down Tim's side and comes to rest on his hip. "Tim."

"Clark," Tim says, a little thickly, and smiles. "Superman. Kal-El. Yes?"

Clark shivers again and an instant later, he's fully dressed and snapping out the cape. "I should --" He glances out the window.

"I've got school in two hours," Tim says.

"Yes." Clark smiles and squeezes Tim's hip. "Thank you."

If he were anyone else, Tim could make a joke here. 'No, thank *you*' or 'mon plaisir c'est...' but he's not. Anyone, that is.

The sun's coming in more and more strongly and Clark's hovering there by his bed and any minute now he's going to start wringing his hands.

"Safe flight," Tim says and kneels up. When he kisses Clark's cheek, he can still smell the wind.

Clark's cape murmurs and sighs, and as he turns to go, the red's as dark as a bruise.

Tim lies down, arm over his eyes, and gives himself thirty minutes to rest before he thinks. Before he comes back to himself.

Before he calls Kon.

[end]

There is much more Clark/Tim goodness today. Just so you know.