(no subject)
How Much String is in the World.
Who Has It.
By SomeInstant
Disclaimer: I would pay DC good money if they’d let me write for them. But alas, the boys ain’t mine.
Rating: R-ish to NC-17
Spoilers: Um, nothing recent. This would be denial-fic.
Summary: Day fifty-seven. Nightwing appears discontent with territory. Consumes large quanities of fermented agave root. Does not eat the worm.
Notes: I thought Dick needed to get drunk. I didn’t bother to figure out *why*, exactly, but. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
How Much String is in the World.
Who Has It.
1. Veracity
There are two kinds of truth: absolute and relative. Absolute truths are always true, without exception. Such truths include the fact that:
A. Dick cannot fly without the help of
i. a jet or other man-made flight-inducing device, or
ii. a willing meta-human or the sudden acquisition of meta-human-esque powers.
B. Dick really wishes he *could* fly especially when
i. Superman or Kory offers to carry him, or
ii. he drinks too much.1
C. Ingesting more tequila will not make Dick able to fly.
D. Ingesting more tequila *will*, however, make Dick drunker.2
Relative truths are more complex. They are true within brackets-- specific situations, specific people, specific times and places. These are truths which are sometimes lies for other people. Examples of relative truths are:
A. Dick’s first costume design for Nightwing was cool.
B. It is a good idea for Dick to
i. drink about half a bottle of Jose Cuervo
ii. at three o’clock in the morning
iii. while sitting on the roof of a warehouse by the harbor
iv. in civilian clothes.
C. Dick is not brooding.
D. Dick is not brooding *much*.
A is true in that Dick, at the time, believed the costume design was cool. If asked, Elvis, Liberace, and Elton John all might offer the same explanations for their wardrobe choices, and-- sadly-- all three would be telling the truth.
B is true in that Dick, at the time, thought this was a good idea. “At the time” was approximately two hours ago-- but that time has since passed. Dick has now decided that B is no longer true, especially since he has to get *down* from the warehouse at some point, preferably before dawn. Also, he has to pee.
C is not true at all, which is why there is a D.
D is true, if Dick compares himself with Batman. Bruce. Whichever. Because Dick *does* compare himself to Batman, and therefore D is true, on a relative scale. The fact (an absolute truth) that Dick does, objectively, brood slightly less than Bruce is not at all reassuring.
Dick takes another swallow of tequila, and decides that B might as well be true again since he’s got half a bottle left.
2. Jane Goodall and Frodo
Tim would be willing to bet Dick hasn’t had anything more than one or two beers in a go for at least a couple of years, which makes the situation that much more strange. Also, it means Dick’s alcohol tolerance is all shot to hell, which will make getting him down off the roof *fun*.
“Hey.” Tim’s shooting for a casual, I-hadn’t-noticed-you’re-shitfaced tone.
Dick starts to turn his head-- stops, blinks, and turns his whole body instead. “Tim,” he says. “What’re you doing here?” Dick’s not slurring his words. Rather, he has the deliberate diction of the self-aware inebriate.
Tim shrugs and crouches next to Dick. “I was in the neighborhood-- saw your bike and figured I’d say hi.” Tim leaves out the part where Oracle had specifically asked him to go by and check on Nightwing, since he hadn’t been answering over his comm. “Any particular reason why you’re up here?” Tim asks.
“It’s a Wednesday.”
Dick doesn’t seem to want to elaborate, so Tim settles down and joins Dick in looking out over the harbor. Or. *Dick* looks out at the harbor, and Tim looks at Dick.
It’s not like Tim’s never seen Dick out of uniform, so there’s really no reason for him to stare. Except there really *is*. Dick’s wearing an old t-shirt with a hole in the seam by the neck and a pair of jeans which are riding low enough for Tim to suspect that Dick doesn’t have anything else on under them and. Tim *knows* Alfred taught Dick how to do his own laundry, so he’s got to assume the lack of underwear was a conscious decision.
“It’s pretty,” Tim says, forcing himself to look back over the harbor. “The city,” he clarifies, although he’s sure Dick didn’t notice him staring. Fairly sure, anyway.
Dick snorts. “No it isn’t,” he says. “It’s *Bludhaven*.”
This must strike Dick as profound, because he repeats the observation. “It’s *Bludhaven*. Besides,” Dick adds thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t matter if it were pretty. The whole place smells like dead fish.”
Tim tries not to snicker.
Dick nudges him with his shoulder. “You laughing at me, Boy Wonder?”
“Never,” Tim says gravely.
“Hmnph,” Dick grumbles. “Go ahead,” he says, gesturing expansively while reaching for the tequila, “laugh at the drunk guy.” He takes a quick swallow, and Tim tries not to look as fascinated as he is by the muscles cording and releasing in Dick’s neck.
Tim clears his throat. “Speaking of,” he says, completely killing his attempt at cool-and-casual, “why the tequila?”
Dick doesn’t look at him. “Because the liquor store only had cheap vodka,” he says dryly.
“Ah.” Best not push it right now.
“Yeah,” Dick says, frowning at his feet. He sighs, and puts the cap back on the bottle. “I’m going to need a little help getting down from here, I think.”
“Yeah?”
“…and I might need some help standing up, too.”
“Mm.”
Dick glares. “You’re doing that-- that *thing*. Stop it.”
Tim stands up and offers Dick a hand. “What thing?”
Dick’s hand is damp in Tim’s, and he sways to his feet. “Um, hold on,” Dick says, steadying himself on Tim’s shoulder. “That *thing*,” he continues, once his feet seem to be securely underneath him. “Where you think things. About me.”
Tim goes still under Dick’s hand. “Oh?” he says, hoping that Dick’s too far gone to notice his face is flushing beneath his mask.
“*Oh*?” Dick mocks. “You do it all the time with *all* of us. It’s like you’re whatsherface, the gorilla lady.”
Tim relaxes. “Jane Goodall?” He guides Dick over to the fire escape.
“Yeah, her.” Dick mimes something which either means writing-in-an-invisible-notebook or cleaning-out-a-fireplace. “Day fifty-seven,” Dick continues in a bad British accent. “Nightwing appears discontent with territory. Consumes large quantities of fermented agave root. Does not eat the worm.”
Tim smirks. “I don’t, actually, keep notebooks about you,” he says as he helps Dick down the first flight of stairs. It’s not a lie; Tim has transferred all his observations to a highly encrypted computer file. “Besides,” he adds, “Jane Goodall studied chimps, not gorillas.”
“Not the point,” Dick says, leaning more heavily on Tim’s shoulder. “The *point*, little brother, is that you are not Dr. Goodall taking notes on chimps. You are a *chimp* taking notes on chimps.”
Tim isn’t quite sure how to respond to that.
Dick nods. “Thought so.” He looks down at the street below, and then up at Tim. “Do you know where I parked my bike?” he asks.
3. Subduction, Orogeny, and Reelfoot Lake
Earthquakes-- natural ones, at least-- are the result of a build-up of energy and pressure which occurs along fault lines. The quake which nearly flattened Gotham, of course, was the result of a build-up of energy and pressure in the hands of a maniac.
Still, geologists up and down the east coast suddenly became a hot commodity on the local news front afterwards, spewing facts like the latest pyroclastic event. On the odd evening when he actually managed to catch the six o’clock news, Dick learned the following:
A. In 1811, a series of tremors registering at least 8.0 on the not-yet created Rictor scale caused the Mississippi River to temporarily reverse its flow in places, causing massive flooding and the creation of several large lakes overnight.
B. The Appalachians are primarily metamorphic, being the result of a long-ago continental collision, wherein the relentless pressure wrinkled up bedrock like a piece of paper.3
C. California was *not*, in fact, going to fall off into the ocean. Part of it was just going to shift farther and farther northwest, eventually slithering underneath some little tiny plate in the middle of the Pacific.
More to the point, Dick learned that there weren’t any faults near Bludhaven which had been active in the last thousand-odd years-- which pretty much rules out ‘earthquake’ on the current list of Reasons Why Dick Grayson, Acrobat and Gymnast, Can’t Keep His Balance.
Tim raises his eyebrow as Dick leans against one of the walls in the alley.
“I’m okay,” Dick insists. “I’m not going to fall off my own damn bike.”
“Funny how I don’t actually believe that.”
“You’re the one who’s *driving*, Boy Wonder,” Dick reminds him. “Unless you decide to take up drag racing, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Tim purses his lips as puts on a helmet. “I’ve still got half a mind to strap you to the bike.”
“Sounds like fun,” Dick comments, and watches as Tim turns as red as his tunic. It’s not the first time Tim’s blushed tonight, and that’s. Very interesting, if Dick can manage to figure out why.
“Shut up and put your helmet on,” Tim says as he starts the ignition.
4. Pan troglodytes
Tim is *not* a chimpanzee.
Chimpanzees may be complexly intelligent and social creatures, but he’s fairly certain that no chimp would have been able to get Dick home, into the shower, and into bed *without* touching him any more than was strictly necessary.
A chimpanzee would simply not have the self-control to ignore Dick pressed up against his back for twenty minutes as he drove him home, especially when Dick’s hands started to wander up and down his chest. He certainly wouldn’t have been able to look away while Dick showered with the curtain and bathroom door open, so Tim would know he hadn’t fallen and hit his head. And a chimp would have curled up in bed next to Dick without a question when Dick said “stay?,” already half-asleep.
Tim really hates chimpanzees, especially since it’s all a very clumsy sort of symbolism, anyway.
However, he hates Dick’s couch more than he hates symbolic chimps. Clarification: he hates the *position* of Dick’s couch, because the couch itself is quite comfortable. Dick has simply placed the couch next to an east-facing window, which means that Tim’s getting an eyeful of the world’s cheeriest sunrise.
If Tim were in a more charitable mood, he’d be quietly amazed that Bludhaven could produce such a bright dawn. As it is, Tim’s currently classifying ‘unnaturally bright and pleasant mornings’ to his list of Potentially Evil Phenomena to Investigate.
Tim grunts, and buries his face in the pillow.
The floorboards in the hallway creak, and for no good reason at all, his pulse doubles. (Clarification: for no good, non-complicated, non-Dick-related reason.)
“Tim?” Dick’s voice sounds exactly like someone who downed half a bottle of tequila not too terribly long ago, and is living to regret the fact.
Tim pulls his face out of the pillow. “How’re you feeling?” he asks, although that’s probably a stupid question.
Dick ignores the question. “Why are you here?” he asks, squinting at the window and obviously confused.
Shit. Tim sighs, and starts to explain. “Last night--”
Dick shakes his head impatiently. “No, I got that: I was brooding, I drank too much, you brought my sorry butt home. I meant, why are you in the living room? There’s no way I’ll believe you if you try to tell me you can sleep with that light coming in.”
Oh. “Oh. I--”
“You don’t have school today, do you?” Dick interrupts. “Shit. It’s Thursday. You have school. Jesus, I’m sorry, Tim--”
“It’s okay.” It’s Tim’s turn to interrupt. “It’s a four day weekend. I’m not missing school.” And anticipating Dick’s next question, he adds, “And I told Dad and Dana I’m spending the night with a friend. I couldn’t remember his last name, however,” he says with a slight smile, “so the details were a little vague.”
Dick’s face clears. For someone who should have the mother of all hangovers, he looks remarkably cheerful. “Excellent. Now,” he says. “This brings me back to my original question.”
“The why-am-I-here question?”
“Precisely.”
“Well,” Tim begins seriously, “about eighteen years ago, my dad met my mom, and--”
“Tim?”
“Yes?”
Dick looms over the back of the couch. “I am going to go to the kitchen and get a glass of water. Then, I am going to go and find a bottle of aspirin. When I have done that, I am going to go and get back into bed. And,” Dick adds, “you’re going to get into bed as well.”
“Oh,” Tim says, and tries not to wonder whether Dick can tell he’s blushing.
5. The Actual Story
When Dick woke up, his first thought had been: I thought Tim would stay.
His second thought was: I’ll never drink again, I promise.
His third and fourth thoughts echoed the second, but the fifth again brought up the fact that he’d woken up alone, and that had seemed very wrong.
Now that he’s downed some aspirin and a glass of water and told Tim to get in bed-- and really, should he enjoy seeing the kid blush *quite* that much?-- he feels much better.
Tim is curled up under the blankets on the far side of the bed, and he doesn’t move as Dick slides in next to him. Tim probably hopes that Dick will think he’s asleep. Tough luck for the kid.
He raises himself up on one elbow. “Tim?”
Tim doesn’t answer, although Dick can see the rise and fall of his chest stutter.
No matter. “I haven’t thanked you for getting me home, yet, have I?” Dick says, and he lets his left hand rest on Tim’s shoulder. Sometime after he’d fallen asleep last night, Tim had changed into a pair of Dick’s boxers and a clean undershirt, and the thin cotton under Dick’s thumb seems somehow obscene.
“Um, no.” Tim’s trying not to sound like he wants to bolt, and failing.
“Mm.” Dick pulls Tim in against his chest, and watches the tips of Tim’s ears turn red. “Don’t want to be rude,” Dick says, letting his hand skate down over Tim’s chest. His hand looks huge against the white t-shirt, and he has the odd idea that it wouldn’t look so out of place against skin.
Tim makes a small noise in the back of his throat, but otherwise makes no move to stop Dick’s hand from sneaking underneath his shirt.
“You’ve got a lot of scars,” Dick says, and that was quite possibly the most obvious statement ever. Tim *does* have a lot of scars, and Dick’s fingers are drawn magnetically to the thin raised lines. Tim doesn’t shudder, exactly, when he traces over a curve of pink, newly-healed skin over the boy’s ribs, but his breathing speeds up slightly.
“Who was this?” Dick asks, and Tim shrugs.
“Stupid kid with a knife,” he says, like it could happen to anyone. Which-- that’s true, it *could* happen to anyone, and that’s why they all *do* this. But it’s more likely that it was *several* stupid kids with knives, and maybe they weren’t so much kids as thugs twice Tim’s size who were pretty damn good at knife fighting.
Dick frowns, and tugs Tim a little closer, although at this point ‘a little closer’ means ‘try to suffocate the kid.’
Tim makes a frustrated noise, and rolls over to face Dick.
“Dick.” The kid looks like he’s gauging the distance to the window, should things take a turn for the worse.
“Yeah?”
“Could you--” Tim closes his eyes and exhales slowly. “Look,” he says, opening his eyes. “Just-- please stop touching me, okay? Or something,” and Dick can’t remember the last time he’s seen Tim so distracted and miserable-looking. “It’s just-- Either do it or *don’t*, because I.”
Oh. *Oh*.
It is entirely possible that Dick killed more brain cells drinking last night than he could afford to lose.
“Oh,” Dick says out loud, and Tim looks like he’s really hoping the mattress will swallow him whole, and that’s-- really not okay, and neither is the way Tim flinches when Dick brushes his thumb across Tim’s mouth.
“Tim,” Dick begins, and promptly decides that what he had to say wasn’t that important anyway, considering that Tim is opening his mouth under his and choking out little gasps which are going to *kill* him.
If Tim’s hands don’t kill him first, because they’re just sort of smoothing over his sides and down his back and that is *definitely* Tim’s hand on his ass. And hey, that’s a *really* good idea, so Dick follows suit and slides a hand down and pulls Tim in and. Tim’s hips jerk against Dick’s own and he’s *hard* against him.
“*Jesus*, Tim.” Dick’s not hard-- he’s a little too hungover for that to happen-- but he really *wants* to be.
“Oh *shit*.” Tim buries his face in Dick’s neck. “Dick, I-- *please*--”
And maybe it took him a while to catch on initially, but Dick’s always been a fast learner.
He runs a finger along the elastic edge of Tim’s boxers-- *his* boxers-- and leans in to suck lightly on Tim’s neck. “What do you want?” he asks, liking the way Tim’s eyes are screwed closed.
“Jesus, Dick.” Tim sounds breathless, which. He’s not usually winded after taking on a couple of *supervillians*, and that’s-- kinda a compliment, right there.
“I don’t *care*,” Tim says, panting a little. “Just-- *fuck*.” He twists his hips a little, and Dick feels himself jerk a little in response. “*Fuck*. Just-- your *hand*, Dick, *please*--”
And Dick can do that, he can *definitely* do that. Tim’s boxers (*Dick’s*) find themselves down around the kid’s knees, and Tim is hard and wet and pushing into his hand, and he whimpers high and soft in his throat as Dick kisses him.
“*Oh*,” Tim says as Dick starts to jerk him in earnest. “Oh *god*, Dick-- please, *shit*--,” and Dick was sixteen not too long ago, so he *gets* it when Tim tenses and shouts and comes after only a few quick strokes.
“Oh god.” Tim tries to bury his face in Dick’s neck again, but Dick intercepts his mouth and holds Tim’s face still with his non-sticky hand.
“Hey,” Dick says, breaking the kiss reluctantly. “No freaking out, all right?”
Tim nods, but Dick can see the wheels turning. “No freaking out,” Dick repeats. “This is where you enjoy the afterglow and sleep.” He wipes his hand on the sheet, and tilts Tim’s head up. “You can freak out later, when we’ve both slept and I’m not quite as hungover, okay?”
Tim looks a little confused, and makes a gesture between them. “What about--?”
Dick grimaces. “Like I said. Wait until we’ve both slept and I’m not hungover. Certain things might work better then.”
Tim smirks, and yeah. It’ll be a long time before he drinks again.
----
1. There is a parallel, somewhere, between flying and alcohol-- particularly with regards to flying with Kory. Both are potentially hazardous to one’s health, and both can lead to ill-advised sex. However, Kory is an alien princess with incredible hair, and alcohol, simply put, is not.
2. Ingesting more tequila will also inhibit Dick’s ability to manipulate the English language. At the same time, however, it will drive all the sentence diagramming and i-before-e rules Alfred forced on him at a young age out of his mind, so Dick won’t notice the incorrect adjective use.
3. Dick would have preferred it if the Appalachians were the result of subduction and orogeny. Not that he prefers volcanic formation to other forms of mountain-building: Dick is geologically indifferent to the methods of creation. He just thinks 'orogeny' sounds dirty. Which it does.
*
And here's the inspiration behind the title, such as it is:
How much string is in the world.
Who has it.
There is a dog barking, no dog to see,
the piebald horse seems small for the field.
It is too bright and I need a nap.
It is practically burning with flowers.
I’ve heard of the light
no one wants to be photographed in
and this must be it.
Consider once, it was snowing, I made a little bird
but it was a pathetic thing
all duct tape and longing
and knocking about the chairlegs like a dustball.
I made another but the fucker bit me.
I made another
this one completely empty.
Or how in a good month for conversation
my Uncle Frank in a field sensing deer
shot himself in the foot
and his first wife continued with the dishes
looking out the window at the laundry line,
power line, pig’s ear, who knows?--
and later driving away with the car
while he remained on the couch watching hockey.
Consider the cold and tomatoes come together
and how of course I’d love to have you.
Here, have a balloon. Have two.
-- Michael Tieg
*
I have no idea what all that means, but there were three birds and some balloons, and I thought, "Hey, why not."
Who Has It.
By SomeInstant
Disclaimer: I would pay DC good money if they’d let me write for them. But alas, the boys ain’t mine.
Rating: R-ish to NC-17
Spoilers: Um, nothing recent. This would be denial-fic.
Summary: Day fifty-seven. Nightwing appears discontent with territory. Consumes large quanities of fermented agave root. Does not eat the worm.
Notes: I thought Dick needed to get drunk. I didn’t bother to figure out *why*, exactly, but. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
How Much String is in the World.
Who Has It.
1. Veracity
There are two kinds of truth: absolute and relative. Absolute truths are always true, without exception. Such truths include the fact that:
A. Dick cannot fly without the help of
i. a jet or other man-made flight-inducing device, or
ii. a willing meta-human or the sudden acquisition of meta-human-esque powers.
B. Dick really wishes he *could* fly especially when
i. Superman or Kory offers to carry him, or
ii. he drinks too much.1
C. Ingesting more tequila will not make Dick able to fly.
D. Ingesting more tequila *will*, however, make Dick drunker.2
Relative truths are more complex. They are true within brackets-- specific situations, specific people, specific times and places. These are truths which are sometimes lies for other people. Examples of relative truths are:
A. Dick’s first costume design for Nightwing was cool.
B. It is a good idea for Dick to
i. drink about half a bottle of Jose Cuervo
ii. at three o’clock in the morning
iii. while sitting on the roof of a warehouse by the harbor
iv. in civilian clothes.
C. Dick is not brooding.
D. Dick is not brooding *much*.
A is true in that Dick, at the time, believed the costume design was cool. If asked, Elvis, Liberace, and Elton John all might offer the same explanations for their wardrobe choices, and-- sadly-- all three would be telling the truth.
B is true in that Dick, at the time, thought this was a good idea. “At the time” was approximately two hours ago-- but that time has since passed. Dick has now decided that B is no longer true, especially since he has to get *down* from the warehouse at some point, preferably before dawn. Also, he has to pee.
C is not true at all, which is why there is a D.
D is true, if Dick compares himself with Batman. Bruce. Whichever. Because Dick *does* compare himself to Batman, and therefore D is true, on a relative scale. The fact (an absolute truth) that Dick does, objectively, brood slightly less than Bruce is not at all reassuring.
Dick takes another swallow of tequila, and decides that B might as well be true again since he’s got half a bottle left.
2. Jane Goodall and Frodo
Tim would be willing to bet Dick hasn’t had anything more than one or two beers in a go for at least a couple of years, which makes the situation that much more strange. Also, it means Dick’s alcohol tolerance is all shot to hell, which will make getting him down off the roof *fun*.
“Hey.” Tim’s shooting for a casual, I-hadn’t-noticed-you’re-shitfaced tone.
Dick starts to turn his head-- stops, blinks, and turns his whole body instead. “Tim,” he says. “What’re you doing here?” Dick’s not slurring his words. Rather, he has the deliberate diction of the self-aware inebriate.
Tim shrugs and crouches next to Dick. “I was in the neighborhood-- saw your bike and figured I’d say hi.” Tim leaves out the part where Oracle had specifically asked him to go by and check on Nightwing, since he hadn’t been answering over his comm. “Any particular reason why you’re up here?” Tim asks.
“It’s a Wednesday.”
Dick doesn’t seem to want to elaborate, so Tim settles down and joins Dick in looking out over the harbor. Or. *Dick* looks out at the harbor, and Tim looks at Dick.
It’s not like Tim’s never seen Dick out of uniform, so there’s really no reason for him to stare. Except there really *is*. Dick’s wearing an old t-shirt with a hole in the seam by the neck and a pair of jeans which are riding low enough for Tim to suspect that Dick doesn’t have anything else on under them and. Tim *knows* Alfred taught Dick how to do his own laundry, so he’s got to assume the lack of underwear was a conscious decision.
“It’s pretty,” Tim says, forcing himself to look back over the harbor. “The city,” he clarifies, although he’s sure Dick didn’t notice him staring. Fairly sure, anyway.
Dick snorts. “No it isn’t,” he says. “It’s *Bludhaven*.”
This must strike Dick as profound, because he repeats the observation. “It’s *Bludhaven*. Besides,” Dick adds thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t matter if it were pretty. The whole place smells like dead fish.”
Tim tries not to snicker.
Dick nudges him with his shoulder. “You laughing at me, Boy Wonder?”
“Never,” Tim says gravely.
“Hmnph,” Dick grumbles. “Go ahead,” he says, gesturing expansively while reaching for the tequila, “laugh at the drunk guy.” He takes a quick swallow, and Tim tries not to look as fascinated as he is by the muscles cording and releasing in Dick’s neck.
Tim clears his throat. “Speaking of,” he says, completely killing his attempt at cool-and-casual, “why the tequila?”
Dick doesn’t look at him. “Because the liquor store only had cheap vodka,” he says dryly.
“Ah.” Best not push it right now.
“Yeah,” Dick says, frowning at his feet. He sighs, and puts the cap back on the bottle. “I’m going to need a little help getting down from here, I think.”
“Yeah?”
“…and I might need some help standing up, too.”
“Mm.”
Dick glares. “You’re doing that-- that *thing*. Stop it.”
Tim stands up and offers Dick a hand. “What thing?”
Dick’s hand is damp in Tim’s, and he sways to his feet. “Um, hold on,” Dick says, steadying himself on Tim’s shoulder. “That *thing*,” he continues, once his feet seem to be securely underneath him. “Where you think things. About me.”
Tim goes still under Dick’s hand. “Oh?” he says, hoping that Dick’s too far gone to notice his face is flushing beneath his mask.
“*Oh*?” Dick mocks. “You do it all the time with *all* of us. It’s like you’re whatsherface, the gorilla lady.”
Tim relaxes. “Jane Goodall?” He guides Dick over to the fire escape.
“Yeah, her.” Dick mimes something which either means writing-in-an-invisible-notebook or cleaning-out-a-fireplace. “Day fifty-seven,” Dick continues in a bad British accent. “Nightwing appears discontent with territory. Consumes large quantities of fermented agave root. Does not eat the worm.”
Tim smirks. “I don’t, actually, keep notebooks about you,” he says as he helps Dick down the first flight of stairs. It’s not a lie; Tim has transferred all his observations to a highly encrypted computer file. “Besides,” he adds, “Jane Goodall studied chimps, not gorillas.”
“Not the point,” Dick says, leaning more heavily on Tim’s shoulder. “The *point*, little brother, is that you are not Dr. Goodall taking notes on chimps. You are a *chimp* taking notes on chimps.”
Tim isn’t quite sure how to respond to that.
Dick nods. “Thought so.” He looks down at the street below, and then up at Tim. “Do you know where I parked my bike?” he asks.
3. Subduction, Orogeny, and Reelfoot Lake
Earthquakes-- natural ones, at least-- are the result of a build-up of energy and pressure which occurs along fault lines. The quake which nearly flattened Gotham, of course, was the result of a build-up of energy and pressure in the hands of a maniac.
Still, geologists up and down the east coast suddenly became a hot commodity on the local news front afterwards, spewing facts like the latest pyroclastic event. On the odd evening when he actually managed to catch the six o’clock news, Dick learned the following:
A. In 1811, a series of tremors registering at least 8.0 on the not-yet created Rictor scale caused the Mississippi River to temporarily reverse its flow in places, causing massive flooding and the creation of several large lakes overnight.
B. The Appalachians are primarily metamorphic, being the result of a long-ago continental collision, wherein the relentless pressure wrinkled up bedrock like a piece of paper.3
C. California was *not*, in fact, going to fall off into the ocean. Part of it was just going to shift farther and farther northwest, eventually slithering underneath some little tiny plate in the middle of the Pacific.
More to the point, Dick learned that there weren’t any faults near Bludhaven which had been active in the last thousand-odd years-- which pretty much rules out ‘earthquake’ on the current list of Reasons Why Dick Grayson, Acrobat and Gymnast, Can’t Keep His Balance.
Tim raises his eyebrow as Dick leans against one of the walls in the alley.
“I’m okay,” Dick insists. “I’m not going to fall off my own damn bike.”
“Funny how I don’t actually believe that.”
“You’re the one who’s *driving*, Boy Wonder,” Dick reminds him. “Unless you decide to take up drag racing, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Tim purses his lips as puts on a helmet. “I’ve still got half a mind to strap you to the bike.”
“Sounds like fun,” Dick comments, and watches as Tim turns as red as his tunic. It’s not the first time Tim’s blushed tonight, and that’s. Very interesting, if Dick can manage to figure out why.
“Shut up and put your helmet on,” Tim says as he starts the ignition.
4. Pan troglodytes
Tim is *not* a chimpanzee.
Chimpanzees may be complexly intelligent and social creatures, but he’s fairly certain that no chimp would have been able to get Dick home, into the shower, and into bed *without* touching him any more than was strictly necessary.
A chimpanzee would simply not have the self-control to ignore Dick pressed up against his back for twenty minutes as he drove him home, especially when Dick’s hands started to wander up and down his chest. He certainly wouldn’t have been able to look away while Dick showered with the curtain and bathroom door open, so Tim would know he hadn’t fallen and hit his head. And a chimp would have curled up in bed next to Dick without a question when Dick said “stay?,” already half-asleep.
Tim really hates chimpanzees, especially since it’s all a very clumsy sort of symbolism, anyway.
However, he hates Dick’s couch more than he hates symbolic chimps. Clarification: he hates the *position* of Dick’s couch, because the couch itself is quite comfortable. Dick has simply placed the couch next to an east-facing window, which means that Tim’s getting an eyeful of the world’s cheeriest sunrise.
If Tim were in a more charitable mood, he’d be quietly amazed that Bludhaven could produce such a bright dawn. As it is, Tim’s currently classifying ‘unnaturally bright and pleasant mornings’ to his list of Potentially Evil Phenomena to Investigate.
Tim grunts, and buries his face in the pillow.
The floorboards in the hallway creak, and for no good reason at all, his pulse doubles. (Clarification: for no good, non-complicated, non-Dick-related reason.)
“Tim?” Dick’s voice sounds exactly like someone who downed half a bottle of tequila not too terribly long ago, and is living to regret the fact.
Tim pulls his face out of the pillow. “How’re you feeling?” he asks, although that’s probably a stupid question.
Dick ignores the question. “Why are you here?” he asks, squinting at the window and obviously confused.
Shit. Tim sighs, and starts to explain. “Last night--”
Dick shakes his head impatiently. “No, I got that: I was brooding, I drank too much, you brought my sorry butt home. I meant, why are you in the living room? There’s no way I’ll believe you if you try to tell me you can sleep with that light coming in.”
Oh. “Oh. I--”
“You don’t have school today, do you?” Dick interrupts. “Shit. It’s Thursday. You have school. Jesus, I’m sorry, Tim--”
“It’s okay.” It’s Tim’s turn to interrupt. “It’s a four day weekend. I’m not missing school.” And anticipating Dick’s next question, he adds, “And I told Dad and Dana I’m spending the night with a friend. I couldn’t remember his last name, however,” he says with a slight smile, “so the details were a little vague.”
Dick’s face clears. For someone who should have the mother of all hangovers, he looks remarkably cheerful. “Excellent. Now,” he says. “This brings me back to my original question.”
“The why-am-I-here question?”
“Precisely.”
“Well,” Tim begins seriously, “about eighteen years ago, my dad met my mom, and--”
“Tim?”
“Yes?”
Dick looms over the back of the couch. “I am going to go to the kitchen and get a glass of water. Then, I am going to go and find a bottle of aspirin. When I have done that, I am going to go and get back into bed. And,” Dick adds, “you’re going to get into bed as well.”
“Oh,” Tim says, and tries not to wonder whether Dick can tell he’s blushing.
5. The Actual Story
When Dick woke up, his first thought had been: I thought Tim would stay.
His second thought was: I’ll never drink again, I promise.
His third and fourth thoughts echoed the second, but the fifth again brought up the fact that he’d woken up alone, and that had seemed very wrong.
Now that he’s downed some aspirin and a glass of water and told Tim to get in bed-- and really, should he enjoy seeing the kid blush *quite* that much?-- he feels much better.
Tim is curled up under the blankets on the far side of the bed, and he doesn’t move as Dick slides in next to him. Tim probably hopes that Dick will think he’s asleep. Tough luck for the kid.
He raises himself up on one elbow. “Tim?”
Tim doesn’t answer, although Dick can see the rise and fall of his chest stutter.
No matter. “I haven’t thanked you for getting me home, yet, have I?” Dick says, and he lets his left hand rest on Tim’s shoulder. Sometime after he’d fallen asleep last night, Tim had changed into a pair of Dick’s boxers and a clean undershirt, and the thin cotton under Dick’s thumb seems somehow obscene.
“Um, no.” Tim’s trying not to sound like he wants to bolt, and failing.
“Mm.” Dick pulls Tim in against his chest, and watches the tips of Tim’s ears turn red. “Don’t want to be rude,” Dick says, letting his hand skate down over Tim’s chest. His hand looks huge against the white t-shirt, and he has the odd idea that it wouldn’t look so out of place against skin.
Tim makes a small noise in the back of his throat, but otherwise makes no move to stop Dick’s hand from sneaking underneath his shirt.
“You’ve got a lot of scars,” Dick says, and that was quite possibly the most obvious statement ever. Tim *does* have a lot of scars, and Dick’s fingers are drawn magnetically to the thin raised lines. Tim doesn’t shudder, exactly, when he traces over a curve of pink, newly-healed skin over the boy’s ribs, but his breathing speeds up slightly.
“Who was this?” Dick asks, and Tim shrugs.
“Stupid kid with a knife,” he says, like it could happen to anyone. Which-- that’s true, it *could* happen to anyone, and that’s why they all *do* this. But it’s more likely that it was *several* stupid kids with knives, and maybe they weren’t so much kids as thugs twice Tim’s size who were pretty damn good at knife fighting.
Dick frowns, and tugs Tim a little closer, although at this point ‘a little closer’ means ‘try to suffocate the kid.’
Tim makes a frustrated noise, and rolls over to face Dick.
“Dick.” The kid looks like he’s gauging the distance to the window, should things take a turn for the worse.
“Yeah?”
“Could you--” Tim closes his eyes and exhales slowly. “Look,” he says, opening his eyes. “Just-- please stop touching me, okay? Or something,” and Dick can’t remember the last time he’s seen Tim so distracted and miserable-looking. “It’s just-- Either do it or *don’t*, because I.”
Oh. *Oh*.
It is entirely possible that Dick killed more brain cells drinking last night than he could afford to lose.
“Oh,” Dick says out loud, and Tim looks like he’s really hoping the mattress will swallow him whole, and that’s-- really not okay, and neither is the way Tim flinches when Dick brushes his thumb across Tim’s mouth.
“Tim,” Dick begins, and promptly decides that what he had to say wasn’t that important anyway, considering that Tim is opening his mouth under his and choking out little gasps which are going to *kill* him.
If Tim’s hands don’t kill him first, because they’re just sort of smoothing over his sides and down his back and that is *definitely* Tim’s hand on his ass. And hey, that’s a *really* good idea, so Dick follows suit and slides a hand down and pulls Tim in and. Tim’s hips jerk against Dick’s own and he’s *hard* against him.
“*Jesus*, Tim.” Dick’s not hard-- he’s a little too hungover for that to happen-- but he really *wants* to be.
“Oh *shit*.” Tim buries his face in Dick’s neck. “Dick, I-- *please*--”
And maybe it took him a while to catch on initially, but Dick’s always been a fast learner.
He runs a finger along the elastic edge of Tim’s boxers-- *his* boxers-- and leans in to suck lightly on Tim’s neck. “What do you want?” he asks, liking the way Tim’s eyes are screwed closed.
“Jesus, Dick.” Tim sounds breathless, which. He’s not usually winded after taking on a couple of *supervillians*, and that’s-- kinda a compliment, right there.
“I don’t *care*,” Tim says, panting a little. “Just-- *fuck*.” He twists his hips a little, and Dick feels himself jerk a little in response. “*Fuck*. Just-- your *hand*, Dick, *please*--”
And Dick can do that, he can *definitely* do that. Tim’s boxers (*Dick’s*) find themselves down around the kid’s knees, and Tim is hard and wet and pushing into his hand, and he whimpers high and soft in his throat as Dick kisses him.
“*Oh*,” Tim says as Dick starts to jerk him in earnest. “Oh *god*, Dick-- please, *shit*--,” and Dick was sixteen not too long ago, so he *gets* it when Tim tenses and shouts and comes after only a few quick strokes.
“Oh god.” Tim tries to bury his face in Dick’s neck again, but Dick intercepts his mouth and holds Tim’s face still with his non-sticky hand.
“Hey,” Dick says, breaking the kiss reluctantly. “No freaking out, all right?”
Tim nods, but Dick can see the wheels turning. “No freaking out,” Dick repeats. “This is where you enjoy the afterglow and sleep.” He wipes his hand on the sheet, and tilts Tim’s head up. “You can freak out later, when we’ve both slept and I’m not quite as hungover, okay?”
Tim looks a little confused, and makes a gesture between them. “What about--?”
Dick grimaces. “Like I said. Wait until we’ve both slept and I’m not hungover. Certain things might work better then.”
Tim smirks, and yeah. It’ll be a long time before he drinks again.
----
1. There is a parallel, somewhere, between flying and alcohol-- particularly with regards to flying with Kory. Both are potentially hazardous to one’s health, and both can lead to ill-advised sex. However, Kory is an alien princess with incredible hair, and alcohol, simply put, is not.
2. Ingesting more tequila will also inhibit Dick’s ability to manipulate the English language. At the same time, however, it will drive all the sentence diagramming and i-before-e rules Alfred forced on him at a young age out of his mind, so Dick won’t notice the incorrect adjective use.
3. Dick would have preferred it if the Appalachians were the result of subduction and orogeny. Not that he prefers volcanic formation to other forms of mountain-building: Dick is geologically indifferent to the methods of creation. He just thinks 'orogeny' sounds dirty. Which it does.
*
And here's the inspiration behind the title, such as it is:
How much string is in the world.
Who has it.
There is a dog barking, no dog to see,
the piebald horse seems small for the field.
It is too bright and I need a nap.
It is practically burning with flowers.
I’ve heard of the light
no one wants to be photographed in
and this must be it.
Consider once, it was snowing, I made a little bird
but it was a pathetic thing
all duct tape and longing
and knocking about the chairlegs like a dustball.
I made another but the fucker bit me.
I made another
this one completely empty.
Or how in a good month for conversation
my Uncle Frank in a field sensing deer
shot himself in the foot
and his first wife continued with the dishes
looking out the window at the laundry line,
power line, pig’s ear, who knows?--
and later driving away with the car
while he remained on the couch watching hockey.
Consider the cold and tomatoes come together
and how of course I’d love to have you.
Here, have a balloon. Have two.
-- Michael Tieg
*
I have no idea what all that means, but there were three birds and some balloons, and I thought, "Hey, why not."