[fic] Don't let me be your eyes (Dick/Roy, NC-17)
Title: Don't let me be your eyes
Pairings: Dick/Roy, a little Bruce/Dick, others in the background
Rating: NC-17
Length: 2500 words
Warning: Content some readers may find to be Robinosexual.
Setting: Tales of the Teen Titans #50 (Donna's wedding; specifically, these pages)
Disclaimer: Wolfman, et al., not I.
Notes: Title from the Velvet Underground because I couldn't help myself. petronelle audienced early bits and thenotoriousg cheered throughout; brown_betty was kind enough to beta.
Roy's pretty sure there isn't a jingle out there that's called "I Saw Robin Kissing Batman". Nowhere in the vast pop-culture unconsciousness.
But there should be.
At least he'd have something to hum while descending into *hell*.
There were hands. Hands holding cocktails that glinted in the strong afternoon sun. They look so much alike, those two.
No one ever thought for very long that Roy was Ollie's *son*, but Dick and Bruce could be. Brothers, anyway. It's more than their hair, and the fine angles of their jaws, blue eyes and tanned skin. It's how they stand there, inclining together, and the world is just perfectly shut out.
Like lovers, not brothers or father and son. And they toasted something, smiling identically, then sipped and went silent.
Roy stood between open French doors, watching. He'd been looking for Dick all over the house -- Wally was claiming that his newest girlfriend had slept with Brooke Shields, and Dick could ask Kory and settle it once and for all -- but he stopped where he was when he saw them.
Dick doesn't talk about Bruce much lately. To be fair, Roy doesn't talk to *Dick* that much lately. He's been...busy.
Seeing everyone, all at once, for Donna's wedding had seemed like a good idea. Efficient, mostly. They could catch up, do the auld lang syne thing, but there wouldn't be much chance for the worried looks and gripping of his shoulder and murmured 'how *are* you?'s.
Whenever that happens, he's always tempted to look 'em right in the eye and say, "What was I thinking? *Smack*? Coke's so much better."
That'd show them. Show them *what*, he's not sure.
He's sitting here now on the back lawn, nursing a warm bottle of champagne and curling his bare toes into the cooling grass. He's alone, tie stuffed in his pants pocket, suit jacket tossed over his shoes.
He was coming up through Drawing Room #647, looking for Dick, and he found him.
Toasting something with Bruce, smiling and ducking his head, settling against the railing into silence.
Roy stood there and watched. He doesn't know why, but it was like he was expecting something to happen.
Maybe it was simpler than that. It'd been a long time since he'd seen Dick being himself -- almost as long since he'd seen him be Robin, actually.
Bruce has a couple inches and many pounds on Dick, but he carries it so gracefully he might as well be the acrobat. When he said something, he leaned slightly toward Dick, the movement fluid and confident. Dick's shoulders lifted in a laugh, touching Bruce's arm. Bruce shifted his weight, preserving the contact, and Roy watched Dick's posture ease that much more. He slid closer, his elbow tucking in to the angle of Bruce's hip, his head tilting.
Dick lives for touch almost as much as for flying.
Blue-silver light on their hair as Bruce said something else and Dick glanced up. This far away, Roy saw the smile's effects piecemeal and vague -- the line of Dick's jaw relaxed, his brow lifted, his cheek widened.
Patchy details, but clear all the same. Dick's smile is one of those constant reliable things like the arrow's flight, the Cubs' season, Ollie's lechery.
Roy smiled back -- out of habit, probably, or nostalgia, maybe -- even though Dick didn't even know he was there. The smile wasn't for him.
Dick smiled for Bruce and his hair fell from his face and Bruce twisted at the waist, his hand coming up to Dick's neck.
Roy was still smiling when they started to kiss. It wasn't the kiss he can't take.
Not like he hadn't seen dudes kiss before -- hell, not like *he* hadn't been one of those dudes. Roy had a lot of hands-on, practical experience in things -- life on the rez, drugs, sex along the whole spectrum -- that other people only heard about. Stuff that they'd prefer not to know.
So, fine. Kissing a guy didn't have to be a big deal. Even *Dick* kissing a guy.
Dick kissing *Bruce*. Well.
But there was something more going on. More than tonguekissing his mentor, more than the clue Roy's been halfheartedly hoping for for years now that Bruce could be *at least* as bad at this as Ollie. More than all that, the sight was just -- otherworldly. Through the looking glass, Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, *perfectly staged*: dark head to dark head, Dick gripping Bruce's hip, Bruce's hand in Dick's hair.
Obvious that they'd done this before. Roy knows from sudden instinct versus intimate familiarity, one night's trick versus the Dinah.
He stepped back, but he couldn't look away.
Dick hadn't ever said anything. What could he have said, though? "Hey, Speedy, you like that? Picked *that* up from my mentor."
No.
Dick is -- was -- had been -- Roy's best friend. Shit happened, Titans came and went (Roy included), but Dick will always be there.
As long as he's not busy fucking *Bat*--. Roy stops the thought there. He lifts the bottle of champagne to his mouth instead and takes a long, fizzy swig.
Roy's got his back to the party, to the mansion.
It's been getting dark out here for a while now. Chillier, too, even through the champagne-blanket. The reception is still going strong, though Donna and Terry left a couple hours ago; the bright, bouncy sounds filter towards him through the dusk.
"Your sponsor know you're drinking that?"
Roy's hand tightens on the bottle. "Probably not," he says without turning around. "Should she?"
"Couldn't say." Dick knocks his shoulder companionably as he drops down next to Roy. "Kind of your call, isn't it?"
"How very Robin of you." Roy sets the bottle down in the grass. "Where's the princess? She could fly you out, find Bill W., give him the bad news."
Dick doesn't say anything. Not for a while. Roy doesn't know what Dick's doing, because Roy is not looking. Not this time.
Hindsight's 20-20.
After a bit, Dick elbows him again. "So. Donna looked good."
"Donna's always beautiful."
"Yeah," Dick says and moves. Roy's *not* looking, but too many years of catching glimpses in the middle of fights, tracking Dick in his peripheral vision, have kicked in. Dick can't stay still; he's bending back, upside down, his legs kicking until so he's standing on his hands. "Terry's okay."
Roy laughs shortly. "You could say that."
"Good guy, I guess," Dick says. Upside down, and he sounds just the same. "Divorced, though? Don't know about that."
"Donna can take care of herself."
"Sure." Another stir and Dick lands back on his feet, crouching next to Roy.
It's dark enough now that Roy's hand half-glows against the grass. One of those blind fish, leagues down, with its own light.
"Glad you came," Dick says eventually. Roy swallows the laughter this time. "Having everybody back together like this, it's --"
"Temporary?"
Dick hums softly. "Nice. Better than nice."
"Nothing like old times," Roy says. The bitterness isn't there. He's surprised.
"That's what they say, yeah." Dick puts his hand on Roy's shoulder. It took him longer than Roy had been expecting, but it feels, predictably, just like it always did. Good, and warm. "Speedy, man --"
"I'm good," Roy tells the hedge several feet in front of him. Dick's touch strengthens, then eases, before tightening again. Roy makes himself turn halfway toward Dick. "Just fine."
Either he's a worse liar than he used to be or Dick's gotten shrewder, but Dick doesn't seem to buy it. His arm goes around Roy's back and pulls him in.
Lots of people cry at weddings. Dick, though, seems to be that rare individual who gets *turned on* at them. That's the only reason Roy can figure for why Dick's kissing him now.
Or he's kissing Dick. Either way, there's a warm, grinning Robin squeezing his neck and pushing his tongue into Roy's mouth. Just hard enough to make Roy gasp, just sweet enough to make him grab at Dick's waist and haul him even closer.
Nostalgia, apparently, tastes like champagne and Kory, but mostly like *Robin*. Green and hot and sweet, Dick's hand on his cheek and his laughter in Roy's mouth.
"That's better," Dick says and licks down Roy's throat.
This had better not be a therapy mission for sad Speedies. Roy gets a handful of Dick's hair and yanks back his head, kissing him harder. Clacking-teeth harder, as Dick arches against Roy's chest, melting sticky-open just like always. Dick's making noises, familiar ones, soft and urgent, that only go higher when Roy palms his ass and pulls him all the way onto his lap.
"Nah," Roy says thickly, teeth on the smooth skin across Dick's throat. "*This* is better."
At that, Dick punches Roy's shoulder lightly. His hand flattens out, sliding down, finally clutching as Roy fucks his tongue over Dick's teeth.
Fucking fancy ruffled shirt and Roy tries to be careful with the fiddly buttons. *Tries*, but it's dark out here and he's never been all that patient. Dick's murmuring, rocking already, and when Roy finally pushes the open shirt down his arms, all it takes is one acrobatic shrug of Dick's wide shoulders and the shirt is gone.
Just smooth skin then, just *Dick*, everywhere smooth and hot and strong under Roy's fingers, mouth, face. Little brown nipple, flat then peaking, matched by the squeal that travels through groaning into a sigh.
Dick's fingercombing Roy's hair, fingers probably going sticky with all the mousse it took to keep it flat, and he grabs the back of Roy's head when Roy groans back. Holds him there, both of them shivering and squirming, then pulls Roy back up into the kiss.
"You're not --" Dick says and bites at Roy's lower lip. "You're not drunk, right? You're -- *ohhhh*. You're okay?"
Roy's fingers and palm itch hotly as they scrabble over Dick's fly. "Fucking *great*," he manages to say and squeezes Dick's ass with his other hand.
Dick's looking down at him, pushing into Roy's hand, long lashes fluttering over his eyes. Lids at half-mast, mouth open and red, and Roy groans again.
"You?" Roy remembers to ask and nips at the curve of Dick's bicep.
"Really good --" Dick *smiles* at him. It's miles-wide and full of everything. He works Roy's fly down, long fingers sliding inside with all the grace Roy only dreams of. "Getting better."
Roy laughs; at the first stroke from Dick's callused, *beautiful* hand, he grunts and Dick's there, too, kissing him soft and messy.
All about muscle-memory, it's all thoughtless and right, the way things always ought to be, as he jerks Dick off and fucks up into Dick's hand. They both know what to do, twisting and teasing and *Jesus*, kissing Dick like this. Clenching at his ass, curling his fingers into the cleft, making him wriggle and moan.
All day long, they've all been lying, acting normal and boring and stupid, doing nothing that'd ruin Donna's big day. All except Dick, who's stroking Roy fast and hard as he rises and falls in Roy's lap. Dick can't be anyone else, Dick knows what everyone really needs and he'll always be there right when you need him.
He curls his arm around Roy's neck as Roy starts to shudder and tense, moans a little when Roy buries his face in Dick's shoulder and comes. Into Dick's hand, at the sound of his voice.
"Missed you, Speedy. God -- oh *God* -- like that, *please*? -- missed you so much --"
Roy's humming with orgasm as he pushes Dick back. Dick makes every fall a flight, a piece of art, his skin bright in the dark, arching off the black grass, meeting Roy's mouth and thrusting inside.
Roy only gets several seconds to savor this -- the pressure against his throat, the burn over his tongue, the fucking perfect salt-deep *taste*, before Dick's twisting and coming, shooting into Roy, splashing his face, choking him just right.
The ground is hard and *cold* under his hands, against his kneecaps. Roy pushes himself up and Dick follows, hands reaching out. He touches Roy vaguely. Sweetly, nuzzling his neck, licking clean his cheek.
"So," Roy says and swallows. "Yeah. Missed you, too."
Dick laughs, fake-punching Roy's head as he leans back to retrieve his shirt.
They dress quickly, knocking each other more than is strictly necessary, picking grass off their suits. Roy makes fun of the ruffles on Dick's shirt; Dick asks what the *heck* is up with Roy's hair.
It's no big deal to go back to the party, arms around each other's shoulders, laughing and bullshitting. They're old friends, best buds, and Garth's waiting just inside the tent for them. Roy blinks against the light, thousands of paper lanterns, and the noise, too. Gar's put the soundtrack to *Fame* on. People are actually dancing.
Roy finds Lynda in a knot of girls around Kory. She hugs him hard, her hair smelling like alcohol, her voice loud and drunk. "Sweetie! Where've you *been*?"
Kory smiles at him. Maybe she knows, but Roy's pretty sure she doesn't care.
When they get back to Garth and Dick, Wally's there. He's started up again with his Brooke Shields bullshit. He's louder than ever, his arms windmilling with enthusiasm. Roy was sure speedsters couldn't get drunk, but Wally seems to be doing his damnedest to prove him wrong.
Bruce wanders past with Clark at his heels, apologizing over and over for the wine stain down the front of Bruce's tux.
"Not to worry, Alfred's more than capable," Bruce tells Clark and waves him off as he joins the group. "Boys. I think I'll be taking my leave. Just wanted to say goodnight."
Roy watches Dick react to Bruce's presence. There's no big change, nothing out of the ordinary, just Dick with his easy, friendly grace pulling Bruce into the conversation.
"Roy," Bruce says and shakes his hand. "Good to see you...*well*."
Roy nods, blinking away the rush of irritation. "Some day, huh?"
"Indeed." Bruce smoothes down one lapel. "Quite a production. I understand we have Garfield to thank."
"How 'bout your boy?" Roy tugs Dick over and doesn't let him go. He's grinning at Bruce with Dick's come in his belly and he hasn't had this much fun in *years*. "Best man, our little Dickie."
"Yes." Bruce's eyes are on Dick alone. Roy wants to *see* him seeing the evidence, traces and hints. Wants to see the detective solve this one. But Bruce is too good at this whole normality bullshit schtick. He turns a bland smile on them all and adds, "I had no idea he was best man, in fact."
"Who else?" Roy gets Dick in a headlock and noogies his hair gently. "Nobody comes close."
"No," Bruce says. "You're right."
Dick squeals and flips free. Bruce's eyes are perfectly dead, polite and distant, as he clears his throat. "Ah, Oliver."
"Brucie!" Ollie's about seven sheets to the wind, cheeks red as apples, as he weaves up. He notices Lynda right away and kisses her cheek. "Beautiful girl, where you been all my life?"
"Well," Bruce says, stepping neatly out of the way as Wally stumbles. "You're all far too young for me. Do have a good night."
"You bet." Roy pushes Ollie away, keeping Bruce's eye. He can't stop grinning.
After Bruce is gone, Garth proposes skinny-dipping, Dick protests feebly before giving in. Wally dashes off ahead of them all and Ollie the perv insists on joining them. Lynda's tired and Roy doesn't know her all that well, but she's warm and curvy on his arm, so he follows her up to the room.
He's still smiling. He doesn't want to stop.
[end]
Pairings: Dick/Roy, a little Bruce/Dick, others in the background
Rating: NC-17
Length: 2500 words
Warning: Content some readers may find to be Robinosexual.
Setting: Tales of the Teen Titans #50 (Donna's wedding; specifically, these pages)
Disclaimer: Wolfman, et al., not I.
Notes: Title from the Velvet Underground because I couldn't help myself. petronelle audienced early bits and thenotoriousg cheered throughout; brown_betty was kind enough to beta.
Roy's pretty sure there isn't a jingle out there that's called "I Saw Robin Kissing Batman". Nowhere in the vast pop-culture unconsciousness.
But there should be.
At least he'd have something to hum while descending into *hell*.
There were hands. Hands holding cocktails that glinted in the strong afternoon sun. They look so much alike, those two.
No one ever thought for very long that Roy was Ollie's *son*, but Dick and Bruce could be. Brothers, anyway. It's more than their hair, and the fine angles of their jaws, blue eyes and tanned skin. It's how they stand there, inclining together, and the world is just perfectly shut out.
Like lovers, not brothers or father and son. And they toasted something, smiling identically, then sipped and went silent.
Roy stood between open French doors, watching. He'd been looking for Dick all over the house -- Wally was claiming that his newest girlfriend had slept with Brooke Shields, and Dick could ask Kory and settle it once and for all -- but he stopped where he was when he saw them.
Dick doesn't talk about Bruce much lately. To be fair, Roy doesn't talk to *Dick* that much lately. He's been...busy.
Seeing everyone, all at once, for Donna's wedding had seemed like a good idea. Efficient, mostly. They could catch up, do the auld lang syne thing, but there wouldn't be much chance for the worried looks and gripping of his shoulder and murmured 'how *are* you?'s.
Whenever that happens, he's always tempted to look 'em right in the eye and say, "What was I thinking? *Smack*? Coke's so much better."
That'd show them. Show them *what*, he's not sure.
He's sitting here now on the back lawn, nursing a warm bottle of champagne and curling his bare toes into the cooling grass. He's alone, tie stuffed in his pants pocket, suit jacket tossed over his shoes.
He was coming up through Drawing Room #647, looking for Dick, and he found him.
Toasting something with Bruce, smiling and ducking his head, settling against the railing into silence.
Roy stood there and watched. He doesn't know why, but it was like he was expecting something to happen.
Maybe it was simpler than that. It'd been a long time since he'd seen Dick being himself -- almost as long since he'd seen him be Robin, actually.
Bruce has a couple inches and many pounds on Dick, but he carries it so gracefully he might as well be the acrobat. When he said something, he leaned slightly toward Dick, the movement fluid and confident. Dick's shoulders lifted in a laugh, touching Bruce's arm. Bruce shifted his weight, preserving the contact, and Roy watched Dick's posture ease that much more. He slid closer, his elbow tucking in to the angle of Bruce's hip, his head tilting.
Dick lives for touch almost as much as for flying.
Blue-silver light on their hair as Bruce said something else and Dick glanced up. This far away, Roy saw the smile's effects piecemeal and vague -- the line of Dick's jaw relaxed, his brow lifted, his cheek widened.
Patchy details, but clear all the same. Dick's smile is one of those constant reliable things like the arrow's flight, the Cubs' season, Ollie's lechery.
Roy smiled back -- out of habit, probably, or nostalgia, maybe -- even though Dick didn't even know he was there. The smile wasn't for him.
Dick smiled for Bruce and his hair fell from his face and Bruce twisted at the waist, his hand coming up to Dick's neck.
Roy was still smiling when they started to kiss. It wasn't the kiss he can't take.
Not like he hadn't seen dudes kiss before -- hell, not like *he* hadn't been one of those dudes. Roy had a lot of hands-on, practical experience in things -- life on the rez, drugs, sex along the whole spectrum -- that other people only heard about. Stuff that they'd prefer not to know.
So, fine. Kissing a guy didn't have to be a big deal. Even *Dick* kissing a guy.
Dick kissing *Bruce*. Well.
But there was something more going on. More than tonguekissing his mentor, more than the clue Roy's been halfheartedly hoping for for years now that Bruce could be *at least* as bad at this as Ollie. More than all that, the sight was just -- otherworldly. Through the looking glass, Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, *perfectly staged*: dark head to dark head, Dick gripping Bruce's hip, Bruce's hand in Dick's hair.
Obvious that they'd done this before. Roy knows from sudden instinct versus intimate familiarity, one night's trick versus the Dinah.
He stepped back, but he couldn't look away.
Dick hadn't ever said anything. What could he have said, though? "Hey, Speedy, you like that? Picked *that* up from my mentor."
No.
Dick is -- was -- had been -- Roy's best friend. Shit happened, Titans came and went (Roy included), but Dick will always be there.
As long as he's not busy fucking *Bat*--. Roy stops the thought there. He lifts the bottle of champagne to his mouth instead and takes a long, fizzy swig.
Roy's got his back to the party, to the mansion.
It's been getting dark out here for a while now. Chillier, too, even through the champagne-blanket. The reception is still going strong, though Donna and Terry left a couple hours ago; the bright, bouncy sounds filter towards him through the dusk.
"Your sponsor know you're drinking that?"
Roy's hand tightens on the bottle. "Probably not," he says without turning around. "Should she?"
"Couldn't say." Dick knocks his shoulder companionably as he drops down next to Roy. "Kind of your call, isn't it?"
"How very Robin of you." Roy sets the bottle down in the grass. "Where's the princess? She could fly you out, find Bill W., give him the bad news."
Dick doesn't say anything. Not for a while. Roy doesn't know what Dick's doing, because Roy is not looking. Not this time.
Hindsight's 20-20.
After a bit, Dick elbows him again. "So. Donna looked good."
"Donna's always beautiful."
"Yeah," Dick says and moves. Roy's *not* looking, but too many years of catching glimpses in the middle of fights, tracking Dick in his peripheral vision, have kicked in. Dick can't stay still; he's bending back, upside down, his legs kicking until so he's standing on his hands. "Terry's okay."
Roy laughs shortly. "You could say that."
"Good guy, I guess," Dick says. Upside down, and he sounds just the same. "Divorced, though? Don't know about that."
"Donna can take care of herself."
"Sure." Another stir and Dick lands back on his feet, crouching next to Roy.
It's dark enough now that Roy's hand half-glows against the grass. One of those blind fish, leagues down, with its own light.
"Glad you came," Dick says eventually. Roy swallows the laughter this time. "Having everybody back together like this, it's --"
"Temporary?"
Dick hums softly. "Nice. Better than nice."
"Nothing like old times," Roy says. The bitterness isn't there. He's surprised.
"That's what they say, yeah." Dick puts his hand on Roy's shoulder. It took him longer than Roy had been expecting, but it feels, predictably, just like it always did. Good, and warm. "Speedy, man --"
"I'm good," Roy tells the hedge several feet in front of him. Dick's touch strengthens, then eases, before tightening again. Roy makes himself turn halfway toward Dick. "Just fine."
Either he's a worse liar than he used to be or Dick's gotten shrewder, but Dick doesn't seem to buy it. His arm goes around Roy's back and pulls him in.
Lots of people cry at weddings. Dick, though, seems to be that rare individual who gets *turned on* at them. That's the only reason Roy can figure for why Dick's kissing him now.
Or he's kissing Dick. Either way, there's a warm, grinning Robin squeezing his neck and pushing his tongue into Roy's mouth. Just hard enough to make Roy gasp, just sweet enough to make him grab at Dick's waist and haul him even closer.
Nostalgia, apparently, tastes like champagne and Kory, but mostly like *Robin*. Green and hot and sweet, Dick's hand on his cheek and his laughter in Roy's mouth.
"That's better," Dick says and licks down Roy's throat.
This had better not be a therapy mission for sad Speedies. Roy gets a handful of Dick's hair and yanks back his head, kissing him harder. Clacking-teeth harder, as Dick arches against Roy's chest, melting sticky-open just like always. Dick's making noises, familiar ones, soft and urgent, that only go higher when Roy palms his ass and pulls him all the way onto his lap.
"Nah," Roy says thickly, teeth on the smooth skin across Dick's throat. "*This* is better."
At that, Dick punches Roy's shoulder lightly. His hand flattens out, sliding down, finally clutching as Roy fucks his tongue over Dick's teeth.
Fucking fancy ruffled shirt and Roy tries to be careful with the fiddly buttons. *Tries*, but it's dark out here and he's never been all that patient. Dick's murmuring, rocking already, and when Roy finally pushes the open shirt down his arms, all it takes is one acrobatic shrug of Dick's wide shoulders and the shirt is gone.
Just smooth skin then, just *Dick*, everywhere smooth and hot and strong under Roy's fingers, mouth, face. Little brown nipple, flat then peaking, matched by the squeal that travels through groaning into a sigh.
Dick's fingercombing Roy's hair, fingers probably going sticky with all the mousse it took to keep it flat, and he grabs the back of Roy's head when Roy groans back. Holds him there, both of them shivering and squirming, then pulls Roy back up into the kiss.
"You're not --" Dick says and bites at Roy's lower lip. "You're not drunk, right? You're -- *ohhhh*. You're okay?"
Roy's fingers and palm itch hotly as they scrabble over Dick's fly. "Fucking *great*," he manages to say and squeezes Dick's ass with his other hand.
Dick's looking down at him, pushing into Roy's hand, long lashes fluttering over his eyes. Lids at half-mast, mouth open and red, and Roy groans again.
"You?" Roy remembers to ask and nips at the curve of Dick's bicep.
"Really good --" Dick *smiles* at him. It's miles-wide and full of everything. He works Roy's fly down, long fingers sliding inside with all the grace Roy only dreams of. "Getting better."
Roy laughs; at the first stroke from Dick's callused, *beautiful* hand, he grunts and Dick's there, too, kissing him soft and messy.
All about muscle-memory, it's all thoughtless and right, the way things always ought to be, as he jerks Dick off and fucks up into Dick's hand. They both know what to do, twisting and teasing and *Jesus*, kissing Dick like this. Clenching at his ass, curling his fingers into the cleft, making him wriggle and moan.
All day long, they've all been lying, acting normal and boring and stupid, doing nothing that'd ruin Donna's big day. All except Dick, who's stroking Roy fast and hard as he rises and falls in Roy's lap. Dick can't be anyone else, Dick knows what everyone really needs and he'll always be there right when you need him.
He curls his arm around Roy's neck as Roy starts to shudder and tense, moans a little when Roy buries his face in Dick's shoulder and comes. Into Dick's hand, at the sound of his voice.
"Missed you, Speedy. God -- oh *God* -- like that, *please*? -- missed you so much --"
Roy's humming with orgasm as he pushes Dick back. Dick makes every fall a flight, a piece of art, his skin bright in the dark, arching off the black grass, meeting Roy's mouth and thrusting inside.
Roy only gets several seconds to savor this -- the pressure against his throat, the burn over his tongue, the fucking perfect salt-deep *taste*, before Dick's twisting and coming, shooting into Roy, splashing his face, choking him just right.
The ground is hard and *cold* under his hands, against his kneecaps. Roy pushes himself up and Dick follows, hands reaching out. He touches Roy vaguely. Sweetly, nuzzling his neck, licking clean his cheek.
"So," Roy says and swallows. "Yeah. Missed you, too."
Dick laughs, fake-punching Roy's head as he leans back to retrieve his shirt.
They dress quickly, knocking each other more than is strictly necessary, picking grass off their suits. Roy makes fun of the ruffles on Dick's shirt; Dick asks what the *heck* is up with Roy's hair.
It's no big deal to go back to the party, arms around each other's shoulders, laughing and bullshitting. They're old friends, best buds, and Garth's waiting just inside the tent for them. Roy blinks against the light, thousands of paper lanterns, and the noise, too. Gar's put the soundtrack to *Fame* on. People are actually dancing.
Roy finds Lynda in a knot of girls around Kory. She hugs him hard, her hair smelling like alcohol, her voice loud and drunk. "Sweetie! Where've you *been*?"
Kory smiles at him. Maybe she knows, but Roy's pretty sure she doesn't care.
When they get back to Garth and Dick, Wally's there. He's started up again with his Brooke Shields bullshit. He's louder than ever, his arms windmilling with enthusiasm. Roy was sure speedsters couldn't get drunk, but Wally seems to be doing his damnedest to prove him wrong.
Bruce wanders past with Clark at his heels, apologizing over and over for the wine stain down the front of Bruce's tux.
"Not to worry, Alfred's more than capable," Bruce tells Clark and waves him off as he joins the group. "Boys. I think I'll be taking my leave. Just wanted to say goodnight."
Roy watches Dick react to Bruce's presence. There's no big change, nothing out of the ordinary, just Dick with his easy, friendly grace pulling Bruce into the conversation.
"Roy," Bruce says and shakes his hand. "Good to see you...*well*."
Roy nods, blinking away the rush of irritation. "Some day, huh?"
"Indeed." Bruce smoothes down one lapel. "Quite a production. I understand we have Garfield to thank."
"How 'bout your boy?" Roy tugs Dick over and doesn't let him go. He's grinning at Bruce with Dick's come in his belly and he hasn't had this much fun in *years*. "Best man, our little Dickie."
"Yes." Bruce's eyes are on Dick alone. Roy wants to *see* him seeing the evidence, traces and hints. Wants to see the detective solve this one. But Bruce is too good at this whole normality bullshit schtick. He turns a bland smile on them all and adds, "I had no idea he was best man, in fact."
"Who else?" Roy gets Dick in a headlock and noogies his hair gently. "Nobody comes close."
"No," Bruce says. "You're right."
Dick squeals and flips free. Bruce's eyes are perfectly dead, polite and distant, as he clears his throat. "Ah, Oliver."
"Brucie!" Ollie's about seven sheets to the wind, cheeks red as apples, as he weaves up. He notices Lynda right away and kisses her cheek. "Beautiful girl, where you been all my life?"
"Well," Bruce says, stepping neatly out of the way as Wally stumbles. "You're all far too young for me. Do have a good night."
"You bet." Roy pushes Ollie away, keeping Bruce's eye. He can't stop grinning.
After Bruce is gone, Garth proposes skinny-dipping, Dick protests feebly before giving in. Wally dashes off ahead of them all and Ollie the perv insists on joining them. Lynda's tired and Roy doesn't know her all that well, but she's warm and curvy on his arm, so he follows her up to the room.
He's still smiling. He doesn't want to stop.
[end]