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Spring rain, Tim thinks as he ducks into an alley, is the most annoying sort of rain. It’s too soon for thunderstorms and too late for the sort of numbing cold that winter rain brings. There’s no real reason not to be out in it.
That doesn’t mean that Tim’s not miserable.
Miserable and soaked through.
Even his cape, which is nearly completely water resistant, is now a sodden mass. It drags the ground as Tim creeps through the alley, slaps thickly against his legs as he scales the building, and tries to cling to the window frame as he crawls inside the safe house.
He’s exhausted, and it’s only 2 am.
Could’ve gone home, of course. To the familiar and comfortable bed that’s waiting for him just a few miles east of here—
It’s really more trouble than it would be worth to try and sneak into his bedroom window in this weather. Besides, no one’s expecting him home tonight. School’s off for a long weekend and “I’ll probably just stay over” leaves a lot of leeway for whatever he feels like doing.
He leaves his entire uniform in a heap on the floor, the epicenter of a rapidly expanding puddle that he can feel the Alfred in his head frowning over, and heads straight for the shower.
Lets it heat up before he steps in, and it’s a little piece of heaven walled in with tile and glass. He stands under the water until he feels his muscles loosen up, until he can feel the heat down to his bones.
This is one of the apartments that Bruce owns, scattered strategically across the city in case any of them ever need a place to go. A place to find a change of clothes, somewhere to fix themselves up or even just to rest.
Tim usually doesn't have much need for them, but he's always grateful for Batman's obsessive nature when he finds himself out on a night like this.
Tim finishes his shower and dries off, wrapping the towel around his waist as he goes back to the bedroom.
Where Dick is sitting on the bed.
Water still dripping from his hair, and he must have come in while Tim was in the shower. There’s a nasty looking cut twisting across his ribs, trailing blood down his side. The Nightwing suit is making its own little puddle on the floor, and Dick is sitting on the bed in nothing but a pair of boxers. A rather pitiful expression on his face and a first aid kit laid out on the bed in front of him.
“Patch me up?” he asks.
Dick must have come looking for him once he realized there was no way he could take care of that himself.
Well, not necessarily him, just whoever was the closest or easiest to get to.
Tim’s glad it was him, and that’s silly and really very annoying, so he throws his towel at Dick’s head.
“Let me get some pants first,” he says. “And dry off a little, please.”
Once Tim pulls on a pair of sweats he settles down on the bed beside Dick, turning on the bedside lamp. It’s one of those desk lamps with a bendable neck, and it looks completely normal until you switch it on and find a ridiculously high watt bulb inside. Tim’s breath catches for a moment. Up close the cut looks much worse than it had from across the room.
He puts on a pair of gloves and reaches for a gauze pad and the antiseptic solution.
“Slipped going over a fence," he hisses through his teeth as the antiseptic touches his skin.
Tim stops and looks up at him. “You’re kidding.”
Dick snorts. “Nope. It’s all this rain. I haven’t been able to keep my balance all night.”
Dick hadn’t been able to keep his balance? Sure. Tim rolls his eyes, translating the story for himself. Dick slipped. Did any number of crazy and or awe-inspiring things and ended up with a jagged slash over his ribs, whereas in the same situation Tim would’ve undoubtedly been street-pizza.
The cut runs parallel to the lines and muscles of Dick’s side. It’s a good thing, too, because it means that there’s only one small section that’s going to need stitches. If it had run the other way then Tim would have to stitch up the whole thing. There’s no keeping Dick still, and he would’ve certainly kept tearing it open.
“You’re going to need about five or six stitches,” he says, reaching for the anesthetic gel.
“Hmm… that’s all?” Dick sounds surprised.
Tim spreads the gel over the gaping area of the cut with a swab. “The rest of it should hold together with tape, providing you take care of it.”
“Yes, Doctor Tim,” Dick answers. Tim can’t see his smile but he can hear it. It makes his mouth curve up as well.
He finds the right size sutures before he moves to adjust the lamp.
“So what are you doing here, little brother? Don’t you have school tomorrow?” Dick asks, glancing at him.
Tim bends the neck of the lamp to get the best light, looking back at Dick. “Actually I don’t. It’s a teacher’s workday tomorrow, so I’ve got a long weekend.”
“So how come you’re here in Gotham and not with the Titans?”
That's certainly a familiar tone. The usual big-brother concern in Dick’s voice that’s all about how much Dick worries that Tim doesn’t get to be a normal boy often enough. Or at least as often as Dick thinks he should.
Not that working with the Titans could really be called normal. It’s just that they’re his age, and that’s what really matters to Dick.
It’s really as normal as any underage vigilante gets.
“I was following up on a lead,” he answers, tapping Dick's back. “Lean forward a little.”
Tim picks up the needle and pauses. “Let me know if it hurts at all, okay?” he asks, and Dick nods.
Tim is careful as he pushes the needle through Dick’s skin, but the gel seems to have done its job. Dick doesn’t even tense up.
“I’m leaving for there in the morning,” he continues, “and I promise I’ll do something teenaged and appropriately stupid this weekend if it makes you feel better.”
Now Dick tenses up. “Hey, you know I just want—“
“I know,” Tim interrupts gently, his fingers stilled against Dick’s skin. “Now stop talking, you’re moving too much.”
Dick falls quiet obediently, although it seems like he wants to say more. His breathing evens out, and Tim concentrates on the stitches, each push of the needle through Dick’s flesh and each knot that he ties.
There’s a rhythm to this. It’s peaceful and familiar in a way that Tim doesn’t really want to think too closely about. The smells of blood and antiseptic are almost overpowering but beneath them he can smell the rain, brought in by Dick’s skin, and the smell of Dick’s skin itself, warming steadily under his hands. A comfort of touch that he rarely allows himself to take.
Not that it’s not forced on him fairly often anyway.
Tim finishes the last suture and ties it off.
“There,” he says. Dick tries to twist around to see. “No, don’t move yet.”
Dick huffs impatiently, but he stills. Tim smiles to himself and switches off the incredibly bright lamp.
“Hey, I wanted to see,” Dick says, and Tim is amused to hear a bit of a whine in his voice.
“You don’t trust me?” he asks innocently.
His eyes have adjusted completely by the time he has the first strip of tape in place, the dim streetlight and the light from the hall more than sufficient to see by. Once he finishes taping up the rest of the cut he tugs the gloves off, and Dick is starting to seriously fidget by the time he picks up the gauze pad to wipe everything clean.
He’s almost done when Dick obviously can’t take it anymore, twisting around and trying to look at his side.
“Stop that.” Tim presses his free hand against Dick’s chest, lifting his head up to glare at him. At the same time Dick straightens up.
It brings them practically nose to nose.
Tim breathes in sharply, surprised. Dick’s face is in soft-focus, blurred by the proximity and the dim light. Tim is absolutely frozen in place, and by the time he realizes it he’s well past the point where he should’ve moved. He’s starting to seriously panic when Dick leans in and kisses him.
His body appears to be on auto pilot, and thank god for that because his lips are pressing back, parting clumsily against Dick’s while his mind still lags a few steps behind. Clamoring to know what’s going on even as his eyes fall shut.
Any further potential thought on the matter is blasted to dust when Dick slides his tongue into Tim’s mouth.
He tastes like springtime. Rain and sweat still heavy on his skin, the aftertaste of one of their usual energy bars in his mouth, and it’s utterly, perfectly familiar.
It’s easy, easier than he would’ve ever thought to kiss back. To open his mouth as Dick tilts his head a little, hand on the side of his face and curving into his hair.
Dick pulls back just enough to look at him, and Tim knows he’s wide-eyed and panting. Dick looks a little shocked himself.
“I didn’t mean…” he says, looking at Tim’s mouth, and then suddenly they’re kissing again.
Slowly and deeply, and Tim can feel his own heartbeat and the sound of the rain, and below that he can feel Dick’s heart racing under his palm, can hear the small sounds they’re making as they kiss.
He's flushing, heat spreading down his chest and Tim might be exhausted but he’s also sixteen. If they keep this up for much longer he’s going to have something else to worry about. He's not sure if he could stop himself.
He's not sure if that would be such a bad thing.
Dick seems to sense his hesitation because he slows down, easing them into open-mouthed kisses that could almost seem chaste if it weren’t for the heat in Tim’s face and the cooling saliva on their lips.
He presses a kiss against each of Tim’s cheeks, his nose and his closed eyelids and it’s almost worse. Tim hears himself make a breathy, gasping sound and lets his head fall to rest against Dick’s shoulder, his hand still pressed against Dick’s heart.
Dick’s hands run soothing patterns along Tim’s back, cool and slow, and Tim can feel him gearing up to say something. To apologize, maybe.
“I—“ he starts, but Tim cuts him off.
“I don’t want to hear you say you’re sorry,” Tim says quietly. “Not unless you really, really mean it.”
Dick’s mouth shuts audibly, and Tim raises his head to look at him.
“That obvious?” he asks, and Tim can’t help but smile.
“Always,” he answers.
Dick looks rueful. “I didn’t mean to kiss you, I just—“
“You don’t have to explain, either.”
“—I wanted to. Kiss you.”
“Okay,” Tim says.
Dick’s face twists in confusion. “Okay? That’s it?”
Tim smiles wider. “That’s it. I am really, very okay with that.”
“But…”
“You don’t have to make complicated,” Tim says, shifting around Dick to pull the covers back and crawl inside.
Dick is frowning down at his hands. “Maybe I want to make it complicated," he replies, looking at Tim. It's too dark to really see his eyes, and Tim can't even imagine what sort of expression they would hold. "I know I want to kiss you again. I want to kiss you right now,” he finishes, and it’s ridiculous but it warms Tim up from the bottom of his feet to the tips of his ears.
Dick lies down beside him, props himself up on his elbow and reaches out to trace the shape of Tim’s mouth. Tim breathes in a shaky breath and closes his eyes.
“But maybe we should sleep on it,” Dick says, his voice low.
“It might be a good idea,” Tim agrees softly.
Dick pulls him close, and Tim lets him, sighing as Dick’s hands pet down his back. “Okay, little brother, but I can’t promise to keep my hands to myself in the morning.”
Tim smiles, mouth curving against Dick’s chest. “Noted.”
The rain continues its assault, lashing against the roof and the windows, drowning out the noise of the city and replacing it with a thrumming pulse of sound, steady as a heartbeat.
Dick is asleep on his side, a triangle of light from the window catching across his ribs and illuminating the neat line of stitches and tape. Tim lies next to him on the bed and watches him sleep, following the rise and fall of his body with every breath.
It’s been a strange night. Wet and nasty and Dick’s going to have a vicious, twisty little scar to remember it by. Tim is warm and sleepy but he can’t make himself close his eyes, the ghost of the kiss still buzzing against his lips.
He wonders if there were any marks left on him tonight too, however more intangible they may be.
He smiles, and lets the sound of the rain soothe him to sleep.