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keelywolfeWith My Poor Patched Vision I Have Taught
by Keelywolfe
Fandom: Batverse
Pairing: Dick/Tim (Nightwing/Robin)
Rated NC-17
Notes: Spoilers for Identity Crisis. You know what I mean. I'm not sure entirely where this fits in canon, but honestly, I can't exactly see where IC fits either, so I'm in good company. *G* Heaps of thank yous to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
damoyre for the beta and the reassurances. ;)
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Just playing with them. Thank you.
Summary: Dick has never had the capacity to just watch when family is involved.
*
He'd never had Bruce's capacity to simply watch.
Not that he couldn't; it had been taught to him very quickly that one of the most important aspects of what they did was getting all the information and to do that, he needed the ability to be still and silent. He'd learned it, yes, learned it well but it had never been as innate for him as it was for Batman.
It was just as well that no one had really expected it as much from Robin, and Nightwing, well, he made his own rules. That was one thing Dick had made clear from the start.
It didn't make him reckless, not too much, anyway. He didn't rush into a situation without all the facts, tried not to, but when it came down to it he really wasn't Batman and there were times when watching was entirely too much for him to take.
Especially when it was family.
He'd followed Tim from the beginning. It hadn't taken a detective or a computer to trace his movements as he came from Blüdhaven towards Gotham, just a little basic human knowledge, basic Tim knowledge. After the second time, Dick saved himself the trouble of following and just waited for him, watched for him. Every morning before sunrise and after his patrol found Dick sitting as far away as he could and still be able to see with only his own eyes, shadowed as possible and still.
He didn't like being still but it didn't mean he wasn't good at it.
Every morning he waited and sometimes Tim came and sometimes he didn't, following whatever pattern he'd assigned to himself because Tim was methodical, if nothing else, and he might want to come here every day but he wouldn't. No set patterns to their behavior, nothing that could be traced, Dick knew that as well as Tim did, had heard it for much longer but Nightwing--
He made his own rules and he was waiting here, every morning. For Tim.
The air was chilled, fog rising in thin patches from the ground and it smelled dank and mossy-green, and nothing at all like Blüdhaven. It smelled like Gotham and that meant it smelled, well, he hated to think anything as clichéd as 'it smelled like death' but there were reasons clichés existed.
Nightwing drew his leg up and rested his chin on his knee and forcibly didn't think of it as his good leg. His other leg was healing just fine, thank you, even if sitting like this for so long made it ache in ugly ways. Alfred would lecture him if he knew and probably toss in an extra little tidbit about how sitting on a cold surface was a sure path towards hemorrhoids, and—
A bare flash of color, nothing more than that, not enough to do more than catch his attention, certainly not enough for anyone to follow.
But then, he already knew where Tim was going. He'd watched it for over a week now.
He should have spoken to him then, maybe, the first time. Said pointless words, stupid with the effort to comfort and it wouldn't have helped, it wouldn't have changed anything but at least he would have tried and they could already be past this and moving into something else. That urge belonged solely to him which was the only reason he'd resisted. It wasn't about Dick or Nightwing, not about, God forbid, Batman. They all existed within their own tragedies and Dick wanted nothing less than for his to get tangled in. Let this one belong only to Tim, purely, the way very little else did. That was what Dick wanted, to try to be whatever it was that Tim needed.
But not this morning. It had been long enough and Dick was tired of watching.
Robin didn't look at him.
"I wanted to think I wouldn't be this predictable, spending my time at a grave." His voice carried in the quiet, silence within Gotham like something obscene. Tim reached out with his gloved hand and traced the stonework with dreamy concentration, like a person who was stoned, only Tim would no sooner take drugs than he would commit murder.
(let someone die)
Dick remembered how he felt after his parents died, like a kind of insanity that seemed to take forever to fade. Maybe it never really had, only melted into something more palatable, into something he could use. Didn't want to remember it, this wasn't about him, dammit, and he resisted the urge to touch Tim, just to rest his hands on the boy's shoulders. He did remember the pain but Tim's pain wasn't his and it wasn't like his.
"Tim."
"Don't."
No words, then. Tim turned to him and, yeah, this he could do, hold Tim if he wanted to be held, wrapped his arms around him, sliding his hands under the cape to pull Tim more firmly against him. The kevlar and armor between them was no more a barrier than anything else, less than other things.
The pressure of Tim's mouth on his chin should have been a shock. Telling, maybe, that it really wasn't, not even when Tim licked his way up to Dick's mouth. Wet and soft, his head tilted back from Dick's hands suddenly clenched in his cape. Tim's lips were rough, chapped enough to bleed and it was wrong that it made it better, made it real.
God, they couldn't do this, not here.
Tim's ankles caught him at the backs of the knees and his legs folded under him, both of them going down hard. It was a beginner's trick, pathetic that Dick had even allowed it but this was Tim, his breath rushing out painfully from Dick's weight bearing him into the ground, and he would never hurt Tim, never, even if Tim asked him, never—
"Don't—" he tried, trying to push away. The pressure of Tim's heel against his wounded leg brought a gush of startling agony, and he fell back down, too hard, biting back a sound of pain. Tim was beneath him, close enough that Dick could feel the flick of his tongue as he wet his lips. It made him want to close his eyes, pull away before they sank even deeper into this but the pressure on his leg was like a warning, just hard enough to be noticed through the dulling throb.
"Nightwing." Soft, low in his ear, careful, so careful, even here. "Either do this with me or I'll find someone who will."
He'd never heard Tim sound like that, like
(batman)
Someone else entirely, a stranger in a Robin costume. Dick exhaled shakily, felt tiny strands of hair that had escaped gelling stir gently around Tim's ear. Not Tim's voice, but it was Tim and he meant it. There were times that Tim was as much a mystery to him as Bruce was, a different mystery, Sherlock Holmes to Sam Spade, and it might have taken Batman to turn Dick into a detective instead of a Watson but he was one as well, and he hated a mystery. No mystery this time even if he'd wished for one. A simple truth.
And just the thought, the idea of Tim here on his father's grave with someone else…
His mouth was cool and hard, biting when Dick would have gentled it, sharp, white teeth against Dick's lower lip. Whatever Tim needed, that was what he promised but there were no excuses for the heat rising from his own crotch. Tim was hard under him, armor and muscle, and the damp smell of the sod beneath them was haunting.
Tim groaned against his tongue, clever hands made stupid as he searched for and found the openings in Dick's uniform. There was a warning that Dick couldn't speak, some part of him that was distant and maybe even sane waited to see if Tim would remember to disarm it. Maybe better if he didn't.
Slick gloves against his bare skin proved that God had never paid much attention to his prayers. It shouldn't have been enough to allow him to curl a hand beneath Tim's knee and press, pushed it up enough for him to get closer. Tim shivered beneath his mouth, the eyeholes in his mask showing no startling blue eyes, only blankness and it wasn't what Dick wanted but this
(not tim)
Wasn't about him.
It wasn't his costume but Dick knew it almost as well, bright colors giving way to paler skin, soft line of hair on Tim's belly that any other time would have begged for kisses, a tongue to twine through the fine curls. Sturdy-boned feet beneath the boots, toes curling when Dick rubbed them, tearing off his gloves impatiently, and oh, bare, not soft, boy-rough with hair, only smooth behind the knees and just between the thighs and Tim made a sound when he touched, made Dick press an almost-chaste kiss on the silky skin, chaste if it hadn't made him lick higher, tongued chilling skin with Tim's knee curling around his head, trying to pull him in.
"Oh," Tim whimpered, loud in the dark quiet, his warm scent blocking out any other as Dick pressed his face into some warmth. Tim's cock was a damp line against his cheek and it wasn't instinct to kiss it, let his tongue glide over taut skin. Tim's hands were still gloved, strong and brutal in his hair, easy to obey and Dick let Tim arch up into his mouth, sucking clear slick salt from the tip and just…let him.
I'm here for you, Tim, he didn't say, not with his mouth, certainly not with his tongue, licking slow, sweet circles. I'm here, and I'll take care of you, let him edge deeper until Dick could swallow around him and feel his thighs tremble.
"No," A soft gasp, hands in his hair pulling him up and Dick went willingly, crawled up Tim to find his mouth and licked his way in. It was good, he admitted, helplessly, good and Tim felt better than that beneath him, squirming and strong, and alive, so alive in this garden of bones and dying. Not Tim, though. Not this time.
"I want you to fuck me." His breath was the hottest part of him, damp against Dick's ear.
He was hobbled by his own costume around his knees, Tim not letting go long enough for him to kick off his boots, like maybe sanity might invade if they ever stopped touching and he couldn't even care. Tim wasn't as flexible as he was and never would be but he was enough, and he was strong, the flex of muscle beneath his hand as Dick pressed his leg over his shoulder felt impossibly good.
Tim's belt was easier to get to than the compartment in his boot, and two fingers to begin was too much, difficult to push inside even as unbearably slick as they were, even as Tim demanded more that his body just couldn't take, each breath rough and edged with a whine of near-pain. Dick didn't need to guess at his virginity, not with it so real and, God, tight around his fingers. He pulled them out, twisting once, hard, just to hear Tim inhale.
They say a corpse's fingernails and hair continue to grow after death. Dick knew this wasn't true; it was only the deterioration of the surrounding flesh that gave the appearance of growth. Bruce had arranged the funeral, he was certain, and surely it had been well done, certainly a sealer casket, and even after the rain moss wouldn't be growing on Drake's skin, dank and green, but he would still stink of it, and he was beneath them, staring up at them with unseeing, sunken eyes while his son dug his fingers into the sod covering his grave and choked on a scream.
Tight, so fucking tight, and Dick had to push in hard, harder, just to get the tiniest bit inside. Hard pushes to edge in and he had to kiss Tim, had to swallow those growing sounds of pain that he knew Tim would stop making if he could, and there, yes, finally he felt a little give, just the head of his cock inside and he wasn't sure when he'd pinned Tim's wrists down, felt them flex in his grip.
"Timmy." Nearly a plea and Tim bit his lip, hard enough to make Dick flinch.
"Call me Robin."
"Tim—"
"Robin," he insisted, and even though he'd given up the name years ago, wouldn't take it back if he could, some toddler-selfish part of him snarled mine, but Tim was Robin, he was. Some vague, twisted incestuous idea of fucking himself on his father's grave, fucking the boy he'd called brother.
"Robin," Barely a sound over the stutter of his own breathing. Dick closed his eyes and thrust, pushed through the tightness and resistance and, Jesus fucking god, hot and slick, and Tim buried his squeal against Dick's collarbone, sweet, broken little sounds. Hurting him, Dick's brain tried to explain, helpfully. Hurting except Tim wasn't asking him to stop, wasn't doing anything but taking each push of Dick's hips, riding each thrust like he would a beating, like he would do this with anybody.
It wasn't about him but it still made him want this quick-quick-brutal, forcing Tim's leg back past the point of comfort just so he could get a little deeper and it wasn't about him but he could have this anyway. Dick licked distractedly at Tim's mouth, chapped skin rough against his tongue, and maybe Tim wasn't better this than any of them but he wanted to be. Soft, choked sounds were creeping up from his throat, just shy of begging, and Dick bit down on the soft skin covering it, licking away the pain before he whispered, softly.
"I love you."
Tim was suddenly stiff beneath him, sharp evidence that yes, he'd heard, no detective work here. Not enough to make Dick stop, he was good at this, he could move just the few perfect little inches that Tim couldn't prevent, dragging sparks of heat into his stomach and Tim could struggle but he couldn't escape, not now, couldn't twist enough to hurt either of them.
"Love you," Dick mouthed it wetly into Tim's throat, "I love you." All of this was about Tim and Dick wanted to be more naked than Tim would allow. "Love you."
His injured leg was screaming agony at him, and Tim was squirming, angry and hot and he made a sound like betrayal when Dick pushed hard into him and ground his hips in, made him feel it until he was shuddering, spurting hot over Dick's belly.
Dick couldn't stop himself from collapsing onto Tim, his full weight barely letting the boy breathe and he didn't move until long after he could, listening to shallow breaths until finally, finally he felt the dampness against his neck and he could kiss away streaks of salt and wetness, finally murmur those useless words of concern. Promised he'd keep watching Tim, as long as Tim let him.
The sun was edging its way higher, coloring the sky gold, filling Dick with the urge to move, to be gone out of the light and Tim was crying against him, thick and tearing, and Dick slid his fingers into Tim's sweat matted hair and held on because this wasn't about him, except where it was.
About Robin.
-finis-
With my poor patched vision I have taught
myself to observe, to clutch, to snatch
at color and shape and line and lineament.
When can I see you? Do you see what I mean?
Far-seeing visionary. A psychic blind spot.
I too conflate seeing, knowing, understanding.
--Excerpt from Thinking of Homer at Twilight by Marge Piercy.
by Keelywolfe
Fandom: Batverse
Pairing: Dick/Tim (Nightwing/Robin)
Rated NC-17
Notes: Spoilers for Identity Crisis. You know what I mean. I'm not sure entirely where this fits in canon, but honestly, I can't exactly see where IC fits either, so I'm in good company. *G* Heaps of thank yous to
damoyre for the beta and the reassurances. ;)Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. Just playing with them. Thank you.
Summary: Dick has never had the capacity to just watch when family is involved.
*
He'd never had Bruce's capacity to simply watch.
Not that he couldn't; it had been taught to him very quickly that one of the most important aspects of what they did was getting all the information and to do that, he needed the ability to be still and silent. He'd learned it, yes, learned it well but it had never been as innate for him as it was for Batman.
It was just as well that no one had really expected it as much from Robin, and Nightwing, well, he made his own rules. That was one thing Dick had made clear from the start.
It didn't make him reckless, not too much, anyway. He didn't rush into a situation without all the facts, tried not to, but when it came down to it he really wasn't Batman and there were times when watching was entirely too much for him to take.
Especially when it was family.
He'd followed Tim from the beginning. It hadn't taken a detective or a computer to trace his movements as he came from Blüdhaven towards Gotham, just a little basic human knowledge, basic Tim knowledge. After the second time, Dick saved himself the trouble of following and just waited for him, watched for him. Every morning before sunrise and after his patrol found Dick sitting as far away as he could and still be able to see with only his own eyes, shadowed as possible and still.
He didn't like being still but it didn't mean he wasn't good at it.
Every morning he waited and sometimes Tim came and sometimes he didn't, following whatever pattern he'd assigned to himself because Tim was methodical, if nothing else, and he might want to come here every day but he wouldn't. No set patterns to their behavior, nothing that could be traced, Dick knew that as well as Tim did, had heard it for much longer but Nightwing--
He made his own rules and he was waiting here, every morning. For Tim.
The air was chilled, fog rising in thin patches from the ground and it smelled dank and mossy-green, and nothing at all like Blüdhaven. It smelled like Gotham and that meant it smelled, well, he hated to think anything as clichéd as 'it smelled like death' but there were reasons clichés existed.
Nightwing drew his leg up and rested his chin on his knee and forcibly didn't think of it as his good leg. His other leg was healing just fine, thank you, even if sitting like this for so long made it ache in ugly ways. Alfred would lecture him if he knew and probably toss in an extra little tidbit about how sitting on a cold surface was a sure path towards hemorrhoids, and—
A bare flash of color, nothing more than that, not enough to do more than catch his attention, certainly not enough for anyone to follow.
But then, he already knew where Tim was going. He'd watched it for over a week now.
He should have spoken to him then, maybe, the first time. Said pointless words, stupid with the effort to comfort and it wouldn't have helped, it wouldn't have changed anything but at least he would have tried and they could already be past this and moving into something else. That urge belonged solely to him which was the only reason he'd resisted. It wasn't about Dick or Nightwing, not about, God forbid, Batman. They all existed within their own tragedies and Dick wanted nothing less than for his to get tangled in. Let this one belong only to Tim, purely, the way very little else did. That was what Dick wanted, to try to be whatever it was that Tim needed.
But not this morning. It had been long enough and Dick was tired of watching.
Robin didn't look at him.
"I wanted to think I wouldn't be this predictable, spending my time at a grave." His voice carried in the quiet, silence within Gotham like something obscene. Tim reached out with his gloved hand and traced the stonework with dreamy concentration, like a person who was stoned, only Tim would no sooner take drugs than he would commit murder.
(let someone die)
Dick remembered how he felt after his parents died, like a kind of insanity that seemed to take forever to fade. Maybe it never really had, only melted into something more palatable, into something he could use. Didn't want to remember it, this wasn't about him, dammit, and he resisted the urge to touch Tim, just to rest his hands on the boy's shoulders. He did remember the pain but Tim's pain wasn't his and it wasn't like his.
"Tim."
"Don't."
No words, then. Tim turned to him and, yeah, this he could do, hold Tim if he wanted to be held, wrapped his arms around him, sliding his hands under the cape to pull Tim more firmly against him. The kevlar and armor between them was no more a barrier than anything else, less than other things.
The pressure of Tim's mouth on his chin should have been a shock. Telling, maybe, that it really wasn't, not even when Tim licked his way up to Dick's mouth. Wet and soft, his head tilted back from Dick's hands suddenly clenched in his cape. Tim's lips were rough, chapped enough to bleed and it was wrong that it made it better, made it real.
God, they couldn't do this, not here.
Tim's ankles caught him at the backs of the knees and his legs folded under him, both of them going down hard. It was a beginner's trick, pathetic that Dick had even allowed it but this was Tim, his breath rushing out painfully from Dick's weight bearing him into the ground, and he would never hurt Tim, never, even if Tim asked him, never—
"Don't—" he tried, trying to push away. The pressure of Tim's heel against his wounded leg brought a gush of startling agony, and he fell back down, too hard, biting back a sound of pain. Tim was beneath him, close enough that Dick could feel the flick of his tongue as he wet his lips. It made him want to close his eyes, pull away before they sank even deeper into this but the pressure on his leg was like a warning, just hard enough to be noticed through the dulling throb.
"Nightwing." Soft, low in his ear, careful, so careful, even here. "Either do this with me or I'll find someone who will."
He'd never heard Tim sound like that, like
(batman)
Someone else entirely, a stranger in a Robin costume. Dick exhaled shakily, felt tiny strands of hair that had escaped gelling stir gently around Tim's ear. Not Tim's voice, but it was Tim and he meant it. There were times that Tim was as much a mystery to him as Bruce was, a different mystery, Sherlock Holmes to Sam Spade, and it might have taken Batman to turn Dick into a detective instead of a Watson but he was one as well, and he hated a mystery. No mystery this time even if he'd wished for one. A simple truth.
And just the thought, the idea of Tim here on his father's grave with someone else…
His mouth was cool and hard, biting when Dick would have gentled it, sharp, white teeth against Dick's lower lip. Whatever Tim needed, that was what he promised but there were no excuses for the heat rising from his own crotch. Tim was hard under him, armor and muscle, and the damp smell of the sod beneath them was haunting.
Tim groaned against his tongue, clever hands made stupid as he searched for and found the openings in Dick's uniform. There was a warning that Dick couldn't speak, some part of him that was distant and maybe even sane waited to see if Tim would remember to disarm it. Maybe better if he didn't.
Slick gloves against his bare skin proved that God had never paid much attention to his prayers. It shouldn't have been enough to allow him to curl a hand beneath Tim's knee and press, pushed it up enough for him to get closer. Tim shivered beneath his mouth, the eyeholes in his mask showing no startling blue eyes, only blankness and it wasn't what Dick wanted but this
(not tim)
Wasn't about him.
It wasn't his costume but Dick knew it almost as well, bright colors giving way to paler skin, soft line of hair on Tim's belly that any other time would have begged for kisses, a tongue to twine through the fine curls. Sturdy-boned feet beneath the boots, toes curling when Dick rubbed them, tearing off his gloves impatiently, and oh, bare, not soft, boy-rough with hair, only smooth behind the knees and just between the thighs and Tim made a sound when he touched, made Dick press an almost-chaste kiss on the silky skin, chaste if it hadn't made him lick higher, tongued chilling skin with Tim's knee curling around his head, trying to pull him in.
"Oh," Tim whimpered, loud in the dark quiet, his warm scent blocking out any other as Dick pressed his face into some warmth. Tim's cock was a damp line against his cheek and it wasn't instinct to kiss it, let his tongue glide over taut skin. Tim's hands were still gloved, strong and brutal in his hair, easy to obey and Dick let Tim arch up into his mouth, sucking clear slick salt from the tip and just…let him.
I'm here for you, Tim, he didn't say, not with his mouth, certainly not with his tongue, licking slow, sweet circles. I'm here, and I'll take care of you, let him edge deeper until Dick could swallow around him and feel his thighs tremble.
"No," A soft gasp, hands in his hair pulling him up and Dick went willingly, crawled up Tim to find his mouth and licked his way in. It was good, he admitted, helplessly, good and Tim felt better than that beneath him, squirming and strong, and alive, so alive in this garden of bones and dying. Not Tim, though. Not this time.
"I want you to fuck me." His breath was the hottest part of him, damp against Dick's ear.
He was hobbled by his own costume around his knees, Tim not letting go long enough for him to kick off his boots, like maybe sanity might invade if they ever stopped touching and he couldn't even care. Tim wasn't as flexible as he was and never would be but he was enough, and he was strong, the flex of muscle beneath his hand as Dick pressed his leg over his shoulder felt impossibly good.
Tim's belt was easier to get to than the compartment in his boot, and two fingers to begin was too much, difficult to push inside even as unbearably slick as they were, even as Tim demanded more that his body just couldn't take, each breath rough and edged with a whine of near-pain. Dick didn't need to guess at his virginity, not with it so real and, God, tight around his fingers. He pulled them out, twisting once, hard, just to hear Tim inhale.
They say a corpse's fingernails and hair continue to grow after death. Dick knew this wasn't true; it was only the deterioration of the surrounding flesh that gave the appearance of growth. Bruce had arranged the funeral, he was certain, and surely it had been well done, certainly a sealer casket, and even after the rain moss wouldn't be growing on Drake's skin, dank and green, but he would still stink of it, and he was beneath them, staring up at them with unseeing, sunken eyes while his son dug his fingers into the sod covering his grave and choked on a scream.
Tight, so fucking tight, and Dick had to push in hard, harder, just to get the tiniest bit inside. Hard pushes to edge in and he had to kiss Tim, had to swallow those growing sounds of pain that he knew Tim would stop making if he could, and there, yes, finally he felt a little give, just the head of his cock inside and he wasn't sure when he'd pinned Tim's wrists down, felt them flex in his grip.
"Timmy." Nearly a plea and Tim bit his lip, hard enough to make Dick flinch.
"Call me Robin."
"Tim—"
"Robin," he insisted, and even though he'd given up the name years ago, wouldn't take it back if he could, some toddler-selfish part of him snarled mine, but Tim was Robin, he was. Some vague, twisted incestuous idea of fucking himself on his father's grave, fucking the boy he'd called brother.
"Robin," Barely a sound over the stutter of his own breathing. Dick closed his eyes and thrust, pushed through the tightness and resistance and, Jesus fucking god, hot and slick, and Tim buried his squeal against Dick's collarbone, sweet, broken little sounds. Hurting him, Dick's brain tried to explain, helpfully. Hurting except Tim wasn't asking him to stop, wasn't doing anything but taking each push of Dick's hips, riding each thrust like he would a beating, like he would do this with anybody.
It wasn't about him but it still made him want this quick-quick-brutal, forcing Tim's leg back past the point of comfort just so he could get a little deeper and it wasn't about him but he could have this anyway. Dick licked distractedly at Tim's mouth, chapped skin rough against his tongue, and maybe Tim wasn't better this than any of them but he wanted to be. Soft, choked sounds were creeping up from his throat, just shy of begging, and Dick bit down on the soft skin covering it, licking away the pain before he whispered, softly.
"I love you."
Tim was suddenly stiff beneath him, sharp evidence that yes, he'd heard, no detective work here. Not enough to make Dick stop, he was good at this, he could move just the few perfect little inches that Tim couldn't prevent, dragging sparks of heat into his stomach and Tim could struggle but he couldn't escape, not now, couldn't twist enough to hurt either of them.
"Love you," Dick mouthed it wetly into Tim's throat, "I love you." All of this was about Tim and Dick wanted to be more naked than Tim would allow. "Love you."
His injured leg was screaming agony at him, and Tim was squirming, angry and hot and he made a sound like betrayal when Dick pushed hard into him and ground his hips in, made him feel it until he was shuddering, spurting hot over Dick's belly.
Dick couldn't stop himself from collapsing onto Tim, his full weight barely letting the boy breathe and he didn't move until long after he could, listening to shallow breaths until finally, finally he felt the dampness against his neck and he could kiss away streaks of salt and wetness, finally murmur those useless words of concern. Promised he'd keep watching Tim, as long as Tim let him.
The sun was edging its way higher, coloring the sky gold, filling Dick with the urge to move, to be gone out of the light and Tim was crying against him, thick and tearing, and Dick slid his fingers into Tim's sweat matted hair and held on because this wasn't about him, except where it was.
About Robin.
-finis-
With my poor patched vision I have taught
myself to observe, to clutch, to snatch
at color and shape and line and lineament.
When can I see you? Do you see what I mean?
Far-seeing visionary. A psychic blind spot.
I too conflate seeing, knowing, understanding.
--Excerpt from Thinking of Homer at Twilight by Marge Piercy.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-04-12 03:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-16 12:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-12 04:44 pm (UTC)This was beautiful, raw and achingly imperfect and real because of it. (For examples of details that impressed me: *beautiful* use of where and when you put in details of scent, and Tim's chapped lips, and wanting to be called Robin, and reminding Dick of Bruce.) And it was ever so fucked up, as befits the Batfamily, poor wooberific little superheroes.
Well done.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-16 12:53 am (UTC)It seems that to write the Batboys you need to have them as messed up as possible. ;)
Wow!
Date: 2005-04-12 04:45 pm (UTC)Re: Wow!
Date: 2005-04-16 12:54 am (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2005-04-12 05:09 pm (UTC)Which is to say, HAWT. *pants*
no subject
Date: 2005-04-16 12:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-12 05:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-16 12:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-12 06:06 pm (UTC)While I don't really approve of Dick/Tim or any Batcest slash in general, the characterizations were very well done here. We know how Tim is coping with the events of War Games and IC, but we don't know what Dick is doing, really. All we know is that he's in New York now, but at the same time hanging out with the Outsiders, Teen Titans and Batman. Stupid DCU continuity.
I'm looking forward to your future work.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-16 12:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-13 09:58 am (UTC)Yes.
no subject
Date: 2005-04-16 12:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-13 03:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-04-16 12:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-13 05:48 pm (UTC)