Title: Talking without speaking Fandom: DCU (Nightwing) Pairing: Dick/Tim Rating: Adult Summary: All of the questions go unasked. Notes: For Te. No spoilers for anything post-Nightwing 100. Disclaimer: Not mine. "Dick," Tim says, and there's static in the background -- no, that's 'haven gunfire. "Four-fifteen." "I'll be there," Dick says. He waits a moment to see if there's anything else, and Tim hangs up. The trip to Blüdhaven is familiar enough that he can do it half-asleep, thinking about nothing but the flashing of streetlights and the feeling of irresistible speed. Tim's security system isn't quite as familiar, but the process of passing through it is getting to be a rhythm instead of a struggle. Having Tim fall into his arms and cut off his greeting with a kiss is still enough to make his spine tingle. Dick wants to reassure him -- he's not going to ask questions, he's not going to bring up the hard names -- but Tim's too busy making sure none of that happens, the hands-on way. Tim's apartment doesn't have many memories in it that aren't just like this -- Tim bent over the kitchen table that time, the way that counter felt when he wrapped his hands around the edge for balance while Tim sucked him off, the way the couch smelled when he ended up with his face buried in the cushion and Tim fucked him, whimpering. There's none of the kind of memories that come with hanging out -- he's never even sat in that chair without Tim in his lap, naked and spread wide. Sometime he'll have to bring a movie and popcorn. Something so that they can pretend, maybe, that everything's okay. Not that having Tim strip off his clothes with shaking hands isn't flattering. Just -- they used to have something else, too. But tonight's not that night. Even if he had something to watch, Tim would be thrusting against his hip, and it would have to wait. "Tim --" he starts to say, and Tim kisses him again. It's not time to talk, okay, Dick can work with that. Tim's already in his t-shirt and boxers, anyway. It makes it easier to stroke him, and after a couple gasps, he gets Tim to look at him. Dick knows better -- really -- than to think he can read somebody's mind from their eyes, but it's reassuring to see the expression in Tim's anyway. He's still hurting, well, obviously, but at least right now, in this, Dick can make it go away. Tim narrows his eyes a little -- and they're not making it to the bedroom tonight, either. Dick kisses him, pressing him back until they hit the living room wall. Tim shivers and puts his arms around Dick's neck, making one of those soft noises that maybe ought to be a choked-back word but isn't. Dick pushes his boxers down and Tim nips at his neck. Maybe it's a cue, maybe not, but when he starts to kneel Tim pushes him down, so -- probably. He smells slightly of smoke. Must have been a rough patrol, though he doesn't have any new injuries Dick has noticed yet. Nothing below his waist, anyway. The wordless noises he makes are encouraging -- impatient. Tim used to be patient, sometimes. The way he shakes under Dick's hands and twitches against his tongue -- he's pushing something back. There's a kind of effort there that isn't, usually. He wouldn't be here, and probably wouldn't know the sound of that little groan, if he didn't have some hope that Tim will get better enough to talk to him, sooner or later. The way he gasps for breath, right before he comes -- None of this is getting them any closer to being able to say those huge, impossible names, but it isn't getting them any farther away, either. While he's here, even if his excuse to be here is sex, he can pet Tim's hair and stagger with him to the bedroom. Tim needs to be held. Tim needs to know that someone is there. Anything else would hurt him more, and he's already hurt too damn much as it is. Whether or not Dick needs the same things, and the silence Tim forces them into -- well, he's here, and he gets Tim to smile at him in that tiny, sharp way. He can see Tim's expression in brief flashes of blue eyes like a sputtering neon sign. He's almost comfortable with the basic fact that he can't think in the middle of sex about anything more immediate than the way Tim clenches around his fingers, the smell of lube, and the irresistible arch of Tim's spine when he tips his hips, just so, and Dick thrusts into him. There's a promise in every stroke -- someday they'll talk. Someday, they'll get it all off their chests however long it takes, and then, then if it happens again, it won't be like this. Someday they'll really make love to each other, really see each other with all the lights on and all the dark parts of their history out in the open. Tim hasn't said his name since he called. The whimpers he makes now are all vowels, no meaning beyond the physical need. If Dick tries to talk to him, Tim won't admit he can hear. There's love in this, but it's silent. That should be harder to accept than it is, but Dick has a little practice in not talking about love. Tim's shudders and the way he throws himself into this make it easier to ignore how much he wants to break down all the walls between them. Too much force could break this. Then Tim wouldn't have anyone at all. "It's okay," Dick says, not even meaning to. Tim comes in his hand, fucking himself backward onto Dick. It's not okay. It can't be. But the urge is undeniable on deeper levels than his brain can reach, and Dick can't make himself say anything else. Tim must be as familiar with the hoarse moan he makes as Dick is with his not-word sounds. It's harder to not talk about anything afterward. They hold each other tightly, desperate for enough hours to not talk in so that eventually, before dawn, they'll have time to say what they have to. Dick wants to ask questions -- not hard ones, just shop talk, but even those conversations don't fit here. While Tim is naked, they can't talk because it will go the wrong way. The things they can't say crowd out out everything they should say. It's not enough to kiss him; it'll never be enough to touch him. They have places to go, though, and Dick has to get up and head back to his real life. In the shower, alone -- Tim is falling asleep in the bed, still -- he finds bruises on his side -- not from sex, but from the time afterward. He'll call Tim and talk to him. Soon.
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