Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/111143.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      DC_Comics
  Relationship:
      Dick_Grayson/Jason_Todd, Dick_Grayson/Superman/Jason_Todd
  Character:
      Dick_Grayson, Jason_Todd, Superman
  Additional Tags:
      Consent_Issues, Size_Kink, Double_Penetration, Threesome,
      robinosexuality, Identity_Porn, Cynicism, kink_bingo
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-09-01 Words: 5994
****** Motherfuckers, quick to kiss ******
by gloss
Summary
     You have no right to what you feel inside.
Notes
     setting/continuity: Nightwing Year One/Batman_408/Superman_v2_#22
     through A Death in the Family, Under the Hood and Batman RIP. In
     other words, Jason is Robin, Dick is newly Nightwing, and Clark is
     supposed to be atoning in space for the murder of those three
     Kryptonians. Then it's later and Jason is Red Hood and Dick is
     Batman.
     other notes:Title, summary, and whole entire *soul* from Minor
     Threat's "Look Back & Laugh". Originally for the double penetration
     square on my
     [[community profile] ]
kink_bingo card (again), but then it became something more. Thank you to those
who cheerled and assuaged fears, especially Petra, Tree & G. It means more to
me than I can say.

The first time Jason and Dick fucked around, they were in Gotham. They'd beaten
the *shit* out of a whole flock of the Penguin's thugs and they were both
jumping out of their skin still. Jason mouthed off, Dick shook his head (but he
was grinning, big and wide and bright, and it shouldn't have made Jason feel
floaty and *warm*, but it did, or maybe that was the adrenaline). Then Dick
shoved him, Jay hit back, they grappled and groped, and one thing led to
another.
Afterward, Jay was pulling on his shirt as Dick came out of the shower, naked
as anything, water beading his hair.
"So, this some kind of formal thing? Ritual or some shit?" Jay asked as his
head came through the hole. "New sidekick, everybody gets a poke?"
Dick got a weird look on his (so pretty, *Jesus*) face at that. Like he'd
sucked a lemon and slid facefirst into a horse turd all at once.
"Cause if so --" Jason planted his hands on his hips and thrust hard, making
his cock slap against his leg. "I hope Wondy's next. Or Supes."
Mouth twisting, Dick pushed him back and swatted his ass. "Watch and see. It'll
be Guy Gardner. Or somebody worse. Booster?"
"Fuck you. No one deserves that."
*
For his birthday that year, Jason takes the train to New York. He'll never tell
anyone this -- who would he tell, anyway? -- but it's kind of exciting to be
out on his own, to have someone to visit, to get presents.
It's fucking amazing.
He won't tell; he's loyal to whatever shitty childhood he had, but come *on* -
- presents, a weekend at Dick's, dicking around, all of it beats the last
present he remembers getting, three Wacky Packs and a $2 coupon to McDonalds
any day.
So he cuts school after lunch (shepherd's pie day, no way is he missing that,
not even for hot Grayson ass) and takes the 1:12 from Gotham to Grand Central.
He's a good four, even five, hours early, and he has nearly the entire car to
himself. Feet up on the opposite seat, Beastie Boys blasting through his
headphones, new copy ofMaximumrocknrollon his lap, he might as well be king.
When he reaches Manhattan, he all but ricochets up the long-ass ramps of Grand
Central into the nasty air of Manhattan. It's damper in Gotham, more sour here.
He lights a Camel, swings his bag onto his shoulder, and decides to walk up to
Dick's fancy-schmancy apartment near the museum, just off the park.
The art museum, that is. Not the Natural History one, which he likes better. At
least there're dinosaurs and sea monsters there; the only halfway cool thing
the art museum has is the hall of armor and Egyptian shit.
Whatever. It's his birthday. No way does anyone get to drag him to cultural
shit, not this weekend.
By the time he makes it uptown, he is lightheaded, both hungry and a little
nauseous from the cigarettes. The doorman buzzes him right up, and Jay has a
key. Hell, even if Dick isn't home, he can enjoy the place by himself; not even
Gotham Public Access is as good as Manhattan's.
He lets himself in, tosses the bag somewhere in the general vicinity of the
living room, and makes for the kitchen. You can always depend on the cape-and-
tights set to have an overstocked pantry, that much he can depend on.
He's stuffing a roast beef and cheddar sub into his mouth, washing it down with
swigs from a 2-liter bottle of RC when the slap of bare feet sounds on the
hardwood floor.
Jay raises his hands and chews quickly, trying to swallow, but when he sees
Dick, all he can do is splutter a whole blizzard of crumbs.
"The hell -- Jason?" Dick scrubs his fists over his eyes. His cords are zipped
up, but unbuttoned, and hang low on his lean hips; his t-shirt is inside-out
and backwards, the tag pointing at his chin. Dick shakes his head as if to
clear it. "You're -- Jesus, what time is it?"
Jay shrugs and swallows. "Fuck if I know. Party o'clock?"
"You're early," Dick says again, and makes for the living room. He collapses
into a corner of the couch and runs his hands through his long, fine hair.
"Good dreams?" Jay asks and drops beside him, crowding him against the arm. He
knocks his arm against Dick's and offers him the soda.
"What?"
Jay shakes his head. "God, you're -- really not very bright, are you?"
Dick leans back, head on the cushions, and sighs. In profile, his eyelashes
look about a mile long.
Jay drains the soda and lets out a long, satisfying burp. Dick smiles weakly at
that, so Jay gulps some air and does another one, burping the alphabet up to
*G*.
By the time he runs out of breath, Dick is smiling for real. Jay elbows him
hard, grabs him the hair, and leans in as if he's going to kiss him. Dick's
eyes drift close, his lips part, and it's really hard to resist, but Jay goes
with the fake-out. He grabs the arm of the sofa, jumps *across* Dick, and runs
pell-mell for the bedroom.
Dick's got someone in there, it's just a matter of --.
Jason skids on the highly waxed floor as Dick, shouting, gains on him, but he's
got enough of a head start to barrel into the door and into the dim, unlit
room. He slides to a stop, all the air leaving his lungs at the sight of the
bed before him.
When Dick catches up, it's only about three seconds later, but Jason has
already felt about a million thoughts zoom through his mind, screeching,
accelerating, careening like bats out of hell. But he can't move, or speak, or
even hope to catch one of the thoughts.
"Jay --" Dick says, and knocks into him from behind, and that jostles Jay back
to life.
He coughs. "There's a naked Superman in your bed, Richard."
Superman is about as big as the Chrysler Building and prettier. He looks down
at his hands and says, "Call me --"
"Kal," Dick interrupts them both. "Call him Kal. Look, Jay, I know it's your
birthday, but --"
"And you got me the best present *ever*!" Jay launches himself at Superman,
lands half against his broad shoulder and half in his lap, and swings one arm
around that beefy neck, as if Superman's going to fly him to -- wherever it is
Superman takes his dates.
The moon? They'd have to buddy-breathe if they go there.
Jay's more than okay with that.
It's too quiet. Too dark in here and way too quiet, and it smells like Dick's
sweat and -- Jason snuffles the radiant, damp heat of Superman's neck -- yes,
like Super-exertion.
"Holy fuckbuddies, Nightwing," Jason says when no one keeps saying nothing.
"You really are the man."
They're looking at each other. Unspoken *soliloquies* are zipping through the
air between them, and Jason might as well be that shoe in the far corner,
kicked off and forgotten.
So he wriggles until he's straddling one of Superman's thighs (it's about as
wide as the pommel horse he works out on in the Cave) and, when Superman
absent-mindedly steadies him with a hand on his waist, he bounces a little
harder.
"Let's get this shindig *going*," Jason says. He looks up -- he has to crane
his neck, this must be what it was like in that Hitchcock movie, scrambling
over Mount Rushmore -- and smacks his lips. "Jesus, Kal. Are you blushing?"
Superman blinks and Dick puts in, "C'mon, Jay. Just -- stop, okay?"
As if he's riding a horse -- which he never has, aside from merry-go-rounds,
even though Bruce has five in the stable and a full-time groom -- Jason
squeezes his knees against Superman's leg. "Like I could possibly do that."
Superman slips his arm around Jay and hauls him a little back, up against his
chest. "It's all right, Dick."
"Yeah," Jay says. Sits up straight and throws out his chest. "Superman says
it's all right. Get with the program. Dick."
Dick's shaking his head but coming closer all the same.
"Now, where were you when I so rudely interrupted?" Jason twists around to ask
Superman. He's got his eyes fixed on Dick's, but looks down at Jason when Jay
pokes him in the chest. "Earth to big alien guy."
Superman's smile is all that good shit, white teeth and wide lips. His gaze
flickers back to Dick, then down to Jay again.
When Jay speaks again, his voice is louder than he'd meant to. He swallows and
tries one more time, "'cause if I know this guy --" He jerks his thumb back at
Dick, who's right next to them now, hand on Jay's shoulder. At the touch, Jay
leans back again, and Dick catches him. "If I know Dick, he was, what? Either
on his knees or on his back, right?"
Superman smiles for real at that, and Dick has the decency to look slightly
embarrassed as he hauls Jay off Superman's lap.
"Actually," Superman says, and his voice is too rich for this little room, "I
was, well --"
He tilts his head, licks his lower lip, and lifts his chin. Right at Dick.
"Oh, fuck me." Jay looks between them, back and forth, and he feels helium in
the soles of his feet. Like he's stoned and orgasming simultaneously; he
stumbles a little, Dick catches him by the arm, and Jason says, "Okay, that I
need to see."
He's so helpful, he even pulls down Dick's fly and helps him out, then fights
with his own hard-on and pants. He stumbles out of the pants-legs, one still
wrapped around an ankle, and has to call it a win.
"Let's do this --"
"Headstrong, isn't he?" Superman asks, and maybe it's not a compliment, but
Jay's horny and freaked out enough that if someone called him motherfucker
right now, he'd probably hug them hard and suck 'em off.
And, anyway, Dick's arm is strong around him, his mouth is soft and insistent,
and Jay's heartbeat is guttering like a candle in his chest, in his cock, over
his whole skin like some shaman's drum.
That's how he ends up standing on his tiptoes, arm around Dick's waist, their
hips bumping and sliding, sweaty skin catching and dragging. Dick wraps his
hand around the base of Jay's cock and sort of gently tugs him forward. And
Superman's mouth is amber fields of grain, purple mountains fucking majesty, so
big and deep but tight that Jason has to squeeze shut his eyes and bite down on
Dick's bicep just to keep a semblance of balance.
He can't not look, though. There's no way he's going to miss this.
There's no way this is happening, no way that Superman's on his goddamn knees,
with Dick and Jason angled like a steeple, cockheads slipping over his lips,
banging each other, shifting and rubbing. No way they're both fitting inside
that smile, bulging out his cheeks, no way.
No way that Dick's holding him up now, sucking on Jason's throat while Superman
swallows him down. His spitcurl is plastered, flattened, to his forehead, his
eyes half-closed like some church picture, blue and red flashing beneath his
lips. His throat is tighter than Jason's own grip, his tongue is about as big
and flexible as an otter. Jason goes back up on his toes, feels Dick's fingers
slip down his crack, grabs the back of Superman's hair and fucks forward until
his knees crack.
No way that Dick's sucking down his tongue while Jason shoots and shoots, bones
rattling around in his suddenly slack skin.
"Jesus," he says, and gets his hand on Dick, jacks him and pulls him forward.
"You gotta -- you've got --"
He all but feeds Dick to Superman, keeps his hand there, feels Superman's
tongue lap his knuckles, gets his thumb down Dick's shaft and feels it inhaled
along with Dick's cock. Shaking loose the pants still tangled around his foot,
he moves awkwardly behind Dick, both arms around his waist, plants his chin on
Dick's shoulder and watches.
Dick comes as gracefully as he does everything else; he's like an elastic band,
snapped, ringing, reverberating, and his come paints Superman's face and neck
before he sinks to his knees, arms going around Kal, kissing him like it's the
last act in some stupid opera.
Superman pats Dick's hair, combs it with his fingers, kisses him back,
murmuring, smiling, whispering secrets.
They look like some kind of old Hollywood bullshit romance. Spencer Tracy and
Audrey Hepburn or whatthefuckever.
Bent together, their bodies make a perfect triangle, no more room.
Superman kisses Dick's dimples, holds him close, says, "Robin, Robin..."
And Jason's over here, ugly stepsister and crumpled cumrag both.
So he tumbles to the floor, rolls with a crash into the bureau, and when,
startled, they break apart, he hurries forward on his knees in between them.
Gets his hand into Superman's supercrotch and strokes.
Not that he can get his fingers around the fucking monster.
"Forgetting something?" Jason asks, sweet as brown sugar.
Superman's eyes are wet and blue, almost sad, while Dick looks a little
suspicious. Just a little, squinty eyes and pursed lips.
"Jay --" Dick says but Jason pushes past him, works his other hand over
Superman's hard-on, and smiles.
"Thought I was going to say you should fuck him, but --" He jerks faster and
grins. "This'd break anybody."
"Jason," Dick says.
Jay widens his eyes. "What? Just trying to help."
Shoulders bowing, head dropping forward, Superman shivers, a full-body motion.
Jay twists his grip in opposite directions and licks his lips. He darts a kiss
on the super-slit, licks up the sticky precum (apple pie and shining seas,
Jesus), and leans back.
"So I've got a better idea. A favor, really."
Superman steadies himself, hand on Jay's shoulder. His touch is -- well, it's
everything it's supposed to be, nothing Jason's ever felt, let alone trusted.
Warm and reassuring, supportive and kind. Nothing like Bruce's cold fingers and
restraining grip.
"Go on," Superman says.
"Can Dick fuck you?" Jay's voice is higher than he'd like, but he pushes on.
"'cause, you know. I'd pay to see that."
He would, actually. Dick is a lot of things, aggravating and know-it-all and so
fucking perfect you'd like to break his nose, just to give him a single flaw,
but he's also fucking hot. Beautiful as anything; Jay doesn't have the words
for what that beauty is. He doesn't need them. He's got Dick.
Or he'd thought he did.
Regardless, Superman and Dick are doing their super-special, incredibly
annoying silent consultation again, yet the thought of what's about to happen
has Jason hard again.
They get Superman on his hands and knees, head pillowed on his arms. He groans
when they touch him, Dick doing that wax-on-wax-off touch that Jason remembers
every time he jerks off while Jay slaps the super-ass, one cheek, then the
other, giggling at the sound it makes.Thwack, thwack.
His palm starts to tingle, then flash numb, at the impact, so he stops, and not
because Dick shoulders up next to him and frowns.
"Do it," Jason urges him. "Come on, Jesus. Eat him out."
And Dick *does*, which Jay really wasn't expecting. He presses that beautiful
smile against one cheek, and the glimmer of his tongue flashes down the crack,
and Jay has to yank on his balls to last through this.
"Fucking hot, Christ --" he says, and throws himself up the bed. "You feel
that? Feel him?"
Superman's hips buck and he nods, forehead rasping against the sheet.
"Hey," Jay says and punches Superman's arm. His knuckles bounce and throb at
the impact. "Hey, answer me. Damn."
"Y-yes," Superman gets out. He lifts his head like it's a boulder, heavy even
for him, and blinks in Jay's general direction. "Yes."
His cock twitches and bobs, so Jay sits on both his hands. "What's he doing,
huh?"
Always have to push, don't you?he hears Bruce asking him, last week, last
night, some fucking time.Never know when to stop.
"He's --" Superman buries his head again. He and Dick are actually in almost
exactly the same position, heads down, shoulders flexing, asses in the air.
Extracting one hand, bypassing his cock with tears at the corner of his eyes,
Jay presses his palm against the bit of Superman's cheek he can reach. He's hot
to the touch, feverish.
"Are you blushing?" he asks.
Superman nods, doesn't look up.
"Christ." He presses his lips together. The surge of assholery has drained out
of him; something about fucking with Superman just doesn't feel right, not even
to him, not even now. "Okay, um, sorry."
He pats Superman's shoulder lightly and rolls away to the other side of the
bed. It's like walking in on strangers; his skin is cold, suddenly, and he has
to distract himself or come again or something before he swallows his own
tongue.
So he finds the lube in Dick's night table. He's not sure if Superman even
needs lube, but better safe than super-sorry. He slicks up his hand, then pulls
himself closer and pries one of Dick's hands off Superman's thigh and slicks
that up, too.
Dick lifts his face at Jay's touch. His chin and cheeks glow with sweat and
spit; his eyes are unfocused and bleary.
The crack is spread before him, dark and shining, wet and sort of, somehow,
beckoning. Jay laces his slick fingers through Dick's and their index fingers
push into the hole, together, get sucked right in.
There aren't words in Jay's mind, let alone in his mouth right now. Just
grunts, and Dick matches them, and then Superman's hips swing back and forth
and he looks over his shoulder.
"Please," he says, voice booming and breaking. "Please, do it --"
Jason starts to pull away. He doesn't mean to, but he's intruding again, he's
sure of it, and for once, he's almost sorry.
Dick's fingers close around his wrist. Jay looks down, then over at Dick, sees
that his other hand is at the base of his shaft, lubing it up.
"Don't go," Dick says, so apparently he can read minds now, too.
Jay sits on his knees, hand in Dick's, as Dick gets up and pushes inside.
Inside Superman, who groans like a dam bursting, shudders, then pushes back.
They're fucking. Jay can't quite believe any of this -- that he's here, that
they're doing this, that they're doing what he suggested.
Dick pours himself forward, this long golden line like maple syrup, pressing
forward. His toes are braced on the mattress, white at the knuckles, his knees
are driving down, his whole body is like a waterfall, constantly in motion but
one single thing all the same. His shoulders lift and flex, his throat is as
long as some girls' hair as he drops his head back and breathes through open
mouth.
And he's got Superman wriggling and moaning, sucking down his cock, in front of
him.
Jay can't help but to touch Dick. He loosens his hand from Dick's and strokes
the fine hairs on his thigh, mops up the streams of sweat.
Their fucking squelches, the mattress squeaks, their groans thunder.
Dick turns at Jay's touch, his smile flickering on, then catching and glowing.
Suddenly abashed, Jason snatches back his hand.
But Dick is flexible and quick. Without pulling out, he reaches for Jay, grabs
his arm and somehow hefts him, bodily, over. Until Jay's sprawled, half across
the small of Superman's heaving back, partly on Dick's leg.
"C'mon, little wing," he whispers, low as anything. "Join me."
Superman's trembling, cold and hot in flashes, and somehow Dick's hands on
Jason rearrange him, move and lift him, stroke his aching cock and lube him
with spit and sweat. Somehow, he's encircled by Dick's arms, Dick's mouth on
his ear, Dick's hand on his cock, guiding him inside.
"There," Dick whispers and his voice, his tongue, it's all a kiss that doesn't
end, "right there, just -- there."
Tight, hot, nothing's ever felt like this. And right under, then next to, his
cock is Dick's, hot and swollen. The friction is insane, the tension even
worse.
No way is Jason going to last, but that's not the point. He's got no breath, no
stamina, just a hardon that won't quit and Nightwing under him, holding him up,
fucking with him. Their dicks don't so much slide as push and drag together,
deeper when Superman drops his hips, down, then forward, and Jason can't see
for the washes of red and bursts of Roman candles in front of his eyes. He
feels like a single inch of skin, pulled so tight you could read through it,
and all the while, Dick's kissing his jaw.
He turns his head, almost twists all the way around, ready to snap off his cock
and just climb into Dick's self and live there. Turns, and kisses Dick back,
and feels Dick's cock jump alongside his, lurch and shudder, and Jay comes,
too, falls against Dick as his pelvis snaps forward and rabbit-fucks like
machine-gun fire.
Dick fucks more carefully, draws it out, shoots the last of his load and then
pulls Jay toward him, mouth open, eyes closed.
When he stirs a little later, he realizes that the super-wet spot is, indeed,
epic as fuck. Almost a swamp, really.
His right arm is numb from the elbow down and it takes a good long while to
work it out from under Dick's weight.
Dick's on his side, arm over Superman's waist. They're curved together like
parentheses. Despite the size difference -- it would take two Dicks, maybe
three, to equal one Superman -- they look like twins. Asleep, their expressions
are blank, beautiful, slack.
Naked as a him-bird, Jay wanders down the hall to the kitchen, makes another
couple sandwiches, and eats them standing up before taking a bag of Crocky
Crunch down on top of the fridge and eating that dry from his hand.
He raids the tiny liquor cabinet, swigs some bourbon, relishing the burn, then
digs out his cigarettes from his back. Near the window, he perches on a chair's
arm and lights a smoke.
They're up high enough that no one can see him, probably. But it would be
pretty hot if they could.
He's got hickeys on his neck, tender to the touch, and his balls feel
stretched-out and achey, while the skin on his dick might as well be bruised,
too.
When his smoke's done, he drops it into the bottle of RC from earlier. The butt
sizzles and the jar fills with steam. Satisfied, he meanders back to the
bedroom, figuring he'll have a shower or something.
They're awake now, foreheads pressed together, murmuring low and private.
Dick is rubbing Superman's back like he's a baby with gas, a kid who can't
sleep.
Jason shifts from foot to foot in the doorway. For some reason, he can feel
almost every bone in his feet.
Eventually, finally, Dick sees him. "Hey, buddy," he says, barely any louder
than he'd just been talking. "Give us a minute?"
Crossing his arms, Jay leans against the door. "I'm good. What's going on?"
Dick looks at Superman, who sits up, slow as a mountain moving, and glances at
Jay. He clears his throat. "Some people died --"
"Criminals," Dick puts in. "Terrorists, really, died. Kryptonians."
Superman nods. "So --" He doesn't say anything else. He just looks at his
hands.
Jason's stomach twists and upends itself. Somehow, he makes it to where his
pants are lying in a heap. "You killed 'em."
Dick just keeps rubbing Superman's back.
"I get it," Jason says and ignores their surprised looks. What, they think he
just sprang full-grown from a vat in the Cave?
"I do." He nods and strokes an invisible goatee. "So you dropped by Dick's for
comfort? Little sex-shu-al healing?"
They look at each other, having yet another telepathic battle.
"Yes, I --" Superman pinches the bridge of his nose. "I mean, I enjoy Robin's
company --"
He was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt once, but this is bullshit.
Jason is Robin now.
No takebacks, not even for Superman. Superkiller, more like.
"Nightwing," Jason says. "Use his real name."
Neither of them replies. They draw together, get even closer, as if that's
possible.
"Look," Jason says and pulls on his pants, ignoring the burn and chafe of
fabric against his genitals, "if you're going to take advantage of kids, you
could at least remember who's who here."
All he knows is that he's angry. He's getting angrier, too. His skin hurts, his
mouth tastes like shit, he just wants to punch something and watch it break. He
bends over, looking for his shirt, and Superman touches him.
He'd break his hand if he punched Superman, so he just tenses up and endures
the touch.
Superman puts a heavy arm around Jason's shoulders. "I wouldn't dream of it,"
he says, and his voice sounds like oil, sticky and toxic. "You could have
stopped any time."
"Yeah," Dick says, and he's on his feet, restless and pacing, raking at his
hair. "Jay --"
Jason pulls himself up tall and straight, shrugging off Superman's arm, heavy
as a fucking couch.
"I'm a fucking kid," he says. "Dude who should've stopped sure ain't me."
"Jay --" Dick's face is crumpling. "That's not fair, come on."
"Bullshit it's not," Jason shouts. There's so much noise inside him, it's going
to drown him if he doesn't yell. "He can fucking *fly*. Could've left any
time."
He gives up on finding his shirt. Instead, he grabs his Vans and pushes his
feet into them as he runs back down the hall. He pulls another shirt from his
bag, tugs it on in the elevator, and when he hits the pavement, it's not even
dusk yet.
Happy birthday, motherfucker.
*
Years have passed now. Jason has died and come back; Dick has been Batman
twice; even Superman died and returned.

Dick has chased him all over the East End tonight. They scuffled down at the
old harbor, but a clanging freight train let Jason escape before Dick got in
any good blows. Then Jason almost got the slip up at the Narrows, but that
weasel Drake cut him off.
He's tired of this shit. He hasn't even been all that badly behaved lately;
hell, he's doing better than *Catwoman*, so why the fuck Bat-Dick is on his
ass, he has no clue.
And he really doesn't care.
So when he's in the home stretch, about three blocks from his favorite
safehouse, Jason just sits down on the top of a fire escape and waits. He
swings his legs in the air and scratches at the bubbles of rust.
A little sooner than he's comfortable with, Dick arrives.
"You look ridiculous in the cowl, princess," Jason tells him.
Dick paces the edge of the next roof.
"Seriously, take it off or this date's over before we get to any of the good
stuff."
Dick shakes his head. "I can't just --"
"Fine." Jason shrugs and yanks off his mask. "I'll show you mine, then you show
me yours, blah fucking blah."
Dick looks up at the sky. Either he's counting to ten or he's anticipating a
helicopter rescue. Maybe he's considering just chucking it all in and taking a
final jump.
"Okay," he says finally, planting his hands on his hips. "Meet me on the corner
in five."
"Fuck that," Jason says and hauls himself to his feet. "Just duck down, take it
off, and we'll go have pupusas together."
Dick's lips disappear as he presses them together.
Jason holds up both his hands. "Five minutes, and no more."
He hides most of his ordnance and his mask in the dropbox he keeps in an old
post box, then sidles into the taqueria. The space is about as narrow as a
check-cashing storefront -- which they also do, dinero y comida, and also
calling cards -- and steamy.
"Here --" When Dick taps on the bulletproof window, Jason joins him back out on
the street. It's about ten degrees colder out here and he shivers. He tosses
one hot paper bag at Dick. "Got you loroca and chicharróns. Cool?"
"Sure," Dick says slowly. He's peering into the bag, then looking back up at
Jason. He squints a little these days.
Jason shoulders him hard, actually knocks him slightly off-balance. "It's not
poisoned, asshole. Just --" He grabs Dick's packet and takes a big bite,
chewing noisily. He smacks his lips and hands it back. "Delicious, okay?"
Of course, now the roof of his mouth is scraped raw from the molten cheese and
explosive little chicharróns, but that's part of the whole pupusa lifestyle, so
far as he's concerned.
They walk and munch in relative silence. Gotham never gets quiet, especially
not down here, but it's comfortable between them.
Weird as fucking hell, Jason thinks, but comfortable all the same.
When they're finished eating, he grabs Dick's elbow and swings him around the
corner, down the steep steps of the one of the thousands of Gotham brownstones.
"You're buying," he tells Dick when they push through the club's swinging Old
West doors. He swats Dick on the ass. "And don't go cheap on me."
The club is slow for a weekday, with mumbly shoegazing bullshit on the sound
system and underfed hipsters looking forlorn and scraggly. Jason evicts one
from his favorite seat, then vaults into it.
"Here." Dick hands him a pint glass of what looks like fairly decent beer and a
hard, inflexible coaster.
It's not a coaster. It's a goddamn compact disc, wrapped up in old Christmas
paper, doves and Scotch firs gamboling across the top. "The fuck is this,
Dickie?"
Dick slides onto the coffee table before him and takes a long, savoring sip of
his beer. He licks off the foam mustache with a flicker of red tongue before
replying. "Happy, you know." He draws himself up, shoulders around his ears,
and smiles tightly. "Birthday."
Jason narrows his eyes. "Uh-huh."
"Are you going to open it?"
"Getting to it." First, he drinks about half his beer. He's going to need
something a lot stronger.
"Right, all right." Dick scrapes his palms up and down his thighs, then laces
his fingers together and stretches.
He's nervous. His eyes are darting around the room and, seriously. The people
in here do not deserve half his attention.
"Got somewhere to be?" Jason finishes his beer and crosses his legs.
Dick almost jumps. "What? No."
"Could've fooled me."
"No, I --" Dick shrugs and moves his head back, like he's tossing his hair, but
it's not long enough for that, not any more. "Sorry."
"No skin off my ass," Jason tells him and grabs his untouched beer. "And,
whatever. Thanks for the tunes."
"You haven't even opened it!"
"God," Jason says. "Fine."
When he slits it open, the disc is -- wow. Worse than he would have dreamed.
"Green Day's Greatest Hits."
"Yeah!" Dick leans forward and taps the singer douche's face on the cover. "You
like punk! Or you used to, and I figured, you know. You've been away, so you
probably wanted to catch up."
"I was dead, Dickie. But now I'm in Hell."
Dick looks away. His eyebrows knit together, his chin dips down, his whole
lovely body droops and pulls back.
The sight makes Jason's eyes hurt. He's not any good at this.
He kicks Dick in the shin, then shakes him by the shoulder. "It's -- yeah.
Thank you."
Dick sucks in his lower lip as he shakes his head. "I'll get your birthday
right one of these --"
"Decades, sure," Jason finishes for him. "Forget it."
He lets Dick go and stands up to get another round. He might be the only one
drinking, but he's going to keep drinking until some of tonight starts to make
some sort of sense.
When he returns, however, Dick actually takes more than a single prissy sip.
"Attagirl, drink up," Jason tells him and clinks their glasses together.
"Besides, there aren't any palm trees for you to dump it in."
Dick actually grins at that. "He did that with you, too?"
"Brucie loved his ginger ale, I'll admit," Jason replies. "But I think he liked
watering the plants even more."
"Ha, yeah." Dick runs a restless hand through his hair. "Yeah, probably."
Before he can get too maudlin -- it *is* Dick, so a little maudlin comes with
the territory, so far as Jason can tell, when Bruce is mentioned -- Jason kicks
him again. "Anyway, thanks for the, uh. Gift."
Dick lifts his glass a little way. "By the time we're old and decrepit, I might
actually get you something good."
Jason swigs down the rest of his pint, then leans forward to put down his empty
glass. He slides his hand up Dick's thigh as he reaches to place the glass, and
Dick inclines to hear what he's about to say. His breath is yeasty and sweet,
and the skin on his cheek is as soft as Jason remembers.
There are fine crow's feet around his blue eyes, but even those work. On Dick,
*everything* works.
"Last time wasn't so bad," Jason whispers, lips barely touching Dick's ear,
then withdraws. He sits back in the voluminous couch cushions and crosses his
arms loosely, smiling, watching Dick try to think through that.
Dick opens his mouth. He cocks his head one way, then the other, then back
again the first way.
"Besides," Jason adds, more loudly, "you're getting older by the fucking
*week*, bro."
Dick's confusion does not lift or vanish so much as it loosens, like he just
lets it go, water through his hand, and he smiles. Wide and real, just like he
used to.
"Mature," he says. "It's not age, it's --"
"Age," Jason says and spreads his legs, then knocks his knees together. He
hooks one boot-toe around the back of Dick's calf and yanks him forward. Dick
pushes into the fall, lands with his hands on Jason's shoulders, knee on the
couch between Jason's thighs. "It's age, believe me. Ugly, sour, wrinkled
fucking age."
"I don't know about that," Dick says, and kisses him.
Laughter bursts out Jason's mouth, into Dick's, heaving his chest and making
him grab and giggle, rub his face into Dick's chest until he gets hold of
himself.
"Fuck, you're easy," he finally manages to say. "Damn."
Dick pulls back a little, blinking fast.
"No, no, it's good," Jason says, hand going around the back of Dick's neck and
pulling him back. "Believe me."
"I --"
"Sixteen year old me is coming in his pants right now," Jason whispers against
Dick's lips.
Dick's smile curves slowly upward. His eyes drift close as he grasps the back
of Jason's hair and shakes him gently. "I remember."
"That stupid little fucker was so in love with you," he says and kisses Dick
before he can say anything else.
His need to shut himself up is even greater than his standard need to do the
same to Dick.
The kiss is like a good draft beer. It's not going to save your life, it's not
going to fix anything, but it tastes like heaven for as long as it lasts, and
it makes you feel loose and warm and cared for. Dick's fingers are as long and
intelligent as ever, tracing little circles on Jason's neck, up his arm, as the
kiss deepens and sweetens and gets a little nippy, a little growly.
"And this stupid fucker?" Dick asks when they break for breath. He presses one
palm flat, fingers splayed, on Jason's chest. "What about him?"
"Shut the fuck up," Jason says. He closes his fingers in Dick's hair and kisses
him hard, bites the scratchy stubble under his jaw.
[end]
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!