Dick's not precisely expecting to see Tim in his apartment when he opens the door, but then again, he's not precisely expecting. He feels like as long as he can keep himself from having expectations, the next blow won't hurt as much.

"Dick!" says Tim, bouncing up off the couch, with what on any other kid his age Dick would have called a guilty start. "How's, uh-- Yeah, sorry to drop in on you like-- How was patrol?"

Dick can't help noticing, and he hates that second where he tries not to because he doesn't want to deal with it, but he can't help noticing that Tim's cheer is a little forced.

"Quiet," he says, and circles around to closet and starts hanging up the stuff that he can't let get creased. "You?"

"No," says Tim, which doesn't follow, which isn't Tim at all. "Nothing, I mean. Nothing much happened." He scrubs one palm down the leg of his jeans. Dick wonders if Tim ever gets rips in the knees the way he did when he was Tim's age.

"Nothing? Tim, you know you can drop by any time, but..." he lets, 'you usually don't,' hang unsaid.

"Yeah, yes. I -- I just."

Tim's a mess and Dick pulls off his tie, and with an effort, focuses on Tim. Right. Big brother, he can do that.

Dick vaults over the back of the couch, sloppy, but Tim's not looking, and gets an arm around Tim's shoulders before he can squirm away. "Tell me. Something happened, right?"

Tim doesn't say anything, which Dick thinks is promising. Tim would lie if he was planning to keep a secret. Finally, he breathes out, Dick can feel his ribs collapsing, and says, "I was clearing a civilian out of a drug bust, and there was this cat-- It kept on meowing. They were... They were looking for us, I didn't know what to-- I. I think it was sick."

Dick squeezes him, carefully, because Tim doesn't like being confined, and then chafes his far arm a little bit, as best he can. "I'm sure you did it as fast as you could."

Tim makes a sound like a hiccough and turns his face into Dick's shoulder.

This isn't so bad, really. Dick held Donna when she lost her husband and son. He can't help thinking this won't be nearly as bad. Tim presses into Dick, sideways, the lateral contact clearly all he allows himself. Dick can feel through their contact what a tense ball of misery Tim is.

"I can't-- I can't forget the sound," says Tim suddenly. "I-- It--"

Dick puts his hand gently over Tim's mouth. "Shhh, don't think about it. You got the hostage out, right?"

"Yeah," breathes Tim, and normally he avoids touch, shies away from it like unbroken colt, but now he's trying to press himself into Dick's side like they can be made one flesh if he pushes hard enough. If he'd just trust himself to that, Dick could make this better for him.

Dick takes his hand from Tim's mouth and pets the side of Tim's face where the corner of Tim's mask would be with the knuckle of one hand. "And she wouldn't have gotten out without you there," he says. He doesn't know the specifics, but he knows Gotham, so he's fairly sure it's true. And if it isn't, he doesn't feel any guilt about lying; it's what Tim needs to hear.

"Mmm," says Tim, which isn't acknowledgement, so Dick shakes him gently, one handed.

"Well?"

Tim lets out a shuddering breath. "...no," he says, "probably-- Man, I'm being an idiot. I know that, okay? My consumption habits are probably responsible for the death of dozen animals a year."

Dick's a bit taken aback. "Your-- " He can't help himself, and barks out a laugh. "Only you, Tim," but he's pretty sure Tim can hear the grin.

"It's the most efficient way to build this much muscle," says Tim, and Dick can't stop himself from laughing into Tim's hair.

"Also, Alfred would disown you if you brought tofu into his house," he points out.

Tim sounds faintly amused, although his voice is a bit thready. "Yeah, I-- It's okay, Dick, you don't need to worry about me, I just. Sorry about the, um."

Dick pushes his face into Tim's hair. "I like getting to worry about you. No one else lets me," he assures Tim, and tries not to think too hard about the fact that it's true.

Tim seems to feel that he's let himself be held a bit too long, and tries to twist out of Dick's grip. "Hey, you hungry? I could--"

Dick catches him and pulls him back down. "Listen, it's okay, you know. Don't go taking your cues for appropriate coping mechanisms from Bruce."

Tim's laugh feels unforced now. "Bruce wouldn't get upset over that kind of cat," he points out, with what seems to Dick's ear slightly disproportionate hilarity.

"I ever tell you about the time he got us out of a firefight by scaring a rat out into the crossfire? I didn't talk to him for a week," says Dick, absently petting the short cut hair at Tim's nape. Tim seems to relax into it, slightly.

"Of course, I was thirteen. If I hadn't been so new to the job, we might not have needed to--" Dick realizes what he's saying and cuts himself off.

"Dick," says Tim, "You were thirteen."

Dick kicks himself. "Yeah, and it got us out of there, like it got your civilian out of there," but he can see Tim trying to figure out how he could have done it differently, been faster, done better. "Stop it," he says warningly, and tugs on Tim's hair.

Tim tries to twist out of Dick's grip again, and this time, Dick pins him down across the couch. "I said, stop it. Maybe you could have done something differently, but it doesn't matter now."

Tim looks up at him and his eyes are very wide. Dick thinks he's maybe got through to him. Now would be the time to diffuse the tension with a tickle attack but really, Dick's never found tickles as therapeutic as some other activities that come to mind.

"Are you hearing me?" he asks Tim. They're close enough he can smell Tim's breath. Dick knows the smell of power-bar breath, he's tasted it on his own breath enough mornings.

"You're on top of me," says Tim, both an answer and an observation, but Dick doesn't think it's any kind of protest.

"Yeah. I could get off?" he offers, but he's already tipping his nose to one side to avoid bumping it against Tim's, and Tim's mouth is parting like they've rehearsed this.

When Dick's mouth touches, Tim becomes frantic under Dick, and for a confused second Dick thinks Tim's changed his mind or is having some strange attack of guilt, but then both Tim's legs are wrapped around Dick's waist, and Tim's pulling at Dick's shirt while panting into his mouth.

"Easy!" says Dick, pulling back a little, "I need that shirt!" He pushes himself up with one hand, arching his back, and between them they manage to get it off only losing one button.

"Sorry! Sorry," pants Tim, his open mouth skating over Dick's cheekbone until Dick pushes him down and manages to give him a proper kiss, one that says hello, I've got you, I love you, I'm here.

Tim calms a little under him, although his hands are roaming over as much of Dick as he can reach, mostly his sides and back, which is a little distracting.

Dick kisses his cheekbones, the parts that aren't covered by the mask, and then the bridge of his nose, the part that is.

"Dick," says Tim.

"Yeah?" asks Dick and tries to get a hand between them which Tim at first resists, then allows.

"Um. I don't-- I don't think I actually had anything after that," admits Tim, and Dick grins and kisses along the point of Tim's jaw while he pushes up Tim's shirt.

"That's okay," says Dick. "I-- " he remembers belatedly that most people don't like to hear about his experience with other lovers at this point.

"What?" asks Tim, his interest sharpening with the promise of data.

Right. Tim's not most people. "Help me get this off?" Tim squirms and they manoeuvre his t-shirt up. "My first time with Kory, she says I kept on saying 'wow, your breasts!'"

They share a certain smile at that, and then the smile is covered as Tim's t-shirt comes over his face. "Well," says Tim, "Kory," as if that explains it, which it pretty much does.

Tim, although half pinned, is trying out a rhythm against Dick's stomach with his hips, blush rising in his cheeks. It seems prudent to address their pants, but Tim's ankles are locked around Dick's waist so he attacks Tim's belt.

"Gimme a hand?"

At that moment, Dick isn't sure if he's ever heard anything as wonderful as Tim's surprisingly filthy snicker.

"That too, if you like." Dick grins, and Tim unlocks his ankles and grips Dick's waist lightly with his knees.

Tim manages to grope Dick quite a bit in the process of unbelting and unzipping his pants, and Dick gets Tim's pants all the way off one leg, but his own don't get more than half way down his thighs before he gives up and gives in.

Tim catches Dick's eye once, for permission, before he follows the trail of hair down to Dick's erection with his hand, and Dick suddenly needs both arms to keep him from cracking Tim's forehead with his own.

Tim's wearing a half smile, and Dick, grinning, thinks that a dead cat is the furthest thing from his mind right now.

"You can--" says Dick, meaning to encourage Tim to stop exploring and get serious, but holds himself back. It's Tim and really, this isn't about Dick.

Tim's biting his lip gently in concentration, and Dick wants to tug at that lower lip with his teeth, soothe the dent out of it, but he's rapidly losing fine motor control, so he brings a hand up instead and clumsily brushes his thumb across Tim's cheekbone.

Tim's eyes flash up to meet Dick's. "Oh," says Tim, a sound of discovery, and then sets himself to discovering how to make Dick make noises that aren't usually in his vocal range. Dick locks his elbow and tries not to fall and give Tim a black eye with his face.

Later, he blows Tim, and still later, a Tim wearing a smile Dick rarely gets to see anymore asks him about, honest to god, "frottage," so they try that.

When Tim's finally gone pliant, soft, untroubled, Dick heaves him up off the couch and they make it to Dick's bed where Tim lets Dick pet his hair until he falls asleep. It's nice having someone else in his bed. Dick didn't realize how much he missed it. Dick wakes up when Tim slides out from underneath him -- "gotta go. I-- Thank you. Take care--" and they're wrapped together like two commas.

When Dick comes awake for good, it's almost like Tim was never there. Tim's backpack is gone, the cushions they threw off the couch have been replaced, and only the fairly hideous job Tim's done of sewing the button back on the shirt hanging off a chair-back testifies to his presence.

Dick smiles to himself, and puts it the laundry basket.

After he's finished breakfast, though, he calls Bruce. It's funny, he can't remember really doing that for a while. On the screen, Bruce looks almost pleased to see him. Dick wonders if Bruce gets lonely, and if he should hint to Tim that it wouldn't hurt to visit him more often.

"Dick. Is there... can I help you with anything?" Bruce actually looks like he hopes the answer is yes.

"I've got to get to work, I just have time for a quick call. Tim stopped by last night. Have you been checking with him after his patrol?"

Bruce frowns. "Last night he was--"

Dick holds his breath and leans in.

"His behaviour was risky. There was a cat."

"And a hostage?" Dick asks.

Bruce's eyebrows come together. "He told you? He returned to the building after he got the hostage out to rescue a cat."

Dick rocks back. "He-- what? A... cat."

"Female tortoiseshell, large, about six or seven kilograms."

"Alive," says Dick, to confirm, because--

Bruce frowns at him. "There wouldn't be any point in retrieving a dead cat."

"He rescued a cat," Dick repeats to himself.

"Dick... are you sure there's nothing you need?"

Dick shakes his head. "Just. Morning. Comes too soon, you know? Catch up with you later."

"W--" says Bruce, before Dick disconnects.

Tim rescued a cat and then came to find Dick. Tim's got a thing for strays, apparently.

Dick stumbles into the shower. He likes showers, he remembers. Like starting the day with rain, everything clean.