Archive of Our Own

1.

Dick is desperate, when he decides to gamble with magic.

It's not something he reaches for on a whim, much less when it's about his family. But Tim is slipping through his fingers and it awakens a kind of desperation in him that he didn't think was possible to feel.

There's no villain or mission or wound that is taking Dick's brother away from him – Tim is simply walking leisurely out of his life, strolling along and leaving Dick behind.

He's frantic, when he remembers about it, the magical artefact that he'd stored in his old childhood bedroom and forgotten about, one found during his days with the Teen Titans. It's inconspicuous, a weirdly charming thing: just big enough to stick out of your pocket, in a light yellow box bordered in red, whimsical and funny and the kind of thing that you'd laugh about with your friends if you didn't know any better.

Dick almost hadn't, though nobody likes to think about it much and that had certainly contributed to it being left behind to gather dust. It hadn't been a mission so much as a harsh confrontation with reality.

One Wish Willow, the box reads and Dick closes his eyes and starts praying to every god he's ever heard of – that this might be a solution instead of a curse.

He thinks of Tim again, the way he lowers his head when Dick tries to meet his eyes and how Red Robin's steps falter when Nightwing is near. The dinners and movie nights that he didn't show up for and his seventeenth birthday, spent somewhere on the other side of the world.

The morning sun shines brightly, illuminating the room – one more day for Tim to slip further away from him.

The despair returns sharply at that thought, want clawing at his chest, and the decision is made.

The box opens easily and he tilts it forward enough to get a good grasp around the wood inside it before placing it carefully on his nightstand, staring at the happy smiling faces depicted on it for a moment more. He breathes in once, gripping the twig in both hands and preparing to break it.

“I wish-” His voice cracks as he thinks it through, goes through the possible wording.

What he wants is to go back to how it was when it was just Dick and Tim, wants the afternoons spent together and the nights where they'd chase criminals only to end up crashing in the same bed at the end, exhausted and kicking at each other for more space.

He wants his brother to love him again, as much as he did once, as much as Dick still does. He wants Tim to love him enough to stay, not out of duty but out of affection, like it used to be. He wants Tim safe and here, where Dick can hold him. He wants Tim to want it too.

“I wish Timothy Drake loved me like I love him.”

That shouldn't do any damage, right? Dick loves Tim enough to want the best for him, to want to stay with him always. There are no downsides to the way Dick loves his brother.

He snaps it in half, listening as the jingle echoes through the empty room.

For a moment, there is nothing. Dick is alone in his childhood bedroom, holding a broken stick. It's ridiculous.

Then that moment stretches into two, three, four – and steps come rushing towards his door, almost running in a way that would have Alfred shaking his head with disapproval.

They stop, abrupt, and three firm knocks follow.

“Come in.” Dick says, throat suddenly dry.

The door creaks open and Tim peeks in, shamefaced. His heart thunders in his chest but Dick smiles, letting the broken wood fall on his bed, and stands to hug him.

It's a test, mostly, because Tim hasn't let himself be touched much ever since he came back. Dick has been itching with the need to do it but he's respected that boundary the best he could.

This time there's no hesitation, though. Tim all but flies into his arms, laughing, joyful and young like he used to be before everything fell into pieces around them. Dick holds him tight and buries his head in soft, too long hair with a sigh.

“Hi, Timmy.”

“Hey! I heard you were here and I hadn't said hello yet- I didn't plan to say hello?” Tim stumbles back a bit, a frown marring his features, “I didn't plan to say hello, sorry, I don't know why- but that was silly, hello!”

Tim's smile comes back at full force, his cheeks flushed pink.

“Hello,” Dick laughs back, “Were you working?”

“Oh, yes, maybe. Yes.”

“Okay and how long has it been since you took a break?”

There are heavy bags under his eyes that contrast the colour on his cheeks, Dick notes with some frustration. Not to mention the small cut near his hairline, still bright red and probably painful.

“I took a break to say hello,” Tim says very confidently before averting his gaze, seemingly troubled, “I ran here. I didn't mean to.”

“You could've walked,” Dick tells him, chest squeezing at the thought of his younger brother running to greet him – it has been too long since their relationship was good enough to warrant that kind of welcome. But it's working, it's working, “But I'm happy to see you, Tim.”

“So am I!” Tim beams, launching himself back into his arms.

Dick is all too happy to receive him, letting them both fall on the soft mattress with a grunt – Tim has grown much these past years even if he remains the shortest and most lithe out of them all. He's solid, though, healthy, and his weight on him is comforting.

“I'm so happy to be here with you.” His younger brother sighs, nestling close, and Dick presses a kiss to his head.

Warmth spreads all throughout his body, easing the knot of worry and anger that had been building before.

This, he thinks to himself, is how it should've always been.

Tim convinces him to stay for dinner, not that it takes much to do so.

They spend the rest of their afternoon chatting, cuddling even closer than Tim would've allowed back during their better days – these are their better days, Dick reminds himself often.

It doesn't feel true, even as Tim laughs at his jokes and listens attentively to his stories. It all feels like a wish come true and it's hard to remember that it is quite literally what happened. Years ago, when Dick first learned of the existence of such things, he could've never have envisioned himself using one.

It felt too risky, too unknown. But he's met a fair few magical things since, both benign and terrible, and he can't believe he hesitated this long.

“We should go to my place!” Tim tells him excitedly, “Have a movie night where it's just us.”

Dick feels his mouth stretch into an indulgent smile, endeared at the bright eyed look Tim has been giving him all dinner.

From his place at the head of the table, Bruce coughs, turning an inquiring look on them. At his side, Damian scowls fiercely and Dick feels some regret at the way the kid must be feeling left out.

It wasn't his intention but he did want to spend some time just him and Timmy, like it used to be, so he supposes it makes sense that Tim would want that too

“We should,” Dick says, scooping a portion of mashed potatoes and adding it to Tim's plate, “Like old times.”

Tim's smile seems to get even brighter, somehow.

“But it is not old times.” Damian interrupts, stabbing his salad with extreme prejudice.

“It's just one night,” He tries to reassure their youngest brother, “We'll have another with all of us afterwards.”

Tim nods at his side, though he seems noticeably less enthused about the idea. Dick's smile turns strained at that, just the slightest bit.

He knows Tim and Damian's relationship is not something he should meddle in but it would be nice if they got along a bit better, that's all.

“That would be good,” Bruce throws his two cents in, obviously trying to placate Damian, who is still staring at Tim with a frown, “We should all spend some time together.”

He's about to agree when Tim leans forward, pouring himself some water and doing the same for Dick. He almost drops the glass, in his eagerness.

“So long as Dick is there.” He says, smiling up at him and pushing the glass his way.

“I wasn't aware you two had made up,” Bruce says hesitantly, “I'm glad to see it.”

“Nothing to make up for,” Tim chirps – chirps, Dick marvels, “We- I have no reason to be angry.”

“Sure. That's… good to hear, Tim.”

Warmth blooms between his ribs and Dick happily accepts the water, drinking it down and feeling more settled than he has in a long time.

At his side, Tim beams, brighter than the sun.

𓅪

When the movie's over, Dick stretches and yawns in the sudden silence of the room.

“Are you tired?” Tim asks quietly, “We should go to bed.”

“We should.” Dick agrees, rising to his feet and helping him up.

He gathers the blankets and straightens them. Tim's couch is comfortable enough for the night, which is a relief because the years are proving to be unforgiving on his old wounds.

“What are you doing?” Tim watches him confusedly from the threshold of his bedroom.

It takes a minute for Dick to understand and it only serves to make him feel even happier – truly, that wish had been a blessing, he's sure of it.

“Aw, Timmy, you want me to sleep with you?” He coos, expecting to be hit with a pillow in true younger brother fashion or be scoffed at, at the very least.

Tim does nothing of that. He just stands there, smiling at him and cocking his head like a particularly curious cat. Dick's heart gives a weak thud before melting, Tim looks so much younger like that.

“Yes.” He nods primly and motions to the darkened room behind him.

Hopelessly charmed, Dick doesn't think twice before making his way to the bed, opening his arms for his brother to join him. Tim does so immediately, clutching at his shirt with a small sigh.

“Goodnight, Timmy.”

“I'm… not tired, Dick,” The words are spoken with a sort of confusion that doesn't often belong in Tim's voice, “I don't want to- but if you are tired we should sleep!”

“That's okay,” Dick laughs, ruffling his hair, “I'm wiped out but you can go watch another movie if you want.”

“No, if you're tired we should- I don't want to.” It sounds like his brother is arguing with himself, almost. Mood shifting with every word.

Something cold slithers down his spine, chilling him to the bone.

“Tim? Are you feeling alright?”

He holds his breath, counts how long it takes him to answer, an uncomfortable feeling growing in the pit of his stomach –

“Sure! Sure, we should go to sleep.”

But Tim just lays his head on the pillow next to him, looking at him earnestly, his blue eyes shining in the moonlight, and it's hard to doubt those eyes, when they are so clear. Close enough for Dick to lose himself into.

“More tired than you thought, hm?” He wraps an arm around his waist, tugging him closer still. He's missed this, missed having Tim just for him, even if it's only for a night.

It's been too long since they spent any time alone that wasn't because of a case.

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

He's not sure what woke him up, only that there is a prickling feeling in the back of his skull – he goes still, muscles tight because that's the same warning he gets every time someone's watching him. It has saved his life more than once.

The weight on his chest is gone and he can't hear Tim's soft breaths anymore.

“Dick.”

His eyes snap open, fixating on the darkest corner. Tim's voice comes again, quieter.

“Hi.”

“Hi? Timmy?” He's torn between worry and amusement. The darkness hides his brother so completely that Dick can barely make out a vague silhouette, “Did you wake up?”

“I never went to sleep.”

“What?” Dick sits up, letting the blankets pool in his lap, “What do you mean? I heard you.”

“No, no, Dick,” And there's something frantic hiding in his words, “No, I never went to sleep.”

“Okay. Okay,” He swallows, “Tim? Can you step into the light for me? I can't see you.”

There's movement in the shadows, a small cough, and then his brother is visible once more, hair mussed from sleep. Dick exhales, relieved. He looks like he's been sleeping but nightmares have the ability to do that sometimes, mix up dream and reality and make you doubt yourself.

Dick can deal with nightmares just fine.

“Hi, Dick.”

“Hi, Tim,” His lips twitch upward, “Can you come back to bed now?”

“I wasn't in bed.” His confusion is almost palpable and Dick feels a pang of pure sadness – before him, before today, had Tim really dealt with this kind of stuff all by himself? All so he wouldn't have to ask Dick for help?

“You were, Timmy. You were really tired, though, remember?” He tries to make his voice as calm as possible, tries to fill it with his affection.

It seems to work because Tim starts walking, making his way closer with silent steps. He sits at the very edge of the bed, staring at Dick with wide eyes, a small furrow between his brows that Dick practically itches to kiss away.

“I was tired.” Tim says, tonelessly.

“You were. That's why we were sleeping.” Dick leans close enough to take his hand and tug him back in his place.

“We were sleeping,” There's a weird emptiness behind his words but it's gone as soon as Dick registers it, replaced by a sheepish smile and a bright pink flush, “Oh. Right, sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up.”

“That's okay, Timmy.” Dick encourages him to lay down, tucking him back in. His little brother looks so sweet lying there that he just has to kiss him again, right on his forehead, “You can wake me up whenever you want.”

“I was tired.” Tim repeats to himself, eyes looking everywhere but at him, and Dick brushes his hair back from his eyes, smiling down at him in a way that he hopes looks comforting.

“Come on, now. Back to sleep.”

“Only if you sleep too.”

2.

Dick moves in with Tim, unofficially. Or rather – Tim moves in with him, bringing his stuff to Bludhaven to stay for the week.

Dick is pleasantly surprised when Tim immediately decides to follow him instead of the other way around. They all love and are devoted to Gotham, of course, but Tim has always been steadfast in that devotion. Aside from missions that required him to leave the city, he doesn't often stay away for long.

And it will be long, there are far too many bags for him to be staying just one week like he said. Dick doesn't care to say anything and lets him bring as many things as he wants to. He's so happy he's half afraid he'll start floating, ecstatic at the idea of living with his brother after so much time spent apart.

He's also glad for the chance to take Tim away from under Bruce's eyes for a bit – B has grown suspicious over the past week and Dick can feel his eyes narrowing and settling on the both of them more often than not, trying to crack what's going on like it's a case. It makes him paranoid, to be treated like a suspect for the crime of getting along with his Timmy.

He would understand, really, if Tim wasn't happy. But he is, he is happier than he used to be and Dick is too so why can't Bruce just let it go, this once? Accept their happiness at face value?

It doesn't matter. They're not in Gotham, much less in Wayne Manor, and they can finally spend some time without Batman breathing down their necks.

The first morning, Dick wakes to the sound of something being cooked in the kitchen – he watches from the doorway as Tim plates some eggs and sets them down at a table set for two, humming something under his breath, before pouring coffee in two cups.

Drowning as he is in his PJs, he looks like a devoted spouse, a little wife. Dick's lips twitch at the thought, caught between amusement and affection that Tim would try and make breakfast for him.

“Good morning.” He tells him and watches as his younger brother brightens and launches himself at his chest for a hug.

It feels so good to hold him, Dick thinks to himself, tightening his grip on Tim's slim hips, letting him squirm with laughter for a bit.

It's like having his own personal sunshine, right in his home.

“I didn't know you cooked.”

“I don't, usually. Not much. But you like eggs, I can make eggs.” Tim informs him, in the same tone of voice that Dick has become familiar with lately, half report and half unguarded sweetness.

“That's nice of you, Timmy. Thanks.”

Tim smiles as they sit, leaning slightly against his side, soft. Without thinking, Dick makes space for him, tugging his chair closer and draping an arm on the back. He's slowly getting used to this, taking care of Tim and being taken care of in exchange.

The eggs are only a little burnt.

Everything feels good, especially when they go out on patrol. Red Robin is a streak of black and crimson, running across the rooftops, turning back just to smile at him as Nightwing chases him through the skies.

The rightness of it all settles under his skin and Dick could purr with the satisfaction it brings.

He crowds Tim against a wall, pushes until his back is pressed on the naked brick and smirks.

“I win.” He tells him, trying to downplay just how hard it was to catch him – Red Robin is fast, faster than he'd been when he was Robin. Less likely to let himself be caught during their games.

Tim laughs, winding both arms around his shoulders, looking at him through the lenses of his domino.

Dick had liked the cowl well enough but he likes him better this way. He looks free, open, with his windswept hair. He says so now, mindlessly tucking the strands back in place and Tim nods once, very seriously like he just received an order.

“I'll keep it this way, then.”

“You don't have to.” Dick reminds him, because it's true. He wants Tim to be happy, even if that includes hiding his face behind that cowl.

“You like it better. It's just a cowl.”

Dick smiles, picks him up and swings him around once – it's not something he would've done, before. But it's hard not to want to hold Tim, now that they are so close, sharing space and food and a bed, in each other's pocket every moment of every day. Dick has always wanted something like this in life, something to last through the nights and fill his days. That it's Tim, his Tim, only makes it that much better.

They always did get along best. It's nice to have confirmation that it hasn't changed, every day and every night in the way Tim looks at him. Open, honest, affectionate. That's all Dick had ever wanted from him.

This past week has been a dream, both in and out of costume.

𓅪𓅪

Tim keeps waking up at night.

Dick is troubled by the way his nightmares seem to leave him disoriented – he doesn't realise he's been sleeping or where he is, at first, and it always takes a while for him to convince his brother to sleep again.

The closer they get, the worse the problem seems to become. If Dick wasn't so certain of Tim's happiness, if he couldn't see it like he does, he'd start thinking of a possible connection.

He knows better, though. There are no doubts in him that these nightmares must simply be the result of Timmy finally allowing himself to be taken care of, his body exiting survival mode and letting him feel what he's gone through.

It's okay, most nights. Dick is there to calm him and that seems to be enough.

Times like these, though, are seriously worrying.

“Tim- Tim, come back to bed. Come on, birdy.” Dick tries to coax him back, sitting at the edge of the bed, both hands high in the air as to appear nonthreatening.

“I wasn't in bed! I wasn't- Why'd you take me to Blud?” Tim paces in the darkness, hair askew from the many times he's run his hands through the long strands.

“You choose to come here, Timmy. You've been here for almost a week, remember?”

“No, no, no, I didn't! I don't know what's going on!”

He sounds genuinely distressed, almost childish in his confusion and fear. Dick's heart squeezes in his chest, a painful pang at seeing his little brother reduced in such a state.

“Timmy.” Dick tries again, only to be interrupted.

“And why am I dressed like this?” He motions furiously at the overly big shirt, one of the many that Dick has been loaning him, tugging on it and trying to push it down to further cover his legs, “I don't shave my legs! What's going on?”

Dick pauses, trying to order his thoughts.

He didn't know about the shaving thing but he hadn't wanted to assume – with the tight suits that are common among vigilantes and heroes, he knows a fair few of them do shave or at least keep themselves well groomed. It should be weird to know that about his colleagues but putting on a skin tight suit in the same room is a humbling experience and it's caused him to be part of quite a lot of conversations that he never would've had otherwise.

Then again, maybe Tim decided to try something new. He's been changing the design of his suit often enough lately and it could just be that he's trying it out. His nightmare must have him more confused than usual.

“Timmy. I promise, it'll all make sense when you're less tired,” Dick pats the spot beside him, “Come back to sleep.”

Tim stares at him for a long moment, eyes suspiciously wet, before crawling back to his side of the bed. He sits there, long legs bare in the moonlight, and Dick reaches to hold his hand, squeezing it gently.

“It's just a nightmare, Tim.”

“I- Dick,” His voice is low, trembling like he's never heard before, “Dick, something's wrong with me.”

“No,” Dick refutes immediately, heart breaking at the thought that his brother, his Tim, might ever feel that way, “No, there isn't. I'm taking care of you, Tim. And we're happy, aren't we? During the day, when we go on patrol… we're happy.”

Tim bites his lip, shaking his head minutely, and tries to scoot away. Dick doesn't let him, though, grabbing his calf and keeping him still.

His skin is smooth, soft even through the scars. Solid with muscle but deceptively thin. Pretty. Dick's fingers seem to have a mind of their own, rubbing in absent-minded circles.

“We don't patrol together. We-” Tim coughs, harsh, visibly rattling his ribcage and Dick lunges to hold him when he bends with the strength of it, both hands covering his mouth. It ends as abruptly as it started, with a choked gasp.

“Tim? Timmy? Are you feeling sick?” The confusion, the loss of memory, the nightmares – it's all making sense in his mind, pieces snapping together, and he could kick himself for not seeing it sooner.

Of course. Of course, sickness has always exacerbated trauma.

“I'm okay,” Tim is still looking down at his lap but he shifts to lay both legs over Dick's, moving ever so close, “Sorry. I didn't want to worry you.”

“That's okay, baby bird. I don't mind taking care of you, you know that.”

He places both hands on Tim's naked knees, lightly massaging the muscle. He's glad Timmy is back in his right mind but that cough is more than a little worrying.

Tim sighs, soft and pleased, and Dick has to fight down the urge to puff out his chest when his brother lays his head on his shoulder, breathing against his neck.

“You take good care of me,” Tim says, something dreamy in his tone, “You always do.”

He shivers, squirming when Tim's hot breath washes over his skin. His younger brother draws back but he doesn't have tbe chance to feel the loss. There's a sudden lack of weight as Tim sits on his knees for a moment, only to drop back on his lap, swift and determined.

Dick's hands clutch at his hips, instinctively, and Tim melts against his chest. He swallows, mouth dry, when his brother reaches down, down between them – he's hard, he realises at that moment, he's so hard it hurts, can feel his briefs sticking to the skin, a wet patch where his cock is leaking.

How long has he been hard? Dick wants desperately to say that it was his own dream but he's all too aware that he wasn't dreaming at all. That his eyes stuck to Tim's bare legs a moment too long, that his hands were moving upward with every new word.

Tim's hand stops right before he can touch where Dick wants it most, clutching at his shirt instead. His mouth is moving Dick's neck and he shudders, hard, as he feels his tongue drag down his skin.

“Timmy-” He croaks and one of his hands lets go of Tim's hip to fall on his thigh, pressing down on that soft pale skin.

“Can I?” Tim asks, mouth moving against Dick's throat, “Can I take care of you?”

Dick can't help the strangled sound that leaves him, heart pounding in his chest – and Tim must take that as a yes because his hand slides down, down over Dick's pants, pressing against his leaking cock.

He can't help himself, all the experience he has flies out of the window and his hips thrust upward, against his brother's hand, mouth opening around a gasp.

“Fuck- fuck, Tim, we- we're brothers, Tim-” And you've just had a nightmare, is what he wants to say. What a better man would say.

But Dick's not a better man because he lets those words go when his little brother – Dick's baby brother, with his milky thighs and pink lips and his hand on Dick's cock – bites at his lobe, pulling it slightly.

“Big brother,” Tim giggles, giggles, the most beautiful sound in the world, “Can I?” His hand closes around the bulge, stroking firmly.

A better man would pull away. But Dick is weak and Tim has grown so pretty, since he left.

He doesn't know when he started noticing it but the thought has been buzzing around in his brain for longer than he'd ever care to admit.

He pushes Tim off, hurriedly pulling at his clothes, sliding his briefs down to free his hard dick – by the time he looks back up, Tim's eyes have gone empty again, a confused furrow between his brows that promises nothing good and Dick could cry, so hard is he.

He wraps his own hand around his cock, watching as Tim fights with himself, and only gives up and covers himself when his brother lets out the quietest oh and stumbles back.

“What- what the fuck?” Tim's voice is shaking, “What the fuck?”

“It's okay,” Dick sighs, “It's okay, we've done this before.”

Tim backs up into the dark corner again.

“No, we haven't! What the fuck, Dick?”

“You're sick, Timmy. It's okay. Let's just go back to sleep.”

His brother stares at him, makes to step forward only to duck away at the last moment, holding his head like it hurts. Dick winces in sympathy.

“Take the bed. I'll sleep on the couch if it makes you feel better.”

“No! We can both sleep here!” Tim's eyes go wide like he can't believe his own words, breath coming in panicked gasps, “No, I- I take the couch- unless you want me here!"

His face seems stuck between a smile and a grimace and Dick takes pity on him – no matter how horny he might still be.

“I'll take the couch.”

It's maybe a few hours later that it happens – Dick's been stuck awake, unable to sleep. He's tired but he's also worried and also, to his shame, still aroused by the memory of his little brother on his lap.

The door to the bedroom opens, a figure standing in the doorway, immobile.

Dick doesn't dare move or call out to him. Tim walks silently, until he's reached the couch.

“Let me,” He breathes in the darkness, “Sorry, I should've done it earlier.”

Dick furrows his brow, confused – until Tim crawls up and between his legs, pulling down the blankets. His cock twitches and his breath catches in his throat.

“No, that's not- you're not well, Timmy. You should sleep.” It's not convincing. He knows it's not.

He wants it too badly for that.

Tim's hands tug at his pants until he helps him pull them down, together with his underwear. His dick springs free, heavy, and Dick groans, reaching down to squeeze lightly at his sac.

Tim's hand joins him, collecting pre from the tip and sliding it down, slicking the way.

“Fuck- Oh, Timmy-” His hips move out of their own volition and he wants, desperately, to see, “Let me see you, birdy. Let me-”

“I'll let you,” Tim murmurs, pulling his shirt up to reveal that he's wearing nothing underneath, like he's come right out of one of Dick's teenage fantasies, “I'll let my big brother touch me.”

Dick shudders hard at the words, watching hungrily as Tim's slim cock is revealed. His mouth waters and he pulls him down, reverses their positions so that Dick is the one on top – their cocks slide together, sticky with pre, and the image they make is so pretty he has to stop himself from coming at the sight.

“Perfect,” He pants, leaning down to bite at a dusky pink nipple, sucking and pulling far more harshly than he should, his dick slapping against Tim's toned thighs, leaking and leaving streaks on the soft skin, “Mine- my Timmy, so good for me-”

“For you," Tim echoes, arching against him and reaching down to stroke his dick again, “I'm just for you.”

The way he looks under him, pale and flushed pink in the moonlight, is too much. Dick bullies his way between those long legs, pressing their cocks together again. He thrusts against Tim's, obsessed with the way his little brother moans, high in the back of his throat like he's trying not to scream, and with the tears collecting in his eyes, sliding down his cheeks like he can't stop them. The way his hands flutter like he doesn't know whether to hold him close or push him away. The shirt – Dick's shirt – tugged up to his collarbone, showing his nipples, bitten red and shiny with spit – and that is Dick's too.

Dick owns him, in this moment. He owns Tim's body, his mind and his pleasure. Everything that his brother is belongs to him and him alone.

He didn't know that was something he wanted, before this moment. But it must've been, it must've been lurking in the back of his mind, always, freed now by Tim's pretty moans and gasps, by his flushed dick and the way his hips thrust against Dick's, twitching like he's lost all control of his body, mouth open and drooling through the tears.

They come together, their cum mixing on Tim's flat stomach. Dick swirls his fingers in the mess and paints Tim's lips with it, pushes it in his mouth and down his throat.

Timmy, perfect baby brother that he is, swallows, staring docilely into his eyes.

3.

Sex is just one more thing they do, now.

Tim sometimes acts confused or irritated, still getting used to not running, but Dick is not going to let that stop him from taking care of him.

Sometimes, he drops to his knees and pushes his little brother against the nearest wall – swallowing aroung him while Tim's hands hold on to his hair and he babbles nonsense through the pleasure. Dick loves nothing more than making him feel good.

Almost nothing, at least. Because Timmy will always return the favour.

He likes it best when Dick fucks his face with deep, quick thrusts. When his moods have no chance of taking over and ruining it because Dick's hands are fisted in his soft hair and his cock is pistoning out of his pretty, drooling mouth, balls slapping against his chin.

He almost always cries, fat tears sliding down his cheeks, and he looks so beautiful that it should be a crime.

Of course, they have a signal. If Timmy ever wants to stop, he only needs to slap his thigh twice and Dick will let go. They picked it together and tested it, too, but it hasn't happened yet and he knows his baby brother loves it when Dick shudders and cums deep into his throat or shoots over his face.

They stay up late into the night, Tim biting into the pillow while Dick thrusts into his tight hole – he feels mad with how good it is, how right, when he comes into him and watches thick cum drip down those soft thighs, watches Tim smear it over his hand and grip his cock, using it as lube and putting on a pretty show just for Dick.

Often, he reminds Dick that he is just for him. There's no better feeling in the world.

“You okay, birdy?” Dick presses a kiss to Tim's head where it's nestled against him.

“Are you?” Timmy asks immediately, his hand curling in Dick's shirt, “I am if you are.”

The sentiment is sweet, just as sweet as Tim had been the past weeks. And Dick would take it for good, as he's done all this time, except that he's not asking as a check-in during sex or as the occasional mumbled question after one of his nightmares.

It's Tim that got hurt enough to warrant them rushing to Leslie and then to the Manor to rest. Dick's own wellbeing has very little to do with it.

“Seriously, Timmy. Are you feeling alright?”

“I am serious,” Tim looks up at him, eyes wide and innocent, “I'm alright if you are.”

Dick can't see any sort of pain in those eyes or in the way he acts.

There's nothing reassuring about it this time, it's troubling, what with the bullet wound on his left side.

“Dick,” Bruce's voice snaps him out of his thoughts and he turns to meet his stern gaze as it examines both him and Tim, “A word?”

He swallows, something like fear rising in his chest, and stands. Tim's hands take a while to let go, though, and his brother whines through the process.

“I'll be right back.” Dick reassures him, hoping it comes across as a brotherly thing – and just that.

“You promise?”

His voice is pitched slightly higher in a pleading tone. He sounds like a lovesick teen – he is a lovesick teen – and usually Dick would like that, the way Tim goes soft and pliant and almost girlish for him but Bruce is bearing witness to it now and the knowledge makes him nervous.

“Promise.” He ignores the expectant look, the way Tim tilts his head, waiting for a kiss goodbye.

The door closes behind him with terrible finality. Bruce doesn't look at him as they make their way to his office in silence, wordlessly agreeing on not making Tim listen.

His hands sweat the whole way through.

“What's going on?” Bruce doesn't beat around the bush, “That is not normal behaviour. Not for Tim.”

Dick is- he is frustrated and worried and angry, at that. Who does Bruce think he is, to dictate what is and isn't normal in their private life? But, mostly, he's angry that Bruce is right.

He's angry that he can't bring Tim home, their home, and kiss him silly on their bed. That he can't shut them both in their bubble without Bruce coming to pop it for them.

“He's changed during that year,” Dick reminds him, “And he's still recovering from whatever happened back then.”

“He's still only seventeen, it was a year, not a lifetime,” Bruce's tone betrays no anger nor suspicion. He still trusts him and, for some reason, it makes his throat feel tight, “And it wasn't like that a couple months ago, Dick. This isn't change, there's something wrong. And I bet you know it too.”

Does he? All that Dick knows is that these past months have been blissful, that he is happy. That Tim is happy. Happy with Dick.

So, then, why does he want to ask for help? 

His eyes burn and he wants to ask, to beg, for Bruce to fix it. Fix the mess that Dick has made of things, fix everything that's gone wrong.

He's broken something, he knows he has. Like the time he was fourteen and tripped into a glass vase on the second floor. The shards are all around him, dirtying his hands with thick, viscous blood.

But he's happy. Doesn't that matter?

“I don't know what you're asking me.”

“I'm asking you if I should be concerned. If there's anything I should know.”

“No,” The word almost chokes him, “No, he just needs some time. Everything is fine.”

𓅪𓅪𓅪

He doesn't go out on patrol that night. Officially, it's to take care of Tim.

In reality, he waits until his little brother is asleep, breathing deeply, and makes his way towards his old bedroom.

The empty box is still there, as are the remains of the wishing stick.

Dick sits for a long moment, just staring at them. If he's right, nothing will change. If he's wrong, he has done something unforgivable. Does he really want to know?

The answer is no, of course. No, he doesn't want to. But he needs to.

He needs to know.

There's a number printed on the back, together with the name of a site. He remembers being a teenager, years ago when they'd first discovered the existence of them through Constantine. Remembers asking him, What about the people behind that number? Can't we do anything to stop them?

Remembers the answer too, By all means, good luck tracking them down.

He stares at it until he's sure the number is burned in his memory – and calls.

It rings only once.

“Hello?” A male voice answers, sounding tired.

“Hi. I- I would like to know-”

“Yes, yes. You want to alter or delete a wish, correct?” The voice stops him.

“I don't know, I just want to know what it did.”

There's a sigh on the other end of the line.

“You know what it did. It did what you wished for. ”

Dick closes his eyes, counts to ten as he tries to ignore the memories forcing their way in. He's not wrong, not about this.

He can't be.

“No, I- He's happy, then?”

“Did you wish for him to be happy?” The voice asks and there's something mocking in it, “Listen. Do you want to talk to him?”

“What? Who?”

The person behind all this, he thinks to himself privately, it must be.

“Timothy.”

The name is a cold shock, ice sliding down his veins. Dick freezes, heart pounding so loudly he can feel it in his throat. Trying to escape, together with the bile that has suddenly risen to his mouth, thick and sour with regret.

“My brother is here with me. He's sleeping.” He responds, mechanical.

“Is he?” The voice inquires.

“Yes. Of course he is.”

“Hm. I think you should talk to him anyway. Just a moment.” There's a small beep and, before Dick can protest, the line is filled with heavy breathing and low, wounded sounds.

“Hello?” He asks, voice trembling.

“Dick,” Tim's voice sounds wrecked, like he's been sobbing and screaming himself hoarse, “Dick, please, please- it's not me. It's not me, it's not me, please.”

Nausea rolls in his stomach, his mouth is drier than a desert.

Outside, the sun finally sets.

“Please, please, kill me. Please, you have to kill me.”

He walks back to Tim's room, numb.

“He didn't fight that hard in the beginning. I'm guessing because he already loved you like that. It just made him be more open.”

But the glass of water had almost fallen. The eggs were burnt.

Tim is awake, staring up at the ceiling. He smiles when Dick steps close, pulls himself up and bats his lashes, pretty as sin.

Even now, he is everything Dick had wanted.

And a monument to all that he has lost.

“What were you doing?” Dick croaks, trying to put on a smile of his own.

“Thinking of an old case. It reminds me of us,” Tim whispers conspiratorially, “It was about these siblings – they lived together after their parents died. They were so happy after they escaped.” His smile turns even brighter, eyes fixed on Dick's own, “But they were so, so lonely. So lonely that her brother started coming to her room, to fuck her, to fill the void in her with him, every night.”

He knows what case Tim is talking about – knows the siblings he's describing. He knows the brother had forced himself on his sister, after escaping horrific abuse from their own father and holing up into a crumbling building in Park Row.

After all that, he'd ended up following in his father's footsteps, every night for years, until his sister hung herself from the rafters, swinging back and forth as her rapist wept for her. Her diary had been full of memories, growing increasingly more desperate and detached from her brother.

For the longest time, while they investigated and put the pieces together, their file had been saved in the batcomputer as 'Hansel and Gretel', from the book of Grimm fairytales they'd found by her body. By the time Tim had come into their lives, it should've been changed.

Evidently, it never was.

It had been a brutal reminder, the very worst humanity had to offer, wrapped in a thick curtain of tragedy. She'd been so young. Not even eighteen yet.

Like Tim.

He's only seventeen, it was a year, not a lifetime.

Seventeen. When had Dick forgotten that, exactly?

“It reminds you of us?” Dick asks, feeling the world crumble beneath his feet, “That?” His disgust is a physical thing.

Worse – he can't refute the notion. He can't.

Tim's fingers ghost over his arm, down his chest, “You came in my bed, too. I let you touch me like you wanted.”

“You wanted it too.” The words ring hollow. False.

It's not me, it's not me. It's not me.

Kill me.

“I do, I do want it. It's romantic, like Gretel said.”

His eyes are empty. Dick knows they are. He knows they've been empty, how long has he known? Since the beginning? – maybe that's why he kept looking at them, making up new emotions to fit inside them. Bright, beautiful but empty. 

We don't patrol together.

It's never been Tim. Who has Dick been sleeping next to? Who has he been letting inhabit his little brother's body?

The word is a mockery, by now. Brother. That's all that Tim loves him as, all that Dick was supposed to be. He ruined that. He ruined that word and he ruined them both.

“As your feelings changed, so did the conditions for the wish.”

The nightmares had gotten worse.

I didn't know, he tells himself, for what must be the millionth time, I didn't know you didn't want it.

Hadn't he?

“It's not, though. It's not romantic.”

Tim blinks, taken aback. His hands jerk, for a moment, like they're lagging behind his mind – and they are. Everything is.

Have his movements always been this mechanical? Is that new?

Or did he just not want to see it before?

Tim could've left signs, he told himself, in the quiet after that phonecall, he could've done more.

Realising that he'd thought something like that had made everything so much worse.

“It is.” Tim pulls him down, to sit with him, he's so warm against Dick's chest, his head resting over his heart, where he's always belonged, “It's us.”

“He's for you, now. Whoever he is.”

He closes his eyes against the tears.

“I want to change my wish.”

“No can do.”

“Delete it, then.”

“That's not possible.”

“What can I do? How do I fix this?”

“Well, if you don't want to kill him, you could always kill yourself.”

“What?”

“A wish is for life. Yours or his.”