There were a lot of things that Tim was really good at. Take free jumping, for one thing. The kid could take a leap off an eighty-footer, make your heart pound with fear in your chest, and land safely and quite stably on the next rooftop below. Not a cut or scratch, not so much as a wrinkle in his cape. His eyes watery and thrilled from the jump, meanwhile you're still trying to catch your breath and tell yourself he's fine.
And scaling, he was a pro at scaling just about everything in Gotham. Say there's an advantage point, a gargoyle, at the top of the same eighty-footer and he'd reach it before you could even say, "No Tim." Wayne Tower was child's play for him, forget the slick of the neatly-polished glass that he could conquer in record time, every time.
He was a quick learner too, always picking up on things. Teach him something and he'd never forget it, not in a million and one years, that's for sure. And it wasn't just his straight-A classes or his martial arts that he excelled at. It was little compassionate things like how he always knew when Bruce needed the extra laugh, or when Alfred needed the day off from chores.
Sometimes Tim scared Dick, and he had to wonder if he had been just as reckless when he had been Robin. You could never keep your eye on him for too long before he needed chasing after again. It certainly wasn't an understatement to say that Bruce had his hands full with the kid. And that was okay sometimes, to keep him busy. God knows he brought light into the Batcave on even the darkest days.
Oracle had taken a liking to him when he'd first been recruited—go figure the kid was a computer whiz, right? Commissioner Gordon was instantly captivated by this entirely new Robin too, though how much he actually knew Dick was unsure. Almost everyone he encountered could sense the goodness behind the boy that had spent almost two decades in Gotham. An impressive feat. Which was why the goodness scared Dick too, the underlying fear of its corruption in the dead of night, snatched from him like Dick's life had been when he was Robin.
All things considered, it wouldn't be inaccurate to say that Tim was the best of the Robins.
It was after they'd all already finished their separate brawling with Gotham's finest that Dick possessed the Batcave with his presence. Earlier in the night he'd come in from Blüdhaven, like usual, to spend some time with the better half of the finest. Bruce was on the Batcomputer tapping away at the keys, half his costume still on—one of Dick's constant memories. Tim was going through the ringer with a punching bag, nearly beating it to a pulp with every swing. It was starting to feel a lot like home; the silence, the chill, the family. It was only broken when Bruce said, "Dick, Tim needs some brushing up on his hand-to-hand combat skills."
Dick looked at Tim hesitantly. See, Tim wasn't bad at anything. He was the type of kid that could've prospered in any walk of life, and lucky for them he'd chosen this one. Of course, no one was perfect, and he was just a teenager. But if there was anything he needed brushing up on, basic fighting skills would not have come to Dick's mind.
Tim rolled his eyes, pausing in his attempts to dehinge the sandbag, and said, "He's just overreacting because I made a rookie mistake. Won't happen again!" He added loud enough for Bruce to hear.
"No, Tim," Batman replied, "My reaction is completely level. You could've gotten yourself and others killed tonight." Dick noted that the man still hadn't looked up from clacking at the keyboard. "I'm asking Dick to help you so that you won't make the same mistake twice. And if you want to keep the suit, I suggest you do what I say."
Tim sighed but, seeing no way around it and not wanting to try Bruce's patience, motioned for Dick to follow him with a jerk of his head. Dick bounded up beside him as they made their way to the training side of the Batcave, thumping Tim on the back as he went. "What did you do?" He whispered, throwing a glance back at the hunched figure at the computer screen.
"Like I said," Tim stated matter-of-factly, "he's overreacting. It was just a drug bust on the docks, not even a single hair-brained lunatic, y'know, an easy night! Of course they had guns and all, kindergarten, but apparently we rained on their parade a little too soon for their liking. What can I say? Maybe I got a little ahead of myself."
This, Dick knew, was true. Tim wasn't the type of kid to just sit around waiting, and that was mainly what comprised of drug busts with Batman. He was a boy of action, and in some ways that was great. Unfortunately, it was also a big weakness. There was a little part of Dick that agreed with Batman's reaction, even if the incident had been miniscule—Tim was a reckless kid. He'd probably even provoked the thugs into attack with that smart mouth of his, teasing them, letting them get too close… Perhaps he was ambushed, or else someone pulled a trick on him, and he couldn't get out. And Robin was no help to Batman if he was incapacitated.
But the other part of Dick—the bigger part—remembered what it was like to don the Robin suit. And while it was nothing compared to being Nightwing, he could still clearly remember the days of teenage rebellion and hormones rushing through his veins. He understood why Tim maybe forgot to check his peripherals, underestimated the strength and weaponry, failed to see a punch coming straight for him because, perhaps, he thought he had it in the bag. There was nothing wrong with his fighting skills. It was just the desire to feel that sought-after adrenaline in his veins.
"So do you really still want to do this then?" Dick asked. "I mean, we both know that you're more than competent. I figure Bruce is just putting you through the ringer until this blows over..."
"No," Tim said, getting into stance and appraising Dick with a smirk. "I haven't had a decent opponent in a long time."
Dick gave a slight chuckle and mimicked the all too familiar movements. "Fair enough."
Tim opened quickly with a left cross, losing no time when Dick ducked, letting the fist sail past his ear. He retreated and returned, sending another quick burst of fists Dick's way. The onslaught forced Dick into defence, not yet being able to counter as he relied on his quick feet. He continue to duck until just the right moment, waiting for Tim's balance to loosen—no, not Tim, Robin—and he flourished a low kick meant to knock him off his feet, which instead just caused him to stumble into a backwards rendition of a cartwheel. Dick swiftly lunged toward him again, leaving him enough room to respond as necessary. Robin tried for the ribs, then the stomach, then the thighs, and in one fluid motion Dick grabbed his wrist and sent him back spiraling to the ground.
Robin had gotten a lot taller over the years and had begun to fill into his form, becoming more sure of himself and more easy in his movements. He'd acquired muscle due to the rigorous training and fighting over the years, which now rippled beneath his suit at every move. When Dick sized him up he realized there wasn't much differing them physically anymore, and he couldn't decide for the moment whether that was a good or bad thing. His skills were certainly only getting better, as Dick could see, and their fights were no longer ending so soon. Combat was the last thing that Robin needed help with—especially if Dick still wanted to win their practices.
Robin got up, and wasted no time in his next move. With one foot forward he brought his gloved hands in for a box to the ears. Dick grabbed both his wrists in his own hands eloquently, and forced Robin onto one knee, ending the attack. Dick mentally sighed. Maybe Batman's worry wasn't in vain.
"'Rookie move,' Tim?" He questioned, not letting go of the hands. Tim grimaced for a moment beneath the mask, looking up into Dick's eyes. Their breathing was beginning to slow, from harsh pants to steady sighs. Recovery time was quick, but Dick still didn't let go, and he didn't break the encompassing silence either.
He couldn't measure how long they stayed like that before Tim's face sobered, the red rushing out of his cheeks in the cool cave. Somewhere in the distance they could hear Bruce's clicking, but that seemed lifetimes away. Slowely, Tim raised himself, and Dick's grip tightened. But Robin wasn't going anywhere.
Tim was searching Dick's eyes, then, and whatever it was he was looking for he must've found because—just as slowly—he leaned in, careful not to be too sudden. At first, their lips brushed experimentally, and Dick could tell Tim wouldn't initiate any further. He'd come a long way. And this wasn't something you could train for, not the paralysis of the mind that overcame Dick as he realised what was happening.
Tim's lips were so soft really. Slightly wet, and for a second Dick had the impulse to swipe his tongue across them. For that same recklessness he knew belonged to Robin and could feel inside him, he acted on it.
His tongue slid out and licked a slow trail across Tim's parted lips, and it was like the trigger to releasing all their inhibitions at once, because Tim was grabbing Dick's face, and Dick was pulling him in closer, and they were backing up, looking for solace against a wall, which Dick found. Rough hands shoved against each other, battling, their tongues swirling and pushing, hot and wet and fast against the inside of their cheeks and teeth. But eventually, when Dick had flipped them around so that Tim was against the wall, he had given up fight, because he was a quick learner.
Dick pulled away from Robin but Tim pulled in for another kiss, trying to steal one from the resisting man whose head was screaming at him to stop, stop, stop. Their breathing had returned to heavy pants, the ghost of a moan. They were searching each other's eyes once more.
Tim smiled. A great big wide smile that reminded Dick just how young he was. How naïve he was. How careless he could be, wound up as he was in his hormones and impulses. But the smile only made Dick want to keep going, keep seeing that goodness and that light that existed because of Tim.
Dick's hand curled in Robin's hair, playing with a tendril while the other boy lavished the feel. He tugged on the boyish fringe, dancing down to his temple, finding the edge of his mask that covered those shining eyes. Dick's fingers slipped beneath it and hesitated just before peeling it off. The action alone felt so intimate, so secret, that he wasn't sure what to do next. Wasn't sure if he had overstepped the boundaries, as he watched Robin become Tim, who was looking at him with something less than adoration but more than just lust.
The kiss that followed was slower, gentler; giving each other time to explore the other's mouths—which Dick was happy to admit couldn't be written off as hormones. His hands were feeling at the body armour covering Tim, lowering to fumble at the utility belt, which he knew from experience how to get off. Tim felt it too, and let out a small moan of longing, one which Dick quieted with his lips.
Dick was trying his best to think responsibly, to be the adult in the situation. But instead it was like watching him jump off the building, taking Dick with him.
Fumbling beneath the suit, Dick grasped for Tim's arousal, squeezing it in his hands. Another groan tore its way out of Tim's mouth, his eyes screwed up, face contorted. Watching him squirm was turning Dick on more and more, and he ran his fist along the length again, not too tight or too loose, but an agonizing middle ground that was too close to pitching you off the edge without actually doing it.
Then Tim's hands were reaching at Dick, gripping clasps and buckles and trying desperately for his prize, unfamiliar with the way Nightwing dressed—or undressed, for that matter. When he was revealed, though, Dick thought he saw a small amount of "wow" on Tim's face, and that left him feeling smug before Tim grabbed the both of their cocks together in one of his fists and he couldn't comprehend any emotion other than that same "wow." Dick had to stifle his moan for fear they'd be heard, but then he yanked Tim in closer by the hair, kissing him sloppily while his hands worked below them.
The hand—Robin's hand—was squeezing and gripping, and rubbing over the tips, and pulling them closer than ever before. It made Dick's head hurt to think despite occasional pants and groans, but he wondered just where Tim had learned this particular trade. Still, he knew Tim was bad at nothing. And it was that final steel grip that sent Dick cascading forward, coming over the both of them in thick white seed, followed swiftly by Tim, and as his eyes burst white Dick wondered how they'd lasted so long anyways, his mouth still on Tim's.
Dick watched Tim slowly regain composure, the after-glow practically rolling off him in waves that was better than any high of adrenaline. He grinned a lopsided grin, looking for all the world like Dick was all he ever wanted and all he knew he could have. Everything about him reaffirmed that he wasn't just the best Robin—he was the best everything. Dick could listen to his breathing return to normal all day, whether it be after a drugs bust or sex—so when his breathing stopped altogether it startled Dick just enough to turn around.
And boy if they'd thought he'd put them through the ringer before.