Once again I take my odd mesh of SV and DCU and go traipsing through the forest of HUH? Clark/Dick? What am I thinking? Just all the WRONG! And of course the question of Bruce and Dick and did they or didn't they and MY BRAIN! *sigh*
Continuation of Somewhere Between
Title: Somewhere Between, part 2
Pairing: Clark/Dick; Bruce/Clark, Bruce/Dick, Dick/Kory and Dick/Roy implied
Rating: Adult, NC-17
Length: 2543 words
Spoilers: future fic for SV, *loosely* based on DC's retcon of Nightwing (post-Crisis)
Warnings: slash, angst
Disclaimer: Not mine, seriously. All belongs to Al & Miles, WB/CW and DC Comics.
A/N: Once again, this Dick is much more bitter and worldly-wise than he should be. My apologies.
Summary: Clark gets a phone call from Dick. He goes to New York. They hang out.
“I can’t believe you hip-checked me,” Clark laughs as Dick fumbles for the keys to his apartment. He opens the door.
“I thought I’d save the pinball machine a little humiliation,” Dick says, entering. “Besides, it was hungry for another few quarters. I could feel it.”
“You mean you were bored and wanted me to throw the game.”
Dick opens the door, small apartment, four flight walk-up, starving student New York chic, mismatched furniture.
Just a pause and a quarter-turn, a wistful smile and whisper. “You’re never boring, Clark.”
“That’s not what Br…”
Dick sighs, flips a lamp switch. “He never says, he implies. And he wouldn’t have implied it if he came close to thinking it true.” He walks over to the couch, leans forward, one knee dipping into the upholstery, and starts flipping through CD’s. “He…don’t you know how to read him by now?”
Clark closes the door behind him, stands in the entry. “Sometimes. It’s usually the equivalent of ‘get off my lawn!’ and ‘I can barely tolerate your idiocy’ with him.
Dick puts in a CD. Something alternative and edgy but soft fills the room. Clark just feels old. He has no idea who this is. But then again, he was never hip to begin with.
“Then you don’t,” Dick says. “Because…” He lets the sentence die off. His face changes to a mischievous grin. “Beer?”
“I’ve got a six-pack in the fridge.”
He opens his mouth to lecture about underage drinking, but Dick has wrestled with much worse things than alcohol. So ‘okay’ pops out of his mouth instead. It takes about a keg and a half to get Clark buzzed. He knows this. He tried it once at MetU. One beer isn’t going to hurt him. And he’d keep an eye on Dick if he went for a second. Okay, maybe if he went for a third. Dick’s had a hard day and he hasn’t even come close to talking about it yet.
Clark sits on the couch, takes his boots off before he puts his feet on the coffee table. He stares at the blank TV and wonders if he should pick up the remote. The music, full of youthful pain and the melody of self-importance, stops him.
Dick returns with two open bottles. “Mi casa, su casa,” he says, eyeing Clark’s white socks, and hands him a bottle.
He sits, takes off his own boots, a fluid motion, and puts his feet next to Clark’s. He raises his bottle and Clark gently clinks it with his own. Dick tilts his head back and drinks. Clark takes a small sip from his.
Dick shifts, moves his arm until it drapes companionably over Clark’s shoulder.
“Hey, big guy,” he says soft. “Thanks for coming over.” He leans in and back, rests his head on Clark, nestles and sighs.
Dick’s always needed comfort and contact, lives in such a physical world, that Clark can only slide his own arm around him. And he’s only had one or two sips of beer, laughably useless, but the image of Bruce, a wire bat, and a wounded Robin clinging to that cape seeps into him. He gently squeezes Dick’s shoulder, nestles his own head into that soft hair.
They sit that way, not speaking, for a while. They drink. The music lyrical and lonesome from the speakers behind. Outside, the traffic bleats. Inside, the light soft and shadowed.
“Clark?” Dick says, moving his head slightly, looking up.
Dick shifts, turning in. “Just…just don’t weird out.”
And it all goes slow motion, as if Clark had sped up without thinking about it, and Dick’s mouth is on his, soft. “Don’t weird out…” An entreaty, whisper soft against his lips, tongue sliding in past the quiet shock.
It’s been years since anyone’s kissed him. Not since college and certainly not since the suit. He’s missed it. And that slight hesitation, that lack of an immediate ‘no’ and recoil, finds Dick straddling him, dancer-quick and graceful. The empties slide to the floor, bounce and roll, as Dick’s hands reach up to Clark’s face and Clark’s hands move towards that waist.
“Dick,” he manages to say, when Dick takes a deep breath, forehead against his. “This isn’t…You’re…”
This isn’t appropriate. You’re too young. Confused.
“You’re not into guys,” Dick says, a yearning disappointment, thumb tracing Clark’s cheekbone, hips swaying against Clark’s thighs.
“I’ve never…but that’s not the point. You’re involved.”
Dick sighs, leans back in, kisses the side of Clark’s mouth, little nips. “Kory’s cool with it,” he says. “I cleared it with her before I called you.”
His ‘what?’ gets swallowed up by Dick’s tongue before he can voice it.
He’s weak. And Dick’s a good kisser. His hands knead that muscular waist, so slim his fingers almost meet.
“Lame-ass booty call,” Dick laughs, quiet, pulling away slightly. Clark’s lightheaded, breathes long and slow. Dick leans up, thrusts his jacket on the floor, pulls his t-shirt off. He looks down, eyes half-lidded, pulls Clark’s jacket off his shoulders, pulls at the t-shirt until Clark finally helps. Both half-naked, Dick leans back in, kisses him, rubs up against him. Clark bucks, arches slightly, and stills. This is going too far.
“We could call that waitress, do it that way, but Kory wouldn’t be so cool with that,” Dick whispers into his ear, hips urging Clark to keep moving. And he does, small little pushes, up. “But it’d be worth it just to see you eat pu…”
“Dick!” Clark stills. “I don’t…”
“Do casual,” Dick finishes for him. He moves, leans down and into Clark’s chest. “I do,” he says. “Which really kind of sucks. But given the life, it’s either intense or casual.”
“But Clark,” he says, looking up. And he sounds desperate and uncertain. “This isn’t casual.”
Clark pulls him up, stares into those blue eyes, searches. Dick’s lip quivers slightly.
“Jesus, I really fucked things up, haven’t I?” he says, looking back at Clark. “I just…”
“Dick.” Clark’s hands fall away, he brushes back those bangs, traces that mouth, soothing. “What’s going on?”
“You’ve just been hands-off for so long, Clark...”
“If I’ve ever given you the impression…”
“Property of Bruce Wayne tattooed all over your ass!”
Clark’s mouth falls open, his hands go slack. “Then I’ve really given you the wrong…”
But Dick places a finger on his lips, shushes him. “I saw you first,” he says.
“You were fourteen!”
“And didn’t he remind me of it. Lecturing me on proper behavior and childhood. All while staring burning holes through your cape, waiting for the next convenient breeze to blow by so he could get a good long look.”
Clark sinks back into the couch, rubs his hands on his face. He stares at the ceiling for a while, the streetlight patterns. “You’re projecting,” he says. “He never…he’s not like that.”
Dick puts his hand under Clark’s chin, tilts his head back up. “He doesn’t want to be. But you’re certainly a chink in his moral armor.”
Clark laughs. “Bruce? He sleeps around. With women."
Dick’s eyes narrow. “You’ve noticed.”
“I’m just saying that he’d have no problem parading men around if that’s what he wanted.”
Dick sighs. “Clark, think about it, you’re family.”
Family…but that means that Dick thinks about him as family too, and here he is half-molested with his shirt off and…No.
“What…What did he do to you?” His voice a far off thing.
Dick scrambles off his lap. “Clark, don’t…”
“What did he do to you?”
Dick looks frightened now, but all Clark can feel is that red ball of rage. He’d slept in that house, sat at that breakfast table. He’d allowed it, all while smiling and asking Dick to pass the orange juice. God, he’s stupid, so stupid.
“Don’t you protect him. Don’t you dare protect him!” He’s furious, wants to tear the walls down with his bare hands. He’s going to run out of there, hell with the shirt, and burn that house of horrors to the ground.
He’s at the door and it’s half open when he hears, “Roy! It was Roy! I only messed around with Roy!”
Clark turns, hands shaking.
“It was Roy,” Dick says. “We were kids. Clark, Jesus, please…”
And he’s standing in the middle of the room, shivering, voice breaking and pleading.
“Why are you protecting him?” Clark says, unwilling to let go of that burning doubt. “Why?”
“Truth?” Dick says, and he’s laughing, a choking, baying sound. “I tried.”
“Dick, hey…” Clark moves forward, wraps his arms around him.
“I tried,” he says into Clark’s shoulder. “People were saying shit and I was so pissed…and fuck, I tried. And…and…he just told me to put my shirt back on and walked out of the room. He didn’t talk to me for three days after that. Do you know what his silences are like? Bone-crushing. And I felt…fuck!”
He’s shaking, breathing hard, but all dry, and Clark just pets his hair, holds him gently.
“And then you come flying in. What does he do? Invites you into the pool and tells me to go do my homework. Adults only. How blind are you, Clark?”
Clark holds him. “He has to draw those boundaries.” He says this with relief, no matter how much it hurts to see Dick like this. “But you’re wrong about him. He only tolerates me. I annoy him most of the time.”
“In his pants. You’re the pain in the ass he wants. Me, I’m just the pain in the ass that he’s glad grew old enough to kick out the door. I made it to eighteen. He wins.”
So that’s what this is about. Get one over on the old man, an old childhood crush that’s turned into a game. Cain and Abel in the wisteria-hooded gardens of Wayne Manor.
“I’m not coming between you,” Clark says. “Not like this.”
Dick holds onto him. They just stand there, socks and jeans, and Clark notices that Dick’s only half a head shorter than him. When did he get so tall?
“I need another beer,” Dick says. “I’m not good with the drama.” He pulls away, goes back to the kitchen. He watches that lean back glide away. A few years ago, this would have been Clark’s cue to exit. He’s not so good with the drama either. But instead, he goes back to the couch and tries to find his shirt.
He’s about to put it back on when Dick comes back, two beers in hand. “Hey,” he says, “If you put yours back on that means I have to and then we’ll get uncomfortable and retreat into guy-land denial crap. Just leave me the view.”
Guy-land denial sounds pretty good to Clark. “TV?” he says, picking up the remote. “I think Conan’s on.” But he leaves the shirt off, takes the second beer from Dick.
So Conan’s going on about his second trip to Helsinki, the audience is laughing as he attempts to say something in Finnish, when Clark hears something remarkably like “Fuck it”, and feels Dick lean against him, put his hand on his thigh.
Maybe he should leave, but the day drains away and Dick just leans into him, comfortable, touching like he’s always done. Clark misses this too. No one touches him except in combat or the gratitude extended a god.
So he says nothing as Subaru’s new line races past on the screen and Dick turns away from the TV and into him, his mouth tracing a teasing line on his shoulder and then across his chest.
“Don’t say no,” he whispers. “Don’t say no.”
Clark doesn’t. He just puts his beer down and nods. Dick’s mouth moves up to his neck. He tilts his head down, slightly to the side, as Dick rises. He closes his eyes and they kiss, slow and exploring. Dick’s thigh moves across Clark’s lap and he moves Clark’s hand to his ass.
Dick’s ass and his hand is squeezing it and what’s he doing? But Dick whispers, “Don’t say no,” again before he can even think about stopping.
Plus his hands don’t seem to be taking orders from his brain anymore.
“I’d talk dirty, but I think I’d scare you,” Dick says, rubbing against Clark’s hip and back into his hand. “I’m a talker, Clark. Can I talk to you?” This last part he hisses out, arching and rising, nipple scraping across Clark’s chin and up.
“Lick it. Just stick your tongue out and…yeah.” Clark’s tongue is out, broad and wet, and one long move. And another. Ignores the wisps of hair that drag across his tongue.
Dick shudders, grips his head, hands in his hair. “Knew it…so sensual…God, Clark…”
He swoops down, hands on either side of Clark’s face, and kisses him, hard. “Have to…” And he reaches down and Clark hears the button open, the zipper go down, feels Dick’s now free cock move on his belly.
“Shhh,” Dick says. “Don’t be scared, don’t be scared.”
Bounty is the quicker picker-upper, the TV says. Rachel Ray is our special guest. Musical guest, Fall Out Boy.
“Don’t be scared,” Dick says as he reaches for Clark’s jeans, opens them. Dick’s fingers slide down inside. “Hard for me,” he says. “Hard.”
Clark can’t talk back. The words fall on his ears. He lifts up into that hand, says screw it to gravity.
“No mile-high stuff, Clark,” Dick says. “Down, boy.”
Clark feels the couch again. “I…”
“Shhh.” Dick moves down, swirls his tongue in Clark’s navel, blows. “I’m going to suck you, stick my tongue in your…”
“Oh God, stop!”
Dick looks up at him, startled. “Clark, are you going to…?”
“Yeah.” He nods, frantic. “Just…”
Dick rests his head on Clark’s thigh, grins. “From me talking? How long…?”
“A long time.”
“Don’t you…?” And Dick’s hand makes up and down motions in the air.
“I do! It’s just, um, not the same.”
Dick can’t stop grinning. He shakes his head. “I really am taking advantage of you,” he says, but with a growing wonder. “Oh Clark…” He sits down next to him, kisses him long and soft. “We’ll take it slow.”
He doesn’t know what makes his head turn. The distant sounds come in when he filters out the TV, Dick’s heartbeat, his own. But he turns, looking out the window, the curtains drawn, the blinds up.
And a third heartbeat, on the rooftop across, so familiar.
“Let him watch,” Dick says, trying to turn Clark back to him. “Who gives a shit?”
The couch, making out like a teenager. God, so stupid. All a show. Clark stands. The words don’t come as he points, looks at Dick, accusing.
Dick slumps, puts his head in his hands. “Even if I’d closed them, taken this to the back, he would have turned on the cameras. Clark, I didn’t…”
Cameras. Clark scans the room. He finds three.
“You could have taken them out, warned me, something!”
Dick just shakes his head. “I’ve taken them out before. Clark, look, I want this. I don’t care what…”
But Clark’s outside, making that leap. Dick’s quiet plea of “Don’t hurt him” distant as he touches down, Batman just three feet in front of him.
continues in part 3