It's Valentine's day, sam has gone out with eileen, dean and cas are stuck in the bunker without dates or anything to do ...... The air conditioning stops working, it gets real hot and sweaty and they both decide they are wearing too many layers .... and whatever ensues I'll leave it up to you.
here you go, anon: (I had to retype this, and reedit this, with the help of the amazing @3dg310rdsupreme so like. just remember to curse tumblr before you start reading, cause that’s why it took ridiculously long:)
***
“So?” Dean raises his eyebrows at Cas, starting to walk down the stairs with an angel by his side. They’ve just finished waving Sam and Eileen off to their date - which is exactly what it sounds like; he stood in the doorway, and Cas smiled from the doorway, until Sam’s car disappeared down the road. “Dinner?”
“Of course.” Cas nods.
He’s not going to eat, but there’s a little something called company. Dean doesn’t want to eat alone. And what’s more, Dean’s even going to set up a plate for him. He started doing so a while back, cause otherwise it’s just like Cas is there to watch him.
And be it eating or sleeping - that’s always weird.
Walking all the way to the kitchen feels like trekking towards the centre of the Earth. Dean scrubs his face in annoyance, exhaling impatiently. He’s supposed to get used to it.
It’s really hot. And they’re underground, in a windowless bunker. A bunker with a broken air-conditioner - it’s ancient; so that’s justifiable, was the general consensus, but Dean’s willing to bet it all boils down to their exceptional Chuck-induced bad luck, and Fortuna just wasn’t a good enough godly mechanic.
Or maybe she never anticipated that heroes could get hot, too. Sweating is for the weak and the transient - or some shit. Dean can practically picture her sneer.
Jesus, he hates her.
“Do you need help?” Cas says, once they’re in the kitchen. Dean turns around to blink at him, while he returns to the present. Cas manages to make it sound like were Dean to say yes, Cas would actually help him prepare food.
Now, Cas is good for a lot of stuff. Strong, strategic, trustable instincts. Brave. But he isn’t worth shit in the kitchen. Dean isn’t really sure if Cas knows that but he hopes, for his sake, that he does.
Yet, it’s an earnest question, ridiculous or not, so Dean earnestly shakes his head in response. “I made dinner while the rest of you were busy helping Sam choose a corset.”
It’s the kind of hot where Dean’s automatically surly. Sure, he generally is too - but right now, he doesn’t even have to try.
“It was his shirt.” Cas corrects, simply, and Dean rolls his eyes at the walls as he turns around to get plates. “My advice was to go with the pecan.”
“Was he wearing a pie?” Dean throws back, dryly. He’s got the plates. Now he puts them on the table, and turns to fetch spoons. Cas is still standing, because of course he is. “Guess I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Pecan’s a shade of brown.” Cas states for the record, and Dean’s getting tired of Cas not going along with his lines.
And he’s really getting tired of the goddamn heat.
“Too bad. Now I want dessert. Way to ruin burgers, Cas.” Dean snaps, and Cas looks a little startled - and would you look at that. Even Cas is sweating. There’s beads of sweat on his forehead, and his coat seems even more uncomfortable than usual.
Suck it, Fortuna. Real heroes sweat.
“You know what?” Dean mutters, mostly to himself. He really is trying to be less of a jerk - but he can’t seem to help it. It’s Valentine’s day, and it’s hot. So he decides to stop talking, and takes off his jacket, a deep blue leather utility, and shucks it away on a counter.
Cas seems to find this interesting, his eyes following Dean around the room; so then Dean does the first thing that comes to mind.
He walks over to Cas, and holds his hand out.
Cas stares at it, like he’s trying to figure out the purpose of its existence. Dean helps him, because he’s awesome like that.
“Your coat.”
Because why the fuck not?
“Oh.” Cas unstiffs - Dean isn’t kidding, that’s an actual thing he can do, okay - and almost rewards Dean with a smile. Just like that, he’s wriggling out of his trenchcoat, the sleeves not clinging to his jacket because apparently that only happens to him. Or probably because the coat classifies as oversized, even after all these years.
Once he’s removed it, Cas folds it from the middle like he’s never folded a coat before, and hands it to Dean.
“Great. Let’s sit down.” Dean tells him, putting his coat away on the same slab where he’s deposited his own. When he turns around, Cas is sitting, and has folded his arms on the table. The bunker lights, like his eyes, linger on Cas’s jacket.
To be fair, he doesn’t usually get to do this - because Cas doesn’t usually take off his trench. Guy’s emotionally attached to it or something.
But he looks - well, so much better without it. Obviously, Dean’s not referring to the way the black makes him look broader, or the buttons draw attention to the suit’s tapered waist. He just looks a lot more comfortable, compared to before.
Speaking of.
It’s still so fucking hot.
“Dean,” Cas begins randomly, once they’re both sitting. Dean’s about to start eating but he stops at Cas’s voice, soft and unsure. “I need to ask you something.”
For some reason, Dean swallows. “Yeah?”
“It is Valentine’s day, after all.” Cas justifies preemptively, and Dean looks up at him.
“So?”
“Is this a date?” Cas finally asks, blue eyes boring into Dean’s, something profound in his words.
Dean pretty much stops thinking, as if on cue. “What? No.” He gets up. He shouldn’t have gotten up. He’s already up. “Is this about dinner? Jesus, Cas,” He hopes he sounds exasperated, he’s trying to. “Hell, is this about me taking your coat before you sit? It’s burning up, man, what do you expect me to do?”
Cas stands up too, wordlessly.
He looks like he’d still like an answer. He looks like he might even repeat the question.
Before something else - something worse can happen, Dean’s picked up his plate. “I’m going to have dinner in my room. Feel free to…do whatever you want. Apparently, It’s Valentine’s day.” He adds, halfways to a scoff, as he marches out of the room.
(Remember how Dean’s stopped thinking? Yeah.)
Cas picks up both of their coats before walking away, a few minutes later. There’s something heavy in the air, left behind.
*
Dean’s done eating.
And because this is his life - his sad, pathetic life- his entire room has somehow grown even more annoyingly hot.
Burdened with misery all the way down to his sweaty socks, he wonders what Cas is up to.
Dude could be in the library, or his bedroom, or hell, even in the kitchen. He could be reading. Or training. (Or, Dean’s mind drifted, waiting.) What could Cas be doing, aside from stewing in this heat, which seems to be all Dean’s doing at the moment?
Except of course, thinking about Cas. But he doesn’t really count that as a separate activity, anymore. In more ways than one, it’s perpetual.
Well, he convinces himself, as he picks up his plate and walks out of his bedroom, arguably hoping to find Cas - he’s got to put the plates in the sink, at some point.
Dean finds Cas in the hallway, walking towards him - or like, in his general direction, and the first thing Dean notices is that he’s not wearing a fucking jacket anymore.
“Hey.” He stops, shuffling his weight on his feet. He takes up a second to imagine what it would be like if Cas didn’t stop, but then he does - so at least Dean’s got that going on for him.
“It’s hot, isn’t it?” Cas remarks, matter-of-factly.
His expression’s perfectly serious, but Dean can swear there’s something else there. He can’t put his finger on it- but there’s something off. It’s the way Cas emphasizes the question tag. Or in the way he says the entire damn sentence.
Or maybe, Dean’s just overthinking words to avoid letting himself think about Cas in his white shirt.
His tie’s still in place, but the suit jacket’s gone, and its left the sleeves all crumpled. That’s a possible reason for Cas to have folded the sleeves up to his elbow, putting on display his forearms. And wrists.
When Dean forces himself to look up from Cas’s hands, he decides that the shirt fits the best of anything else yet, stretched wide over his shoulders and essentially hugging his chest snugly, on the way down.
And it’s so white, that paired with Cas’s tan and the striped blue of his tie, it looks-
“So hot, yeah.” Dean answers, right before the pause that’d begun after Cas spoke, crossed the line to weird. Dean looks at the plate in his hands. “I’m going to put these away.”
“Good idea.” Is all Cas says, coolly - and on a different note, starts to tug at the knot of his tie this way and that, to loosen it. He’s successful almost immediately too, the collar beginning to widen, and -
Dean really doesn’t need to be here for that, so he hurries along his way, walking with his eyes glued to the floor as if that somehow detaches him from existence.
*
This, a hundred percent, has nothing to do with Cas.
It’s hot, is all it is.
Dean peels off his overshirt, leaving just a black t-shirt on - which is not even one of his best ones; it’s probably the one which got exchanged with Sam back in 2014, judging from the way it goes down past his waistline. Dean doesn’t bother folding it as he drops it on the bed. He’s got more important things on his mind.
Such as scoping out a valid reason to go out of his room again.
*
Almost an hour later, Dean feels like it’d be okay to venture out. Before leaving, for good measure, Dean removes his belt, too. Unbuckling it instantly eases some of the pressure on his stomach, which has kept on building, ever since this evening started.
Ever since Sam and Eileen left for their date, leaving him and Cas alone in the bunker with a broken AC.
On Valentine’s day.
Which, Dean frowns to himself, is a rather inconsequential piece of information to add to that pile.
He warns himself against thinking on those lines again, and strides out of his room. He can sense there’s someone in the War room, so in order to sound like he really needs the thing, he starts speaking from the hallway. “Heya, Cas, have you see the -”
There’s no good explanation for why he stops talking.
Except, maybe there is.
Maybe there’s the best explanation ever, right in front of him, perched on the corner of a table. Maybe it’s got an unbuttoned shirt, and majorly fucked-up hair. Maybe it’s got abs, and chest hair, and hipbones; and maybe it’s all the reason that Dean Winchester’s ever required, for anything in his life.
He’d lay down his life for it. Hell, he could probably live for that very reason.
“Have I seen the…?” Cas repeats, his left eyebrow hooked. Has that ever happened before? Just that one, arched perfectly, as if demanding all the finished sentences in the entire world.
Dean clears his throat.
He isn’t sure what he’s thinking about, but he can still tell it’s a mistake.
“Nevermind.” He lets out, in a voice which sounds wrong, even to him.
“Alright.” Cas nods in acknowledgement, and with that, turns back to his book. It’s a giant, musty book- but then, all their books are giant and musty, and Dean cannot decipher what’s written on it, because he’d really rather stare at Cas’s hands holding it.
“Don’t you think,” Dean licks his lips. Even his throat is dry. “Wouldn’t you say it’s getting a little too hot in here?”
“I’m doing what I can.” Cas replies, managing to stuff in a little bit of distressed in there, with the general flatness. “Clearly, so are you.”
In a couple of beats, Dean realizes he’s run out of words to say, and Cas doesn’t look too eager to supply his own to keep this conversation alive, so then Dean chuckles - to say the least, awkwardly, and retires to his room again.
*
He’s going to show Cas how much better he can do.
*
“It’s, so, hot.” Dean grits his teeth, pulling the shirt over his head. Now he’s naked from up the waist, and it feels a lot better.
This isn’t a typically humid area, so it’s not like being shirtless is gonna get him sticky. Or any more sweaty, than he already is. In fact, it feels so much better, that Dean almost manages to convince himself that that’s why he’s doing it.
Almost.
There’s no ignoring anymore, that it’s Valentine’s day. And he and Cas are alone in the bunker, and it’s really hot, but that’s not just it.
It kind of never was.
Dean falls back on the bed, sinking slightly into the mattress. An image of Cas floats through his head, and though he really shouldn’t be thinking about Cas right now - half-naked, and on a bed - he doesn’t want to stop.
It’s evident Cas knows what’s going on here.
(It’s evident Cas knows what he’s doing to Dean.)
And Dean feels a pang of something, when he realizes he’s losing this - whatever this is. He may have started it off by being a dick, but he’s lagging behind now.
It’s really more about how much Cas gets to Dean, than about the number of layers he took off. And who’s Dean kidding? He isn’t getting to Cas at all.
(At least, it hasn’t ever felt like it.)
Dean sighs.
He’s too far gone.
And Cas is leaning on a table and holding a book, with an unbuttoned shirt and his fucking smolder, waiting to tell Dean it’s really hot.
He unbuttons his jeans.
Screw this, it’s over a hundred degrees.
Still thinking about Cas, he undoes his zipper, and pushes them down his legs. It’s only when they’re pooled around his ankles, that it strikes him how fucking gone he is, on Cas.
The realization doesn’t help at all.
He steps out of his jeans, and clenches his jaw.
*
This isn’t the time to think about feelings, and it’s not the time to ponder his relationship with Cas. It’s time to get out there.
So he does.
He walks fast enough, that it’s ironically not hot anymore. Exposure to air makes his legs feel a lot cooler, and though his boxer briefs cling to his thighs, it all feels somewhat freeing.
When he reaches the War Room, Cas isn’t there.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean swears under his breath, starting to walk down the hallway, but there’s no sign of Cas there either, and not even in the kitchen, and then -
“Dean?”
Dean jerks his neck around to face Cas. For the first time, Cas’s eyes seem to have deviated from their lifelong mission to stare Dean down - instead they’re focussed, oddly, on the only part of Dean which is still covered; and his lips are parted a little bit, but -
But he’s also completely fucking naked.
“Cas.” Dean growls, not wasting more than a second to take in all of Cas - eyes glancing over the parts he’d already gotten acquainted to, and hurrying to ogle his thighs, his ass, his fucking dick - and then, letting out a breath he had no idea he was holding, he’s pushing Cas against a wall, and crashing his lips on his.
He’s kissing Cas.
Cas gives back as he gets, grabbing hold of Dean, and pulling him closer with hands around his neck, as his tongue shoves into Dean’s mouth. Dean groans, but it gets lost in Cas’s mouth - eyes rolling back in his head, as his hip thrusts wilder, shoving Cas against the wall harder and pinning him there.
“Fuck, Cas, I - hnghhh -” He pants, in a raised voice, wanting to explain, apologize, proposition - everything at fucking once, but he breaks off with a whimper when he feels Cas’s dick against the fabric of his boxers, exciting his own dick even more.
Cas seems to be more interested in kissing him than his dick lets off - moving in perfect tandem with Dean, eyes completely shut and eyebrows furrowed like he’s concentrating on this; and he really is. He’s kissing Dean like nothing else matters - he’s kissing Dean like this is it, and he’s right, he’s so fucking right.
This is it.
Sparks fly when they kiss, and there’s current in his veins when Cas holds him. It thunders in his ears when Cas pulls Dean close, and all his walls collapse when he cries out Dean’s name.
This, right here, pushing and tugging, and desperate and breathless - this is them. This is everything their lives have been leading up to. This is truly and utterly it.
When Cas’s arms go around his waist, bringing him in tighter, Dean just has to pull away for breath.
Pupils blown, he grunts, accusing because he doesn’t know what he’d be, if not mad. “You ruined the game - or fucking whatever that was, Cas, you fucking ruined it -”
“I think I won the game, Dean.” Cas declares, jaw squared, and lips returning to that thin frown - but Dean does not want to be subjected to it anymore, so he dives in to tug it straight, but Cas cups his face, and kisses him instead, all the way there but just so soft - and Dean’s never been kissed like this before. He’s never known anything like it.
“Yeah, okay, fuck.” Dean gasps, when Cas’s hand slides under the elastic of his boxers, and takes his dick in hand. “Yeah, you win.” He adds, and they’re the last coherent words he gets out in a long while, as his head falls on Cas’s shoulder, hand on the wall propping him up, and he loses what little had remained of his senses.
*
Their chests still heave and Dean’s still lying half on Cas’s arm, absolutely boneless in the way sex makes people.
Cas turns his head to look at Dean, and there’s something twinkling - so beautiful, in his eyes. “Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m just asking to confirm, but was this because of the heat too?” This time, he sounds playful. He’s just egging Dean on.
So of course, Dean refuses to accept anything out loud.
He just turns to his side, and burrows himself around Cas. He knows it’s probably too hot to cuddle, but when he gently puts his head on Cas’s shoulder, Cas just hooks his chin on it like they’re in a frigging chick-flick. And that’s okay, just because.
“Fine. Happy Valentine’s day to you, okay?”
Cas doesn’t say anything to that, but when his arm comes around Dean, there’s something smug about it.
And Dean loves it.
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Homecoming Chapter 21
@iontorch @prettybeefballs @darkmagicianknight
The whole fic is a sequel to Human Connection (can be read as a standalone, but character personalities make more sense if read together)
Tag, in chronological order
Shiny Masterlist of the entire series (including AO3 link because I don’t trust tumblr to behave regarding external links)
Pairing: DickTiger
Rating: Teen, probably? I don’t know. There’s no sex anyway. (In this chapter)
Length: 5.4k (this chapter)
Summary: Dick and Tiger get some much-needed time together. Now that immediate danger is over, however, Tiger has far too much time to overthink things.
Notes: I don't think there are any particularly common triggers, but Tiger isn't in a great space mentally and Dick is still experiencing those symptoms (but they know why now so no more panicking).
Hopefully my source on language stuff was correct. I think the spelling is sometimes a bit different. Fewer a's. Anyway, hope it's right or I'm gonna hate myself making that a plot point.
Chapter 21
Tiger was sorely tempted to sleep in his clothes, but Jason stopped him in the hallway right outside Dick's bedroom in the manor. Tiger supposed it was also his own room, but it was strange to think of that after being absent for months.
“Give me your clothes,” Jason said.
“What?” Tiger was too tired for this.
Jason leaned in, whispering so quietly Tiger could barely hear him. “Go put on a towel or something and give me your clothes. I need to get the evidence off. Then you need to have a year-long shower or something so we can be sure there's no evidence left on you.”
“I am not getting naked in front of you.”
“Half-naked, more like.”
He was missing the point on purpose. Tiger stared him down.
Jason snorted. “Fine, fine. You can hand me your shit through the door.”
Tiger rolled his eyes and stepped into the bedroom to strip off to his underwear, throwing clothes at Jason through the tiniest opening he could manage without jamming his own fingers.
“Dick never mentioned you were shy,” Jason teased.
“It is called modesty. Have you not heard of it?”
Jason laughed at him, his voice shrinking as he moved away. Was it really common to simply... walk around shirtless in front of people you were not intimate with? Or was it simply a characteristic of this highly unusual family?
Tiger was never going to find out. He didn't really want to. Modesty was sometimes impossible while in the spy world. Wearing the lungee helped, but he had fallen out of the habit recently. He would have to start again. He had left one of them in this room when he'd left. Perhaps it was still there... unless Dick had taken it with him to his apartment.
Tiger washed his hands thoroughly before searching, finding it folded neatly in a drawer. Dick mustn't have touched it. The man never folded anything neatly if he could help it. If that was there, then maybe his Quran was... ah. There it was. On the sparse bookshelf in the corner of the bedroom. It had been a simple enough task to clear a shelf so it could have a place by itself. Most of the books Dick had were old schoolbooks or romance novels with swooning maidens and oddly attractive noblemen. And a few circus arts photo books.
Tiger was suddenly grateful he hadn't had much time to pack when Bruce forced him to leave. Helena had returned the spare Quran to him that he had originally left at St Hadrian's. He wasn't sure where it was now. Helena might have taken his things with her before she detonated the explosives. He had been... preoccupied at the time.
The anxiety that had plagued him all day still had its claws in him. He wouldn't be able to sleep in this state. Well. He needed to wash up anyway, and he had not yet given his final prayer for the night, preoccupied as he was by the escape and Dick's subsequent brush with death.
Tiger showered, washing himself thoroughly, and took the ritual washing steps required for prayer at the end. Then he dressed and wound the lungee onto his head. His Quran hadn't collected much dust. Someone must have kept it clean for him. Damian, most likely. Dick had left the manor at some point after Tiger had.
Praying helped, like it usually did. It calmed him, even if the feeling of the anxiety ebbing left him exhausted. It had been a difficult day. He had earned that.
The calm carried him to sleep, but not so well that dreams did not haunt him. He woke breathless, disoriented, heart pounding but unable to remember why. There was a strange feeling of dread in his stomach and he felt around for Dick's presence. He wasn't there. Why wasn't he there?
Tiger curled up, breaths hissing ineffectively in and out. Do not panic. Where was Dick? He had the distinct feeling he had forgotten something.
Wait. Dick was fine. He was in the batcave med bay, fighting a migraine. Well, fine was perhaps inaccurate. But he was not in danger.
Tiger sat up, putting his head between his knees until he could breathe again. He reached over and found the digital clock Dick kept hidden in a drawer because the light annoyed him. It was after two in the morning. He had slept only a couple hours.
He needed some time to calm down. He couldn't remember his dreams this time, thankfully, but there was an empty feeling that made him think they had something to do with losing Dick. He needed to see him or he would not be sleeping more tonight.
He hoped Dick was asleep or at least feeling better. Tiger found a ridiculous fluffy bathrobe Dick owned but never wore and a pair of socks that held the cold at bay, just a little bit. The wooden floors of the hallway outside the bedroom still chilled the soles of his feet, so he moved faster, grateful no one was awake to see him slipping around like a foal.
He almost expected to see Bruce at the computer in the batcave, but apparently the man did sleep sometimes. Once every year, perhaps?
There were soft voices behind the door to the med bay. Someone was awake. Tiger gently tapped on the door.
“Enter,” came Alfred's voice.
Tiger opened the door slowly, in case it made noise. It didn't.
Dick was sitting up, cross-legged in the middle of the bed with a pile of pillows supporting his back. He smiled over at Tiger, eyes bright despite the dark circles beneath them, and his lips were almost symmetrical now. Tiger breathed a sigh of relief, a little louder than he had intended.
Alfred passed Dick a child's drinking cup, the kind with handles on each side and a spouted lid for drinking. Tiger had forgotten the word people used for it. Something childlike, fitting given its usual purpose.
Dick took a sip, holding it by the handles with both hands. “Ah, water. How I missed ye.” He patted the end of the end with his right foot. Or, well, he attempted to. It wiggled more than anything. Dick glared at it and repeated the motion more successfully with his left. “Sit with me?”
Tiger sat on the spot Dick had indicated. “You look better.”
“Head's still pounding and my right limbs still kinda hate me, but yeah. I don't feel like I'm dying anymore.” He smiled over at Alfred. “I'm okay, Alf. You should get some sleep.” He set the cup down in what looked like a custom-made cupholder on a trolley that also carried a heart rate monitor. Then he wiggled his left pointer finger, which had a clamp linking him to the machine. “You'll know if I need you.”
“A few more tests, sir.” Alfred brandished a ruler.
Dick groaned. “Spoiler alert: my reflexes still suck.”
Alfred rounded the bed and held the ruler in the air, a small camera in the other hand. “One more time.”
Dick sighed and held out his right hand. Alfred dropped the ruler. Dick missed grabbing it entirely.
“Your reflexes have improved slightly,” Alfred said, crossing to input the data into the computer. “We will test you again in the morning. Master Tiger, do you intend to remain here tonight?”
Tiger would prefer that, but felt strange asking.
“I'd like you to,” Dick said. That made it easier.
“I will,” Tiger said.
Alfred ducked into another section of the med bay, pushing a screen aside. He pulled out a second bed on wheels and dragged it to the other side of the heart rate monitor. Separate out of necessity due to the medical equipment and access in the event of an emergency, but close enough that Tiger would be in Dick's space enough to go back to sleep.
Alfred stole one of Dick's pillows for the bed. Dick only complained for a few seconds. Alfred checked the vitals on the monitor, made Dick drink some more water, and then left them for the night.
“He has an alarm system in his room that'll let him know if I need help,” Dick said. “I'll be fine. I promise.”
“I thought you were going to die,” Tiger found himself admitting, not entirely of his own volition. He had not intended to say that to someone recovering from hours of pain.
“Me too,” Dick said quietly. Tiger squeezed his knee, but his awkwardness probably made it less of a comforting gesture and more... discomforting.
“Can you sleep?”
“I think so. I dozed off a bit while the migraine was screaming at me, so now should be easy. Comparatively.” He nudged Tiger with his good foot. “Get in bed. You look dead.”
“Flattering.” Tiger climbed into the other bed, which was surprisingly sturdy under his weight. Everything in here had to support Bruce's bulk, so he shouldn't have been surprised. Medical equipment was not often built to accommodate Tiger in either height or weight. He actually broke a stretcher once. Before Dick's time in Spyral, fortunately, or he never would have heard the end of it. Alia been bad enough, teasing him for...
And now he had made himself sad again.
Dick reached over with his heart-monitor-wearing hand, nudging his face. “Whatcha thinking about?”
“I broke a stretcher once,” Tiger murmured. “Not on purpose. I was too heavy.”
“I believe it. I've seen Bruce break chairs by sitting on them.”
Tiger found a smile working its way onto his face, despite everything. “Alia saw the whole thing. She teased me for weeks.”
“You miss her.”
“Mm.” Tiger was beginning to regret opening his mouth.
“That's okay, you know. You're allowed. Double agent or not, you still spent a lot of time with her.” Dick lay down, nudging Tiger's hand until he took the hint and laced their fingers together. “Remember the good stuff. I know she cared about you at some point. Nearly ripped my face off after the Old Gun mission when you had to go in and save my ass without sniper support.”
Maybe Tiger was not regretting opening his mouth so much. He leaned down and kissed Dick's fingers. It felt good to do that. They didn't have to hide how they felt anymore.
“No one is completely good or completely evil,” Dick said. “Remember the good in Alia. Remember how she was, not what she became. Even if she did try to frame me for murder a little bit.” He laughed, a little sheepishly. “Anyway. People are complicated. I've lost people who I had complicated relationships with. Dwelling on the bad doesn't help.”
“You should have been a grief counselor,” Tiger told him.
“Hey, I'm still young. Anything could happen.” Dick grimaced. “I'm not sure I'm ever gonna be Nightwing again, so... may as well explore my options.” He huffed out a breath and pasted a smile on his face. “Whatever. Not gonna think about that now. Happy thoughts, eh?”
“Yes. Happy thoughts.” Tiger desperately needed that, and he sensed Dick did, too. “I'm proud of you. For holding up so well against Bannon.”
Dick shrugged his left shoulder. “Necessity makes heroes of us all.”
“I admire your bravery. Do not diminish what you did.”
“Okay, okay. I'm awesome. I admit it. You were pretty darn good in there, too.”
Tiger didn't think he was, but it was nice to hear. “I... thank you.”
“I'm serious. That shit was rough.” Dick's thumb rubbed against Tiger's nearest finger. “We're gonna need time to deal with that. I'm just glad we're together now.” He grinned, but it slipped off his face immediately. “Ooh. Ow. I hurt myself smiling.”
Tiger held back his laughter, because it really wasn't funny.
“Oh, come on,” Dick said. “You can laugh. I certainly can't. Let me live vicariously through you.”
Tiger snorted.
“Eh, that'll do.”
Dick's aggressive positivity certainly helped wipe away the last traces of dream anxiety. Tiger nuzzled into his pillow, smiling over at this wonderful man, this cheerful force only a few hours removed from a torture chamber and yet burning so brightly as if he had never suffered a moment in his life. That was true bravery. His heart was burning with love. Or, he hoped it was love. He hadn't eaten enough for indigestion, surely.
“Jaanaana—”
Dick cut him off. “You know, you promised to explain what that meant once we were free.”
“Oh. Uh.” Tiger coughed nervously. He was not the type to cough nervously—who did that?—but apparently he was now. “Would you like me to...”
“I'd love you to. I've been dying of curiosity.” He snickered the tiniest bit. “Ow. Please tell me before I hurt myself doing basic human things again.”
Tiger had to take a few breaths before he had enough air to speak. “Oh. It, uh... it means my love. Or my beloved. It depends on the translation. I... it slipped out one day and...”
“Oh my God.” Dick was grinning again. “Smiling hurts a whole lot right now but I can't stop. That's so... I love it. I love you. Please keep calling me that.”
“I intend to.”
“Aww. You're so sweet.”
“Hardly.”
“Yes, you are. You're not allowed to argue with the injured guy.”
Tiger laughed, muffling it in his pillow in case the sound was too much for Dick. “Very well. I am sweet. You, however, are the sweetest.”
“Oh, stop. You're just spoiling me now. And I haven't even come up with a petname for you yet.”
“Please don't.”
“Hey, we can't let this be one-sided. I feel mean letting you shower me with affection while I sit here like, yeah thanks. Come on. Be a sport.”
Tiger could not deny Dick anything right now. Or ever, really.
Dick pulled his blankets up with his weak hand, even laughing a little bit at his struggle. He'd managed to get it to grip the fabric before Tiger could offer assistance.
Then Dick sighed, his eyelids visibly heavy. “I'm glad you came down here. I missed sleeping next to you.”
“As did I.” Tiger leaned over to give Dick's fingers one last kiss. “And I love you, too. Very much.”
They didn't need to say more. Dick fell asleep first, finally giving in to his exhaustion. Tiger watched him for a while, finding comfort in every rise and fall of his chest, every soft breath filling the air.
Fingers still loosely tangled with Dick's, Tiger fell into the most peaceful sleep he'd had in months.
Dick woke, feeling distinctly hungover with a brain full of cotton wool, to find Tiger curled up on his side. Eyes open. Watching him. Dick caught a moment of softness before Tiger registered he was awake and climbed out of bed.
“I should call Alfred.”
“Chill for a sec.” Dick rubbed his face, sleep still clinging to the corners of his mind. He wiggled the fingers on his right hand. They felt weak, but they were moving better.
Last night had sucked, except for those moments with Tiger. Dick didn't remember half of what he said—the memories lost to some kind of pain haze—but he did remember talking about Alia, and Tiger finally explaining what jaanaana meant. He just wanted a few seconds to let all that warmth wash over him again before reality set back in.
“Sit with me?” he asked. “Just for a bit?” He shuffled more to his left. “These things can take both our weight. Bruce and Jason tested them together in a rare show of familial unity.”
Tiger gave him a look that was simultaneously affectionate and exasperated—he hadn't quite guarded himself yet but it wouldn't be long—and slid into bed beside him. It was a tight fit, not exactly comfortable, but Dick couldn't have given less of a shit if he'd tried.
“Hi, stranger,” he said, just so Tiger would give him that look again.
Tiger held himself up on one elbow and played with Dick's fingers in his free hand. “I know you did not hit your head that hard last night.”
“I do have some great swiss cheese pain memory going on, though.”
“Oh?”
“Don't worry, though. I remember the important stuff.”
“We have very different definitions of what is important.”
Dick grinned up at him, and it didn't hurt nearly as much as he feared it would. Progress. Tiger was playing with him, in his own way. They both knew what Dick meant.
Tiger ran the backs of his fingers along Dick's jaw. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. Kinda hungover, though.”
“...meaning?”
Right. Tiger didn't drink.
“Still kinda tired. Head's pounding. Maybe a little nauseous.” Dick was silently grateful Tiger hadn't been in the room when he was vomiting the previous night. He kept that to himself; he'd managed to keep some food down and use mouthwash between Tiger's two visits anyway. “Don't tell me you've never gotten hit in the face with, like, a sleeping drug and woken up like that.”
“Not recently.”
“Lucky you.”
Tiger smiled indulgently. Dick had half a mind to tease him about it, but it really was nice to see him looking so relaxed. Knowing Tiger, and the way he dealt with trauma, it wouldn't last. So Dick kept that to himself, too.
“Morning breath kiss?” he asked instead.
“Will you throw up on me?”
“Probably not?”
Tiger kissed his forehead instead. Dick found that an acceptable alternative. He could always pounce on him later.
“Now may I call Alfred?”
Dick sighed. “Oh, fine. He's gonna make me pee into a jar again. I mean, I definitely could pee a lot right now but I'm always worried I'm gonna miss.”
“Uh-huh.” Tiger slid off the bed. “Stay put. I do not trust you.”
Dick didn't trust himself, either. He lifted his right leg and rotated the foot. Moving okay, but he wasn't sure what would happen if he tried to stand on it.
Alfred arrived with a tray of fruits. Dick had a sudden urge to eat everything in sight.
“Take your time, sir,” Alfred warned. Dick munched on pieces of watermelon while Alfred stabbed him with needles.
Tiger got kicked out at some point during the examination process, which definitely did involve peeing into a jar. Well, a plastic cup. And more freaky brain-scanning machines.
Dick was sitting on the edge of the bed, working up the nerve to try standing while Alfred put data into the computer. Alfred seemed fairly confident Dick could stand, though he wasn't so sure about walking. Dick, for his part, was trying not to set himself up for disappointment.
Before he could bring himself to do it, though, there was a knock on the door. Dick and Alfred looked at each other. Dick shrugged.
“Enter,” Alfred said.
Bruce poked his head through the door. “How are we doing?”
“Well,” Dick said, “right now, I'm in shock that you actually knocked for once in your life.”
Bruce joined him on the bed. “Tiger warned me you were probably peeing into a jar.”
“Did he actually say peeing, though?”
“No. Urinating.”
“That sounds more like him.”
Alfred finished with the computer. “Now, Master Dick, shall we try standing?”
“Do I have to?” Because joking about his fears sounded more appealing than actually facing them.
Bruce stood, offering his hand. “Come on. I'll help you up, just this once.”
“Ugh. Fine.” Dick grabbed it with his good hand, letting Bruce pull him up. He had to adjust his stance to put more weight on his left foot, but that was easy enough. That circus upbringing had given him a near-supernatural sense of balance. Thanks, Mum and Dad.
“Do you feel secure, sir?” Alfred asked.
“Relatively. Not sure I can walk without falling on my face, though.” He hobbled a step, half-expecting his right leg to crumble. It didn't, but it wobbled something awful.
“Very good,” Alfred said, typing something into the computer. “At this rate, sir, you should have sufficient mobility within a few more hours.”
Dick could've sank to the floor with relief, if Bruce hadn't chosen that moment to drag him in for a hug. Alfred had assured him repeatedly the symptoms were not permanent and typically disappeared within twenty-four hours, but there was definitely a part of him that feared he'd be stuck that way forever. He'd be (relatively) fine in a few hours, at least until the next attack. And he had no idea when that would be. They had as much data as they could find about that machine, but there was nothing like hands-on experience.
Was this simply a case of him developing a short-term tendency towards migraines? Would this become a chronic condition? Would he end up being more or less sensitive than the average migraine-sufferer who developed their condition due to natural causes? The unknowns were freaking him out a little bit.
Bruce squeezed him but didn't offer any verbal assurances. He didn't typically offer platitudes. Unknowns freaked him out, too. At least Dick could trust him to be honest. He wasn't the type to sugar-coat things for the sake of people's feelings.
Alfred placed a spiral-bound notebook with a pen in the binding onto Dick's bed. “Now, Master Dick. You will need to track your symptoms and triggers.”
“I'm right-handed, Alf.”
Bruce stepped back from the hug, raising an eyebrow. “Did I not teach you how to write left-handed?”
“Oh, you did. I just hate it.” Dick had been trained to do pretty much everything with his non-dominant hand. Writing was still unpleasant, though.
Alfred sighed. “You may ask someone to write for you, if you must. Light and sound appear to be common triggers among the machines' victims.”
“So no going outside without cool shades. Check.”
“Dick.” Bruce almost managed to sound stern. Impressive, really.
“I've had a bad week. Don't judge me.”
Alfred made him sit back down and suffer more tests and scans. He definitely wasn't getting out of here before lunch.
Tiger was glad to spend time praying with Damian at midday, for several reasons. First, of course, was the fact he simply liked praying. Second was the fact Damian was good, quiet company during this time. Third was unique. The entirety of Dick's family had not left him alone for more than a few moments today. He was flattered Dick's family cared enough that they kept seeking him out, but Tiger had never been a people person, even less so today. Dick was resting until lunch and Tiger had honestly hoped to have some time to himself.
So Tiger lingered on his favourite verses even after he had finished praying, sinking into the familiar text. Damian lingered beside him, even as he fidgeted.
“You can tell them to leave you alone,” Damian said. “Or I can do it.”
“No, I...” Tiger didn't want to reject their kindness. Stephanie had brought him chocolate, of all things. No one did that. He and Dick didn't do gifts. It had seemed impractical for a long time. Maybe that could change now.
They were just trying to help. It was not their fault he needed some time alone with his thoughts.
Damian rolled his eyes. “Do you like suffering?”
Sometimes Tiger honestly wondered if he did. He had lingered on his pain these past few months in a way he never had in the past. Maybe repression had been unhealthy, but wallowing was equally so, as well as impractical.
There was a balance. Why could he not find it? How did other people do it? Was there something wrong with him? And why was he having an (internalised) emotional breakdown because a child offered to help him?
He's been silent for too long. Damian made a kind of tutting sound Tiger had never heard another person do in all his years. Where did this child even get that from?
“I will tell them you leave you alone today, since you clearly cannot be trusted to interact with your fellow human beings.”
“You're not wrong,” Tiger said, closing his Quran. There was perhaps an hour until lunch. The sun was almost bright today and the gardens did not seem quite as rain-drowned as they usually did. Maybe a walk around the manor grounds would help him put his mind into working order.
He and Damian parted ways outside the room. Tiger put his Quran away and found a coat in Dick's closet. Tight around his shoulders, but it would do. Gotham weather was a liar. Even when it looked warm, even the slightest breeze would chill to the bone. He considered finding a beanie, but dismissed it as too dramatic.
Tiger hadn't had many opportunities to explore the gardens behind the manor. Bruce had not wanted him wandering unsupervised during his previous stay here. Dick had to fight just so Tiger could walk to a few set locations without a chaperone.
Well, Bruce wasn't here now, and Tiger was not above complaining to Dick if problems arose. He hurried down the back steps before Bruce could show up to stop him.
The climate rendered the back gardens of the manor especially green, though Tiger suspected it was not all in the hands of the weather. The lawns were even more manicured than St Hadrian's, which had been painfully immaculate. Tiger used to sneak off to find something that looked real.
He found himself wandering a sweet-smelling rose garden, separated from the grounds by dark metal fences. Gravel crunched underfoot, and that alone made him feel more alive than he had in months. Gravel. Really? Tiger decided not to linger on the thought.
The bushes were well-tended, but a little wilder than the rest of the grounds. Every colour imaginable was here, though the overall favourite seemed to be white. Those bushes were everywhere. They reminded Tiger of a funeral shroud.
He spotted a stone bench in the centre, surrounded by the gravel path. He leaned down to read an inscription: For Martha. That was the name of Bruce's mother, yes? Tiger suddenly wasn't so sure about sitting on the bench. Was it purely ornamental? Would it be disrespectful to sit on Bruce's dead mother's bench? Tiger didn't know the etiquette here.
He didn't know a lot of things.
“There you are.” Dick was leaning against the gate, a thick pair of sunglasses covering his eyes. “Dami said he spotted you out this way.”
“How did you get here?”
“I have to tell you something,” Dick said, too seriously to be real. Unless Tiger was making assumptions. “You see... that machine did something terrible.”
“Oh?” Best to take this seriously until he knew for certain.
“Yeah. I can't walk anymore. But it gave me some pretty sick invisible wings. You know... win some, lose some.”
Tiger tried not to sound too relieved as he replied, “But how will you fit into civilian society now?”
“Tim's making me some robot legs. I'll soon be a flying cyborg who gets hemiplegic migraines that may or may not be a long-term thing.” Dick pushed the gate open and limped through. “Just kidding. Except the migraines. Check out these cool shades.”
They looked like he had stolen them from a white middle-class great-grandmother. “Very cool, Dick.”
“I knew you'd like them. Alfred shone a flashlight in my face. It sucked. So he gave me these for going bright places.” He drew level with Tiger, leaning slightly to his left. “Don't tell Alfred I'm leaning. He'll smack me with a newspaper because I'm gonna give myself posture problems or something.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
Dick lowered himself onto the bench. Tiger quickly followed suit. One question answered. Now if only everything else bothering Tiger could be resolved so easily...
“Is today a brooding day?” Dick said.
“I... what?”
Dick shook his head, smiling slightly. “Never mind. I'll save the teasing for Bruce. His reactions are funnier.” He lowered his voice to a respectable imitation of Bruce-as-Batman. “I do not brood, Robin.” He coughed, laughing through it. “Man, I haven't done that voice in a while. Should've gargled some gravel first. More authentic that way.”
“Your face looks better,” Tiger said. It... did not come out quite the way he had planned.
“Thanks. I powdered my nose just for you.”
“That's not what I—”
“I know what you mean, hon. You're right. The paralysis is dying down.” He wiggled his fingers. “Give me a few more minutes and maybe I can write in that nifty migraine journal Alfred gave me. Shame I won't have anything much to write until the next time my brain goes on strike like that.”
“You could write down the symptoms you remember.”
“I made Bruce take dictation for me already, even though he whined about it since he did technically train me to be ambidextrous. Mentioned everything I remember about last night.”
“Are the sunglasses helping?”
“Yeah. Just remind me not to stare directly at the sun.” The sunlight dimmed as clouds covered the sky. Dick looked upwards and snorted. “Not that there's much risk of that in Gotham.”
“Why does anyone want to live in this place?”
Dick shrugged. “Well, historically there was a reason. I don't remember what it was. Then people put down roots and didn't wanna leave. Now a lot of people come here for work, or stay because they've always lived here.”
“And you?”
“My family's here.” Dick rested his head on Tiger's shoulder. “I know it's hard to believe, given you and Bruce don't really get along, but he was there when my world fell apart. He took in a random kid from the circus because he knew exactly what I was going through. That's what he does. And, look, he has some pretty strong views on stuff like guns and killing, but he has a reason for that. I mean... I remember the first time I faced down a group of mob henchmen as Robin. The anger that boiled in me. They weren't the man who killed my parents, but they were cut from the same cloth, you know? Bruce is like that with guns. Plus, he gets protective of his kids. A random spy boyfriend who's shot people before? Hoo boy.”
“And yet you have fought with him. Over me.”
“Well, yeah. Just because I understand doesn't mean I can't see when he's being irrational.”
Tiger was unsure Bruce's problems with him were irrational at all. Here they were, pretending he hadn't helped Jason and Helena shoot Alia. Fatally. From where he was sitting, Bruce seemed like the only rational person in the world.
Dick reached up and kissed Tiger's neck. “Hey. Enough brooding, big guy.”
“I shot someone.” The words burst out of him, shaking through the air before he even realised his mouth was open.
“To save me.”
“I shot someone.”
“You weren't the only one.”
“We are lying about it.”
“Because Bruce is not gonna be rational about this.”
“Are you defending what we did?” Tiger did not recognise the voice coming out of his mouth. This voice did not belong to him. Who was he anymore?
“No. I don't like it. But I know why the three of you did it.” Dick squeezed Tiger's bicep. “And I'm grateful, okay? I'm alive because of that split-second decision. I'm in one piece, more or less, because of you.”
Tiger did not want to talk about this anymore. He did not want to examine his feelings about this. Too much confusion. Too much fear. Too much everything.
Relief came in Jason's shape, as he leaned over the fence to yell, “Hey, losers! Lunch is served.” Then he walked back up to the manor without waiting for them to follow him.
Dick grabbed Tiger's arm before he could move. “One second, gorgeous.”
“Are you testing petnames on me?” His voice still didn't sound quite right, but close enough that they could both ignore it.
“That obvious, huh?” Dick grabbed Tiger's chin. “Now our breath's better, I'd very much like to kiss you.”
Despite the bulky sunglasses and his questionable health, Dick pounced on him. Their lips locked. Tiger forgot about everything else. Including lunch.
It was anyone's guess how much time passed before Jason came back, yelling at them to come eat some sandwiches rather than each other's faces.
Dick laughed so hard he gave himself a minor headache, but insisted it was worth it.
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4 Ways to Travel Better in 2020
As the Tripped Up columnist, I’ve fielded hundreds of emails about the ways in which Times readers have spent their time off, whether it’s for a 90th birthday trip or a family vacation with five children, and how things frustratingly went wrong. For the final column of the year, I took inspiration from several stories in my inbox to suggest four ways to travel smarter — and happier — in the decade to come.
Book directly
The Minnesota reader Kathleen canceled a Booking.com hotel reservation, only to realize the reservation had actually been made on another site — and that it wasn’t actually canceled. Jenny, a California reader, used Getaroom.com to book two nights at a Brooklyn hotel, paying $738 for the room itself and a nonrefundable $328 fee, which she was told that “we, the hotel supplier and/or the website you booked on, retain as part of the compensation for our and/or their services.”
Two other readers hit similar walls when they booked flights using online travel agencies: Cat, while trying to correct her name on a China Airlines ticket (via Expedia), and Marsha, while fighting for a refund for a canceled Hahn Air ticket (via Priceline).
For several reasons, booking directly is usually smart; for example, better rooms at hotels and the ability to choose seats in advance on flights. Although online travel agency pricing can be tempting, airlines and hotels will usually match those rates through programs like Marriott’s Best Rate Guarantee (which throws in a 25 discount and 5,000 Bonvoy points) and Delta’s Best Fare Guarantee (which ups the ante with a $100 voucher).
Above all, though, booking hotels and flights directly means you are only bound by one set of terms and conditions — meaning no additional fees from a third-party site. And should you need to make changes to your reservation, you won’t be jockeying for help from a middleman.
Organize your points, miles and credit cards
Jodi, an Arizona reader, asked how to get started in “the points game” — her terminology. I’ll refrain from using a Marie Kondo analogy here, but there’s no better time than New Year’s to organize some of the most powerful tools in your travel tool kit: your credit cards and loyalty programs.
I never book flights or hotels without first registering for the appropriate loyalty program. Points-earning potential aside, simply having an account can yield perks, including free Wi-Fi at certain hotels and sign-up bonuses (often in miles) on airlines. Miles are so easily transferred — to other airlines, to hotels, to other people — that even one-off flights on one-off airlines reap rewards.
Some people can’t deal with another login. I get that. That’s why I’m a fan of eWallet to store passwords and AwardWallet to track points.
Finally, take stock of your travel insurance, whether it’s embedded into credit card benefits or offered by an independent provider. As Paul, another reader, pointed out, these can change. In January, for instance, American Express will roll out new protections — meant to soften the blow of trip cancellations and delays — to some of its cards.
Mitigate bad hotel stays
Howard encountered bugs at a $561-a-night hotel in Israel. A microwave caught fire in Carole’s room in Miami Beach ($419 a night). Heck, last year I stayed at a much-gushed-about hotel in St. Kitts that disappointed on nearly every level, from food to stroller accessibility.
Scenarios like these are hard to resolve, but there are still ways to be proactive. Before booking, scan the hotel’s Instagram tag; real photos are more revealing than glossy marketing imagery. After something goes wrong, contact the manager, document the incident with photos and screen-grab written correspondence. Pressure the hotel on social media, tagging its handles. If you’ve booked your stay through a travel agent, ask them to parallel-track efforts.
Finally, raise a stink again at checkout in an effort to lower the final bill as much as possible. Several readers have asked whether there’s wisdom in disputing the credit card charge after the fact. The short answer: Yes, but it’s a real Hail Mary.
Understand value-fare plane tickets
Kelly purchased Basic Economy seats on an American Airlines flight that was moved up by three hours — an itinerary change that derailed her vacation plans.
“It strikes me as fundamentally unfair: I can’t change my flight because I bought a cheaper fare, but the airline can just switch me to a different flight and I have no recourse,” she emailed.
Basic economy tickets, generally the least expensive tickets on any flight, are to economy tickets just as a Gap Factory sweater is to a sweater from the regular Gap: They look and feel sort of the same, but you can’t deny the difference in price — and quality.
Most basic economy tickets are unchangeable, even for a fee. And because airlines (including American) reserve the right to change their departure times, Kelly landed squat in caveat emptor territory. I agree, though: fundamentally unfair.
An edition last month of Tripped Up, which addressed complaints against Europcar, inspired a flurry of reader reactions. Some sympathized; others, like Kristin F., shared divergent experiences. “I have rented from Europcar for 15 years,” she wrote in an email. “There was only one issue, which was taken care of quickly and politely. The people were so kind and helpful that I brought them chocolate when I returned my car.”
Sarah Firshein formerly held staff positions at Travel + Leisure and Vox Media, and has also contributed to Condé Nast Traveler, Bloomberg, Eater and other publications. If you need advice about a best-laid travel plan that went awry, send an email to
[email protected].
52 PLACES AND MUCH, MUCH MORE Follow our 52 Places traveler, Sebastian Modak, on Instagram as he travels the world, and discover more Travel coverage by following us on Twitter and Facebook. And sign up for our Travel Dispatch newsletter: Each week you’ll receive tips on traveling smarter, stories on hot destinations and access to photos from all over the world.
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