“When you gonna stop rubbing your naked ass all over my shit?”
“You like it when I rub my naked ass all over your shit,” Dick counters easily from where he’s seated on Jason’s windowsill.
His body feels warm and heavy in the afternoon sun, the taste of nicotine still lingering on his lips. There’s a sweet soreness to his muscles when he stretches his limbs, like a memory pressed upon his bones. Every languid fold and twist of his bare body are intently tracked by Jason's eyes and Dick basks in the glory of it all, his inner showman purring.
“I like being able to safely prep food on my own goddamn kitchen counters,” Jason grumbles, pouring himself a second cup of coffee; the first one Jason always tips back immediately like a shot of molten lava down his throat. “And for you to stop flashing your hairy balls to Mrs. Garcia across the alley.”
Dick drags his eyes up over the large slab of crumbling brick and barred up windows opposite Jason’s apartment. The curtains inside the three-story building have been closed on every single one of Dick’s visits. Dick doesn’t think that’s a coincidence. There’s much to be said for privacy when you like crawling in and out of windows at night. Maybe it's just an empty shell.
“Think Mrs. Garcia would be partial to a little more manscaping on my part?” Dicks asks. “You always seem to like it when I wax my asshole.”
“I also like it when you adhere to the most basic rules of hygiene but that never seems to fucking count for much with you.”
Despite his bitching, Jason’s made his way over with two cups of coffee, and being the magnanimous prick he is, hands Dick the small one. Jason then claims his own spot beside Dick, straddling the windowsill, thick thighs clad in grey sweatpants. Dick would lament him not being naked too if the fabric didn’t outline every part of him. Jason’s thighs are to die for. Dick would know. He almost has.
And, it’s funny. Despite the premature white streak and the three-inch bags under his eyes, Jason looks young in the sunlight. Without the masks and grime, a warm mug in his hand, Dick can almost pretend this is normal. That they’re two regular guys, shooting the shit, sharing a coffee, basking in the morning after—an easy arrangement. An easy fuck. Like Dick’s not covered in scars and Jason’s never been touched by the Pit.
But they’re not normal. Nor do they don’t look the part.
Like the bruise that sits at the centre of Jason’s chest; wide, ugly, enticing. Blues and reds with yellow mottled at edges indicating it’s been living there for days not hours. A bullet. A deadly one, Dick reckons, had it not been deflected by Jason’s body armour.
In bed, between Jason’s thighs, Dick had rested his hand on the most violent part of it. Bore down and listened to Jason choke, grunt and groan. Dug the heel of his hand in even deeper to feel Jason locking up around his cock like a vice, orgasm hot and sticky on Dick’s abdomen.
Sometimes, there’s a whole night sky on Jason's body, purple constellations littering his skin. Dick loves the art of them. Loves the dark look in Jason’s eyes when he catches Dick staring. Loves being a little mean for Jason. Making it hurt. Cruelty as comfort. Synapses too fucked up to tell the pleasure from pain.
Definitely, not normal.
“You bruise so prettily,” Dick says, putting down his mug between them.
“Hmmm.” Dick feels his lips stretch in a grin, teeth glinting playfully. “All that pale, battered skin.”
Jason's nails nip the meat of Dick’s calf in warning, the pinch stinging brightly enough to send sparks up Dick’s spine. Maybe Jason wants to make some bruises of his own. Dick doesn’t think they’ll compare.
“Don’t make me push you out the window, Dickhead.”
Dick grins wider, places two hands on Jason’s thighs and leans forward slowly so he can press a kiss to Jason’s chest. It tastes bittersweet, touching his lips to the darkest part of an old bruise he made worse. The steady thump of Jason’s heart underneath.
“Maybe you need to learn how to take a compliment, Little Wing,” Dick murmurs, curling out of Jason’s space to fold back into his own corner of the windowsill.
“Maybe I would,” Jason counters, “if it sounded more like a compliment and a little less like you gloating.”
Dick shrugs, picking up his coffee so he can nurse at the last dredges of it. There’s no eye contact for this part. “Just think you’re beautiful, is all.”
He knows Jason hates it; the sincerity in his words. Dick acting the nurturing brother to the Replacement and the Demon Spawn, the dutiful son to Bruce, the taboo lover with him and, Jesus Christ, Jason seems to despise the ease with which Dick falls into it. A kaleidoscope of identities. The eternal golden boy. The constant whiplash of it all. The way Dick pours himself into any desired shape, moulding himself to a person's need.
“Any idea how fuckin’ whipped for me you sound, Batboy?” Jason asks, wearily.
“What you gonna do if I am?”
“Tell you to get a fuckin’ hobby.” Jason sighs, confiscating his Zippo, the pack of Lucky Strikes Dick lifted from his nightstand.
Lit cigarette between his lips, Jason’s every bit the beautiful thing Dick accused him of being. Fucked up with a skin full of stars and a green haze to his blue eyes. As far from normal as the sun is from the Earth. Neither is Dick, don’t forget that, but hell, they’re fucking trying. What with the three o’clock sun warming the hand on Dick’s tanned calf, Jason smoothing the mark he’s dug in just before, seconds away from pouring Dick a second cup of coffee Dick had said he wouldn’t need. What with Dick feeling lighter than ever, closer to flying than he has in years, they’re fucking trying.
Just two broken Robins in a nest.