Part Three

One year later

"Man, I love Saturdays!" Dick poured himself another tall one, finishing off the carton. "Sleep in, hang out, do pretty much nothing all day."

It had become a ritual, these Saturday morning sugarfests. For almost a year, Tim had been spending most weekends at Dick's loft. True to his word, Dick tutored Tim, and trained the new Boy Wonder in the various disciplines that he'd learned on his solitary travels. Tim's performance in the training room and on the street had improved; his reactions were faster, more precise and controlled, and he was even learning to stop and think before he acted. Scholastically, he hadn't shown as marked an improvement, still his grades had risen slowly but steadily from mostly D's to mostly C's, with the occasional B making an appearance. Despite his initial misgivings, Bruce couldn't deny that the change in environment and instructor had made a positive difference. So, he had allowed more frequent visits, but always with the understanding that all future weekends depended entirely upon Tim's GPA.

Keeping this in mind, Tim gave it his best effort. That did not mean, however, that he had to enjoy it. "You do nothing all day," Tim said, reaching into the box on the table and taking out another donut. "Some of us have to do homework."

"My heart bleeds," Dick replied. "I did my time, now it's your turn." He took a long drink. "Mmmm. Hey, Timbo, watch this - nothing but net." The empty carton sailed twenty feet across the loft to drop neatly into the wire trash can. "Pretty impressive, huh? And with the left hand."

"Not bad. But can you do this?" Tim broke off a piece of donut, tossed it high into the air, and caught it expertly in his mouth. "And with the right hand."

"Watch me." Dick broke off a piece of powdered sugar donut, and tossed it into the air. It plopped onto his chest, leaving a white splotch on his black tee shirt. "Aw, man."

Tim mimed picking up a telephone. "Dick, it's the NBA," he said. "They said something about a snowball in hell?"

"Damn." Dick buried his face in his hands, and made sobbing noises. "And I was counting on the money to buy an operation for my guardian."

Tim grinned. "Oh, really? Poor guy, huh?"

"Not a dime to his name."

"Maybe I can spare you a couple of bucks. What's he need? New liver? Heart transplant?"

"No, it's worse than that," Dick took a swig of chocolate milk, and grinned back. "I was going to buy him a funny bone. He's got no sense of humor."

They both broke up. Bruce's uptight, deadly serious demeanor was a convenient, and frequent, source of humor for his previous and present protégés. Of course, the fact that they'd already finished one box of Cremey Crisp donuts and were well into the second probably didn't hurt. Between Tim's hyperactivity, school, and his work as Robin, and Dick's double duty covering Gotham and leading the Titans, they were both a little loopy to begin with; factor in the near total exhaustion they both had after the previous night's patrol, and the generally high stress level of their everyday - and every night - lives, the little sugar buzz was enough to push them over the edge of normal decorum. Still, considering the possible alternatives, a little giddiness was hardly cause for concern.

"I think that's the last one for me," Dick said, when he caught a breath. "What about you?"

"For now, maybe," Tim said, shutting the box. "I wouldn't want to embarrass you any more."

"Watch it." Dick took the box and the empty glasses to the kitchen. "Time to hit the books, Timbo," he said, dropping down onto the sofa beside Tim. "Whatcha got this week?"

"Same old same old," Tim answered. He reached into the back pack on the floor and rummaged around. "Nothing drastic. Some algebra, but I think I got it covered."

"Good, I have laundry that's about ready to form its own country." He disappeared into his bedroom, and returned with a large wicker basket overflowing with clothes and costumes. "I'm going to pop this into the machine, I'll be right back up. Buzz if you need me."

"Okay." Tim opened up the text book and began flipping pages. As soon as Dick was out of sight, however, he tossed the book aside, grabbed his pack and ran into the bedroom. A few minutes later, he came back out, dressed in sweats and a tee shirt. He plopped back onto the sofa, and opened the book again. By the time Dick returned, he was lying on the floor, watching cartoons and eating another donut.

"Hey, come on, you know the rules," Dick warned. "Homework first."

"Done," Tim said, sitting up and pointing to the book where it lay on the sofa. "Check it if you want, but I'm done."

"So you're done with the math," Dick said. "What next?"

"Nothing," Tim shook his head. "I did it yesterday at lunch."

Dick stared at him as if he'd grown an extra arm. "You did your homework ahead of time? You?" Dick eyed him suspiciously, then pointed a finger accusingly. "Who are you, and what did you do with Tim Drake!"

"Ha ha," Tim threw the rest of the donut at him. "I did it ahead of time, I wanted to have a weekend free."

"Hmm." Dick looked over the sheets of notebook paper. "Looks good. You getting the hang of it?"

"More or less," Tim shrugged, and made a face. "I still think it's stupid and pointless."

"Yeah, well. You think that about most of your subjects." Dick slipped the paper back inside the book. "Come on, enough fooling around. You expect me to believe you got all the rest done yesterday?" He laughed. "Yeah, right." He put his hands on his hips, and raised an eyebrow, grinning. "What is it, chemistry? History? Sex ed? Come on, tell the truth."

"I'm not lying!" Tim stood and stared at him, an expression of deep hurt quickly morphing into a stony mask that would have done Batman justice. "Thanks a lot, Dick." He wrapped his arms around himself, and turned his back. "That's really low. Even Bruce never called me a liar. That really sucks, you know? I thought you trusted me. I mean, I've done a lot of stuff, yeah, but I never lied to you."

Dick wanted to kick himself; he was doing exactly what he'd accused Bruce of doing. Tim had obviously worked very hard to get caught up, and he'd immediately done everything possible to discourage the kid.

Hypocrisy never went down well with him, especially when he was the hypocrite.

"Hey, look, I was way out of line." Dick put a hand on the boy's shoulder, pulling him around to face him. "I know you're not a liar. I'm sorry, really. That was wrong of me to say that, even joking."

"It's okay," Tim shrugged. "No big deal." He looked up and smiled, the affront to his integrity forgiven and forgotten. "I mean, geez, I guess I'd probably think the same thing if I was you."

"Once, maybe," Dick shook his head, "but not now. You've really put in a lot of effort, and it shows. That's great, Timbo. That shows a lot of maturity, you know. Bruce will be very proud of you."

"Bruce?" Tim blinked in surprise. "Really?"

"Yeah, really." He ruffled the boy's hair. "I know he doesn't show it, but he notices this stuff. And so do I." He smiled. "I'm always proud of you, kid."

"Thanks, Dick," Tim said, quietly. "That means a lot to me. More than you know."

Their eyes met, and for a long moment, they stood there, face to face, barely a foot apart, not speaking, just looking at each other. It suddenly occurred to Dick that Tim was not a scrawny street kid any longer, but a damned good looking young man. A carefully monitored diet and constant, intensive work outs had dispelled the last remnants of baby fat and the boyish frame. His face had thinned out, revealing a firm jaw and cheekbones that further accented deep brown eyes with an almost permanently smoldering look. He was solid and hard bodied, nearly as tall as Dick himself, with strong shoulders and a build that promised to rival his guardian's once he reached his full height. His chest and biceps were well developed, too, from all those nights spent swinging from a batline, and his abs were beautifully defined, his hips were narrow, his butt tight and -

Abruptly, Dick turned away. "Let's, uh, work off all this, uh, sugar, huh?" He strode across the loft to the mats, waving Tim to follow him.

Tim followed him. "What's on the line up today?"

"I thought maybe we should work on your offensives," Dick said, starting his warm up stretches.

"What's wrong with my offensives?" Tim demanded, following Dick's example. After a few stretches he stopped. "Ow. Man, that ankle still hurts!" Robin had landed wrong the night before, and Tim was still dealing with the consequences. He stood on one foot, effortlessly balancing as he rubbed the injured ankle.

"Let me see," Dick ordered. Tim dropped to the floor, and Dick knelt beside him, feeling the ankle carefully. "Swelling's gone down from last night. Not broken, just a sprain, I think. Are you okay to work out, you think?"

"Yeah," Tim waved away Dick's concern. "It's just a little sore. I can handle it. I mean, Batman goes out with bullets in him for God's sake."

"True," Dick agreed, standing and helping Tim to his feet. "But we both know, Batman isn't exactly normal, either."

"What's normal?" Tim asked, testing his weight on the injury. "I don't think any of us qualify for that club." He tried an experimental hop, wincing only a little. "Yeah, I'm good. Let's go."

"Okay," Dick said, waving Tim towards him. "Come at me, try to catch me off guard. Let's see you use some of those Jeet Kun Do moves I showed you last week."

They squared off against each other, and bowed slightly. That courtesy done, they both fell into a fighting stance that had become second nature. Suddenly, Tim lunged at Dick, feinting left and kicking out. In one smooth move, Dick stepped aside, casually sweeping his leg to knock Tim to the floor.

"See what I mean?" he said.

"Lucky shot." Tim got to his feet, his face flushed.

"So show me."

They circled, watching each other like two animals in the wild. After a moment, Tim made another move, this time attempting a full body tackle. Again, Dick eluded him easily, and Tim landed on the mat behind him with a loud grunt.

"Luck has nothing to do with it," Dick grinned. "You're not concentrating."

Tim sat on the floor and rubbed the back of his head. "Sorry. Guess I'm a little distracted today."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Don't think so." He got to his feet, and they went back to position.

"Try to focus." Dick pushed his hair out of his face. "Put it out of your mind for now."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Hey, you know as well as I do, you get distracted on the street, it could be real bad."

"You sound just like Batman."

"No need to be insulting."

They continued sparring for about an hour, with Tim ending up on the floor more often than not. Finally, Dick called a break.

"Do you know what you're doing wrong?" he asked Tim, as they downed a couple of bottles of 'Crocade.

"Um, let me see," Tim said, with false brightness. "I'm falling on my ass?"

"Cute." Dick wiped a towel over his face. "You're telegraphing. Every move you make, I see it coming a mile away."

"That's just 'cause you know me so well," Tim protested.

"No, it isn't," Dick shook his head. "I know the difference. But even so, some of the guys we go up against know you almost as well, if they're smart and have fought you before. You think somebody like Harley Quin wouldn't pick up on that?"

"Okay, maybe." Tim finished the bottle and tossed it aside.

"No maybe about it. You're letting me anticipate what you'll do. You're getting predictable. Don't keep relying on the same moves."

"So what do I do?" Tim gestured questioningly. "I'm putting in everything you're teaching me. I'm combining styles, I'm switching hands, what else?"

"That's good, that's real good," Dick replied. "Keep that up. But, you know what he says," Tim rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything. "You get past us, and you can get past anyone. You can do this, Timbo. Just do something unexpected. Keep me guessing. Surprise me. Make me look like an idiot. I dare you." He grinned. "I double dog dare you."

Tim looked at him for a moment, then grinned back. "Okay. I can do that."

They returned to the mats, and got back into position. "Any time you're ready," Dick said.

They circled, Dick watching Tim like a hawk, looking for any tells, any muscle twitches, anything that indicated what the younger man would do. Suddenly, Tim's shoulder twitched, and Dick prepared for a punch, but instead, Tim dove for the floor, tackling Dick's legs, and quickly pinning him. Dick immediately used the momentum to roll, reversing their positions so that Tim was now pinned under him.

"Close," he whispered, their faces mere inches apart, "but not close enough."

"How's this?" Tim raised up and kissed him, fully on the mouth, slipping his arms around Dick's neck and pulling him closer.

Dick responded automatically, wrapping his arms around Tim and leaning into the embrace as Tim deepened the kiss. He felt the familiar sensation and without thinking, opened his mouth, engaging in some serious tongue wrestling until the need for oxygen forced them apart. Only then did the significance of their actions hit him.

"Tim," he began, "I -"

"You're what's been on my mind, Dick," Tim whispered, looking deeply into his eyes. "You're why I can't concentrate. I love you."

"Oh, my God."

(^V^)(^V^)(^V^)(^V^)(^V^)(^V^)(^V^)(^V^)(^V^)(^V^)(^V^)(^V^)(^V^)(^V^)(^V^)(^V^)(^V^)
Part 4

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