Walking through the streets of Soho in the rain--that was a song lyric, right?--Dick carefully, if surreptitiously watched Tim. The kid no longer walked hunched over, as if the weight of the world was on his back, his eyes on the ground, his whole attitude screaming 'don't touch'. Four months of travel had brought back some life to his eyes, some strength to his bearing.
He walked with some purpose, now, no longer shuffling along, uncaring where he was going.
He was healing.
And suddenly his eyes were piercing into Dick's. "What?"
Dick refused to feel guilty for caring, and grinned, then slung a damp arm over an equally damp set of shoulders, his hand brushing against black hair curling too long against a strong neck. "You need a haircut."
"That's not why you keep staring at me." Tim arched one eyebrow at his brother who continued to grin goofily. "I'm fine."
"Yeah, you are," the older man replied with some relief. "Head above water finally."
"Head getting very wet," Tim retorted, frowning up at the thickening rain. "Why are we out here again?"
"Because it's London and it's supposed to be raining so who cares."
"Plus Bruce wants to talk to you about the Outsiders."
The goofy grin turned to a frown. "Yeah, let's not go there, bro."
"This trip can't last forever. We can't just float through life, Dick. We're not made for that."
"Serious talk is not allowed, Timmy."
Tim rolled his eyes and let himself be guided down an alley to a non-Starbucks coffee place. "When you call me that I feel like I'm twelve again."
Dick let his fingers rise to brush over a carved cheekbone and he leaned down to whisper, "Thank god you're not," before letting his lips join his fingers.
And, with a shiver of pleasure going through him, Tim thought that perhaps a few more days or weeks of just letting life happen wasn't such a horrible idea.
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