The din of afternoon clogs Dick’s mouth with syllables, his inarticulate body breaks through the evening. The daylight burns his eyes. Still, he recognises the wrong the moment he steps into the threshold. Nothing is out of place, but still the room feels disturbed. He’s itching out of his skin, an instant dark congealing behind his eyes. Then he’s calling for Haley, a slot of relief threading behind his lungs when her paws click through the hall. Roy’s voice rolls through him next and he slumps in on himself.
Dick is happy to let bygones be bygones. They don’t talk about anything, don’t talk about Dick’s knuckles cracking against his head, Roy’s thumbs pressed into his windpipe. Only Dick’s frustrated today, clammy and calloused. He loiters at the kitchen table, blinks at the sandwich. When had he eaten last? His diet is poor at best, worse on these days and he tries to ignore the tightening in his chest at the casual care. It’s fisted in his hand when he trudges through the door to his bedroom, leans against the frame. He’s licking mayonnaise off his thumb, drawing his eyes over the hard notch of his deltoid, the sun bleached freckles sweeping over his cheekbones. He follows a scar along his pec,down to the tracks cruxing his forearm. The frustration bleeds out of him, and his eyes linger, unabashed and without shame the way they always do. It is a relief to have another breathing body in the room with him, even if he’d spent the day thwarting company. Maybe it’s just a relief that it’s Roy.
But something’s changed.
He feels tired, and Roy looks….. at home in his bed. Or comfortable, at the least, like he trusts him still, like Dick’s apartment is reprieve. He’s shrugging out of his own shirt, the pulse and pull of his ribs as it’s tugged over his head. He kicks out of his shoes next, his jeans follow, his underwear even despite Roy’s politeness and it’s a step too far perhaps, before he’s dragging the heavy duvet back to shuffle in beside him. He feels ancient.
A heavy arm is tossed over his waist, Roy’s body dragged bruisingly close and he buries his face against the nape of his neck, breathes in his warmth until he’s heavy with the sand of exhaustion. Defeat lodges inside him, fingers knotting in the sheets to drown them closer. Roy seems lucid, intact, and it’s not quite a kiss, they don’t do that, but his mouth is lax at his hairline. It’s strange, the way enough days makes crossing the line into intimacy easy, but he supposes that was never what he was worried about.
“Yeah well, you broke into my apartment, used my fancy soaps by the smell of it, insulted my mattress and you didn’t even cut the crust off my sandwich.”
Roy watches him. Out of habit, his eyes scan over Dick's body, searching for any signs of distress. Any bleeding wounds, any nasty bruises, any lumps that might indicate something under the skin is sprained or broken. He tells himself that's all there is to his slow, methodic visual inspection of the man's toned body, because friends take care of each other and what kind of friend would he be if he doesn't make sure Grayson is not dying?
"Oh, you poor, poor baby," Roy coos as Dick complains about the crust on the sandwich of all things. "You gotta eat the crust, you're a growing boy."
And he knows for a fact that sandwich was probably the first half decent meal Dick has had in a while, because again they're friends and he knows his friend well.
Too damn well, some would say. Not just because Dick is currently naked in front of him and getting in bed with him, cuddling up close like someone who craves touch, is desperate for it, and will take it from anyone who is willing to give it to him —surely, that is what makes him seek it from Roy—; but also because they've been friends for so long, Roy has had the privilege of seeing sides of Dick that most others don't ever get to witness because the golden boy of the Bats family goes out of his way to keep the 'ugly' bits out if sight and out of mind.
It's quite the ego boost, knowing that he is one of the very selective few that gets to see both sides. Many would think it isn't something he should be proud of, but all things considered, Roy has always had odd priorities.
His tongue comes out to wet his lips, feeling the scar that was left behind by their last big disagreement, where Roy's lip ended up busted and Dick's ribs neck had ended up with a few nicely fingertip shaped bruises while choice words were exchanged.
And here they were now, CUDDLING.
"Long day, honey?" he asks, tone teasing. One hand moves from under the back of his head to wrap around Dick's head, fingers burying into his hair and stroking at his scalp. "How was work?"
