that_goldenboy | (no subject)

Who: Jim Kirk and Dick Grayson
When: After Dick punched him in cold blood in Spain.
What: The wayward son comes home. Finally.

Jim had held out for about nine days before calling, and he didn't even call Bruce or Dick. Well, he knew that Dick wouldn't take his calls but Bruce probably would but he was kind of afraid that if he talked to Bruce, something would get said that would make him angry and then he'd change his mind again.

So he called Alfred. Put up with the small lecture the butler had for him for worrying them and when he asked Alfred to either book him a ticket or wire him the money to do it himself, what was left of the lecture dried up. And Alfred was there to pick him up, letting Jim hug him and promising that if Jim ever pulled this again, he was going to follow him and drag him back himself and don't even think of complaining to Master Bruce, he would support that course of action and they both know it.

"You didn't tell them though, right?" Jim asked, following Alfred back to the car.

"No sir, I did not but I wouldn't be surprised if Master Dick punches you again."

Jim laughed a little bit at that, even though the shiner Dick gave him the last time hadn't exactly healed yet. It didn't look as bad as it did a week ago. It wouldn't even be a matched set if Dick punched him again, so punching him again would just have to be skipped. He didn't really say much else, even after they got back to the manor and Alfred brought his one, tiny bag upstairs for him. It was still kind of early in Dick terms, there was a good chance he'd be asleep for another hour so Jim headed for the kitchen, to get coffee and wait for him.

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"I know. I just make jokes because I'm a bad person," Jim answered, messing up his hair a little bit. "Seriously do what you need to do."

Dick managed a little laugh at that, and after a while, he pulled back and wiped his nose on his sleeve, sniffling a little and feeling like an idiot.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. I'm the dick here."

"I did just use you as a tissue," he said quietly, scrubbing a hand over his eyes.

"It's a gross dirty shirt anyway, so joke's on you remember?"

"Right." A beat. "I'm sorry I hit you."

"I deserved it," Jim answered, shrugging a little bit. He could be honest. He'd been an ass, and if the situation was reversed, he probably would've tried to hit Dick. Though tried was kind of the operative word since he could admit that Dick had speed and better skill on his side.

"... Do you need any help unpacking or anything?" he asked, feeling a little awkward because it had been six months. And most of his interaction with Jim had been a lot of yelling and hurt feelings all around.

"I didn't bring anything," Jim answered with a shrug. "Alfred probably threw my bag away."

"Was it really that gross?"

"It was that cheap. You think I made any money working as a bartender?"

"I don't know, I've never tried it," he said, managing a sort of cautious smile.

"Yeah, having a real job is too cool for you."

"You know it." Does joking like everything's okay mean we can start acting like we're friends again?