Lessons

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Rated T

It's called a oneshot, kids.

This fanfiction is officially stamped with a 'Yaoi Warning.'

A/N 1: If you don't like boy/boy relationships, Robin, Speedy, or Robin/Speedy, go read something else. Please. And note that any OOC that occurs is because the characters kind of have to be that way for any non-canon pairings to work. (And hey, even with canon pairings, people are OOC—have you read some of the Robin and Starfire stories? Puh-lease, half of those wouldn't happen unless every Titan was on drugs. Oh, and some of those drugged-up Titan stories are mine. Wow, how did I get to bashing myself?)

And on with the story.

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Whatever my intention had been for holding a Titan weapons assembly, it certainly wasn't accomplished. I meant for us all to meet in the same group and train together, with everyone critiquing everyone else.

Like I said, it didn't end up like that. Starfire and Bumblebee were practicing their maneuverability in the air inside the lower training gym while Cyborg, Raven, and the twins were in the upper gym—Cyborg was running the twins through their paces while Raven tried to distract them with flying objects; only her powers were even close to being fast enough to keep up with them. Aqualad and Beast Boy were in the bay practicing underwater rescues… meaning that they were probably challenging each other to friendly competitions, racing and whatnot.

Needless to say, that left me with Speedy. Apparently, our shared masks told our teammates that there was a need for us to always be paired as training partners. He didn't seem unhappy about it, and actually requested that we train on each other's weapons, in case we needed a weapon but only had what the other used. An improbable situation; he and I were both extremely capable in combat.

And that's how we ended up in the main gym, with the targets, matted floors, and huge, empty spaces. As we walked through the doors, he let out a low whistle.

"Damn," he laughed. "How many training courses do you guys have over here?"

I shrugged. "I never bothered to count. Four gyms, three courses, a convertible indoor-outdoor field…" I realized he was smirking at me. "What?"

"Let me guess… you use all of them regularly?"

"Yes. Why?"

Smugly, he held the bow and arrows out, mask offset by a raised brow. "If you spend so much time training on the same weapons, maybe you should see if you can use new ones on the fly. Take 'em."

I slung the rectangular quiver over my shoulder and took the bow, toying with the string while walking to the target area. It felt too light in my hands, like it couldn't really be used against real danger. And yet, all those times Speedy had shot something, the arrow delivered a powerful, unusually accurate strike.

I set the quiver on the ground, plucking an arrow from it, fumbling to set it against the string.

"Stop that," Speedy instructed crisply. Suddenly beside me, he grabbed my hand, adjusting it on the golden part of the bow. "It's not a loose hold," he murmured, closing his hand around mine.

I jerked away from him, dropping the arrow. I hadn't expected the sudden warmth around my hand, noticeable even through my glove. And I knew that it was just a touch, but it felt foreign—generally speaking, team members don't come into actual contact with each other unless it's a friendly, half-second slap on the back for a battle well fought.

"Dick?" he asked. I snapped back to reality, flushing with the realization that I'd been staring down at my hand.

"Sorry," I gasped, taking the arrow from where it had fallen and reaching to get back the bow from Speedy. "It's nothing."

As soon as I took the bow, he recoiled slightly, merely pointing at my hand. "Still too loose. Tighten your grip."

Nodding, I clenched my fist.

"Now, the rod of the arrow can go under your first finger for stability." He pointed again.

Fiddling with the grip, I groaned, turning my head towards him. "What do you mean?"

He pulled my index finger from the bow, chuckling. "When I say a tight hold, I don't mean you have to strangle the thing. Now," he continued, slipping the arrow under my finger, "just tighten your finger again, but let the arrow have enough room to slide."

I let out a short breath of relief when he let go of me. I knew I was too tense, too worked up—but about what, I couldn't figure.

"And then…" he trailed off, stepping to the side while pulling the arrow to point at the target. "You aim…" Moving once more, he stepped to my right, lightly grabbing my shoulder. "And turn…" We were facing each other—or would've been, if my head wasn't facing the target—and I realized that I felt warm from simply standing next to him. He was radiating heat, it seemed.

I jumped again when he took my other hand, removing it completely from the string. He held the arrow straight, ignoring my jerky movements as he slid the end of the arrow between my index and middle fingers. The movement made me shiver, whether my fingers were just hypersensitive to the light touch or not.

"Pull it back," he murmured. I didn't have to move—his fingers wrapped around my wrist and moved my hand before letting go again. "Now, release it."

I felt the tension straining the string and let the arrow fly—which it did, for about ten paces. And then it fell with a soft clink to the floor.

Speedy roared with laughter next to me. Spinning on him, my face burning bright red, I glared through the mask. "What's so funny?" I demanded.

"That—that was—so bad—" he gasped, doubled over in amusement. "You should—see the look on your face!"

I shoved the bow at him. "You do it, then!"

His laughter subsiding, he nodded, still grinning. He reached for another arrow, raised the bow, and pulled back on the string. "See how my hands are?"

I didn't hear him. My eyes, glued to his arms, were fixated on the way his muscles flexed when they moved. "What?" I asked, snapping my eyes up blankly.

"Do you… see how… my hands… are on… the bow?"

"Oh—yeah."

He whipped his head back towards the target, mask narrowing in concentration. A sharp twang echoed past me, reverberating at the same time that the arrow pierced the target with a solid crunch. "Voila," he mocked, handing me the bow again.

I just stared, shaking my head. "I'll stick with my bo-staff, really."

"What, afraid that the great Richard Grayson can't overcome the wimpy little arrows?" He held up an arrow and twirled it, pursing his lips.

I had to smile. Cute. And then I shuddered, whirling to face the door, hand massaging the bridge of my nose. Sides of my conscience started arguing in fierce objection.

What the hell is wrong with you?

You were the one who just thought he was cute!

That was you! Why would I ever think such a thing?

Dammit, I don't know!

"Wait—Dick!—I was kidding!" Speedy blocked my path. "C'mon, try it again. I'll try to be more helpful."

"No—" I protested, but he was dragging me back to the targets whether I wanted to be there or not.

"Like this," he muttered from behind me. He stretched his arm out, holding the bow appropriately. "Take it."

I felt his warm chest close to my back and leaned forward slightly, hoping he wouldn't notice.

"Take it," he repeated, and I grudgingly took the bow, holding it tightly. "And arrow," he added, holding one up. I took that, too, and set it on the string.

"Now…?" I asked, my staggered breathing too loud.

"Fix your feet," he directed. He must've moved—his breath was on the exposed part of my neck, just below my ear.

A slight touch on the front of my leg sent a jolt through me, and I looked down. The hand that wasn't holding the bow was wrapped around my other side, lightly skimming my thigh.

"Move your leg back," he said impatiently, utterly oblivious to the fact that his touch made me uncomfortable. His hand, on my hip now, twisted me slightly so that my elbow nearly rested against his shoulder.

After what seemed like an eternity, he took his hand away, still leaving it to hover in front of my abdomen. But it didn't matter—his other hand wrapped around my wrist, keeping the bow steady. I wondered if he could feel the slight shake in my grip.

"Once more," he said, his low tone almost a whisper—I could feel it burning my skin, raising the hair on the back of my neck. "Pull the arrow back…"

I obeyed, standing frozen when the hand around my other side skimmed my stomach. It wasn't the touch that froze me this time—it was the slight feeling of pleasure that I took from it.

"Let it fly," he muttered, interrupting my stupor.

Again, I did as instructed—and again, the arrow fell without hitting the target. But it was closer, at least.

"That's a little better," he chuckled. I could feel the vibration of his laugh in my back—his chest was still touching me, but was he closer than before?—and the tremors in his breath landed on my neck. I shivered and instantly knew he'd felt it. "What, am I bothering you?" His voice was too soft, too innocent. It occurred to me that he had probably intended to freak me out.

But then it went beyond the purpose of 'freaking me out.' I felt his mouth press against my neck, right below my ear. He let out a breath, slowly parting his lips, flitting his tongue against my skin.

"Roy," I croaked, unable to breathe. His hand drifted up the front of my uniform, across my chest, resting over my heart.

His mouth pulled away just enough to allow him a laugh—he could feel the wildly pounding pulse throbbing through my veins. "If you don't like it," he whispered into my neck, "why don't you tell me to stop?"

"I…" Breathing was still a challenge—and that was because of the way he was touching—kissing, actually—me. And yet, I couldn't pull away. His warmth was enveloping and his entire being was generally enticing—the way he looked, the way he smelled, the way his fingers were lightly tracing the edge of the 'R' patch …

I dropped the bow and spun. He stepped back, expecting a retort, but he wasn't going to get away that quickly.

"Tell you to stop?" I asked, grabbing his wrist and then the back of his head, pressing my lips against his. "Why in hell would I want to stop?"

He laughed into my mouth. "Because there are cameras watching us?"

I jolted away, back to where the bow lay forgotten on the ground. I picked it up, stuck an arrow onto it, and then aimed it at the security camera. Another sharp twang came from the string and the arrow hit its mark—the camera's lens cracked and shattered, sparking for a second.

I looked over at him and grinned for a moment before realizing that he looked completely confused.

"I thought you couldn't aim!" he exclaimed, moving closer.

"Not when you're breathing down my neck, I can't. Maybe you should help me get over that distraction…" I shrugged, fighting the urge to smile. "I'll need a lot of practice, though."

A smirk crossed his face. "It would be my pleasure." And then, as if I couldn't hear, he added a quiet, "And I mean that literally."

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And thus ends the story. To review, or not to review: that is the question.

A/N 2: I am a SpAqua fan, FYI. Sometimes my mind likes to wonder and try other flavors, though. And thus, things like this come up because I get bored… a lot. So if this is lacking the Robin/Speedy fluff that you people crave, well, it's a first attempt. Give a girl some slack, eh?

A/N 3: I'd love to know if anyone actually reads these author notes. Do you? I do, when people put them inside chapters. They might make me feel like a stalker, but hey, it's funlicious. (Shut up, I'm aware that that isn't a word.) So if you really do read these things, tell me in your review, won't you? I'm curious.

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