Usual disclaimers apply.

John and Brendan put up with this. They get a sticker. I'd give 'em candy, but,?

All Hallows Day

**

Dawn peeked through the shades of Dick Grayson's apartment. From the kitchen, he could hear Timothy Drake moan in pain. With a slight smile of satisfaction, Dick reached for another beer.

Tim lay curled on his side, on the floor in front of Dick's sofa, shaking and generally feeling ill. "Dick? I don't feel good," he muttered.

"So?"

"Help?"

"No help for you," Dick said in a funny little voice, breaking open another beer. He came to stand next to the arm of the couch looking down at the boy he considered to be his younger brother. "I toldja not to do It."

"I had to. I had to know what its like."

"I told you what its like."

"Had to find out. for myself."

Dick stepped over Tim and sat on the sofa. He dug in the cushions for the remote. Coming up with a hand full of crumbs, two quarters and a cheese ball. "What'd you do with the remote?"

"Dunno," Tim answered, wiping a disgusting brown slime from his mouth to the back of his hand. He wiped the slime from the back of his hand onto the butt of his jeans. "Dick, I'm going to die."

"You're not going to die. But I might call my friends over to point at you and laugh."

"You're a real sweet heart," Tim grumbled unhappily.

Dick propped his feet up on Tim's legs. "And you make a good ottoman."

"Doesn't it bug you that my heart's racing and I can't stop shaking?"

Dick pretended to think about it. "No."

"It bothers me."

"Go see Alfred."

Tim threw one arm over his eyes and moaned. "I can't do that. He'll make fun of me."

"So then shut up. You'll live. In about four hours you'll probably crap your brains out and then you'll be fine." Dick finished the can, then crushed it and set it on the sofa next to him.

"What if we pumped my stomach?"

"I am NOT pumping your stomach."

"Then I won't crap my brains out."

"Nope. It's already in your system. Even if I did pump your stomach, you'd still be on the pot for like two hours."

"Oh God. Batman and I are running a sting tonight. Will I be ok by then?"

"Wonder if you can fit a diaper under yer tights, Boy Blunder," Dick snickered.

Tim clutched his stomach. "Nooooo."

"Yesss."

"I hate you." He moved ever so slightly, dropping Dick's feet onto the floor.

Dick shook his head, smugly. Kids today-- "It isn't my fault, Timster. I told you not to do it. But you just HAD to. You're lucky you're not in a coma."

"It was so good. And I worked hard for it."

"Tim, you ate twenty-five pounds of Trick-or-Treat candy in six hours. You should probably be dead."

"Not all of that was candy!"

"No, the damned funeral homes around here give out Zesti! Twenty pounds of candy and a case of Zesti."

Tim moaned. "But it was so good going down." Suddenly, Tim's stomach made the most horrible lurching sound that seemed to echo through out the room. He rolled onto his knees and staggered to the bathroom.

Dick slapped his knee with a laugh. "Remember that when it's coming out the end, my friend."

The bathroom door slammed and a muffled cry came from behind the cheap wood. "Ooooh SHIT! Too late!"

Dick shrugged contentedly, finding the remote on the floor where Tim had been laying. Blocking the sounds from the wash closet, he turned on the sports network.

THE END