It isn't that Steve forgets about Bruce. It's more that when shit hits the fan -Tony, Peggy dying, the accords being signed - he forgets that he had personal belongings being auctioned off, much less that there'd been an offer made to buy them.
Whether being fugitive drives prices up or down, Steve definitely doesn't have the bandwidth to care about.
What he does have the bandwidth to very much care about is finding somewhere to be until he can get enough information to get his people out of the floating, high security prison they were put in when they refused to sign. And time to get a plan together for what he's doing with them after that.
The offer to let Bruce know if he could help? That one he definitely remembers. Doesn't like needing it, but he has next to no other options. Not like 'wanted criminal' is a position he's got a lot of experience with.
He does have sense though, both tactical and otherwise. Which is why his people are in a high security prison floating in the ocean, and Steve isn't. It's also why he calls from a disposable phone and number.
All he says, though, is "I could use a drink." Steve can't get drunk and he's pretty sure Bruce doesn't drink. He's just going to have to hope Bruce is either secure in his security or just spits out an address - or both. Reading between the lines he knows Bruce will do.
Truthfully, Bruce had his own problems. There were too many people who saw Arkham City's closure and Joker's death as an ending. In the quiet that followed, Bruce could see how easy it was to feel that way. But he also knew his city. Knew how it moved and breathed and thought. It wasn't an ending. It was an opening, for something to fill the void Joker had left behind. Bruce had to make sure that something wasn't worse.
So that meant long nights. Well, longer nights, pouring over schematics and plans. Not only to improve his weaponry but to improve the car's capabilities as well. He wanted to be prepared for anything, even if that anything turned out to be nothing at all.
The accords, while a thought, hadn't been a real priority. It'd been filed under 'deal with it later' if it ever became a problem. It seemed a more immediate threat to the likes of Superman and Flash and to Steve than to him at any rate. That is until Steve called. He was tempted to let the answering machine pick it up ( he had work to do ) but when he realized just who it was, he decided to keep his word and answer.
"Well, Rogers, you're in luck. I've got plenty. Come by the Tower. They'll let you into the penthouse."
He's going to take use of his name as a sign that Bruce trusts his phone line. Unless he has radically misunderstood everything about the man, he doesn't expect this to be some elaborate trap.
He's made worse judgement calls, but as a rule? He has a lot of faith in individuals and Bruce has put his own ass on the line for others too many times for him to expect him to pull anything with that.
"Give me fifteen. Make the door you want me in obvious for me, would you?"
He's there in ten. He's not cagey or even overly cautious in his approach. A little tense, maybe but that's because it's Gotham and that Tower is... imposing.
The lines were secure. Oracle ran regular sweeps on every avenue Bruce used for communication and as a precaution he often followed up her sweep with one of his own. There wasn't a safer number to call in Gotham.
Fifteen minutes is plenty enough time to get ready for a guest. He puts away his work, at least for the evening and puts the more important things under a more secure lock and key.
When Steve arrives, Lucius Fox is the one waiting for him outside. He directs him to the underground garage, where Bruce's personal elevator is. It'll take him directly to the top floor.
Maybe Steve should be more wary about all this than he is, between the Accords and his history with Hydra.
He's not.
He could make a narrative to make this a Batman Level elaborate and genius trap - but it doesn't fit the guy who has dedicated his life to a cause, and poured his literal blood into it.
He's pretty quiet when he greets Fox and the long ride up to the top floor. He's tense, but in a (really) subtle tired and starting to fray ' sort of way, rather than anything approaching 'fight ready'.
Jeans, t-shirt, jacket and sneakers fit that pretty well too. Nothing like a uniform or armed when he steps out of the elevator, immediately looking for Bruce. Hoping this isn't going to be a 'leave him longer' or game of hide and seek. There are spaces he'll move around like a bull in a china shop. Anywhere controlled by Bruce? Absolutely not without goddamn good cause, and he'd still rather not.
Bruce didn't often invite people into his personal space. He'd always preferred meeting others on neutral ground. Or in their space instead. It made assessing danger and picking out vulnerabilities easier. Everyone felt at ease when they thought they were in a safe place. Bringing someone here, even someone like Steve, put him in a reverse position. And more than anything, Bruce did not like feeling vulnerable. But he trusted Steve, at least more than the average person who might find their way into his office.
Steve isn't made to wait as Bruce is there when the elevator dings and the doors slide open. "Glad you found the place," he says, as if Wayne Tower isn't a monster on Gotham's skyline. You could see it from Arkham Island.
He's not nearly as casual as Steve, but not as put together as he is when he needs to be Bruce Wayne. Black slacks and a white button down that's loose at the collar. He slides his hands into his pockets and nods toward the ornate double doors across the hall. "There's a mini bar in there. Come in and tell me what's got you troubled enough to drink."
There aren't many places that he could meet Bruce, under these conditions, and be as relatively relaxed as he stays. It's a space that's very well suited to Bruce, without being too many layers of masks (literal and otherwise).
He quirks a faint smile and shakes his head. "I'll drink it if you give it to me, but it's a waste of what I'm sure's a really good drink." He just metabolizes it out before it accomplishes anything. "I just needed an excuse I wouldn't mind being overheard. Wouldn't mind sitting down while I explain myself, though."
"Sit anywhere you like," he says, once they are well and truly alone.
The wall of liquor is one of the more attractive parts of the office space. The wall mirrored and well lit to draw in the eye to various wines and spirits Bruce has spent a long time collecting. It suits his purposes: entertaining people he's trying to do business with, or furthering the idea that he really had nothing better to do than party his days away while other people did the hard work of keeping Wayne Enterprises afloat. Plush red stools neatly lined the bar. Tucked away, in the corner of the room were two overstuffed chairs, offering a better sense of privacy than the stools did.
"If you're hungry, I can have something brought up for you."
There's no question in Steve's mind about where he's sitting. He gravitates toward the armchairs, immediately.
There's something about the space, even the bar, that for all that it is a display of wealth and image, and one that is at least somewhat (he assumes) cultivated, that has an elegance about it that suits Bruce.
He sits, and leans forward enough to have his forearms braced on his thighs. "I need to eat, but let me get this out so you can decide whether you want me around long enough to feed me."
Asking for help still feels... wrong, on some level. Food? That offer doesn't. It feels fundamentally reflective of who he thinks Bruce is as a person. "The second the Accords went live they arrested everyone who didn't sign that they could find, including a guy with kids who was prepared to walk away. I can't let that stand. I won't involve you in that, but I need time to gather enough information to move on."
If it was what he needed, feeding Steve is never in any doubt. He trusted Steve enough to allow him into his inner circle, enough that Steve knew his secret. For Bruce, that's more than enough to consider Steve one of his own. There isn't much that would change that. Unless, Steve's done something especially egregious. But then, they would be having an entirely different conversation.
He follows Steve to the corner of his office but doesn't sit, opting instead to lean back against the bookshelf. It seems a casual gesture, but it was always easier to be prepared when he's standing. Besides, he never really stays sitting for long.
As he listens, there's a...shift in him. It's work to always be Gotham's Golden Boy. It's down to an art by now, but that doesn't mean it's not work. It's easy to turn it off though, like the flip of a switch. He'd known about the Accords passing, but hadn't looked into it any further.
"What do you need from me?" Asked in a way, not to suggest a reluctance to help, but to make sure Steve knew whatever he needed, Bruce was willing to provide.
Steve wouldn't be able to explain what that shift looks like from the outside - too subtle, too fast - but it's something he at least recognizes all the same. Something around the eyes, maybe, or just Bruce feelings more present to him.
Either way, he actively breathes easier and is more comfortable for it. He trusts Bruce, period. How to interact with Gotham's 'Prince', even knowing what's behind that mask and trusting Bruce enough to be here - and trusting Bruce trusts him enough to let him be? Not well enough not to be awkward as hell.
"I need information about the prison they're being held in - as much of it as I can get. Security systems, guard schedules and changes, the transportation system being used for supplies and staff. Ideally who the staff is. Bare minimum I need to know what the outer layer of security looks like." Which is obviously also the bare minimum of what he needs. "Time to turn that information into a plan for getting them out, and to be able to move and move them once they are."
He was... not as prepared as he should be. Not with Peggy's funeral at the same time, but mostly not for 'just stopping' to be something they wouldn't let slide for even the non-enhanced guys like Clint and Sam. ...or Batman, technically, though for all his worry and really trusting Bruce, he doesn't see that happening. Not with the secret identity, not with all the security in place around it. If that was going to break into an arrest, it already would have.
He rubs his eyes between his thumb and forefinger. "And I really need food." That bit? Is embarrassed. Still Steve warm and blunt, but embarrassed.
Bruce doesn't answer to that. Not at first. Steve's needs have set his mind off in several directions at once, sorting out what he could get his hands on immediately and what would require a bit of work. The prison, he figures, would have to be something that could hold enhanced humans but also be prepared to hold Superman if they ever got their hands on him, doubtful however that might be.
At his computer he inputs a few queries but turn up no results, at least none near Gotham. He would have to send out feelers for anything beyond that.
"Give me a little time, Steve," he says, "I'll get you what you need."
With his kind of resources, the shadow he casts can be as long or as short as he needs it. But that is some nebulous future thing that Bruce doesn't have a way of predicting the outcome of just yet. There's still right now to take care of.
"There's a chef here. He'll cook whatever you like." He gets up from his desk and crosses the space again to where Steve is. "And if you need a place to sleep, come with me to the manor. I'll let Alfred know to prepare one of the guest rooms."
"We've got time." He stands back up when Bruce starts walking back toward him and takes a few steps toward him. "I need to get them out, but they're not likely to be in any kind of immediate physical danger."
He drops one shoulder against the bookcase, and studies Bruce for a moment. Quiet, steady, warm and somehow just a little amused. "I don't have a problem with going home with you." Sleep he can go longer without, but he'd rather not. The Manor's one of the safest places on earth, and he likes Alfred almost as much as he likes Bruce. "but when was the last time you ate - or slept for that matter?"
Already, Bruce is putting his long reach to work. Oracle is the best bet when it came to the technical things - schematics, guard roster and rotation. But the small people, with eyes and ears out everywhere and who owed Batman a favor would get them the bits that might seem inconsequential but would prove valuable in the long run. It would just take time. Time, Steve assures him they have. Bruce never liked going into a situation blind, but if that changed, he's prepared for that too.
He smiles wryly at Steve's question. Eating, he did far more of than sleeping. But still the answer to Steve's question would be the same - a while. "I've been busy," he says. He isn't sure how much Steve's heard about the Arkham City debacle, but Bruce gives him a basic summary regardless, while leaving out the bits too personal to recount (namely that he was infected with Joker's blood and that infection might not be cured).
"Joker's dead. But nothing is ever over in this city. It's quiet for now, but for how long? I'm going to be ready when it gets here."
"Yeah, you will be. And you'll be a lot more ready if you've had food and at least a nap, recently." There's some gentle humor there, but there's also something a little stubborn in it. Steve's starting to hit walls all over the place, and he's more than familiar with stubbornly pushing himself--
but he's got being a successful laboratory experiment assist.
Bruce? He can't be clear on timing of those things, or even current state. That man's ability to function and at least seem fine through almost anything is a complication (for Steve's desire to take care of him). Joker being dead though? That is a damn big clue that 'busy' is an understatement and it's been a long while.
"So." After looking at Bruce with a slightly tilted head for probably long enough to be uncomfortable. "Back to the Manor, food for both of us and then we can discuss at least a nap?" Take your breaks where they come Bruce. Or fight him about it first.
Steve's another voice to add to the chorus. He's not the only one to ask after Bruce's brutal pace. It's part of the reason why he's been shutting out Tim and Dick and Barabara when he doesn't need her intel. He appreciates that they care, that they want to see him be okay in the wake of everything. But it slows him down and he can't afford to be slow about anything. People die when he's too slow. People he cares about.
He knows its hypocrisy to insist on Steve resting so he can be ready to save his people. He could go to the manor for the night and finish his work in the Cave. Lucius already had the designs Bruce was after, so it wasn't like there was much to keep him here. Really, he's avoiding the manor because he is avoiding Tim. It's something he can set aside for one night, though. Maybe he'll even have a nap when he's satisfied with his progress. "Car's in the garage. I'll drive." He would let Alfred know he's coming with a guest on the way.
And if a single, solitary member of Steve's team suggested that he need a meal and some sleep, Steve would refuse. Because they're his team. Because they're his people. Because they're his responsibility.
Bruce? Isn't. He respects Bruce, likes Bruce, trusts Bruce and cares about Bruce -- but Bruce isn't his responsibility.
Not that that stops him from using some obvious leverage against him, or from wanting to see Bruce take care of himself. It's just from a position of more even footing.
"Convenient, because I don't have a car." There's a slight smile to go with that, but he's pretty content and ready to fall in with Bruce and follow him to the garage. Keep his mouth shut while Bruce is on the phone or driving.
He doesn't know what's going on, is missing big swaths of information that would worry him more, but he has enough to worry some, anyway. Do what he can. To pay attention to the individual in front of him. And to hope Tim doesn't become an invasive presence for everyone's sake.
Bruce takes care of himself by taking care of others, by making sure they had what they needed when they needed it. He's trained himself to thrive on less than an average person, because he always wants to be ready to go when it's necessary.
Doesn't mean he doesn't crash out sometimes. He very much does, because he is still just an ordinary man and there were moments where his body wouldn't give him any other choice. There are hardly ever signs. Just moments where he vanishes when he needs to recoup.
He matches Steve's slight smile then leads the way to the garage beneath the building. Tucked away in the corner is a small fleet of luxury vehicles, parked neatly in the spaces there. Using the fob to unlock one, he hops into the driver's seat and nods for Steve to join him in the passenger.
On the way, he dials up Alfred and arranges a place for Steve to sleep as well as a meal. "Make sure there's enough for two," Bruce adds, "He insists."
Tim is thankfully out with Barbara tonight so he wouldn't be a problem at least for a few hours. Gave him to time to help Steve get settled and he could get back to work himself.
Steve climbs into the passenger seat and buckles his seat belt, like he's not - well, he's not invulnerable, actually, but he's pretty sturdy and doesn't have a lot of self-preservation, much less fear.
He leans back, and closes his eyes while Bruce makes the call to Alfred and stays that way until he's off the phone.
"That man should be nominated for sainthood." For many reasons. Like still being even passingly sane while managing (on any level at all) Bruce Goddamn Wayne.
"Don't tell him that. I'll never hear the end of it." But he didn't disagree. None of this worked without Alfred. Not Bruce Wayne and especially not Batman. Alfred is as vital as anyone who's out in the field with Bruce. He'd never deny that.
The drive to the manor is for the most part uneventful. He puts the car away in the garage and they're greeted by Alfred who offers Steve a warm welcome. Bruce ducks inside to avoid the welcome he was sure to receive. It'd been nearly a week since he'd last set foot in the manor. Their dinner was laid out in the dining room at one end of the impossibly long table. "Thank you, Alfred. What would I do without you?"
Starve most likely, Sir. He's not wrong about that.
Steve returns Alfred's greeting with real warmth, albeit more subdued than usual if only slightly. The kind of slightly more that would be noticeable only by Batman and Alfred. He really is starting to flag. Eating will help and deciding he's somewhere safe will help, but-
That may not work out in Bruce's favor because help or not? Yeah. He's likely to direct at least some more of his own 'take care of your people' onto Bruce. Especially since Bruce is doing him a favor.
Wayne Manor, as always, feels... strange to him, in some indefinable way. Something that suits both men, but doesn't. Something that's about wealth or elegance or just size and too much space and too many memories too close to the surface, even if those aren't his. Points of commonality and contrast with Stark Tower.
There's no discomfort or unease in heading into the dining room and to the table at least, or in sitting down at it. Once he's picked up his fork, though, he just looks at Bruce and waits. No muss, no fuss, no drama, but waits on Bruce to remember he's also eating.
In a sense, Wayne Manor is a strange place. There were lives being lived here, but the vastness of the house gave it a haunting sort of quality. So did the giant portraits of his parents Bruce kept on the walls. A reminder that, once upon a time, things could have ended very differently for the Waynes. And maybe they would not have taken all of the warmth with them when they died.
Food was the last thing on Bruce's mind. He needed to eat and he knows that, but there was still so much left to do before the night shift started. He sits when Steve sits but he isn't the first of them to reach for his fork. And when he realizes Steve is waiting for him he finally picks it up and starts to cut into the protein. It's easiest to eat and often the most necessary to maintain muscle mass. He often just preferred to have in a way that was faster and more convenient than this.
It was a good thing he did not mind the company.
It's funny how Steve's question nearly startles him. There isn't a day he doesn't think about the Joker. The clown often came unbidden, often alongside Jason's gruesome last moments. And for Bruce he can't help but run their final confrontation through his brain to see what he could have possibly done differently to save him. But it always ends the same. He has the cure in hand and Joker stabs him.
"A year," he says. "While I was in Arkham City." Doesn't feel like it's been that long. Sometimes, it feels like it just happened.
Steve's body composition is not exactly fixed, but it's not far off that, either. The serum ensures that his muscle mass is prioritized, anyway. The serum also means that even his resting metabolic rate is insanely high. Activity level or healing just crank it (and his caloric needs) higher. He leans into protein bars, meal replacement shakes, and energy gels out of necessity and is glad they're options in this particular time period.
He'd still rather eat actual food when he can get away with it, especially since he can see the difficulty of doing t hat in the future coming from here.
All that does mean that when Bruce starts eating, Steve pivots his plate around and starts with the carb heavy portion of the meal. "Are people," who aren't Bruce, "approaching that as if it's some kind of win with you?"
Steve knows better. He might also hit someone if they are.
Nobody in his inner circle is foolish enough to think Joker being dead meant an ending. Gotham is a powder keg. They were just waiting to see who was going to be the one to ignite it. It's hard to see when the crime rate is down and the other rogues have all but made themselves scarce. But it's not in Gotham's nature to stay still for long. Just like it's not in Bruce's. He shakes his head. "No." Not if they wanted to stay close. Or as close as Bruce was willing to let them. "There are still things happening, they're just smaller in scale."
Still, it isn't all doom and gloom. "We're rebuilding. Fixing what Strange tried to destroy."
Bruce Wayne has surfaced in the chaotic aftermath to help in the rebuilding efforts. It's a slow process, since most outside investors aren't interested in revitalization. Their money is made when Gotham is off tilt. But Bruce is working his magic and turning some of those No's into a yes. Maybe it doesn't help his case that something is brewing. But it does give ordinary people hope and that was also part of the goal of Batman.
There's some relief for Steve in that, though he mostly shows that by looking up between bites of food and a slight nod of acknowledgement.
"I'd be more surprised if things weren't still happening. On person, no matter how powerful, is ever the whole of the problem. How they got where they were and where they found supporters, and the opportunities they saw are always there whether they are or not."
That may not be the most coherent statement ever, and it's certainly too blunt, lacking... eloquence, but he does see bigger pictures just fine. Not with the kind of intelligence Bruce has, but his own.
"I don't think a single person on my side of things knows I even know who Bruce Wayne is, including headlines about him, but if we've got information by then or not I'm going to get out of your hair and away from you within a couple of days. Is Tim still here?"
Steve is right. It's a power vacuum waiting to be filled and Bruce could not take his eye off it. Not even for a single night. He would not be caught off guard by it. He finishes off his protein, spins the plate to take a bite or two of the carbs, but he rarely eats carbs. Not in the bulk Alfred liked to pile on the plate. The rest, he'd save for another time. Maybe.
"The people on your side don't give you enough credit," Bruce says, leaning back into his chair. He studies Steve for a moment, imagines him brought into the fold. He already knew the secret. It was all a matter of training then. But Bruce also couldn't see Steve walking away from the Avengers. Not to come here and take orders from Bruce. He's a leader himself. There'd be a clash eventually.
"But you don't have to be in a hurry, Steve. Stay as long as you need."
The question about Tim goes unanswered for a moment. "For the most part. I've got him working on something else so he's been away."
Edited (I straight up forgot to answer the question about Tim lol) 2024-11-19 16:48 (UTC)
They would clash eventually. Steve doesn't have a secret identity or any anonymity. He probably couldn't maintain one much longer than he could manage following orders instead of calling the shots himself.
That doesn't mean he couldn't work with or for Bruce in a given scenario, the same way it doesn't mean he's... using Bruce and Bruce's resources to try to get a handle on the absolute shit show his life has turned into.
And God he has got to find a way to get past how hurt and pissed off he is at Tony.
"Sometimes. Most of them don't quite get the serum. I'm okay with it." Most of the time. Sometimes, not. Even when not, not enough to bother to fight the assumptions.
He continues to eat and clears his plate while he waits on the answer about Tim, puts his fork and knife down then and looks back to study Bruce. "I was prepared for shit to get bad. I wasn't ready for them to sweep up a guy with kids and a military vet who are in no way enhanced. I don't know how the hell I'm going to manage this long term, but I've got to get it figured out. I'll stay until I do or I get so much as a hint I'm about to bring trouble down on you or Tim."
Bruce listens to Steve with a detached sort of awareness. As he'd said before, he didn't disagree with the premise of the Accords. Ordinary people needed a contingency, an assurance that people who were out saving the day weren't going to one day turn on them with impunity. Bruce had contingencies for every enhanced human he's ever come across - including Steve. He just thought the government didn't have enough insight to understand. To them it was about control, not safety and that is where the disconnect is for Bruce. (nevermind the hypocrisy there).
"You'll get them out." Distantly, a clock chimes and Bruce gets up. It's time to go to work. "And if you can't, I'll help you." Whether as Batman or Bruce Wayne, either way the hand would be extended.
He nods for Steve to follow. If he's never seen the Cave, now was the time. He opens an entrance and steps into the elevator that appears. "As far as I can tell, it isn't on the mainland. And if the Accords aren't just targeting your friends, then they're going to need a facility that can hold Superman. There's not a prison within a thousand miles that can do that." Which is the biggest clue. "So I've got Oracle tracking a few leads. If anyone can find your friends, it's her."
Steve gets up and follows without hesitation, though his breathing in the elevator is so precisely even it has got to be controlled.
Whether that's discomfort at the confinement and bad associations, or the result of trying to work with Bruce and not start a (stupid, unnecessary) fight just because he want to lash out at someone is a mystery, even to Steve.
Especially unnecessary and stupid since Bruce is helping him, Steve doesn't even wholly disagree with Bruce - just going with a bigger picture and broader scope, but also more trust in individuals.
Triply more stupid because this, at it's heart, is that Tony fucking hurt him, and Steve is not handling it well but that has nothing to do with Bruce.
"I know. I trust you and your judgement on approach."
At least once out of the elevator his breathing stops being... mathematical and deliberately slow. "Though if they think they can contain Superman, they've moved straight past stupid and into delusional." He knows Superman can be contained or killed. That doesn't mean he believes the UN has the ability. And not because of kryptonite or lack of. More... allies.
Ultimately, trust is hard to come by and Bruce didn't really trust anyone. There were degrees to it, of course, people he allows into his life and into the family. But his trust is never particularly deep. It's not that he expects or even desires betrayal. He's just...aware of the possibility and plans accordingly. To a point, he didn't even trust himself fully. It's part of the reason for the limits he puts on himself. He knows once a line is crossed, he'd never go back to this and he could become something someone like Steve would need to stop one day. He didn't want it to come to that.
The Cave comes to life when Bruce steps foot inside. He strides over to the computer to check info, see if Tim or Barbara has reached out. Tim's messages only indicate no change in his current project, while Barbara's sent a few possibilities for the whereabouts of Steve's friends. Bruce doesn't mention it just yet.
"Earlier you asked my thoughts on Stark. I assume he's got his hands in this. What's his play?"
It would be smarter of Steve to be less trusting. He won't be. He won't be, and his reasons aren't all that far of Bruce's reasons. Awareness of what kind of danger he could become, and a refusal to cross those lines. He made a promise to stay the person he was and part of that is not just trusting, but having faith in, individuals.
He finds a spot along a work bench or counter to lean, out of the way and in no danger of knocking anything over. Close enough to Bruce for easy conversation and to watch Bruce do whatever he's down here to do.
"Peggy's funeral was the same day the Accords were signed. Tony knows that, and has just enough respect for me that he'll leave me alone until I move or whatever he decides is an appropriate amount of time has passed. A couple of weeks is a safe bet, a month would be pushing it. Once either of those happen he will come after me with everything he's got. That means Nat, Rhodey, Vision and anybody else who signed and picked up." And, you know, Stark Money, Stark Tech, and government backing.
It makes sense in a morbid kind of way. It gave Steve the chance to grieve, not only Peggy, but whatever comradery he had with Tony and the people who sided with him. Then it would be over. It's ruthless in a way that Bruce understands. He'd have probably done something similar if he were honest with himself about it.
But Bruce exists in a weird sort of limbo. Involved but not really, because no one who might have tried to take him into custody knew he was Batman. He'd convinced everyone that he was a ditz with too much money and time on his hands.
"With his money and the government backing him too." Bruce nods resolutely. "If you need it, I can provide funding and information." Tony wasn't the only one who had nigh unlimited resources. What Bruce lacked in government contacts, he more than made up for in being a one man army all his own. And if he felt like it was necessary, he'd give Steve an idea of how to actually bring him down.
"But first, your friends. Oracle has sent a few possibilities. I'm not convinced, but maybe there's something you see that could help narrow the search parameters."
"Tony's also dependent on a suit he can't even move without a power source, a team that's mostly comprised of people who don't dislike me. He hates me but even he doesn't want me dead, at least not yet, and too much ego to go with anything ranged." That's all just him thinking aloud and somewhat distant sounding.
He goes silent, staring into space for another moment or two as he continues to think, then blinks hard and shakes his head slightly to refocus. His tactical brain is working, but not exactly at peak capacity. Hazards of being relatively safe and knowing it letting shit catch up with him.
"You're writing a lot of blank checks to help me evade a thing you didn't think was a bad idea." Which is observation and mild confusion but nothing too much heavier than that. "And let me see what she's got for locations." Narrow down search parameters he can do.
Bruce glances at Steve, then taps a few keys to bring up the locations Oracle has sent. One tucked away in New York. The other in the middle of no where. Both meant to be top secret, but not secret enough apparently.
"And because I trust you enough to believe the Accords shouldn't be used against you like this."
It's a truthful statement, one that Bruce is confident in. He didn't know all of the intricacies of Steve's falling out with Tony. He didn't need them right away. He'd get them in time. "But you should know this: people only betray me once."
It says something about Steve, either good or bad (or both), that his response to being told people only betrayed Bruce once was to... make a noise in the back of his throat that is derisive.
Or, as it turns out, self-depreciating.
"One of us is a genius and the other one is me." He dismisses the New York location, and pays more attention to the more isolated one, then just... "Can we check ground and air traffic around this location?" He doesn't want to even try to use Bruce's computer, out of fear it will bite him or mace him something.
That out of the way he carries on with the other thread of their conversation. "Short of some HYDRA level shit, someone can betray me a dozen times, and I will go back for 13 if I think they might be trying to do better."
Basically if that was a warning, Steve... missed it entirely as anything relevant to him. Mostly because of his reply but also because 'betray someone' isn't something he's done in his life.
The nature of Bruce's life meant people couldn't get too close. There were risks to it, hazards. Not worth the trouble for a lot of people and that suited Bruce fine. If it meant they were safe. But, if they managed to slip through, manage to reach arm's length, Bruce had to know that they wouldn't abuse his trust.
Steve is at that point. That's why he's here at all. That's why Bruce felt confident in at least getting him set on the right track.
But if Bruce doubted him, even for a moment, he did not want to think about what it could mean for them. He never wanted his relationships to end poorly. But if it were necessary, he wasn't afraid to burn bridges.
Bruce notes Steve's interest in the isolated location and makes sure Oracle notes it too. She confirms and promises a report back later.
There's no denial there, nor is there any hesitation before he replies. "As long as I trust individuals, and I don't extend trust on behalf of another person," and those are the lines around it - individuals and only with himself and his own crap, "the danger is to me."
He straightens up from the terminal, stretches his back out while he does. "The fall out of me not trusting? Not too far off you, if you cross your lines. I have to be able to keep doing that, or I'm... a Hydra."
As long as he knew, Bruce could accept that answer. Steve is more than capable of protecting himself. "And nobody wants that." The last thing he needed was something else to add to the list of things to keep an eye on.
Bruce gets up from the terminal, checks the time, then leans back against the workbench. A while yet before midnight.
"So what's after this?" He gestures vaguely, toward the terminal where the information about the isolated facility still sits open. "You save your friends, possibly clash with Tony. Then what?" He can't imagine it would be going back to normal. Not for any of them.
That he doesn't know is not the answer he wants to be giving there, but that it comes out flat and with 'fucking' used as an adjective is pretty indicative of that. He rakes a hand through his hair and then makes a kind of frustrated, almost disgusted (at himself) noise.
"I can't... think around this many unknowns and scope of threat. All I've got is a lose list of goals and the vague hope that I keep more people alive than I lose, that this isn't a permanent situation and that I'm alive to see the other side of it. If I come up with enough of a plan to call it one, you'll be the first person I tell. What time are you going out?"
A loose list of goals was a start - nebulous and unclear as it was. But it was the foundation. Now it would take a matter of charting out the journey. "Don't stress about it," Bruce says, which is...frustratingly easy for him to say. He knows that. He isn't in Steve's position, but he's well aware what it's like to have people you care about taken, and the terrible limbo that can come with it.
For a minute, when he blinks, he sees Jason's face.
"This isn't going to be solved in one night. We'll look at it with fresh eyes tomorrow."
When he's asked what time he's going out, he straightens up and turns to start the check on his equipment. "Usual time. Midnight. " He glances back at Steve, "I should be back in time for breakfast."
The amount of relief Steve experiences at Bruce effectively giving him permission to stop trying to find a way to fix all of this immediately, or even lay out what he's got, is intense enough that Steve's shoulders drop an inch.
And he doesn't have any kind of poker face, either. That relief is clearly visible in his expression before he just redirects to Bruce.
"You want me down here or upstairs at the table when you get in?"
Sometimes it's what you need to hear - permission to decompress. Some problems could wait until you've got a clear mind. Some problems benefit from time. Rushing headlong could be dangerous.
"I want you to sleep."
The house was on a strict schedule, but Steve has the luxury of existing outside of it. He is a guest and Bruce certainly didn't expect him to keep up with his regimen.
"I will sleep," because he needs it. He's pretty much at the end of his physical rope, and if he wants his brain to work it's going to be as necessary as food. "I won't wake up early for your sake. I will be awake. I don't need all that much sleep, so don't get strange about it if I'm already up when you get in."
Every word there is the truth, from the fact that he'll sleep to him likely being up and why. That doesn't mean he won't worry. Stupid as it is. It's not like this is some unusual activity for Bruce, or that Bruce hasn't survive it this far. Somehow.
At least Steve's aware enough not to express that or hover.
Don't be strange about it Steve says as if Bruce isn't already strange about a lot of things. It earns him a wry smile in return. At least he wouldn't be alone. Bruce is going on patrol alone tonight. Tim and Alfred both would be here to keep him company if Bruce missed breakfast.
"I'm sure Alfred will appreciate it then."
Someone to eat his food and not leave it to sit and grow cold. "If you're interested, you can stay down here with Alfred. He'll be watching my back tonight. It wouldn't hurt to have an extra pair of eyes." Maybe that would help put Steve at ease about everything.
Batman's reputation for fear and intimidation, and 'Brucie's' for being a spoiled, self-centered idiot are carefully crafted, and Steve knows it.
But Bruce Wayne is still, and will likely always be, one of the most empathic, compassionate, thoughtful, and kind people Steve has ever met - to everyone but himself.
He studies Bruce in silence for a moment, realizing all of that, just because Bruce is offering him something here that isn't practical and that is more... meaningful than all the offers to use his resources and money could be.
Just in letting him stay and keep an eye on things with Alfred.
A moment or two of silence, and he just says, "Sounds good. I'll sleep better once I'm sure you made it in." Not about to call out Bruce out on being a good person. That wouldn't end well. "Alfred and I can bond." That is a joke. Alfred scares him a little.
Bruce Wayne had always felt like a performance. Even in secret, where no one but the people who mattered knew the truth surrounded him. He never thinks of himself as Bruce. He is Batman and Batman is none of those very kind things Steve thought about him. That isn't to say he didn't care, because he did, but distantly. In a nebulous kind of way.
Batman is singular and focused - a vehicle for vengeance and fear, an obstacle standing between an atrocity and the innocent lives it would impact. Maybe, distantly, those acts could be called compassionate. But Bruce would only ever see them as necessary.
But, he doesn't have to perform for Steve, so it makes his display of compassion feel a little less automatic and a little more authentic, from a place of concern he pretends doesn't exist.
"You'll get bored in this big house very quickly. I thought it might be good for you." To see Bruce in his element and for once see him without a mask on, ironically enough.
"What, I'd get bored slower in a small house?" There's some humor in there, albeit somewhat dry in tone. Mostly it's just real warmth and something a little automatic in what amounts to the banter. It's... a lot of house, with not a lot of people in it.
He will feel better in the cave with Alfred, both because company and because it'll be easier not to worry -- and because there's a real desire and interest in seeing Bruce in action.
"It will be good for me, and I'm looking forward to the insight. heck, i'm looking forward to spending some time being a little afraid of Alfred." He'll gain some insight there too, he thinks. Into Alfred, mostly, but that's a good thing.
Bruce appreciates the humor. If asked, any of his kids would tell Steve Bruce didn't have a sense of humor himself. And to some degree, he agrees. But he isn't completely devoid of humor. It's just easier to smile when the company is good.
"Alfred isn't that bad. Just overprotective."
Not that Bruce could fault him. There'd been a lot of tragedy to touch their family and Alfred only wanted to keep it together as much as he could. Jason's loss still casts an impossibly long shadow over them. And no amount of sunlight could cast it out. Bruce would never want it to.
"He likes you. So I don't think you'll have that much to worry about."
"Over protective would imply it was an unreasonable degree of protective. I am probably on Alfred's side on that one." He is starting to feel less like an imposition in being here. He has shit he needs to get done, yeah, but... maybe he can circle back to this. Not like he's got any other place to be. And a lot of his 'to do list' involves trying to move those people in jail away from him and to more stable positions.
Not out of some savior complex, but because he's starting to feel, to his own surprise, like Bruce wants him here and maybe even benefits from his company. Not in some huge way, but just overall.
Everyone's had a rough time lately. Some less complicated company might do all parties some good. Including Steve. "I'm glad he likes me. Being here would get awkward if he didn't."
"I'll be sure to tell Alfred he is in good company."
Over protection came from a place of care. Bruce could accept that. But like more of his life these days, he put it away for later. Something to acknowledge but not something to he held in totally high priority. It wasn't personal; Bruce just had a lot on his mind and a lot on his plate. It was easier to stay focused when he put the non essentials aside.
His watch chimes, alerting him that it was nearly time to head out on patrol. He raises Robin and tells him the plan for the evening. None of it involved him. He would solo patrol and Robin would stay at Panessa. Robin protested, but Bruce would not hear it. He's a bit abrupt when he cuts the communication with Tim. With an apologetic half smile at Steve, he turns and makes his way to another part of the cave.
Steve's a pretty... steady guy. He has a temper, but he's got a pretty long fuse and he's in no way short. It takes a lot for him to take most things personally, and interestingly enough it would take a lot more from Bruce.
He listens to the exchange with Tim, head tilted slightly at both the tone of voices and the decision itself. Does not comment at all, just waits it out just like the chime.
This is a very sit back, watch the dynamics, learn from them and also stay out of direct interference in them scenario. He does at least and go sit in a chair. "All right. I'll be here when you get in." With Alfred, apparently. "Try to come back in one piece."
The first night in Germany is quiet. Bruce didn't sleep, even though he should have. He's jet lagged and exhausted, but he keeps himself awake until the small hours of the morning, when the sun is beginning to rise. That's when he slept for a handful of hours. When he wakes, it's still morning and he gets up to make himself some coffee.
The penthouse where they're staying is a luxurious one with a great view of the city's skyline. The Expo would be held in the ballroom downstairs so they wouldn't have far to travel, thankfully. Lucius would be responsible for the finer details of the trip. Bruce would be responsible for the party. And his date.
Bruce knows his sleep schedule isn't exactly normal, so he does not disturb Steve when he gets up. At least he tries. He's able to move quietly and efficiently around the kitchen, preparing a bit of breakfast.
And that is where Steve will find him, sitting at the table coffee mug in hand while he reads the paper and checks the news back home.
Fortunately, though which of them it's fortunate for isn't clear, Steve can go without sleep for a really extended period of time if he has to. Also fortunately he is fully capable of taking his sleep when and where he can get it, regardless of environment, time zone or much else.
The later's directly due to the military and only fair - they gave him nightmares and trauma that makes him wake quickly, the least they could (and did) do was make sure he was able to effectively force himself to sleep when needed.
Meaning Bruce stayed up, Steve stayed up but he kept himself busy with a book and his sketchpad, dim light and pretended not to notice that Bruce was exhausted but not sleeping. When Bruce slept, he slept. When Bruce wakes up and that noise filters in, he gives it a little time and then goes and takes a shower, pulls on some clothes and brushes his teeth.
Then goes out to find Bruce reading the paper. "Have you ordered food yet?" And without pause: "Everything at home all right?" Of course he's still keeping an eye on things. That's just a given: it's Bruce.
It made the acclimating go a bit easier, forcing himself to stay awake. He wanted to be awake during Gotham's night time hours, so he would be available to Tim or Barbara if they needed him for anything. More than that, he didn't sleep much during the day either and did not want it to become some sort of habit. It was always better to keep the routine.
Bruce smiles when he sees Steve awake. Usually these trips were a solo affair. Bruce went his way while Lucius went his. It's nice not to wake up alone.
"No. There's a menu. Help yourself. I'm paying." His coffee he'd prepared himself. A dark roast, no cream or sugar. Food had been the last thing on his mind. As always.
As for news back home, Bruce looks down at the reports Oracle and Robin had sent him. Nothing terribly exciting; only the usual Gotham business. It didn't set him at ease. "It's fine. Tim is looking after things while we're here."
"I didn't figure you'd left Gotham without somebody paying attention and keeping you in the loop." Things being fine is good enough for him, but meanwhile he's just going to keep an eye on Bruce keeping an eye on Tim keeping an eye on Gotham.
Or something similar.
He grabs the menu and settles down in a chair reasonably close to Bruce to look over it, and doesn't look up to ad. "I'm gonna be a real pain in your ass if you try to completely skip out on eating while we're here. Make things a little easier on me and humor me, would you?" Spare him the effort of turning into a full fledged nag about it, anyway.
Quarters this close it'd be hard to ignore or pretend food is happening somewhere else or some other time.
It was supposed to be a vacation. Bruce just never mentioned it wasn’t his vacation. Harley had cut off Lucius’s finger and while Wayne Medical had provided a replacement appendage, it was still something traumatic. Bruce wanted to do something nice for Lucius while also putting some of the plans he had in motion. But it also meant Bruce didn't stop working.
It meant putting himself last because there were other things that needed his attention first. Steve’s concern is noted and it makes Bruce smile as he looks up from the report he’s reading. “Just get me whatever you’re getting. I’ll eat properly when we go out tonight.”
Speaking of. “The dress code for the club is ‘smart casual.’” Air quotes. Bruce thinks it’s silly. “If you need anything to wear, let me know. I’m sure we can get something put together for you.”
The mental math Steve is doing is deciding whether he wants to bother with eating enough food to actually meet caloric requirements, or just enough to stop being hungry - those are not the same thing. He is briefly absorbed in the menu, and making decisions there.
While also remembering to order it twice, so Bruce eats something.
He is wholly distracted by mention of the dress code, though. His expression when he looks up is just a little 'deer in the headlights. "I don't even know what smart casual means."
The expression tells Bruce exactly what he needs to know. They’ll have to get something put together for Steve. It isn’t something Bruce would classify as a problem. Steve’s so down to earth, Bruce doesn’t really expect him to be ready for all the intricacies of his life, however fake it might be. It’s all a performance and he’d make sure Steve is dressed for the occasion.
“We’ll get it sorted. Don’t worry.”
Breakfast seems negligible at this point, though. “Let’s get started. We’ll have lunch instead.”
Steve is pretty laid back with Bruce nearly all of the time - Bruce isn't someone Steve has to take responsibility for, he likes and cares about Bruce, and he's just often over his head in Bruce's 'world' - for good or ill.
"I'm not worried." He's not, Bruce can dress him. "I'm willing to get started, whatever that means here. I'm not skipping food until lunch. I will get cranky and make it everyone's problem." Well, probably not but grumpy is likely. "I will grab a protein bar, but just hold up at least long enough for me to grab it and put on shoes."
It's what Bruce likes about Steve the most. There are expectations of him: from society, from his kids, from Alfred too. From himself. But not so much with Steve. It's always so easy to just exist in his vicinity, that Bruce sometimes let's himself relax a little when he's nearby.
"No rush. Take your time." Bruce doesn't seem to be any rush himself. He stays where he is, flipping through a few design documents concerning his batmobile turned bat tank.
Steve finds it pretty easy to just exist around Bruce, too. It's nice. Maybe that has something to do with the laid back. Or maybe that's just awareness that Bruce is under pressure, all the time, from everyone around him in a wide variety of different and compounding ways.
There isn't any unwillingness to draw and hold some lines though. They're just (so far) minor ones like being fucking determined that he's consuming food first. He gets back out of the chair he just sat in, and disappears back into the room he'd come out of, leaving Bruce to his designs, and comes back carrying his shoes and a couple of protein bars.
One of which he slides across the table like he's playing air hockey and the goal is Bruce's lap. "Eat. That." He's pretty firm on that point, too. Man does not have to content with Steve's metabolism, but he has a lot of muscle and activity to fuel. He can't not consume calories the entire time they're here.
Then he sits back down, opens his own, and holds it between his teeth while he puts his shoes on.
Bruce watches Steve slide the protein bar across the table. It hits the edge and Bruce picks it up with a thank you. It's endearing how much Steve cares. The others in his family do too, but it's always just a little bit annoying. It's something he'd get to eventually. With Steve, he's willing to forgo the pretense and just do as he's been asked.
He tears the wrapper as he gets up to put his shoes on too while he summons the car to take them out. He waits for Steve by the door and when he's ready, Bruce gestures through the door. "After you, Captain."
Steve very sincerely cares. He also tries really hard to pick his battles and to avoid making things a battle with Bruce at all - because he's pretty sure that man is at least as stubborn as he is.
So far, so good, if Bruce eating the protein bar compromise is anything to go by.
Once his shoes are on and he's thrown out the trash and is ready, he gets out the door then slows up so Bruce can take them wherever they're going. "There's something appealing about you calling me Captain that I don't get at all, but am not about to start complaining about."
Duly noted. Bruce smiles as he shuts the door behind them. It's more to himself than anything. Now that he knows Steve likes being called Captain, Bruce might find himself doing it more often. Maybe he finds it appealing just as much as Steve.
Downstairs, the car is already waiting for them. Once they are on their way, Bruce finally decides to elaborate on the dresscode.
"If you're not interested in a blazer, we can skip that. A polo and a nice pair of pants should do."
All his treat, of course. He's the one who asked Steve to come to this place with him. And considering the expense of it all, he'd never ask Steve to pay for anything.
"I don't mind wearing whatever you want to dress me in, as long as it's even vaguely within the realm of fitting social norms and won't leave me freezing to death. Blazer's fine."
Steve leans back in the seat, but is angled slightly toward Bruce as he does. "Is this a situation where I'm supposed to act like your date, or is there some kind of other role I'm supposed to be filling?" Supposed to be, or supposedly.
They can argue about money later. Maybe. In truth, Steve can't afford Bruce's lifestyle. But he is going to feel bad about it.
With all that happens in these places, a blazer might be a bit much. Steve would not freeze. There wouldn't be a chance to. And while Bruce didn't plan to be in the club for that long, he didn't want Steve to be uncomfortable while they were there.
He casts a curious glance at Steve. "Depends. Do you want to be my date? It means there may be cameras shoved in your face."
Bruce wouldn't hold it against him if Steve didn't want that kind of publicity. Bruce was used to it and knew how to navigate with ease. For someone who might value privacy, this might not come as easily.
"Unless you've got specific preferences, objections, or some kind of reason I need to pretend to be something else, I'll take the cameras in my face." Does he love it? No. Is he completely unfamiliar? Also no.
"You promised me a date and a dance. Spending the entire night trying not to be associated with you doesn't sound like a real great way of getting either one of those." He should probably not have just decided this was an actual date.
Bruce had none of those. A date never meant anything serious. It was all part of the performance. A means to an end. So people would never see him as anything other than what he presented.
He didn't necessarily feel that way about Steve because Steve was not his typical date. They were usually vapid and shallow, with the depth of a mud puddle. People who would not be taken too seriously.
But it's easy to see a future with someone grounded like Steve. It's hard to imagine him as a passing fancy. And maybe Bruce was okay with that.
"And I keep my promises."
So it's a date then. When the car parks at their destination, Bruce slips out and nods for Steve to follow. "Let's get you dressed."
Steve is maybe a touch surprised he hadn't met an objection or any resistance on the point of it being a date - but in the same way that Bruce just ate the protein bar when Steve handed it to him, and also ate.
He's starting to realize Bruce might actually like him and that? Is a relief, given how much he likes Bruce - and it's a lot.
He follows Bruce out of the car, puts his hands in his pockets and sticks pretty close in following him. "That sounds more exciting than this is probably gonna be." Dry and amused, but also very sincerely interested in how this process goes when you're rich.
The problem was he did like Steve. Enough not to tell him it was just part of the act. He imagined it would be more hurtful than he intended. Not everyone appreciated being part of the show, when they maybe wanted something a little more than that. It was all Bruce had in him to give. Maybe he could give a little more if he was pushed by the right person.
Bruce leads the way into the boutique but keeps his stride in line to match Steve's. They were here together after all and he wanted no one to question it.
"So what's your taste? Neutral colors or care for something a little more. Patriotic?" He's teasing him. A little.
It might only be a little humor, but it makes Steve laugh, even as he walks beside Bruce, hands in his pockets. "Blue's good. Neutral's okay. Red and white stripes are right out."
He actually doesn't even like red. Doesn't think he's ever worn it voluntarily and that's an interesting revelation about himself.
Bruce stops and considers the options. No red and white stripes. Got it. With a glance at Steve - his eyes specifically - Bruce points to a bespoke outfit. Something he thought would be perfectly tailored for the night.
Steve doesn't quite, entirely, consciously recognize that he's doing it, but once they're in the shop he sticks fairly close to Bruce - physically. He's not nervous or uneasy, but he is out of his element. Bruce is not. It's just natural for him to gravitate toward him just a little more than usual under those circumstances.
"I'm pretty sure I could buy a car for that much money," he pretty much murmurs. But: "I like it. I am assuming this is a scenario where trying it on is gonna need to be a thing?"
Bruce doesn't seem to mind that Steve sticks close. In fact, he leans into it; brushing arms when he walks by to look at accessories, lingering close by when Steve asks if he should try it on.
"They offer custom tailoring. They'll just take your measurements."
It was a little pricey, especially considering Bruce would ask them to expedite it for their date. But it would be worth it to see Steve dressed up. Bruce did this sort of thing regularly. It's nice doing it for someone he considered important.
There's no point in the process where Steve gets tense or seems uncomfortable with the process, including when he's got a guy with a tape measure crouched down in front of him, measuring for inseam length. He doesn't pretend he is anything that he isn't, including familiar with the process.
But he's not wholly himself, either. He's still sincerely warm and charming enough (even in a... third? language) but it's a little more aloof and 'professional' and a little more 'on' than he'd be in another situation.
He definitely leans into Bruce leaning into the closeness, returns casual touch along the way, when and where it makes sense. Because he wants to, he can and Bruce is clearly not having an issue with it.
Once they're done and have a second alone though he tilts his head to study Bruce's face for a moment. "Someday, I want to reverse roles and I'll take you on vacation. I'll even make it a working one so you'll let me." Bruce has to be so fucking tired. Steve kind of wants to see him in a more relaxed setting though. Just once. Someday.
There's something...nice about this whole process. It's all very normal and things haven't felt normal for Bruce in a long, long time. At least, not in any conventional sense. He was here, ostensibly, for this very reason. To be seen, to create buzz and excitement and generate headlines, so no one would ever guess his real motive: to confirm the specifications of his new Batmobile. It was different, here, though. It felt less like a charade and more like something real. Genuine. It was a nice feeling.
When they're alone again and Steve mentions taking Bruce on a vacation himself, Bruce can't help but smile. Alfred would be thrilled to hear it. Pack the bag before the trip was even planned, Bruce was sure. But Steve was right; Bruce was tired.
"That sounds nice." Even though he doesn't say it, the 'but' lingers. There was something coming Gotham's way. Bruce didn't know what. But his instincts told him not to trust the complacency the city was being lulled into. As nice as a vacation sounded, he could not leave Gotham. Not yet. Maybe someday.
There's enough overlap in them, though Steve isn't sure many people would see it, that he understands Bruce's drive, and his ties to Gotham and the near impossibility of ever stopping.
Steve also knows damn well what the differences are. Steve is tired - and he's physically augmented, doesn't have a family legacy, a billion dollars, a company, kids and a need to maintain a separate identity.
He takes Bruce's hand, mostly because they're supposed to be on a date - and he can and he figures Bruce will twitch away when and if he wants or prefers. Snorts very softly with some amusement. "You'd get one stretch of decent sleep, then be climbing the walls from pure boredom." In that 'someday' that, no, he doesn't actually expect to happen.
There are times - not often - but sometimes Bruce wishes he could just shut off. That he could sleep a normal schedule and live a life not dictated by his war on the criminals of Gotham. He'd endured enough broken bones and stabbings and shootings to know there would be a price to pay at the end of it all. But then he remembers the promise he made and it puts to bed those doubts and fears. Because if he can leave Gotham better off, even just little, it's a price he'll pay gladly.
So the mission continues.
He squeezes Steve's hand and even laughs a little. Steve isn't wrong. Bruce's 'vacations' are never the mundane kind. "Bruce Wayne is many things, but he is not a workaholic." Batman, on the other hand, well he could go all night.
Steve takes the pressure around his hand as permission, and doesn't so much relax as he settles into just holding Bruce's hand.
It's odd. He can be awkward with a lot of things, but he's not tentative or shy. He isn't with Bruce, either, but he is careful with him. Careful of his boundaries, but also just careful.
The man has enough pain in his life.
So, he keeps the hand until they get to the car, anyway. "I don't know. Maybe not a work-a-holic, but all the good that comes from him into charities isn't exactly play, either."
Bruce lets him. No one is ever close. Not in a way that matters. But Steve is. Closer than Bruce is willing to let anyone else. It's nice not feeling alone in his inner universe. Even if this was only as temporary as holding hands as they walk back to the car.
"People used to wonder when I would grow up. When I would stop being Bruce and start being Thomas."
Bruce never wanted to be Thomas. Just someone his father could be proud of, that did what the Waynes do: make Gotham better for everyone who lived there. Batman had his mission and thanks to Alfred, Bruce Wayne had one of his own. He would revitalize what was taken from them by Arkham's Finest. And at night, he'd make sure the dark parts never touched the light.
"I just try to do good. But I make sure that the tabloids always sees me having fun so I'm not too boring." And they never ask the right questions.
It feels nice to be allowed close. Maybe that's part of why he's so determined to be careful with Bruce. Not all of it - but part of it.
"Get too boring and it becomes unbelievable, and people start asking questions." Bruce - the playboy version - feels more like a mask, a smokescreen or lie, than Batman even comes close to. Batman feels like Bruce. The playboy feels... different. At least when he sees the playboy in the papers.
"I guess we've got some extra benefits if we get a camera or dozen in our faces while we're here." He should add some level of distraction. More if people put together who he is, but either way. "Have you ever hit the tabloid with a guy as your date?" That one's just curiosity. He catches things, but it's not like he religiously seeks out Bruce Wayne appearances in tabloids and society pages.
Not when he has access to the man. Not really his nature to believe media image or be voyeuristic, either.
To the people who knew the difference, they would agree with Steve’s assessment. They’d also say neither version of Bruce was acting particularly like himself these days. It’s been a slow burn ever since he carried Joker’s corpse out of Monarch Theatre. Aggressive as Batman, more withdrawn as Bruce. They were thrilled to know he was taking this trip with Steve and not holing up in the hotel until it was time to go back to Gotham.
“No. You’re my first.” In most appearances, when he wasn’t alone, Bruce was with some leggy blonde he never intended to speak to again. Or Selina when he could pin her down. Showing up with Steve, would certainly get the gossips out in force.
"I'm flattered." That's a little bit of a joke, but same, Bruce. Same.
He makes a low noise in his throat right after, though. It's more thoughtful and assessing than anything else, there's certainly no judgement in it. "Is the extra attention that brings going to be useful, a problem, or irrelevant?"
Because he can and will pivot if he needs to. This trip and the public nature of it wouldn't be happening if 'be seen' weren't part of a plan. That doesn't mean additional attention is, or that Steve wants to make things harder.
If he's honest, it's mostly all three. Useful, in that it would mean he was seen and when he inevitably disappeared into the shadows, no one would think to question it. A problem, because it would invite scrutiny that Bruce certainly did not want. As publicly as he dated, he often kept the more personal details as private as anything else about him. Irrelevant because at the end of the day, it wouldn't matter. The goal was still met, even if the parameters changed along the way.
"You won't embarrass me if that's what you're worried about," Bruce replies.
It's the truth. He's done a lot of things to be embarrassed of all in the name of maintaining his identity. But being seen with Steve would never be one of those things.
He pauses to consider how to say - which words he wants to use - to express why he asked. He's usually pretty willing (and good at) picking his words, but this one's a little more 'vague feeling' to words, so there's that second or so.
"I'm pretty good at following a lead. If you wanted me to lie or put on an outright performance we might hit some trouble, but not that kind. This was just about making sure I wasn't gonna tip the balance toward me being more of a problem than a benefit."
Meaning he doesn't want to make Bruce's life so much harder that Steve around isn't 'worth it', or at least adding something positive.
So that was the root of it. Steve thought this might become more complicated than it was worth. Bruce knew about complicated relationships. And every single one of them had been worth keeping. He couldn't imagine it being any different with Steve. Even if this went no farther than the nightclub, his friendship had proved more than valuable.
"I think I'd be the one to make things too complicated."
He was the one living two separate lives, no matter how fake it was. It's a burden he accepted for himself, but he didn't have the right to ask it of anyone else.
"Only if you start thinking really hard, and decide that you're going to protect me from you."
Whether this goes any further than a nightclub, a public appearance and this vacation? That concern will be true. Because Steve cares, and because they're friends. And because he has seen some of Bruce's patterns with people he cares about.
"My life's got some... pressure, but it's straightforward enough in most ways that there's room for some complications without it reaching any kind of tipping point." That part's said with some dry, self-depreciating, humor.
Maybe he had a habit of pushing people away. But if he did it, it was always for their own good. This is what happens when you drag your friends into this crazy little game of ours! is a refrain that lives in his head. Because it was true. Everyone he'd ever cared about was in danger. Tim, Barbara.
Jason.
Bruce appreciated Steve's humor. It pulled him out of his head for a little at least. He even manages a smile. "Some pressure, Steve? I think you're doing Mr. Barnes a disservice."
Yeah. Try that with Steve and he might just get stubborn about it. Unsurprised, but stubborn. He's just pushes back when pushed.
"Oh yeah?" He hasn't let go of Bruce's hand, yet, but in truth he's temporarily forgotten about it. "We calling him a complication or pressure?" He's not upset, he's actually engaging in some banter.
What was the saying? What happens when an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force. It didn't have to be that way. But Bruce was stubborn - an immovable object. If he ever felt like something about his life would be a detriment, he'd do what he had to to protect those around him. But especially the ones he cared for.
He didn't have many of them left and he wanted to hold on as tightly as he could.
"Seems a little of both to me." He's read the files, publicly available and not so publicly available. Maybe he doesn't have all of the nuances, what makes the relationship exactly what it is. But he has enough of the broad strokes that he can answer Steve easily.
With Natasha releasing SHIELD's files, there's a lot available publicly - and, yeah, most of the recent stuff not so publicly. Steve just works from the assumption that Bruce being Bruce he has all of the information that exists. That if Bruce is missing anything, it's the human elements.
Bruce introducing Bucky's name at this point... leads Steve to believe there's a question being asked, even if it's being asked indirectly and through a statement.
"He's some of both," he admits, after a moment. "But not complicated in a way that's going to complicate this, by more than me suspecting the two of you will get along like oil and water and he's gonna be pissed when he finds out something's up via newspaper. The rest of it's just... him being where he is because of me." And being Steve's. He left Bucky for dead. The results were... bad.
It does answer Bruce's immediate question and in a sense a more long term one. His investment is not particularly deep, though he wouldn't describe it as shallow either. They were friends and Bruce cares, but anything beyond that is really a matter of priority and where it stood in the nebulous space behind his main priority as Batman.
But that could change and Bruce was okay with knowing he wouldn't be (much) of a complication for Steve and Bucky if it did.
"I'm sure Bucky and I will get along just fine." Bruce was great at pretending to get along with people. He didn't care what Dick or Tim had to say about it.
"Either way, It's a bridge to cross when we get to it." He gives Steve's hand a gentle squeeze.
Steve eyes Bruce and snorts, but with amusement. All about that 'sure we'll get along just fine' thing. "I dunno if I'm underestimating your ability to fake polite behavior, or you're underestimating his ability to be obnoxious. If we get to that bridge, I'll grab some popcorn and enjoy the show."
He's not making assumptions. He likes Bruce. He has firmly committed himself to caring about Bruce. Expectations beyond that? Not really. He knows they'll hit papers, he knows Bruce is who and what he is. There's Batman and Captain America and all sorts of other shit that will take priority for both. There's Bruce's deep damage and Steve's ...quieter stuff.
Doesn't matter to him at all, right now. All he wants is this one fucking night and date, even with cameras in his face. If he gets to dance with someone and not wind up in the middle of sheet ice, he's going to take it.
"You ready to do this nightclub thing?"
Now a proper time skip since i kinda botched the first one lmao
Was he ready for the nightclub? As ready as he'd ever be for such a thing. It's nearly second nature now, slipping into Brucie's shoes. This is a place he's been to before sometimes alone, but more often with someone by his side. This time of night, the entrance is as lively as the interior. And he turns to wave whenever he hears someone yell his name. Sometimes, he yells back. Always in German. And sometimes, he laughs. It's an easy, practiced sound. Everyone else mistakes it for genuine. The people who matter don't.
There are a few cameras, fewer than Bruce is expecting. But he'd been careful enough to keep his attendance tonight as secret as possible. Not only for his own comfort, but Steve's as well. Speaking of, Bruce reaches for him before they can get separated by the crowd, pulls him in close so there's no mistaking who his date was tonight.
There's hardly room to breathe inside. People push and stream alongside them. The dance floor is vibrant and vibrating with life and music. All the makings for a good night out. For Bruce, it's altogether too much. Thankfully, he's pretty good at spying out quiet corners, even if they're never quiet for long. When he let's go of Steve's hand, he presses it against his back and offers him a smile for a camera he's sure is snapping a blurry photo somewhere. "I'm going over here for a second. Get yourself a drink."
Steve looking wide-eyed and slightly overwhelmed, and wanting to stick close to Bruce isn't a lie, and it's barely an act. It's more... a controlled and toned down version of reality.
He doesn't flinch away from the cameras or noise level or press of people, at all. Doesn't move like he's any kind of physically uncomfortable. He doesn't grip Bruce's hand too hard -- or honestly hard at all.
He's rigid when Bruce puts a hand on his back though, but his smile is fine - for the photo and because Steve's good at smiling.
This isn't a battlefield, but it is a lot. Enhanced senses and without any particular direction to be focused is uncomfortable. Physically uncomfortable. He's pretty sure his eardrums are vibrating more than the floor.
"Sure," he agrees, because Bruce deserves his quiet corner (such as it is) and second to breathe, and it isn't like Steve would get drunk, even if he could. He takes his time doing it, adds a glass of water to his whiskey order, and then heads back to see if Bruce is where he left him.
Bruce does pick up on Steve's overall discomfort, his closeness as they navigated their way through the crowd is more than enough to alert him. Despite his warning, Bruce thinks he could have done a little more to prepare Steve for what he'd experience here. He could mitigate, but some of it Steve would have to learn on his own.
But, Bruce would do what he could to make it easy. Easier than he would have for anyone else. He waits for Steve's return in the same place he said he'd be in, back pressed against a solid surface, though he's surrounded when Steve comes back. They're all people he's met before, partied with on their obnoxious yachts. Another invitation is extended and under different circumstances, Bruce would have agreed. But he has a guest this time and he's oh so terribly busy showing his new friend all the sights.
In fact he waves to Steve and excuses himself to join up with him. "Perfect timing."
Steve's discomfort is more sensory overload than anything. He was at least pretty prepared for the Brucie act, the cameras, and the general idea of what 'nightclub' meant, at least.
He doesn't so much slide through people as much as he shoulders his way past them to get close enough to put the glass of water in Bruce's hand. He in no way expects Bruce to drink that, but it fits the scenario here well enough and makes for a plausible prop if necessary.
"I should say so - you promised me a dance and I'm getting it." The music is making his ear drums cringe, but if he's gotten Bruce away from... Those People, so be it. "Before my headache makes me drag you back to our hotel."
The water is welcomed and Bruce accepts it with a smile more genuine than the one for the cameras. It gives his hands something to do that isn't shoving them into his pockets or appearing defensive if he crosses his arms. It makes him look like he is here to have a good time.
He drinks from the glass. Then sets it down on a table he's decided is theirs now. Its tucked out of the way as much as you can be in a place like this. The crowd doesn't press in so much and Bruce can see the room around them clearly from there. He can see the entrances and exits and spy out suspicious behavior. It makes things easier, makes the room vibrate a little less because it gives him something to focus on.
This place is overstimulating; a headache isn't entirely unexpected. So Bruce puts a hand on his wrist and nods toward the dance floor. "Alright then. Dance with me, Rogers."
He mostly wants to be clear that Bruce has a good excuse to escape. The headache is real, though, both because it's Steve and because of the sensory overload. The future is a whole lot louder and busier than he's used to, even without accounting for the serum.
His smile at the touch and easy acceptance-slash-'order'? Real, warm, open and unreserved.
He slides his hand to get a grip on Bruce's, and heads toward the dancefloor with him. "Just remember: Strong lead and watch your toes."
Headache or not he wants this, in a way that is deeply simple and just as deeply complex.
Back home, it's always much easier to escape these social situations when they became too much. It's Gotham after all and there's almost always a fire - literal and figurative - that needs to be put out. He doesn't have Gordon in his ear or a signal in the sky to pull him out. Right now, all he's got is a date and the dance floor.
It would do for now.
It's going to be an adjustment though. Because Bruce is used to being the strong lead and it's an expectation that his partner falls in line with that. Guess he'll see if he can set that aside.
"Better follow your own advice," he says back with a wry smile. It'd take some trial and error, but they'd figure it out. And Bruce is curious to see how Steve moves.
"If you want the lead bad enough to step on my feet to get it, you can have it." There's some soft, warm, but still wry humor in that. He can't imagine any scenario where Bruce is stepping on anyone's literal toes that's the result of incompetence.
Metaphorically, is a whole different ball game. Even that one Steve won't grant more than a 'maybe' on.
It takes Steve a second or two to settle his hands on Bruce, somehow still pretty careful of where and how he touches - on some level it still feels a little like overstepping.
But once he has his hands in places, finds the rhythm of the music and takes a second and a breath... how he moves is the same way he always moves: well. Confident, a little too ...powerful in motion to really count as graceful, but not too far off.
And interestingly (or not), headache (or not), his eyes light up.
He wasn't known to be inelegant, no. Most found him quite charming, honestly. Most people his age or maybe a little younger. A lot of people from his father's generation, though, found that playboy act to be quite tiresome. But he had an excuse. What did you expect from a child raised by his butler? Surely, the help didn't give the boy any rules or boundaries. Stepping on toes would have been expected. But, Bruce - the one with Steve right now - worked hard not to be that kind of man.
At least not while dancing.
He smiles as Steve's hands settle in place and his find good spots on Steve. He's sure there's someone around snapping a picture, but the smile is a little more genuine than camera-ready. He smiles because this is a good fit. And because of the way Steve's eyes light up.
He doesn't notice in many people, because often he's not attached enough to do so. But it's the first thing he notices here.
The second is how well Steve moves with the music that Bruce doesn't feel like he has to offer an impromptu dance lesson right here. Sometimes he's had to because his partner's a little too enthusiastic or a little too inebriated. He doesn't feel like he's doing all of the work. It feels like something they are doing together.
"This is nice." Which is probably about as much genuine sentiment Steve will get while they're here and a thousand eyes are on them. The rest can come when they're alone again.
I swore I replied to this. If it's been too long just ignore
Steve's pretty sincerely and openly happy, and gets more so - including a broader, warmer, smile - when Bruce is less practiced. That Bruce is willing to say anything in front of an audience, even something as mild as calling this nice, is the high point for Steve, though.
"It is. I like it."
A lot of those pictures are going to be enough to rouse some speculation, and not just because they're on a date.
There's going to be at least one photographer who gets something else, though, because they're standing just a little too close for the flash to be expected or comfortable. That guy is going to get Steve's smile turning into a faint grimace and Steve ducking to press his forehead against Bruce's temple.
"Ow." He nearly laughs when he says it, but - ow. "I don't know how you're not half blinded by this crap."
It's Steve's earnest kind of sincerity that sticks with Bruce. Maybe it was his paranoia, maybe it was a lot of personal experience, but Bruce never expects any kind of sincerity from anyone. If there's an offer to shake his hand, it's always because they want something - to be seen with him, to do business with him, to party with him. But it's so rare a thing to have someone who wanted to be with him without any of the benefit his company brought.
But there was Steve, smile warm and eyes bright. He didn't doubt Steve's sincerity. He'd be a pretty bad liar, even if Bruce hadn't trained himself to read people.
The flash does creep across his vision for how close it is and he grimaces and turns away from the light. Then he turns to the photographer and he gives him a look that might have been more Batman than Bruce. "Do you mind?"
As Steve brings his head down to rest against Bruce, Bruce stops them just long enough to check in with him. "Are you okay?"
Steve appreciates Bruce for Bruce - and more so when he sees those moments that there's... more than one facet? of him on display. Quiet moments, private settings and in a lot of ways?
What just happened when that near Batman glare for the too close photographer was followed by checking in with Steve. There was a lot of Bruce, as Steve understood him, in there.
"Yeah." There's still some smile in his voice, and more than some warmth. Some strain, too, but less of that. "Thought I was mostly giving you an out with the headache, but I probably actually should get out of here before it becomes a problem, though. I'm out of practice." Out of practice handling this degree of... sensory onslaught, he means.
Probably the best thing he's heard all night. It is very much the out Bruce needs to excuse himself. In the morning, someone will call him a gentleman for whisking his date away from the intrusive photographer. Someone will definitely question if the party boy's finally ready to settle down. And in the end it'll accomplish what he needed it to.
He's not shy about linking his hand with Steve's so he can weave them through the crowd and through the speculation that'll follow. And when they're outside again, he doesn't let it go immediately either.
"Probably a bad choice for a first date. Have to pick somewhere quieter for number two."
He weaves his fingers through Bruce's once the have the slightest bit of contact, and maintains a warm, solid grip. It's maybe a bit tighter than on the way in, but not oppressive.
"I'm glad there's going to be a second date." That's just the absolute truth. He'll care about Bruce, regardless, but the potential for something a little quieter, and the mention of a second are... nice. More than nice. "Maybe getting all the public reaction out of the way now will make for a nice distraction from anything else either of us get up to. My phone's gonna blow up when those pictures get published, though." Just fair warning.
Not like he's been talking to his people about this.
It will make things easier, once the speculation's done. They stop looking so closely then and move on to the next flavor of the week and that suits Bruce fine. It's work to present an image to be scrutinized. Maybe for once there's something legitimate in what had been seen with him and Steve.
Maybe it's why he's not totally dismissed a chance at date number two. Even if it'll be a little while before they get there, because for Bruce there's work to be done and that'd always come first. But they would get there. That's something he wanted to see through if he could.
"You are a nice distraction, Mr. Rogers. One I don't particularly mind."
[Perhaps, just perhaps, Jason has some issues with "communication". Less about what he wants; shockingly he's clear about that. Rather, about when he might "drop by" for what some might call "a visit" but most would call "blatant arson."
He would never burn the manor down.
You know.
On purpose.
Just some light arson here.
He's very casually come into the cave when Bruce is away, and started hunting down some accelerants, and after finding them, he is casually surrounding his memorial with them. He's pretty pleased with himself, and he knows he only has a little while - maybe even only minutes - but he doesn't expect the Batmobile back this fast. When Bruce is coming out of the car, he's got his crowbar in one hand, hefting it to break the glass.
He's mostly dressed in his armor but his mask is on his bike near the entrance to the cave.]
[ Bruce knew Jason hated the memorial. But it never made a difference. Because it was more than a way to remember Jason and the boy he'd once been. It was so Bruce could never forget all the ways he'd failed him. These were his consequences and he had to live with them.
He's alerted to an intruder seconds after Jason sets foot in the cave, so it takes no time at all for Bruce to reverse course and speed his way back home. It's minutes that pass, but when danger is in your personal space it can feel like hours.
When the car zooms into the cave and parks near to Jason's bike, Bruce should have felt some relief but he's still tense. Jason didn't say he would be stopping by and that does not bode well. And when he sees what Jason's done to the memorial, Bruce's instincts are confirmed. ]
[Jason hefts his crowbar once, getting a good feel for it.]
I was planning on burning this down but first I have to break the glass.
[He says it with that general easy manner, like he's explaining how one might drink some water from a weird water bottle or how you open a particularly stubborn wrapper on a sandwich. He says it like he used to explain things to Bruce when he was still 12 years old and they were still close.
And he swings. Of course, Bruce used some kind of shatterproof glass, but the teeth of the crowbar still find purchase. It doesn't shatter, but there is a sickening sound of a crack as Jason considers and revs up for another smash.]
[ Jason was always reckless and stubborn. But it wasn't until after the Pit that he'd gained a lot of audacity.
It's almost comical. But Bruce doesn't laugh. Instead, he pushes the cowl back. Months of barely speaking. Of a step forward and two back. Jason finally comes home and he brings destruction with him. ]
So you broke into my home to do this? [ A vague gesture toward the case. ] You could have talked to me instead.
[Another slam of his crowbar, and then a little jiggling in the spot. The crack widens a little.]
What happened to “this is your home, Jason.”?
[He drops his voice into Batman’s growl, and inspects the impact spot, and then turns, one hip cocked. He looks young, then; his mouth is in a moue of displeasure.]
Also I used a key and biometrics, it’s not breaking in if I have access and an invitation.
[ It's not a surprise, but it is unexpected. Maybe it shouldn't have been. For Jason, it must have seemed like a taunt, hanging there where anyone could see it. Bruce never meant for it to be. But what was that saying? The road to hell and all that. ]
Not as gruesome as your weapon of choice.
[ He eyes the crowbar that seemed level with the symbol on his chest and thinks that ought to be more painful than Bruce keeping the memorial. ]
[The urge to scream "it was my death, you don't get to tell me how to process it" is extremely high, but he knows it'll come out high-pitched and bratty, and that it won't carry any weight. For it to carry weight, Bruce has to process shit like a human and not a robot, and, well.
He just doesn't do that, so.
He snorts, instead.]
It was my costume, so whose property is it, really?
[He manages another swing, and it cracks a hole just big enough that Jason can dig his fingers into it and start squeezing it apart.]
[ he didn’t expect Jason to understand. And if he thought Bruce would put the suit away - just forget what happened, Bruce thinks he never understood. ]
[He spins, then. His hands aren't bleeding but only because his gloves are lined with kevlar, and are technically armor, because while he's being emotionally volatile he's not completely an idiot.]
Why? Does it bother you?
[He's snarling, now, planting his feet so he looks like an immobile object.]
[ he was alive. Alive and well and whole in front of him. Bruce knew that. Allowed himself to be grateful for it despite all the tension Jason’s return brought. But he needed to see that suit, to keep it close by the same way he kept that stupid gun that had set him down this road.
It deeply upset him that Jason wanted to take that away. ]
I know that! That doesn’t make this go away! [ he points at the case ]
[Jason isn't moving. He's getting more emotional, and it's making the fury build up in him, but he's not moving.]
You think I don't know that? I'm the one who has to live with it every goddamned day, and you're the one holding vigil over a boy you can't even admit-
[He turns and punches the case. It's hard enough that the case, weakened already, cracks a little bit more. He doesn't know how to say it, doesn't know how to put the words out there. That the case isn't a testament to him, it's a memory of someone Jason can't ever be again, and how Bruce prefers that boy, how Bruce can't look past that ghost. That Bruce doesn't, won't ever, care for him like he did before.]
[ That was exactly the point. It was a memorial to a boy that had been taken from them. Not just Bruce, but Jason too, and the rest of their family. That boy was gone and he was never coming back. He deserved to be remembered as much as this...new Jason deserved to be embraced. ]
[Bruce has gone into that horrible calm, that Batman calm. He doesn't get angry in the same way that the Robins all do; his emotional template is cold, not hot. Not like Jason.
It's even more infuriating, in a way.]
You think this is about your failure, but all this does is make me feel like crap!
[ Putting it away was too much like forgetting. Bruce did not want to forget. Not that Joe Chill murdered his parents for their money or that the Joker murdered his son to terrorize him. Remembering made sure he never questioned his mission. It made sure he remembered all of the ways he failed and all the ways he needed to be better.
He reaches for Jason, tries to grab his arm to keep from doing anymore damage to the case. ]
[Bruce grabs him and Jason turns, his fist glancing off Bruce's jaw. It's a half-hearted punch, which means that he doesn't actually hurt or even want to hurt him. It still can't be that great.
[ He doesn't let go, despite the punch to the jaw, despite the push that sends him stumbling back a step or two. Not until there's some distance between Jason and the case. Then he puts himself in the middle. If Jason wanted a second strike at it, he'd have to go through Bruce first. ]
Destroying the suit isn't going to fix anything.
[ Us. It's not going to fix us, is what he really means, if he could bring himself to say it. Because there is still something very broken between them. ]
[He pushes, again, and they're just like children for a moment, and Jason is staring at this man who is supposed to be his dad.]
You get rid of it if you want me around.
[The threat is implicit: you get rid of it or you get rid of me. Jason is known for his ultimatums, and he's actually usually pretty good at following through. Like you know.
Me or the clown.
Bruce chose the clown, so there's no hope here that Bruce will choose Jason, even though this seems easier. He's not asking anyone to kill, here.]
[It's stupid how much it hurts; it shouldn't hurt. It shouldn't feel like the crowbar slamming into his ribcage again. He should have known. He saw it coming. He knew.
He presses away from Bruce, and lifts his head, and then reaches for his helmet. The calm that he's suddenly displaying is suddenly icy.]
Predictable.
[Because Jason is not actually a psychopath, he doesn't shoot the accelerant. Instead he reaches into his pocket and lights a lighter, and tosses it into the puddle on the floor.
There are so many contingencies for fire in this place, he's not worried, either, that someone will die, or that anything will actually get damaged. Mostly, he wants Bruce to stop looking at him.]
[ Bruce yells and Jason gets what he wants, however temporary. The fire flickers to life and swallows up the trail of accelerant before fire suppression kicks in and smothers the life from it. And as long as the fire burned, it had Bruce's attention.
Now, it's back on Jason and honestly, he's pissed. Setting fire, even a meager one, to the cave seemed a far more personal attack than taking a crowbar to a memory Bruce cherished. ]
What did you think that was going to do, Jason? [ Because it certainly did not change his mind. ]
[Jason is heading to his bike. He almost wants to puncture a tire on the Batmobile, just to give him a minute, but he knows that those tires are a bitch to mess with and he doesn't want to make this dramatic exit lose any power.
He mounts his bike right around the time that Bruce yells at him.]
You set fire to our relationship, I set fire to that fucking memorial.
It's your choice.
[He parrots the words with a mimicry of Bruce's cadence that only the Robins can manage as he starts his bike.]
[ Deep down, Bruce didn't want things to be this way. Whatever their differences were, Bruce loved Jason and had wanted him back more than anything. But what came out of the Pit, who came out was someone Bruce was no longer starting to recognize and what put them at odds seemed greater than anything that had ever held them together. Bruce...he didn't know what to do about any of it. All of his efforts to make it right only ever seemed to make it worse.
Bruce Wayne was rebuffed at every turn. So now, Jason would have Batman instead.
He leaves the case behind (another mess to be cleaned later) and follows. ]
Fine. You made your choice and now I'll make mine.
He knows that tone, and he knows that threat. That's the tone of voice that he takes when you killed someone, and that means that Batman is out to play. It also means that Bruce, as usual, has taken a fight and turned it into a fucking crusade.
God, this was predictable and Jason walked straight into it.
He doesn't bother stalling, then. He just goes, bike going from 0 to an impossible speed on a street model in a second and a half. He needs to make up distance now. The benefit of a bike is that it's agile, but the Batmobile-
-Jason figures if he can make it to Gotham proper he can slip between the cracks. For all that Bruce knows Gotham, it's really always been Jason's city, and if Jason doesn't want to be found in it, the fact is that he won't be.]
[ What has his life been since that single tragic moment in Crime Alley but a crusade? A crusade for physical perfection. A crusade for a deep and vast well of knowledge. A crusade against the worst Gotham had to offer. Bruce Wayne - that little boy left alone in the dark at the feet of his dead mother and father - never stood a chance. Not a single one.
It's what drives him now. The Crusade. The Mission consumes him in all his waking hours (and his sleeping ones too). Jason's rejection, his choosing something other than peace was another to add to the list.
The car's driver side door swings open wide when he commands it to from his belt and he leaps into it to peel out after Jason into Gotham's night. He doesn't know what he'll say when he catches him. Was there anything left to say? Nothing Jason wanted to hear it seemed. It didn't matter anymore now.
[He wonders if Bruce even cottons this. That he's chasing his kid, intent on what? Some kind of violence? For setting a fire to a costume. Not for killing anyone. Not for hurting anyone.
For being upset.
He wonders if Bruce - the Bruce he knew, who used to take him to ball games and who was so proud of every good grade that he got, the Bruce that he used to think of, very tentatively, as dad - even is still there. Did everything good die with him?
He hits the bridge and zips past a pair of cops, who start the lights right up until the rumble of the Batmobile overtakes them. Jason knows he has seconds, maybe, so when the bridge ends, perilously close to the edge of the river, he rides his bike up on the slim slick side and shoots down in the city on a run that would make Nightwing nervous. He hears something resembling a gunshot - okay he's in Gotham - and spins into the city, then jumps the bike and vaults into the air, letting the bike go.
Bye bye, bike. You were so nice for the few weeks you lasted.
Jason figures if he can get airborne, he can find a place to hide out this temper tantrum.]
[ That was the problem. Bruce hadn't forgotten. Jason is still every bit the son he'd taken in all those years ago. The only thing shifted now is the perspective. His or Jason's, Bruce couldn't decide which. He only knows it tilts his world the wrong way around and no one else is going to fix it. He has to fix it himself. It is always by himself.
Jason knows Gotham's streets, but then so does Bruce. When Jason cuts corners the Batmobile cannot, Bruce can find an alley to swing into and continue the pursuit. His focus is narrowed to a single point in a red helmet that he's not given any thought at all to what he'll say when the chase ends. That could come later, when the adrenaline's not so hot and when the quiet aftermath sets in.
The police scanner lights up with reports of a guy on a bike and Batman hot on his trail. Orders were not to engage and if any had to stand down immediately. Funny thing. Bruce didn't answer to Jim Gordon. Instead Bruce presses the accelerator harder, bringing the car perilously close to the bridge's edge before he ejects himself up and out into the night air. The cape spreads out like jet black wings, billowing in the updrafts that keep him airborne. It won't last long so he makes the best use of what little time he has in the sky to see if he can spot Jason from above. ]
[He can almost feel the cape, at this point. He thinks that most of Gotham can, like a sixth sense, something above that is watching that is darker and more twisted than God. Jason could call in reinforcements, but backup has never been Jason's speed.
The old part of Gotham, that's where he heads. It's a playground for the bats, practically, with the old architecture that curled and cued and made a good place for grapples to land. But specifically to an old gargoyle that he used to hang out at, when he was a kid, when he was a teenager who just wanted to sit still for a while.
Bruce will find him here.
But who knows what he'll do from there. But maybe he's just kind of sick of running.]
[ Old Gotham is where he begins to lose altitude, clearing a few of the rooftops before he must land on one of the flatter surfaces.
He knows to look in the shadows first. It's where Bats always lurk. And he spies him on a familiar crumbling gargoyle nearby. Bruce grapples up, hauls himself across the distance until there's only a few feet between him and Jason and the gargoyle.
This is where they met. Fitting it's where they'd meet again. Their lives always seemed to converge at this point. ]
I don't want to fight with you. But I do want this to end.
[He has one foot braced against the gargoyle, but he doesn't look like he's going to attack. He doesn't look like he's about to fling himself off the gargoyle, either.
He looks tired, or at least his body language does. His face is covered in his helmet.]
Well.
Here you are.
What are you planning? You want to arrest me? Hand me over to the cops? Get rid of me?
[Its hard to believe him, when Jason feels like he’s always being hunted, when Jason always feels like he’s one decision away from being locked up in the cave for the rest of his life.]
[ You still are sit on his tongue, caught on the edges of his teeth. He wants to say it to reassure Jason that that part of their relationship had never ended, even after his death. But he cannot bring himself to. Not yet. ]
[Maybe this is the first time that Bruce has ever asked that, and that's why Jason looks up, then, that's why Jason lets the hydraulic lift the front of his mask away. He's still wearing a domino, because he's a dramatic little shit, but there's his face.
It's right there, and there's something young on his face, like maybe he's actually being listened to.]
Because as long as it's there, I can't have a relationship with you that doesn't revolve around my death.
[It's as honest as he can manage and it almost feels like he's choking to get the words out.]
[ Silence follows. Bruce cannot bring himself to argue against Jason's reason, even if every part of him rails against it. Jason's death would haunt him whether the memorial existed or not. Bruce couldn't look at Jason without seeing the boy he'd failed in so many ways. He turns his head to look at him, to see the young man under the helmet. It was good to see his face again, even if the moment felt too heavy for Bruce to carry.
He reaches for his grapple, prepares to pull himself away, so he can sit with this moment alone. ]
I'll tell Alfred to put it away.
[ Maybe not as gone as Jason would have liked, but it would be put out of sight. ]
[Theres a pause and Jason stands up, and maybe this is too much, maybe this is too fast, but he can't not acknowledge that. He reaches for Bruce, then, reaches for a hug.]
B.
[He's almost Bruce's size now; they're both big men. But he feels small, like he's twelve again, and Bruce is here to keep him safe, at least for now.]
[ The hug is unexpected and for a moment, Bruce doesn't seem to know what to do with himself. It feels like it is happening too fast, but it's been such a long time coming. Maybe it shouldn't have taken them this long to get here, but they are here now.
Bruce drops the grappling gun and wraps his arms around Jason. ]
I know I've let you down. But, you're still my son. I hope that still means something to you.
[He just holds him for a long moment, his eyes shut tight. He thinks that his whole (current) life he wanted Bruce to kill the Joker, but right now he realizes that was never true.
Those words mean more than that. I know I've let you down, the closest that Bruce can get to an apology without actually saying the words.]
[ He knows. He's not an easy man to love or to even get along with. Alfred is always encouraging him to be more open with the kids, to stop shutting out the people who love him. But Batman is solitary, even when he's surrounded by affection and warmth. It's easier to push it away than it is to embrace it. ]
I know.
[ His laugh is quiet, a puff of air that disappears into the night sky. He wants to ask what happens now. If they'll go up or down or stay right here in this limbo. Had they finally reached the end of the spiral? He lets Jason go and bends to pick up his grapple. ]
[Jason doesn’t take that as offensive, which he might have an hour ago, when he was prickly and unhappy and ready to fight. Now he just dips his head a little.]
It’s my home.
[Jason has been Gotham his whole life; he and this city are linked in ways that even Bruce isn’t, he thinks. Leaving has happened but he doesn’t really like to leave. He has to be pushed. Or pulled.
[ No where. Bruce would never have sent him away anywhere. If Jason ever leaves, he tells himself it's always Jason's choice. Never mind that Bruce might be the one pushing him. Especially if he feels like Jason isn't following his rules.
But we're not going down that line of thought. They're not fighting and Bruce would like to keep it that way. ]
Good. [ A pause and then: ] Hungry? There's a Big Belly Burger nearby.
[One of the few benefits of being dead is that he doesn't have to attend a single event for rich people ever again.
Sure, he was okay at it as a kid, when Bruce would protect him from the worst of the snobbery and some of the people who would attend would give Jason pats on the head and Alfred would slip him the extra good snacks. But by the time he was fourteen it started feeling old, boring, and mostly just irritating. And now, he would rather chew off his own leg.
But attending like this? This is actually a lot of fun.
The gala is in a ballroom with a glass ceiling - incredible - meaning that Jason can stage a really dramatic entrance and exit. He gets to use his glass cutter that he kind of made himself. He gets to come after Brucie.
Honestly it's like Christmas.
When he descends on the gala, the screaming announces him in a way that's actually kind of pleasing to the ear. Some dude has private security, and that's a tranq dart to the ex-military dude's leg, oh, he's down, and Jason's modified voice is booming.]
I'm just here for Wayne!
[And with that he grabs Bruce around the waist, punches someone who is trying to stop him, and tugs his line.]
[ It's no secret Bruce hated these kinds of social obligations and if they were not obligations, crucial in maintaining his identity, he would rsvp no every chance he got. He'd much rather be at home, working. Maintaining his gear, monitoring his feeds, all of it sounded better than this.
Honestly, it made sense at the time to offer Jason some quick cash in exchange for a kidnapping. It would certainly generate some headlines and it would get him out of the next few invites with the deepest sympathies from the hosts.
He told Jason no explosions. But maybe he should have also stipulated no dramatics either. It'd make sure no one got hurt because he wanted out. Ah well, guess he's paying a couple of hospital bills too.
As Jason grabs him, Bruce does put up a bit of a show. Just to make it believable. ]
[Oh, boy, Jason is loving this; he pulls Bruce's arms around behind his back to zip tie them quick and brandishes his gun.]
Anyone gets too close and Wayne gets it!
[That scares the good rich people of Gotham; Bruce Wayne has been kidnapped before, and they know it, and he always seems to get out of it. He's beloved in this town.]
I won't hurt anyone else!
[He yells that too, as he puts his grapple around Bruce's waist, and zips them up into the air and to the roof. There is screaming. Someone is yelling to call the police.
[ With the way Jason pulls his arms back, Bruce starts to wonder if he's too into this. He definitely should have stipulated no guns. He'd have to remember this for the next kidnapping. ]
If it's money you want, just untie me and I'll cut you a check!
[ Does that ever work for kidnappers? It hasn't so far and it doesn't seem to now as the grapple line zips them up and out into the night. Below he can hear chaos ensuing.
It's only when they're clear that he turns to face Jason. ]
[He giggles like he's twelve again, and even with his voice modifier it sounds like he's a kid, as he holsters his gun and his grapple, and then cuts the zip cords.]
This is the most fun I've had since I was a kid.
[He's so giddy that he's practically dancing.]
I've always wanted to be involved in a fake kidnapping.
[ There's something wholesome in how happy Jason is. For a moment, it feels like nothing has ever changed between them. That nothing terrible has ever happened. He rolls his shoulders as the zip ties are cut. ]
You've actually bought me some time. I'm in the middle of an investigation. Now I've got more time to follow up on a few leads.
[ Of course he's going to work. He sends Alfred a message and then begins a trek across the rooftop. There's a cache near here. ]
[He looks smug, or as smug as someone who can look when wearing a mask that covers their entire face. But he pulls a coin out of his pocket and tosses it to Bruce.]
We have a new serial killer in town. And I know his name.
[ Four bodies in three months, dismembered. First one was sloppy and used a serrated blade. Last two were more precise. Like a killer trying to figure out his MO. He's expecting more of the same with this severed foot. Behind? Only on this new one.
He stands with gear in hand, belt slung over his shoulder. The coin he catches and turns it over in his hand. ]
When the auction ends, Blake does well to hide his mild shock and disappointment at the outcome. It's a lot of money — he's not sad about that — but the bidding war that had taken place had left him feeling an undue amount of scrutiny, not to mention renewed concern over whatever expectations might come with this unexpected outcome.
Because the money's for the kids, he tells himself it's fine. The winning bid goes to a notoriously kind woman — her family is old money out of Russia — and while he thinks her plans will be fine, he's been told it's all meant to be standard: A photograph, a sit down meal with suitably pleasant conversation (translated professionally), and a visit to the orphanage where Blake grew up to wrap up the evening.
Blake will hate it, but he'll endure.
Truth be told, he was kind of hoping to ride a motorcycle, eat some cheap food, and maybe see where the night went with Bruce. He'd almost hitched his entire wagon to that star when he'd slipped into the crisp, clean tuxedo and presented himself on stage like a gussied up blue ribbon prize bull.
When the last of the arrangements are made, with ceremonial checks signed and proctored applause long died off, Blake catches Bruce in the hallway outside the dining hall.
"So, this is awkward," he says, only half-joking as he scrubs at the back of his head. He'd started the night pretty excited, but now he's more jittery than anything. Too much caffeine, too much attention, not enough room to fidget when the suit is exactly his size.
Bruce wasn't trying to lose on purpose. When he told Blake he was looking forward to going out with him, that had been an honest statement. Or as honest as you could get from Bruce when he's pretending to be some clueless billionare. It really should have been very easy. No one this side of the Atlantic could outbid Bruce Wayne. Probably the Pacific too. And if he'd been in his seat like he was supposed to be, waving his paddle like he was supposed to be, and running up the price like he was supposed to be the evening might have gone according to plan.
Instead he'd slipped out before it was John's turn on the auction block to stop a robbery in progress not more than 10 minutes down the road. He had plenty of time, he thought. This was going to be quick. He did not have plenty of time and really the only thing it proved was the perils of Bruce trying to be present when Batman was really the one Gotham needed. He really needed to stop making promises he couldn't keep. Bruce returned with only enough time to catch the winner of John's bid receive her congratulations.
It's for a good cause. That's what he tells himself so he's not too disappointed.
He smiles when John approaches him, notes his jitters and tries to be something close to reassuring. "I'm sorry, John. I don't know how I dropped the ball so badly." A lie. "If you're not married by the end of your date, I'd still like to take you out."
Blake does the once-around, more concerned about being overheard by someone at the function than really how the auction for the evening played out. He knows they both probably would have preferred a different outcome, but what's done is done. All he can do now is shrug at Bruce's apology because he's not that broken up about it.
"If you really mean it, I'm not actually needed for, ah... publicity purposes until next week," he notes, trapped dead in between relieved and annoyed. Blake isn't looking forward to the wait, nor is he relishing the commentary that's certain to be tossed around when he's an escort around the boys' home, but it's not a television interview or a soul-crushing trip to a local art installation, so he counts himself a little bit lucky.
"You can make it up to me by gettin' me home. Eventually." His nose wrinkles. "I hate the bus and I bet you saved enough money tonight for a cab."
Blake's not going to meet anyone more paranoid than Bruce. He appreciates the once around to make sure they're alone, but Bruce had already assessed the location, chosen for its seclusion and because it was easy enough to watch who came and went not only from inside, but from outside too. They'd be fine so long as they stayed here. No one seemed to wander this far down the corridor. Except a guy who liked the dark, apparently.
There's a hint of a smile as John lays out his plans for the winning bid. A press tour didn't sound terrible but Bruce did those on the regular. For someone like John? Maybe riding a fast motorcycle into the night was more his speed.
"So what you're saying is, you're all mine for the night?" Bruce's smile broadens. It's easier to pretend when the company is good. "I can live with that."
Blake resists the urge to roll his eyes, lips pursed to keep him from smiling, too. Bruce has a way about him that is so effortlessly aloof, but when he turns on the charm even a little bit, it's a force to be reckoned with. It's part of the reason Blake keeps his wits about him whenever they're together (although their previous conversation about fruity drinks and walks on the beach does have him thinking again).
"What I mean is that I'm not occupied this evening, so yeah, I'd love to hang out, thanks," he says, purposeful but not at all lacking in humor. On another night he might call Bruce on making promises he can't keep — the idea of anyone being all his for a whole night (dedicated and uninterrupted) is utterly laughable — but seeing as how the gavel's barely had a chance to grow cold from the last promise he didn't keep, it feels a bit passé.
He tosses a playful jab at Bruce's arm and turns on his heel. "I'll grab my backpack and meet you outside." Blake isn't usually so emboldened as to act as if he's running the show, but he thinks he's bought himself a small amount of grace — enough that he's resolved himself that they'll have a good time no matter what.
If there was one thing Bruce made sure to perfect, it was the art of flirting. A lot of people had pressured him to be more like his father after Thomas's tragic passing and for a while, Bruce tried. He really tried to be the man Thomas was. He thought Thomas Wayne had been so effortlessly charming and well respected. He thought that maybe that would be the better cover for Batman than a playboy who wasted his family fortune falling off of yachts and dating supermodels by the dozens.
He'd tried and honestly, it never fit right. Thomas couldn't be what Batman needed. Being charming and kind of stupid didn't fit right either, but it did make people stop asking too many questions. He was raised by the help after all. You couldn't rightly expect civility from that situation. That kind of dismissal was what Batman needed.
Tonight, though, Bruce could come up for air to spend a little time with someone he genuinely liked. Batman needed that too. He grins at John as he turns to go. He waits for Blake on his bike, revving it once he sees the other man come outside. He offers Blake his extra helmet.
Blake finds his things and slips out pretty readily, mostly avoiding conversations on the way, but is still forced to wave a goodbye and beg off a few interested socialites at the door. This scene was so far from what he's used to, he feels like a shrimp cocktail at tea party. It's tested his patience and his overall ability to handle people, so the relief he feels upon crashing out into the cool night air to see Bruce's bike is immense.
Slinging his pack on properly and sliding the helmet over his head, he's snapping the strap while he takes a quick walk around the bike. The low whistle would probably issue forth for most any bike, but Bruce is never traditional and Blake's sure this will be a hell of a ride.
"Don't get a complex," he tells the other man, sliding on behind him. "It's really not a big deal." There's only a steadying grasp against Bruce's side for a second and then Blake's leaning back of his own accord, hands on his thighs. He hasn't had a bike of his own in years, but he's got the experience to know what to do as a passenger and barring reckless driving, he'll probably give Bruce his space versus clinging on like a garden slug.
Not surprised by the two-ways in the helmets, he grins and asks Bruce, "You already got plans for me or are we playin' by ear tonight?" He's game either way, content for the moment to let Bruce show him where two wheels can take them, but interested nonetheless.
Maybe one day, for not holding a grudge, Bruce'll show Blake the art of disappearing in a crowd. It's essential in escaping any awkward social situation. Or to baffle Jim Gordon. That's always fun too. He grins in his helmet, revs the engine as Blake gives his bike a once over. It wasn't one the more expensive models (those were heavily modified and technically not street legal), but it was no less impressive, all deep dark blacks and polished chrome.
When he's sure Blake's settled behind him and that they've been seen by enough cameras, Bruce peels out into the darkness. "Not a complex. I just hate to disappoint." Bruce isn't a reckless driver. At least not while he's a civilian. But it's quite clear he knows how to maneuver the bike through Gotham's traffic. He weaves in and out of the cars that are stopped or stalled, taking the sharp turns expertly that would get them to the penthouse.
"While you were getting your bag, I had Alfred drop by the penthouse and whip up a quick dinner for us. Didn't seem very fair to ask you to cook. After that, we're free to do whatever you like."
He glances over his shoulder at his passenger, amusement in his voice. "If you want to stop for condoms, let me know now."
Certainly enjoying Bruce's risks as much as his practical experience with Gotham streets, he can't help feeling entirely too old to be throwing his hands up excitedly and whooping at some point like they've just won some race. It's a unique thrill — something he's not sure many others have experienced — and maybe that makes the earlier part of the evening worth the hassle.
Still, Bruce brings the thrills and then adds a little rich boy chivalry into the mix and Blake can't help but be weirdly charmed. He wouldn't have minded making food — it's the reality of his life that he has to feed himself three times a day, more or less — but it's a nice enough gesture and he's glad to not have to compete with a refined palette.
At the last bit, he barks out a laugh and pinches Bruce's side. "Sounds like we'll be doing whatever you like," he says, cheeky through-and-through. "But it's nice you didn't ask Alfred to buy your date condoms, too." The tease is meant to be light, but there are few days that Blake spends time with Bruce that he doesn't feel the vast difference between their lives and upbringing.
Nevertheless, Blake's pack's got all the trimmings of a go bag. He's chronically prepared, having been relying on himself for a long damn time, so no detours necessary.
"Gotta say, though, didn't think you'd let anyone fuck you." A misconception he's interested in exploring considering the implication.
If you knew anything about Gotham's golden boy, you couldn't really be blamed for thinking this date was anything but typical. Blake isn't the first person he's whisked off on his motorcycle to the excited click of cameras and most of the time, it really was just for show. He wasn't sure he isn't entirely sure he's ready to admit that things feel different with Blake, even if that's a true statement. Bruce wants to be here, zipping through Gotham's streets with Blake behind him.
There's something about it. He doesn't want to give it words yet.
He laughs a little at Blake pinching him and throws another glance at him over his shoulder. He'd been teasing for the most part, but if he's honest, he's not opposed to seeing where the night went. Blake is handsome and easy to exist around. Expectations were not nearly so high like it is with Bruce's standard dates. The performance didn't have to be so perfect (even though it would be anyway). He's just always been good company and Bruce could always use some good company.
"I don't, especially on a first date." Partially untrue. He clears the entrance to the parking garage, nestled under Wayne Tower before he continues. "But I'm willing to try anything once. If you are."
Nothing like staring up at Wayne Tower and realizing you're going about as high up as a person can go. Blake stares as long as he can, head tipped until the parking garage takes over and there's nothing left to see. Feeling slightly better about this location and knowing there are at least a few sharp turns ahead, he uses it as an excuse and finally loops an arm around Bruce's front. He doesn't need to hold on, but he wants to.
"Gets me in trouble, but I rarely turn down a challenge," he says, sporting a full-on grin inside his helmet. That much is obvious, isn't it? And thus he doesn't need to list his accomplishments for Bruce; Blake's confident he can handle anything short of a proposal (or unexpected company). In fact, sex is easy. Always has been. Emotions are hard. And beyond a fair amount of fondness between them, Blake's pretty sure feelings won't come into play here.
He encroaches while he can, sliding forward on the seat until he's got his crotch pressed right up against Bruce. It's not so easy in those tuxedo pants, but he manages even if it means the tops of his socks are showing.
"In that case, you can come in my mouth on a first date, too," he says, voice lowered conspiratorially, and then chuckles, teasingly adding, "if you're into that."
Sex is easy. Because it is never anything personal. Nothing to put his heart into, because the people he'd end up being with never meant anything to him. It is just another tool in his utility belt, a part of the act that kept people from looking at him too closely. Brucie's life moves fast and so did the people he rotates in and out of it. Blake wouldn't have to worry about feelings. While quite fond of Blake, Bruce knew how to keep anything deeper put firmly away.
Still, he smiles when he feels Blake pressing against his back.
The work day is over, so the parking garage is, for the most part, empty. At least until they reach the level reserved exclusively for Bruce Wayne. There's an ornate elevator in the middle, an elegant W carved into the dark wooden doors. Along either side of the elevator are parked several luxury sports cars. Bruce puts the motorcycle into a empty spot close by.
"I just might be." He waits until Blake's dismounted before he climbs off himself, peeling the helmet off, so Blake could see his grin. "Let's get inside and maybe find out."
He strolls to the elevator, swiping a keycard to unlock the elevator and the penthouse level. The doors slide open, and Bruce gestures toward the interior.
While not saying anything to that, Blake has no trouble appreciating the grin. Bruce is handsome enough without trying, but when he's wearing a smile — especially a mischievous one — he becomes downright sexy. It only increases Blake's excitement over the evening and its prospects.
When Blake leaves behind the spare helmet, he uses the moment to steal a quick look-around at the garage. The cars are worth a peek, he thinks, and he lingers a second that allows him to lean down towards the nearest window to check out the interior. Very nice, very foreign.
Jogging to catch up with Bruce and passing him right into the elevator, Blake shoulders his bag onto just one arm and leans back against the railing. He feels a bit like he's heading into the candy store, where everything he sees will be something he wants to analyze for its presence and purposefulness.
"Sorta hate what you bring out in me," Blake says, grinning as they get going. He's splayed along the rail and entirely unbothered, of course. "Ten minutes and you've got me talkin' dirty and comin' back to yours. And all I wanna do— Me, a guy who'd rather gouge out his eyes than prance 'round in the public eye— All, I wanna do is show you off."
He shakes his head, feigning judgement. If anyone deserves to be judged, it's Blake. It's easy to say now but in the light of day when the presses roll with the gossip of the day, he won't feel so charitable about the idea.
If he's honest, this is the most Bruce has smiled in ages. It comes easily when he's waving to a camera or knew that there were eyes on him. Less so when he's being authentic. There's nothing to suggest Bruce's grin is anything but authentic for how it reaches his eyes and lingers there. So it's as real as it's going to get when it comes to Bruce. It's a nice feeling.
The smile stays as he watches John admire his cars. They're flashy, maybe a little impractical, but they fit in nicely with his fast lifestyle. Maybe Bruce would let him pick the ride Bruce takes him home in. When Blake joins him in the elevator, Bruce leans back against the wall as the doors close and the elevator starts its crawl upward.
"I can tone it down a little," Bruce replies, arms folded and eyes fixed on Blake's smiling mouth for just a minute. "But I can't turn it off, unfortunately. I won't be able to drive you wild if I do that."
The elevator dings and opens up on the top floor. The foyer, pristinely decorated, ends at a set of double doors Bruce unlocks with a key he fishes out of his pocket. When the doors open, they're greeted with the smell of Alfred's cooking. Bruce had asked for something simple. Knowing Alfred, it would be elaborate and set to impress. Alfred's note that accompanied the meal greeted John graciously and warned Bruce against being too much like himself, lest he scare off this nice young man.
It's very difficult not to be taken in by Bruce and the more steps Blake takes into his little slice of the world, the more he feels as if the urge to resist will become further and further from his mind. Truthfully, there aren't a lot of places to go or people to trust for Blake to get much practice just being himself, but here it feels a lot simpler. And maybe it helps he doesn't mind Bruce knowing where to find some of the divots in his emotional armor.
"You couldn't tone it down if you wanted to," Blake says as he picks up the note. The words are sweet — a nice touch — but it still fizzes inside Blake's brain like a fuse counting down on some kind of personal assault.
(What does Alfred know about him? About them? About these plans? Does he anticipate every quick meal Bruce asks after last minute to be in service of one of these scenarios? And how just how nice, young, and afraid does he really think Blake to be? The questions are like a spring weeds sprouting from seeds sown in years past, unwelcome but also difficult to be ridded of entirely.)
"Grilled cheese, huh?" He shakes his head. "Now I know you're checkin' up on me. No way your butler picked grilled cheese and wasn't thinkin' of my simple ass bein' absolutely relieved and delighted."
He will not deny that the portability of such a sandwich, so precisely sliced into triangles, is exactly what Blake wants so he can snoop a bit more freely. And he does just that, knowing there are other items on his place setting — salad, soup, croutons, cheeses, and all manner of nibbles from a jar — but content enough with this childlike meal-on-the-move.
If there'd been anyway to know what he's thinking, Bruce would have done his best to set Blake at ease. Alfred is just such a deeply ingrained part of his life that without him, none of this worked. Not Bruce Wayne the persona and certainly not Batman. Alfred is the glue that binds it all together into something cohesive and smooth. The oil for the well oiled machine.
But while he's as intertwined in this life as Bruce is, he knew when to take a step back and let Bruce have his moments of privacy. Blake would not have to worry about the butler popping in unannounced or speaking out of turn. All of this? It's just part of taking care of Bruce and maybe goading him into giving up the life of a vigilante for the something a little closer to family man. So far he's had no luck.
"I did ask for simple." The grilled cheese, Bruce is also surprised to see. He'd thought something to match Alfred's idea of a sophisticated palette. Not an after school snack. But it worked, strangely enough. It worked quite well.
He slides by Blake as he swipes a sandwich and reaches for one of his own. "I can't think of the last time he made me grilled cheese. I must have been a kid." Young and a little more carefree than this. Part of him feels it coming back now, while he's here with Blake. Life could be simple like this, if he'd let it be.
He won't. But it could be.
The rest of the penthouse has a distinct 'no one really lives here' feeling for how pristine it looks. The furniture - leather and neatly arranged - is accented by a fireplace, already lit and thriving. No doubt thanks to Alfred. There are trinkets and baubles on the glass shelves. Not a trace of dust and maybe rather morbidly a portrait of the Waynes - Thomas and Martha only - displayed over an accent table.
"God, no," Blake responds nearly automatically, but coughs and amends, "Sorry. Drink yes. Makin' myself at home here? No offense, but it's sorta like bein' in a museum."
Like someone who has been told many, many times in his life to keep his hands to himself, he walks along to investigate anything and everything that seems to stand out, artfully keeping his grilled cheese to one hand while the other rests behind his back and well away from the shelves or table edges. He's not sure he really recognizes much of anything that reminds him strictly of his friend, but it all fits an aesthetic Blake's certain was inherited.
At the accent table he studies the picture longer than the rest, picking out the ways Bruce resembles his parents before moving on.
"Where's the bedroom?" He grins and makes no effort to wait to be shown around. Bruce had said he could do as he pleases and Blake takes that to heart. Were their positions reversed, he wouldn't blink at the idea of Bruce poking his nose into any corner of Blake's apartment. If anything, he almost expects it of anyone he might actually allow close enough to invite in. "That's where the real judgement starts," Blake adds, wondering if Bruce will pick him a drink and follow or wait for Blake to return satisfied with his exploration.
Honestly, the manor would not have been much better. In fact, maybe a little worse for just how many portraits of his parents hanged there. It could easily feel like life stood still there, stifled by loss and grieving and a deeply rooted desire for revenge. But, Alfred warned him against being too much like himself. So it was better to bring Blake here, where things might be a little more normal. Where he's better able to hide all that good ol' fashion emotional turmoil. Even if it's like a museum. It's easier to breathe.
He points down the dimly lit hallway at Blake's question. "The room at the very end of the hall."
There's a stark contrast between the bedroom and the rest of the penthouse. Life happens here, clearly. The bed is neatly made, though there's remnants of Bruce's getting ready for the evening thrown across it - jackets he decided against, a few ties he'd been trying to match colors for. The trinkets in here are clearly more personal than anything outside of the space. Blake could poke around to his heart's content.
Bruce isn't overly concerned about him stumbling across anything in his exploration. It's by design that accessing anything beyond opening a door would require some very deliberate knowledge. And even if he managed, biometrics would stop him.
When his drink is ready, Bruce decides to join him (you know, just in case). "So do I pass?"
It's never really about what Blake can stumble across so much as what he can glean; Bruce would understand being very similar himself. Observant. Curious. Attentive. It's the natural spirit of a detective that causes a person like Blake to naturally grab for those puzzle pieces and begin turning them to see where they might fit.
Some things interest him more than others, of course, and while lingering by the bed, he appreciates the efforts he can see. His fingers brush along the cuffs of the jackets and down the ties, sensing the construction and weight of the fabric. Bruce cared enough to choose, but he wonders if he'd walked to his closet and plucked those items himself, or if he'd taken suggestions from an array laid out by Alfred and designed to work well enough.
When Bruce arrives with the drink, Blake's still turning that particular puzzle around in his head, too, trying hard to decide if he's better off letting himself be charmed, or if Bruce is due a little more comeuppance for only being 95% perfect.
"You really wanna know?" He asks rhetorically as he graciously takes the drink and makes no complaints about its contents. Nevertheless, before tasting, he smiles and reminds himself, with a raking gaze, of Bruce's choice of attire for the evening, contrasting it with a new perspective now that he's seen the spread of alternatives.
"So far, I don't hate it." Truthfully, that's akin to a sparkling review and Blake is grinning into his glass while testing the mix. He's not picky enough about booze to care what he's drinking, but he can admit, as he reaches to touch Bruce's chosen tie, that he appreciates it for how right it feels just as much for how attractive it reads already loosened some at the knot. "Worried I might be a harsh critic?"
Maybe Blake would realize how carefully crafted Bruce's puzzle truly is. They're all pieces he's very deliberately chosen and the picture is not too revealing when it's all put together. A rich party boy with expensive tastes. Bruce Wayne and every other socialite in Gotham. But there's still enough revealed that maybe you're not curious enough to question much more beyond that. And usually no one he brings back here does. Blake might be because Bruce does understand. Sometimes, you notice when the picture's a little too perfect. Sometimes, you notice there might be something a bit deeper behind what you're being presented.
But that's okay. Bruce is prepared for that. He's prepared for everything.
He smiles at Blake as he touches his tie, the warmth of it reaching his eyes for once. When you're a salt of the earth type, stepping into the glitz of Gotham’s elite can be jarring. Maybe a little off putting when you know how hard life really is for people without all this excess. That Blake didn't hate it? High praise indeed.
"Maybe. It's a little obnoxious up here." Everything so neat and orderly maybe a little too sterile. Blake's a welcome contrast, in Bruce's opinion.
"So what else would you like to see? The penthouse is pretty big. There's a pool and a gym. Or we can stay right here." " His smile turns sly as he sits on the edge of the bed.
Obnoxious isn't quite the word that springs to Blake's mind, but he feels ostentatious does cover it on some level. He particularly notes that people with more money can afford to look like they have so much less, apt to hide away their appliances or disguise the everyday necessities. A walk-in closet often means no need to stuff the dresser, and a second kitchen run by an out-of-sight staff means clean-up from today's peanut butter and jelly is a breeze.
"Yeah, haven't finished seein' all I can see here," Blake points out, equally sly as he smiles and makes no real effort to hide it in his drink.
Approaching with a measured pace, Blake reaches up to loosen the top two buttons of his once-crisp white tuxedo shirt. The smart bowtie had been stuffed into his bag the moment things were over, but there's no denying he's somewhat enjoyed this game of dress-up. He could do more of this if he wanted, but he doesn't. At least, not unless he can rope someone else into approving of how good he looks. Not narcissism so much as interest in providing a feast for the eyes; certainly, he finds himself hungry for the same.
Shoes once mirror-shined bear their scuffs as Blake encroaches. His foot taps the edges of Bruce's more pristine footwear, urging space between them where he inserts himself. Couched warmly between Bruce's knees, well enough above him, he reaches to card his fingers through Bruce's hair, testing the weight and density, how it feels fine but also thick.
"Think you can show me what's under all of this?" He doesn't lack softness, but he isn't cradling or coddling by any means. His hands are certain and when he slides his fingers beneath Bruce's chin, it's as much curiosity as it is eagerness that has him tilting that powerful man's jaw upward for his own pleasure. He studies sharp, blue eyes and instead of kissing Bruce's lips, he swipes his thumb across them in a gesture that almost feels like it could be even more intimate.
He wants to bite and stroke and grope, wants to approach that place where he's wild for the way pleasure spills from his partner's mouth. Rucked clothes and raked skin, shared breath and sweat mingled in the sheets. But something tells him that's not novel here and he's sniffing out alternatives like a bloodhound on a scent, making careful approach with tender and genuine intent.
If Bruce is truly ready for anything, then he should be prepared for this.
For Bruce, it’s a distinction without a difference. Maybe it’s the years he’s spent navigating Gotham’s criminal underworld, watching how easily life can be made unbearable for people just trying to survive—scraping by with almost nothing, only to have even that taken by those too lazy or cruel to earn it themselves. Bruce Wayne’s wealth is a necessity—Batman is nothing without it—but it’s still excess, and Bruce has always been more than willing to give it away to those who need it.
Maybe that’s why he isn’t really all that broken up about losing his bid for a date night with Blake. The money is going to a good cause, and Bruce can still make a sizable donation. Besides, Blake is here with him now. They’ve skipped the auction’s formality and gone straight to the best part of an evening together. So who’s the real winner? Checkmate, Grandma.
For all of Blake’s humility, he looks incredible tonight—a genuine feast for the eyes. Bruce can hardly look anywhere else as Blake crosses the room toward him, shirt casually unbuttoned at the collar. Bruce hardly needs an invitation to make space for Blake between his knees.
At Blake’s question, Bruce’s lips curl into a familiar, confident smirk. "I think I can handle that."
Usually, when someone touches Bruce, it isn’t gentle. More often than not, it’s a fist flying at his face. But with Blake, there’s a different kind of energy—firm, sure, but not something Bruce feels he should lean away from. In fact, he finds himself leaning into it—a wordless request for more. He catches Blake’s thumb with a kiss as it brushes his lips, his hands already slipping the tie free from his collar, fingers moving expertly to the buttons next, slow and deliberate with each one.
It doesn't take a detective to know someone who takes hits on a daily basis like Bruce would yearn for a lighter touch. Similarly, Bruce might clock that Blake's been asked in the past to play a part — to fulfill the role of enforcement — and what he's asked versus what he enjoys giving are across a vast expanse from each other.
"Mm, I know you can," he asserts. His hands spread across Bruce's shoulders and he presses until the man beneath him gets the picture and lays back. Each knee is placed carefully on either side of Bruce's hips and Blake straddles him, curling over like a protective umbrella to force his way to Bruce's lips. In the spaces where skin's already been revealed, Blake smooths his fingertips, tracing skin not just to feel the scars and muscles, but to live in the warmth of another human being so close.
Grip spreading, he urges Bruce's arms aside, guiding them out of the way — up, to the side, or away hardly matters — and in their absence Blake wanders his wet mouth freely over the exposed flesh.
Bruce is so presumably perfect. The world looks at him and even when they sneer at his playboy antics, they're still doing so with the knowledge that he has everything he needs to be as perfect as expected. Blake, for all his flaws and with no one left for him with expectations, thinks his friend's life sounds miserable at its best; no wonder this person beneath him doesn't care much beyond the metrics that keep the money flowing.
"Do your— dates ever ask about these?" His quiet question is accompanied by the following of a particularly gnarly scar. And the pause? Well, call him uncertain, but Blake wonders if dates are truly dates when it comes to Bruce, or if it's just another situation where he feels the need to acquiesce in order to satisfy someone's urge — so he could have the freedom to once again get back to his own needs. Rarely do they seem self-indulgent, either, if you can look past the fact that Bruce's most powerful driving force is himself. That he took even this time to spend with Blake seems... significant. Maybe as much a need as a want.
Mouth always going one way or another, he parts what clothing is left only to where it's fastened and explores more readily, tongue tracing freely over intimate spaces. He thumbs over the opposing nipple just to test how Bruce likes it, but he's scraping his teeth against the ridge of the ribs, too, finding places where he doubts people pay much mind. He's nothing if not thorough, and while in the information gathering phase, he sure doesn't mind that he doubts he could do much wrong. It charges him with energy and he demonstrates his own interest by rocking himself forward enough to rut his hardening cock in the groove of Bruce's hip.
Maybe it shouldn't have surprised him how many people compared Bruce to his father. In many ways, he was the spitting image of Thomas Wayne—same dark, dense hair that curled slightly when wet, same strong jaw, and the same burning blue eyes. People who had known Thomas could look at Bruce and think that maybe Thomas wasn't dead and buried in the family mausoleum. And all the expectations they had for Thomas seemed to have been pushed onto his son—who had been there when he died and would carry that image with him for all his days.
And maybe, for a little while, Bruce tried to be Thomas while he was scrambling for an identity—a mask for the man he'd diligently trained himself to become. But he wasn't Thomas Wayne—a man who might have genuinely been perfect. Trying to become him only invited unwanted scrutiny, causing Bruce to recoil from the idea. He couldn't fit into that box, so he decided that Bruce Wayne had to be something else entirely. Not perfect. But someone no one would ever take seriously. Blake included.
It could be a miserable way to live. But it was necessary. And if it kept people from getting too close? That was necessary too.
He sank back into the soft contours of his bedding, quietly eager for the weight of Blake over him—the warm press of his mouth and the curious touch of his fingers. Bruce's hum was appreciative and warm as Blake explored him, his broad hands finding their way to Blake's thighs and then around and up along his spine.
At Blake's question, Bruce opened his eyes but didn't bother to look at the scar in question. He could feel Blake's fingers tracing over it—a chemical burn from a particularly nasty encounter with the Joker. Bruce knew how to explain it away with a charming smile and a self-deprecating laugh (he's such a bonehead, right?). But he didn't offer that this time. Blake deserved a little more sincerity.
"Sometimes. Most people don't care enough to ask." Or they were never allowed to see them in the first place. He was clever with the lights when the clothes started to come off. Or he made sure to offend his would-be partner so they stormed away before it ever reached that point. It didn't matter in the end; the results were the same, and so were the rumors.
But Bruce was glad that Blake didn't question it further or any of the other twisted, ugly folds of scarred skin. There weren't many, but they were prominent compared to the smaller ones that had mostly faded over time. He was glad Blake seemed far more interested in exploring the rest of him, and Bruce absolutely let him. He exhaled softly at the press of Blake's teeth.
"God," he whispered, breathless, a laugh slipping through. "That's good."
Blake wasn't surprised to know people rarely cared to ask. Hell, they were lucky if they weren't placed in that specific position because they wouldn't ask. He kept his secrets, vault-like and careful with his emotional slights of hand; Blake could relate. He shared little purposefully, and when prompted found a sheepish smile and a reflective question in return typically worked to move away the spotlight.
Arching under the other man's touch, he hummed his own approval. Blake's never been bulky; as a teen he was little more than five sticks and a head, but as he reached past his awkward teenage years, he'd toned up without over-pumping those muscles. His strength came more from precision than brute force. He maintained deep flexibility and retained the surprise that typically registered after judging him on a sweet face and a generally quiet demeanor.
"Don't worry; you don't gotta get deep with me," he assured between one roll of his hips and the next. Bruce was firm beneath him but not unyielding and Blake felt his body responding easily to the attention. The bloom of heat fought against a full-fledged shudder and goosebumps raised all the way up to his neck. "But I'm gonna get deep with you..."
No laugh followed and Blake pressed upward to lock his elbows, eyes dark with desire and promise as he observed Bruce. He may not have come into this expecting more personal information about Bruce, but he wouldn't apologize for what he observed readily during all of this, either.
Kissing Bruce, he meant to prove his point and Blake picked at buttons, finishing the reveal of Bruce's whole chest. Mouth curving into a smirk against Bruce's mouth, he scraped blunt nails down the other man's sides and then shimmied downward until his hands and face were both hovering over Bruce's beltline.
"You gotta tell me how you wanna come, though. First? Last?" Feedback here was necessary from Blake's perspective, even if he had every ability to ad lib his way through this.
It kept him safe. Not just his secret, but Bruce himself. Allowing himself to feel anything, except his obsession with the Mission was dangerous. Allowing people close when they could leave or die or die and come back and hate you down to the very atoms that made you was cruel and cutting and heartbreaking and Bruce's heart couldn't stand another break. So he kept it wrapped as tightly as he could. So what if it didn't really beat much anymore? At least it would never break.
Blake's the first in a long, long time Bruce's even allowed an inch closer than normal. He pulls out sincerity in Bruce where someone else might be left with just something surface level and just a little bit fake, an idea of Bruce instead of the unvarnished reality. It's gratifying to feel close to someone, even if he's leaving space to retreat if he has to.
Each roll of Blake's hips stirred up something hot in Bruce, searing almost, like he just might catch fire from the warmth and desire building inside of him, blood rushing south and his trousers feeling a little bit tighter.
"I don't worry." A smirk carved across his face. "I'm looking forward to it." He dragged his hands over Blake's chest when he hovered over Bruce, fingers tugging his shirt from where it had been tucked in so he could get the buttons undone. Bruce returned that kiss, pouring all of his desire into meeting Blake's mouth with his own.
"Oh, after you, of course," he said, no hesitation. No further explanation offered. On its face it could seem altruistic; Bruce caring about the pleasure of his partner and he does. But he was feeling a little selfish about it too. He wanted the sight of Blake coming apart burned into his memory.
After a point, the access would become reliably moot. Blake knew that the animalistic nature of man could bring about a disconnect and understanding how a person's sexual drives slotted together with their personal goals took a lot more time and work than he'd been allowed. He could get an idea, sure, but he knew just as well that there were plenty of people who used physical intimacy as an escape.
"Generous," Blake murmured. He sat up to allow Bruce access and helped along the way, popping open buttons in congruence. Shoulders rolling, he dripped the fine tuxedo shirt from himself but argued with the wrists before flinging it away. "That mean you wanna see me when I get off?"
He lifted himself from Bruce to work his own trousers, shifting them down his hips as far as they'd go. The dark fabric hid the dampness well, but as Blake drew out his cock and gave it a performative stroke, it was already glistening at the tip with precum. The rest of him was representative of hard work, but not so much that he'd turned to nothing but muscle. There was still a thin layer of body fat in places, but he clearly worked everything pretty equally instead of focusing on one particular part of himself. It also allowed him to maintain a decent level of flexibility which sparked a reminder as he stretched long and lean above this arguably gorgeous, artistically proportioned, incredibly interesting individual.
His eyes were dark with desire — nearly black from his deep brown irises and pupils blown with need — and Blake's grin turned wicked as he pumped himself and in tandem raked his other palm firmly over Bruce's dick. "Might have to put your knees around your ears unless you've got a mirror handy."
It isn't even so much the act itself that got Bruce going, though it certainly helped. It's watching the way his partner came apart at the seams, especially if they were as carefully stitched as Bruce's. And, distantly, it gave Bruce a sense of control over the situation. He was always trying to bend the world and the people around him to fit into the rules he'd made. He liked when they fit, when they don't push back and accepted being maneuvered into place. Letting his partner come first gave him the advantage, even if it's not something he'd admit to. Or maybe he's not even fully aware that's what he was doing. Especially now that he was with someone he likes.
Bruce missed the warm press of Blake's body as he pulled away, but appreciated the view, eyes roaming over the smooth, clean planes of muscle. He saved Blake's cock for last, admiring the length and girth of it. He wanted to touch it, but settled for running a hand along Blake's arm instead. He was still pliable in areas Bruce was solid muscle - a necessity born out of a need to make the Bat as intimidating as possible. For everyone else that asked, it was just how he liked to idle the hours away.
There was a hitch in his breathing, a subtle heave of his chest when Blake palmed over his erection. Bruce shut his eyes as he felt a warm jolt of pleasure up to the roots of his hair. He pushed himself up a bit to point at the mirror on a swivel base. "It can be angled toward the bed, if you're interested." He returned Blake's wicked grin with a kiss, brief and warm.
The suggestion paired with Bruce's devilish grin is echoed in Blake as he chased after that kiss, although not for long. "Mm, I like the way you think," he noted, patting Bruce's cheek twice before dropping back and going about his planning.
He eyed the mirror and then the bed, comfortable enough in his own skin to be walking around fairly unabashed. Blake wasn't a show-off, but he did exhibit an awful lot of the stereotypical traits of both an only child and an orphan. He liked attention, but only on his terms; otherwise the body was just a thing everyone had, and for most of the years it mattered, he shared open living spaces with other boys who didn't care. To say this was natural for him wouldn't fit the bill — he didn't strut naked even in his own apartment — but to suggest it might be simply for Bruce's pleasure wouldn't have been refuted.
The mirror was turned just so, with Blake checking the angle before sauntering his way back towards the bed, easily stroking himself dry. He was particular enough to keep himself clean and neatly trimmed, although he was circumcised like the majority of guys in his particular age, religious, and ethnic group, so it didn't exactly get people out there singing praises. Nevertheless, he'd heard no complaints and had none of his own, miraculously enough, so his approach was fairly filled with confidence.
Stopping by his bag, he dug for his provisions and palmed the condom wrapper before crawling across the bed on hands and knees towards his companion.
"Want me to work you up?" He asked because some people were particular, and some people were masochists, and for Blake's part he fit somewhere in the middle. Nosing into Bruce's space, he lowers his voice and whispered close to the other man's ear. "Leave it to me, I'll be forced to take it slow."
Apologies for the delay. Writer's block kills me sometimes.
There was something about Blake's confidence that Bruce enjoyed. In some ways he could see how similar it made them - comfortable in how they moved in the world. Only children who knew how to command attention when they wanted it and how to disappear from it just as easily. He never thought of Blake as the type to brag about anything. Too down to earth for that kind of bravado. But Bruce could still sense that quiet kind of confidence. Not just here, but in how Blake carried himself and how he listened more than he spoke. He knew who he was and did not need anyone else to validate that for him.
Bruce respected that about him. Maybe even envied it a little.
Because for all his carefully cultivated mystique, there were parts of him that still felt unmoored. Parts that existed outside of the Bat that felt nebulous and uncertain, like he'd lose them if he wasn't careful. Blake didn't seem to have that uncertainty. He was grounded in a way Bruce had never seemed to achieve. It was part of what made him attractive.
It also helped that Blake was absolutely gorgeous to look at. Bruce admired him too, unabashedly while he waited for him to return. He reached for him as he crawled across the bed, hands spreading out over his arms and up his shoulders, urging him to get close. Bruce smiles at what's whispered into his ear. "You mean you weren't trying before," he replied, a teasing edge to his voice. "You took your sweet time getting back over here." He leaned up, pressing a kiss against Blake's throat and up along his jaw.
"Take your time, if you think you've got the patience for it."
Vacation took me away for a bit - hopefully I can send you ~a little inspiration~ <3333
The confidence in this particular space was well-earned, but elsewhere Blake felt very much like a faker. With his clothes off and his body humming with desire, especially in a one-on-one setting where he was generating the majority of the attention given, he felt very at ease. Where Bruce reached with his hands or his lips, Blake opened up like an invitation, too, giving access in heaps. He folded and slithered around Bruce, finding the places where they fit together unexpectedly, and enjoying the sensations brought about by an active partner. Probably his favorite kind, for purposes that always seemed to stem from his own desire to be chronically underestimated.
"We've gone this long, yeah?" he responded, his skin flushed beyond Bruce's lips. Basking for a moment, he allowed the man access long enough to use his own, petting through the dark hair and thrilled to find Bruce prickling with sweat at the hairline just the same as him. Not so collected, he thought, which only favored the moment as far as he was concerned.
Purposefulness had him popping the cap on the lube and gathering it onto his fingers with a dexterous one-handed maneuver, quick to smear, warm, and apply readily as his free hand held Bruce close. He found himself rutting against Bruce, too, a rocking motion that ripped little, low grumbles from Blake's throat at an unpredictable tempo.
"Maybe next time you could be ready for me." His grin was unrepentant and he felt himself turning near-blistering at the idea of Bruce Wayne wriggling in his chair, plugged up and anticipating the moment he was free to be taken. "Then I can take time on other things..." Practically salivating, he went about with those teasing fingers, focused as much on petting out pleasure with his exploration as he was on making way for his achingly interested dick. If he could have a third hand at the moment, he'd consider taking it, because the further he found himself from Bruce's own dick, the hungrier and more desperate he became.
Bruce loved the way Blake opened up for him and he followed through, searching his smooth expanse of skin with his mouth and a hint of his teeth and tongue. It's a fight not to push it farther, to follow someone else's lead when Bruce was usually the guiding force for these kinds of interactions. It felt a little like going against his nature – trusting someone enough to let them maneuver and take charge.
He wasn't the kind of person to ever take that leap of faith without a safety net. His contingencies had contingencies. It had always been true about relationships too. He would always try to find a way out, when things inevitably went sideways. It was true of Blake too, but Bruce found himself hoping things could stay like this – playful and warm and intimate. Like this. No expectations. Just them being together. He liked that.
His legs spread wide to make room for Blake as he moved, hips rocking against his own and a groan rumbles from some deep place in him.
“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” He returned that smile, wicked in its own right as he reached between them to give Blake a lazy stroke or two. “Thinking about me in my board meeting ready for you?” Bruce leaned up to graze a kiss against Blake's jaw, before he falls back again, breath catching at feeling Blake's exploring fingers. He's hard, painfully so and wrapped his fingers around his aching cock. Not jerking off, but just touching himself to keep himself grounded in the moment.
The hum brought forth at Bruce's questions coincided with the curl of Blake's lips into something all too knowing. He practically beamed at the attention afforded to him. This felt expensive for reasons well outside of money, and he knew occupying this man's mind was worth every effort; what Blake would give, Bruce would certainly return in-kind.
Nevertheless, denying that he was robbed of breath as easily as answers when Bruce went fondling around would be pointless. His little gasp was impossible to hide and he was forced to bite it back behind his bottom lip where it turned into more determination. He redoubled his efforts, focused on how tight he imagined Bruce would be, and wondering whether he'd even need more of a reminder than what Blake was about to do to him.
"Thinkin' 'bout you thinkin' 'bout me does have a, ah— a real fuckin' appeal," he noted with little shame. It stirred within him an even deeper desire to see Bruce far separated from a moment — any moment — by memories generated specifically towards making him feel good. They might never share domestic bliss, or the camaraderie of a proper working relationship, but near as Blake could figure — had ever figured — a functioning sexual arrangement filled a lot of holes. Pun intended.
As if to help prove his point, he more fervently curled a finger towards the other man's prostate, making demands of Bruce's body while dipping down to put his mouth to good use before it could turn predictably filthy.
In tandem, he mouthed greedily at the other man's sack, sparing some occasional suction that helped lift it out of the way for the careful introduction of a second finger. He doubted Bruce would allow for an excruciatingly long tease, but that suited him because he already felt fit to burst all on his own.
Breathing hotly over the spit-slathered canvas, he hummed, "You tell me when you're ready to turn, 'cause otherwise..." Not that he minds. Rather, he probably wouldn't stop, at least not until he'd eked out every orgasm he could from Bruce, so eager with his mouth and hands he barely spared the time for the suggestion before he was lapping a long line from scrotum to tip. Sucking the head, he struggled to artfully swallow around Bruce, the gulping noise immediately followed with a groan he'd failed to suppress. There was something so goddamn sexy about driving someone to that peak — something Blake craved for the satisfaction of it as much for his own derived pleasure.
For a minute, Bruce forgot how to breathe. It's just a moment and would soon be forgotten in favor of savoring the pleasure of Blake opening him up. But when he's caught in it, it felt like it lasted forever and if he died like this well, there were worst ways to go. It happened the second he felt Blake's finger slide into him, pinning that burst of air to his lungs. Until it burned and Bruce exhaled in a long, slow drag.
It was a feeling he wasn't used to, but it wasn't a bad one. Just new and one more thing he'd learn how to navigate. At least it was with someone who Bruce could almost trust. Enough not to use this vulnerable moment against him anyway.
It helped him to relax, the expert way Blake used his mouth and tongue and how it felt like he was unraveling all of the perfect control. Like he knew all of the right ways to get Bruce to open up and allow himself a chance to feel something other than that all consuming obsession with the Mission. Logically, he knew Blake had no way of knowing the impact he was truly having right then. But lust was a helluva drug.
As greedy as Blake is, Bruce was too. Eager to see his tip disappear into the warm wetness of Blake's mouth. It's perfect. It's too perfect and if Bruce had been anyone else – untrained, undisciplined – he would have came right then and there. But he could pace himself, will that orgasm down for just a little while longer. It doesn't stop that low, rumble of a groan. Born somewhere deep. Almost Batman, but not quite.
He offered Blake another shameless smile, hips rocking against his fingers. “Are you going to fuck me or tease me to death?”
The question pulled the essence of a chuckle from Blake, but it far contrasted the goosebumps raised across his body from Bruce's low growl. For Blake, that enticed reaction was all he needed to know he was making an impression. Despite being orphaned at a young age, he still somehow retained the bratty throughline that craved to be the positive pinpoint at the center of someone's attention. Together with Bruce, it didn't feel quite so blinding a spotlight — more a warmth that spread across his skin, one that reminded him of sitting close to the heater vent on a cold winter day.
"Honestly hadn't decided," he sighed, as if he held a hand of cards he didn't feel much like folding. But he relented nonetheless, and carefully extracted himself to steal a brief nipping kiss before patting Bruce's thigh. Post up.
Meanwhile, he busied himself with the practicalities, rolling on the condom when he finally shifted to where their reflection would be most visible. "C'mere before I make a joke 'bout a 'stay of ejaculation'."
For someone with so much on his plate, Bruce could be a man of singular focus, sometimes to the detriment of the other parts of his life. It was no easy task getting him to shift away from his work because it could be so all consuming. It would have to be something seismic.
Tonight, Batman is almost a far away thing. Not gone, never gone. Not even truly set aside. Just. Paused, while Bruce's gaze stayed fixed on the man rolling a condom on and shifting his body to get the best angle in the mirror.
Bruce went when beckoned, crawling toward Blake and reaching for him when he got to him so that he could pull the other man into a heated kiss. He could taste himself on Blake's tongue and it made him shudder a little.
“Go slow.” Not because Bruce needed him to. “I want to feel every inch of you.”
Maybe he was smart about it, or possibly just clever-handed — but certainly experienced enough — so he'd spared one hand for the sake of semi-cleanliness and his own eager inhibitions. Anticipating the need to place his grasp on Bruce, he slid his fingers around the back of the other man's head and met him wholeheartedly and mouth-to-mouth.
The puff of Bruce's heated words across his face set Blake to rumble with greedy desire; as much as Bruce wanted to feel him, he wanted to feel Bruce — wanted that slick, encapsulating warmth that traveled his body. Wanted to feel it everywhere: cock, balls, guts, brain, and maybe even a few untouched depths.
"Yeah, a'right, I've got you," Blake muttered, nipping at Bruce's lips and peppering wet dabs where his tongue wandered. Wrapped around the slick condom, his other hand left off pumping in favor of a firm guiding grip at the base of his dick, taken then on parade to avoid Bruce distracting him from their purpose.
While the mirror would eventually come into play for him, his own attention was drawn downward at the hedonistic visage. With eyes dark and wide, mouth either agape or gnawing itself eagerly, Blake pressed the head teasingly, taking double the occasion to swipe a lubed thumb over Bruce's entrance and draw out the moment. He rocked that pressure slowly into play, little breaths held and lost with every bit he advanced. Past the head, he wouldn't be pulling back out, but up to that point he was enjoying the control.
Slow he could do. Slow was a treat, in fact, which Blake wouldn't take for granted.
He moaned Bruce's name, and followed with a foul-mouthed, "Fuck, Jesus, fuck—" because the further south all his blood traveled, the fewer words found their way north in return.
If asked, Bruce would say it's a little of both. Smart enough to recognize the necessity. Clever handed enough to make it work. But if he were asked, Bruce would also say it didn't really matter at this point. A lot of rational thought, a lot of his good sense and reason had been replaced with desire, pure and unadulterated. It's not something he let himself feel often – to0 easy to get lost in and it was a terrible clash against that constant need for vigilance. He could never afford to be lost in anything. But part of him wanted to forget. Wanted for just this precious moment a chance to just let himself feel and feel good too. So he did, when their mouths met again and he felt that flood of warmth in his blood and bones.
I got you settled over him like a blanket, warm and cozy and he felt another finger loosen it's grip on the cord. He could let go because he trusted Blake enough not to demand that control back. He trusted himself enough to think he could have both – vigilance and this heady, intoxicating pleasure.
He was ready. As ready as he could be when that first scant inch pressed into him. Instinct wanted him to seize up, but Bruce forced his body to relax, willed the tension out of those muscles so that Blake could sink deeper. His fingers flexed and he inhaled a quiet breath that kept him grounded, so he could stay here in the moment. When he said he wanted to feel every inch, he meant it and it wouldn't do to lose himself so soon. He wanted to stay right here. Right here so he could be aware enough to know when Blake bottomed out and so he could see the look on his face when he did.
He didn't moan. Not yet. But his chest heaved, a quiet sound of approval. “I'm right here,” he says, even though it doesn't feel like he has the breath to say it. Bruce reached for Blake, fingers ghosting over his cheek and down his neck. “Stay with me.”
[He probably should call someone - anyone - else. Getting a face full of some new designer drug wasn't part of the plan, but he was undercover and he felt obligated to go with it or his cover would be blown.
An hour later he's still at this club, and he's feeling like his skin is going to boil off or like he's going to dissolve, or both, and all he wants is Bruce. He can't even figure out why. He's never felt like this, like he's going to absolutely lose his mind if he doesn't get-
-so he makes the call, slipping a hand onto his phone to let Bruce know he needs a pick up and he needs it soon, handing over his coordinates with a press of a button.
When Bruce does show up, Jason is on edge of the dance floor with glitter covering miles of bare skin. He's wearing short shorts, and a shirt that looks painted on, and he's got someone's hands on his hips, but there is a look to him that seems more manic than anything else.]
[ If asked, Bruce would say he doesn't stalk anyone in his orbit. He doesn't intrude or interfere or bother them when they're not actively seeking him out (or doing something he strongly disagrees with. But he likes keeping them in his peripherals, so he's never blindsided if they come to him for help. After everything it just felt right knowing that they were okay and thriving and if they ever needed him, he'd know where to go looking.
That's how he knew about Jason's undercover work before he ever sent his pick up request. He mostly stayed out of Jason's investigation, except where there had been some overlap with his own case. They were getting along and Bruce wanted to keep it that way. But even if they hadn't been, Bruce still would have come the second he got that pick up request.
Getting by security is easy enough when you know how and Bruce's been at this long enough that most people won't realize he'd been there until long after he's gone. He spots Jason easily too - the glitter may as well be a spotlight and makes his way over to him. He doesn't look injured. Just high as hell. ]
[The person who has his hands on his hips looks sharply at Bruce, and says hey man, we're having a good time here but Jason slips out of his grip with a move that makes him look like water, and reaches for Bruce's hand. He could not, in a million years, explain why he does that, except it feels right to take his hand and hold it.
The other guy snorts, and wanders off to look for someone else to dance with.]
You came.
[The pleasure in that statement is real, and there's a little surprise, too. It's not Batman, it's Bruce, and he came for Jason, even though Jason knows he hates him.]
[Jason's smile is real, even if he is high, because he likes to hear that sometimes, someone does something he asks just because he asks. He holds onto Bruce's hand and isn't letting go anytime soon.
He nods.]
Did you drive? Is Alfie here?
[He thinks Bruce probably drove himself.]
Is it the BMW? Or the Aston-Martin?
[This is Jason without the rough edge of his personal armor; this is Jason at his most gentle, as if no one has ever hurt him.]
[ If Jason is reaching out to him, the situation is dire. Being high in the middle of an investigation definitely counts as dire. Bruce takes Jason’s hand, tucks it under his arm so he has to stay close. ]
I drove.
[ but it’s an old beater hes not concerned about getting jacked. The security measures installed will keep any would be thieves at bay regardless. He cuts through the crowd with relative ease, shoving aside anyone disinclined to move themselves out of his way to the exit. ]
[He does stay close, enjoying the protection of Bruce's body getting them through the crowd. Even if people don't know who it is, Bruce is very large, and one of the rare people who is larger than Jason.
Jason hums a little as they get to the car and he laughs when he sees the car.]
[ Bruce doesn't say anything to that. Just gets the passenger door open for Jason to get in. The car itself looks over a decade old on the outside. The interior has been fitted with something distinctly more Batman. Commlinks to the cave, bulletproof windows and doors, high voltage emitters to keep people from poking around.
When he slips into the driver's seat, he glances at Jason and for a minute his eyes drift down to his glittered abs. ]
[He says it without thinking. He kind of wants to go back to the manor, and the nature of this drug - stripping away that layer of armor - means that he can say it without worrying about it.]
The manor. Can I come home?
[He asks it with the softness of someone who thinks the answer might be no. He's always thought of it as home, from the first day that he was there and he had a warm bed again to yesterday, when he was in his own apartment, eating leftovers and ignoring his family.]
[ Bruce pauses. Home. Jason wants to come home. It’s something Bruce has wanted for ages, feeling like his family is whole again. It’s the tender way he asks. Bruce could forget how fraught their relationship is when Jason is tender like that. ]
Yeah, Jason. You can come home.
[ the car starts and Bruce takes the quickest route back to the cave. He parks the car back in its place alongside the fleet of other vehicles. ]
[Jason almost glows with pleasure, and he goes quiet as Bruce drives, pressing his forehead against the window of the car and watching the lights change. When they get to the cave, he sits there for a minute.]
I didn't do it because I wanted to get high. You know that, right?
[He looks over at Bruce, and his eyes are huge and blue. Frank Sinatra would be jealous.]
It's the new shit I've been looking into. Unicorn dust, is what they're calling it.
[ He didn't suspect so. Jason was reckless, stubborn, disobedient. But knew how to take things seriously when he was working. It does make Bruce wonder, though, who could have gotten close enough to drug him. He gazes back into Jason's blue eyes, lips parting just enough to show a glimpse of his teeth.
But the moment passes and he gives Jason's hand a squeeze. ]
[He comes over with him, following without a fuss, but what he wants is to get into bed.
He probably needs a shower; he's still glittering.]
Alfie's going to be so mad when he sees all this glitter.
[At least he doesn't seem to need any help down the stairs; whatever this drug did, it wasn't anything that made Jason lose his sense of space or his physical awareness.
He sits in the medical bay and holds out his arms.]
Did you really just come without knowing anything about what was going on?
[ He's been investigating Unicorn Dust on his own. Several weeks ago a body had been pulled from the harbor with traces of the drug in his system. High enough for an overdose, but it had not been what killed him. Seeing it in action gave him another potential lead to follow.
And, he could make sure what happened to that young man wouldn't happen to this one.
He doesn't say anything at first, while he busies himself around the med bay. When he's close, he checks Jason's arms for puncture wounds. ]
I've been keeping an eye on the club. I saw when you went in there.
[Jason doesn't complain, this time, he just hums and dutifully turns over his arms, for a full examination.]
The dealer's selling...it to the working girls down in the alley. No. That's not right.
[Jason scowls.]
To the pimps, and then the girls get it. If it was just a party drug-
[Jason shrugs. He doesn't care if twentysomethings are doing a drug that makes them feel good at a party, but he does care if it gets to people who don't want to take it, to make them pliable.]
Needed a sample, but the dealers wanted to see me use it, so take the blood for the sample.
[ Bruce smooths his hands down Jason's arms. Not really necessary. But it made Bruce feel a little bit better, seeing his boy whole and feeling that reassurance the longer his hands linger. Jason's fine, he tells himself. He's been through worse. This would pass. He just needed rest. ]
It isn't just a party drug.
[ He's quiet and efficient as he works, blood sample taken and stored away to examine later. When he comes back to Jason, he touches him again, wipes away some of the glitter with a swipe of his palm over Jason's chest. He's helping. ]
[Jason looks up, a shiver going down his arms where Bruce touched him. How often does he get touched like that, with a measure of care like that? Almost never, now. He watches the glitter on Bruce's hand, and the touch on his chest makes him shudder a little, just a little ripple of something that feels like -
- he doesn't know what it feels like, but he knows he likes it, it feels good. It feels good that Bruce is right here, that he's treating him like this.]
No.
[He's agreeing; it's not just a party drug.]
But this is my job. I'm supposed to do things like this, to help.
[He reaches for Bruce's hand and takes it in his, and puts it over his heart. His heart is beating hard, but not rapidly, hard but not like he's going into cardiac shock.]
[ He's high, Bruce tells himself. He shouldn't put more weight to Jason's actions than necessary. He's just taking care of his boy. That's all. But he doesn't pull away when Jason grabs his hand. Bruce let's him put it over his heart so Bruce could feel it thundering against his the palm of his hand. It's the drugs.
Just the drugs. ]
You are helping. Help me again by laying down for a little while.
It's not just the drugs, but Jason doesn't say that at the moment. Instead he holds Bruce's hand and keeps it tucked against his heart, but he does lie down, slowly, and holds on like Bruce is a prayer.]
[ The med bay bed is barely big enough to hold Jason alone. Bruce wouldn't fit if he didn't press in close and he's not sure why but that didn't bother him like it should (he knew why, he just didn't want to say it or think it. ]
Turn on your side.
[ And when Jason does, Bruce will climb into the bed with him and slipping an arm around him and drawing him close. ]
[And maybe he sleeps a bit too long, once Bruce is holding him, and maybe he ducks his head against Bruce's shoulder, practically cuddling.
It's been a few hours, and he's not high anymore. He's in Bruce's arms and it's so-
-right. Peaceful. And he has morning wood, so that doesn't help, but Bruce is right there and either asleep or pretending to be. Jason knows that if he moves, Bruce will move too, so he carefully puts a hand around Bruce's hip and-
-Bruce's eyes open and he doesn't pull away-
-he doesn't know how long it's been that he's thought of Bruce as a figure who-
-he doesn't know how long he's wanted to-
-he leans in and kisses him on the mouth, timid, a little, and then a bit more.]
[ Bruce doesn't sleep. Not while Jason is cuddled up against him. He just keeps his eyes shut and keeps his breathing steady and even, so he's not getting too comfortable. Even when he feels the hard press of Jason's erection against his thigh.
He doesn't mention it. He tries not to think about it. Until he feels Jason's hand on his hip. And then it's all he can think about. Bruce's eyes open and he stares at Jason.
The kiss isn't a surprise. Bruce leans into it because he's not thinking with his brain. He just wants to marvel in the warm, soft press of Jason's lips against his. He'll come back to himself in a minute. ]
[Jason's brain, usually so active and wary, has totally checked out this morning. This is pure want, pure instinct. Someone who loves him. Someone who wants to touch him.
When Bruce kisses him back, Jason pulls back a little, just enough for his breath to hitch, and before Bruce can move away in a panic Jason leans in to kiss him again, to press against him like it's all he has ever wanted. More than the Joker's death.]
[ Bruce is already thinking, taking stock, figuring things out. Jason's not high anymore. He doesn't know that for sure without really looking him over, but Bruce knew Jason and there's something deliberate in the way he kisses Bruce and presses his body against him. Something that's distinctly Jason and not just fueled by lowered inhibitions from the Unicorn dust.
He doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about whether it's okay, because if he does, he'll stop doing this and he doesn't really want to stop doing this. He puts a hand on Jason's hip, fingers pressing in for leverage so he can pull him in close and slip his leg between Jason's. ]
[He didn't expect that. He expected Bruce to push him away, to remind him that he's legally Jason's father, or something else, to call him sick, to say he's high.
But he's not doing any of that. Jason kisses him again, then, letting his body take the wheel where his brain is checked out. He didn't overdose or die; his memory isn't even blurry over the night before. He should be embarrassed at how he was acting, but he's not. He's not embarrassed.
He turns his hips a little to loop one leg over Bruce's and opens his mouth to make the kiss deeper, to make it clear that he wants this as badly as Bruce seems to want to give it to him. His hips stutter once, twice. Shit.
[ It is sick. That fact isn't lost on Bruce. It's just pushed farther down on his list of priorities. There's a lot of things he does that can be considered sick. It doesn't stop him and he doesn't want to let it stop him now.
Jason's still covered in glitter, but Bruce doesn't mind that either as he smooths his hands over Jason's chest and along the toned muscles of his arms and then his back.
He drags his hands back around again when he feels Jason's hips rocking against him. His fingers hook into Jason's waistband, searching around for what held them closed. ]
Get these off.
[ There's a sense of urgency in how Bruce says it. Like he's trying to outpace his good sense. ]
[His shorts are so flimsy, it's a miracle he's still in them. Bruce's hands are like firebrands, hot against his skin and burning in the best way. He whimpers a bit at the feel of his hands moving around to press against him, and he reaches down to tug his shorts down and around his thighs.
He looks down to see Bruce's hand just near his cock and he has to look away or he's going to come too soon, too fast, he's going to have to die of embarrassment and Bruce will have to bury him in the backyard. So instead of looking his mouth catches Bruce's mouth again, licks in, and the noise is makes is obscene.]
Can't-
Can't get them down more without moving.
[Which isn't an argument not to move. He'll move if Bruce asks, which begs the question of how obliging Jason is when he's absolutely crazy with lust.]
[ When Bruce realizes Jason isn’t wearing anything underneath his shorts, it causes his breath to catch in his throat. He feels like he’s on fire, roasting him on the inside and if he didn’t put it out soon, he would go up in flames and take the bed, the cave, and Jason with him.
So he helps, pushing Jason’s shorts down as far as they’ll go then he drags his hands back up again, pressing into the kiss, letting Jason’s mouth swallow any noise he’s making. He doesn’t want to move, because it puts distance between them. Gives his brain more space to be logical when he really just wants to keep being consumed by lust. He could work with this. It wouldn’t take much to get Jason on his side with Bruce behind him. ]
It’s okay. Roll over on your side.
[ a pause as he works his jeans open so he can shove them down. ]
[He obliges, obedient, needy, even though what he wants is to look at Bruce and see everything. But he doesn't; instead he tugs a bit more at his shorts as he tries to keep them both on the narrow bed.]
Yeah.
[He huffs some air.]
Haven't done this in a while.
[A while is a generous measure. Jason isn't exactly one to have sex on the regular with anyone, and he's never really been someone who engages in casual romance. The last time was over a year ago, he thinks, when he and Bruce were still at each other's throats.]
[ when Jason turns away, Bruce leans into him, pressing his mouth to the back of his neck and along his shoulder. Something to hold him over while he pulls away to fumble with the drawer in the bedside table. It isn’t proper lube but it’ll work for what he needs it for.
He turns back and slips his slick hand between Jason’s cheeks, pressing a calloused finger into him up to the first joint.
[Jason whines, not in pain and not in protest, but that high-pitched sound of pleasure that suggests he is more than happy to have Bruce doing that. The smooth sensation goes right to his cock, and he reaches down to press his hand on it. He's not jerking off, just touching himself, casual and without hurry.
He turns his head, and the scar that Bruce gave him when he threw a batarang at him is under Bruce's mouth and it makes Jason shiver all the more, gasping for breath.]
It's okay. You got me.
[He hasn't said that in a long time, and his other hand is reaching back to find Bruce's free one, to pull it to his mouth to kiss his palm and then hold it like a lifeline.]
[ Bruce whispers against Jason’s skin, mouth hot and wet against that scar.
He lets Jason take his free hand, wraps that arm around him and hugs him while he works his finger inside him. There’s only a moment for Jason to get used to the stretch before Bruce presses in another finger alongside the first. ]
[He whines again, and both their hands are up against Jason's chest, and he lifts his leg a little to give Bruce more space. He loops his leg up against Bruce's, and squirms as Bruce whispers that he has him. That 's all that he's wanted. He's wanted to be held, held tightly and protected, every single damned day.
He presses his hips back a little, eager to have more, more of those big hands inside of him until he can get his cock.]
Just like that, God, just-
[He tips his chin down and kisses Bruce's fingers again. Here, he's here, he's here, they're both right here.]
[ That whine is a siren's song, dragging him in close. He'd drown if they were in water. But he's focused on what he's doing, working his fingers in and out of Jason while he squirms and presses back against him and kisses his fingers.
Logic doesn't seem so logical now. Nothing does. Every nerve feels like it's been set alight, and all of Bruce's energy is being poured into pushing Jason closer and closer to that familiar high. Every noise he draws out goes straight to his cock, painfully hard and nudging into Jason's back as he moves. His patience is wearing thin. He's not sure how he's managed this long without any relief. ]
[Jason's patience is being worn thin; he wants that cock, he can feel it against his back, against hot skin, he can feel the hot smear of wetness. He wants to feel it inside of him and he almost begs for that, the words garbled in a thick moan.]
More.
Give me more.
[He manages that, and then.]
Just fuck me, if I can't walk later you can carry me home.
[The lust is thick in his voice, and he tries to stay still, but his hips are rocking just a little, just enough to be clear he's trying to get some friction, something.]
[ Hearing it from Jason's mouth shreds the last of Bruce's restraint. He's not thinking about retreating anymore or how they'll get all of this glitter out of the sheets or off his clothes. It's all background noise compared to Jason's words echoing in his brain. Fuck me. He pulls away only long enough slick his cock up, then he's nudging it in place so he can sink into him, slow and deliberate. ]
I got you. I got you.
[ Bruce keeps him steady with a hand pressed against Jason's hip, fingers digging bruises there. The other he keeps pressed against his chest, so Jason would have something to hold on to. His mouth continues to kiss and bite at that scar on Jason's neck. ]
[He does keep holding Bruce's hand, as if his mouth isn't evidence enough that Bruce wants him, wants him like Jason wants to be wanted, as if he's still convinced that if he lets go he'll wake up in a pile of sweat and a stomach covered in drying come.
He cries out and it echoes in the cave. It doesn't even occur to him that anyone could walk in, that there are cameras. He doesn't care. All he cares about is feeling full and the sweet pleasure and the rough buzz, and Bruce's mouth on his shoulder like he's trying to maul him or to heal the scar that he put there, the scar that marks him.
He adjusts both their hands, then, to his own cock, and wraps Bruce's fingers around him so that he can rock into him and onto him at once.]
[ Bruce wants. He wants and craves and demands everything Jason is willing to give him. He's so tight and when Bruce is finally flush against him, the sound Jason makes echoes in the cave and through all of Bruce's body and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard. There's cameras sure, but Bruce controls them and he's not concerned about who might see the footage. No one would question him. And if they did, Bruce didn't owe them an explanation.
He's not even wholly sure he'd have an explanation for this other than it just happened. It's not something he would have accepted from anyone else. But he doesn't want to give this kind of thing words. Not yet.
Bruce's hand follow's Jason's lead and wraps around his cock without a lot of urging. It's warm and thick in his palm and he gives it a few experimental strokes in tandem with the rocking of Jason's hips. He presses his mouth against Jason's shoulder to muffle a moan that might as well have been a growl as Jason works himself back against him. ]
Good boy. You're such a good boy.
[ His voice is low, raw, thick with pleasure. He'd barely recognize it if it wasn't coming from him. ]
[God, those words do it to him, they practically slam through any defense he had left and smash them to bits. He feels so aroused he thinks he's going to light on fire, and Bruce is making it better at the same time he's making it worse.]
God, B, don't stop, okay? I'll keep being good, just don't stop, don't-
[He gasps and closes his eyes.]
You, god, please. I'm going to come. I'm gonna-
[He's babbling now, not high but still loose and easy from the high the night before, his nerve endings on fire. He can't help but clench his ass, trying to keep himself from spilling over.
He doesn't manage it, coming with a cry. It feels like it happened so fast but he also can't care.]
[ Bruce could feel it when it happens. Jason's body tenses in his grasp and warm spurts of come coat his fingers. Then he's clenching around him, and for a minute Bruce forgets how to breathe. Or how to think or how to do anything except how to fuck into Jason again and again until there's nothing but static in his brain and in his ears and behind his eyes.
His orgasm hits him hard, like a punch to the gut, his hand digging hard into Jason's hip as he spills into him until there's nothing left. When he finally lets go, he slides the hand that had been gripping his hip to his middle and settled on his stomach. He kisses a spot on his shoulder, but doesn't know what to say.
[He doesn't say anything. He waits for the shame to wash over him, to drown him, but it doesn't. He just feels warm, he feels happy. He holds Bruce's hand and turns his head, to look at Bruce just from the corner of his eye. He wants to gauge if Bruce is freaking out, if he needs to leave.
[ There is some part of him that wants to pull away and tell Jason it's best if he went home and they never spoke or thought about this again. But there's also this sense of contentment that's keeping him here, in this bed even though it's really too small for them.
Jason's not moving. Or freaking out. Bruce is freaking out a little.
But, he decides he wants to stay here a little bit longer. Reality will assert itself again soon enough. ]
I want you to.
[ Maybe they can find another moment to do this again. ]
[If they can stay here, quiet like this, they can have another moment where they are together and maybe they don't have to acknowledge that this is unhealthy or weird or disturbing. They can just let themselves have this minute together.
He doesn't turn around, but keeps holding Bruce's hand to his chest, so Bruce can feel the reassuring thud of his heartbeat and he can feel Bruce's at his wrist.]
[ It is simple and easy. To just exist without a fire to put out or fending off another earth shattering crisis. They're just two people having a quiet moment and Bruce isn't having to swallow down Jason's rejection. It feels...
It feels like something deep and quiet settling over him, like having a warm drink after a night out in the cold.
[He closes his eyes but he doesn't fall asleep again; he just stays there, warm, even has he feels sticky and like he's going to be sorry when he finally gets up.
[ He's not reluctant to let go but stays put for a moment longer in the space where they kiss before they part. When Jason's out of sight is when that creeping we shouldn't be doing this feeling returns and settles unhappily in Bruce's gut.
He lays with it for a minute, before he gets up to clean up. By the time Jason returns, the med bay bed is neat and tidy, not a speck of glitter to be seen. Bruce is at the computer, analyzing Jason's blood sample. ]
[Once he showers, he starts to feel the curdle in his stomach, bitter and strange and maybe a little afraid. He takes his shower and dries off, and gets a spare pair of sweats, but doesn't have a shirt that isn't covered in glitter.
He comes out, barefoot, to where Bruce is at the computer, and he doesn't look Bruce in the eye.]
[ Preliminary results are already populating when Jason comes back. Bruce is cataloguing them, preparing for some dictation when he hears Jay's voice and it makes him stop. Because as much as he's pretending like it isn't, things are different now. The world's shifted in a way he's honestly not prepared for.
He doesn't want to think about Jason wandering around in one of his shirts. It feels very domestic. He thinks about it anyway. ]
[The words do you want me to are right there at the tip of his tongue. If he stays for breakfast he's going to have to face Alfred, and he's not sure he's really particularly keen on the eye he'll get from him.
He twists his mouth a little.]
I usually get breakfast at the Starlight Diner, when I'm up for it.
[Which isn't a yes or a no.]
I could grab one of Dick's shirts.
[They will not fit right, because Jason is bigger than Dick, and Dick never really went for the extra oversize look.]
[ he doesn’t take his eyes off the screen; he’s still working. And honestly did not want to risk what might happen if he does look. He doesn’t know what Jason might look like now that he’s clean and clearheaded. Probably every bit as desirable as he had last night, covered in glitter and high as a kite. He doesn’t know what that will do to him and Bruce hated not knowing.
It’s tacit permission to take one of his. ]
We can go to the diner. Just give me a minute.
[ Jason’s not the only one who doesn’t want to face Alfred. ]
[Jason's eyes narrow a little but he heads to where he knows there's a stock of old shirts, the ones that Alfred desperately would like to throw away and that Bruce keeps down in the cave as a compromise. It's not like Bruce would wear a t-shirt in public even if it was brand new and he was going to a picnic.
He hunts around but then spots-
-oh, it's absolutely one of Dick's shirts. It's slightly larger, but worn, and clean, and it has the bright Superman logo on it, but Jason loops it over his head. On him it's just tight, but it just barely fits, not leaving much to the imagination.]
You know you'll have to be Brucie, right?
[He says it as he goes to get the keys to one of the flashier cars, because Jason likes to drive them on the rare chance he and Bruce are getting along, which, considering what their morning was like, he figures is now.]
[ It starts as a glance. He can see movement as Jason is making his way back over to the computer, so he looks. Quick at first. An acknowledgement that he's still here. But in that passing moment he sees familiar blues and reds and looks again because he wouldn't be caught dead in Clark's colors. So he knows it's Dick's, probably long since forgotten. He stares at the logo a minute before he even recognizes how snug the fit is across Jason's chest.
He tells himself not to stare any longer and turns back to the computer to continue organizing the results as they come in. ]
I'll live.
[ When he's at a satisfying stopping point, he steps away for a moment before he comes back dressed a bit differently. A button down sloppily buttoned and ill fitted around the collar. Sunglasses resting on his hair. If he's going to be Brucie, he'll at least look the part. He slides into the passenger seat and gets settled. ]
[Because he's going to speed, he's going to drive like a madman, knowing that the cops don't pull over any of Bruce's cars, and perfectly happy to exploit that.
They get to the diner in record time. Jason hops out, grinning like a maniac.]
[ He doesn't complain. In fact, Bruce doesn't say much of anything the drive over. The only real signs of life is the way his hands tense when they take a corner too fast.
But, he doesn't complain.
When they reach the diner, Bruce drops his sunglasses and gets out after Jason. He sees Jason's grin and it's funny how he's found the easiest way to get his heart to skip a beat or two.
Anyway.
He walks in ahead of Jason, leans on the hostess station and offers her a tired smile. ]
I really wanna sit in a booth. Tell me you got one of those.
[The hostess looks at Jason and is about to direct him to the closest table and get him his regular, but then she sees Bruce and she blushes. Jason laughs.]
I thought he looked like he needed a coffee. Jeanne, can you get us a booth? I don't think he's ever sat in one.
[Jeanne finds them a booth and Jason goes to sit, easing back.]
[ He follows, trudges like its a slog and slides in like he's never sat in a booth before. Orders an orange juice and a short stack of pancakes with a side of bacon and coffee. Black. The only thing he'll have is the coffee.
He leans in as Jason leans back. ]
Bad. Lowered inhibitions makes users susceptible to suggestion. It literally makes it a pleasure to obey.
[ Which explains the body in the harbor. He didn't die from the overdose. He drowned. ]
[Jason takes Bruce's breakfast to eat along with his own; Bruce might be a brat about food, but Jason is like a black hole.]
Mmm. It felt...
[He thinks about it.]
It felt like it was easy to tell you the truth, but not like I was compelled to do it. It didn't feel like a truth serum. It felt more like I could trust you.
[ that made sense. It explained why Jason called him instead of literally anyone else. He lets Jason have his food but he does help himself to some of the bacon. ]
Did anyone say anything to you? Try to get you to do something for them?
[ What a silly thing to be jealous of. Bruce decides to ignore it. ]
Gordon called me on a body they pulled from the harbor a few weeks ago. Toxicology reports put enough of this stuff in his system to kill him. But he drowned.
[ Makes the girls more amenable. Did it make Jason more amenable to what they'd done? It's a thought he doesn't allow himself to sit with.
His coffee's gone cold. When the waitress stops by to check on them, he smiles up at her and asks if she can leave them a fresh pot. Offers a 50 as a meager bribe. ]
Then we'll start with the pimps.
[ Yes, Bruce will casually butt into Jason's case. Thank you. ]
From a guy in the Bowery. Cheddar I think his name was.
[ He had to offload the car fast and Bruce needed something less flashy to drive while he's undercover. It was a win/win. Was it stolen? Probably! Bruce didn't ask. ]
I would have come for you regardless, Jason. I just wanted to make sure you weren't still under the influence.
[ He's cooperating because he wants to. That's new. Bruce kind of likes it. ]
[ Bruce puts a hand on Dick's back, bracing himself so he doesn't sway too much when he's finally upright. Pain spears through him, and for once he groans quietly against it. The car swerves in close and the doors slide open, ready for them to climb in. ]
[ Dick's chest tightens at the sound that bleeds out of Bruce. he wants to reassure him that he'll be okay, to smooth along his cheek and kiss his forehead and gather Bruce up until it all heals.
he wants to patch up the mangle of flesh and blood at Bruce's lower back and to check the rest of him to make sure the adrenaline isn’t cloaking anything major they’re missing.
but he doesn't. that’s not the kind of reassurance Bruce wants. ]
I won't lose him.
[ he helps Bruce into the Batmobile before hopping into the other side. immediately, they start retreating back to the cave. Dick’s fingers flit across the screen to pull up the tracker, already working with the added benefit of distracting Bruce from the pain by letting him watch. ]
The signal’s headed toward the sewers near Blackgate. Did he say anything to you about what he wants?
[ His own safety and healing are not his highest priority, even in the wake of these very serious injuries. Even in the face of the person he cares for very deeply looking at him like he's fragile, like he'll unravel if he breathes wrong.
His focus is honed in on his work and he appreciates that Dick recognizes that. But that doesn't mean his concern is lost on Bruce. It's just...put away for now.
Once he's settled in the Batmobile, his eyes are trained on the screen to watch the tracker and Jones' movements. ]
He was incarcerated in Iron Heights and was experimented on there. It made his mutation worse. [ Hence the nasty wounds. ] He's been going after prison officials, trying to reverse what they've done to him.
[ Dick could guess what became of the ones who refused to help. ]
[ a steady sigh sifts through his nose as his gaze darts to Bruce’s face, then back to the tracker. priority one is to make sure Bruce is safe and stable, but the urgency of the situation is very pressing as well. ]
He’s holding steady in the sewers. I’m—gonna go talk to him.
[ he continues, doesn’t pause long enough for Bruce to protest. ]
He doesn’t need another cage.
[ they pull into the cave. Dick cuts the engine and the car settles with a hydraulic hiss. ]
I’ll ask Alfred to patch you up this time, and then I’ll go. Alone.
[ Bruce could agree what was done to Jones wasn't right. But he should also answer for the lives he's taken. Bruce would have been more willing to help him without caging him if he hadn't left half eaten corpses in his wake.
He does not move when the car parks and engine quiets and there's just him and Dick in the car. He didn't want Dick doing this by himself. Jones is...he's more dangerous than usual.
[ it's not the time for moral discussions and his words die on his tongue when Bruce's hand lifts to his face. he turns into the touch and manages a reassuring smile, just a tip to the corners of his mouth. Bruce expresses his concern differently now, and it fills Dick with a whole other sort of motivation. ]
I'll make sure nothing happens to me.
[ he leans in and presses a kiss to Bruce's cheek and when he pulls back again, his eyes are determined. Bruce's control was never just about control, he's always known this, perhaps understood it deeper than anyone else ever has, hence why he offers: ]
I'll keep you in my ear, alright? You'll be with me.
[ It isn't enough. It isn't enough. Bruce is compromised and the second Alfred sees him, getting back out into the field will be impossible. He has to trust Dick to handle this, trust he doesn't extend easily. Dick says he'll make sure. It isn't enough. But it would have to do.
He shuts his eyes against Dick's kiss and it's the first time he's felt well since this whole thing began. ]
Turn your tracker on.
[ It isn't the same as having his eyes on him, but it's good enough. ]
[ he doesn't respond immediately and the look in his eyes when he pulls back to look at Bruce broadcasts loud and clear that he doesn't like it. another slow sigh sifts through his nose, but his hand folds out, the upturned blue palm of his gloves streaked with Bruce's blood. ]
Give me one of yours.
[ so the signals of his own trackers don't get registered to Bruce's system. in any other scenario, his answer would've been a resounding no, but he's not capable of saying that when Bruce is like this. ]
[ He doesn't like it. Bruce doesn't care. Dick never liked being tracked. Probably thought it was invasive, instead of the reality: Bruce trying to keep him safe. He reaches into a compartment of his belt and hands him a tracker, small and round and tuned to Bruce's network.
Bruce doesn't tell Dick he doesn't need his tracker to hijack his signal. The one he just handed over will do it for him. He reaches for Dick one last time, peeling the gauntlet off so Bruce can feel the warmth of his skin against his palm. He should say be careful or hurry back or don't do anything rash.
Instead he says: ]
Find Jones before he kills anyone else.
i expect nothing less. im also sorry hes like this.
[ Dick’s fingers close around the tracker, the tiny, round device weighing nothing sits heavy in his hand. He turns into Bruce’s palm then, eyes shutting a beat with another brush of lips against warm skin. he can feel it: all that doesn’t get said, the held back tremor of pain, the unvoiced concern, the only version of love that Bruce knows how to show. Bruce doesn’t have to say it.
then, he’s gone.
Batman’s bike hums almost imperceptibly beneath him on the path to Blackgate. Dick knows the old prison isn’t as abandoned as the city of Gotham wishes for it to seem, and Jones knows it too, if the trail he leaves parted through silt and gashed through the concrete tunnels is anything to judge by. the air is stale down here, the old infrastructure in a state of disrepair sagging beneath the weight of the seawalls.
Dick treads cautiously. Bruce will see the way the tracker weaves, as if tightening toward a centre that Dick never reaches. without warning, Jones comes roaring out of the dark like a freight train, all claws and muscles and Dick barely manages to dodge the first swing at his head. instead, it crashes into the wall behind him and sends rubble and dust choking up his senses. the second catches his ribs, not deep, but enough to tear through plating. Dick grits his teeth and rolls with it, because that’s the point here. he’s not here to hurt Waylon, but Waylon doesn’t know that.
they tumble until Dick’s back hits wet stone and the weight of Waylon pins him to it, knocking his breath out of his lungs. laboured heaving hisses through the comm lines but Dick manages to gather enough air to say it, quietly, but clearly. that he remembers seeing the posters, the ring of iron and the echo of a crowd, the way the circus feels when one has nowhere else to go. with those words, he sees the spark of memory, an opening Dick reaches through with the practiced precision of a catch mid-flight. fingers outstretched, steady in the freefall, he closes his hand around the humanity buried just beneath the monster's skin. ]
You don’t want to kill them, Waylon. I know that. Every time you do it takes away more of you. You want them to fix what they did, but this isn’t the way to do it.
[ with a heavy breath, one that strains beneath the crushing weight of Waylon’s claws, Dick offers, words strongly determined, so hopeful through the comm: ]
[ He has to let him go. That's the hardest part. Even when Bruce knows Dick will come back because the gravity's too strong. No matter how high he soars or how far the leap takes him, Bruce will pull him back to earth. Always, always, even when he pretends that's not what he's doing. It doesn't make the parting any easier.
As Dick is getting ready to leave, Alfred slides into his place - a smooth, practiced motion. He helps Bruce out of the car and ushers him into the med bay to get to work. It's a familiar dance — they've done it a thousand times. Probably more. And Alfred's always been the ideal partner for it. Precise and unflinching. He knows how to slip the needle in with little fuss and he doesn't make it hurt more than it has to.
Bruce is a decent enough patient. He doesn't move around more than necessary and waits until the final stitch is done and bandaged before he's up and at the computer to track both Dick and Jones. (and maybe set the tracker he gave to Dick to scan for any stray signals. You know, just in case.)
He's going in the right direction. From Jones' tracker, they'll cross paths soon and Bruce suspects when Dick stops moving that's exactly what happened. He accesses the open commline, asks quietly if Dick sees him. Though instead of something verbal from Dick, he hears Jones' guttural cries — loud and raw, as if he's screaming right into Bruce's ears. ]
Nightwing? Dick, are you alright?
[ He asks again. And nearly yells the third time — then he hears Dick's voice and relief floods him, easing the aching tension in his muscles.
Dick wants to help, of course he does. Bruce can't fault him for that. Jones deserved it, after what the warden put him through in Iron Heights. But now isn't the time. Calming him down, stopping him is the priority. The rest could come later. ]
He's not going to listen to reason. You have to subdue him.
[ Dick doesn't answer Bruce immediately--he can't, not when Waylon's breath scorches down his neck and the fragile moment he has slips through his fingers. He knows that Bruce is worried, he can hear it in the tone in his ear, that familiar voice saying his name over and over again like if something happened to Dick, Bruce wouldn't know what to do.
It's kind of sweet, really, and Dick would bask in it longer had Waylon not surged forward, all rage and fear and reflex. This time, Dick is faster. He rolls out from beneath the crushing weight, and runs, boots skidding on the wet stone as he puts distance between himself and Waylon. Then, he speaks, desperation urging into his voice with a plan. He'll trace the chemical trail, he'll find the right people. Maybe he can't reverse what's been done, but he might be able to slow it down, to stop the way the beat eats away the man. If, and only if Waylon promises to stop killing.
Waylon doesn’t answer. Just stares, a stillness trembling through the tunnel before he turns his back. And right before he delves into the darkness, he shoves aside a broken slab of concrete he’d used to block a drainage path.
Dick watches as the dust settles, and Bruce will hear the crash of it. It becomes clear that it's an exit path. It's far from forgiveness, but it's a start.
Dick lets him go.
And once he's far enough, there's a sigh of relief that breathes through the commline. It's laced with the weight of a new purpose, but light with hope. ]
That--[ his breath comes quickly, laboriously as Waylon's tracker heads deeper into the tunnels, away from the prison, and Dick's own tracker starts to move again. ] That was subduing, wasn't it? [ Please don't be mad. ]
[ Dick has always been one of the warmest, brightest parts of Bruce's life. How so much exuberance and kindness and warmth and life fit into one person so neatly baffled him but there was Dick Grayson - impossible human being. He's what Batman could have been if Bruce had even an ounce of Dick's light. He's proof that tragedy did not have to calcify into vengeance. That it could be tempered into something gentler - compassion and empathy.
Batman inspired fear. Nightwing inspired trust. He laughed easily and loved fiercely through the same kind of pain that made them what they are. Just carried with a grace that Bruce had never managed to find.
It's selfish to want that for himself, to cling to it and cover it over so no one else could bask in the glow of it. He'd keep it to himself so no one else could experience what loving Dick Grayson felt like.
He'd snatch him right out of the sky. ]
Why did you let him go?
[ He watched Waylon's tracker recede further into the tunnel, the blinking red dropping out of existence on the radar. Maybe he found the tracker, maybe he smashed it while diving into the murky waters beneath Gotham. Bruce would have to find him again.
He isn't mad.
He's a little mad.
On another screen, the tracer he gave Dick isolates the signal emanating from Dick's personal tracker, intercepts it. Catalogues it. And Bruce watches it happen without saying another word. ]
[ Dick shrinks into the tunnel Waylon uncovered, knowing it'll lead him back to the surface. Bruce's voice is in his ear, that cold, unaffected tone expressing displeasure loud and clear.
This is why he wanted to break free in the first place, his spirit too wild to be tethered to Bruce's weight, to hopeful to be contained by Bruce's care, his love, yet Bruce's gravity constantly pulls him back.
He has to take a few beats to formulate an answer in terms Bruce might accept (not something he's used to doing reflexively anymore) and navigate at the same time. His voice comes flat, the playful tone suffocated out of it. ]
So he'd let the guards go. I thought you wanted me to stop him from killing anyone else.
[ For a moment, Bruce's focus shifts. A few quick keystrokes and it seems the tracer's done its job. Dick's signal is faint, weak. Encrypted. Probably anticipated Bruce trying to to access it. But Bruce has already set the computer to start the decryption process.
Finally, he speaks up. ]
This is a temporary fix. Jones isn't known for his patience.
[ It's not lost on Bruce how flat Dick sounds now as if the vibrancy has been smothered out of him. It's not lost on Bruce that it's partially his fault. ]
[ there's a pause and a few taps on the keyboard, but Dick doesn't catch the quiet sound of it over the echoes in the sewers. it's true. he doesn't have a lot of time, and Dick, as always, has promised a big promise. ]
No. Just a few scratches. Nothing like what he did to you.
[ there's a tenderness in his voice, mixed in with all the protectiveness, softening the anger that made him want to hurt Waylon back. ]
[ Perhaps it was meant to sting a little, a bit of a prod beneath a cloak of humour. However, he immediately feels bad about it.
Not that he would say as much. ]
You should be resting.
[ He ends the call shortly after and heads back to the cave anyway. He strips off Nightwing and soaks off the sewers in a shower before finally making it down in just a pair of shorts and a towel slung over his shoulders. There’s a tracker left in the suit, and a tracker buried in his upper thigh, both possibilities for Bruce’s decryption. His hair is still damp as he steps up to the desk and pulls Bruce’s attention to himself.
Slowly, he gives Bruce a once-over. ]
I thought you were supposed to be horizontal. What are you doing up?
[ He should be doing a lot of things. There were case files to sift through and organize. Evidence to catalogue. Notes to prepare. None of it he could do if he had resigned himself to being a good patient. He's never been one of those, not when there's work to be done.
There's nothing to say to that, so Bruce doesn't protest the ending of the call and only spares Nightwing a glance when he comes home. He gets more than a glance when he comes back from the showers. For once, he gets Bruce's full attention. No new injuries that he could note. He seemed to be walking fine. No pupil dilation.
Dick is fine and Bruce gets back to work. ]
I'm fine. Come look at this. Medical reports buried under a few outdated security protocols. They were trying to replicate Jones's regenerative ability.
[Peaceful isn’t a word one would use to describe Oswald Cobblepot.
He’s not even sure he’d recognize the feeling himself.
But for the first time in a long time, he at least looks the part, curled up on one of the plush leather sofas under a canopy of umbrellas and ice-blue neon lights. Worlds away from the jazz band, playing on without missing a beat; from the chatter and the clipped, haughty laughter of the Lounge’s clientele.
This isn’t a man whose workaholism, drinking, and less-than-ideal sleep patterns have caught up to him yet. Oswald is still young. Still determined and able to push through pain and every ‘no’ life throws at him, fighting for his right to exist, to thrive, to build something lasting in a city in a near-constant state of upheaval.
It’s just a man who trusted the drink in his hand, like he has dozens of times before. A paranoid, hypervigilant man soon to confront the reality of having been neither paranoid nor hypervigilant enough. Soon to reckon with surviving - being allowed to survive - more than just a few whispers and sidelong glances over flutes of champagne.
For now, he sleeps. His face slack and soft. Almost childlike. One hand clutching what is decidedly not a pillow.
The ache in his leg wakes him in the small hours of the morning. But it’s the exhaustion that’s overwhelming: a woolly-brained heaviness that makes even the idea of moving unthinkable. Frowning, he nuzzles his human-shaped pillow, mumbling into it. Something about mother, some half-hearted protest. There’s always something to do, somewhere to be, because Gotham never sleeps. But wedged between the back cushions and billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne, he decides the city can wait.]
[ Peaceful isn't a word to describe Bruce Wayne either.
He knew what it felt like once. Many, many years ago, when he'd been a little boy holding his mother's hand as they walked through the dark stretch of alley. When he looks back on it, examines it from every angle his mind can conjure, he's pretty sure he was happy then. But then, tragedy struck, and in a lot of ways, Bruce never really left that alley.
And his life became a war, violence curling in at the edges like long, sharp claws. It reaches for him, tears at him. Keeps him from going completely insane. It took all of the rest of his youth, but Bruce had to learn how to withstand it, so he could bend it to his will. Force it into a shape that makes sense, instead of this albatross intent on sinking him to Gotham's murkiest depths. It's still a weight around his neck, but the drowning's a little slower now that he's learned how to tread water.
Tonight, the battle brings him to the Iceberg Lounge to mingle with his peers and stir up the gossips like hornets. It's a decent enough cover - hiding among the elite Cobblepot liked to pretend he's apart of, while he searches for samples of the latest designer drug. Crocodile Tears they call it. He gets a sample, though not in anyway he expects. When he takes a sip of his drink, he knows immediately something is off. The aftertaste is bitter, acidic. Not the usual burn of a brown liquor. Bruce drains it after a moment of consideration.
He wakes hours later, head in a fog, eyes unclear and weary. Head, feeling like it might burst right off his shoulders. And through it, he could make out the press of another person, his breath warm against his shoulder and neck. It should be strange how comfortable he is with his bedfellow. And in some dark, sober part of him, Bruce is telling himself to move. That he is in danger.
The rest of him, ignores it in favor of tugging Oswald closer, shoving his face between Os' head and the cushion of the couch so he can sleep through the headache he can feel starting behind his eyes. ]
[Existing is starting to hurt just a little more. He’s aware of it, too: a dull, pulsing band of pain wrapping around his head, pulling tighter with every passing second. But there’s comfort, still, in the warmth he’s tucked into. A rare sense of safety he’s not willing to give up. Bruce’s shift in position has Oswald curling his needy fingers into fabric that isn’t his, unready for that slow and miserable crawl back to full consciousness.]
...don’t go. [It’s not a demand, for once, but a quiet plea - to someone who may or may not really be there.]
[ Awareness comes to him by inches. As slow as the creep of the sun over the horizon. First in the headache that has indeed set up behind his eyes and then in the quiet realization that he is not in the manor or cave or even a safehouse. Finally, in the gentle tug of his jacket, covered in glitter and a suspicious dark stain on the sleeve.
His eyes open quickly, despite the throb of pain the light is causing and he bolts upright. The training helps; he can compartmentalize. The headache is not an immediate concern. The person laying beside him is. Cobblepot. Still asleep by the looks of it. But not for long as Bruce works to untangle himself. Reaching for his phone is his second priority, finding it in an inner pocket. He would have to call Alfred for a pick up. He shoves at Oswald, to give himself a little bit more room to work. But he'll pretend it's to wake him. ]
[The cozy sleep-heat leaves his head and chest. Around him, things are changing, moving, leather cushions squeaking as they dip under someone else’s weight. He hears a voice through the haze, and it's the calmness of it that Oswald registers first. It suggests he's still safe, wherever and whenever he is. But what he sees when he finally cracks his eye open to the world tells him otherwise.
Sure, there’s nothing inherently threatening about Bruce Wayne. Or there wouldn’t be, if Oswald could place a name to the smear of colors in his vision. All he knows, in the moment, is that someone is hovering over him, watching. The realization jolts him upright onto his ass, his body flailing, squeezing itself into a corner of the sofa. Moving is a mistake: the headrush clocks him in the forehead and nearly flattens him back out. Clutching his skull, he squints at the figure beside him. The face swimming into focus is just the first of many surprises today.]
Mr. Wayne...?
[Blinking, Oswald’s hand flies to his eyepatch on instinct - because god forbid the ugly, limp flap of his eyelid should be showing.]
[ What's going on? A question with a variety of answers Bruce is set out to answer. He let's Oswald untangle himself, doesn't try to hinder him or stop him from jerking away, though he would have surely advised from moving too quickly if his instinct is correct. But it's for his own benefit; While Bruce's state was self induced, it seemed Oswald's was not and that could open a door wide enough for Batman to wedge through.
But for now, he'd play along.
What is going on? Firstly, Bruce drags up the names of the folks who accompanied him to the club last night. They were all missing, either have found themselves a paramour for the evening or moved the party elsewhere, and assumed Bruce would do the same. Secondly, Bruce ingested a drink, laced with what he could only assume was Crocodile Tears. Thirdly, he'd need a blood sample from Oswald. How could he get it? Hopefully by being clever enough. ]
I think we fell asleep together here. I...[ He looks around, confused ] I came with Veronica and Brute and someone else. But I don't think I see them.
[Fell asleep together, and not slept together. It’s an important distinction, a detail his mind snags on. The little furrow between his brows sharpens as he gives Bruce another once-over, then looks down at himself. They’re both a little rumpled; not so disheveled as to confirm the worst possible scenario beyond all doubt. Still, he can’t shake the ill-feeling he’s left with as he checks in with his body, struggling to separate the rising anxiety and chronic pain he has learned to live with from everything else, from the different kind of wrongness he's woken up to. It’s hard to think past the throbbing in his head.
He mirrors Bruce’s glances across the dance floor, the vacant leather booths, his pulse jumping in his throat. The stanchions stand at the Lounge’s entryway, but the velvet rope dangles uselessly. No security. No staff. Beyond, the club's frosted windows glow with the dawning day. Oswald can't remember lying down, or resting his eye. Can’t remember when Bruce joined him – or if he had already been there when his head and chest had grown heavy.]
...Where’s my security??
[Oswald pats around his suit, lurching to his feet like a man who hadn’t downed Crocodile Tears on a near-empty stomach, no less. His body puts him in his place, bad leg suddenly giving out. He jerks, grabbing for the armrest. Fast enough to avoid crushing his nose on the tiles, at least - but not enough to keep from slamming his knee with a force that drives a gasp from his lungs. His flip phone clatters free.]
[ As reality asserts itself, it's easier for him to collect what memories the drugs have left him and he can lay out a somewhat coherent sequence of events. Arrival time is accounted for, how many drinks he had before consuming the spiked one is accounted for. How curling up on the sofa with Oswald works into that still isn't entirely clear, but Bruce doesn't really need it to be. There are worse people to wake up next to, Bruce decides, and if nothing unseemly happened between them, he's fine with that. The call to Alfred is a brief one and he feels better knowing he's on his way.
But it also meant the time he had to get that blood sample would be limited. He would have to act quickly. ]
Mr. Cobblepot, I--
[ He winces as Oswald tries to stand, winces at the sound his knee makes when it collides with the floor. His phone clattering to the floor, however, is just the opportunity he'd need. Bruce is fast – hopefully much faster than Oswald Cobblepot and reaches with decidedly clumsy fingers for the phone. They bump the phone just bit and Bruce braces himself for what he's about to do. ]
Oh let me get that!
[ When his fingers feel secure around the phone, he snaps his head upward, hoping to crack it against Oswald's in the upswing of it. ]
[Oswald paws at his phone - a half-hearted effort. Between the angry throbbing in his knee and the wave of nausea that follows, he’s dazed and unprepared for how quickly Bruce’s hand shoots out from his blindspot. Even less prepared for the sudden force that rocks his head back and the new, unfamiliar pain flaring through his skull. His vision flickers, then goes dark before he can even begin to understand what struck him. He flops over, dead to the world.]
[ When Bruce's head collides with Oswald's, knocking him out had not been the goal. It was a possibility of course, but Bruce had tried to temper the force he used so he did not rattle Oswald's brain too badly. The impact dazes him a little, no doubt thanks to the drugs still swimming in his system. But once the stars in his vision clears, he gives Oswald a once over.
He'd only needed some blood for analysis. He did not need Oswald unconsciousness for that. But it did make the collection easier. He searched his pockets for a handkerchief and moped up the blood leaking from Cobblepot's nose and when he's satisfied, he puts it away in again.
Alfred would be only moments out from whisking him away, but Bruce took the time to note other oddities around the club, pocketing things he would look over more thoroughly once he was back home in the cave. He took note of Oswald's inventory too and frowned he saw the gun hidden away.
Bruce is careful as he pulls the gun out, quiet as he extracts the bullets, and nimble as he tampers with it to keep it from firing at anyone. It wouldn't stop Oswald from getting a new weapon. But it satisfied Bruce knowing he wouldn't be using this one. He put the gun back in its place and left quietly when Alfred alerted him to make his escape.
He would be be back. The investigation wound deeply in this place. And Bruce Wayne probably owed Oswald an apology for knocking him out. ]
The bars are fully staffed and stocked, fresh, uncorked bottles lining the shelves and glasses at the ready. Everything polished to a sheen. Music plays, keeping a steady pulse: dreamy and bass-heavy, but low enough not to intrude. No live band this evening.
It might be business as usual, on a glance. But under its sleek exterior, the club thrums with a nervous, live-wire energy.
Within hours of coming to, Oswald nearly doubled his security. Big brute-types, dressed to code, are posted by the exit, near the bathrooms, flanking the bars. Not just sizing up the guests trickling in, but the staff Oswald had once trusted. Of course, neither Oswald’s newest recruits nor his core crew are aware of the plainclothes spies out on the floor, hired only hours prior. A few sets of extra eyes and ears, each with a crisp, expensive outfit and a backstory to match.
Whoever it was who slipped something into Oswald's drink could’ve slit his throat. Could’ve done worse, and forced him to live with it. That it would have happened so easily is the point he’s been left to dwell on, obsess over.
There is no ignoring the message.
Which is why Oswald didn’t shut the place down for the night, despite being four extra-strength capsules into a headache that won’t quit. It’s why he isn’t holed up in his office, busying himself with the administrative side of managing an empire. He has a point of his own to make in being visible, being present. Dressed for a different kind of spectacle than the one he provided the other night.
His choice of suit - a morning coat with a furry collar, dusted gold at the cuffs and hem - and spike-studded Oxfords are as deliberate as every other choice he’s made today. From the moment he rounded up his staff for an early, off-the-clock meeting, a simple plan was already in motion.
The drugging has left him genuinely shaken, violated; he hadn’t had to try very hard to sell the idea that he’s spiraling. Bags were emptied, phones confiscated. Every wide-eyed accusation and snarled word edged with madness. The paranoia he's exuding looks real because enough of it is. The rest would be enough, he thinks, to tempt the one brazen enough to spike his drink into trying something else. Whether it was or wasn't a member of his staff, though, he'll find out soon enough.
And when that moment comes, he’ll be ready.
No matter how long it takes.
Oswald leans back against the bar, gazing out across the club over the rim of the whisky he’s polishing off. One he poured himself.
More so than Bruce had been expecting considering what happened the night before. He'd thought Oswald would have taken time to regroup. Maybe even tear apart Gotham's underworld to find whoever drugged him. Instead, Cobblepot sets up burly guards like sentries at the entrances and exits and bathrooms and hallways and lets Gotham's night life spill in, glittering and oblivious.
The club hums with decadence, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with people who have no idea how close they'd came to seeing blood on the floor. Seeing it thrive despite last night's unfortunate encounter tells Bruce one of two things: Oswald doesn't care (unlikely) or he believed the assailant might be bold enough to return and he would use tonight's revelry to flush them out and deal with them in a way Bruce would be forced to stop.
Either way, he's ready for it.
He'd spent his daylight hours breaking the drug down into its base components and preliminary results allowed him to develop a neutralizer to at least slow the effects and keep them on their feet should they find themselves on the bad side of the bartender again.
Bruce Wayne cuts through the crowd, all easy charm and lazy smiles, but it is really Batman who walks among them. Watching. Measuring. Absorbing the currents of the room – every laugh and twitch and sigh and too casual glance.
There is something terribly wrong here and Bruce would find out what.
For now, he lounges lazily on the sofa, smiling at the woman hanging on his arm and laughing at her stories about her summer spent in the bay. Until he spies Oswald at the bar and quietly excuses himself to get a drink. He smiles at Oswald and flags down the bartender. ]
[Oswald straightens up against the counter, feeling his whole body tighten. He had seen Bruce enter; it's impossible not to notice him or the admiration he attracts by virtue of simply existing in a space. But the usual pang of envy he stirs in Oswald gives way to a complicated swell of emotion when he finally makes his approach, whispers and furtive glances trailing him across the club. Bruce’s tone is friendly enough, seemingly unbothered; it doesn’t come off as passive-aggressive. The remark still lands like a slap to the face all the same. Oswald blinks owlishly, a blush showing through his concealer.
Recovering, he answers:]
I do not consider hope a strategy, Mr. Wayne.
[The smile he offers in turn is small and thin, his fingers tightening around his glass – fine-boned, better suited, one might think, for playing scales up and down a piano than the messy business of killing people. He has opted to wear leather gloves this time, as if not a single surface in the place can be trusted.]
...I will admit, I was not entirely sure you would show.
[His voice has lost some of its edge, but his gaze is still keen, seeking. There are blanks in his memory that only Bruce can fill, and in light of how they left things last - how Bruce left him - he feels an explanation is in order.]
[ Bruce looks like he isn't paying attention - lazy posture, gaze set anywhere but on Oswald. But it's a lie. He notes that straighter spine, that owlish sharpness in his eye. The faint blush coloring his cheeks. It's subtle, but Bruce notices it all. He can't say for certain, but he thought he might be having an effect on Oswald. Which, of course, is by design. Brucie is always meant to be charming. Or disarming. Whatever the occasion calls for. ]
Maybe not for anything tangible. But in my experience, it's perfect for motivation.
[ He orders a drink when the bartender turns his way and then he looks at Oswsald again, to catch that smile thin smile. The tight way his fingers fits around the glass in his hand. Bruce thinks it's partly the nerves of situation. Not knowing if there's someone out there trying to kill you, is a nerve wracking thing. But Bruce has to wonder if that's all there is to it. ]
I thought the least I could do was come to apologize in person. I hadn't meant to disappear like that. I admit I was a little embarrassed.
[A pause. He's weighing everything, searching Bruce’s face, feeling for the truth in his answer. Needing someone whose word he can place his faith in. Needing a friend.]
Yes, I was wondering where you had made off to after leaving me with quite the headache.
[He notes, humourlessly - annoyed, but not pissed.
Graceless exits aren’t unusual for Bruce Wayne; tales abound of abrupt endings to candlelit dinners and occasional no-shows, the trail of broken expectations and broken hearts left in his wake. It’s the kind of reputation that could’ve been damaging if not for the privilege granted by his status, effortless charm, and generous philanthropic donations. Oswald would’ve thought Casanova Bruce Wayne to be more inured to embarrassment, as one of the most unserious men that he has ever met. But then again, Oswald Cobblepot isn’t just anyone to wake up next to - or accidentally knock out. He’s not some airheaded socialite prattling on about the country club, his inheritance, or his nonexistent yachts.
Oswald’s lips press together, the look on his face sobering. When he speaks again, his irritation has mostly settled.]
I would have very much liked for us to have parted under better circumstances.
[He never had the chance to explain himself and make it clear that what happened to them wasn’t normal, not here, not for him. Standing here now, he feels compelled to say something, anything, to distance himself from the class of criminal who would've seen a compromised Bruce and taken advantage of him. Oswald may be an incurable opportunist, but a rapist, he is not.]
I am not so ignorant as to believe that my reputation has not shaped your opinion of me, Mr. Wayne; the realities of overseeing the businesses that I do can, at times, be rather... unglamorous.
[His own embarrassment is bearing down on him. But he refuses to squirm under the brutal, uncompromising weight of a very public failure, offering Bruce nothing less than his full, unblinking attention.]
But, I want you to know that I would never, under any circumstances, engage you or anyone else in a manner that is vulgar and untoward.
[His brows draw together, his expression unusually open and honest - the look of a man both aching to be understood, and who understands well what it's like to be preyed on.]
[ Sometimes, people never realize how much they give way just by how they move in the world. Jealousy suggested in a gaze that lingers too long. Familiarity in the way a hand settles at the small of a companion's back. Uncertainty, when the eyes search the face of another. Like Oswald, staring at him like Bruce might know the answer to who poisoned him. And maybe Bruce did. He had his suspicions. It's not enough for accusations. Not yet. But enough to start laying the groundwork.
He shelves the thought for now.
Instead he offers the bartender a generous tip. Fifty dollars, crumpled in the pocket of his shirt. He has what he's came for. Friends waiting for him on the other side of the room. But he lingers near Oswald a little while longer, sipping slowly and letting the other man give himself away, one unconscious gesture at a time. ]
Ah, I've woken up in worse places. There was this one time when I was on the coast. Woke up in a Holiday Inn with a popcorn bucket on my face and two left shoes.
[ He chuckles. Amused, self deprecating, maybe even a little honest. Its an absurd story. But it serves a purpose – setting Oswald at ease so he'd keep talking. Bruce isn't offended by what happened. There's no reason they couldn't be friends, even if Bruce bashed his face in with his head. The smile he offers Oswald looks sincere enough. ]
I try not to let what other people think shape my opinion, Mr. Cobblepot. My friends circle would be incredibly small if I did.
[ Not that kind of man. Oswald says with sincerity Bruce doesn't exactly expect to find in him. He can see it in the way Oswald's brows draw together, the look in his eye – it's an openness Bruce cannot help but notice. He murders and steals and runs guns. But Oswald does not drug his patrons. Bruce could believe that. He did believe it. ]
I believe you. It was just a weird thing that happened. I'm not upset about it if that's what you're worried about.
[His gaze snaps, mid-conversation, to the rumpled bill trading hands. The tip is pocketed with a nod, a polite, restrained smile - a sort of Mona Lisa smile that could mean nothing and everything under the circumstances. Frowning, Oswald lifts his drink to his lips, half-listening as Bruce talks about hotels and left shoes, his headache sharpening behind his eyebrows. He finds himself wondering if it’s even true, this story, or just one of those go-to cocktail party anecdotes people like Bruce tend to keep on hand. Maybe this is Bruce giving him permission to relax, offering an out. Or just filling the silence before it has a chance to settle. Either way, the answer matters less to Oswald than Bruce’s tone as it shifts away from humour.
Worried almost feels like an exaggeration on Bruce’s part. But Oswald can’t deny the flutter of relief he feels at Bruce’s willingness to extend him the benefit of the doubt. As someone too used to being assumed guilty by default, and yet, never so used to it that it doesn’t hurt, he can’t help the slight softening of his features any more than he can help the click in his throat when he swallows.]
Thank you, Mr. Wayne.
[Real or not, Bruce’s grace has given him something else to think about. Something he’d think about long after the club’s doors closed for the night. But for now, his moment of vulnerability passes, and he’s sucked back into the hungry black hole of his anger.]
But, with all due respect, what you call a mere inconvenience was a brazen, calculated attack - one that could have ended very differently for you. Whether you were the intended target or simply caught in the crossfire, I cannot, in good conscience, let this slide - nor do I have the luxury.
[He inhales sharply, with the bold, almost defiant energy of a man drawing himself up before a firing squad.]
I made a promise to this city the day I first stood before the lectern outside City Hall as its mayor. The people of Gotham turned to me in their hour of need - brothers, sisters, families - and, time and again, I delivered on that promise. I answered their pleas when the GCPD had failed them.
[He insists, the fierceness in his eye daring anyone to tell him differently with more than a few public safety reports speaking to his success.]
And while I may no longer hold office, my commitment to order remains unchanged - here, and in the streets. I give you my word, Bruce: I will find whoever was responsible for this, and they will be brought to justice.
[ There's always one of two reactions to that story. A polite laugh. A knowing smirk. An acknowledgment of his antics. Ol Brucie's at it again as it were. And then there's reactions like Oswald's: subdued. Uninterested. Like its one of those dime-a-dozen kind of tales, something to laugh about over expensive cocktails and backhanded compliments. Those reactions are almost always the most interesting. Because the charm isn't working as intended and Bruce has to find another advantage.
That billion dollar smile and that somewhat crass humor would only carry him so far with someone like Oswald. Eventually, he'd see right through him--or worse, get bored of him. So it's often better to lean into something a little more sincere. Men like Oswald didn't want to be jerked around. Selectively offered sincerity could keep the conversation flowing just as effectively.
Bruce softens the smile, so it doesn't feel quite so forced. Lowers his pitch and slows the pace of his words. Not enough to be noticed outright. But it's enough to shift the rhythm, make the conversation flow a little slower. He leans in against the bar, shifts just so, so he's leaning that much closer to Oswald. Like they're old friends having a quiet chat over drinks. ]
I don't know if I was or not. People think they'll get something out of me if they threaten me or kidnap me. Maybe that's what happened last night. Maybe not. [ He shrugs a little; like it happens often enough Bruce barely thinks about it anymore. ]
I remember that speech. [ And it made him recoil. ] I think you know what Gotham needs, probably better than any of us. You're out here in the trenches, I guess you could say.
[ He shifts a little where he stands, like something inside won't let him be still. Like something anxious is pushing and pulling him. ]
If I can help you in anyway, will you let me know?
[A lifetime of being ruthlessly bullied has made him hypersensitive to anything even vaguely resembling mockery. But he believes Bruce is being honest with him, because he wants it to be true. Because, most days, in the trenches couldn’t feel more accurate.
Chasing his dreams have come at a cost, like all dreams do. He’s been threatened in nearly every way a man can be, and there are limits, he has realized, to how far his cunning can take him, the situations it can weasel him out of. He knows the grinding crunch his own bones can make; knows the rusty tang of blood in his mouth. With every passing year, he leans more heavily on his cane, the pain in his leg reaching further up into his hip. But he’s still swift on his feet when he needs to be, always keeping a few paces ahead of this life he chose, or that has chosen him. What hasn’t killed him has only made him meaner; whatever good is left in him survives buried deep under sarcasm and scar tissue, and even there, it isn’t always safe. Yet, despite the worst the city has dashed him against, how close he’s come to giving up, Oswald can’t imagine quitting. Can’t imagine letting go of the dream - for the effort and loss and pain to have all been for nothing. He will live and die a great man, just like his mom had promised him. He can’t do it being good; if Gotham has taught him anything, it’s that kindness and mercy don’t get results. Sooner or later, they just get a man killed.
Bruce’s slow, conspiratorial lean, their shared closeness, makes it more noticeable when a sort of restlessness comes over Bruce. Had his conviction come off as too fierce? Had the force of his unflinching resolve - his idea of justice, and the lengths he was willing to go to see it realized - stirred something dark and ugly in Bruce? Oswald doesn’t ask. He doesn’t apologize, either.]
Of course. [Said like an old friend to an old friend, a smoky hint of whisky on his breath. His intensity has dropped off a notch. But the line of his shoulders holds a piano-wire tightness.] If there is anything you feel I should know about - anything at all - you can tell me.
[Anything, with a caveat. But he trusts Bruce not to abuse the invitation.
His smile finally reappears: small and lopsided. All lips, no teeth. He polishes off the rest of his glass in a single, wincing gulp and sets it down to give Bruce’s arm a pat. A soft puff of laughter escapes him, despite himself, at the firmness of his arm.]
Someone’s been hitting the gym. [He notes, his eyebrows lifting.] ...Well. Don’t let me keep you. I am sure your companion would love to have your ear back.
[ He wouldn't say for sure, but he's comfortable assuming Oswald believes him. Or at least finds him plausible. Maybe not enough to trust, but there's no recoil when Bruce leans in, no questions to press the matter beyond what little Bruce has already given him. It helps that there's some sincerity in what he's saying. He never doubted Oswald's commitment. Despite everything that's come after, he didn't doubt for a single second that Oswald wanted to help Gotham.
It's just sometimes, Gotham has to be dragged into the light – kicking and screaming and leaving claw marks on the floor. Bruce knows that. Oswald did too.
The shame is that for all their similarities, their differences keep them at odds. Bruce hates that they couldn't meet somewhere in the middle. Hates that Oswald dresses his ambition up like its salvation. Hates that a man's desire for something better could put him on the wrong side of Arkham's walls. Could make him so diametrically opposed to what the Bat's mission that is shattered the foundation for an alliance before it could ever truly exist.
Must be the Gotham in them though. Divide and conquer. Keep them divided so there's never a united front to root out all the ugly parts of her.
Oswald reassures him that he could speak freely and for some that might seem like an invitation to babble endlessly about the most inane of topics and Bruce almost takes him up on it. He has a name in mind, and it would be an easy thing to weave it into the conversation. Let it slip like it's an accident. He makes a show of it, like he's holding something back – opening his mouth and closing it again. Then smiling and nodding when Oswald pats his arm. It's permission to walk away. The grin widens into something bright and sunny while he flexes a bit. ]
Can you tell? I've been going to the gym four days a week. Vanessa Stirling told me my arms felt flabby last summer and I haven't slept right since.
[ He turns to go, leaving his drink behind. Then pretending to remember it. When he turns to look at Oswald, he finally leans in again and says in a low voice ]
If you really mean that I can tell you anything, well I think you should know this. I hear Alberto Falcone is pushing Crocodile Tears.
[ Then he snags his drink, gives a friendly wave, and heads back to his friends. ]
[Jason knows when the contract for his life - well, Red Hood's life - goes out because he is friends with several assassins who let him know that his name came up on the list. Jason considers it - it's a 50k contract, which is, you know, offensive, his life has to be worth way more - and eventually decides it's not worth worrying about.
He probably should have let Bruce know, but he also knows Bruce has his own contacts. He's on a stakeout, just him, Alice (his favorite sniper rifle, brought for her scope more than her ability to kill a man) and a bag of Nerd clusters, and he's chilling on the roof of the Park Row branch of the First Gotham Bank watching an apartment over on the other side of the street when he feels eyes on him.
He looks up from where he's sitting and rolls his eyes.]
[ It takes a day longer for the news to reach Batman. Someone wanted Red Hood dead and someone was willing to pay a pretty sum for it. There's a near endless list of suspects, but Bruce starts with the most likely suspects, combing through their operations, their movements, any recent disturbances. Anything that might point to Jason stirring the wrong pot and putting himself in the crosshairs of some Gotham power player looking to make an example out of him.
In the meantime, Bruce waits for a word from Jason. That he's fine. That no one has taken potshots at him in an attempt to claim the bounty. But there's nothing. And maybe if there'd been something Bruce wouldn't have felt the need to search him out.
When he's spotted, he jumps down next to Jason, cape snapping behind him, and doesn't bother disguising his disappointment. ]
[He hums a moment; he's wearing his domino but his muzzle is sitting next to him on the ground because he cannot eat Nerds clusters with it on. He pops on it his mouth and offers one to Bruce.]
When I started to worry about it?
[He shrugs a little.]
No one is going to come after me for a measly 50k. I just have to find out who put it out there and then I'll handle it.
It's a cover. They're going to move something much bigger. They were planning the route when you disrupted them. Lew wants you out of the way. I imagine 50k is all he can afford.
[ As satisfying an answer as he's going to get, he supposes. But instead of being content, he reaches for Jason, drops a kiss on his forehead. Quick and simple and there's space between them again. ]
Send what you want to Alfred. And fix this, Hood. I mean it.
[ Bruce's eyes narrow. No he is not jealous of Deathstroke. He does not want Slade Wilson operating in his town. Even if Jason is just trying to needle him. ]
This isn't a game. You are getting what you asked for.
[ He's puzzled over this since Jason asked him to get rid of it the first time. He understands the motive. But he doesn't...get it. Like the reason isn't good enough for him. Not for this deeply personal thing Jason is asking him to do. ]
[ Bruce won't admit this but it bothers him that Jason's hiding his face. It doesn't show on his chiseled, stoic gaze either. He just isn't ready to let go of it. Not yet. ]
[ It's a twist of the knife. Jason always knew how to turn it so it hurts the most. So it cuts the deepest. This should be easy. Letting go of the memorial should be simple. It's just a costume in glass. It's just an epitaph on a plaque. But somehow, it is still a raw nerve between them. Even after everything. ]
It means something.
[ Taking it down won't rewrite the years of grief and guilt. Or the venom and fighting that followed when Jason came back. He wants Bruce to let it go. But he can't. It just makes Bruce want to cling to the memory tighter. ]
[ It's a hard thing to accept that Jason hates him still. Bitter and cruel, like a jab in the ribs so he can't breathe right for a couple of minutes. He must think it's as simple as walking the thing out of the cave, never to be seen again. That letting go is somehow not impossible.
He's Batman because he couldn't let go. Because he never left that alley. Because he never stopped being afraid. How do you turn all of that off? ]
The memorial stays. Until you get this fixed. Then I will take it down. Those are the terms.
[He looks at Bruce for a long time. He knows that he's wearing a mask and a domino that whites out his eyes, but they've been looking at each other for years. They know the tics, the way that they tip their heads and duck their chins.
He's trying to figure out if this is bullshit, but-
-but he wants so badly to believe that Bruce can let it go. So that Jason can let it go, too.]
I'll do the work.
[He says it softly, but then-
-he moves in, to put his arms around Bruce's shoulders, to pull him into a hug.]
[ He never really knows what to do with himself when someone hugs him. So often it seems to come out of nowhere that it he just kind of. Freezes. Like he's waiting for it to be over.
Jason doesn't get a hug back. Not at first. Not until Bruce exhales and wraps his arms around him. The memorial didn't mean more than this. Or more than him. Bruce would let it go if it meant he could keep this. ]
[ For something that Bruce has wanted for a long time, it feels strange to hear it out loud. He'd never say he didn't want it, but now that it's here it feels fragile somehow. Like if he reaches out for it, it might just turn and bolt. ]
[ Bruce is quiet for a moment. He'd thought Jason would have preferred his own space. It feels less like Jason is coming home and more like moving in together. It's strangely domestic. ]
[He hums. He won't give up his apartment, or his safehouse, but that doesn't mean anything. Bruce has about five different place he can stash himself in Gotham, although Bruce out of all of them sleeps at home the most.]
Okay.
[He leans in a little, although he's still wearing his muzzle, and presses his forehead to Bruce.]
[ There's nothing wrong with going forward. Sometimes it feels like it is. Like his focus is shifting and the Mission suffers for it.
But he has such good things in front of him. His family. Jason standing right here with his forehead pressing against his own. It's okay to go forward. ]
I'll tell Alfred to set a place for you at the table.
It's only been a week since Tim had asked for space, and it seemed, on the surface, like Bruce had acquiesced. It wasn't like Tim didn't know the guy could still have a hundred trackers squirreled away on him that he didn't know about, and he still wasn't exactly sure there wasn't a video of that night on the roof after Ivy's, but it's been quiet, and Tim was---
Lonely.
He was lonely, okay? Kon was off-planet with Supergirl, Dick was with Bart and Kori handling Titans business for some big case in Guatemala, Barbara was helping The Birds, and even Gar was out of commission lately - dating, of all things. It wasn't like any of them were the kind of connection Tim was looking for either; he loved his friends and family, but they wouldn't fill the hole inside him right now that it felt like Bruce had left.
So Tim went to the clubs again. Sue him. He knew better, but if his one vice was getting too drunk and making out with a hot guy at a leather bar (and maybe blowing him in the bathroom...), then it was pretty tame compared to what some of the other got up to.
He was still more than a little tipsy walking home, but not tipsy enough not to be on high alert when he realized the door to his bathroom was ajar and he felt the presence of someone else in his penthouse apartment. He slid past the kitchen island, palming out the bo staff that fit seamlessly into a hidden compartment and getting a good grip on it as he flipped the lights.
"----Bruce?" His shoulders slumped out of the defensive pose.
It's been one week since Bruce has seen Tim in person. And it's, at least in some small part, because Bruce is respecting Tim's request. He'd asked for space and despite it being a bitter thing, Bruce gave it to him. If he wants Tim to understand how lonely the world could feel without him, how empty the silence gets when he's not there to fill it, Bruce knows he's got to let this linger. Let it ache. Let it settle into Tim's bones the way it's settled into his.
Bruce keeps himself distracted, by throwing himself into his current case, burying himself in layers of intel and analysis and fieldwork and follow up. All of it to say he's just busy and not waiting, even if that's exactly what he's doing. Waiting, waiting, waiting for Tim to come to his senses and come back on his own. It's been a week and not a word. When he said he didn't sit around watching Tim's every movement, that had been a true statement. A week ago. Now, it's just his latest fixation, born of worry and something far less noble. That quiet ache he got whenever he thought about Tim on that rooftop. Whenever he watched the video he'd promised no longer existed.
It all coalesced into something dark and heavy. Dark enough to put him in Tim's neighborhood the night he stumbled home. Dark enough that it had him slipping into Tim's apartment, making himself at home in the space. Bruce heard him before he saw him. There's something unmistakable about the rhythm of someone stumbling home. Especially when they're tipsy. The thought made his jaw set tighter. When the lights flipped on, Tim would see Batman sitting at his table, first aid supplies scattered across it, blood drying on dark on the sliced open parts of his suit.
He put a hand up, as if to say wait. "I needed a moment." And an excuse. Maybe he let that last thug get a few cheap shots in, just so he'd have a reason to stop. Maybe he stopped that mugging in Tim's neighborhood so he'd have a reason to be here. "I won't be long."
"Shit, you're hurt." Tim doesn't think much about setting the bo staff aside and trying to blink some sobriety back into himself, reaching for Bruce's chest plate to find the clasp that would unearth it from the rest of his suit. Tim had always liked that about the Bat Suit - it was like a big puzzle that very few people knew how to solve.
And Tim is one of them.
"What happened?" Tim makes a clicking sound, not unlike what Alfred might do, at the sight under the kevlar.
Which was not untrue, exactly. Bruce had accounted for every part of the attack on the couple walking home. Three men, two of them armed with blunt objects. The third, a knife. Tim didn't need to know that. He just needed to know that one of them managed to get close enough to cut into the kevlar. He doesn't mind that Tim is close enough to smell the alcohol he's been drinking, but it's something to save for later.
"I'm fine, Tim. I just needed to clean up." He says he's fine, but doesn't stop TIm from removing the chest piece to get a better look. The wound is shallow, as if the tip of the blade glanced across his skin. More of a graze than a true stab. Blood still oozes, slow but stubborn. He could have dressed it himself. He just. Didn't.
"A mugger did this to you?" That's---very, very unlikely. Even Tim's
sluggish, alcohol laden brain knows that a mugger getting that close to
Batman is nearly impossible, even on the days Bruce is off his game. But
fortunately for Bruce, Tim's brain isn't able to hold there on that
suspicion for long. He's already at the sink to wash his hands and then
back to poke at Bruce's chest to make sure there's nothing in the wounds.
With Bruce sitting down, Tim has to bend in half and squat to look him over
properly, so eventually he takes a knee in front of him.
And it's not his fault if his face flushes, just a little. After all, he
was just on his knees for something much less innocent barely an hour ago.
He's still wound up from it, as he didn't let the other guy take care of
him in turn. That wasn't what Tim was after in the bar.
"I'll help patch you up. Only surface deep wounds, thankfully." His gaze
flicks up, catches Bruce looking down at him, and then swallows a sudden
mouthful of spit. Christ, he was still fucked up from the club if he was
getting hot over this. "You okay?"
Tim is smart. Exceptionally smart and Bruce doesn't expect him to readily accept the story he's been told. Not completely. Maybe question it in his head, but not out loud. Clock the inconsistencies, but not confront Bruce about them. The alcohol would see to that. That much Bruce does expect. It slows the sharper parts of him, enough to keep the confrontation at bay. Just enough that he'll choose taking care of these shallow cuts over interrogating the flimsy excuse that brought Bruce here in the first place.
Bruce watches his boy sink to his knee in front of him and it stirs up that dark place inside of him and for a minute, he doesn't say anything. He knows where Tim's been tonight, knows what he's been doing and the thought feeds into that festering sense of ownership.
"I'm fine, Tim," he says finally, "I should be asking if you are okay. You've been drinking." And letting someone else touch him. But. Bruce would get to that.
Tim's sure hands stutter. He pauses altogether, as if the wheels in his
head are literally turning. Cranking to decide whether to lie or not. It
doesn't feel worth it.
"Drinking a little on a night off means I'm not okay? Better check on
literally everyone else in the world too." He swallows, swiping alcohol
pads over Bruce's cuts. Glancing up again. "I'm fine. Really."
Bruce is quiet again, maybe for a moment too long. Stares at Tim for a moment too long. Just taking in the sight of him. The line of his shoulders, the curve of his neck. How easy it would be to just pin him down and pull the answers out of him. Instead, he just leans into Tim's sure touch while he cleans his wounds.
He can smell him when he's this close. Alcohol. Sweat. Cigarettes. Something he doesn't immediately recognize. Cologne, perhaps?
"Are you?" Bruce lifts his gaze to fix it on Tim. Maybe to dare him to lie. "Did you at least get his name?"
Another stutter, this time bringing Tim's hands to a full stop. His palms
flatten against the battered chest of his former partner. Under his touch,
Bruce is like a furnace.
He watches the flicker of hesitation in Tim's hands, the way they stop tending. Stop caring and settle against his chest. It's enough to confirm what he already knows.
If Bruce were more honest, he would have told Tim the truth. Maybe tell him where the cameras were so he could root them out and have some semblance of privacy again. Maybe tell him about the listening device hidden in his bo staff, so Bruce couldn't collect his secrets so easily.
Bruce would never be that honest.
"I didn't have to, Tim." Not when he gave the information up so easily. Even when the answer is yes. "I can smell him on you." His voice is quiet, almost gentle. But it must scrape like gravel. It's stark against the cold way Bruce looks at him, like he's waiting for the boy to unravel and isn't sure if he should stop it or see it through.
"I---asked for space." The words come out much smaller than he intends, but
god. Can't Bruce just give him one thing? Tim rarely asks for anything.
He's good, he's not like Jason breaking every rule just to fuck around, and
he's not moving to a new city like Dick. And yet Bruce can't let him go
further than arm's reach.
It stings, but if Tim's honest, he knew it wasn't as easy as asking.
"You can't just---- fuck." Tim pulls his hands away. He sits back on his
heels, looks up at Bruce with heavy eyes. "Did you really get mugged?"
"And I have given it to you," Bruce counters. He hadn't been intrusive. He hadn't intervened. He'd kept his distance and allowed Tim the space he asked for. So what if he tracked his movements? So what if he never turned his gaze away? So what? Tim never said he couldn't look.
But that look in his eye? That burns him. Wakes up a pang of guilt he has to swallow down again before he answers. He reaches for Tim, hand cupping his cheek. It's a soft touch, despite the gauntlet.
"And you're here to--what, check up on me?" Tim asks. He doesn't stop Bruce
from touching, and if anything he leans into the cup of that strong hand
against his cheek. Their dynamic is so strange now, so different from how
it was before, and it feels like it just keeps spiraling further out of
Tim's control. "Or... Something else?"
He sighs, tired and tipsy and still high off sucking a stranger off in the
bathroom, and Bruce is right there. They could just--fall into each
other. A little. What would it hurt?
"Would it matter if I denied it?" Bruce didn't think it would. Tim had made up his mind long ago it seemed and he was always ready to believe the worst about him. Even if the only thing he's truly guilty of is caring. Every line he's crossed? Or boundary he's stomped on? It's because he cared. How could he make Tim understand that?
"Do you think I only care about your body, Tim?" Even if Bruce lets his hand drift from his cheek down his neck and chest. "I care about you."
"No, of course I don't think that," Tim says, but that's a lie. He's been
thinking it non-stop. How if Bruce wanted something else, he would have
asked for it before the rooftop, before Tim was practically incapacitated
and overwhelmed by drugs.
He's still leaning into Bruce's touch though, eyes sliding shut. God, he
wanted more. Like last time. Harder maybe.
"I just---I wasn't expecting you tonight. I'm a little off my game." A lot
off. Drunk.
It's an opening. A crack in the door wide enough for Bruce to wedge his way through. And he did, slowly, subtly until it's too late to retreat. He wanted Tim to want this as badly as he did. Let him be an addiction, so there'd never be room for anyone else.
"You're drunk." A transgression, but Bruce forgives him. "Stand up and come here."
Tim stands, feeling stupid but obedient. He's never wanted to let Bruce
down. He spent most of his young life trying to live up to others but more
importantly to Bruce's needs for him. The perfect soldier, always. Now
there he is, drunk like an idiot in front of the only person who matters.
He moves forward, slowly, and it's barely a step to get close enough to
Bruce for him to see how sluggish Tim's eyes are. The heat in his cheeks.
Maybe even the flutter of his pulse against the slope of his neck.
"I didn't--intend to get drunk," he says. "I mean, maybe a little. Just to
let some steam off, you know?"
While Tim is getting to his feet, Bruce peels his gauntlets off and sets them on the table beside him and when Tim is close he's reaching for him, fingers sliding under his shirt to palm over the familiar grooves of his ribs and muscle. He hadn't intended to get drunk and Bruce could have scolded him for it, but if he were honest, that really wasn't the pressing issue here.
"Did you let him touch you?" His voice is low when he says it. It seems like a question, but it isn't one. It's the first little hook. The start of a slow, deliberate reeling in. He didn't mind if Tim noticed or not. It'd work out for him either way.
Tim moans at the first slide of Bruce's hands. It's been--he's just messed
up. Ever since the rooftop, all he can think about is Bruce and being held
and touched by him, and it's really fucking everything up but he can't help
it. Bruce is a magnet, and once Tim had really felt its pull he could do
nothing but want to slide into it again. God, it's good. Being touched like
he's everything in the world. More important than even the Mission, maybe.
"I didn't---" Tim can barely breathe, is already getting hard just being
close, even though his hands are reaching to slow Bruce down. "--No. I
didn't want anyone touching me like that."
It's just one more thing they had in common. Neither of them had been able to stop thinking about that rooftop. He'd wanted his hands on Tim again from the moment they parted. His hands slide Tim's shirt up higher, knuckles grazing bare skin. But he stops when he feels Tim's hands on top of his own.
Bruce shouldn't be pleased by it, but he is. A small quiet part of him puts it away. Still mine, it whispers.
He looks up at him. "Would you have wished it were me?"
Yes. Yes, of course, nobody will ever compare to Bruce, no matter how hard
Tim tries to fit someone else into that space. The man at the bar would
have gladly railed Tim into the bathroom stall if he'd only have asked, but
that wasn't what Tim had wanted. He was trying desperately to fill the
gaping hole in him that Bruce had so suddenly opened up on the rooftop.
"Bruce." It's noncommittal but hesitant. Tim's not in the mind to make good
decisions. But they can't just do this again... Can they?
Bruce could sense Tim's hesitation, could feel it in the way his hand sits on top of Bruce's own. In the quiet way he says Bruce's name.
That uncertainty? That hesitation? It's by design. None of his boys were ever meant to find someone to fill the space his absence leaves behind. It's too vast. Too jagged around the edges. No one else would fit. Not the way Bruce does. And Tim? His perfect soldier, Tim, doesn't cannot decide how he feels. Because Bruce made it that way, so he could decide for him. He shifts, hands resuming their slow crawl up his chest, a thumb brushing over Tim's nipple when his hand is high enough to reach it.
"It's okay, Tim," Bruce says. "I'm right here. You can have exactly what you want."
The part of Tim that wants to snap that what he wanted was to be given the
necessary space to deal with shit in his own way is completely and utterly
silenced as Bruce's thumb swipes over a nipple. He's wavering, sure as
Bruce is there touching him, because---the alcohol? The longing? Not
really, if he's honest. Those things, they help, but the crux of the
problem is that he wants Bruce, has wanted him for years and never allowed
himself so much as a furtive glance to make that clear. He'd tried to hide
it, and now look where that had got them. So if Bruce was offering... If
Tim needed it...
With a moan, Tim bows his head, resting it against Bruce's shoulder, his
hands tightening at Bruce's wrists.
"This---it's wrong." It was why Tim had held back for so long. Crossing the
bridge had made the other side that much sweeter.
There were a lot of things in Bruce's life that were wrong. Some of it more egregious than others. Some of it that rightly should have earned him a lengthy prison sentence. None of it was enough to stop him. None of it even slowed him down. Should he have questioned the morality of wanting to kiss Tim so much it made him ache? Perhaps. And maybe he did.
"I don't care." It's a quiet, almost tender confession. Bruce had done much worse. He cared about Tim and he'd never call that wrong. His thumb draws a lazy circle over Tim's nipple, and when his forehead touches his shoulder, Bruce turns to kiss his cheek. "I just want you. That's enough for me."
A breathless laugh is the answer that Bruce gets, followed by another hum
of a moan as Bruce's thumb rubs his nipple to a hardened peak. Fuck, that's
good. Random guys at the club wouldn't know to touch a man's nipple if it
bit them in the ass, but Bruce knew. Tim didn't really want to question how
it was that he knew exactly what buttons to press to get Tim to relent. He
was just a little too tipsy to worry as much as usual and certainly worked
up enough to put some of his concerns aside.
For now.
Tim tips his face, catching Bruce's lips for a hungry kiss that leaves
absolutely nothing to the imagination. There's no question if Tim likes
this or doesn't. Of course he does. He's been desperate to hear Bruce's
praise his entire life, and Bruce dolls it out exactly enough to string Tim
along. His hands scramble to find the cowl, to tug it back and off Bruce's
face to let it hang around his neck at the back, so he can tangle hands in
sweat-damp hair.
Is that something Tim really wanted the answer to? Bruce didn't imagine he did. But the truth was? Bruce and Tim were mirror images. Dark reflections casting the same shadow. Bruce knows all of the ways to get Tim to relent, not because he'd studied him, but because they were the same. Jagged, imperfect pieces forcing themselves to be perfect under the weight of their own scrutiny.
Maybe it's not something Tim is ready to confront, but Bruce already had.
Bruce's tongue slides into Tim's mouth as he pulls the cowl off. He's pleased and hums his approval into Tim's mouth. His hands settle in familiar places on Tim's body that makes getting away seem impossible. Or if you asked Bruce? Intimate. It annoyed him the taste of that other man lingers. He'd make Tim forget the encounter. He'd fill him up until there was no more room for anyone else. He kisses Tim like he wants to devour him, while his hands drag across his chest, lifting Tim's shirt higher and higher.
By the time Tim breaks the kiss, it's really only so Bruce can haul his
shirt off. His skin is already pebbling with goosebumps, the fine hairs
standing up on the back of his neck and his arms. Bruce kisses like nobody
else, and he has the deepest taste of anyone Tim has ever kissed. Like
falling headfirst into a deep, dark cave. Consumed by darkness.
He's working on Bruce's costume, eager hands fumbling for the pieces. He's
sloppy in his current state, afraid to slow down because if he does, this
moment might shatter.
He dives in for another kiss, crawling onto Bruce's lap.
The shirt goes without a second thought, tossed aside and forgotten the second it leaves Bruce's hand. Then his mouth is back on Tim, tasting him and committing it all to memory. Bruce knows the harder he pushes him, the farther away he'll land when Tim finally comes to his senses. Even if Bruce's orbit is ultimately impossible to escape, Tim was right. Bruce never wanted him too far out of his sight.
The suit falls away piece by piece and Bruce helps when Tim's fingers fumble over some of the clasps and closures. He welcomes the weight of Tim in his lap, drags him closer so his chest is pressing against Bruce's.
"You missed me, didn't you, Tim?" His voice is low, a growl that rumbles up his throat. Each word deliberate and precise. Designed to draw him in close and keep him there.
"I missed you," Tim parrots back, absolutely true and heartbreaking. He
thought Bruce knew before that he missed him, that even if he demanded
space he would always miss him when they weren't working together or close
enough to touch. Tim knows he's a coin flip of Bruce, some warped mirror
image, the closest Bruce has to someone like him, and that's always been a
tough pill to swallow, forever wondering if he was always like Bruce or if
Bruce molded him into the thing he wanted most. "Of course I missed you,
Bruce, you're---everything."
It's embarrassingly true. He didn't just miss Bruce because they fucked,
though that's a heavy part of it right now. He missed Bruce every day.
Missed being his partner, his confidant, his companion. Missed waking him
up in the morning after a particularly long, rough night when Bruce forgot
to set an alarm because he knew Tim would be there. Missed eating breakfast
in the Cave while flicking through files, silent but present, together.
Misses that if he falls, Bruce is there to catch him.
There's just something about hearing the words from Tim's own mouth. Demanding space and respect for boundaries were all meant to put up walls between them. To keep them apart and Bruce means to tear them down, one by one. To keep Tim close and reliant. If he could get Tim to admit it out loud, it's the first brick worked loose and thrown on the ground and it'd bring them back together again, even in that small way.
Though this moment didn't feel small at all. Not with Tim's admission hanging so heavy between them. Everything. Bruce is everything and it's how he's always wanted things to be between them. Maybe Bruce should feel bad about it, but he doesn't.
He doesn't say anything to that. Just presses in for another kiss, fingers hooking into the waistband of his pants to tug them down. "Stand up and take these off."
Tim climbs off Bruce's lap, his lips kiss swollen and his eyes heavy. He
obeys easily, unzipping his jeans and tugging them down, kicking his shoes
off, sliding his pants off, his underwear. Bruce is still in half
costume--again, always in full control while Tim spirals--but Tim doesn't
care. He sinks to his knees to help Bruce at least get some of the bulk of
his suit off.
At least the bracers over his shins. At least something so Tim doesn't feel
so vulnerable and on display.
Bruce realizes that feeling is not equal here. He never liked feeling vulnerable. It's why he wrapped himself in layers of armor and kevlar. It's why he kept the people he loved at arms length until he wanted them to be closer. Control is easier. Control doesn't make him feel like he's sinking. But he lets Tim take off the bracers. He doesn't stop him. And he sinks a little farther.
It's nothing he's not seen before, but Tim is still so beautiful to look at that Bruce takes his time to admire him. The easy way his jeans and his underwear roll down over his hips and the easy way he kicks his shoes off and away. The way his muscles move under his smooth skin, Bruce's training still ingrained like a stamp. He's beautiful when he's vulnerable. Just like how Bruce likes him.
"Get up and turn around. Then spread your legs." He gestures toward the table. "Put your hands there."
Tim hesitates, as if Bruce is asking the world of him. He's just--a little
confused. He'd sort of thought he'd just suck Bruce off, maybe they'd go in
the bedroom.... Right here in the open living area? With the window wide
open? It sends Tim's pulse racing.
He does it, bends and puts his hands exactly where Bruce asked, laughing
breathlessly because what can he even say? He's hard, cock jutting out in
front of him and red at the engorged tip. He bows his head and as he
spreads his legs, he looks back, watching Bruce.
If they weren't up so high, Bruce might have been a little more concerned about it, but like it is now, there's a certain kind of excitement in the open window. It makes his hard cock strain against his suit, but he ignores it now that Tim's truly put himself on display for Bruce's inspection. And his pleasure. He reaches for Tim's cheeks, kneading them with precises presses of his hands. And when he's satisfied, he pries them apart to lick a stripe between them, eyes flicking up to meet Tim's gaze with the intensity of his own.
"Oh----god---Bruce---" The words stutter out in a heady moan as Bruce's
tongue laps at his hole. For whatever reason, Tim hadn't anticipated he'd
do that. Not just right now but ever. No one has ever---it's so good
though, especially catching Bruce's gaze right before he did it like that.
Tim has to bow his face though, turning it away, fully embarrassed and so
turned on it was hard to focus.
Maybe not, but Bruce had wanted the taste of Tim on his tongue. Had wanted to watch him tremble and hear him moan. And for Tim to remember no one would treat him as well as Bruce does. His hands stays locked in place while he laps at Tim's hole greedily.
"I don't have to," he says when he comes up for air, "But you like it, don't you?"
Tim is practically drooling as he hangs his head and shivers, his shoulders
dipping and his back arching in a beautiful curve. It's good. It's so
goddamn good that Tim's brain isn't functioning practically anymore. No one
has ever done this to him, has ever taken the time, and Tim honestly never
thought it was something he wanted. But with Bruce, it's unbearably good.
When Bruce stops, it's too long, even if it's only to ask if Tim likes it.
He's panting, swallowing down his spit and shaking his head, then nodding,
forgetting what he's even doing.
Beautiful. Bruce thinks when Tim arches and the smooth line of his spine dips to bring him closer. So damned beautiful. He wants to take his fill, but doesn't think he'll ever be full up.
He likes the sound of Tim begging. And it isn't just the quiet plea for more. He likes the way that desperation curls around his name. How needy Tim sounds when he says it. He wants more. He wants Bruce to give it to him. It's enough to make Bruce put the discomfort of his erection straining against its confines away, so he could focus tasting Tim and watching him open up for Bruce.
His tongue slicks against Tim's hole in a long, slow drag, pulling a low rumble of a groan out of him. It makes Bruce tug at his hips to drag Tim deeper into the mire with him and so he could better feel Bruce's tongue wriggling its way inside of him.
Tim could cry. He might be crying, he doesn't even know anymore what's up
or down. Bruce's hands squeezing his ass and prying his cheeks apart,
Bruce's tongue shoving inside his hole, the wet and sloppy sounds of
it--that's all that's right in the world. Bruce is all that's right
in Tim's world, all that's good and perfect and exactly what he needs. His
head is spinning, fingers digging into his own table as he strains up on
his tiptoes to make the pleasure that much more intense, every muscle
shivery and taut, built by Bruce's own hands and molded into this image he
holds before him.
"P--lease--" Tim can't even speak right anymore, the words wet and heavy on
his tongue. He doesn't even know what he's begging for, whether it's more
or less or for Bruce to just fuck him already. "Please,
please--pleasepleaseplease--!"
Bruce is greedy. He wants it all. Everything Tim is willing to give him and probably some of what he isn't. He would take it just because he could. He hears that begging, that strained pleasepleaseplease and it makes him boil, makes him feel like he might just catch fire then and there. He can feel Tim straining against his mouth to feel more and it only pushes that desire for him higher.
When he finally pulls his hands away, they go for his belt, snapping it free so he can roll down the rest of the suit when he stands.
"Please what, Tim?" He growls it into Tim's ear as he gets up and presses his body against him, following that beautiful arch of his back. "Tell me what you want."
"H-hah..." Tim's breathless as he hears Bruce's belt and the slide of
fabric that means Bruce is taking off his pants. Or at least pulling them
down. Tim isn't sure if Bruce is ever willing to be fully naked when Tim
is, the power imbalance too heady probably. And as Bruce lays over his body
and cages him in, Tim moans.
Bruce is just--he's huge. Big everywhere. His hands, his thighs, his cock.
Tim's well toned and he's worked his ass off to be this strong, but there's
no way to ever physically measure up to Bruce.
"Please don't--make me say it." It's bad enough he's begging. To speak the
words out loud might break him.
"Just once, Tim." He didn't need to hear it. But he wanted it. It's another quiet swing at the wall between them to make the foundation brittle so it would crumble a little faster. He slides one of his huge hands over Tim's, lacing their fingers together. Almost tender, like a real lover and not something possessive and controlling.
For Bruce, Tim would say anything he needed. If that's what Bruce needed,
then Tim would do it. Especially in an altered state and so lonely and
still feeling empty after their last encounter, Tim was vulnerable enough
to clench his fingers tight through Bruce's. Laced. Like lovers and yet
nothing like it any other time.
Tim swallows, nods, his body shivery and anxious as he says it:
"Please---fuck me. Hard. You don't have to hold back. I can take it."
It shouldn't feel so good to hear those words from Tim, but it does. He does nothing to stop the little thrill it sends up his spine and back down again. Bruce gives Tim's hand one reassuring squeeze and presses a kiss to his jaw, before he steps back so he can guide the tip of his hard cock into Tim's hole.
No stretch, no preparation. Tim could take it. Just like Bruce knew he could.
The first push in is the worst for the pain and best for the pleasure both
somehow at once, Tim's nerves lighting up at the biting hurt and the
glorious sweep of arousal that courses through him. He gasps, arching under
Bruce's body and opening up for Bruce to go in deep before his body fights
against it and clenches tight. The guy at the bar never would have filled
Tim up this good. Never would have made Tim feel dizzy with need and
desperate to be broken in two.
He reaches below to grip himself, spits in his hand to get it wet enough to
touch himself, his hand unsteady at best, his fingers trembling. It's awful
and perfect and he's up on his tiptoes again to make it even worse. He can
smell Bruce all over him, in him, and it's heady, heavy, thick in the air.
Bruce had taken his time their first time. He had wanted to savor the feeling of sinking into Tim and the way his body clenched around him. He doesn't feel a sense of urgency now, but there's something in him that doesn't want to go slow. That wants to slam into Tim so he'd remember and understand there'd never be anyone else to fill him up like this. None of them would ever slot together as perfectly as they do. Tim would never let anyone else try.
The thought has Bruce putting his hands on Tim's shoulders, bracing against them as he pushed and pushed into Tim until their hips met.
He groans when he is in at last, breath hot against the back of Tim's neck. Bruce kisses him there. Once then a second time.
Tim gasps as Bruce pushes in, using Tim's own shoulders as leverage. Tim
bends fit to break, his spine dipped so dangerously low and his ass pushed
out for Bruce to drill into. Bruce is deeper than Tim has ever allowed
anyone else, and he feels like Bruce has gone past what's even possible at
this point. He's so thick it strains Tim's hole open, and the kiss relaxes
him enough to let Bruce sink in until his balls are resting against Tim's
hole.
The second kiss has Tim whimpering.
"S-o deep," he murmurs. "Gimme---a second. To adjust."
It's an almost perfect fit, the way Tim's hole swallows him up. Fine beads of sweat prick across Bruce's forehead as he sinks in deeper, as Tim strains to take him in.
Wait? Could he wait, when he wants nothing more than to fuck Tim into the table he's braced against? Bruce does wait, though every moment that passes feels like a lifetime. He exhales softly, before he digs his fingers into Tim's hips. When he can't wait anymore, he pulls back that scant inch before he drives his cock back into him again.
"Tim." Tim's name comes out in a quiet growl, filthy and full of infatuation.
That moment to breathe is appreciated. A kindness that Tim doesn't think he
deserves but is unbearably thankful for. Especially when Bruce finally
pulls back, only to push in again. Tim's knees wobble beneath him, used to
staying braced for pressure but not for this. He bows his head again,
shoulder blades knotting up, the muscles Bruce helped to shape moving under
his skin.
He starts to jerk himself off, slow and jerky motions as his toes curl from
the pleasure. It's a dream, really, to be the one that Bruce craves to this
degree. To be the best soldier for the mission. To be the first choice,
even if a scared voice in the back of his head wonders if Dick or Jason
might say otherwise.
Bruce could feel the muscles move where his hands were still planted firmly on Tim's shoulders. They're strong, carefully crafted under Bruce's care and guidance and utterly perfect. Bruce had tempered those muscles to perfection but it's Tim who had to work to maintain it. He was more than proud of their teamwork. Always an excellent team, even from the very start.
And that's where the difference is. Dick and Jason had to be tamed. Tim had something to prove and an eagerness to please. That's what drew Bruce in. That's what had him here, balls deep in the best soldier he's ever brought into the fold.
"You like it when I fill you up," He grunts, an arm slides under Tim's chest to hold him close while he takes an earnest pace, breathing hard against Tim's back. "Don't you?"
"I do," Tim gasps, arching against Bruce and giving in to whatever angle
his former mentor wants him in. If Bruce wants him spread eagle, he'll do
it. Or against the wall. Or riding him in his lap. He's slick with sweat
against Bruce's body, closing his eyes and leaning his head back onto
Bruce's shoulder. It's suffocating, being held like that, by someone like
Bruce.
No one else came close.
"I love it. Love you filling me up---" Bruce hit a sweet spot and Tim
convulses, toes curling and cock weeping pre.
This is perfect. Holding Tim flush against him while he ruts into him over and over again. He keeps his hands on Tim, exploring very inch of him he can reach. His fingers ghost over Tim's belly, prodding at the muscles there. Achingly close to Tim's hard cock.
"You want me to breed you, Tim?" He growls into Tim's ear. "Make you mine forever?"
"God, yeah, I want---" Tim has to gasp, half-choking on his swallow as
Bruce rams into that sweet spot over and over and over. It's painful, makes
his belly feel full and shivery, but it's good, too good to stop, too good
too good, too-- "--breed me, fill---fill me up, please, I'll take it, I'll
be--I'll be so good Bruce, I promise, I'll be your best boy--"
Tim's babbling, drunk on pleasure as he spasms around Bruce's length. He
stops touching himself, wanting desperately to hold himself back, arching
into Bruce's massive body. Tears in his eyes from the intensity of the
moment.
Of course Tim could take it. Bruce had trained him. Molded him. Shaped him. Made him perfect. He didn't doubt Tim could take anything Bruce could give him and would never want anyone else to touch him again. His best boy. He'd be his best boy and that's a promise he'd make sure Tim kept.
Tim's babbling only winds Bruce up tighter, makes his whole body feel like it'll catch fire with just the right spark. Tim could take it and Bruce parrots it back at him with each brutal slam of his hips against Tim's. He couldn't bring himself to care if it hurt or not. Tim could take it. Bruce's grip tightens, squeezing Tim against him as he comes, spilling until he feels so incredibly empty and spent.
Tim is definitely crying then. Bruce is huge, he's holding Tim so tightly
it's hard to breathe and---Tim has wanted this for so long. Long enough
that it's embarrassing, humiliating to admit that he wants his father and
mentor and coach and god in these deviant ways. This is so much more all
encompassing. Bringing Tim to his own brink just feeling Bruce empty in
him.
Tim barely touches himself. He just comes. From Bruce.
And cries, softly, his body convulsing against Bruce's, shivery and over
simulated. That man at the bar could never have brought him here. No one
could. And if anyone ever tried, they certainly wouldn't have been able to
hold him like this through the come down.
The way Bruce holds Tim is almost loving. An arm around his middle to hold him steady, the smoothing his sweat slick hair out of his eyes so he can watch Tim come. Watch the way his body shivers and his eyes change and the way his mouth opens and those streams of tears on his cheeks. He's gorgeous when he comes. The hand in his hair lowers after a moment to brush the tears away. It's gentle, even a little bit kind.
And he holds him until he's out of the thick of it and is coming back down to earth.
He's reluctant to pull out of Tim, to pull away from the warmth of his body. He knows once he does reality will sink in and Tim might remember Bruce's intrusion when he had been asked to stay away. So kisses the back of his neck, a reminder. I'm here. I'm right here. A hand plants smooth across Tim's chest so he could feel his heart hammering against his palm.
"You did well, Tim." Quiet praise and another anchor to keep Tim from slipping away too far.
As the high of his orgasm starts to wane and he comes down from the other
planet it took him to, he realizes he's leaning his tired body fully
against Bruce's. Bruce hasn't pulled away yet, is complimenting his
performance--an intense high of its own to hear the words whispered against
the wet whorls of his ears like that. With Bruce's big hand flat on his
naked chest, where his heart is beating out of control still. Where his
breath hitches with every sob until he's evening out a little, nodding,
some shame coming through but still distant.
"Thank you," he says and feels even dumber. He's tied to Bruce, there's no
question on that, but this is---he's not a child. Why does he feel like one
in Bruce's arms?
Bruce likes that fluttery feeling of Tim's heart beating against his hand. He can feel the hitch in his breathing under his arm and when Tim begins to even out, Bruce finally pulls out and away. He hasn't been careful. Not the way he usually is because he can feel this becoming an addiction. He's already thinking ahead, hours and days and weeks for when he can catch Tim alone and fuck him until he sobs. He's always promised himself to never have a vice like this one.
Because it's too good. It's too damn good.
He catches Tim's hand - the one he'd used to stroke himself - and kisses his fingertips, savoring that faintly salty taste that's so distinctly Tim. Meets his gaze whenever Tim finally turns to look at him.
When Bruce finally slips out, Tim whines. Pathetic. He's so worn out, used.
He would have liked to curl up in bed, have Bruce's arms around him, or
maybe be awake and available enough to go out and patrol with him. But
neither of those things will be happening. Tim knows that.
Bruce got what he came for.
"Right," he says, drowsy and stupid and feeling a little sick if he's
honest about it. It's like an addiction, isn't it? Worse maybe because it's
Bruce and it's allowing the man so much control over him in ways Tim
doesn't just give up to anyone else. He forces himself to get up, his legs
quivering like a fawn's. Embarrassing. He gets himself to the bathroom,
leaning against the door frame, turning to look at Bruce. "Did you come
here just for that?" What they just did. To keep Tim under his thumb.
There's a pang of guilt. A quiet stabbing of it in his chest that Bruce is too late in pushing down before it's had a chance to gain a foothold. He watches his boy wobble himself upright and take those unsteady steps to the bathroom. And all of it makes that guilty sinking feeling dig in a little bit deeper in his gut.
When had this become something so dangerous?
Probably when Tim put his weight against the door frame of his bathroom. When he turned to look at him with eyes that could see clean through him. Bruce hated it. Hated feeling exposed like a raw nerve. He gets up but only to put his cock away and to gather the scattered pieces of his suit. He doesn't bother closing the space between them. He doesn't have to. Tim is tethered to him, whether he likes it or not. All Bruce had to do is tug on the lead and he'd be right back where Bruce wants him to be.
That doesn't do much to settle that guilty feeling.
"I didn't plan this, if that's what you're asking."
"Hah, right, sure." The words come out sluggish and lazy, a little more
Jason than Tim but he can't be blamed for being mad, can he? At the very
least, Bruce owes him understanding. And Tim's--he's still drunk. Still
exhausted. Still hazy and red faced from crying and so, so embarrassed.
It cuts. That dismissive way with words Tim's picked up from Jason. Bruce expects it from Jason. Not Tim. Even in the kind of cruel, casual way he's leaving Tim behind right then. He would have expected Jason to hate him for it. He hates Bruce for everything. Tim had always been a bit more understanding. The mission came first. Always came first. Even at the expense of others. Especially at the expense of himself. Bruce finally does walk over to Tim, putting on his gauntlets in the process. So he could reach for Tim, pull him in close.
"You don't have to do that," Tim says, even though his voice wavers. He
wants Bruce to want to come back, to put aside the entire Mission for him,
to put everything aside. To stay because he wants to, because he wants
Tim. That's not what this is. Bruce is---guilty? It's surprising,
but it's not unheard of. "I'm just tired." And drunk. And so in love with
everything Bruce is but knowing Tim's not on that same level in reverse.
There's so much that's more important than Tim and his needs.
It's a very fine line to walk and Bruce had always been careful about not tipping too far over to either side. Yet here he is feeling guilty because he's tugged a little too hard on Tim's heart strings. He could stop it if he wanted to and Tim would still be that loyal soldier. And it highlights to Bruce how unnecessary this really is. But that's where Bruce's problem lay. He didn't want to stop.
"Sure," Tim says, and closes the bathroom door behind him. He needs to
clean out, shower if he can manage to keep himself standing long enough to
do it properly, and then crawl into bed. He's certainly not expecting Bruce
to be there when he opens his eyes again. Something will come up that's
bigger, more important, and---
That's the thing, isn't it? Tim gets it. He's the same for most other
people. The Mission comes first. Before his own needs, before his own
wants, before love or sex or anything. But even Tim would make a single
exception. For Bruce.
[ooc: if you wanna continue to a different scene or have Bruce be
there when he wakes up, I'm totally down!!]
Ultimately, Bruce keeps his word. The night does turn out to be a long one after a drug bust leads him into a deeper conspiracy, but it's something that would need more time and research and investigation. Something he isn't going to get done in one night, despite his best efforts. So for once, just this once, he'll set it aside for now.
It's early morning by the time he makes it back to Tim's apartment, slipping in the same way he had the first time. He's exhausted and isn't entirely careful about shedding the suit. It ends up in a heap on the floor by his bedroom door. The bed dips under his weight and whether Tim is there or not, Bruce is asleep the second his head hits the pillow.
Tim is certainly there, passed out on his stomach, still completely nude but at least showered and cleaned out and covered by fine sheets and a massive comforter. He's in deep enough REM that he doesn't even register Bruce coming in, sleeping beside him. So when he wakes and finds the bed full of Bruce around eight in the morning--a late sleep in for both of them--he's shocked. Spends a few minutes in dumb shock just watching Bruce sleep.
Because really--when was the last time he'd seen Bruce actually sleep and not just rest his eyes or take a power nap at the console in the cave? Tim couldn't legitimately remember if he'd ever seen it. As a young teen, he'd half assumed Bruce was lying about not having super powers, figuring his meta ability was just not needing sleep.
Bruce looks soft like this. Hair over his face, his mouth gently agape. Tim bites back a smile. Stays cuddled in a bit longer, because if this is happening then he'll watch Bruce a little while longer. Maybe get up, make them some breakfast. Maybe help Bruce with his case. Like old times. So easy to fall into.
It’s been three nights since Bruce has had any sleep longer than a few fifteen minute naps. And falling into bed with Tim had been something easy to do. Comfortable. At least enough that going to sleep until 8 am did not feel like a mistake. He doesn’t know at what point during the night that he reaches for the warmth of the body curled up next to him, but he does, that massive arm draping over his hips.
Part of him could stay like this forever. That quiet part that he keeps buried under a relentless need for the Mission. It’s a part of his humanity that he denies himself. At least until he’s caught up in a quiet moment like this one. He doesn’t wake when Tim does. Once Bruce does the illusion is shattered and it’s back to reality. He just wants this for a few more minutes.
Tim stays put for a few more moments, just watching, and then his antsy
brain starts up and gets in the way. He reaches over Bruce for his tablet,
balancing precariously but quieter than a mouse as he slips it off the
nightstand and then settles back to login to his systems. To check for
updates he missed on his evening off. It had been necessary, but now he'll
pay the price by the feeds flying up over his screen.
He checks Bruce's as well, easily still able to see where Bruce left off in
certain cases, and fills in some gaps that he can from his own Intel. He
tells himself he'd have done that no matter if Bruce was there beside him
or not.
Eventually, he gets up, throws on a pair of pajama pants and starts up some
coffee and eggs. Protein and caffeine. The necessities.
Bruce isn't slow to wake. He doesn't need a lot of time to yawn and stretch and will consciousness back into his bones. Typically, he just opens his eyes and he's ready to tackle the day. He's never decided if that makes him a morning person or not. Most of his sleep came in brief, stolen minutes well after dawn. But it does make adapting to new surroundings easier. He's never been thrown off waking up in new, unfamiliar places.
Tim's bed though...
That's something else entirely. He's okay with waking up alone. He can smell breakfast and that's enough to push himself upright and to pad silently through the apartment like he's done it hundreds of times before. Tim's there, of course, working with quiet efficiency. Bruce breezes by him, like he's always belonged in this space and searches out a couple of mugs for the coffee. Hopes Tim doesn't notice he doesn't need to ask. The second time he passes him, he drops a kiss on Tim's bare shoulder.
"Good morning." While he waits for the coffee to finish.
Tim glances up as he hears Bruce's soft footfalls, and watches him seek out
the mugs like he's done it a hundred times, and no, it doesn't go unnoticed
that Bruce doesn't have to look. But Tim's too caught off guard by the kiss
to his bare shoulder, the way Bruce's body lingers in close behind his,
distracted by the rough murmur of Bruce's low voice against his skin.
Is this--Bruce isn't just leaving. Was taking his time. At least long
enough for coffee and eggs. Which is more than he gives anyone, let alone
Tim.
"You came back," Tim says, and then flushes, plating the eggs. "I hope you
don't mind, but I tidied up your notes on that trafficking case. I was in
the Bowery and talked to a club owner and promoter who knows that guy
Charlie you mentioned you were looking for." Talking about cases is much
easier.
Because coffee and eggs were easy. Safe. Something he didn't have to tread carefully around. No buried emotions or lingering tensions. Just muscle memory and routine. When the coffee is done brewing, Bruce fills their mugs and leaves Tim's near him so he could flavor it however he liked. He could have left. Probably should have if he's honest. But he didn't want to deal with the fallout of it later. Better to stay now than deal face it when he came back.
He snipes a plate of eggs and sits down at the table, the same seat he occupied just the night before and takes a few leisurely bites of egg. He grunts at Tim's admission. He'd never mind the extra set of hands when it came to intel gathering. It saves him time and he could get back to tracking and closing down this most recent operation.
"Sionis has been moving a lot of people and weapons between here and Bludhaven. Charlie's been a point of contact." And Bruce means to wring every bit of information out of the man he could manage. He flicks his gaze to Tim, chews his eggs thoughtfully. Swallows and then says, "Come with me tonight."
There's a really, really big part of Tim that wants to. Of course he does.
They had once upon a time made the perfect team, partners who could read
one another and finish each other's sentences without second thought. But
things had changed with Damian. And Tim had his own life now, away from
Bruce. Away from most of them, if he was honest, only reaching out when it
was absolutely necessary.
These days, he'd much rather work with the Teen Titans. Kon was easiest to
understand, Cassie made fast work of getting the answers they needed, Bart
was growing on him. It was a much better situation mentally.
He sat across from Bruce at the table after dragging his black coffee with
him and shook his head. "It sounds like you've got it under control without
me."
He didn't need the help. He never really had. The others made being Batman easier, even lighter sometimes. But the truth is he'd been doing this alone long before any them had shown up. And when they left? He just picked up where he left off, almost like they had never been there. Damian would have worked out just fine on this case. But Bruce hadn't wanted his company. Not particularly.
Not like he wanted Tim's.
"It is. But there's some overlap with one of your cases." He eats without looking up. Without meeting Tim's gaze. Had he been in Tim's files? Possibly. He did have a hard time with boundaries.
"Bruce." Tim has to stop mid bite, annoyed as ever when Bruce goes pawing
through his stuff. He's a little hungover now that he's facing the light of
day properly, or maybe it's a tension headache coming on from Bruce always
stepping on his toes. "How did you---" No, that's the wrong question. Tim
focuses, tries again. Because asking how Bruce got into his grandma
encrypted files is like asking how Bruce got into his apartment the
previous evening. How Bruce knew the clubs he was at. "Look, I-- don't
think it's a good idea. Us working together like that again."
Bruce looks at Tim for what might feel like a moment too long then takes a sip of his coffee. He wouldn't push. It's easier on him when he doesn't make demands. When they think coming back is something they want. When they think it's their choice and not something Bruce has decided for them. If Tim didn't want to come along, Bruce would just have to accept that, wouldn't he?
"What are your plans for the day?" He'll drop it for now.
Tim gives Bruce a look. "You've already hacked into my stuff. That means
you've seen my schedule, too. I know you wouldn't have just skipped over
that temptation."
Which means Tim needs to keep a paper schedule instead. At least for a bit.
To keep to himself and away from Bruce.
"So you know my schedule. Wayne Enterprises business with Lucius until
midday. Then I'm head down in my own cases, big patrol on the East end
tonight."
Bruce eats the last of his eggs, unfazed by the look in Tim's eye. He had been through Tim's schedule. Of course he had. If Tim was going to make it so easy to access why shouldn't he take a look? At least he'd been polite enough to ask about it.
"Then I should let you get ready for it," he says when his cup is empty. He gets up without another word and sets the dishes in the sink. Briefly, he considers washing them and putting them on the rack to dry. But decides that's too domestic.
He takes that walk back to Tim's bedroom in a few short strides of his long legs and gathers up the suit so he could place a call to Alfred for a pick up.
Tim hesitates. He's pushing Bruce away, and that's the right decision. It
is, it has to be. If he lets Bruce stay or worse goes back to being some
shadow version of his partner while Damian is still there being the real
thing, it'll end in the same pain and heartache. It's this or it's--hurt.
Those are the only options.
So Tim stays to clean up and pour a big thermos of coffee to take with him
once he leaves.
"Bruce?" he asks, leaning into the bedroom to look at his mentor gathering
his things. "I---need to ask you again. To give me space. Last night can't
happen again." Much as Tim would have loved it to happen every night.
The call to Alfred is made and when it's done he looks at Tim, expression neutral. "Okay, Tim. You'll have your space."
Maybe it should have given Bruce pause, to hear Tim ask again for space. Maybe it should have told him that something had gone desperately, perhaps irreparably wrong in their relationship. That this isn't working and he needed to do something differently, if he ever wanted back into Tim's life, without forcing his way back in.
But it doesn't. It only makes him think of the eyes he has on Tim's place now and how many more he might need later. It isn't the same as being here, close enough to see Tim with his own two eyes. Close enough to reach out and touch. Or hold down and fuck. But so long as Tim was going to be like this, he'd have to make do.
"I mean it," Tim says, forcing himself to sound as serious as he needed to
for Bruce to get it. "No watching. No swinging by because you're in the
neighborhood. No knowing my schedule and reaching out if I don't adhere to
it. Okay? Please."
It's the right call. It's the right move. It's exactly what he asked for,
what he wants. So why does the look on Bruce's face absolutely destroy Tim?
It leaves a thick lump in the back of Tim's throat, a knot in his stomach.
But it's--better this way. Tim needs to be away from Bruce. He can't just
fall back into place by his side when Bruce came here last night just to
check up on him, just to ensure he was still under his thumb. Right? He
stayed the night but so what? That was the trouble with Bruce: it was hard
to tell what was real and what was just part of some unseen plan.
"Thank you." Tim moves around Bruce to gather his things, to get changed
into his suit for Wayne Enterprises.
Did a little time jump. Just let me know if you need anything changed.
When Alfred arrives to pick him up, Bruce leaves without a word. There are public appearances to make. Cameras to face and Bruce puts on his best playboy smile. He grins for every photo. Brilliant teeth and firm handshakes. The picture of charm and composure. From the outside you'd be forgiven for believing there's never been anything wrong in Bruce Wayne's world.
But it's part of the ruse and deep down? There's a storm brewing.
He keeps his word this time. Actually, keeps his distance like Tim asks. No contact, no unannounced visits. When they're at Wayne Enterprises together, Bruce hardly acknowledges him. Sometimes before patrol, he checks his footage, but he doesn't sit and watch the feeds, even if he's tempted to. Tim could do whatever he wanted, sleep with whomever he wanted (Bruce did keep track of who), and Bruce never said a word.
At least nothing direct. Limiting Tim's access to the Batcomputer's files had said enough.
Days pass. Then weeks. Tonight, he's followed a lead to the docks, where a stash of weapons is waiting to be distributed. Another branch of Sionis' operation. Tonight, Bruce plans to snap it from the tree. Tonight, he suspects he isn't alone and glances over his shoulder to see who might have joined him.
It's been---well. It's a mixed bag. The loneliness is bone deep, to the point that Tim has been going to the bars more often, hooking up more often. He even found himself looking for the biggest guys, usually the ones who aren't his type but who currently remind him most of Bruce. The ones that grab him a little too roughly, hold him down or make him blow them until he chokes. He's addicted to it, a little, burning the candle at both ends, and nothing seems to help. It's never enough.
But. Bruce kept his word. That's something. Tim isn't going to go back on this. He needs his freedom. Right...?
And getting locked out of parts of the Batcomputer that he had access to before is fine. It's fine. He can get by without knowing every single thing. After all, space goes both ways. And he's not even a little angry about it...
"Last I checked, the docks of Gotham don't belong to just Batman." It's not cold, exactly, just letting Bruce know Gotham is protected by more than just one hero. "That guy-" Tim gestures, "--the one in the track jacket. I need a list he has on that hard drive in his computer."
And Bruce has seen them all. Every single one who's grabbed Tim hard enough to bruise. Every single one who's put Tim on his knees. He's seen him frequent the bars and leave it with someone new night after night. It makes Bruce's blood boil.
It makes his blood boil now. But he's not here for that. For once he's not tracking Tim's movements. He's zeroed in on his goal. For once, it feels like Tim's the one following him.
There's movement below them and Bruce circles around to follow it and keep his eye on his target. He doesn't look up at Tim. If he does, he might get angry.
This, Tim tells himself, is much better. For both of them. To help one
another without actually being glued to each other. It should be good for
them, to work as partners in a single mission. To have each other's backs.
But Tim can't help but feel lonely being in Bruce's presence again after
how close they were the last time.
"Where's Robin?" he asks, before he can help himself. It's normal to ask.
Right? Damian is Bruce's partner, after all.
"Busy." Bruce had been running this investigation solo for weeks now, refusing Damian's help and barely tolerating anyone else's. Alfred had given him the floor plans for this warehouse, and has been silent in his ear otherwise. He didn't need anyone else. Not for this.
This is pretty normal for Bruce and the way he speaks to people, but it
feels off. It feels short. And directed at Tim.
"Yeah, we're all busy." Tim's a little short too, and he hates that
this is what it's come to, but it's necessary. Right? He takes a deep
breath. Work comes first. They can snark at each other after. "I'll go down
first. Draw them in. Give you an opening."
He doesn't expect courtesy from Tim when he hadn't been returning the favor. If he's truly honest, he'd started it and he couldn't entirely blame it on the job.
"There are two gunmen on the stairs. Another by the window and another near the far exit."
When he finally does look up at Tim, it's to assess him. Give him a once over to make sure he's ready. That's what he tells himself.
Tim nods, and he's a good boy as ever, waiting for the go ahead. Despite
his actions to the contrary lately, he takes The Mission very, very
seriously. And because of that, he takes Bruce very, very seriously.
Jason would have cursed him and jumped into the fray wherever. Even Damian
would have likely shirked the order. But Tim dutifully switches to channel
two on his comms. It's a private channel, and that doesn't go unnoticed.
But that's normal for these kinds of things. Means the two of them can keep
in touch during the fight without getting in anyone else's ears.
That Bruce looks him over is neither here nor there and certainly doesn't
redden Tim's cheeks under his own cowl thinking about it. And he doesn't at
all wonder how he looks to his mentor. If he measures up. Or if Bruce can
smell all the men who've been on him these past few weeks.
When Bruce gives him the go ahead, Tim slips down through the shadows,
focusing on the plan of attack. It's easy enough to get the guys away from
the stairs. They're the biggest, bulkiest ones. Hardest to take down but
easiest to lure away.
"Hey!" the guy by the window yells. "Where you two think you're going?"
"Somethin' weird down there by the shipments," one of the guys said. "Me
and Dom'll check it out."
The guy by the window cocked his gun. "Shoot first, ask questions later,
Travis."
"Cool," Travis said, cocking his own gun, a thing too big for his meaty
hands. Which would make it easier for Tim to get it once the guys get close
enough. But now the steps are clear. Bruce could choose to sneak in or go
for window guy or exit guy.
Bruce shifts position, just enough to get eyes on the gunman by the window. He's holding his weapon too loosely. Bored. Distracted, the easy pick. He doesn't ask Tim if he's good to go. He doesn't need to. Tim wouldn't be here if he wasn't.
He breathes out slow and then - "Now."
It's a familiar rhythm and that makes it easy to fall into. But then Bruce and Tim had always been efficient. A machine. Even if the gears grind a little under the strain. No matter the silence. No matter the distance. The work never suffers. Tim slips inside and vanishes into the ink-black shadows. And Bruce watches him work, beautiful as ever as he moves. He hates himself a little for thinking it.
When Batman sees the opening, he doesn't hesitate. Even though the guy by the window is alert now, he never sees the Bat. Not until it's too late. Not until Bruce drops from above and disarms him, sets him gently on the ground to sleep off that precise blow to the head. Exit guy next. Bruce melts back into the darkness. A shadow moving through the shadows. Close enough now to watch and wait for an opportunity to strike and take this one down just as cleanly.
The goons seem to get bigger and bigger every year, but it's nothing that
Tim hasn't handled before. In fact, as Robin, he'd have distracted worse so
that Bruce had the opening he needed. Currently, when he hears Batman's
gravely voice in his ear, Tim is busy fighting off Travis, who is actually
a better fighter than he looks. The gun is disabled, long gone kicked under
some boxes so nobody can reach it, so it's just Red Robin versus the huge
bulk of this guy until Tim can get a good hook and jab in. Then it's easy
to get the opening he needs to get his arm around Travis's thick neck, to
choke him into he crumbles to the ground.
A little less finesse than Batman but Tim had taken the big guys, after
all.
"Two down. Meet you by the exit." Even though his side is throbbing. Travis
had managed one really good punch after all.
The sounds of a struggle are faint, barely a whisper through the warehouse. But it's enough.
The goon near the exit hesitates, calls out for Travis in a voice that doesn't sound too sure. It's half a second and it's all Bruce needs. He moves, a shadow unfolding from the darkness. The man doesn't even have time to cry out before Bruce has an arm around his neck, pulling him down fast and quiet.
He does not linger near the exit, opting instead to begin tagging the crates. He would hear Tim when he approaches.
"Get the weapons. I'll finish tagging the crates."
A beat of silence follows and then: "You were slow."
"They were big," Tim says, a little tersely, as he gathers the weapons.
Bruce is tagging them, so that takes care of that, but they'll need to
confiscate the more dangerous ones. Get them out. Not all of them but
enough to stop them from getting into the city streets and in the hands of
Sionis's men. Or worse. "It's fine, I got them both, they aren't getting
up, so you can stop nitpicking my style."
It's not Tim's style. But he's annoyed and a little embarrassed that Bruce
noticed. Of course he did.
Bruce is already coordinating with the Batwing to extract the most dangerous weapons here. They would be taken to the cave for cataloguing and dismantling. No one would ever get the chance to get their hands on them.
"You're not usually this sloppy." He stops for a moment, glances at Tim over his shoulder. Just for a second. Then he gets back to work, marking the crates. Some for GCPD and the ones for the Batwing. "Have you been training?"
"Just because I didn't get to it in five seconds doesn't make it sloppy."
But Tim's not exactly disagreeing. He's not in his best form. He's tired,
he's lonely, he feels absolutely eviscerated in front of Bruce whenever the
other man looks at him. "Of course I've been training." He stops then,
looks at Bruce, watches him work. The efficient way he catalogues and
gathers. God, he misses him. "You really haven't been following my
schedule?"
It sounds almost like an accusation. Delivered flat, but no less sharp. As if Tim's forgotten that this - the silence and distance - had been his idea. Exactly what he had asked for. Bruce isn't being entirely honest, of course. The watching never really stopped, even if it's not as often. He knows Tim's schedule probably better than he knows his own. He knows when Tim trains. How long. How hard. And where it fits into the punishing pace of a vigilante's life.
Doesn't mean he's satisfied with it.
"You should come by the manor and let the computer run a full analysis."
A pause. Like he's considering saying the rest at all.
"I did say that," Tim murmurs, finishing up his own gathering and preparing
it for pickup from the Batwing. He misses the tech too, he's not going to
lie. Having access to everything that Bruce has at his whims. Red Robin
doesn't exactly have a special Red Robin Wing. He figured Lucius could help
there, but Tim never wants to feel like he's owing anybody anything. It's
better to do things on his own. Simplify it.
As he considers Bruce's offer--because it is an offer, clear as day where
Bruce is concerned--Tim finds the track jacket guy and unzips his laptop
bag, crouching down at the man's unconscious side. He fingers out a tiny
screwdriver from one of the canisters on his bandolier, using it to make
quick work of getting the hard drive out. That goes into a pocket on his
back, secured in tight so it doesn't fall out. Then Tim's moving on to
zip-tying the guys' hands and feet for police pickup.
"I could swing by." He glances up between zipping Travis nice and tight.
"For a few."
If he's surprised that Tim agrees, it doesn't show. He finishes his work, tags the last crate then waits for the Batwing to swoop in for the pick up. He lets himself look at Tim again, watch him work out the hard drive from the pc with practiced precision. Their eyes meet when Tim glances up. Just for a moment. Bruce doesn't look away. Doesn't pretend he wasn't staring.
That's the kind of stare that will keep Tim up at night. It always did,
when he was younger. When they were undressing in the Cave together or when
he saw Bruce walking around half-costumed. It was, frankly, still fodder
for masturbation sessions when Tim needed it. And the guys he'd tried out
in their interim time apart had certainly not been anything near the man he
was looking at now.
Fuck.
Tim nods, finishes up his work as Bruce leaves, and lets out a breath he
wasn't aware he'd been holding. He tells himself he's going to finish his
own patrols, get into the hard drive, finish up his case, and call it a
night.
But by three in the morning, he's steering his bike into the Cave. Bruce is
probably still out. It would be better if he was. But there Tim is, excited
when he spies him at the Bat Computer. Tim pulls in and kicks the stand
out, turning the bike off and getting the helmet free as he steps off.
Hangs it over the seat. Pries his cowl down so it hangs off the back of his
neck, revealing a flushed, sweat-damp face that almost looked too young to
be in such a stern, tough guy costume night after night. "I'll be quick,"
he says by way of greeting, already moving to strip himself of his bracers
and gauntlets. The scan on the computer will go faster if he's out of
uniform. Or at least strips out of the thicker layers.
Bruce doesn't expect Tim to come tonight. That's what he tells himself. It's what he tells himself when he hops out of the car, the engine cooling behind him, and he strides over to the computer. He tells himself he's only here to catalogue the weapons he's confiscated, to move the pieces around on the board. To get a read on Sionis' next play. He tells himself he's working. And that he's not waiting for Tim at all.
Because Tim's not going to come tonight.
He spares a glance to the manor's security feed when it alerts him to a vehicle approaching. High rate of speed. Tim Drake, the automated voice announces and asks Bruce if he wants to grant him access. He doesn't have a chance to answer. Tim uses his codes to enter. And for a moment, Bruce smiles to himself.
Bruce doesn't say anything as Tim comes in and begins to strip down. He said he wouldn't bother him and he won't. But he suspects he doesn't have to. He suspects Tim will ask him to. And he's been patient enough. He could wait a little while longer.
Tim rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, slides his bo staff out as he
approaches the pad to get scanned and begin the simulation. Bruce's were
always the worst, most grueling trainings, programmed to give even Batman a
run for his money. But Tim's here to prove he's not shirking his
responsibilities just because he's a little slow taking down two seven foot
goons.
Tim's never been about brute strength. That's never what Bruce would rely on him for when he had his own. Tim's tactical. A little more cerebral in his approach to a fight. He's like Bruce in that way; thinking several steps ahead to put himself at the advantage. Bruce would put that to work. With a few quick keystrokes he loads up the simulation and Tim is standing face to face with Killer Croc. As good a place to start than any.
The computer begins a countdown but Croc takes his first swing without waiting for it to finish. There's dozens of cameras recording the fight; Bruce doesn't have to watch if he doesn't want to. But he does. Because there's something different about watching Tim work in person and he wants to see it with his own eyes.
It's true that Tim isn't at his prime tonight. Maybe that's why he came
here after all. To be seen by Bruce, to be told off for it. Punished. The
thought occurs, unbidden, of Bruce throwing him over his lap to spank him
while Tim moans Daddy like a litany.
Still, he focuses on the attacks at hand. Just because it's only a program
doesn't mean it won't hurt when Croc swings. Luckily, even tired and worn
out and sluggish, Tim is faster than most and easily able to figure out the
moves coming at him. Croc's downside is he's sluggish due to his size, at
least compared to the other kinds of villains they face day to day.
Tim makes it look easy despite the things going on in his life. His body
moves fluidly, bends like Dick taught him, throws punches faster than
Jason, and uses his brains like Bruce. The bo staff is an extension of him
as he moves, eventually getting Killer Croc to his knees. Not after Croc
got a swipe in against his side, but that's par for the course... Right?
Bruce watches Tim work, the way his body slides into each move. So fluid he might as well be made of water. It's not a flawless display. But it's still impressive.
Tim's good. Bruce isn't surprised. The mistakes are easy to spot. His staff droops a little lower than it should. He doesn't pivot fast enough to avoid Croc's swipe. He's tired. Sluggish. Minor issues. Simple things to correct. But Bruce doesn't correct them. The analysis finishes compiling and he turns to glance at the results.
"You were about eight seconds faster in your last run." He says. And then he gets back to work.
Tim rolls his shoulders again as the program fizzles away and leaves behind
the cold reality of the Cave and Bruce's asked for neglect. Tim can't blame
anyone but himself for how chilling Bruce's tone feels, how distant. He
asked for this. He demanded it. So why is it Tim that's left feeling
guilty? Like he did something wrong.
He moves to the computer to look at the results and makes a sound with his
mouth not unlike Damian's little ttchs. Eight seconds slower means eight
seconds of improvement. It's not Tim's best work, and he knew it wouldn't
be, but what he expected was for Bruce to get up and put his hands on him,
show him where he was slow, maybe linger a second too long, maybe lean in
and kiss him, maybe just stroke down his spine, maybe coax him into the
bedroom. It's stupid to want the very things he was pissed off about a
month ago, but that had been under duress, and this was---well, because he
wanted it, right?
He'd always been desperate for Bruce's approval, whatever form that took.
"You have a Batman scenario in there yet?" he asks, lingering at Bruce's
side. "Gimme a real challenge."
Tim is close enough to touch, and Bruce has to stop himself from reaching across the space between them-his hand itching to trace the curve of his shoulder, the line of his spine. Any exposed skin would do. It's a struggle-more of one than he'd like to admit. But he does keep his hands to himself. Doesn't even chance a glance in Tim's direction. His eyes stay fixed on the evidence in front of him, organizing it with more care than necessary.
He finally stops when Tim asks for a Batman scenario. There is one, though it still needed testing. He could pit Tim against it. Watch the outcome and point out where Tim went wrong. But that's not what Tim is after. Not really. And Bruce knows it.
Besides, why bother with a simulation when the real Batman is standing just inches away?
"It isn't ready," he says, tone flat, still focused on the work. But he does stop eventually and tugs the cowl off so he could see Tim. And more importantly, so Tim could see him.
"If you want a Batman scenario, you'll have to settle for me."
It's probably the most obvious way Tim could have asked Bruce to spar with
him, to touch him in any way that doesn't break Tim's rule of 'staying
away', but at the moment, he doesn't care. Bruce is right there, and when
he pulls the cowl down, it gives Tim chills to see Bruce's handsome,
weathered face bared before him again. The man is absolutely perfect
physically, hard-earned and kept up meticulously, but it's not just his
body and his mind--it's his face. The jagged, raw edges of jaw. The slight
stubble that's trying to shatter the illusion of perfection.
"You're the one who said I was slow out there," Tim says, quietly,
stretching out his arms by pulling one in front of his chest, then the
other, as he walks backwards towards the training pit. This is probably a
really, really bad idea. But Tim already feels high as a damn kite having
Bruce just look at him after so long away. "Come prove it."
If Tim had ever tried to hide his attraction to Bruce, he'd never been very good at it. Even before things got complicated between them, there'd been signs that Bruce pretended not to notice. But of course he had. And now that things were different between them, it's all but broadcast now. Tim says wants space, but he craves Bruce's approval and he'd keep coming back for it. Bruce would just have to keep maneuvering this to his advantage.
He watches Tim back away toward the training mats and it only takes a moment to decide. Bruce unclips the cape and pulls off the cowl and follows Tim into the pit. This is probably a terrible idea. But then Bruce also dresses like a giant bat to terrorize Gotham's lowlifes. He's not exactly known for having great ideas. When they're face to face and Bruce slides into a stance, he smirks and beckons Tim to make the first strike.
Tim's done it before. He's managed to get a swat or kick in when he's
really firing on all cylinders, when his brain is precisely focused, when
he's at his prime. But tonight, he's certainly not. He's not only
distracted by Bruce but by the anticipation of being touched by him in any
way after starving himself from it for a month, but he's also tired, it's
past three in the morning, and Travis down by the docks did get a good
punch against his ribs on the right side.
Not to mention he did his best against the last program of Killer Croc.
Even so, Tim hopes he's doing something to make Bruce proud as he darts
forward and fakes out twice before going for Bruce's jaw.
Bruce shifts, defensive now that Tim is on the move. He lists slightly to the left, probably to avoid aggravating an injury on the right. Bruce counters easily, even with the fake outs. He catches Tim by the wrist, almost pulls him in close, but knocks it off course instead. They were sparring. He had to be patient. Shakes his head.
"You're hurt." There's a hint of concern in his delivery, but nothing beyond it. It explains why Tim's reaction time is slower than usual at least. Besides the exhaustion.
Tim huffs, annoyed by the ease with which Bruce stops him, redirects all
his momentum with barely a flick of his wrist. But also aroused if he's
truly honest about it. Bruce is never so beautiful as when he's in motion,
perfect in every diversion and dodge and shift, as if he isn't built like a
damn brick wall.
"That guy at the docks got a little hit in before I subdued him, that's
all." Tim tries again, this time swinging once with his elbow and then
ducking low to try for Bruce's knees. That's one of the only weak spots he
knows Bruce has, and it's barely even weak honestly. Just an easier target
than the rest of him.
Bruce's expression darkens at Tim's confession. There didn't seem to be anything little about the way Tim is carrying himself in the aftermath. If Tim was going to be sloppy like this, get side swiped by some low level thug, maybe he's let this go on long enough. He had given Tim his space and now maybe it's time for him to come back into the fold. Come back to Bruce.
The elbow is easily blocked and he pivots when Tim dips low to aim for his knees. He allows the blow to connect, so it keeps Tim close enough to grab and haul upright. The grip on his arm is merciless. Not brutal. Just almost inescapable.
"Is this what you do with space, Tim? Sloppy work. Poor judgement." His grip tightens. Unyielding.
"Is this what happens without me to keep you in line?"
Bruce is so fast. Even Tim forgets sometimes, until he sees it with his own
eyes, how Bruce is standing still one minute then easily leaning away from
a punch the next, only to grab Tim's arm in an iron grip and haul him up to
his tiptoes to not fall off balance in the next. Tim sways, but he's
steadied by the brutal clench of Bruce's thick fingers around the meat of
his arm. Inside, his mind rages, vacillates between break me and stop.
In the end, he's just looking up at Bruce and trying to take another swing,
even knowing it won't land.
Are they still even sparring?
"I'm---human, Bruce," Tim pants out, his face red at Bruce's easy
deciphering of all his mistakes. Catalogued in his face. "I'm fine. It's
nothing serious. We all get injured."
Injured, yes. Usually by world ending threats. By monsters and aliens and otherworldly beings. Not by some forgettable grunt with a lucky swing. Tim knows better. And if he's going to insist on his independence, he should act like it. Recklessness isn't independence. It's a liability. The kind that will get him killed. The thought settles like lead, hard and heavy in his chest. It makes him want to draw Tim in. Kiss his panting mouth. Kiss him until he understands. He couldn't lose another one. Not like how he lost Jason. Not again.
It doesn't feel like sparring anymore. Not when he catches Tim's swing and holds it in mid-air. His grip tightens just slightly, eyes grim. Cold.
The hurt in Bruce's gaze is hard enough to cut glass, an undercurrent
of--something else. Something darker. Tim can't be sure, but whatever it
is, it slices through his heart as Bruce catches his other hand too,
holding Tim easily now so that there's no escape unless he wants to
dislocate something or truly fight Bruce off like he meant it. But he
didn't mean it. He loved Bruce.
The words cut even deeper somehow. Disappointment.
"To be like what?" he asks, terrified of the answer.
Careless. Reckless. Such a casual disregard for his own safety. He should have demanded better from himself when Travis landed that hit. It's what Bruce would have done - identified every mistake, every weakness, and corrected them. No excuses.
"You're not taking care of yourself. Letting mistakes slide." His voice is as sharp as his gaze - precise and withering. But there's something else. Something deeper. Quiet, faint. He softens. As much as a man like Bruce could.
Bruce has the stunning ability to see right through him. Everything that
Tim is and does and wants and needs. He feels suddenly very, very small
again. Like the scrawny child that coltishly wandered up to Dick Grayson
and begged for a chance. That same child who had told Bruce that Batman
needed a Robin and if it wasn't Dick then Tim would train and do it. Bruce
had always been so hard on him, pushing Tim's every limit to better
himself. And now is no different.
Tim pulls against the grip Bruce has on him.
"I'm sorry I can't live up to your impossible standards. I'm not you.
I'm---" Broken. Lonely. Hurt. "--I messed up. I know. I'll do better."
Tim pulls and Bruce lets him go. One concession. The hand around his arm stays and now that one hand is free, Bruce decides to take the risk and drag it over Tim's chest. Over the Red Robin crest and over the parts of his body the bodysuit fits snugly. He doesn't know how this fixes anything. If it even does. But it feels right and Bruce for once is letting himself act on how he feels.
Even if Tim pushes him away. Tries to push him off. Bruce would just keep coming back because he could never have enough. Tim would never give him enough. Not until Bruce has wrings him dry.
"Let me help you. You were better when you were with me, weren't you?" Everything was better. He draws in close, pressing an almost kiss to the corner of Tim's mouth while he murmurs the words into his skin. "Say it, Tim."
Tim closes his eyes and---God help him, he loves the tone of Bruce's voice,
the softness in it as Bruce hums it against the corner of his mouth. A
mouth with lips that parts just so in anticipation of more and then closes
again when it doesn't come.
"When we were partners, it was perfect," Tim agrees. "But we're not
partners anymore, Bruce. You have a new Robin." Dick's fault, really, but
Bruce showed so much more attention to Damian when he'd come back and it
still hurts. Still feels biting that he's not Bruce's first choice. That
Bruce still has Damian in the suit that Tim built from the ground up. And
he's--he's happier now, right? Being Red Robin. Being his own hero, in his
own way, without living up to anything.
Damian had been a special case. One that Bruce could not have left to resolve on its own. Damian had come to him with the League's ideals and training - it's violence and absolute certainty. Leaving that unchecked would have been...a disaster. He needed the structure being Robin provided. He needed the boundaries. He needed the rules. Bruce could have been content with Tim as his Robin for good. Tim had earned it. But that's not the hand they had been dealt.
He thought Tim would adjust with time. He thought Tim would understand he couldn't leave his son to flounder. That didn't mean Bruce cared any less about him. It just means he had to do what's best for the mission. He's still close to Tim, breathing in the smell of him. Lips parting to pepper kisses along his jaw. He's missed that taste. "Damian needed me," he says, quiet and even. "You didn't." At least not at the time. Bruce could see now that pushing Tim out of the nest had been a bad call. But he'd fix it. If Tim would just give him the chance.
"I did," Tim whispers, practically moans as Bruce's kisses pepper sweetly
along his jaw, sending goosebumps down his neck. He's breathing heavier
now, sucking in the scent of Bruce, and his free hand clasps against
Bruce's bicep for support. Clinging. Desperate.
God, Bruce makes him so desperate.
"I did need you. I always needed you. I was the one---I searched for you. I
gave up everything for you." Tim's babbling. They can't do this again. They
can't keep falling into one another. No matter how badly they both want to.
It was true. Tim had worked so hard to be the Robin Bruce needed after Jason's death. He had to prove himself over and over again until Bruce had been satisfied. And that was a grueling task. Bruce knew how disheartening it was to lose it when he disappeared. Or not to have it back when he returned. How it could make him feel like it never mattered. Like he never mattered to Bruce. When that simply was not true and Bruce wanted to prove it.
Bruce can hear the shift in Tim's breathing, the heavy pulls of air he's taking as his hand clutches at Bruce's arm. It makes him want to put his hands on Tim's bare skin and the layers between them feels like a hindrance.
"Then come back, Tim." He lets Tim go at last, to snake an arm around his waist, to press him in close so there's no ambiguity. No doubts whatsoever. "Let me take care of you again."
Tim folds into Bruce like a tree bending in a storm, caught up in the
moment of Bruce actually asking again. It's as close as Bruce will ever
come to begging. And he's like this for Tim. Wants Tim. Not Dick or
Jason like Tim had always thought were more aligned with Bruce's desires.
After all, Dick is a peak human being and they've all seen how easily he
bends himself in half--that flexibility must be tempting. And Jason, who is
all raw power and dark desire.
Wouldn't Bruce rather have them?
"Is that really all you want? Just to take care of me?" Because to Tim,
lately that had felt more like owning him. Putting trackers on him.
Following him. Tim wasn't sure he was even capable of going back to that
for good.
Dick and Jason were desirable, Bruce would never deny that. But there's something about Tim. Something all encompassing. At times, it gave Bruce had tunnel vision. And then Tim would be all he could think about, all he he'd want to think about. He could turn it off with Dick or Jason. But Tim, it lingers. It grows and spreads and demands attention.
It had to be Tim. It had to be. There isn't room for anyone else.
"You think I want something else from you?" The question is muttered into Tim's neck, where Bruce kisses a line down the curve of, pulling at the bodysuit to make way for his lips. The watching and quiet vigilance had all come later, after Tim started pulling away. It wouldn't be necessary if Tim would only stay where Bruce could see him.
"I don't---I honestly don't know, Bruce," Tim murmurs, absolutely melting
under the pressure of those warm kisses as the suit is pried off Tim's skin
until he has to help and pull his arms free. Bruce will be able to see all
the little bruises and bites left from other men now, up close in all their
rough glory, and now it might make more sense why Tim had gotten swiped by
a lowlife thug--he was already hurt in the same spot. Almost a hand print,
from someone holding him just a little too tight.
Tim's not thinking about other men now though. He's shivery under Bruce's
touch, breathless, getting hard.
"I've wanted you---for so long... I know you know. I know you've known for
a long time. Maybe even longer than me."
There's a pause - a noticeable one - as more of Tim's skin is revealed. He sees a bite mark first, the impression of the teeth still fresh enough Bruce could make a mold of it. It hastens him, quick to pull the rest of the suit down so he could get a good look at Tim. Bruised and bitten and half ruined by someone else.
"You have a very odd way of showing it, Tim," Bruce says, voice quiet. Restraint against the sudden flare of anger. He traces a finger over a bite mark. "You let someone else do this to you?"
Tim's face is already red, embarrassed at being caught by Bruce in this. If
Bruce didn't already know all the names of every single man Tim had been
with in the interim.
"I was lonely," he says, barely and excuse. "I needed an outlet." He looks
up at Bruce, touches the man's strong jaw a tender cup. "I was as safe as I
could be getting what I needed. I know you understand."
It is an excuse. An unacceptable one. He'd known there were others, even without the surveillance. He would be foolish not to know that. Tim hadn't asked for space for no reason. Bruce's eyes drift lower over every bruise and bite he could see. Fingerprints of other men embedded in his skin. It almost makes him want to take Tim's hand off his face. Put him over his knee.
"Is this what you wanted? For someone to hurt you?" Tim's touch is tender, but there's nothing tender in how Bruce speaks, his voice a harsh cutting edge. "You should have come to me."
"Bruce," Tim says, in a calming voice, low and steady. He leans up,
brushing his lips tentatively over Bruce's clenched jaw. As if to soothe
the beast inside him that's growling and ready to bite. "I tend to like
things---in that department, anyway---a little, um..." Rough. Hard.
Sadistic. Disturbingly raw. He swallowed, another kiss to placate the
honesty of his words. "A little dark. I know you'd---I mean, we already did
things that--" Tim's losing the thread, his brain sticking on the 'things'
they've done already in just a few meetups.
Rooftop sex. Tim's consent had been dubious at best that night with Ivy's
poison flooding his veins. And then at his place, over the table. Maybe in
the middle of the Cave where someone might walk down to see wouldn't be so
unusual.
"I don't know what we are to each other, Bruce." He leaned back, tracing
his fingers along Bruce's cheek, over the raw stubble trying to poke
through his skin, into his hair to spread and massaging. "What are we?"
The contrast should disturb him. The gentleness in Tim's touch stark against the dark marks on his body. And he kisses him sweetly, as if that would make the acid less bitter. It doesn't. Because he would be a liar if he said he hadn't thought about Tim like that. Struggling under his weight. Twisting and begging for more as Bruce fucked him. Pinning him down and squeezing every last ounce of pleasure out of him. It only makes him angry because Tim went somewhere else for it when everything he could have needed was right there in front of him. They were alike in so many ways. Why had Tim needed to go anywhere else?
The question is jarring. What are we? He almost says nothing. Instead he reaches for Tim's wrist and grips it in his hand tight enough to bruise.
"You tell me, Tim. You're the one who keeps pushing me away."
It's impossible not to wince at the grip. Bruce is unforgiving when he
wants to be, and it gets Tim's blood boiling in all the right ways. He
remembers the first few times they seriously sparred, when Bruce could
easily pin him, hold him down, and how exciting it was. How breathlessly
terrifying to be held and know this person could break him in half if he
had a mind to.
"I mean," he clarifies, "You adopted me. I didn't think--you wanted me like
that. Until Ivy's." He swallows, heart thundering in his chest, because
it's so complicated. He loves Bruce as a father and a sexual partner and a
mentor and a friend even under the right circumstances. It's too much for
two people to be to one another, isn't it? It's too messy. "Do you really
want me?" And not anyone else.
He should have known. His perfect soldier. His mirror image would have those same dark inclinations. Bruce hadn't wanted to admit how many times he had come to the image of Tim pinned underneath him. How some of those sparring sessions had left him so hard it ached. He thought, Tim wouldn't want to know about that. He thought Tim would be disgusted, pull away from him. Not until Ivy's when all he wanted was to get his mouth and his hands on him.
"Yes." The admission comes as Bruce yanks Tim toward him, pressing his body in close. He could overlook the marks. The imperfections. They would heal and Tim would be all his again. "But I won't share you. Not with anyone. So this stops. Tonight."
Tim lets loose a breathless laugh, nodding, his pulse skittering at Bruce's
tone. He knows. Of course he knows. There's no more allowing Tim to run off
with other men, but Tim doesn't want other men. He's never wanted other
men. The whole thing had been just to satiate a desperate need. This, with
Bruce--this is everything.
But. The look in Bruce's eyes is enthralling. And God, sue Tim wanting to
play with him to get more.
"And if I say no?" he asks, leaning up on his tiptoes again to find the
corner of Bruce's mouth to nip and kiss there in kittenish sweetness. "If I
continue to let other men touch me?"
Somewhere, Bruce knows he's being baited. He can see it in the way Tim laughs and in that sweet way he kisses the corner of his mouth. Like he doesn't realize those words would burn Bruce to his core. Like the thought wouldn't twist in his gut. But Tim knew. He knew that possessive streak ran deep. And once he staked his claim, there wouldn't be room for anyone else.
So while he's still close, Bruce shifts, fast as lightning and drags Tim into a kiss. He holds Tim against him tight like he's trying to merge with him. Drag him into the dark too.
The kiss is hot as fire and deep as the ocean, Bruce's tongue thick and
unyielding as it punishes its way through Tim's mouth. It's perfect,
everything--the way Bruce crushes Tim close, the way he bites that warning
into his lips. Of course Tim won't. If Bruce is serious about wanting Tim,
then Tim won't ever need someone else to bruise and try to break him. The
only person he wants doing that is Bruce.
"What about all these marks on my body?" he whispered between panting into
the kiss. "Are you gonna replace them? All the spots that other men have
bruised me?"
He could. Easily. Bruce could squeeze and bite new bruises into Tim's skin, mark his territory. Leave his fingerprints so no one, not even Tim would forget who he belonged to now. He kisses him again, rakes his tongue over every inch of Tim's mouth he could reach before letting him go, giving Tim room to move.
It's a little embarrassing, but that's part of the thrill, isn't it?
Showing off all that he did just to hurt himself when he wanted Bruce but
wouldn't allow himself to have him. Tim unzips the rest of his suit,
talking a step back so Bruce can see. He's already seen the ones on Tim's
ribs, the bites at his abdomen, but as Tim shucks the bottom half of his
suit and kicks it aside, Bruce will see the true reality of how rough these
men were with his boy.
Tim turns, slowly. "The worst of them are on my hips." And it's true. The
bruises are fresh and in handprint placements from gripping Tim's hips too
hard, as well as a pretty nice welt on his ass that must have come from a
spank. Flushed from once again being naked in Bruce's presence while Bruce
himself is mostly clothed--and in the middle of the Cave, no less--Tim
looks over his shoulder at Bruce. Watches the darkness in his eyes. "I'm
sorry."
Bruce is silent as Tim strips down, counting every bruise as they came into view. Their shape, their size, the stage of healing, all of it catalogued in Bruce's head. Why he wanted to remember something that sparked such a visceral sense of rage, he didn't have an answer for. But he put it all away to remember just the same.
It's that welt that makes Bruce's blood boil the most. His jaw is tight as Tim turns and he sees it the first time. Angry and red and stark against Tim's skin.
"Of course," Tim says, quietly. It feels like a trick question, but Tim is
compelled to answer either way. If he didn't go out and save the city,
Bruce would be disappointed. If he did go out sporting all the bruises and
welts, then Bruce would also be disappointed. Tim didn't know which way
would be worse, so he went with the truth. "I needed things, but I
didn't--I mean, I tried not to let it get out of hand if I was going out
after." Normally these kinds of trysts are reserved for after patrol or
during a rare night off. But lately, Tim couldn't afford to be picky.
There's some part of Bruce that wants to ask for a name. He doesn't, because he's not sure what would make him angrier: having it or Tim saying he didn't know. He's quiet a moment, considers his options. He tried not to let it get out of hand, but from the looks of his body, from that welt set deep in his skin, he let it get out of hand often. Bruce exhales sharply.
"Not hard enough." He's quiet again, then his expression shifts, as if he's made up his mind about something. "On your knees."
Bruce's voice sounds different, and it sends shivers ricocheting down Tim's
spine. He does as he's told with no argument. He's in no position to talk
back or even ask questions, really. Part of him realizes how lucky he is
that Bruce hasn't smacked him across the room for the insubordination, let
alone what feelings it clearly brought up in his mentor.
So he goes down, knees to the mats they'd just been sparring on. Looking
up. Waiting for direction.
Bruce watches Tim sink low and there's just something about the sight of Tim on his knees. Intoxicating and heady. When Tim looks up at him, it just makes Bruce's growing erection ache. He could have let Tim's transgression go. Offered comfort. But Tim needed a lesson. And not one he'd learn from a smack across the room.
He's slow and deliberate in the way he rolls the lower half of his suit down, his cock hard and bobbing once it's free.
Tim swallows as he watches Bruce roll his suit down. Deliberate. Slow.
Meant for a show that Tim was helpless but to devour. And god, he does. He
devours the sight of Bruce like that, above him, strong and capable and
perfect even with ages of scars older than Tim slashing across his rock
hard abdomen. The divots of hard-earned musculature, the V leading down to
Bruce's hard cock--it's enough to make Tim squirm, his mouth actually
watering.
"Bruce, I--" But he stops himself. Bruce gave him direction. And Tim is a
soldier.
His mouth opens after another swallow to clear the spit. Hands loose at his
sides but anxious, his own cock jumping sweetly in anticipation. Because
Bruce is huge. And the last time, he barely fit in Tim's mouth. It's never
going to get easier, but fuck does Tim want it to be difficult. Always.
Half the reason Bruce is doing this, is to watch Tim's face. The slow rove of his eyes over Bruce's well defined muscles. He could give him permission to touch, to graze his fingers over every scar and dimple and tight thread of muscle. But that's a reward for good boys who followed orders. Bruce isn't convinced yet. Tim had spent weeks getting his needs met by other men and yet he's squirm here, mouth watering like he hasn't been touched in ages. He'd see how well Tim listened.
He approaches slow, stooping just enough to brush a hand over Tim's jaw. "Keep your hands by your side. No touching me or yourself. Understood?" Not that Tim's answer really mattered. Bruce didn't give it a chance to before he's pressing the tip of his cock into the warmth of Tim's mouth.
The soft yet stern touch to his jaw had Tim's skin prickling with
goosebumps. He would have nodded in agreement, started to speak to promise
Bruce all the obedience he deserved from Tim, but the words barely got off
his tongue and he certainly couldn't move his head as Bruce guided the tip
of his cock against Tim's parted lips. Tim's eyes flutter shut, and he
tries to get his tongue perfectly under the heft of Bruce's massive length,
the weight of it on him like a godsend.
A moan slides past, desperately pitched as his hands find themselves
balling into fists to rest on his thighs. He won't touch. He won't. But
it's nearly impossible, his body crying out for more comfort, more
connection. His eyes open again to look at Bruce, to show that he's here,
he's aware, he's doing everything Bruce wants, and he won't stop. He leans
a little forward, encouraging Bruce to go deeper.
For a minute, Bruce relaxes. The tension eases from his shoulders and his jaw doesn't feel clenched so tightly. For a minute, he forgets that he's angry or that deep almost visceral sense of betrayal. It all melts away under the smooth glide of Tim's tongue. He's never one to lose himself in a moment, but for this? For Tim, he does. Just a little. His eyes slide close and and his breathing hitches and he just let's what he's feeling happen, without trying to tamp it down or lock it away.
But it's only a moment and when it passes, he reigns himself back in and opens his eyes to see Tim gazing up at him, his hands curled into fists on his thighs. It's a gorgeous sight. His lean forward pulls Bruce a little deeper into his mouth and he could go deeper still. Stretch Tim's jaw to accommodate the girth of him. For now he wanted to savor the feeling, let it build slow until it broke under the strain. So that's what he does - ease his way in and watch the way Tim has to work out how to breathe and how to keep from choking. Bruce wouldn't give him long. He'd reach the limits of his patience soon enough and it wouldn't matter much if Tim was ready for that or not.
His name on Bruce's tongue. It's a sound unlike anything else in the world.
Softly hummed like a prayer, and Bruce would never pray because he is god
and vengeance and all that Tim needs in the whole universe. Tim moans. How
couldn't he, hearing Bruce like that? Watching the man's eyes close and his
features soften for just that bare second. It's perfect. Tim would live
here on his, sucking Bruce off forever in supplication if it meant he could
glimpse that side of Bruce again.
That tenderness that no one else ever got to see.
Saliva builds as Tim takes a bit of the lead, bobbing his head gently to
take Bruce in and out, to slick his length. It's already at the back of
Tim's throat and Bruce has barely moved and has more to go and that's a
beautiful warning to Tim, who is eager to choke and cry again for Bruce, to
be put in his place and then told he was a good boy for healing.
There's something reverent in Tim's eye as he watches Bruce and it spikes the pleasure already flooding through him. Bruce draws in a sharp breath to keep his composure. He could feel it when hit the back of Tim's throat and it finally drags a quiet groan out of him. There's a moment of indulgence as he rests his hand on the top of Tim's head, curling his fingers between the dark strands, encouraging him to continue that bob of his head.
Tim will know when he's had enough, when his patience has reached its limit when those fingers curl tighter and Bruce rocks his hips forward. He pulls back, hand in his hair holding Tim steady for when his hips surge forward again and marveling at the softness of the back of Tim's throat. That makes him moan too.
Tim's balled fists curl tighter, and he presses them firmly against his
thighs, hard enough to bruise if he isn't careful. It's more difficult than
it has any right to be, keeping still, not touching. All he wants is to
worship Bruce's body with his reverent hands or maybe hold his cock where
even his mouth can't fit it all in. He wants to cup Bruce's balls or hold
his ass to feel him make that first, brutal thrust where the head of his
length pushes against the back of Tim's throat hard enough to make his
stomach quiver.
Tim's drooling. He can't help it. Bruce doesn't even give him time to suck
it back, or breathe, or anything, just holds his head still and thrusts in
deep. Tim tries to open his throat to accept him. The men he's been with,
they're nothing compared to Bruce, not just in temperament but in size and
girth. No one has made Tim's gag reflex trigger. No one has made Tim want
it to. His eyes water as he opens up his throat for the next thrust,
whimpering pathetically as his cock twitches with every thrust in Bruce
makes. It hurts. His throat is on fire already but he loves it, loves being
on his knees and giving Bruce what no one else can.
Not Dick or Jason or anyone else. Just Tim.
He can't help it; his hands jump on the next deep thrust, holding Bruce's
thighs, pushing against them. An automatic survivor's instinct to keep from
choking. And then out of sheer desperation to hold on and be grounded by
touch.
Bruce could feel himself slipping again. The grasp on his composure loosening with every brutal slam of his hips against Tim's face. He doesn't have to stare at Tim to know he's struggling - struggling to keep his hands on his thighs, to keep from choking too badly on the cock thrusting into his mouth. He just lets his mind wander to the soft tightness of his throat and every jolt of pleasure he feels when he hits it just right. Tim is perfect for it too. Knew how to take him down despite the pace.
It's perfect. Too perfect. And the illusion is broken when he feels Tim's hands on his thighs, pushing back against him. He opens his eyes, tilts his head down to look at Tim's hands, small when compared to the thick meat of Bruce's thighs. Part of him thinks about letting it slide. He could hardly blame Tim for wanting some sense of control over the encounter. Bruce isn't gentle as he fucks Tim's mouth. He grips his hair tight. His pace is unrelenting; Tim hardly has space to breathe in between. Bruce could see the tears wetting his cheeks. But then he sees a bruise pressed into his hip. Remembers the angry, red welt on his ass and Bruce decides Tim doesn't have the privilege. He hasn't earned it yet.
"Hands, Tim," he growls. The warning rumbles up from somewhere deep, a note of Batman, thick and hoarse from the high he's chasing.
The worst part of it all is that Tim can't even apologize. He can't say
he's sorry, that he's trying, that there's never going to be anyone else
but Bruce and Bruce doesn't have to worry because Tim is a good boy and
doing everything he can---but please---just a little gentler, a little
slower, a little moment to take a breath.
Or maybe it's the best part, because his hands immediately are back to his
own thighs, slapped down loudly, fingers gripping his own muscle as he
gulps down Bruce's next brutal thrust and feels his cock finally push past
the tight resistance and edge down his throat. With Tim's head tipped back
as it was just to take the length at the best angle, it feels like Bruce
will be able to see the outline of his thrusting cock against the red,
stained tendons in Tim's neck.
His tongue is lolled out, inviting Bruce even deeper, gagging but pushing
himself for Bruce. To be perfect. To be his vessel.
The thing is, Bruce knows Tim is trying. He doesn't protest, doesn't try to stop Bruce from forcing his way down his throat. That's what a good soldier does, wasn't it? They took whatever challenge is put in front of them and rise up to meet it. That's how they were all trained. Tim would do his best because that's what Bruce expects. It's satisfying to hear the smack of his hands against his thighs.
"Good boy, Tim," Bruce says, his voice humming as he feels himself winding up, getting closer and closer to that precarious edge. He tilts his head back, lips parting as he tries to catch his breath. It feels like it's slipping away, like he's going to drown. He's close, he's so close. "You're a good boy for Daddy, aren't you?" Just for Bruce.
Tears stream down Tim's red cheeks, his own cock mercilessly weeping as
well as the word sinks in. He's never once called Bruce that. It's so
filthy and obscene, filling up Tim's head with so many different,
conflicting feelings. Bruce is his father, had stepped in to replace the
real thing, had been that for Tim over the years, and that was part of the
reason Tim never let thing get out of hand. It's too complex to want both a
father and a lover both in the same body. But Daddy is on another level
that Tim had only dreamed of in private.
His toes curl, knees shifting wide so he can spread his thighs a little,
give himself room. Room for nothing, really, since he can't touch himself,
his hands spasming against the meat of his own naked thighs, nails dragging
into his skin.
Daddy.
Tim's eyes roll back as Bruce's cock slides in deep. He can't breathe.
Can't think. All he can hear is that single word repeated in Batman's gruff
growl over and over again in an echo chamber, in time to the beat of his
own heady heart. His face is turning colors. It's perfect. He holds there
for Bruce, swallowing him, gagging on him, giving Bruce everything that's
in him and then some, more than he'd ever give to anyone else because
nobody deserves this sloppy, degraded, desperate part of Tim but Bruce.
For once this isn't something Bruce had planned. It wasn't some tightly woven thread or a piece of some grand master plan to drive Tim to the brink. It just. Happened. In the moment, heady and intoxicating as it is, Bruce had felt the word slip out of him. Bubble up like the quiet surge of a wave against the beach. It feels right. Because it only winds Bruce up tighter, makes his balls feel tight.
It feels right because he can see the way Tim reacts when his head drops to watch him. He can see his cock weeping and Tim's wet cheeks and it drives Bruce over the edge. His orgasm hits like punch to the gut. It seizes him and every muscle and every thought and all Bruce can think is Tim and how beautiful he looks on his knees and desperate and lips wrapped around the thick girth of his cock. For a long few moments, it feels like Bruce won't ever stop coming, like he'll deflate when he's emptied out completely.
But it does stop eventually and the grip he has on Tim's hair relaxes and all of the tension and anger he felt leaves him as he takes a few weary steps back, giving Tim space to catch his breath. He isn't angry anymore. He could forgive the bites and the welts and the bruises. They would heal. He could forgive because Tim would not forget this moment and if he thought to ever ask for space again, he'd remember it would never be like this with anyone else. Not ever.
Bruce doesn't trust his knees to hold him up. So he sits down on the mat near Tim, panting and sweating and trying to will his heart back to something closer to his baseline. Then he reaches for Tim, pulls him close and presses a warm kiss to his sweat slick forehead. As much praise as he had in him to give right then.
It's another tsunami of come from Bruce's cock, and Tim has to wonder if
anyone has ever successfully sucked the man off and lived to tell the tale.
Tim can take a lot, swallows so much more than should be humanly possible,
but even he can't keep up entirely, spluttering on the last few spurts as
they slide out the corners of his overstuffed mouth. It's perfect, though,
really. Tim just slack there, a vessel to be used for Bruce's needs. To
fulfill Bruce. Crying and turning blue in the face and so relieved when
Bruce finally does pull away but already missing the intensity of that high.
There's nothing like it. No one else could ever take him there. He would
have never trusted some strange man to do that to him.
Tim sags when he's let go, boneless and doubling over to cough with one
single, quivering arm holding him up, his body a wreck of spasms from the
rough come down. And then Bruce is gathering him close, kissing his
forehead, and all Tim can do is bow in against him, crawl slowly into his
lap and straddle his waist, arms looping lazily around his thick neck. He
gives a pathetic thrust against Bruce's stomach, his cock rubbing there.
And moans.
"Please?" he murmurs. "Just---stay like that." Tim would do the work.
Rutting against Bruce, using his skin as friction for his desperate cock,
rocking in against his abs as he buried his face in Bruce's neck and
shoulder, panting.
In a few quiet pulls of air, Bruce could feel himself coming back down to earth. That boneless, weightless feeling sliding into contentment. He allows Tim into his lap, welcomes him and wraps one of those strong arms around his waist.
When he feels that hard press of Tim’s cock against his stomach Bruce pulls back, just enough to watch him rut against him, with a hand sliding over his hip. Subtle encouragement.
Tim's body undulates like a beautiful serpent as he rocks against Bruce.
His ass rubs along Bruce's soft length, his own hard cock thrust against
Bruce's abdomen. He winces at every catch of the head against Bruce's deep
toned muscles, then moans at the hand subtly on his hip just keeping him
steady and giving him permission to do this. He's dizzied by it, blood
rushed south and his head still spinning from the lack of air during that
blowjob.
Head bowed, he rides into Bruce, moving in short, jerky little bursts.
And then, quietly, "Daddy," whispered into Bruce's chest. Horribly quiet
and embarrassed to say it but the flush on his body gives away how much he
likes it.
If he were honest, Bruce wasn't too sure how he would feel hearing that word from Tim. It had not been intentional when Bruce said it, but here, while Tim is rocking into his abs, it is very much intended. Even if he's whispered it into his chest, even if he's hiding his face to hide how embarrassed he is.
As it has time to settle, Bruce decides he likes it just fine. His free hand graze over the beautiful curve of his spine, while he leans forward to kiss his shoulder and kiss his neck. Then up his cheek and close to his ear.
"Can I?" Tim gasps, shivery at hearing it again from Bruce, right there
against the shell of his ear. In that dark, intimate voice. "Can I come?
Please, can I--can I touch myself and come?"
He couldn't yet say the word again, too distraught as he rocked into Bruce,
close but needing more to get off and still under Bruce's spell enough to
ask for permission. He'd been told not to touch himself. He wouldn't. If
Bruce said no, he'd buck into him all night to get off or go without.
Tim's begging does something to him. Stirs something dark and warm inside of him that goes straight to his cock. Tim's obedience does the same and Bruce inhales sharply, quietly against the side of Tim's head.
When he asks again, Bruce doesn't answer. Not right away. He looks down to watch that hard flesh pressing into his abdomen.
"No." There's nothing malicious in the denial. Just a quiet warmth to go with Bruce wrapping his fingers around Tim's cock and stroking him in tandem with every roll of his hips. "Don't stop."
"No-no? Bruce, I---haaah...." Tim shudders, clenching his legs around Bruce
as those thick fingers find his aching hardness. He's too worked up to know
if Bruce is saying no to coming or no to touching or no to both, so he just
breathes through the absolute torture of the pleasure and continues to jerk
and thrust into Bruce's fist and against his body. "I ca-n't, Bruce I
can't--please...." He can. He tells himself he can. He'll wait as long as
it takes, as long as Bruce wants.
Forever, if he asked it. Tim is his soldier and perfect boy and he would
wait for permission.
For a minute, he doesn't bother to clear up the confusion. He likes the desperate sounds Tim makes, but the way he keeps going because he wants to make Bruce happy. He likes the weight of Tim's cock in his hand. He likes the way Tim tries to hold himself back when he's clearly close to the brink. Bruce could be cruel and tell him to stop, edge him close and leave him wanting. He could; Tim's given him the power to do so. But he decides the sight of Tim coming would be a better one.
So after a few lazy strokes, he kisses Tim's jaw again and says, "It's okay, Tim. Come for me."
It's an explosion out of Tim barely a few seconds after permission is
given. Tim had been holding his breath and he lets it all out in a huff as
he arches his body back. Holding his arms loose around Bruce's neck, he
thrusts two more times into Bruce's perfect hand and then comes. Thick
spatters of come against Bruce's chest, down the man's fingers, onto his
own body with how his cock is arched that way, twitching helplessly in the
rough texture of Bruce's grip. Tim doesn't shout, instead his lips are
merely parted and nothing really comes out except a sigh of gratitude.
The other men hadn't known what to do with Tim, how to give him what he
needed. The pain was fine, good even, but it's nothing compared to the
emotional toll being with Bruce takes on him. Like being wrung dry.
When it's over, Tim sags against Bruce, face buried against his shoulder as
he pants and tries to catch his breath.
Bruce braces a hand against Tim's back, holding him steady as he comes. And as he watches his boy come unraveled, Bruce knows he made the right choice. He's beautiful to watch, flush cheeks and sweat-drenched and Bruce watches while he's hitting that high and when he comes down from it after. He waits for Tim to go slack, then holds him close, like he's something precious.
They'd have to get up soon enough, but for now, Bruce just wants to hold Tim for a moment longer.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Let me know if anything need changed!
Whether being fugitive drives prices up or down, Steve definitely doesn't have the bandwidth to care about.
What he does have the bandwidth to very much care about is finding somewhere to be until he can get enough information to get his people out of the floating, high security prison they were put in when they refused to sign. And time to get a plan together for what he's doing with them after that.
The offer to let Bruce know if he could help? That one he definitely remembers. Doesn't like needing it, but he has next to no other options. Not like 'wanted criminal' is a position he's got a lot of experience with.
He does have sense though, both tactical and otherwise. Which is why his people are in a high security prison floating in the ocean, and Steve isn't. It's also why he calls from a disposable phone and number.
All he says, though, is "I could use a drink." Steve can't get drunk and he's pretty sure Bruce doesn't drink. He's just going to have to hope Bruce is either secure in his security or just spits out an address - or both. Reading between the lines he knows Bruce will do.
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So that meant long nights. Well, longer nights, pouring over schematics and plans. Not only to improve his weaponry but to improve the car's capabilities as well. He wanted to be prepared for anything, even if that anything turned out to be nothing at all.
The accords, while a thought, hadn't been a real priority. It'd been filed under 'deal with it later' if it ever became a problem. It seemed a more immediate threat to the likes of Superman and Flash and to Steve than to him at any rate. That is until Steve called. He was tempted to let the answering machine pick it up ( he had work to do ) but when he realized just who it was, he decided to keep his word and answer.
"Well, Rogers, you're in luck. I've got plenty. Come by the Tower. They'll let you into the penthouse."
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He's made worse judgement calls, but as a rule? He has a lot of faith in individuals and Bruce has put his own ass on the line for others too many times for him to expect him to pull anything with that.
"Give me fifteen. Make the door you want me in obvious for me, would you?"
He's there in ten. He's not cagey or even overly cautious in his approach. A little tense, maybe but that's because it's Gotham and that Tower is... imposing.
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Fifteen minutes is plenty enough time to get ready for a guest. He puts away his work, at least for the evening and puts the more important things under a more secure lock and key.
When Steve arrives, Lucius Fox is the one waiting for him outside. He directs him to the underground garage, where Bruce's personal elevator is. It'll take him directly to the top floor.
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He's not.
He could make a narrative to make this a Batman Level elaborate and genius trap - but it doesn't fit the guy who has dedicated his life to a cause, and poured his literal blood into it.
He's pretty quiet when he greets Fox and the long ride up to the top floor. He's tense, but in a (really) subtle tired and starting to fray ' sort of way, rather than anything approaching 'fight ready'.
Jeans, t-shirt, jacket and sneakers fit that pretty well too. Nothing like a uniform or armed when he steps out of the elevator, immediately looking for Bruce. Hoping this isn't going to be a 'leave him longer' or game of hide and seek. There are spaces he'll move around like a bull in a china shop. Anywhere controlled by Bruce? Absolutely not without goddamn good cause, and he'd still rather not.
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Steve isn't made to wait as Bruce is there when the elevator dings and the doors slide open. "Glad you found the place," he says, as if Wayne Tower isn't a monster on Gotham's skyline. You could see it from Arkham Island.
He's not nearly as casual as Steve, but not as put together as he is when he needs to be Bruce Wayne. Black slacks and a white button down that's loose at the collar. He slides his hands into his pockets and nods toward the ornate double doors across the hall. "There's a mini bar in there. Come in and tell me what's got you troubled enough to drink."
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He quirks a faint smile and shakes his head. "I'll drink it if you give it to me, but it's a waste of what I'm sure's a really good drink." He just metabolizes it out before it accomplishes anything. "I just needed an excuse I wouldn't mind being overheard. Wouldn't mind sitting down while I explain myself, though."
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The wall of liquor is one of the more attractive parts of the office space. The wall mirrored and well lit to draw in the eye to various wines and spirits Bruce has spent a long time collecting. It suits his purposes: entertaining people he's trying to do business with, or furthering the idea that he really had nothing better to do than party his days away while other people did the hard work of keeping Wayne Enterprises afloat. Plush red stools neatly lined the bar. Tucked away, in the corner of the room were two overstuffed chairs, offering a better sense of privacy than the stools did.
"If you're hungry, I can have something brought up for you."
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There's something about the space, even the bar, that for all that it is a display of wealth and image, and one that is at least somewhat (he assumes) cultivated, that has an elegance about it that suits Bruce.
He sits, and leans forward enough to have his forearms braced on his thighs. "I need to eat, but let me get this out so you can decide whether you want me around long enough to feed me."
Asking for help still feels... wrong, on some level. Food? That offer doesn't. It feels fundamentally reflective of who he thinks Bruce is as a person. "The second the Accords went live they arrested everyone who didn't sign that they could find, including a guy with kids who was prepared to walk away. I can't let that stand. I won't involve you in that, but I need time to gather enough information to move on."
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He follows Steve to the corner of his office but doesn't sit, opting instead to lean back against the bookshelf. It seems a casual gesture, but it was always easier to be prepared when he's standing. Besides, he never really stays sitting for long.
As he listens, there's a...shift in him. It's work to always be Gotham's Golden Boy. It's down to an art by now, but that doesn't mean it's not work. It's easy to turn it off though, like the flip of a switch. He'd known about the Accords passing, but hadn't looked into it any further.
"What do you need from me?" Asked in a way, not to suggest a reluctance to help, but to make sure Steve knew whatever he needed, Bruce was willing to provide.
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Either way, he actively breathes easier and is more comfortable for it. He trusts Bruce, period. How to interact with Gotham's 'Prince', even knowing what's behind that mask and trusting Bruce enough to be here - and trusting Bruce trusts him enough to let him be? Not well enough not to be awkward as hell.
"I need information about the prison they're being held in - as much of it as I can get. Security systems, guard schedules and changes, the transportation system being used for supplies and staff. Ideally who the staff is. Bare minimum I need to know what the outer layer of security looks like." Which is obviously also the bare minimum of what he needs. "Time to turn that information into a plan for getting them out, and to be able to move and move them once they are."
He was... not as prepared as he should be. Not with Peggy's funeral at the same time, but mostly not for 'just stopping' to be something they wouldn't let slide for even the non-enhanced guys like Clint and Sam. ...or Batman, technically, though for all his worry and really trusting Bruce, he doesn't see that happening. Not with the secret identity, not with all the security in place around it. If that was going to break into an arrest, it already would have.
He rubs his eyes between his thumb and forefinger. "And I really need food." That bit? Is embarrassed. Still Steve warm and blunt, but embarrassed.
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At his computer he inputs a few queries but turn up no results, at least none near Gotham. He would have to send out feelers for anything beyond that.
"Give me a little time, Steve," he says, "I'll get you what you need."
With his kind of resources, the shadow he casts can be as long or as short as he needs it. But that is some nebulous future thing that Bruce doesn't have a way of predicting the outcome of just yet. There's still right now to take care of.
"There's a chef here. He'll cook whatever you like." He gets up from his desk and crosses the space again to where Steve is. "And if you need a place to sleep, come with me to the manor. I'll let Alfred know to prepare one of the guest rooms."
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He drops one shoulder against the bookcase, and studies Bruce for a moment. Quiet, steady, warm and somehow just a little amused. "I don't have a problem with going home with you." Sleep he can go longer without, but he'd rather not. The Manor's one of the safest places on earth, and he likes Alfred almost as much as he likes Bruce. "but when was the last time you ate - or slept for that matter?"
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He smiles wryly at Steve's question. Eating, he did far more of than sleeping. But still the answer to Steve's question would be the same - a while. "I've been busy," he says. He isn't sure how much Steve's heard about the Arkham City debacle, but Bruce gives him a basic summary regardless, while leaving out the bits too personal to recount (namely that he was infected with Joker's blood and that infection might not be cured).
"Joker's dead. But nothing is ever over in this city. It's quiet for now, but for how long? I'm going to be ready when it gets here."
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but he's got being a successful laboratory experiment assist.
Bruce? He can't be clear on timing of those things, or even current state. That man's ability to function and at least seem fine through almost anything is a complication (for Steve's desire to take care of him). Joker being dead though? That is a damn big clue that 'busy' is an understatement and it's been a long while.
"So." After looking at Bruce with a slightly tilted head for probably long enough to be uncomfortable. "Back to the Manor, food for both of us and then we can discuss at least a nap?" Take your breaks where they come Bruce. Or fight him about it first.
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He knows its hypocrisy to insist on Steve resting so he can be ready to save his people. He could go to the manor for the night and finish his work in the Cave. Lucius already had the designs Bruce was after, so it wasn't like there was much to keep him here. Really, he's avoiding the manor because he is avoiding Tim. It's something he can set aside for one night, though. Maybe he'll even have a nap when he's satisfied with his progress. "Car's in the garage. I'll drive." He would let Alfred know he's coming with a guest on the way.
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Bruce? Isn't. He respects Bruce, likes Bruce, trusts Bruce and cares about Bruce -- but Bruce isn't his responsibility.
Not that that stops him from using some obvious leverage against him, or from wanting to see Bruce take care of himself. It's just from a position of more even footing.
"Convenient, because I don't have a car." There's a slight smile to go with that, but he's pretty content and ready to fall in with Bruce and follow him to the garage. Keep his mouth shut while Bruce is on the phone or driving.
He doesn't know what's going on, is missing big swaths of information that would worry him more, but he has enough to worry some, anyway. Do what he can. To pay attention to the individual in front of him. And to hope Tim doesn't become an invasive presence for everyone's sake.
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Doesn't mean he doesn't crash out sometimes. He very much does, because he is still just an ordinary man and there were moments where his body wouldn't give him any other choice. There are hardly ever signs. Just moments where he vanishes when he needs to recoup.
He matches Steve's slight smile then leads the way to the garage beneath the building. Tucked away in the corner is a small fleet of luxury vehicles, parked neatly in the spaces there. Using the fob to unlock one, he hops into the driver's seat and nods for Steve to join him in the passenger.
On the way, he dials up Alfred and arranges a place for Steve to sleep as well as a meal. "Make sure there's enough for two," Bruce adds, "He insists."
Tim is thankfully out with Barbara tonight so he wouldn't be a problem at least for a few hours. Gave him to time to help Steve get settled and he could get back to work himself.
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He leans back, and closes his eyes while Bruce makes the call to Alfred and stays that way until he's off the phone.
"That man should be nominated for sainthood." For many reasons. Like still being even passingly sane while managing (on any level at all) Bruce Goddamn Wayne.
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The drive to the manor is for the most part uneventful. He puts the car away in the garage and they're greeted by Alfred who offers Steve a warm welcome. Bruce ducks inside to avoid the welcome he was sure to receive. It'd been nearly a week since he'd last set foot in the manor. Their dinner was laid out in the dining room at one end of the impossibly long table. "Thank you, Alfred. What would I do without you?"
Starve most likely, Sir. He's not wrong about that.
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That may not work out in Bruce's favor because help or not? Yeah. He's likely to direct at least some more of his own 'take care of your people' onto Bruce. Especially since Bruce is doing him a favor.
Wayne Manor, as always, feels... strange to him, in some indefinable way. Something that suits both men, but doesn't. Something that's about wealth or elegance or just size and too much space and too many memories too close to the surface, even if those aren't his. Points of commonality and contrast with Stark Tower.
There's no discomfort or unease in heading into the dining room and to the table at least, or in sitting down at it. Once he's picked up his fork, though, he just looks at Bruce and waits. No muss, no fuss, no drama, but waits on Bruce to remember he's also eating.
"How long has Joker been dead?"
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Food was the last thing on Bruce's mind. He needed to eat and he knows that, but there was still so much left to do before the night shift started. He sits when Steve sits but he isn't the first of them to reach for his fork. And when he realizes Steve is waiting for him he finally picks it up and starts to cut into the protein. It's easiest to eat and often the most necessary to maintain muscle mass. He often just preferred to have in a way that was faster and more convenient than this.
It was a good thing he did not mind the company.
It's funny how Steve's question nearly startles him. There isn't a day he doesn't think about the Joker. The clown often came unbidden, often alongside Jason's gruesome last moments. And for Bruce he can't help but run their final confrontation through his brain to see what he could have possibly done differently to save him. But it always ends the same. He has the cure in hand and Joker stabs him.
"A year," he says. "While I was in Arkham City." Doesn't feel like it's been that long. Sometimes, it feels like it just happened.
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He'd still rather eat actual food when he can get away with it, especially since he can see the difficulty of doing t hat in the future coming from here.
All that does mean that when Bruce starts eating, Steve pivots his plate around and starts with the carb heavy portion of the meal. "Are people," who aren't Bruce, "approaching that as if it's some kind of win with you?"
Steve knows better. He might also hit someone if they are.
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Still, it isn't all doom and gloom. "We're rebuilding. Fixing what Strange tried to destroy."
Bruce Wayne has surfaced in the chaotic aftermath to help in the rebuilding efforts. It's a slow process, since most outside investors aren't interested in revitalization. Their money is made when Gotham is off tilt. But Bruce is working his magic and turning some of those No's into a yes. Maybe it doesn't help his case that something is brewing. But it does give ordinary people hope and that was also part of the goal of Batman.
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"I'd be more surprised if things weren't still happening. On person, no matter how powerful, is ever the whole of the problem. How they got where they were and where they found supporters, and the opportunities they saw are always there whether they are or not."
That may not be the most coherent statement ever, and it's certainly too blunt, lacking... eloquence, but he does see bigger pictures just fine. Not with the kind of intelligence Bruce has, but his own.
"I don't think a single person on my side of things knows I even know who Bruce Wayne is, including headlines about him, but if we've got information by then or not I'm going to get out of your hair and away from you within a couple of days. Is Tim still here?"
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"The people on your side don't give you enough credit," Bruce says, leaning back into his chair. He studies Steve for a moment, imagines him brought into the fold. He already knew the secret. It was all a matter of training then. But Bruce also couldn't see Steve walking away from the Avengers. Not to come here and take orders from Bruce. He's a leader himself. There'd be a clash eventually.
"But you don't have to be in a hurry, Steve. Stay as long as you need."
The question about Tim goes unanswered for a moment. "For the most part. I've got him working on something else so he's been away."
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That doesn't mean he couldn't work with or for Bruce in a given scenario, the same way it doesn't mean he's... using Bruce and Bruce's resources to try to get a handle on the absolute shit show his life has turned into.
And God he has got to find a way to get past how hurt and pissed off he is at Tony.
"Sometimes. Most of them don't quite get the serum. I'm okay with it." Most of the time. Sometimes, not. Even when not, not enough to bother to fight the assumptions.
He continues to eat and clears his plate while he waits on the answer about Tim, puts his fork and knife down then and looks back to study Bruce. "I was prepared for shit to get bad. I wasn't ready for them to sweep up a guy with kids and a military vet who are in no way enhanced. I don't know how the hell I'm going to manage this long term, but I've got to get it figured out. I'll stay until I do or I get so much as a hint I'm about to bring trouble down on you or Tim."
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"You'll get them out." Distantly, a clock chimes and Bruce gets up. It's time to go to work. "And if you can't, I'll help you." Whether as Batman or Bruce Wayne, either way the hand would be extended.
He nods for Steve to follow. If he's never seen the Cave, now was the time. He opens an entrance and steps into the elevator that appears. "As far as I can tell, it isn't on the mainland. And if the Accords aren't just targeting your friends, then they're going to need a facility that can hold Superman. There's not a prison within a thousand miles that can do that." Which is the biggest clue. "So I've got Oracle tracking a few leads. If anyone can find your friends, it's her."
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Whether that's discomfort at the confinement and bad associations, or the result of trying to work with Bruce and not start a (stupid, unnecessary) fight just because he want to lash out at someone is a mystery, even to Steve.
Especially unnecessary and stupid since Bruce is helping him, Steve doesn't even wholly disagree with Bruce - just going with a bigger picture and broader scope, but also more trust in individuals.
Triply more stupid because this, at it's heart, is that Tony fucking hurt him, and Steve is not handling it well but that has nothing to do with Bruce.
"I know. I trust you and your judgement on approach."
At least once out of the elevator his breathing stops being... mathematical and deliberately slow. "Though if they think they can contain Superman, they've moved straight past stupid and into delusional." He knows Superman can be contained or killed. That doesn't mean he believes the UN has the ability. And not because of kryptonite or lack of. More... allies.
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The Cave comes to life when Bruce steps foot inside. He strides over to the computer to check info, see if Tim or Barbara has reached out. Tim's messages only indicate no change in his current project, while Barbara's sent a few possibilities for the whereabouts of Steve's friends. Bruce doesn't mention it just yet.
"Earlier you asked my thoughts on Stark. I assume he's got his hands in this. What's his play?"
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He finds a spot along a work bench or counter to lean, out of the way and in no danger of knocking anything over. Close enough to Bruce for easy conversation and to watch Bruce do whatever he's down here to do.
"Peggy's funeral was the same day the Accords were signed. Tony knows that, and has just enough respect for me that he'll leave me alone until I move or whatever he decides is an appropriate amount of time has passed. A couple of weeks is a safe bet, a month would be pushing it. Once either of those happen he will come after me with everything he's got. That means Nat, Rhodey, Vision and anybody else who signed and picked up." And, you know, Stark Money, Stark Tech, and government backing.
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But Bruce exists in a weird sort of limbo. Involved but not really, because no one who might have tried to take him into custody knew he was Batman. He'd convinced everyone that he was a ditz with too much money and time on his hands.
"With his money and the government backing him too." Bruce nods resolutely. "If you need it, I can provide funding and information." Tony wasn't the only one who had nigh unlimited resources. What Bruce lacked in government contacts, he more than made up for in being a one man army all his own. And if he felt like it was necessary, he'd give Steve an idea of how to actually bring him down.
"But first, your friends. Oracle has sent a few possibilities. I'm not convinced, but maybe there's something you see that could help narrow the search parameters."
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He goes silent, staring into space for another moment or two as he continues to think, then blinks hard and shakes his head slightly to refocus. His tactical brain is working, but not exactly at peak capacity. Hazards of being relatively safe and knowing it letting shit catch up with him.
"You're writing a lot of blank checks to help me evade a thing you didn't think was a bad idea." Which is observation and mild confusion but nothing too much heavier than that. "And let me see what she's got for locations." Narrow down search parameters he can do.
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Bruce glances at Steve, then taps a few keys to bring up the locations Oracle has sent. One tucked away in New York. The other in the middle of no where. Both meant to be top secret, but not secret enough apparently.
"And because I trust you enough to believe the Accords shouldn't be used against you like this."
It's a truthful statement, one that Bruce is confident in. He didn't know all of the intricacies of Steve's falling out with Tony. He didn't need them right away. He'd get them in time. "But you should know this: people only betray me once."
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Or, as it turns out, self-depreciating.
"One of us is a genius and the other one is me." He dismisses the New York location, and pays more attention to the more isolated one, then just... "Can we check ground and air traffic around this location?" He doesn't want to even try to use Bruce's computer, out of fear it will bite him or mace him something.
That out of the way he carries on with the other thread of their conversation. "Short of some HYDRA level shit, someone can betray me a dozen times, and I will go back for 13 if I think they might be trying to do better."
Basically if that was a warning, Steve... missed it entirely as anything relevant to him. Mostly because of his reply but also because 'betray someone' isn't something he's done in his life.
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Steve is at that point. That's why he's here at all. That's why Bruce felt confident in at least getting him set on the right track.
But if Bruce doubted him, even for a moment, he did not want to think about what it could mean for them. He never wanted his relationships to end poorly. But if it were necessary, he wasn't afraid to burn bridges.
Bruce notes Steve's interest in the isolated location and makes sure Oracle notes it too. She confirms and promises a report back later.
"That's dangerous."
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There's no denial there, nor is there any hesitation before he replies. "As long as I trust individuals, and I don't extend trust on behalf of another person," and those are the lines around it - individuals and only with himself and his own crap, "the danger is to me."
He straightens up from the terminal, stretches his back out while he does. "The fall out of me not trusting? Not too far off you, if you cross your lines. I have to be able to keep doing that, or I'm... a Hydra."
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Bruce gets up from the terminal, checks the time, then leans back against the workbench. A while yet before midnight.
"So what's after this?" He gestures vaguely, toward the terminal where the information about the isolated facility still sits open. "You save your friends, possibly clash with Tony. Then what?" He can't imagine it would be going back to normal. Not for any of them.
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That he doesn't know is not the answer he wants to be giving there, but that it comes out flat and with 'fucking' used as an adjective is pretty indicative of that. He rakes a hand through his hair and then makes a kind of frustrated, almost disgusted (at himself) noise.
"I can't... think around this many unknowns and scope of threat. All I've got is a lose list of goals and the vague hope that I keep more people alive than I lose, that this isn't a permanent situation and that I'm alive to see the other side of it. If I come up with enough of a plan to call it one, you'll be the first person I tell. What time are you going out?"
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For a minute, when he blinks, he sees Jason's face.
"This isn't going to be solved in one night. We'll look at it with fresh eyes tomorrow."
When he's asked what time he's going out, he straightens up and turns to start the check on his equipment. "Usual time. Midnight. " He glances back at Steve, "I should be back in time for breakfast."
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And he doesn't have any kind of poker face, either. That relief is clearly visible in his expression before he just redirects to Bruce.
"You want me down here or upstairs at the table when you get in?"
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"I want you to sleep."
The house was on a strict schedule, but Steve has the luxury of existing outside of it. He is a guest and Bruce certainly didn't expect him to keep up with his regimen.
"Don't get up early for my sake."
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Every word there is the truth, from the fact that he'll sleep to him likely being up and why. That doesn't mean he won't worry. Stupid as it is. It's not like this is some unusual activity for Bruce, or that Bruce hasn't survive it this far. Somehow.
At least Steve's aware enough not to express that or hover.
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"I'm sure Alfred will appreciate it then."
Someone to eat his food and not leave it to sit and grow cold. "If you're interested, you can stay down here with Alfred. He'll be watching my back tonight. It wouldn't hurt to have an extra pair of eyes." Maybe that would help put Steve at ease about everything.
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But Bruce Wayne is still, and will likely always be, one of the most empathic, compassionate, thoughtful, and kind people Steve has ever met - to everyone but himself.
He studies Bruce in silence for a moment, realizing all of that, just because Bruce is offering him something here that isn't practical and that is more... meaningful than all the offers to use his resources and money could be.
Just in letting him stay and keep an eye on things with Alfred.
A moment or two of silence, and he just says, "Sounds good. I'll sleep better once I'm sure you made it in." Not about to call out Bruce out on being a good person. That wouldn't end well. "Alfred and I can bond." That is a joke. Alfred scares him a little.
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Batman is singular and focused - a vehicle for vengeance and fear, an obstacle standing between an atrocity and the innocent lives it would impact. Maybe, distantly, those acts could be called compassionate. But Bruce would only ever see them as necessary.
But, he doesn't have to perform for Steve, so it makes his display of compassion feel a little less automatic and a little more authentic, from a place of concern he pretends doesn't exist.
"You'll get bored in this big house very quickly. I thought it might be good for you." To see Bruce in his element and for once see him without a mask on, ironically enough.
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He will feel better in the cave with Alfred, both because company and because it'll be easier not to worry -- and because there's a real desire and interest in seeing Bruce in action.
"It will be good for me, and I'm looking forward to the insight. heck, i'm looking forward to spending some time being a little afraid of Alfred." He'll gain some insight there too, he thinks. Into Alfred, mostly, but that's a good thing.
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"Alfred isn't that bad. Just overprotective."
Not that Bruce could fault him. There'd been a lot of tragedy to touch their family and Alfred only wanted to keep it together as much as he could. Jason's loss still casts an impossibly long shadow over them. And no amount of sunlight could cast it out. Bruce would never want it to.
"He likes you. So I don't think you'll have that much to worry about."
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Not out of some savior complex, but because he's starting to feel, to his own surprise, like Bruce wants him here and maybe even benefits from his company. Not in some huge way, but just overall.
Everyone's had a rough time lately. Some less complicated company might do all parties some good. Including Steve. "I'm glad he likes me. Being here would get awkward if he didn't."
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Over protection came from a place of care. Bruce could accept that. But like more of his life these days, he put it away for later. Something to acknowledge but not something to he held in totally high priority. It wasn't personal; Bruce just had a lot on his mind and a lot on his plate. It was easier to stay focused when he put the non essentials aside.
His watch chimes, alerting him that it was nearly time to head out on patrol. He raises Robin and tells him the plan for the evening. None of it involved him. He would solo patrol and Robin would stay at Panessa. Robin protested, but Bruce would not hear it. He's a bit abrupt when he cuts the communication with Tim. With an apologetic half smile at Steve, he turns and makes his way to another part of the cave.
"Time to get dressed."
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He listens to the exchange with Tim, head tilted slightly at both the tone of voices and the decision itself. Does not comment at all, just waits it out just like the chime.
This is a very sit back, watch the dynamics, learn from them and also stay out of direct interference in them scenario. He does at least and go sit in a chair. "All right. I'll be here when you get in." With Alfred, apparently. "Try to come back in one piece."
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[He is though. Especially since Bruce went out of his way to point it out. From Batman? That feels effusive]
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Don't mind me, just did something dumb lol
I have done that too.
linked the panels cause it is insane lol
Ah, Batman. LOL! <3
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I still want my nightclub, and I'm not promising I can live up to the standard of dumb set by your usual type.
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The penthouse where they're staying is a luxurious one with a great view of the city's skyline. The Expo would be held in the ballroom downstairs so they wouldn't have far to travel, thankfully. Lucius would be responsible for the finer details of the trip. Bruce would be responsible for the party. And his date.
Bruce knows his sleep schedule isn't exactly normal, so he does not disturb Steve when he gets up. At least he tries. He's able to move quietly and efficiently around the kitchen, preparing a bit of breakfast.
And that is where Steve will find him, sitting at the table coffee mug in hand while he reads the paper and checks the news back home.
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The later's directly due to the military and only fair - they gave him nightmares and trauma that makes him wake quickly, the least they could (and did) do was make sure he was able to effectively force himself to sleep when needed.
Meaning Bruce stayed up, Steve stayed up but he kept himself busy with a book and his sketchpad, dim light and pretended not to notice that Bruce was exhausted but not sleeping. When Bruce slept, he slept. When Bruce wakes up and that noise filters in, he gives it a little time and then goes and takes a shower, pulls on some clothes and brushes his teeth.
Then goes out to find Bruce reading the paper. "Have you ordered food yet?" And without pause: "Everything at home all right?" Of course he's still keeping an eye on things. That's just a given: it's Bruce.
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Bruce smiles when he sees Steve awake. Usually these trips were a solo affair. Bruce went his way while Lucius went his. It's nice not to wake up alone.
"No. There's a menu. Help yourself. I'm paying." His coffee he'd prepared himself. A dark roast, no cream or sugar. Food had been the last thing on his mind. As always.
As for news back home, Bruce looks down at the reports Oracle and Robin had sent him. Nothing terribly exciting; only the usual Gotham business. It didn't set him at ease. "It's fine. Tim is looking after things while we're here."
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Or something similar.
He grabs the menu and settles down in a chair reasonably close to Bruce to look over it, and doesn't look up to ad. "I'm gonna be a real pain in your ass if you try to completely skip out on eating while we're here. Make things a little easier on me and humor me, would you?" Spare him the effort of turning into a full fledged nag about it, anyway.
Quarters this close it'd be hard to ignore or pretend food is happening somewhere else or some other time.
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It meant putting himself last because there were other things that needed his attention first. Steve’s concern is noted and it makes Bruce smile as he looks up from the report he’s reading. “Just get me whatever you’re getting. I’ll eat properly when we go out tonight.”
Speaking of. “The dress code for the club is ‘smart casual.’” Air quotes. Bruce thinks it’s silly. “If you need anything to wear, let me know. I’m sure we can get something put together for you.”
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While also remembering to order it twice, so Bruce eats something.
He is wholly distracted by mention of the dress code, though. His expression when he looks up is just a little 'deer in the headlights. "I don't even know what smart casual means."
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“We’ll get it sorted. Don’t worry.”
Breakfast seems negligible at this point, though. “Let’s get started. We’ll have lunch instead.”
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"I'm not worried." He's not, Bruce can dress him. "I'm willing to get started, whatever that means here. I'm not skipping food until lunch. I will get cranky and make it everyone's problem." Well, probably not but grumpy is likely. "I will grab a protein bar, but just hold up at least long enough for me to grab it and put on shoes."
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"No rush. Take your time." Bruce doesn't seem to be any rush himself. He stays where he is, flipping through a few design documents concerning his batmobile turned bat tank.
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There isn't any unwillingness to draw and hold some lines though. They're just (so far) minor ones like being fucking determined that he's consuming food first. He gets back out of the chair he just sat in, and disappears back into the room he'd come out of, leaving Bruce to his designs, and comes back carrying his shoes and a couple of protein bars.
One of which he slides across the table like he's playing air hockey and the goal is Bruce's lap. "Eat. That." He's pretty firm on that point, too. Man does not have to content with Steve's metabolism, but he has a lot of muscle and activity to fuel. He can't not consume calories the entire time they're here.
Then he sits back down, opens his own, and holds it between his teeth while he puts his shoes on.
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He tears the wrapper as he gets up to put his shoes on too while he summons the car to take them out. He waits for Steve by the door and when he's ready, Bruce gestures through the door. "After you, Captain."
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So far, so good, if Bruce eating the protein bar compromise is anything to go by.
Once his shoes are on and he's thrown out the trash and is ready, he gets out the door then slows up so Bruce can take them wherever they're going. "There's something appealing about you calling me Captain that I don't get at all, but am not about to start complaining about."
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Downstairs, the car is already waiting for them. Once they are on their way, Bruce finally decides to elaborate on the dresscode.
"If you're not interested in a blazer, we can skip that. A polo and a nice pair of pants should do."
All his treat, of course. He's the one who asked Steve to come to this place with him. And considering the expense of it all, he'd never ask Steve to pay for anything.
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Steve leans back in the seat, but is angled slightly toward Bruce as he does. "Is this a situation where I'm supposed to act like your date, or is there some kind of other role I'm supposed to be filling?" Supposed to be, or supposedly.
They can argue about money later. Maybe. In truth, Steve can't afford Bruce's lifestyle. But he is going to feel bad about it.
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He casts a curious glance at Steve. "Depends. Do you want to be my date? It means there may be cameras shoved in your face."
Bruce wouldn't hold it against him if Steve didn't want that kind of publicity. Bruce was used to it and knew how to navigate with ease. For someone who might value privacy, this might not come as easily.
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"You promised me a date and a dance. Spending the entire night trying not to be associated with you doesn't sound like a real great way of getting either one of those." He should probably not have just decided this was an actual date.
But here they were.
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He didn't necessarily feel that way about Steve because Steve was not his typical date. They were usually vapid and shallow, with the depth of a mud puddle. People who would not be taken too seriously.
But it's easy to see a future with someone grounded like Steve. It's hard to imagine him as a passing fancy. And maybe Bruce was okay with that.
"And I keep my promises."
So it's a date then. When the car parks at their destination, Bruce slips out and nods for Steve to follow. "Let's get you dressed."
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He's starting to realize Bruce might actually like him and that? Is a relief, given how much he likes Bruce - and it's a lot.
He follows Bruce out of the car, puts his hands in his pockets and sticks pretty close in following him. "That sounds more exciting than this is probably gonna be." Dry and amused, but also very sincerely interested in how this process goes when you're rich.
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Bruce leads the way into the boutique but keeps his stride in line to match Steve's. They were here together after all and he wanted no one to question it.
"So what's your taste? Neutral colors or care for something a little more. Patriotic?" He's teasing him. A little.
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He actually doesn't even like red. Doesn't think he's ever worn it voluntarily and that's an interesting revelation about himself.
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And it didn't hurt that it was dark colors.
"It goes with your eyes. You'll look good in it."
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"I'm pretty sure I could buy a car for that much money," he pretty much murmurs. But: "I like it. I am assuming this is a scenario where trying it on is gonna need to be a thing?"
He has no idea how to navigate this.
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"They offer custom tailoring. They'll just take your measurements."
It was a little pricey, especially considering Bruce would ask them to expedite it for their date. But it would be worth it to see Steve dressed up. Bruce did this sort of thing regularly. It's nice doing it for someone he considered important.
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But he's not wholly himself, either. He's still sincerely warm and charming enough (even in a... third? language) but it's a little more aloof and 'professional' and a little more 'on' than he'd be in another situation.
He definitely leans into Bruce leaning into the closeness, returns casual touch along the way, when and where it makes sense. Because he wants to, he can and Bruce is clearly not having an issue with it.
Once they're done and have a second alone though he tilts his head to study Bruce's face for a moment. "Someday, I want to reverse roles and I'll take you on vacation. I'll even make it a working one so you'll let me." Bruce has to be so fucking tired. Steve kind of wants to see him in a more relaxed setting though. Just once. Someday.
After dancing.
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When they're alone again and Steve mentions taking Bruce on a vacation himself, Bruce can't help but smile. Alfred would be thrilled to hear it. Pack the bag before the trip was even planned, Bruce was sure. But Steve was right; Bruce was tired.
"That sounds nice." Even though he doesn't say it, the 'but' lingers. There was something coming Gotham's way. Bruce didn't know what. But his instincts told him not to trust the complacency the city was being lulled into. As nice as a vacation sounded, he could not leave Gotham. Not yet. Maybe someday.
Dancing was simpler. Dancing he could commit to.
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Steve also knows damn well what the differences are. Steve is tired - and he's physically augmented, doesn't have a family legacy, a billion dollars, a company, kids and a need to maintain a separate identity.
He takes Bruce's hand, mostly because they're supposed to be on a date - and he can and he figures Bruce will twitch away when and if he wants or prefers. Snorts very softly with some amusement. "You'd get one stretch of decent sleep, then be climbing the walls from pure boredom." In that 'someday' that, no, he doesn't actually expect to happen.
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So the mission continues.
He squeezes Steve's hand and even laughs a little. Steve isn't wrong. Bruce's 'vacations' are never the mundane kind. "Bruce Wayne is many things, but he is not a workaholic." Batman, on the other hand, well he could go all night.
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It's odd. He can be awkward with a lot of things, but he's not tentative or shy. He isn't with Bruce, either, but he is careful with him. Careful of his boundaries, but also just careful.
The man has enough pain in his life.
So, he keeps the hand until they get to the car, anyway. "I don't know. Maybe not a work-a-holic, but all the good that comes from him into charities isn't exactly play, either."
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"People used to wonder when I would grow up. When I would stop being Bruce and start being Thomas."
Bruce never wanted to be Thomas. Just someone his father could be proud of, that did what the Waynes do: make Gotham better for everyone who lived there. Batman had his mission and thanks to Alfred, Bruce Wayne had one of his own. He would revitalize what was taken from them by Arkham's Finest. And at night, he'd make sure the dark parts never touched the light.
"I just try to do good. But I make sure that the tabloids always sees me having fun so I'm not too boring." And they never ask the right questions.
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"Get too boring and it becomes unbelievable, and people start asking questions." Bruce - the playboy version - feels more like a mask, a smokescreen or lie, than Batman even comes close to. Batman feels like Bruce. The playboy feels... different. At least when he sees the playboy in the papers.
"I guess we've got some extra benefits if we get a camera or dozen in our faces while we're here." He should add some level of distraction. More if people put together who he is, but either way. "Have you ever hit the tabloid with a guy as your date?" That one's just curiosity. He catches things, but it's not like he religiously seeks out Bruce Wayne appearances in tabloids and society pages.
Not when he has access to the man. Not really his nature to believe media image or be voyeuristic, either.
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“No. You’re my first.” In most appearances, when he wasn’t alone, Bruce was with some leggy blonde he never intended to speak to again. Or Selina when he could pin her down. Showing up with Steve, would certainly get the gossips out in force.
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He makes a low noise in his throat right after, though. It's more thoughtful and assessing than anything else, there's certainly no judgement in it. "Is the extra attention that brings going to be useful, a problem, or irrelevant?"
Because he can and will pivot if he needs to. This trip and the public nature of it wouldn't be happening if 'be seen' weren't part of a plan. That doesn't mean additional attention is, or that Steve wants to make things harder.
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"You won't embarrass me if that's what you're worried about," Bruce replies.
It's the truth. He's done a lot of things to be embarrassed of all in the name of maintaining his identity. But being seen with Steve would never be one of those things.
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He pauses to consider how to say - which words he wants to use - to express why he asked. He's usually pretty willing (and good at) picking his words, but this one's a little more 'vague feeling' to words, so there's that second or so.
"I'm pretty good at following a lead. If you wanted me to lie or put on an outright performance we might hit some trouble, but not that kind. This was just about making sure I wasn't gonna tip the balance toward me being more of a problem than a benefit."
Meaning he doesn't want to make Bruce's life so much harder that Steve around isn't 'worth it', or at least adding something positive.
Sorry for the delay!
"I think I'd be the one to make things too complicated."
He was the one living two separate lives, no matter how fake it was. It's a burden he accepted for himself, but he didn't have the right to ask it of anyone else.
No problem, at all!
Whether this goes any further than a nightclub, a public appearance and this vacation? That concern will be true. Because Steve cares, and because they're friends. And because he has seen some of Bruce's patterns with people he cares about.
"My life's got some... pressure, but it's straightforward enough in most ways that there's room for some complications without it reaching any kind of tipping point." That part's said with some dry, self-depreciating, humor.
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Jason.
Bruce appreciated Steve's humor. It pulled him out of his head for a little at least. He even manages a smile. "Some pressure, Steve? I think you're doing Mr. Barnes a disservice."
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"Oh yeah?" He hasn't let go of Bruce's hand, yet, but in truth he's temporarily forgotten about it. "We calling him a complication or pressure?" He's not upset, he's actually engaging in some banter.
In truth? Bucky's some of both.
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He didn't have many of them left and he wanted to hold on as tightly as he could.
"Seems a little of both to me." He's read the files, publicly available and not so publicly available. Maybe he doesn't have all of the nuances, what makes the relationship exactly what it is. But he has enough of the broad strokes that he can answer Steve easily.
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Bruce introducing Bucky's name at this point... leads Steve to believe there's a question being asked, even if it's being asked indirectly and through a statement.
"He's some of both," he admits, after a moment. "But not complicated in a way that's going to complicate this, by more than me suspecting the two of you will get along like oil and water and he's gonna be pissed when he finds out something's up via newspaper. The rest of it's just... him being where he is because of me." And being Steve's. He left Bucky for dead. The results were... bad.
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But that could change and Bruce was okay with knowing he wouldn't be (much) of a complication for Steve and Bucky if it did.
"I'm sure Bucky and I will get along just fine." Bruce was great at pretending to get along with people. He didn't care what Dick or Tim had to say about it.
"Either way, It's a bridge to cross when we get to it." He gives Steve's hand a gentle squeeze.
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He's not making assumptions. He likes Bruce. He has firmly committed himself to caring about Bruce. Expectations beyond that? Not really. He knows they'll hit papers, he knows Bruce is who and what he is. There's Batman and Captain America and all sorts of other shit that will take priority for both. There's Bruce's deep damage and Steve's ...quieter stuff.
Doesn't matter to him at all, right now. All he wants is this one fucking night and date, even with cameras in his face. If he gets to dance with someone and not wind up in the middle of sheet ice, he's going to take it.
"You ready to do this nightclub thing?"
Now a proper time skip since i kinda botched the first one lmao
There are a few cameras, fewer than Bruce is expecting. But he'd been careful enough to keep his attendance tonight as secret as possible. Not only for his own comfort, but Steve's as well. Speaking of, Bruce reaches for him before they can get separated by the crowd, pulls him in close so there's no mistaking who his date was tonight.
There's hardly room to breathe inside. People push and stream alongside them. The dance floor is vibrant and vibrating with life and music. All the makings for a good night out. For Bruce, it's altogether too much. Thankfully, he's pretty good at spying out quiet corners, even if they're never quiet for long. When he let's go of Steve's hand, he presses it against his back and offers him a smile for a camera he's sure is snapping a blurry photo somewhere. "I'm going over here for a second. Get yourself a drink."
ahahah, totally not an issue.
He doesn't flinch away from the cameras or noise level or press of people, at all. Doesn't move like he's any kind of physically uncomfortable. He doesn't grip Bruce's hand too hard -- or honestly hard at all.
He's rigid when Bruce puts a hand on his back though, but his smile is fine - for the photo and because Steve's good at smiling.
This isn't a battlefield, but it is a lot. Enhanced senses and without any particular direction to be focused is uncomfortable. Physically uncomfortable. He's pretty sure his eardrums are vibrating more than the floor.
"Sure," he agrees, because Bruce deserves his quiet corner (such as it is) and second to breathe, and it isn't like Steve would get drunk, even if he could. He takes his time doing it, adds a glass of water to his whiskey order, and then heads back to see if Bruce is where he left him.
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But, Bruce would do what he could to make it easy. Easier than he would have for anyone else. He waits for Steve's return in the same place he said he'd be in, back pressed against a solid surface, though he's surrounded when Steve comes back. They're all people he's met before, partied with on their obnoxious yachts. Another invitation is extended and under different circumstances, Bruce would have agreed. But he has a guest this time and he's oh so terribly busy showing his new friend all the sights.
In fact he waves to Steve and excuses himself to join up with him. "Perfect timing."
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He doesn't so much slide through people as much as he shoulders his way past them to get close enough to put the glass of water in Bruce's hand. He in no way expects Bruce to drink that, but it fits the scenario here well enough and makes for a plausible prop if necessary.
"I should say so - you promised me a dance and I'm getting it." The music is making his ear drums cringe, but if he's gotten Bruce away from... Those People, so be it. "Before my headache makes me drag you back to our hotel."
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He drinks from the glass. Then sets it down on a table he's decided is theirs now. Its tucked out of the way as much as you can be in a place like this. The crowd doesn't press in so much and Bruce can see the room around them clearly from there. He can see the entrances and exits and spy out suspicious behavior. It makes things easier, makes the room vibrate a little less because it gives him something to focus on.
This place is overstimulating; a headache isn't entirely unexpected. So Bruce puts a hand on his wrist and nods toward the dance floor. "Alright then. Dance with me, Rogers."
And now back here (sorry about that)
His smile at the touch and easy acceptance-slash-'order'? Real, warm, open and unreserved.
He slides his hand to get a grip on Bruce's, and heads toward the dancefloor with him. "Just remember: Strong lead and watch your toes."
Headache or not he wants this, in a way that is deeply simple and just as deeply complex.
No worries!
It would do for now.
It's going to be an adjustment though. Because Bruce is used to being the strong lead and it's an expectation that his partner falls in line with that. Guess he'll see if he can set that aside.
"Better follow your own advice," he says back with a wry smile. It'd take some trial and error, but they'd figure it out. And Bruce is curious to see how Steve moves.
Re: No worries!
Metaphorically, is a whole different ball game. Even that one Steve won't grant more than a 'maybe' on.
It takes Steve a second or two to settle his hands on Bruce, somehow still pretty careful of where and how he touches - on some level it still feels a little like overstepping.
But once he has his hands in places, finds the rhythm of the music and takes a second and a breath... how he moves is the same way he always moves: well. Confident, a little too ...powerful in motion to really count as graceful, but not too far off.
And interestingly (or not), headache (or not), his eyes light up.
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At least not while dancing.
He smiles as Steve's hands settle in place and his find good spots on Steve. He's sure there's someone around snapping a picture, but the smile is a little more genuine than camera-ready. He smiles because this is a good fit. And because of the way Steve's eyes light up.
He doesn't notice in many people, because often he's not attached enough to do so. But it's the first thing he notices here.
The second is how well Steve moves with the music that Bruce doesn't feel like he has to offer an impromptu dance lesson right here. Sometimes he's had to because his partner's a little too enthusiastic or a little too inebriated. He doesn't feel like he's doing all of the work. It feels like something they are doing together.
"This is nice." Which is probably about as much genuine sentiment Steve will get while they're here and a thousand eyes are on them. The rest can come when they're alone again.
I swore I replied to this. If it's been too long just ignore
"It is. I like it."
A lot of those pictures are going to be enough to rouse some speculation, and not just because they're on a date.
There's going to be at least one photographer who gets something else, though, because they're standing just a little too close for the flash to be expected or comfortable. That guy is going to get Steve's smile turning into a faint grimace and Steve ducking to press his forehead against Bruce's temple.
"Ow." He nearly laughs when he says it, but - ow. "I don't know how you're not half blinded by this crap."
Not at all! I'm always good to backtag
But there was Steve, smile warm and eyes bright. He didn't doubt Steve's sincerity. He'd be a pretty bad liar, even if Bruce hadn't trained himself to read people.
The flash does creep across his vision for how close it is and he grimaces and turns away from the light. Then he turns to the photographer and he gives him a look that might have been more Batman than Bruce. "Do you mind?"
As Steve brings his head down to rest against Bruce, Bruce stops them just long enough to check in with him. "Are you okay?"
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What just happened when that near Batman glare for the too close photographer was followed by checking in with Steve. There was a lot of Bruce, as Steve understood him, in there.
"Yeah." There's still some smile in his voice, and more than some warmth. Some strain, too, but less of that. "Thought I was mostly giving you an out with the headache, but I probably actually should get out of here before it becomes a problem, though. I'm out of practice." Out of practice handling this degree of... sensory onslaught, he means.
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He's not shy about linking his hand with Steve's so he can weave them through the crowd and through the speculation that'll follow. And when they're outside again, he doesn't let it go immediately either.
"Probably a bad choice for a first date. Have to pick somewhere quieter for number two."
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"I'm glad there's going to be a second date." That's just the absolute truth. He'll care about Bruce, regardless, but the potential for something a little quieter, and the mention of a second are... nice. More than nice. "Maybe getting all the public reaction out of the way now will make for a nice distraction from anything else either of us get up to. My phone's gonna blow up when those pictures get published, though." Just fair warning.
Not like he's been talking to his people about this.
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Maybe it's why he's not totally dismissed a chance at date number two. Even if it'll be a little while before they get there, because for Bruce there's work to be done and that'd always come first. But they would get there. That's something he wanted to see through if he could.
"You are a nice distraction, Mr. Rogers. One I don't particularly mind."
happy to change format, etc
He would never burn the manor down.
You know.
On purpose.
Just some light arson here.
He's very casually come into the cave when Bruce is away, and started hunting down some accelerants, and after finding them, he is casually surrounding his memorial with them. He's pretty pleased with himself, and he knows he only has a little while - maybe even only minutes - but he doesn't expect the Batmobile back this fast. When Bruce is coming out of the car, he's got his crowbar in one hand, hefting it to break the glass.
He's mostly dressed in his armor but his mask is on his bike near the entrance to the cave.]
'sup.
It's all good!
He's alerted to an intruder seconds after Jason sets foot in the cave, so it takes no time at all for Bruce to reverse course and speed his way back home. It's minutes that pass, but when danger is in your personal space it can feel like hours.
When the car zooms into the cave and parks near to Jason's bike, Bruce should have felt some relief but he's still tense. Jason didn't say he would be stopping by and that does not bode well. And when he sees what Jason's done to the memorial, Bruce's instincts are confirmed. ]
What do you think you're doing?
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I was planning on burning this down but first I have to break the glass.
[He says it with that general easy manner, like he's explaining how one might drink some water from a weird water bottle or how you open a particularly stubborn wrapper on a sandwich. He says it like he used to explain things to Bruce when he was still 12 years old and they were still close.
And he swings. Of course, Bruce used some kind of shatterproof glass, but the teeth of the crowbar still find purchase. It doesn't shatter, but there is a sickening sound of a crack as Jason considers and revs up for another smash.]
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It's almost comical. But Bruce doesn't laugh. Instead, he pushes the cowl back. Months of barely speaking. Of a step forward and two back. Jason finally comes home and he brings destruction with him. ]
So you broke into my home to do this? [ A vague gesture toward the case. ] You could have talked to me instead.
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First off-
[Another slam of his crowbar, and then a little jiggling in the spot. The crack widens a little.]
What happened to “this is your home, Jason.”?
[He drops his voice into Batman’s growl, and inspects the impact spot, and then turns, one hip cocked. He looks young, then; his mouth is in a moue of displeasure.]
Also I used a key and biometrics, it’s not breaking in if I have access and an invitation.
[He points at Bruce with his crowbar.]
And this thing is gruesome. It has to go.
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[ It's not a surprise, but it is unexpected. Maybe it shouldn't have been. For Jason, it must have seemed like a taunt, hanging there where anyone could see it. Bruce never meant for it to be. But what was that saying? The road to hell and all that. ]
Not as gruesome as your weapon of choice.
[ He eyes the crowbar that seemed level with the symbol on his chest and thinks that ought to be more painful than Bruce keeping the memorial. ]
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He just doesn't do that, so.
He snorts, instead.]
It was my costume, so whose property is it, really?
[He manages another swing, and it cracks a hole just big enough that Jason can dig his fingers into it and start squeezing it apart.]
Is this better?
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Jason, stop. Now.
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Why? Does it bother you?
[He's snarling, now, planting his feet so he looks like an immobile object.]
Because I'm alive! I'm right here!
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It deeply upset him that Jason wanted to take that away. ]
I know that! That doesn’t make this go away! [ he points at the case ]
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You think I don't know that? I'm the one who has to live with it every goddamned day, and you're the one holding vigil over a boy you can't even admit-
[He turns and punches the case. It's hard enough that the case, weakened already, cracks a little bit more. He doesn't know how to say it, doesn't know how to put the words out there. That the case isn't a testament to him, it's a memory of someone Jason can't ever be again, and how Bruce prefers that boy, how Bruce can't look past that ghost. That Bruce doesn't, won't ever, care for him like he did before.]
I want it gone.
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That's not your call.
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[Bruce has gone into that horrible calm, that Batman calm. He doesn't get angry in the same way that the Robins all do; his emotional template is cold, not hot. Not like Jason.
It's even more infuriating, in a way.]
You think this is about your failure, but all this does is make me feel like crap!
[He says it and punches, again, and again.]
Jason 😭
He reaches for Jason, tries to grab his arm to keep from doing anymore damage to the case. ]
That's enough.
He just has a lot of feelings
He flails a little, and pushes him, and snarls.]
Let me go.
[His voice is dark, now, deeper than before.]
Let me go, and get rid of it, Bruce.
sorry bruce is being a jerk
Destroying the suit isn't going to fix anything.
[ Us. It's not going to fix us, is what he really means, if he could bring himself to say it. Because there is still something very broken between them. ]
it's just who he is
You get rid of it if you want me around.
[The threat is implicit: you get rid of it or you get rid of me. Jason is known for his ultimatums, and he's actually usually pretty good at following through. Like you know.
Me or the clown.
Bruce chose the clown, so there's no hope here that Bruce will choose Jason, even though this seems easier. He's not asking anyone to kill, here.]
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It's your choice. I'll never turn you away.
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He presses away from Bruce, and lifts his head, and then reaches for his helmet. The calm that he's suddenly displaying is suddenly icy.]
Predictable.
[Because Jason is not actually a psychopath, he doesn't shoot the accelerant. Instead he reaches into his pocket and lights a lighter, and tosses it into the puddle on the floor.
There are so many contingencies for fire in this place, he's not worried, either, that someone will die, or that anything will actually get damaged. Mostly, he wants Bruce to stop looking at him.]
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[ Bruce yells and Jason gets what he wants, however temporary. The fire flickers to life and swallows up the trail of accelerant before fire suppression kicks in and smothers the life from it. And as long as the fire burned, it had Bruce's attention.
Now, it's back on Jason and honestly, he's pissed. Setting fire, even a meager one, to the cave seemed a far more personal attack than taking a crowbar to a memory Bruce cherished. ]
What did you think that was going to do, Jason? [ Because it certainly did not change his mind. ]
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He mounts his bike right around the time that Bruce yells at him.]
You set fire to our relationship, I set fire to that fucking memorial.
It's your choice.
[He parrots the words with a mimicry of Bruce's cadence that only the Robins can manage as he starts his bike.]
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Bruce Wayne was rebuffed at every turn. So now, Jason would have Batman instead.
He leaves the case behind (another mess to be cleaned later) and follows. ]
Fine. You made your choice and now I'll make mine.
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He knows that tone, and he knows that threat. That's the tone of voice that he takes when you killed someone, and that means that Batman is out to play. It also means that Bruce, as usual, has taken a fight and turned it into a fucking crusade.
God, this was predictable and Jason walked straight into it.
He doesn't bother stalling, then. He just goes, bike going from 0 to an impossible speed on a street model in a second and a half. He needs to make up distance now. The benefit of a bike is that it's agile, but the Batmobile-
-Jason figures if he can make it to Gotham proper he can slip between the cracks. For all that Bruce knows Gotham, it's really always been Jason's city, and if Jason doesn't want to be found in it, the fact is that he won't be.]
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It's what drives him now. The Crusade. The Mission consumes him in all his waking hours (and his sleeping ones too). Jason's rejection, his choosing something other than peace was another to add to the list.
The car's driver side door swings open wide when he commands it to from his belt and he leaps into it to peel out after Jason into Gotham's night. He doesn't know what he'll say when he catches him. Was there anything left to say? Nothing Jason wanted to hear it seemed. It didn't matter anymore now.
The chase was on. ]
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For being upset.
He wonders if Bruce - the Bruce he knew, who used to take him to ball games and who was so proud of every good grade that he got, the Bruce that he used to think of, very tentatively, as dad - even is still there. Did everything good die with him?
He hits the bridge and zips past a pair of cops, who start the lights right up until the rumble of the Batmobile overtakes them. Jason knows he has seconds, maybe, so when the bridge ends, perilously close to the edge of the river, he rides his bike up on the slim slick side and shoots down in the city on a run that would make Nightwing nervous. He hears something resembling a gunshot - okay he's in Gotham - and spins into the city, then jumps the bike and vaults into the air, letting the bike go.
Bye bye, bike. You were so nice for the few weeks you lasted.
Jason figures if he can get airborne, he can find a place to hide out this temper tantrum.]
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Jason knows Gotham's streets, but then so does Bruce. When Jason cuts corners the Batmobile cannot, Bruce can find an alley to swing into and continue the pursuit. His focus is narrowed to a single point in a red helmet that he's not given any thought at all to what he'll say when the chase ends. That could come later, when the adrenaline's not so hot and when the quiet aftermath sets in.
The police scanner lights up with reports of a guy on a bike and Batman hot on his trail. Orders were not to engage and if any had to stand down immediately. Funny thing. Bruce didn't answer to Jim Gordon. Instead Bruce presses the accelerator harder, bringing the car perilously close to the bridge's edge before he ejects himself up and out into the night air. The cape spreads out like jet black wings, billowing in the updrafts that keep him airborne. It won't last long so he makes the best use of what little time he has in the sky to see if he can spot Jason from above. ]
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The old part of Gotham, that's where he heads. It's a playground for the bats, practically, with the old architecture that curled and cued and made a good place for grapples to land. But specifically to an old gargoyle that he used to hang out at, when he was a kid, when he was a teenager who just wanted to sit still for a while.
Bruce will find him here.
But who knows what he'll do from there. But maybe he's just kind of sick of running.]
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He knows to look in the shadows first. It's where Bats always lurk. And he spies him on a familiar crumbling gargoyle nearby. Bruce grapples up, hauls himself across the distance until there's only a few feet between him and Jason and the gargoyle.
This is where they met. Fitting it's where they'd meet again. Their lives always seemed to converge at this point. ]
I don't want to fight with you. But I do want this to end.
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He looks tired, or at least his body language does. His face is covered in his helmet.]
Well.
Here you are.
What are you planning? You want to arrest me? Hand me over to the cops? Get rid of me?
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[ Maybe any other time, his answer would have been sharp. It lingers instead. It's not soft. There's a sense of resignation with it. He's tired too. ]
I never regretted trusting you. Not for a moment. [ he looks over at Jason then looks away again. ] We don't have to be like this.
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You keep saying that.
[Its hard to believe him, when Jason feels like he’s always being hunted, when Jason always feels like he’s one decision away from being locked up in the cave for the rest of his life.]
I’ll give you-
[He sighs]
I don’t know. What do you want?
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You don't have to fight with me. Just stop fighting against me.
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He can’t say that.]
I was supposed to be your son.
[He tilts his head down to look at the city.]
Getting rid of that stupid memorial isn’t fighting you.
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Why is this so important to you?
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It's right there, and there's something young on his face, like maybe he's actually being listened to.]
Because as long as it's there, I can't have a relationship with you that doesn't revolve around my death.
[It's as honest as he can manage and it almost feels like he's choking to get the words out.]
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He reaches for his grapple, prepares to pull himself away, so he can sit with this moment alone. ]
I'll tell Alfred to put it away.
[ Maybe not as gone as Jason would have liked, but it would be put out of sight. ]
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B.
[He's almost Bruce's size now; they're both big men. But he feels small, like he's twelve again, and Bruce is here to keep him safe, at least for now.]
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Bruce drops the grappling gun and wraps his arms around Jason. ]
I know I've let you down. But, you're still my son. I hope that still means something to you.
thank u for your patience ;;
Those words mean more than that. I know I've let you down, the closest that Bruce can get to an apology without actually saying the words.]
You're an asshole.
[Which means: yes, that means a lot, thanks dad.]
of course <3!
I know.
[ His laugh is quiet, a puff of air that disappears into the night sky. He wants to ask what happens now. If they'll go up or down or stay right here in this limbo. Had they finally reached the end of the spiral? He lets Jason go and bends to pick up his grapple. ]
Are you staying in Gotham?
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It’s my home.
[Jason has been Gotham his whole life; he and this city are linked in ways that even Bruce isn’t, he thinks. Leaving has happened but he doesn’t really like to leave. He has to be pushed. Or pulled.
He shrugs.]
Where else would I go?
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But we're not going down that line of thought. They're not fighting and Bruce would like to keep it that way. ]
Good. [ A pause and then: ] Hungry? There's a Big Belly Burger nearby.
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Sure, he was okay at it as a kid, when Bruce would protect him from the worst of the snobbery and some of the people who would attend would give Jason pats on the head and Alfred would slip him the extra good snacks. But by the time he was fourteen it started feeling old, boring, and mostly just irritating. And now, he would rather chew off his own leg.
But attending like this? This is actually a lot of fun.
The gala is in a ballroom with a glass ceiling - incredible - meaning that Jason can stage a really dramatic entrance and exit. He gets to use his glass cutter that he kind of made himself. He gets to come after Brucie.
Honestly it's like Christmas.
When he descends on the gala, the screaming announces him in a way that's actually kind of pleasing to the ear. Some dude has private security, and that's a tranq dart to the ex-military dude's leg, oh, he's down, and Jason's modified voice is booming.]
I'm just here for Wayne!
[And with that he grabs Bruce around the waist, punches someone who is trying to stop him, and tugs his line.]
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Honestly, it made sense at the time to offer Jason some quick cash in exchange for a kidnapping. It would certainly generate some headlines and it would get him out of the next few invites with the deepest sympathies from the hosts.
He told Jason no explosions. But maybe he should have also stipulated no dramatics either. It'd make sure no one got hurt because he wanted out. Ah well, guess he's paying a couple of hospital bills too.
As Jason grabs him, Bruce does put up a bit of a show. Just to make it believable. ]
Unhand me!
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[Oh, boy, Jason is loving this; he pulls Bruce's arms around behind his back to zip tie them quick and brandishes his gun.]
Anyone gets too close and Wayne gets it!
[That scares the good rich people of Gotham; Bruce Wayne has been kidnapped before, and they know it, and he always seems to get out of it. He's beloved in this town.]
I won't hurt anyone else!
[He yells that too, as he puts his grapple around Bruce's waist, and zips them up into the air and to the roof. There is screaming. Someone is yelling to call the police.
Jason is going to enjoy this.]
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If it's money you want, just untie me and I'll cut you a check!
[ Does that ever work for kidnappers? It hasn't so far and it doesn't seem to now as the grapple line zips them up and out into the night. Below he can hear chaos ensuing.
It's only when they're clear that he turns to face Jason. ]
You're enjoying this.
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This is the most fun I've had since I was a kid.
[He's so giddy that he's practically dancing.]
I've always wanted to be involved in a fake kidnapping.
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You've actually bought me some time. I'm in the middle of an investigation. Now I've got more time to follow up on a few leads.
[ Of course he's going to work. He sends Alfred a message and then begins a trek across the rooftop. There's a cache near here. ]
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Is it the case where the disembodied foot washed up in the harbor?
[Or:]
Or the weird meth ring in the Diamond District?
[He's only asking because he has news about both of these things.]
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I've been watching the meth ring, but I think the disembodied foot is the more pressing issue.
[ He stops when he reaches the cache and uses his hand print (and a quick eye scan) to open it. ]
What have you heard?
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Oh, Bruce.
You're really behind, aren't you?
[He looks smug, or as smug as someone who can look when wearing a mask that covers their entire face. But he pulls a coin out of his pocket and tosses it to Bruce.]
We have a new serial killer in town. And I know his name.
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He stands with gear in hand, belt slung over his shoulder. The coin he catches and turns it over in his hand. ]
Did you introduce yourself?
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[He reaches into a pocket and holds up a business card, and keeps it between his fingers.]
What do I get for being a good boy and not doing this on my own?
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You get to give me that business card.
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[He says it as he fiddles with the card, and keeping a careful eye on Bruce's movements.]
Sounds like the opposite of incentive, actually.
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[ and make him 'scream like a girl' in front of Gotham's elite. ]
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[So, you know. Yeah.]
This is just an added perk.
Come on. I know you want this case, I cracked it, but I'm classy. You have to stop expecting I'll just hand over my hard work.
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This isn't a game. If you're going to help, then do it.
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Guess it's my case.
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I expect you to take this to Gordon. Tonight. I'll deal with the meth ring.
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It's absolutely not what he's going to do.]
Don't worry, B. I've got this.
[Noooooot in a way you want.]
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[ He's gonna turn this into a spectacle isn't he? ]
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[Does he want a numbered list? Or maybe Jason is just trolling for ideas.]
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You want a list? Just do this like I asked or give the card to me.
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I'm not going to shoot him in the head or string him up the neck.
[He hums a bit.]
Just rough him up a little before I send the information Gordon's way.
'Till the Bidder End
Because the money's for the kids, he tells himself it's fine. The winning bid goes to a notoriously kind woman — her family is old money out of Russia — and while he thinks her plans will be fine, he's been told it's all meant to be standard: A photograph, a sit down meal with suitably pleasant conversation (translated professionally), and a visit to the orphanage where Blake grew up to wrap up the evening.
Blake will hate it, but he'll endure.
Truth be told, he was kind of hoping to ride a motorcycle, eat some cheap food, and maybe see where the night went with Bruce. He'd almost hitched his entire wagon to that star when he'd slipped into the crisp, clean tuxedo and presented himself on stage like a gussied up blue ribbon prize bull.
When the last of the arrangements are made, with ceremonial checks signed and proctored applause long died off, Blake catches Bruce in the hallway outside the dining hall.
"So, this is awkward," he says, only half-joking as he scrubs at the back of his head. He'd started the night pretty excited, but now he's more jittery than anything. Too much caffeine, too much attention, not enough room to fidget when the suit is exactly his size.
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Instead he'd slipped out before it was John's turn on the auction block to stop a robbery in progress not more than 10 minutes down the road. He had plenty of time, he thought. This was going to be quick. He did not have plenty of time and really the only thing it proved was the perils of Bruce trying to be present when Batman was really the one Gotham needed. He really needed to stop making promises he couldn't keep. Bruce returned with only enough time to catch the winner of John's bid receive her congratulations.
It's for a good cause. That's what he tells himself so he's not too disappointed.
He smiles when John approaches him, notes his jitters and tries to be something close to reassuring. "I'm sorry, John. I don't know how I dropped the ball so badly." A lie. "If you're not married by the end of your date, I'd still like to take you out."
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"If you really mean it, I'm not actually needed for, ah... publicity purposes until next week," he notes, trapped dead in between relieved and annoyed. Blake isn't looking forward to the wait, nor is he relishing the commentary that's certain to be tossed around when he's an escort around the boys' home, but it's not a television interview or a soul-crushing trip to a local art installation, so he counts himself a little bit lucky.
"You can make it up to me by gettin' me home. Eventually." His nose wrinkles. "I hate the bus and I bet you saved enough money tonight for a cab."
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There's a hint of a smile as John lays out his plans for the winning bid. A press tour didn't sound terrible but Bruce did those on the regular. For someone like John? Maybe riding a fast motorcycle into the night was more his speed.
"So what you're saying is, you're all mine for the night?" Bruce's smile broadens. It's easier to pretend when the company is good. "I can live with that."
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"What I mean is that I'm not occupied this evening, so yeah, I'd love to hang out, thanks," he says, purposeful but not at all lacking in humor. On another night he might call Bruce on making promises he can't keep — the idea of anyone being all his for a whole night (dedicated and uninterrupted) is utterly laughable — but seeing as how the gavel's barely had a chance to grow cold from the last promise he didn't keep, it feels a bit passé.
He tosses a playful jab at Bruce's arm and turns on his heel. "I'll grab my backpack and meet you outside." Blake isn't usually so emboldened as to act as if he's running the show, but he thinks he's bought himself a small amount of grace — enough that he's resolved himself that they'll have a good time no matter what.
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He'd tried and honestly, it never fit right. Thomas couldn't be what Batman needed. Being charming and kind of stupid didn't fit right either, but it did make people stop asking too many questions. He was raised by the help after all. You couldn't rightly expect civility from that situation. That kind of dismissal was what Batman needed.
Tonight, though, Bruce could come up for air to spend a little time with someone he genuinely liked. Batman needed that too. He grins at John as he turns to go. He waits for Blake on his bike, revving it once he sees the other man come outside. He offers Blake his extra helmet.
"I can keep one promise at least."
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Slinging his pack on properly and sliding the helmet over his head, he's snapping the strap while he takes a quick walk around the bike. The low whistle would probably issue forth for most any bike, but Bruce is never traditional and Blake's sure this will be a hell of a ride.
"Don't get a complex," he tells the other man, sliding on behind him. "It's really not a big deal." There's only a steadying grasp against Bruce's side for a second and then Blake's leaning back of his own accord, hands on his thighs. He hasn't had a bike of his own in years, but he's got the experience to know what to do as a passenger and barring reckless driving, he'll probably give Bruce his space versus clinging on like a garden slug.
Not surprised by the two-ways in the helmets, he grins and asks Bruce, "You already got plans for me or are we playin' by ear tonight?" He's game either way, content for the moment to let Bruce show him where two wheels can take them, but interested nonetheless.
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When he's sure Blake's settled behind him and that they've been seen by enough cameras, Bruce peels out into the darkness. "Not a complex. I just hate to disappoint." Bruce isn't a reckless driver. At least not while he's a civilian. But it's quite clear he knows how to maneuver the bike through Gotham's traffic. He weaves in and out of the cars that are stopped or stalled, taking the sharp turns expertly that would get them to the penthouse.
"While you were getting your bag, I had Alfred drop by the penthouse and whip up a quick dinner for us. Didn't seem very fair to ask you to cook. After that, we're free to do whatever you like."
He glances over his shoulder at his passenger, amusement in his voice. "If you want to stop for condoms, let me know now."
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Still, Bruce brings the thrills and then adds a little rich boy chivalry into the mix and Blake can't help but be weirdly charmed. He wouldn't have minded making food — it's the reality of his life that he has to feed himself three times a day, more or less — but it's a nice enough gesture and he's glad to not have to compete with a refined palette.
At the last bit, he barks out a laugh and pinches Bruce's side. "Sounds like we'll be doing whatever you like," he says, cheeky through-and-through. "But it's nice you didn't ask Alfred to buy your date condoms, too." The tease is meant to be light, but there are few days that Blake spends time with Bruce that he doesn't feel the vast difference between their lives and upbringing.
Nevertheless, Blake's pack's got all the trimmings of a go bag. He's chronically prepared, having been relying on himself for a long damn time, so no detours necessary.
"Gotta say, though, didn't think you'd let anyone fuck you." A misconception he's interested in exploring considering the implication.
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There's something about it. He doesn't want to give it words yet.
He laughs a little at Blake pinching him and throws another glance at him over his shoulder. He'd been teasing for the most part, but if he's honest, he's not opposed to seeing where the night went. Blake is handsome and easy to exist around. Expectations were not nearly so high like it is with Bruce's standard dates. The performance didn't have to be so perfect (even though it would be anyway). He's just always been good company and Bruce could always use some good company.
"I don't, especially on a first date." Partially untrue. He clears the entrance to the parking garage, nestled under Wayne Tower before he continues. "But I'm willing to try anything once. If you are."
No pressure at all, of course.
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"Gets me in trouble, but I rarely turn down a challenge," he says, sporting a full-on grin inside his helmet. That much is obvious, isn't it? And thus he doesn't need to list his accomplishments for Bruce; Blake's confident he can handle anything short of a proposal (or unexpected company). In fact, sex is easy. Always has been. Emotions are hard. And beyond a fair amount of fondness between them, Blake's pretty sure feelings won't come into play here.
He encroaches while he can, sliding forward on the seat until he's got his crotch pressed right up against Bruce. It's not so easy in those tuxedo pants, but he manages even if it means the tops of his socks are showing.
"In that case, you can come in my mouth on a first date, too," he says, voice lowered conspiratorially, and then chuckles, teasingly adding, "if you're into that."
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Still, he smiles when he feels Blake pressing against his back.
The work day is over, so the parking garage is, for the most part, empty. At least until they reach the level reserved exclusively for Bruce Wayne. There's an ornate elevator in the middle, an elegant W carved into the dark wooden doors. Along either side of the elevator are parked several luxury sports cars. Bruce puts the motorcycle into a empty spot close by.
"I just might be." He waits until Blake's dismounted before he climbs off himself, peeling the helmet off, so Blake could see his grin. "Let's get inside and maybe find out."
He strolls to the elevator, swiping a keycard to unlock the elevator and the penthouse level. The doors slide open, and Bruce gestures toward the interior.
"After you."
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When Blake leaves behind the spare helmet, he uses the moment to steal a quick look-around at the garage. The cars are worth a peek, he thinks, and he lingers a second that allows him to lean down towards the nearest window to check out the interior. Very nice, very foreign.
Jogging to catch up with Bruce and passing him right into the elevator, Blake shoulders his bag onto just one arm and leans back against the railing. He feels a bit like he's heading into the candy store, where everything he sees will be something he wants to analyze for its presence and purposefulness.
"Sorta hate what you bring out in me," Blake says, grinning as they get going. He's splayed along the rail and entirely unbothered, of course. "Ten minutes and you've got me talkin' dirty and comin' back to yours. And all I wanna do— Me, a guy who'd rather gouge out his eyes than prance 'round in the public eye— All, I wanna do is show you off."
He shakes his head, feigning judgement. If anyone deserves to be judged, it's Blake. It's easy to say now but in the light of day when the presses roll with the gossip of the day, he won't feel so charitable about the idea.
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The smile stays as he watches John admire his cars. They're flashy, maybe a little impractical, but they fit in nicely with his fast lifestyle. Maybe Bruce would let him pick the ride Bruce takes him home in. When Blake joins him in the elevator, Bruce leans back against the wall as the doors close and the elevator starts its crawl upward.
"I can tone it down a little," Bruce replies, arms folded and eyes fixed on Blake's smiling mouth for just a minute. "But I can't turn it off, unfortunately. I won't be able to drive you wild if I do that."
The elevator dings and opens up on the top floor. The foyer, pristinely decorated, ends at a set of double doors Bruce unlocks with a key he fishes out of his pocket. When the doors open, they're greeted with the smell of Alfred's cooking. Bruce had asked for something simple. Knowing Alfred, it would be elaborate and set to impress. Alfred's note that accompanied the meal greeted John graciously and warned Bruce against being too much like himself, lest he scare off this nice young man.
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"You couldn't tone it down if you wanted to," Blake says as he picks up the note. The words are sweet — a nice touch — but it still fizzes inside Blake's brain like a fuse counting down on some kind of personal assault.
(What does Alfred know about him? About them? About these plans? Does he anticipate every quick meal Bruce asks after last minute to be in service of one of these scenarios? And how just how nice, young, and afraid does he really think Blake to be? The questions are like a spring weeds sprouting from seeds sown in years past, unwelcome but also difficult to be ridded of entirely.)
"Grilled cheese, huh?" He shakes his head. "Now I know you're checkin' up on me. No way your butler picked grilled cheese and wasn't thinkin' of my simple ass bein' absolutely relieved and delighted."
He will not deny that the portability of such a sandwich, so precisely sliced into triangles, is exactly what Blake wants so he can snoop a bit more freely. And he does just that, knowing there are other items on his place setting — salad, soup, croutons, cheeses, and all manner of nibbles from a jar — but content enough with this childlike meal-on-the-move.
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But while he's as intertwined in this life as Bruce is, he knew when to take a step back and let Bruce have his moments of privacy. Blake would not have to worry about the butler popping in unannounced or speaking out of turn. All of this? It's just part of taking care of Bruce and maybe goading him into giving up the life of a vigilante for the something a little closer to family man. So far he's had no luck.
"I did ask for simple." The grilled cheese, Bruce is also surprised to see. He'd thought something to match Alfred's idea of a sophisticated palette. Not an after school snack. But it worked, strangely enough. It worked quite well.
He slides by Blake as he swipes a sandwich and reaches for one of his own. "I can't think of the last time he made me grilled cheese. I must have been a kid." Young and a little more carefree than this. Part of him feels it coming back now, while he's here with Blake. Life could be simple like this, if he'd let it be.
He won't. But it could be.
The rest of the penthouse has a distinct 'no one really lives here' feeling for how pristine it looks. The furniture - leather and neatly arranged - is accented by a fireplace, already lit and thriving. No doubt thanks to Alfred. There are trinkets and baubles on the glass shelves. Not a trace of dust and maybe rather morbidly a portrait of the Waynes - Thomas and Martha only - displayed over an accent table.
"Make yourself at home. Want a drink?"
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Like someone who has been told many, many times in his life to keep his hands to himself, he walks along to investigate anything and everything that seems to stand out, artfully keeping his grilled cheese to one hand while the other rests behind his back and well away from the shelves or table edges. He's not sure he really recognizes much of anything that reminds him strictly of his friend, but it all fits an aesthetic Blake's certain was inherited.
At the accent table he studies the picture longer than the rest, picking out the ways Bruce resembles his parents before moving on.
"Where's the bedroom?" He grins and makes no effort to wait to be shown around. Bruce had said he could do as he pleases and Blake takes that to heart. Were their positions reversed, he wouldn't blink at the idea of Bruce poking his nose into any corner of Blake's apartment. If anything, he almost expects it of anyone he might actually allow close enough to invite in. "That's where the real judgement starts," Blake adds, wondering if Bruce will pick him a drink and follow or wait for Blake to return satisfied with his exploration.
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He points down the dimly lit hallway at Blake's question. "The room at the very end of the hall."
There's a stark contrast between the bedroom and the rest of the penthouse. Life happens here, clearly. The bed is neatly made, though there's remnants of Bruce's getting ready for the evening thrown across it - jackets he decided against, a few ties he'd been trying to match colors for. The trinkets in here are clearly more personal than anything outside of the space. Blake could poke around to his heart's content.
Bruce isn't overly concerned about him stumbling across anything in his exploration. It's by design that accessing anything beyond opening a door would require some very deliberate knowledge. And even if he managed, biometrics would stop him.
When his drink is ready, Bruce decides to join him (you know, just in case). "So do I pass?"
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Some things interest him more than others, of course, and while lingering by the bed, he appreciates the efforts he can see. His fingers brush along the cuffs of the jackets and down the ties, sensing the construction and weight of the fabric. Bruce cared enough to choose, but he wonders if he'd walked to his closet and plucked those items himself, or if he'd taken suggestions from an array laid out by Alfred and designed to work well enough.
When Bruce arrives with the drink, Blake's still turning that particular puzzle around in his head, too, trying hard to decide if he's better off letting himself be charmed, or if Bruce is due a little more comeuppance for only being 95% perfect.
"You really wanna know?" He asks rhetorically as he graciously takes the drink and makes no complaints about its contents. Nevertheless, before tasting, he smiles and reminds himself, with a raking gaze, of Bruce's choice of attire for the evening, contrasting it with a new perspective now that he's seen the spread of alternatives.
"So far, I don't hate it." Truthfully, that's akin to a sparkling review and Blake is grinning into his glass while testing the mix. He's not picky enough about booze to care what he's drinking, but he can admit, as he reaches to touch Bruce's chosen tie, that he appreciates it for how right it feels just as much for how attractive it reads already loosened some at the knot. "Worried I might be a harsh critic?"
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But that's okay. Bruce is prepared for that. He's prepared for everything.
He smiles at Blake as he touches his tie, the warmth of it reaching his eyes for once. When you're a salt of the earth type, stepping into the glitz of Gotham’s elite can be jarring. Maybe a little off putting when you know how hard life really is for people without all this excess. That Blake didn't hate it? High praise indeed.
"Maybe. It's a little obnoxious up here." Everything so neat and orderly maybe a little too sterile. Blake's a welcome contrast, in Bruce's opinion.
"So what else would you like to see? The penthouse is pretty big. There's a pool and a gym. Or we can stay right here." " His smile turns sly as he sits on the edge of the bed.
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"Yeah, haven't finished seein' all I can see here," Blake points out, equally sly as he smiles and makes no real effort to hide it in his drink.
Approaching with a measured pace, Blake reaches up to loosen the top two buttons of his once-crisp white tuxedo shirt. The smart bowtie had been stuffed into his bag the moment things were over, but there's no denying he's somewhat enjoyed this game of dress-up. He could do more of this if he wanted, but he doesn't. At least, not unless he can rope someone else into approving of how good he looks. Not narcissism so much as interest in providing a feast for the eyes; certainly, he finds himself hungry for the same.
Shoes once mirror-shined bear their scuffs as Blake encroaches. His foot taps the edges of Bruce's more pristine footwear, urging space between them where he inserts himself. Couched warmly between Bruce's knees, well enough above him, he reaches to card his fingers through Bruce's hair, testing the weight and density, how it feels fine but also thick.
"Think you can show me what's under all of this?" He doesn't lack softness, but he isn't cradling or coddling by any means. His hands are certain and when he slides his fingers beneath Bruce's chin, it's as much curiosity as it is eagerness that has him tilting that powerful man's jaw upward for his own pleasure. He studies sharp, blue eyes and instead of kissing Bruce's lips, he swipes his thumb across them in a gesture that almost feels like it could be even more intimate.
He wants to bite and stroke and grope, wants to approach that place where he's wild for the way pleasure spills from his partner's mouth. Rucked clothes and raked skin, shared breath and sweat mingled in the sheets. But something tells him that's not novel here and he's sniffing out alternatives like a bloodhound on a scent, making careful approach with tender and genuine intent.
If Bruce is truly ready for anything, then he should be prepared for this.
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Maybe that’s why he isn’t really all that broken up about losing his bid for a date night with Blake. The money is going to a good cause, and Bruce can still make a sizable donation. Besides, Blake is here with him now. They’ve skipped the auction’s formality and gone straight to the best part of an evening together. So who’s the real winner? Checkmate, Grandma.
For all of Blake’s humility, he looks incredible tonight—a genuine feast for the eyes. Bruce can hardly look anywhere else as Blake crosses the room toward him, shirt casually unbuttoned at the collar. Bruce hardly needs an invitation to make space for Blake between his knees.
At Blake’s question, Bruce’s lips curl into a familiar, confident smirk. "I think I can handle that."
Usually, when someone touches Bruce, it isn’t gentle. More often than not, it’s a fist flying at his face. But with Blake, there’s a different kind of energy—firm, sure, but not something Bruce feels he should lean away from. In fact, he finds himself leaning into it—a wordless request for more. He catches Blake’s thumb with a kiss as it brushes his lips, his hands already slipping the tie free from his collar, fingers moving expertly to the buttons next, slow and deliberate with each one.
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"Mm, I know you can," he asserts. His hands spread across Bruce's shoulders and he presses until the man beneath him gets the picture and lays back. Each knee is placed carefully on either side of Bruce's hips and Blake straddles him, curling over like a protective umbrella to force his way to Bruce's lips. In the spaces where skin's already been revealed, Blake smooths his fingertips, tracing skin not just to feel the scars and muscles, but to live in the warmth of another human being so close.
Grip spreading, he urges Bruce's arms aside, guiding them out of the way — up, to the side, or away hardly matters — and in their absence Blake wanders his wet mouth freely over the exposed flesh.
Bruce is so presumably perfect. The world looks at him and even when they sneer at his playboy antics, they're still doing so with the knowledge that he has everything he needs to be as perfect as expected. Blake, for all his flaws and with no one left for him with expectations, thinks his friend's life sounds miserable at its best; no wonder this person beneath him doesn't care much beyond the metrics that keep the money flowing.
"Do your— dates ever ask about these?" His quiet question is accompanied by the following of a particularly gnarly scar. And the pause? Well, call him uncertain, but Blake wonders if dates are truly dates when it comes to Bruce, or if it's just another situation where he feels the need to acquiesce in order to satisfy someone's urge — so he could have the freedom to once again get back to his own needs. Rarely do they seem self-indulgent, either, if you can look past the fact that Bruce's most powerful driving force is himself. That he took even this time to spend with Blake seems... significant. Maybe as much a need as a want.
Mouth always going one way or another, he parts what clothing is left only to where it's fastened and explores more readily, tongue tracing freely over intimate spaces. He thumbs over the opposing nipple just to test how Bruce likes it, but he's scraping his teeth against the ridge of the ribs, too, finding places where he doubts people pay much mind. He's nothing if not thorough, and while in the information gathering phase, he sure doesn't mind that he doubts he could do much wrong. It charges him with energy and he demonstrates his own interest by rocking himself forward enough to rut his hardening cock in the groove of Bruce's hip.
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And maybe, for a little while, Bruce tried to be Thomas while he was scrambling for an identity—a mask for the man he'd diligently trained himself to become. But he wasn't Thomas Wayne—a man who might have genuinely been perfect. Trying to become him only invited unwanted scrutiny, causing Bruce to recoil from the idea. He couldn't fit into that box, so he decided that Bruce Wayne had to be something else entirely. Not perfect. But someone no one would ever take seriously. Blake included.
It could be a miserable way to live. But it was necessary. And if it kept people from getting too close? That was necessary too.
He sank back into the soft contours of his bedding, quietly eager for the weight of Blake over him—the warm press of his mouth and the curious touch of his fingers. Bruce's hum was appreciative and warm as Blake explored him, his broad hands finding their way to Blake's thighs and then around and up along his spine.
At Blake's question, Bruce opened his eyes but didn't bother to look at the scar in question. He could feel Blake's fingers tracing over it—a chemical burn from a particularly nasty encounter with the Joker. Bruce knew how to explain it away with a charming smile and a self-deprecating laugh (he's such a bonehead, right?). But he didn't offer that this time. Blake deserved a little more sincerity.
"Sometimes. Most people don't care enough to ask." Or they were never allowed to see them in the first place. He was clever with the lights when the clothes started to come off. Or he made sure to offend his would-be partner so they stormed away before it ever reached that point. It didn't matter in the end; the results were the same, and so were the rumors.
But Bruce was glad that Blake didn't question it further or any of the other twisted, ugly folds of scarred skin. There weren't many, but they were prominent compared to the smaller ones that had mostly faded over time. He was glad Blake seemed far more interested in exploring the rest of him, and Bruce absolutely let him. He exhaled softly at the press of Blake's teeth.
"God," he whispered, breathless, a laugh slipping through. "That's good."
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Arching under the other man's touch, he hummed his own approval. Blake's never been bulky; as a teen he was little more than five sticks and a head, but as he reached past his awkward teenage years, he'd toned up without over-pumping those muscles. His strength came more from precision than brute force. He maintained deep flexibility and retained the surprise that typically registered after judging him on a sweet face and a generally quiet demeanor.
"Don't worry; you don't gotta get deep with me," he assured between one roll of his hips and the next. Bruce was firm beneath him but not unyielding and Blake felt his body responding easily to the attention. The bloom of heat fought against a full-fledged shudder and goosebumps raised all the way up to his neck. "But I'm gonna get deep with you..."
No laugh followed and Blake pressed upward to lock his elbows, eyes dark with desire and promise as he observed Bruce. He may not have come into this expecting more personal information about Bruce, but he wouldn't apologize for what he observed readily during all of this, either.
Kissing Bruce, he meant to prove his point and Blake picked at buttons, finishing the reveal of Bruce's whole chest. Mouth curving into a smirk against Bruce's mouth, he scraped blunt nails down the other man's sides and then shimmied downward until his hands and face were both hovering over Bruce's beltline.
"You gotta tell me how you wanna come, though. First? Last?" Feedback here was necessary from Blake's perspective, even if he had every ability to ad lib his way through this.
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Blake's the first in a long, long time Bruce's even allowed an inch closer than normal. He pulls out sincerity in Bruce where someone else might be left with just something surface level and just a little bit fake, an idea of Bruce instead of the unvarnished reality. It's gratifying to feel close to someone, even if he's leaving space to retreat if he has to.
Each roll of Blake's hips stirred up something hot in Bruce, searing almost, like he just might catch fire from the warmth and desire building inside of him, blood rushing south and his trousers feeling a little bit tighter.
"I don't worry." A smirk carved across his face. "I'm looking forward to it." He dragged his hands over Blake's chest when he hovered over Bruce, fingers tugging his shirt from where it had been tucked in so he could get the buttons undone. Bruce returned that kiss, pouring all of his desire into meeting Blake's mouth with his own.
"Oh, after you, of course," he said, no hesitation. No further explanation offered. On its face it could seem altruistic; Bruce caring about the pleasure of his partner and he does. But he was feeling a little selfish about it too. He wanted the sight of Blake coming apart burned into his memory.
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"Generous," Blake murmured. He sat up to allow Bruce access and helped along the way, popping open buttons in congruence. Shoulders rolling, he dripped the fine tuxedo shirt from himself but argued with the wrists before flinging it away. "That mean you wanna see me when I get off?"
He lifted himself from Bruce to work his own trousers, shifting them down his hips as far as they'd go. The dark fabric hid the dampness well, but as Blake drew out his cock and gave it a performative stroke, it was already glistening at the tip with precum. The rest of him was representative of hard work, but not so much that he'd turned to nothing but muscle. There was still a thin layer of body fat in places, but he clearly worked everything pretty equally instead of focusing on one particular part of himself. It also allowed him to maintain a decent level of flexibility which sparked a reminder as he stretched long and lean above this arguably gorgeous, artistically proportioned, incredibly interesting individual.
His eyes were dark with desire — nearly black from his deep brown irises and pupils blown with need — and Blake's grin turned wicked as he pumped himself and in tandem raked his other palm firmly over Bruce's dick. "Might have to put your knees around your ears unless you've got a mirror handy."
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It isn't even so much the act itself that got Bruce going, though it certainly helped. It's watching the way his partner came apart at the seams, especially if they were as carefully stitched as Bruce's. And, distantly, it gave Bruce a sense of control over the situation. He was always trying to bend the world and the people around him to fit into the rules he'd made. He liked when they fit, when they don't push back and accepted being maneuvered into place. Letting his partner come first gave him the advantage, even if it's not something he'd admit to. Or maybe he's not even fully aware that's what he was doing. Especially now that he was with someone he likes.
Bruce missed the warm press of Blake's body as he pulled away, but appreciated the view, eyes roaming over the smooth, clean planes of muscle. He saved Blake's cock for last, admiring the length and girth of it. He wanted to touch it, but settled for running a hand along Blake's arm instead. He was still pliable in areas Bruce was solid muscle - a necessity born out of a need to make the Bat as intimidating as possible. For everyone else that asked, it was just how he liked to idle the hours away.
There was a hitch in his breathing, a subtle heave of his chest when Blake palmed over his erection. Bruce shut his eyes as he felt a warm jolt of pleasure up to the roots of his hair. He pushed himself up a bit to point at the mirror on a swivel base. "It can be angled toward the bed, if you're interested." He returned Blake's wicked grin with a kiss, brief and warm.
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He eyed the mirror and then the bed, comfortable enough in his own skin to be walking around fairly unabashed. Blake wasn't a show-off, but he did exhibit an awful lot of the stereotypical traits of both an only child and an orphan. He liked attention, but only on his terms; otherwise the body was just a thing everyone had, and for most of the years it mattered, he shared open living spaces with other boys who didn't care. To say this was natural for him wouldn't fit the bill — he didn't strut naked even in his own apartment — but to suggest it might be simply for Bruce's pleasure wouldn't have been refuted.
The mirror was turned just so, with Blake checking the angle before sauntering his way back towards the bed, easily stroking himself dry. He was particular enough to keep himself clean and neatly trimmed, although he was circumcised like the majority of guys in his particular age, religious, and ethnic group, so it didn't exactly get people out there singing praises. Nevertheless, he'd heard no complaints and had none of his own, miraculously enough, so his approach was fairly filled with confidence.
Stopping by his bag, he dug for his provisions and palmed the condom wrapper before crawling across the bed on hands and knees towards his companion.
"Want me to work you up?" He asked because some people were particular, and some people were masochists, and for Blake's part he fit somewhere in the middle. Nosing into Bruce's space, he lowers his voice and whispered close to the other man's ear. "Leave it to me, I'll be forced to take it slow."
Apologies for the delay. Writer's block kills me sometimes.
Bruce respected that about him. Maybe even envied it a little.
Because for all his carefully cultivated mystique, there were parts of him that still felt unmoored. Parts that existed outside of the Bat that felt nebulous and uncertain, like he'd lose them if he wasn't careful. Blake didn't seem to have that uncertainty. He was grounded in a way Bruce had never seemed to achieve. It was part of what made him attractive.
It also helped that Blake was absolutely gorgeous to look at. Bruce admired him too, unabashedly while he waited for him to return. He reached for him as he crawled across the bed, hands spreading out over his arms and up his shoulders, urging him to get close. Bruce smiles at what's whispered into his ear. "You mean you weren't trying before," he replied, a teasing edge to his voice. "You took your sweet time getting back over here." He leaned up, pressing a kiss against Blake's throat and up along his jaw.
"Take your time, if you think you've got the patience for it."
Vacation took me away for a bit - hopefully I can send you ~a little inspiration~ <3333
"We've gone this long, yeah?" he responded, his skin flushed beyond Bruce's lips. Basking for a moment, he allowed the man access long enough to use his own, petting through the dark hair and thrilled to find Bruce prickling with sweat at the hairline just the same as him. Not so collected, he thought, which only favored the moment as far as he was concerned.
Purposefulness had him popping the cap on the lube and gathering it onto his fingers with a dexterous one-handed maneuver, quick to smear, warm, and apply readily as his free hand held Bruce close. He found himself rutting against Bruce, too, a rocking motion that ripped little, low grumbles from Blake's throat at an unpredictable tempo.
"Maybe next time you could be ready for me." His grin was unrepentant and he felt himself turning near-blistering at the idea of Bruce Wayne wriggling in his chair, plugged up and anticipating the moment he was free to be taken. "Then I can take time on other things..." Practically salivating, he went about with those teasing fingers, focused as much on petting out pleasure with his exploration as he was on making way for his achingly interested dick. If he could have a third hand at the moment, he'd consider taking it, because the further he found himself from Bruce's own dick, the hungrier and more desperate he became.
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He wasn't the kind of person to ever take that leap of faith without a safety net. His contingencies had contingencies. It had always been true about relationships too. He would always try to find a way out, when things inevitably went sideways. It was true of Blake too, but Bruce found himself hoping things could stay like this – playful and warm and intimate. Like this. No expectations. Just them being together. He liked that.
His legs spread wide to make room for Blake as he moved, hips rocking against his own and a groan rumbles from some deep place in him.
“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” He returned that smile, wicked in its own right as he reached between them to give Blake a lazy stroke or two. “Thinking about me in my board meeting ready for you?” Bruce leaned up to graze a kiss against Blake's jaw, before he falls back again, breath catching at feeling Blake's exploring fingers. He's hard, painfully so and wrapped his fingers around his aching cock. Not jerking off, but just touching himself to keep himself grounded in the moment.
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Nevertheless, denying that he was robbed of breath as easily as answers when Bruce went fondling around would be pointless. His little gasp was impossible to hide and he was forced to bite it back behind his bottom lip where it turned into more determination. He redoubled his efforts, focused on how tight he imagined Bruce would be, and wondering whether he'd even need more of a reminder than what Blake was about to do to him.
"Thinkin' 'bout you thinkin' 'bout me does have a, ah— a real fuckin' appeal," he noted with little shame. It stirred within him an even deeper desire to see Bruce far separated from a moment — any moment — by memories generated specifically towards making him feel good. They might never share domestic bliss, or the camaraderie of a proper working relationship, but near as Blake could figure — had ever figured — a functioning sexual arrangement filled a lot of holes. Pun intended.
As if to help prove his point, he more fervently curled a finger towards the other man's prostate, making demands of Bruce's body while dipping down to put his mouth to good use before it could turn predictably filthy.
In tandem, he mouthed greedily at the other man's sack, sparing some occasional suction that helped lift it out of the way for the careful introduction of a second finger. He doubted Bruce would allow for an excruciatingly long tease, but that suited him because he already felt fit to burst all on his own.
Breathing hotly over the spit-slathered canvas, he hummed, "You tell me when you're ready to turn, 'cause otherwise..." Not that he minds. Rather, he probably wouldn't stop, at least not until he'd eked out every orgasm he could from Bruce, so eager with his mouth and hands he barely spared the time for the suggestion before he was lapping a long line from scrotum to tip. Sucking the head, he struggled to artfully swallow around Bruce, the gulping noise immediately followed with a groan he'd failed to suppress. There was something so goddamn sexy about driving someone to that peak — something Blake craved for the satisfaction of it as much for his own derived pleasure.
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It was a feeling he wasn't used to, but it wasn't a bad one. Just new and one more thing he'd learn how to navigate. At least it was with someone who Bruce could almost trust. Enough not to use this vulnerable moment against him anyway.
It helped him to relax, the expert way Blake used his mouth and tongue and how it felt like he was unraveling all of the perfect control. Like he knew all of the right ways to get Bruce to open up and allow himself a chance to feel something other than that all consuming obsession with the Mission. Logically, he knew Blake had no way of knowing the impact he was truly having right then. But lust was a helluva drug.
As greedy as Blake is, Bruce was too. Eager to see his tip disappear into the warm wetness of Blake's mouth. It's perfect. It's too perfect and if Bruce had been anyone else – untrained, undisciplined – he would have came right then and there. But he could pace himself, will that orgasm down for just a little while longer. It doesn't stop that low, rumble of a groan. Born somewhere deep. Almost Batman, but not quite.
He offered Blake another shameless smile, hips rocking against his fingers. “Are you going to fuck me or tease me to death?”
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"Honestly hadn't decided," he sighed, as if he held a hand of cards he didn't feel much like folding. But he relented nonetheless, and carefully extracted himself to steal a brief nipping kiss before patting Bruce's thigh. Post up.
Meanwhile, he busied himself with the practicalities, rolling on the condom when he finally shifted to where their reflection would be most visible. "C'mere before I make a joke 'bout a 'stay of ejaculation'."
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Tonight, Batman is almost a far away thing. Not gone, never gone. Not even truly set aside. Just. Paused, while Bruce's gaze stayed fixed on the man rolling a condom on and shifting his body to get the best angle in the mirror.
Bruce went when beckoned, crawling toward Blake and reaching for him when he got to him so that he could pull the other man into a heated kiss. He could taste himself on Blake's tongue and it made him shudder a little.
“Go slow.” Not because Bruce needed him to. “I want to feel every inch of you.”
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The puff of Bruce's heated words across his face set Blake to rumble with greedy desire; as much as Bruce wanted to feel him, he wanted to feel Bruce — wanted that slick, encapsulating warmth that traveled his body. Wanted to feel it everywhere: cock, balls, guts, brain, and maybe even a few untouched depths.
"Yeah, a'right, I've got you," Blake muttered, nipping at Bruce's lips and peppering wet dabs where his tongue wandered. Wrapped around the slick condom, his other hand left off pumping in favor of a firm guiding grip at the base of his dick, taken then on parade to avoid Bruce distracting him from their purpose.
While the mirror would eventually come into play for him, his own attention was drawn downward at the hedonistic visage. With eyes dark and wide, mouth either agape or gnawing itself eagerly, Blake pressed the head teasingly, taking double the occasion to swipe a lubed thumb over Bruce's entrance and draw out the moment. He rocked that pressure slowly into play, little breaths held and lost with every bit he advanced. Past the head, he wouldn't be pulling back out, but up to that point he was enjoying the control.
Slow he could do. Slow was a treat, in fact, which Blake wouldn't take for granted.
He moaned Bruce's name, and followed with a foul-mouthed, "Fuck, Jesus, fuck—" because the further south all his blood traveled, the fewer words found their way north in return.
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I got you settled over him like a blanket, warm and cozy and he felt another finger loosen it's grip on the cord. He could let go because he trusted Blake enough not to demand that control back. He trusted himself enough to think he could have both – vigilance and this heady, intoxicating pleasure.
He was ready. As ready as he could be when that first scant inch pressed into him. Instinct wanted him to seize up, but Bruce forced his body to relax, willed the tension out of those muscles so that Blake could sink deeper. His fingers flexed and he inhaled a quiet breath that kept him grounded, so he could stay here in the moment. When he said he wanted to feel every inch, he meant it and it wouldn't do to lose himself so soon. He wanted to stay right here. Right here so he could be aware enough to know when Blake bottomed out and so he could see the look on his face when he did.
He didn't moan. Not yet. But his chest heaved, a quiet sound of approval. “I'm right here,” he says, even though it doesn't feel like he has the breath to say it. Bruce reached for Blake, fingers ghosting over his cheek and down his neck. “Stay with me.”
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An hour later he's still at this club, and he's feeling like his skin is going to boil off or like he's going to dissolve, or both, and all he wants is Bruce. He can't even figure out why. He's never felt like this, like he's going to absolutely lose his mind if he doesn't get-
-so he makes the call, slipping a hand onto his phone to let Bruce know he needs a pick up and he needs it soon, handing over his coordinates with a press of a button.
When Bruce does show up, Jason is on edge of the dance floor with glitter covering miles of bare skin. He's wearing short shorts, and a shirt that looks painted on, and he's got someone's hands on his hips, but there is a look to him that seems more manic than anything else.]
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That's how he knew about Jason's undercover work before he ever sent his pick up request. He mostly stayed out of Jason's investigation, except where there had been some overlap with his own case. They were getting along and Bruce wanted to keep it that way. But even if they hadn't been, Bruce still would have come the second he got that pick up request.
Getting by security is easy enough when you know how and Bruce's been at this long enough that most people won't realize he'd been there until long after he's gone. He spots Jason easily too - the glitter may as well be a spotlight and makes his way over to him. He doesn't look injured. Just high as hell. ]
I've got the car waiting. Let's go.
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The other guy snorts, and wanders off to look for someone else to dance with.]
You came.
[The pleasure in that statement is real, and there's a little surprise, too. It's not Batman, it's Bruce, and he came for Jason, even though Jason knows he hates him.]
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You asked me to.
[ his voice is low, softer than it would be if he’d come in the suit ]
We should go. Now.
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He nods.]
Did you drive? Is Alfie here?
[He thinks Bruce probably drove himself.]
Is it the BMW? Or the Aston-Martin?
[This is Jason without the rough edge of his personal armor; this is Jason at his most gentle, as if no one has ever hurt him.]
Lead the way.
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I drove.
[ but it’s an old beater hes not concerned about getting jacked. The security measures installed will keep any would be thieves at bay regardless. He cuts through the crowd with relative ease, shoving aside anyone disinclined to move themselves out of his way to the exit. ]
Stay close. We’re almost out.
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Jason hums a little as they get to the car and he laughs when he sees the car.]
Did you borrow that from Dick?
[Jason slips in, anyway.]
This looks like his kind of thing.
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When he slips into the driver's seat, he glances at Jason and for a minute his eyes drift down to his glittered abs. ]
Where am I taking you?
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[He says it without thinking. He kind of wants to go back to the manor, and the nature of this drug - stripping away that layer of armor - means that he can say it without worrying about it.]
The manor. Can I come home?
[He asks it with the softness of someone who thinks the answer might be no. He's always thought of it as home, from the first day that he was there and he had a warm bed again to yesterday, when he was in his own apartment, eating leftovers and ignoring his family.]
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Yeah, Jason. You can come home.
[ the car starts and Bruce takes the quickest route back to the cave. He parks the car back in its place alongside the fleet of other vehicles. ]
What did you take?
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I didn't do it because I wanted to get high. You know that, right?
[He looks over at Bruce, and his eyes are huge and blue. Frank Sinatra would be jealous.]
It's the new shit I've been looking into. Unicorn dust, is what they're calling it.
[He reaches for Bruce's hand.]
You won't leave me alone, right?
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But the moment passes and he gives Jason's hand a squeeze. ]
Come into the cave, let me have a look at you.
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He probably needs a shower; he's still glittering.]
Alfie's going to be so mad when he sees all this glitter.
[At least he doesn't seem to need any help down the stairs; whatever this drug did, it wasn't anything that made Jason lose his sense of space or his physical awareness.
He sits in the medical bay and holds out his arms.]
Did you really just come without knowing anything about what was going on?
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And, he could make sure what happened to that young man wouldn't happen to this one.
He doesn't say anything at first, while he busies himself around the med bay. When he's close, he checks Jason's arms for puncture wounds. ]
I've been keeping an eye on the club. I saw when you went in there.
[ It's not spying. ]
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The dealer's selling...it to the working girls down in the alley. No. That's not right.
[Jason scowls.]
To the pimps, and then the girls get it. If it was just a party drug-
[Jason shrugs. He doesn't care if twentysomethings are doing a drug that makes them feel good at a party, but he does care if it gets to people who don't want to take it, to make them pliable.]
Needed a sample, but the dealers wanted to see me use it, so take the blood for the sample.
[His mouth turns into a moue.]
I'm being good.
[He says it mulishly.]
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It isn't just a party drug.
[ He's quiet and efficient as he works, blood sample taken and stored away to examine later. When he comes back to Jason, he touches him again, wipes away some of the glitter with a swipe of his palm over Jason's chest. He's helping. ]
You are being good.
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- he doesn't know what it feels like, but he knows he likes it, it feels good. It feels good that Bruce is right here, that he's treating him like this.]
No.
[He's agreeing; it's not just a party drug.]
But this is my job. I'm supposed to do things like this, to help.
[He reaches for Bruce's hand and takes it in his, and puts it over his heart. His heart is beating hard, but not rapidly, hard but not like he's going into cardiac shock.]
I'm supposed to help you.
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Just the drugs. ]
You are helping. Help me again by laying down for a little while.
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Well.
It's not just the drugs, but Jason doesn't say that at the moment. Instead he holds Bruce's hand and keeps it tucked against his heart, but he does lie down, slowly, and holds on like Bruce is a prayer.]
I'll stay if you agree to hold me.
[He says it with a smile, pleased.]
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Turn on your side.
[ And when Jason does, Bruce will climb into the bed with him and slipping an arm around him and drawing him close. ]
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It's been a few hours, and he's not high anymore. He's in Bruce's arms and it's so-
-right. Peaceful. And he has morning wood, so that doesn't help, but Bruce is right there and either asleep or pretending to be. Jason knows that if he moves, Bruce will move too, so he carefully puts a hand around Bruce's hip and-
-Bruce's eyes open and he doesn't pull away-
-he doesn't know how long it's been that he's thought of Bruce as a figure who-
-he doesn't know how long he's wanted to-
-he leans in and kisses him on the mouth, timid, a little, and then a bit more.]
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He doesn't mention it. He tries not to think about it. Until he feels Jason's hand on his hip. And then it's all he can think about. Bruce's eyes open and he stares at Jason.
The kiss isn't a surprise. Bruce leans into it because he's not thinking with his brain. He just wants to marvel in the warm, soft press of Jason's lips against his. He'll come back to himself in a minute. ]
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When Bruce kisses him back, Jason pulls back a little, just enough for his breath to hitch, and before Bruce can move away in a panic Jason leans in to kiss him again, to press against him like it's all he has ever wanted. More than the Joker's death.]
It's okay.
[He says it before Bruce can think, he hopes.]
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He doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about whether it's okay, because if he does, he'll stop doing this and he doesn't really want to stop doing this. He puts a hand on Jason's hip, fingers pressing in for leverage so he can pull him in close and slip his leg between Jason's. ]
Don't talk. Just kiss me.
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But he's not doing any of that. Jason kisses him again, then, letting his body take the wheel where his brain is checked out. He didn't overdose or die; his memory isn't even blurry over the night before. He should be embarrassed at how he was acting, but he's not. He's not embarrassed.
He turns his hips a little to loop one leg over Bruce's and opens his mouth to make the kiss deeper, to make it clear that he wants this as badly as Bruce seems to want to give it to him. His hips stutter once, twice. Shit.
He still won't say a word.]
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Jason's still covered in glitter, but Bruce doesn't mind that either as he smooths his hands over Jason's chest and along the toned muscles of his arms and then his back.
He drags his hands back around again when he feels Jason's hips rocking against him. His fingers hook into Jason's waistband, searching around for what held them closed. ]
Get these off.
[ There's a sense of urgency in how Bruce says it. Like he's trying to outpace his good sense. ]
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He looks down to see Bruce's hand just near his cock and he has to look away or he's going to come too soon, too fast, he's going to have to die of embarrassment and Bruce will have to bury him in the backyard. So instead of looking his mouth catches Bruce's mouth again, licks in, and the noise is makes is obscene.]
Can't-
Can't get them down more without moving.
[Which isn't an argument not to move. He'll move if Bruce asks, which begs the question of how obliging Jason is when he's absolutely crazy with lust.]
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So he helps, pushing Jason’s shorts down as far as they’ll go then he drags his hands back up again, pressing into the kiss, letting Jason’s mouth swallow any noise he’s making. He doesn’t want to move, because it puts distance between them. Gives his brain more space to be logical when he really just wants to keep being consumed by lust. He could work with this. It wouldn’t take much to get Jason on his side with Bruce behind him. ]
It’s okay. Roll over on your side.
[ a pause as he works his jeans open so he can shove them down. ]
Do I need to work you open first?
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Yeah.
[He huffs some air.]
Haven't done this in a while.
[A while is a generous measure. Jason isn't exactly one to have sex on the regular with anyone, and he's never really been someone who engages in casual romance. The last time was over a year ago, he thinks, when he and Bruce were still at each other's throats.]
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He turns back and slips his slick hand between Jason’s cheeks, pressing a calloused finger into him up to the first joint.
He kisses him on the neck again. ]
Easy.
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He turns his head, and the scar that Bruce gave him when he threw a batarang at him is under Bruce's mouth and it makes Jason shiver all the more, gasping for breath.]
It's okay. You got me.
[He hasn't said that in a long time, and his other hand is reaching back to find Bruce's free one, to pull it to his mouth to kiss his palm and then hold it like a lifeline.]
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[ Bruce whispers against Jason’s skin, mouth hot and wet against that scar.
He lets Jason take his free hand, wraps that arm around him and hugs him while he works his finger inside him. There’s only a moment for Jason to get used to the stretch before Bruce presses in another finger alongside the first. ]
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He presses his hips back a little, eager to have more, more of those big hands inside of him until he can get his cock.]
Just like that, God, just-
[He tips his chin down and kisses Bruce's fingers again. Here, he's here, he's here, they're both right here.]
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Logic doesn't seem so logical now. Nothing does. Every nerve feels like it's been set alight, and all of Bruce's energy is being poured into pushing Jason closer and closer to that familiar high. Every noise he draws out goes straight to his cock, painfully hard and nudging into Jason's back as he moves. His patience is wearing thin. He's not sure how he's managed this long without any relief. ]
Think you can take another?
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More.
Give me more.
[He manages that, and then.]
Just fuck me, if I can't walk later you can carry me home.
[The lust is thick in his voice, and he tries to stay still, but his hips are rocking just a little, just enough to be clear he's trying to get some friction, something.]
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I got you. I got you.
[ Bruce keeps him steady with a hand pressed against Jason's hip, fingers digging bruises there. The other he keeps pressed against his chest, so Jason would have something to hold on to. His mouth continues to kiss and bite at that scar on Jason's neck. ]
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He cries out and it echoes in the cave. It doesn't even occur to him that anyone could walk in, that there are cameras. He doesn't care. All he cares about is feeling full and the sweet pleasure and the rough buzz, and Bruce's mouth on his shoulder like he's trying to maul him or to heal the scar that he put there, the scar that marks him.
He adjusts both their hands, then, to his own cock, and wraps Bruce's fingers around him so that he can rock into him and onto him at once.]
Fuck.
[The word practically drags out of his throat.]
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He's not even wholly sure he'd have an explanation for this other than it just happened. It's not something he would have accepted from anyone else. But he doesn't want to give this kind of thing words. Not yet.
Bruce's hand follow's Jason's lead and wraps around his cock without a lot of urging. It's warm and thick in his palm and he gives it a few experimental strokes in tandem with the rocking of Jason's hips. He presses his mouth against Jason's shoulder to muffle a moan that might as well have been a growl as Jason works himself back against him. ]
Good boy. You're such a good boy.
[ His voice is low, raw, thick with pleasure. He'd barely recognize it if it wasn't coming from him. ]
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God, B, don't stop, okay? I'll keep being good, just don't stop, don't-
[He gasps and closes his eyes.]
You, god, please. I'm going to come. I'm gonna-
[He's babbling now, not high but still loose and easy from the high the night before, his nerve endings on fire. He can't help but clench his ass, trying to keep himself from spilling over.
He doesn't manage it, coming with a cry. It feels like it happened so fast but he also can't care.]
Come on, B, give it to me, come on-
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His orgasm hits him hard, like a punch to the gut, his hand digging hard into Jason's hip as he spills into him until there's nothing left. When he finally lets go, he slides the hand that had been gripping his hip to his middle and settled on his stomach. He kisses a spot on his shoulder, but doesn't know what to say.
Was there anything to say? ]
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But he doesn't seem to be freaking out.
Or maybe he is, it's hard to tell.]
Can I stay?
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Jason's not moving. Or freaking out. Bruce is freaking out a little.
But, he decides he wants to stay here a little bit longer. Reality will assert itself again soon enough. ]
I want you to.
[ Maybe they can find another moment to do this again. ]
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He doesn't turn around, but keeps holding Bruce's hand to his chest, so Bruce can feel the reassuring thud of his heartbeat and he can feel Bruce's at his wrist.]
Okay.
[It's so easy. It's so simple. Okay.]
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It feels like something deep and quiet settling over him, like having a warm drink after a night out in the cold.
He doesn't want to ever get up. ]
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Once he does get up, he turns to Bruce.]
I'm going to take a shower, okay?
[He gives him a kiss, quick, though.]
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[ He's not reluctant to let go but stays put for a moment longer in the space where they kiss before they part. When Jason's out of sight is when that creeping we shouldn't be doing this feeling returns and settles unhappily in Bruce's gut.
He lays with it for a minute, before he gets up to clean up. By the time Jason returns, the med bay bed is neat and tidy, not a speck of glitter to be seen. Bruce is at the computer, analyzing Jason's blood sample. ]
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He comes out, barefoot, to where Bruce is at the computer, and he doesn't look Bruce in the eye.]
I'm going to...grab one of your extra shirts.
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He doesn't want to think about Jason wandering around in one of his shirts. It feels very domestic. He thinks about it anyway. ]
Are you staying for breakfast?
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He twists his mouth a little.]
I usually get breakfast at the Starlight Diner, when I'm up for it.
[Which isn't a yes or a no.]
I could grab one of Dick's shirts.
[They will not fit right, because Jason is bigger than Dick, and Dick never really went for the extra oversize look.]
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[ he doesn’t take his eyes off the screen; he’s still working. And honestly did not want to risk what might happen if he does look. He doesn’t know what Jason might look like now that he’s clean and clearheaded. Probably every bit as desirable as he had last night, covered in glitter and high as a kite. He doesn’t know what that will do to him and Bruce hated not knowing.
It’s tacit permission to take one of his. ]
We can go to the diner. Just give me a minute.
[ Jason’s not the only one who doesn’t want to face Alfred. ]
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He hunts around but then spots-
-oh, it's absolutely one of Dick's shirts. It's slightly larger, but worn, and clean, and it has the bright Superman logo on it, but Jason loops it over his head. On him it's just tight, but it just barely fits, not leaving much to the imagination.]
You know you'll have to be Brucie, right?
[He says it as he goes to get the keys to one of the flashier cars, because Jason likes to drive them on the rare chance he and Bruce are getting along, which, considering what their morning was like, he figures is now.]
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He tells himself not to stare any longer and turns back to the computer to continue organizing the results as they come in. ]
I'll live.
[ When he's at a satisfying stopping point, he steps away for a moment before he comes back dressed a bit differently. A button down sloppily buttoned and ill fitted around the collar. Sunglasses resting on his hair. If he's going to be Brucie, he'll at least look the part. He slides into the passenger seat and gets settled. ]
Ready.
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No complaining.
[Because he's going to speed, he's going to drive like a madman, knowing that the cops don't pull over any of Bruce's cars, and perfectly happy to exploit that.
They get to the diner in record time. Jason hops out, grinning like a maniac.]
C'mon Brucie.
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But, he doesn't complain.
When they reach the diner, Bruce drops his sunglasses and gets out after Jason. He sees Jason's grin and it's funny how he's found the easiest way to get his heart to skip a beat or two.
Anyway.
He walks in ahead of Jason, leans on the hostess station and offers her a tired smile. ]
I really wanna sit in a booth. Tell me you got one of those.
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I thought he looked like he needed a coffee. Jeanne, can you get us a booth? I don't think he's ever sat in one.
[Jeanne finds them a booth and Jason goes to sit, easing back.]
So how bad is that stuff from last night anyway?
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He leans in as Jason leans back. ]
Bad. Lowered inhibitions makes users susceptible to suggestion. It literally makes it a pleasure to obey.
[ Which explains the body in the harbor. He didn't die from the overdose. He drowned. ]
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Mmm. It felt...
[He thinks about it.]
It felt like it was easy to tell you the truth, but not like I was compelled to do it. It didn't feel like a truth serum. It felt more like I could trust you.
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Did anyone say anything to you? Try to get you to do something for them?
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[He shrugs.]
I wasn't high very long, before I called you. Some guy asked me to dance, the one you saw me with, and it felt good to agree.
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Gordon called me on a body they pulled from the harbor a few weeks ago. Toxicology reports put enough of this stuff in his system to kill him. But he drowned.
[ He'll let Jason work out that implication. ]
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It makes the girls more amenable. That's why I was looking into it. Pimps have been giving it to the girls.
[He doesn't like it. He takes another bite of his breakfast.]
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His coffee's gone cold. When the waitress stops by to check on them, he smiles up at her and asks if she can leave them a fresh pot. Offers a 50 as a meager bribe. ]
Then we'll start with the pimps.
[ Yes, Bruce will casually butt into Jason's case. Thank you. ]
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[He looks at him, his eyebrows up and confused.]
It's not your case.
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[ He pours himself a fresh cup of coffee without a second thought. ]
Like it or not, our cases are connected.
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[He says it with an emphasis.]
You don't get to take over my case. The girls don't trust Batman. They trust me.
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[ He finally takes a sip of coffee. Ugh, it's burnt. ]
I'm only looking for the supply chain. I doubt whoever is producing this is just using it to make the girls compliant. I'm going to put an end to it.
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[He says it without any real malice.]
Not the pimps, I don't care about them.
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[ Though he will gladly ruin the pimps lives. ]
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I'll give you a few of my leads.
[He has some that Bruce definitely doesn't.]
But you can't tell them you got their names from me.
[Jason is behaving, it's...weird.]
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I would appreciate that.
[ He sips his coffee. ]
I hope this new found cooperation isn't because of what happened last night.
[ Or this morning. He's not talking about that though. ]
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[He tips his head just a little, over his coffee cup, like he's trying to figure out a puzzle.]
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[ A pause and then ]
You laughed at my car.
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[He asks without any mercy.]
Even I couldn't sell those tires.
[A pause.]
Anyway, no, I don't owe you for the single decent act of picking me up when I was high.
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[ He had to offload the car fast and Bruce needed something less flashy to drive while he's undercover. It was a win/win. Was it stolen? Probably! Bruce didn't ask. ]
I would have come for you regardless, Jason. I just wanted to make sure you weren't still under the influence.
[ He's cooperating because he wants to. That's new. Bruce kind of likes it. ]
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[Because if not Jason will absolutely make fun of it forever.]
I'm not under the influence. It wears off in a couple of hours.
[So he can also stop thinking that it was the drug that made Jason want him so badly that morning.]
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And yeah that quietly kills any nagging doubts Bruce might have had about that morning. But he won't address is outright. ]
Good. I didn't think you were, but I also didn't have the chance to examine you this morning.
[ At least not like that. ]
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Okay, sure.
Now you give me something.
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You could have brought it up yourself.
[ Not that Bruce would have wanted to talk about it either way. ]
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[He thinks about it for moment.]
Brought up the drugs?
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[ Bruce isn't in the mood for it. ]
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Fine. You want to cover breakfast? I have shit to do.
[Apparently Bruce has decided that he's going to be doing this.]
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[ He smiles and once he has her attention, he lifts a hand for the waitress to bring their check. ]
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Nah.
You can call Al.
[He gets up, easy.]
I'll see you later, Brucie.
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[ Bruce puts a hand on Dick's back, bracing himself so he doesn't sway too much when he's finally upright. Pain spears through him, and for once he groans quietly against it. The car swerves in close and the doors slide open, ready for them to climb in. ]
Jones has a tracker. Do not lose him.
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he wants to patch up the mangle of flesh and blood at Bruce's lower back and to check the rest of him to make sure the adrenaline isn’t cloaking anything major they’re missing.
but he doesn't. that’s not the kind of reassurance Bruce wants. ]
I won't lose him.
[ he helps Bruce into the Batmobile before hopping into the other side. immediately, they start retreating back to the cave. Dick’s fingers flit across the screen to pull up the tracker, already working with the added benefit of distracting Bruce from the pain by letting him watch. ]
The signal’s headed toward the sewers near Blackgate. Did he say anything to you about what he wants?
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His focus is honed in on his work and he appreciates that Dick recognizes that. But that doesn't mean his concern is lost on Bruce. It's just...put away for now.
Once he's settled in the Batmobile, his eyes are trained on the screen to watch the tracker and Jones' movements. ]
He was incarcerated in Iron Heights and was experimented on there. It made his mutation worse. [ Hence the nasty wounds. ] He's been going after prison officials, trying to reverse what they've done to him.
[ Dick could guess what became of the ones who refused to help. ]
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He’s holding steady in the sewers. I’m—gonna go talk to him.
[ he continues, doesn’t pause long enough for Bruce to protest. ]
He doesn’t need another cage.
[ they pull into the cave. Dick cuts the engine and the car settles with a hydraulic hiss. ]
I’ll ask Alfred to patch you up this time, and then I’ll go. Alone.
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[ Bruce could agree what was done to Jones wasn't right. But he should also answer for the lives he's taken. Bruce would have been more willing to help him without caging him if he hadn't left half eaten corpses in his wake.
He does not move when the car parks and engine quiets and there's just him and Dick in the car. He didn't want Dick doing this by himself. Jones is...he's more dangerous than usual.
Bruce reaches for Dick, touches his cheek. ]
Fine, but If anything happens to you.
[ He just might lose it. ]
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I'll make sure nothing happens to me.
[ he leans in and presses a kiss to Bruce's cheek and when he pulls back again, his eyes are determined. Bruce's control was never just about control, he's always known this, perhaps understood it deeper than anyone else ever has, hence why he offers: ]
I'll keep you in my ear, alright? You'll be with me.
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He shuts his eyes against Dick's kiss and it's the first time he's felt well since this whole thing began. ]
Turn your tracker on.
[ It isn't the same as having his eyes on him, but it's good enough. ]
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Give me one of yours.
[ so the signals of his own trackers don't get registered to Bruce's system. in any other scenario, his answer would've been a resounding no, but he's not capable of saying that when Bruce is like this. ]
sorry he's like this
Bruce doesn't tell Dick he doesn't need his tracker to hijack his signal. The one he just handed over will do it for him. He reaches for Dick one last time, peeling the gauntlet off so Bruce can feel the warmth of his skin against his palm. He should say be careful or hurry back or don't do anything rash.
Instead he says: ]
Find Jones before he kills anyone else.
i expect nothing less. im also sorry hes like this.
then, he’s gone.
Batman’s bike hums almost imperceptibly beneath him on the path to Blackgate. Dick knows the old prison isn’t as abandoned as the city of Gotham wishes for it to seem, and Jones knows it too, if the trail he leaves parted through silt and gashed through the concrete tunnels is anything to judge by. the air is stale down here, the old infrastructure in a state of disrepair sagging beneath the weight of the seawalls.
Dick treads cautiously. Bruce will see the way the tracker weaves, as if tightening toward a centre that Dick never reaches. without warning, Jones comes roaring out of the dark like a freight train, all claws and muscles and Dick barely manages to dodge the first swing at his head. instead, it crashes into the wall behind him and sends rubble and dust choking up his senses. the second catches his ribs, not deep, but enough to tear through plating. Dick grits his teeth and rolls with it, because that’s the point here. he’s not here to hurt Waylon, but Waylon doesn’t know that.
they tumble until Dick’s back hits wet stone and the weight of Waylon pins him to it, knocking his breath out of his lungs. laboured heaving hisses through the comm lines but Dick manages to gather enough air to say it, quietly, but clearly. that he remembers seeing the posters, the ring of iron and the echo of a crowd, the way the circus feels when one has nowhere else to go. with those words, he sees the spark of memory, an opening Dick reaches through with the practiced precision of a catch mid-flight. fingers outstretched, steady in the freefall, he closes his hand around the humanity buried just beneath the monster's skin. ]
You don’t want to kill them, Waylon. I know that. Every time you do it takes away more of you. You want them to fix what they did, but this isn’t the way to do it.
[ with a heavy breath, one that strains beneath the crushing weight of Waylon’s claws, Dick offers, words strongly determined, so hopeful through the comm: ]
Let me help.
they can be messy together
As Dick is getting ready to leave, Alfred slides into his place - a smooth, practiced motion. He helps Bruce out of the car and ushers him into the med bay to get to work. It's a familiar dance — they've done it a thousand times. Probably more. And Alfred's always been the ideal partner for it. Precise and unflinching. He knows how to slip the needle in with little fuss and he doesn't make it hurt more than it has to.
Bruce is a decent enough patient. He doesn't move around more than necessary and waits until the final stitch is done and bandaged before he's up and at the computer to track both Dick and Jones. (and maybe set the tracker he gave to Dick to scan for any stray signals. You know, just in case.)
He's going in the right direction. From Jones' tracker, they'll cross paths soon and Bruce suspects when Dick stops moving that's exactly what happened. He accesses the open commline, asks quietly if Dick sees him. Though instead of something verbal from Dick, he hears Jones' guttural cries — loud and raw, as if he's screaming right into Bruce's ears. ]
Nightwing? Dick, are you alright?
[ He asks again. And nearly yells the third time — then he hears Dick's voice and relief floods him, easing the aching tension in his muscles.
Dick wants to help, of course he does. Bruce can't fault him for that. Jones deserved it, after what the warden put him through in Iron Heights. But now isn't the time. Calming him down, stopping him is the priority. The rest could come later. ]
He's not going to listen to reason. You have to subdue him.
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It's kind of sweet, really, and Dick would bask in it longer had Waylon not surged forward, all rage and fear and reflex. This time, Dick is faster. He rolls out from beneath the crushing weight, and runs, boots skidding on the wet stone as he puts distance between himself and Waylon. Then, he speaks, desperation urging into his voice with a plan. He'll trace the chemical trail, he'll find the right people. Maybe he can't reverse what's been done, but he might be able to slow it down, to stop the way the beat eats away the man. If, and only if Waylon promises to stop killing.
Waylon doesn’t answer. Just stares, a stillness trembling through the tunnel before he turns his back. And right before he delves into the darkness, he shoves aside a broken slab of concrete he’d used to block a drainage path.
Dick watches as the dust settles, and Bruce will hear the crash of it. It becomes clear that it's an exit path. It's far from forgiveness, but it's a start.
Dick lets him go.
And once he's far enough, there's a sigh of relief that breathes through the commline. It's laced with the weight of a new purpose, but light with hope. ]
That--[ his breath comes quickly, laboriously as Waylon's tracker heads deeper into the tunnels, away from the prison, and Dick's own tracker starts to move again. ] That was subduing, wasn't it? [ Please don't be mad. ]
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Batman inspired fear. Nightwing inspired trust. He laughed easily and loved fiercely through the same kind of pain that made them what they are. Just carried with a grace that Bruce had never managed to find.
It's selfish to want that for himself, to cling to it and cover it over so no one else could bask in the glow of it. He'd keep it to himself so no one else could experience what loving Dick Grayson felt like.
He'd snatch him right out of the sky. ]
Why did you let him go?
[ He watched Waylon's tracker recede further into the tunnel, the blinking red dropping out of existence on the radar. Maybe he found the tracker, maybe he smashed it while diving into the murky waters beneath Gotham. Bruce would have to find him again.
He isn't mad.
He's a little mad.
On another screen, the tracer he gave Dick isolates the signal emanating from Dick's personal tracker, intercepts it. Catalogues it. And Bruce watches it happen without saying another word. ]
how dare
This is why he wanted to break free in the first place, his spirit too wild to be tethered to Bruce's weight, to hopeful to be contained by Bruce's care, his love, yet Bruce's gravity constantly pulls him back.
He has to take a few beats to formulate an answer in terms Bruce might accept (not something he's used to doing reflexively anymore) and navigate at the same time. His voice comes flat, the playful tone suffocated out of it. ]
So he'd let the guards go. I thought you wanted me to stop him from killing anyone else.
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Finally, he speaks up. ]
This is a temporary fix. Jones isn't known for his patience.
[ It's not lost on Bruce how flat Dick sounds now as if the vibrancy has been smothered out of him. It's not lost on Bruce that it's partially his fault. ]
Are you alright? Did he hurt you?
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No. Just a few scratches. Nothing like what he did to you.
[ there's a tenderness in his voice, mixed in with all the protectiveness, softening the anger that made him want to hurt Waylon back. ]
Why? You worry about me now?
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I will always be concerned about you, Dick.
[ He puts something else on the screen of the computer decrypting Dick's signal. In anticipation of his return. ]
Come back to the cave. I'm accessing Iron Heights' files. I might have a lead.
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Not that he would say as much. ]
You should be resting.
[ He ends the call shortly after and heads back to the cave anyway. He strips off Nightwing and soaks off the sewers in a shower before finally making it down in just a pair of shorts and a towel slung over his shoulders. There’s a tracker left in the suit, and a tracker buried in his upper thigh, both possibilities for Bruce’s decryption. His hair is still damp as he steps up to the desk and pulls Bruce’s attention to himself.
Slowly, he gives Bruce a once-over. ]
I thought you were supposed to be horizontal. What are you doing up?
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There's nothing to say to that, so Bruce doesn't protest the ending of the call and only spares Nightwing a glance when he comes home. He gets more than a glance when he comes back from the showers. For once, he gets Bruce's full attention. No new injuries that he could note. He seemed to be walking fine. No pupil dilation.
Dick is fine and Bruce gets back to work. ]
I'm fine. Come look at this. Medical reports buried under a few outdated security protocols. They were trying to replicate Jones's regenerative ability.
I've stared at this too long, fuck it LOL
He’s not even sure he’d recognize the feeling himself.
But for the first time in a long time, he at least looks the part, curled up on one of the plush leather sofas under a canopy of umbrellas and ice-blue neon lights. Worlds away from the jazz band, playing on without missing a beat; from the chatter and the clipped, haughty laughter of the Lounge’s clientele.
This isn’t a man whose workaholism, drinking, and less-than-ideal sleep patterns have caught up to him yet. Oswald is still young. Still determined and able to push through pain and every ‘no’ life throws at him, fighting for his right to exist, to thrive, to build something lasting in a city in a near-constant state of upheaval.
It’s just a man who trusted the drink in his hand, like he has dozens of times before. A paranoid, hypervigilant man soon to confront the reality of having been neither paranoid nor hypervigilant enough. Soon to reckon with surviving - being allowed to survive - more than just a few whispers and sidelong glances over flutes of champagne.
For now, he sleeps. His face slack and soft. Almost childlike. One hand clutching what is decidedly not a pillow.
The ache in his leg wakes him in the small hours of the morning. But it’s the exhaustion that’s overwhelming: a woolly-brained heaviness that makes even the idea of moving unthinkable. Frowning, he nuzzles his human-shaped pillow, mumbling into it. Something about mother, some half-hearted protest. There’s always something to do, somewhere to be, because Gotham never sleeps. But wedged between the back cushions and billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne, he decides the city can wait.]
Let's goooooo
He knew what it felt like once. Many, many years ago, when he'd been a little boy holding his mother's hand as they walked through the dark stretch of alley. When he looks back on it, examines it from every angle his mind can conjure, he's pretty sure he was happy then. But then, tragedy struck, and in a lot of ways, Bruce never really left that alley.
And his life became a war, violence curling in at the edges like long, sharp claws. It reaches for him, tears at him. Keeps him from going completely insane. It took all of the rest of his youth, but Bruce had to learn how to withstand it, so he could bend it to his will. Force it into a shape that makes sense, instead of this albatross intent on sinking him to Gotham's murkiest depths. It's still a weight around his neck, but the drowning's a little slower now that he's learned how to tread water.
Tonight, the battle brings him to the Iceberg Lounge to mingle with his peers and stir up the gossips like hornets. It's a decent enough cover - hiding among the elite Cobblepot liked to pretend he's apart of, while he searches for samples of the latest designer drug. Crocodile Tears they call it. He gets a sample, though not in anyway he expects. When he takes a sip of his drink, he knows immediately something is off. The aftertaste is bitter, acidic. Not the usual burn of a brown liquor. Bruce drains it after a moment of consideration.
He wakes hours later, head in a fog, eyes unclear and weary. Head, feeling like it might burst right off his shoulders. And through it, he could make out the press of another person, his breath warm against his shoulder and neck. It should be strange how comfortable he is with his bedfellow. And in some dark, sober part of him, Bruce is telling himself to move. That he is in danger.
The rest of him, ignores it in favor of tugging Oswald closer, shoving his face between Os' head and the cushion of the couch so he can sleep through the headache he can feel starting behind his eyes. ]
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...don’t go. [It’s not a demand, for once, but a quiet plea - to someone who may or may not really be there.]
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His eyes open quickly, despite the throb of pain the light is causing and he bolts upright. The training helps; he can compartmentalize. The headache is not an immediate concern. The person laying beside him is. Cobblepot. Still asleep by the looks of it. But not for long as Bruce works to untangle himself. Reaching for his phone is his second priority, finding it in an inner pocket. He would have to call Alfred for a pick up. He shoves at Oswald, to give himself a little bit more room to work. But he'll pretend it's to wake him. ]
Good morning, Mr. Cobblepot. Hope you slept well.
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Sure, there’s nothing inherently threatening about Bruce Wayne. Or there wouldn’t be, if Oswald could place a name to the smear of colors in his vision. All he knows, in the moment, is that someone is hovering over him, watching. The realization jolts him upright onto his ass, his body flailing, squeezing itself into a corner of the sofa. Moving is a mistake: the headrush clocks him in the forehead and nearly flattens him back out. Clutching his skull, he squints at the figure beside him. The face swimming into focus is just the first of many surprises today.]
Mr. Wayne...?
[Blinking, Oswald’s hand flies to his eyepatch on instinct - because god forbid the ugly, limp flap of his eyelid should be showing.]
...What’s, what’s going on?
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But for now, he'd play along.
What is going on? Firstly, Bruce drags up the names of the folks who accompanied him to the club last night. They were all missing, either have found themselves a paramour for the evening or moved the party elsewhere, and assumed Bruce would do the same. Secondly, Bruce ingested a drink, laced with what he could only assume was Crocodile Tears. Thirdly, he'd need a blood sample from Oswald. How could he get it? Hopefully by being clever enough. ]
I think we fell asleep together here. I...[ He looks around, confused ] I came with Veronica and Brute and someone else. But I don't think I see them.
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[Fell asleep together, and not slept together. It’s an important distinction, a detail his mind snags on. The little furrow between his brows sharpens as he gives Bruce another once-over, then looks down at himself. They’re both a little rumpled; not so disheveled as to confirm the worst possible scenario beyond all doubt. Still, he can’t shake the ill-feeling he’s left with as he checks in with his body, struggling to separate the rising anxiety and chronic pain he has learned to live with from everything else, from the different kind of wrongness he's woken up to. It’s hard to think past the throbbing in his head.
He mirrors Bruce’s glances across the dance floor, the vacant leather booths, his pulse jumping in his throat. The stanchions stand at the Lounge’s entryway, but the velvet rope dangles uselessly. No security. No staff. Beyond, the club's frosted windows glow with the dawning day. Oswald can't remember lying down, or resting his eye. Can’t remember when Bruce joined him – or if he had already been there when his head and chest had grown heavy.]
...Where’s my security??
[Oswald pats around his suit, lurching to his feet like a man who hadn’t downed Crocodile Tears on a near-empty stomach, no less. His body puts him in his place, bad leg suddenly giving out. He jerks, grabbing for the armrest. Fast enough to avoid crushing his nose on the tiles, at least - but not enough to keep from slamming his knee with a force that drives a gasp from his lungs. His flip phone clatters free.]
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But it also meant the time he had to get that blood sample would be limited. He would have to act quickly. ]
Mr. Cobblepot, I--
[ He winces as Oswald tries to stand, winces at the sound his knee makes when it collides with the floor. His phone clattering to the floor, however, is just the opportunity he'd need. Bruce is fast – hopefully much faster than Oswald Cobblepot and reaches with decidedly clumsy fingers for the phone. They bump the phone just bit and Bruce braces himself for what he's about to do. ]
Oh let me get that!
[ When his fingers feel secure around the phone, he snaps his head upward, hoping to crack it against Oswald's in the upswing of it. ]
now that's using your head /rimshot sfx
*gives os an advil for the headache*
He'd only needed some blood for analysis. He did not need Oswald unconsciousness for that. But it did make the collection easier. He searched his pockets for a handkerchief and moped up the blood leaking from Cobblepot's nose and when he's satisfied, he puts it away in again.
Alfred would be only moments out from whisking him away, but Bruce took the time to note other oddities around the club, pocketing things he would look over more thoroughly once he was back home in the cave. He took note of Oswald's inventory too and frowned he saw the gun hidden away.
Bruce is careful as he pulls the gun out, quiet as he extracts the bullets, and nimble as he tampers with it to keep it from firing at anyone. It wouldn't stop Oswald from getting a new weapon. But it satisfied Bruce knowing he wouldn't be using this one. He put the gun back in its place and left quietly when Alfred alerted him to make his escape.
He would be be back. The investigation wound deeply in this place. And Bruce Wayne probably owed Oswald an apology for knocking him out. ]
thanks! /grabs bottle :]b so long, liver
The bars are fully staffed and stocked, fresh, uncorked bottles lining the shelves and glasses at the ready. Everything polished to a sheen. Music plays, keeping a steady pulse: dreamy and bass-heavy, but low enough not to intrude. No live band this evening.
It might be business as usual, on a glance. But under its sleek exterior, the club thrums with a nervous, live-wire energy.
Within hours of coming to, Oswald nearly doubled his security. Big brute-types, dressed to code, are posted by the exit, near the bathrooms, flanking the bars. Not just sizing up the guests trickling in, but the staff Oswald had once trusted. Of course, neither Oswald’s newest recruits nor his core crew are aware of the plainclothes spies out on the floor, hired only hours prior. A few sets of extra eyes and ears, each with a crisp, expensive outfit and a backstory to match.
Whoever it was who slipped something into Oswald's drink could’ve slit his throat. Could’ve done worse, and forced him to live with it. That it would have happened so easily is the point he’s been left to dwell on, obsess over.
There is no ignoring the message.
Which is why Oswald didn’t shut the place down for the night, despite being four extra-strength capsules into a headache that won’t quit. It’s why he isn’t holed up in his office, busying himself with the administrative side of managing an empire. He has a point of his own to make in being visible, being present. Dressed for a different kind of spectacle than the one he provided the other night.
His choice of suit - a morning coat with a furry collar, dusted gold at the cuffs and hem - and spike-studded Oxfords are as deliberate as every other choice he’s made today. From the moment he rounded up his staff for an early, off-the-clock meeting, a simple plan was already in motion.
The drugging has left him genuinely shaken, violated; he hadn’t had to try very hard to sell the idea that he’s spiraling. Bags were emptied, phones confiscated. Every wide-eyed accusation and snarled word edged with madness. The paranoia he's exuding looks real because enough of it is. The rest would be enough, he thinks, to tempt the one brazen enough to spike his drink into trying something else. Whether it was or wasn't a member of his staff, though, he'll find out soon enough.
And when that moment comes, he’ll be ready.
No matter how long it takes.
Oswald leans back against the bar, gazing out across the club over the rim of the whisky he’s polishing off. One he poured himself.
Someone had to pay.]
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More so than Bruce had been expecting considering what happened the night before. He'd thought Oswald would have taken time to regroup. Maybe even tear apart Gotham's underworld to find whoever drugged him. Instead, Cobblepot sets up burly guards like sentries at the entrances and exits and bathrooms and hallways and lets Gotham's night life spill in, glittering and oblivious.
The club hums with decadence, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with people who have no idea how close they'd came to seeing blood on the floor. Seeing it thrive despite last night's unfortunate encounter tells Bruce one of two things: Oswald doesn't care (unlikely) or he believed the assailant might be bold enough to return and he would use tonight's revelry to flush them out and deal with them in a way Bruce would be forced to stop.
Either way, he's ready for it.
He'd spent his daylight hours breaking the drug down into its base components and preliminary results allowed him to develop a neutralizer to at least slow the effects and keep them on their feet should they find themselves on the bad side of the bartender again.
Bruce Wayne cuts through the crowd, all easy charm and lazy smiles, but it is really Batman who walks among them. Watching. Measuring. Absorbing the currents of the room – every laugh and twitch and sigh and too casual glance.
There is something terribly wrong here and Bruce would find out what.
For now, he lounges lazily on the sofa, smiling at the woman hanging on his arm and laughing at her stories about her summer spent in the bay. Until he spies Oswald at the bar and quietly excuses himself to get a drink. He smiles at Oswald and flags down the bartender. ]
Hope this night goes better than the last.
s'all good!
Recovering, he answers:]
I do not consider hope a strategy, Mr. Wayne.
[The smile he offers in turn is small and thin, his fingers tightening around his glass – fine-boned, better suited, one might think, for playing scales up and down a piano than the messy business of killing people. He has opted to wear leather gloves this time, as if not a single surface in the place can be trusted.]
...I will admit, I was not entirely sure you would show.
[His voice has lost some of its edge, but his gaze is still keen, seeking. There are blanks in his memory that only Bruce can fill, and in light of how they left things last - how Bruce left him - he feels an explanation is in order.]
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Maybe not for anything tangible. But in my experience, it's perfect for motivation.
[ He orders a drink when the bartender turns his way and then he looks at Oswsald again, to catch that smile thin smile. The tight way his fingers fits around the glass in his hand. Bruce thinks it's partly the nerves of situation. Not knowing if there's someone out there trying to kill you, is a nerve wracking thing. But Bruce has to wonder if that's all there is to it. ]
I thought the least I could do was come to apologize in person. I hadn't meant to disappear like that. I admit I was a little embarrassed.
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Yes, I was wondering where you had made off to after leaving me with quite the headache.
[He notes, humourlessly - annoyed, but not pissed.
Graceless exits aren’t unusual for Bruce Wayne; tales abound of abrupt endings to candlelit dinners and occasional no-shows, the trail of broken expectations and broken hearts left in his wake. It’s the kind of reputation that could’ve been damaging if not for the privilege granted by his status, effortless charm, and generous philanthropic donations. Oswald would’ve thought Casanova Bruce Wayne to be more inured to embarrassment, as one of the most unserious men that he has ever met. But then again, Oswald Cobblepot isn’t just anyone to wake up next to - or accidentally knock out. He’s not some airheaded socialite prattling on about the country club, his inheritance, or his nonexistent yachts.
Oswald’s lips press together, the look on his face sobering. When he speaks again, his irritation has mostly settled.]
I would have very much liked for us to have parted under better circumstances.
[He never had the chance to explain himself and make it clear that what happened to them wasn’t normal, not here, not for him. Standing here now, he feels compelled to say something, anything, to distance himself from the class of criminal who would've seen a compromised Bruce and taken advantage of him. Oswald may be an incurable opportunist, but a rapist, he is not.]
I am not so ignorant as to believe that my reputation has not shaped your opinion of me, Mr. Wayne; the realities of overseeing the businesses that I do can, at times, be rather... unglamorous.
[His own embarrassment is bearing down on him. But he refuses to squirm under the brutal, uncompromising weight of a very public failure, offering Bruce nothing less than his full, unblinking attention.]
But, I want you to know that I would never, under any circumstances, engage you or anyone else in a manner that is vulgar and untoward.
[His brows draw together, his expression unusually open and honest - the look of a man both aching to be understood, and who understands well what it's like to be preyed on.]
I am not that kind of man.
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He shelves the thought for now.
Instead he offers the bartender a generous tip. Fifty dollars, crumpled in the pocket of his shirt. He has what he's came for. Friends waiting for him on the other side of the room. But he lingers near Oswald a little while longer, sipping slowly and letting the other man give himself away, one unconscious gesture at a time. ]
Ah, I've woken up in worse places. There was this one time when I was on the coast. Woke up in a Holiday Inn with a popcorn bucket on my face and two left shoes.
[ He chuckles. Amused, self deprecating, maybe even a little honest. Its an absurd story. But it serves a purpose – setting Oswald at ease so he'd keep talking. Bruce isn't offended by what happened. There's no reason they couldn't be friends, even if Bruce bashed his face in with his head. The smile he offers Oswald looks sincere enough. ]
I try not to let what other people think shape my opinion, Mr. Cobblepot. My friends circle would be incredibly small if I did.
[ Not that kind of man. Oswald says with sincerity Bruce doesn't exactly expect to find in him. He can see it in the way Oswald's brows draw together, the look in his eye – it's an openness Bruce cannot help but notice. He murders and steals and runs guns. But Oswald does not drug his patrons. Bruce could believe that. He did believe it. ]
I believe you. It was just a weird thing that happened. I'm not upset about it if that's what you're worried about.
/runs
Worried almost feels like an exaggeration on Bruce’s part. But Oswald can’t deny the flutter of relief he feels at Bruce’s willingness to extend him the benefit of the doubt. As someone too used to being assumed guilty by default, and yet, never so used to it that it doesn’t hurt, he can’t help the slight softening of his features any more than he can help the click in his throat when he swallows.]
Thank you, Mr. Wayne.
[Real or not, Bruce’s grace has given him something else to think about. Something he’d think about long after the club’s doors closed for the night. But for now, his moment of vulnerability passes, and he’s sucked back into the hungry black hole of his anger.]
But, with all due respect, what you call a mere inconvenience was a brazen, calculated attack - one that could have ended very differently for you. Whether you were the intended target or simply caught in the crossfire, I cannot, in good conscience, let this slide - nor do I have the luxury.
[He inhales sharply, with the bold, almost defiant energy of a man drawing himself up before a firing squad.]
I made a promise to this city the day I first stood before the lectern outside City Hall as its mayor. The people of Gotham turned to me in their hour of need - brothers, sisters, families - and, time and again, I delivered on that promise. I answered their pleas when the GCPD had failed them.
[He insists, the fierceness in his eye daring anyone to tell him differently with more than a few public safety reports speaking to his success.]
And while I may no longer hold office, my commitment to order remains unchanged - here, and in the streets. I give you my word, Bruce: I will find whoever was responsible for this, and they will be brought to justice.
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That billion dollar smile and that somewhat crass humor would only carry him so far with someone like Oswald. Eventually, he'd see right through him--or worse, get bored of him. So it's often better to lean into something a little more sincere. Men like Oswald didn't want to be jerked around. Selectively offered sincerity could keep the conversation flowing just as effectively.
Bruce softens the smile, so it doesn't feel quite so forced. Lowers his pitch and slows the pace of his words. Not enough to be noticed outright. But it's enough to shift the rhythm, make the conversation flow a little slower. He leans in against the bar, shifts just so, so he's leaning that much closer to Oswald. Like they're old friends having a quiet chat over drinks. ]
I don't know if I was or not. People think they'll get something out of me if they threaten me or kidnap me. Maybe that's what happened last night. Maybe not. [ He shrugs a little; like it happens often enough Bruce barely thinks about it anymore. ]
I remember that speech. [ And it made him recoil. ] I think you know what Gotham needs, probably better than any of us. You're out here in the trenches, I guess you could say.
[ He shifts a little where he stands, like something inside won't let him be still. Like something anxious is pushing and pulling him. ]
If I can help you in anyway, will you let me know?
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[A lifetime of being ruthlessly bullied has made him hypersensitive to anything even vaguely resembling mockery. But he believes Bruce is being honest with him, because he wants it to be true. Because, most days, in the trenches couldn’t feel more accurate.
Chasing his dreams have come at a cost, like all dreams do. He’s been threatened in nearly every way a man can be, and there are limits, he has realized, to how far his cunning can take him, the situations it can weasel him out of. He knows the grinding crunch his own bones can make; knows the rusty tang of blood in his mouth. With every passing year, he leans more heavily on his cane, the pain in his leg reaching further up into his hip. But he’s still swift on his feet when he needs to be, always keeping a few paces ahead of this life he chose, or that has chosen him. What hasn’t killed him has only made him meaner; whatever good is left in him survives buried deep under sarcasm and scar tissue, and even there, it isn’t always safe. Yet, despite the worst the city has dashed him against, how close he’s come to giving up, Oswald can’t imagine quitting. Can’t imagine letting go of the dream - for the effort and loss and pain to have all been for nothing. He will live and die a great man, just like his mom had promised him. He can’t do it being good; if Gotham has taught him anything, it’s that kindness and mercy don’t get results. Sooner or later, they just get a man killed.
Bruce’s slow, conspiratorial lean, their shared closeness, makes it more noticeable when a sort of restlessness comes over Bruce. Had his conviction come off as too fierce? Had the force of his unflinching resolve - his idea of justice, and the lengths he was willing to go to see it realized - stirred something dark and ugly in Bruce? Oswald doesn’t ask. He doesn’t apologize, either.]
Of course. [Said like an old friend to an old friend, a smoky hint of whisky on his breath. His intensity has dropped off a notch. But the line of his shoulders holds a piano-wire tightness.] If there is anything you feel I should know about - anything at all - you can tell me.
[Anything, with a caveat. But he trusts Bruce not to abuse the invitation.
His smile finally reappears: small and lopsided. All lips, no teeth. He polishes off the rest of his glass in a single, wincing gulp and sets it down to give Bruce’s arm a pat. A soft puff of laughter escapes him, despite himself, at the firmness of his arm.]
Someone’s been hitting the gym. [He notes, his eyebrows lifting.] ...Well. Don’t let me keep you. I am sure your companion would love to have your ear back.
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It's just sometimes, Gotham has to be dragged into the light – kicking and screaming and leaving claw marks on the floor. Bruce knows that. Oswald did too.
The shame is that for all their similarities, their differences keep them at odds. Bruce hates that they couldn't meet somewhere in the middle. Hates that Oswald dresses his ambition up like its salvation. Hates that a man's desire for something better could put him on the wrong side of Arkham's walls. Could make him so diametrically opposed to what the Bat's mission that is shattered the foundation for an alliance before it could ever truly exist.
Must be the Gotham in them though. Divide and conquer. Keep them divided so there's never a united front to root out all the ugly parts of her.
Oswald reassures him that he could speak freely and for some that might seem like an invitation to babble endlessly about the most inane of topics and Bruce almost takes him up on it. He has a name in mind, and it would be an easy thing to weave it into the conversation. Let it slip like it's an accident. He makes a show of it, like he's holding something back – opening his mouth and closing it again. Then smiling and nodding when Oswald pats his arm. It's permission to walk away. The grin widens into something bright and sunny while he flexes a bit. ]
Can you tell? I've been going to the gym four days a week. Vanessa Stirling told me my arms felt flabby last summer and I haven't slept right since.
[ He turns to go, leaving his drink behind. Then pretending to remember it. When he turns to look at Oswald, he finally leans in again and says in a low voice ]
If you really mean that I can tell you anything, well I think you should know this. I hear Alberto Falcone is pushing Crocodile Tears.
[ Then he snags his drink, gives a friendly wave, and heads back to his friends. ]
hello :)
He probably should have let Bruce know, but he also knows Bruce has his own contacts. He's on a stakeout, just him, Alice (his favorite sniper rifle, brought for her scope more than her ability to kill a man) and a bag of Nerd clusters, and he's chilling on the roof of the Park Row branch of the First Gotham Bank watching an apartment over on the other side of the street when he feels eyes on him.
He looks up from where he's sitting and rolls his eyes.]
Oh look.
It's the night.
Hi :)
In the meantime, Bruce waits for a word from Jason. That he's fine. That no one has taken potshots at him in an attempt to claim the bounty. But there's nothing. And maybe if there'd been something Bruce wouldn't have felt the need to search him out.
When he's spotted, he jumps down next to Jason, cape snapping behind him, and doesn't bother disguising his disappointment. ]
When were you going to tell me about the bounty?
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When I started to worry about it?
[He shrugs a little.]
No one is going to come after me for a measly 50k. I just have to find out who put it out there and then I'll handle it.
Eat a piece of candy.
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Jeremy Moxon mean anything to you?
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He scowls a little.]
No.
[He's not lying.]
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[ Bruce nibbles at the confection, at last. ]
Someone intercepted a shipment the other night. Your handiwork?
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Oh.
Yeah, they were getting a whole shipment of fentanyl, dangerous shit. I cleared them out and got rid of it.
[He is not sorry.]
No one died. I did have to break a few hands though.
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It's a cover. They're going to move something much bigger. They were planning the route when you disrupted them. Lew wants you out of the way. I imagine 50k is all he can afford.
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[He takes a moment, another candy. Offers Bruce another one.]
You should donate a cool half million to his cause.
[He is joking but he's also so stoic about it that it's a little hard to tell.]
I bet someone would take the contract then.
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I want you to take this seriously.
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[He is taking it seriously! In that this isn't a serious threat.]
Come on, B, no one with a single shred of talent is going to say it was worth the money for less than 500k.
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[ He doesn't like it. ]
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And then stares some more.]
That's my life every night.
[He opens his mouth, and closes his, opens it, and closes it again. Okay. Okay, Bruce.]
B. You're worried.
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I'd rather you deal with it now before it turns into something bigger.
[ Of course he's worried. ]
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What'll I get?
[God, Bruce, this is your boy. You chose this.]
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Yeah, that's it. ]
What do you want?
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He also knows that Bruce will not agree to it, so he doesn't even bother. Okay. Something else.]
New bike.
[It's not that Jason needs a new bike. It's that he wants one.]
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[ He could send what he wanted to Alfred and Bruce would see to it he got it. No questions asked. ]
What happened to your bike?
[ okay, one question asked. ]
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I mean. Nothing.
[He shrugs a little.]
Be nice to have a spare, though. You have about a thousand cars.
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Send what you want to Alfred. And fix this, Hood. I mean it.
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And you have to get rid of the memorial case.
Then I'll handle it right now.
[He didn't really think seriously about this, because he hadn't thought that Bruce was afraid. But now he can see it. It was that kiss.]
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No.
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Oh, looks like my life is going to stay on several lists, then.
Maybe I'll have Deathstroke alerted, he won't usually take such a piddling hit but who knows, maybe I can annoy him a little first.
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This isn't a game. You are getting what you asked for.
[ The memorial is off the table. ]
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[He puts his candy away in his back pocket, gets up, ]
The memorial goes, and I'll go get that hit off the books.
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[ He's puzzled over this since Jason asked him to get rid of it the first time. He understands the motive. But he doesn't...get it. Like the reason isn't good enough for him. Not for this deeply personal thing Jason is asking him to do. ]
If you won't do it, then I will.
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He reaches for his muzzle, to put it on, so that Bruce can't see the moue of displeasure that's slashing across his face.]
You're so full of crap.
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[ Bruce won't admit this but it bothers him that Jason's hiding his face. It doesn't show on his chiseled, stoic gaze either. He just isn't ready to let go of it. Not yet. ]
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[His voice distorter is thick with static; it hides the annoyed tone, the emotion in his voice.]
You’re not stupid. You knew too. Don’t pretend.
[He gets up, starts a step, hesitates. Slings his gun up over his shoulder.]
It would be easier if I were dead. At least then you could keep mourning me.
[He says it without malice, and without self pity, like he’s reciting the weather.]
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[ It's a twist of the knife. Jason always knew how to turn it so it hurts the most. So it cuts the deepest. This should be easy. Letting go of the memorial should be simple. It's just a costume in glass. It's just an epitaph on a plaque. But somehow, it is still a raw nerve between them. Even after everything. ]
It means something.
[ Taking it down won't rewrite the years of grief and guilt. Or the venom and fighting that followed when Jason came back. He wants Bruce to let it go. But he can't. It just makes Bruce want to cling to the memory tighter. ]
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But the words still wend their way out of his mouth, soft and reedy and swallowed in crackling static.]
Sure it does. It means more than me.
B.
I’m going to go.
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Wait.
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What.
[If the next words aren’t perfect Jason is throwing a punch.]
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He's Batman because he couldn't let go. Because he never left that alley. Because he never stopped being afraid. How do you turn all of that off? ]
The memorial stays. Until you get this fixed. Then I will take it down. Those are the terms.
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He's trying to figure out if this is bullshit, but-
-but he wants so badly to believe that Bruce can let it go. So that Jason can let it go, too.]
I'll do the work.
[He says it softly, but then-
-he moves in, to put his arms around Bruce's shoulders, to pull him into a hug.]
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Jason doesn't get a hug back. Not at first. Not until Bruce exhales and wraps his arms around him. The memorial didn't mean more than this. Or more than him. Bruce would let it go if it meant he could keep this. ]
Thank you.
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Let me know when you want me to-
[He takes a breath and considers it.]
-when it's done, I'll come home.
[He takes a deep breath, because yeah, that is the offer.]
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The room's still yours. If you want it.
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[Because the room that was his feels strangely forbidden. It's still perfectly preserved, and while the memorial case infuriated Jason, his old room-
-well. That was different. He couldn't explain how.]
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I'd like that.
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Okay.
[He leans in a little, although he's still wearing his muzzle, and presses his forehead to Bruce.]
Hey.
There's nothing wrong with going forward.
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But he has such good things in front of him. His family. Jason standing right here with his forehead pressing against his own. It's okay to go forward. ]
I'll tell Alfred to set a place for you at the table.
boom baby
Lonely.
He was lonely, okay? Kon was off-planet with Supergirl, Dick was with Bart and Kori handling Titans business for some big case in Guatemala, Barbara was helping The Birds, and even Gar was out of commission lately - dating, of all things. It wasn't like any of them were the kind of connection Tim was looking for either; he loved his friends and family, but they wouldn't fill the hole inside him right now that it felt like Bruce had left.
So Tim went to the clubs again. Sue him. He knew better, but if his one vice was getting too drunk and making out with a hot guy at a leather bar (and maybe blowing him in the bathroom...), then it was pretty tame compared to what some of the other got up to.
He was still more than a little tipsy walking home, but not tipsy enough not to be on high alert when he realized the door to his bathroom was ajar and he felt the presence of someone else in his penthouse apartment. He slid past the kitchen island, palming out the bo staff that fit seamlessly into a hidden compartment and getting a good grip on it as he flipped the lights.
"----Bruce?" His shoulders slumped out of the defensive pose.
yesss perfect
Bruce keeps himself distracted, by throwing himself into his current case, burying himself in layers of intel and analysis and fieldwork and follow up. All of it to say he's just busy and not waiting, even if that's exactly what he's doing. Waiting, waiting, waiting for Tim to come to his senses and come back on his own. It's been a week and not a word. When he said he didn't sit around watching Tim's every movement, that had been a true statement. A week ago. Now, it's just his latest fixation, born of worry and something far less noble. That quiet ache he got whenever he thought about Tim on that rooftop. Whenever he watched the video he'd promised no longer existed.
It all coalesced into something dark and heavy. Dark enough to put him in Tim's neighborhood the night he stumbled home. Dark enough that it had him slipping into Tim's apartment, making himself at home in the space. Bruce heard him before he saw him. There's something unmistakable about the rhythm of someone stumbling home. Especially when they're tipsy. The thought made his jaw set tighter. When the lights flipped on, Tim would see Batman sitting at his table, first aid supplies scattered across it, blood drying on dark on the sliced open parts of his suit.
He put a hand up, as if to say wait. "I needed a moment." And an excuse. Maybe he let that last thug get a few cheap shots in, just so he'd have a reason to stop. Maybe he stopped that mugging in Tim's neighborhood so he'd have a reason to be here. "I won't be long."
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And Tim is one of them.
"What happened?" Tim makes a clicking sound, not unlike what Alfred might do, at the sight under the kevlar.
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Which was not untrue, exactly. Bruce had accounted for every part of the attack on the couple walking home. Three men, two of them armed with blunt objects. The third, a knife. Tim didn't need to know that. He just needed to know that one of them managed to get close enough to cut into the kevlar. He doesn't mind that Tim is close enough to smell the alcohol he's been drinking, but it's something to save for later.
"I'm fine, Tim. I just needed to clean up." He says he's fine, but doesn't stop TIm from removing the chest piece to get a better look. The wound is shallow, as if the tip of the blade glanced across his skin. More of a graze than a true stab. Blood still oozes, slow but stubborn. He could have dressed it himself. He just. Didn't.
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"A mugger did this to you?" That's---very, very unlikely. Even Tim's sluggish, alcohol laden brain knows that a mugger getting that close to Batman is nearly impossible, even on the days Bruce is off his game. But fortunately for Bruce, Tim's brain isn't able to hold there on that suspicion for long. He's already at the sink to wash his hands and then back to poke at Bruce's chest to make sure there's nothing in the wounds. With Bruce sitting down, Tim has to bend in half and squat to look him over properly, so eventually he takes a knee in front of him.
And it's not his fault if his face flushes, just a little. After all, he was just on his knees for something much less innocent barely an hour ago. He's still wound up from it, as he didn't let the other guy take care of him in turn. That wasn't what Tim was after in the bar.
"I'll help patch you up. Only surface deep wounds, thankfully." His gaze flicks up, catches Bruce looking down at him, and then swallows a sudden mouthful of spit. Christ, he was still fucked up from the club if he was getting hot over this. "You okay?"
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Bruce watches his boy sink to his knee in front of him and it stirs up that dark place inside of him and for a minute, he doesn't say anything. He knows where Tim's been tonight, knows what he's been doing and the thought feeds into that festering sense of ownership.
"I'm fine, Tim," he says finally, "I should be asking if you are okay. You've been drinking." And letting someone else touch him. But. Bruce would get to that.
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Tim's sure hands stutter. He pauses altogether, as if the wheels in his head are literally turning. Cranking to decide whether to lie or not. It doesn't feel worth it.
"Drinking a little on a night off means I'm not okay? Better check on literally everyone else in the world too." He swallows, swiping alcohol pads over Bruce's cuts. Glancing up again. "I'm fine. Really."
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He can smell him when he's this close. Alcohol. Sweat. Cigarettes. Something he doesn't immediately recognize. Cologne, perhaps?
"Are you?" Bruce lifts his gaze to fix it on Tim. Maybe to dare him to lie. "Did you at least get his name?"
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Another stutter, this time bringing Tim's hands to a full stop. His palms flatten against the battered chest of his former partner. Under his touch, Bruce is like a furnace.
"You're watching me?"
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If Bruce were more honest, he would have told Tim the truth. Maybe tell him where the cameras were so he could root them out and have some semblance of privacy again. Maybe tell him about the listening device hidden in his bo staff, so Bruce couldn't collect his secrets so easily.
Bruce would never be that honest.
"I didn't have to, Tim." Not when he gave the information up so easily. Even when the answer is yes. "I can smell him on you." His voice is quiet, almost gentle. But it must scrape like gravel. It's stark against the cold way Bruce looks at him, like he's waiting for the boy to unravel and isn't sure if he should stop it or see it through.
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"I---asked for space." The words come out much smaller than he intends, but god. Can't Bruce just give him one thing? Tim rarely asks for anything. He's good, he's not like Jason breaking every rule just to fuck around, and he's not moving to a new city like Dick. And yet Bruce can't let him go further than arm's reach.
It stings, but if Tim's honest, he knew it wasn't as easy as asking.
"You can't just---- fuck." Tim pulls his hands away. He sits back on his heels, looks up at Bruce with heavy eyes. "Did you really get mugged?"
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But that look in his eye? That burns him. Wakes up a pang of guilt he has to swallow down again before he answers. He reaches for Tim, hand cupping his cheek. It's a soft touch, despite the gauntlet.
"No. I stopped one."
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"And you're here to--what, check up on me?" Tim asks. He doesn't stop Bruce from touching, and if anything he leans into the cup of that strong hand against his cheek. Their dynamic is so strange now, so different from how it was before, and it feels like it just keeps spiraling further out of Tim's control. "Or... Something else?"
He sighs, tired and tipsy and still high off sucking a stranger off in the bathroom, and Bruce is right there. They could just--fall into each other. A little. What would it hurt?
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"Do you think I only care about your body, Tim?" Even if Bruce lets his hand drift from his cheek down his neck and chest. "I care about you."
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"No, of course I don't think that," Tim says, but that's a lie. He's been thinking it non-stop. How if Bruce wanted something else, he would have asked for it before the rooftop, before Tim was practically incapacitated and overwhelmed by drugs.
He's still leaning into Bruce's touch though, eyes sliding shut. God, he wanted more. Like last time. Harder maybe.
"I just---I wasn't expecting you tonight. I'm a little off my game." A lot off. Drunk.
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"You're drunk." A transgression, but Bruce forgives him. "Stand up and come here."
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Tim stands, feeling stupid but obedient. He's never wanted to let Bruce down. He spent most of his young life trying to live up to others but more importantly to Bruce's needs for him. The perfect soldier, always. Now there he is, drunk like an idiot in front of the only person who matters.
He moves forward, slowly, and it's barely a step to get close enough to Bruce for him to see how sluggish Tim's eyes are. The heat in his cheeks. Maybe even the flutter of his pulse against the slope of his neck.
"I didn't--intend to get drunk," he says. "I mean, maybe a little. Just to let some steam off, you know?"
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"Did you let him touch you?" His voice is low when he says it. It seems like a question, but it isn't one. It's the first little hook. The start of a slow, deliberate reeling in. He didn't mind if Tim noticed or not. It'd work out for him either way.
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Tim moans at the first slide of Bruce's hands. It's been--he's just messed up. Ever since the rooftop, all he can think about is Bruce and being held and touched by him, and it's really fucking everything up but he can't help it. Bruce is a magnet, and once Tim had really felt its pull he could do nothing but want to slide into it again. God, it's good. Being touched like he's everything in the world. More important than even the Mission, maybe.
"I didn't---" Tim can barely breathe, is already getting hard just being close, even though his hands are reaching to slow Bruce down. "--No. I didn't want anyone touching me like that."
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Bruce shouldn't be pleased by it, but he is. A small quiet part of him puts it away. Still mine, it whispers.
He looks up at him. "Would you have wished it were me?"
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Yes. Yes, of course, nobody will ever compare to Bruce, no matter how hard Tim tries to fit someone else into that space. The man at the bar would have gladly railed Tim into the bathroom stall if he'd only have asked, but that wasn't what Tim had wanted. He was trying desperately to fill the gaping hole in him that Bruce had so suddenly opened up on the rooftop.
"Bruce." It's noncommittal but hesitant. Tim's not in the mind to make good decisions. But they can't just do this again... Can they?
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That uncertainty? That hesitation? It's by design. None of his boys were ever meant to find someone to fill the space his absence leaves behind. It's too vast. Too jagged around the edges. No one else would fit. Not the way Bruce does. And Tim? His perfect soldier, Tim, doesn't cannot decide how he feels. Because Bruce made it that way, so he could decide for him. He shifts, hands resuming their slow crawl up his chest, a thumb brushing over Tim's nipple when his hand is high enough to reach it.
"It's okay, Tim," Bruce says. "I'm right here. You can have exactly what you want."
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The part of Tim that wants to snap that what he wanted was to be given the necessary space to deal with shit in his own way is completely and utterly silenced as Bruce's thumb swipes over a nipple. He's wavering, sure as Bruce is there touching him, because---the alcohol? The longing? Not really, if he's honest. Those things, they help, but the crux of the problem is that he wants Bruce, has wanted him for years and never allowed himself so much as a furtive glance to make that clear. He'd tried to hide it, and now look where that had got them. So if Bruce was offering... If Tim needed it...
With a moan, Tim bows his head, resting it against Bruce's shoulder, his hands tightening at Bruce's wrists.
"This---it's wrong." It was why Tim had held back for so long. Crossing the bridge had made the other side that much sweeter.
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"I don't care." It's a quiet, almost tender confession. Bruce had done much worse. He cared about Tim and he'd never call that wrong. His thumb draws a lazy circle over Tim's nipple, and when his forehead touches his shoulder, Bruce turns to kiss his cheek. "I just want you. That's enough for me."
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A breathless laugh is the answer that Bruce gets, followed by another hum of a moan as Bruce's thumb rubs his nipple to a hardened peak. Fuck, that's good. Random guys at the club wouldn't know to touch a man's nipple if it bit them in the ass, but Bruce knew. Tim didn't really want to question how it was that he knew exactly what buttons to press to get Tim to relent. He was just a little too tipsy to worry as much as usual and certainly worked up enough to put some of his concerns aside.
For now.
Tim tips his face, catching Bruce's lips for a hungry kiss that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. There's no question if Tim likes this or doesn't. Of course he does. He's been desperate to hear Bruce's praise his entire life, and Bruce dolls it out exactly enough to string Tim along. His hands scramble to find the cowl, to tug it back and off Bruce's face to let it hang around his neck at the back, so he can tangle hands in sweat-damp hair.
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Maybe it's not something Tim is ready to confront, but Bruce already had.
Bruce's tongue slides into Tim's mouth as he pulls the cowl off. He's pleased and hums his approval into Tim's mouth. His hands settle in familiar places on Tim's body that makes getting away seem impossible. Or if you asked Bruce? Intimate. It annoyed him the taste of that other man lingers. He'd make Tim forget the encounter. He'd fill him up until there was no more room for anyone else. He kisses Tim like he wants to devour him, while his hands drag across his chest, lifting Tim's shirt higher and higher.
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By the time Tim breaks the kiss, it's really only so Bruce can haul his shirt off. His skin is already pebbling with goosebumps, the fine hairs standing up on the back of his neck and his arms. Bruce kisses like nobody else, and he has the deepest taste of anyone Tim has ever kissed. Like falling headfirst into a deep, dark cave. Consumed by darkness.
He's working on Bruce's costume, eager hands fumbling for the pieces. He's sloppy in his current state, afraid to slow down because if he does, this moment might shatter.
He dives in for another kiss, crawling onto Bruce's lap.
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The suit falls away piece by piece and Bruce helps when Tim's fingers fumble over some of the clasps and closures. He welcomes the weight of Tim in his lap, drags him closer so his chest is pressing against Bruce's.
"You missed me, didn't you, Tim?" His voice is low, a growl that rumbles up his throat. Each word deliberate and precise. Designed to draw him in close and keep him there.
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"I missed you," Tim parrots back, absolutely true and heartbreaking. He thought Bruce knew before that he missed him, that even if he demanded space he would always miss him when they weren't working together or close enough to touch. Tim knows he's a coin flip of Bruce, some warped mirror image, the closest Bruce has to someone like him, and that's always been a tough pill to swallow, forever wondering if he was always like Bruce or if Bruce molded him into the thing he wanted most. "Of course I missed you, Bruce, you're---everything."
It's embarrassingly true. He didn't just miss Bruce because they fucked, though that's a heavy part of it right now. He missed Bruce every day. Missed being his partner, his confidant, his companion. Missed waking him up in the morning after a particularly long, rough night when Bruce forgot to set an alarm because he knew Tim would be there. Missed eating breakfast in the Cave while flicking through files, silent but present, together. Misses that if he falls, Bruce is there to catch him.
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Though this moment didn't feel small at all. Not with Tim's admission hanging so heavy between them. Everything. Bruce is everything and it's how he's always wanted things to be between them. Maybe Bruce should feel bad about it, but he doesn't.
He doesn't say anything to that. Just presses in for another kiss, fingers hooking into the waistband of his pants to tug them down. "Stand up and take these off."
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Tim climbs off Bruce's lap, his lips kiss swollen and his eyes heavy. He obeys easily, unzipping his jeans and tugging them down, kicking his shoes off, sliding his pants off, his underwear. Bruce is still in half costume--again, always in full control while Tim spirals--but Tim doesn't care. He sinks to his knees to help Bruce at least get some of the bulk of his suit off.
At least the bracers over his shins. At least something so Tim doesn't feel so vulnerable and on display.
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It's nothing he's not seen before, but Tim is still so beautiful to look at that Bruce takes his time to admire him. The easy way his jeans and his underwear roll down over his hips and the easy way he kicks his shoes off and away. The way his muscles move under his smooth skin, Bruce's training still ingrained like a stamp. He's beautiful when he's vulnerable. Just like how Bruce likes him.
"Get up and turn around. Then spread your legs." He gestures toward the table. "Put your hands there."
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Tim hesitates, as if Bruce is asking the world of him. He's just--a little confused. He'd sort of thought he'd just suck Bruce off, maybe they'd go in the bedroom.... Right here in the open living area? With the window wide open? It sends Tim's pulse racing.
He does it, bends and puts his hands exactly where Bruce asked, laughing breathlessly because what can he even say? He's hard, cock jutting out in front of him and red at the engorged tip. He bows his head and as he spreads his legs, he looks back, watching Bruce.
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"Oh----god---Bruce---" The words stutter out in a heady moan as Bruce's tongue laps at his hole. For whatever reason, Tim hadn't anticipated he'd do that. Not just right now but ever. No one has ever---it's so good though, especially catching Bruce's gaze right before he did it like that.
Tim has to bow his face though, turning it away, fully embarrassed and so turned on it was hard to focus.
"You don't have to---do that."
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"I don't have to," he says when he comes up for air, "But you like it, don't you?"
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Tim is practically drooling as he hangs his head and shivers, his shoulders dipping and his back arching in a beautiful curve. It's good. It's so goddamn good that Tim's brain isn't functioning practically anymore. No one has ever done this to him, has ever taken the time, and Tim honestly never thought it was something he wanted. But with Bruce, it's unbearably good.
When Bruce stops, it's too long, even if it's only to ask if Tim likes it. He's panting, swallowing down his spit and shaking his head, then nodding, forgetting what he's even doing.
"It's---good, yeah---Bruce, please..."
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He likes the sound of Tim begging. And it isn't just the quiet plea for more. He likes the way that desperation curls around his name. How needy Tim sounds when he says it. He wants more. He wants Bruce to give it to him. It's enough to make Bruce put the discomfort of his erection straining against its confines away, so he could focus tasting Tim and watching him open up for Bruce.
His tongue slicks against Tim's hole in a long, slow drag, pulling a low rumble of a groan out of him. It makes Bruce tug at his hips to drag Tim deeper into the mire with him and so he could better feel Bruce's tongue wriggling its way inside of him.
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Tim could cry. He might be crying, he doesn't even know anymore what's up or down. Bruce's hands squeezing his ass and prying his cheeks apart, Bruce's tongue shoving inside his hole, the wet and sloppy sounds of it--that's all that's right in the world. Bruce is all that's right in Tim's world, all that's good and perfect and exactly what he needs. His head is spinning, fingers digging into his own table as he strains up on his tiptoes to make the pleasure that much more intense, every muscle shivery and taut, built by Bruce's own hands and molded into this image he holds before him.
"P--lease--" Tim can't even speak right anymore, the words wet and heavy on his tongue. He doesn't even know what he's begging for, whether it's more or less or for Bruce to just fuck him already. "Please, please--pleasepleaseplease--!"
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When he finally pulls his hands away, they go for his belt, snapping it free so he can roll down the rest of the suit when he stands.
"Please what, Tim?" He growls it into Tim's ear as he gets up and presses his body against him, following that beautiful arch of his back. "Tell me what you want."
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"H-hah..." Tim's breathless as he hears Bruce's belt and the slide of fabric that means Bruce is taking off his pants. Or at least pulling them down. Tim isn't sure if Bruce is ever willing to be fully naked when Tim is, the power imbalance too heady probably. And as Bruce lays over his body and cages him in, Tim moans.
Bruce is just--he's huge. Big everywhere. His hands, his thighs, his cock. Tim's well toned and he's worked his ass off to be this strong, but there's no way to ever physically measure up to Bruce.
"Please don't--make me say it." It's bad enough he's begging. To speak the words out loud might break him.
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"Do it for me."
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For Bruce, Tim would say anything he needed. If that's what Bruce needed, then Tim would do it. Especially in an altered state and so lonely and still feeling empty after their last encounter, Tim was vulnerable enough to clench his fingers tight through Bruce's. Laced. Like lovers and yet nothing like it any other time.
Tim swallows, nods, his body shivery and anxious as he says it: "Please---fuck me. Hard. You don't have to hold back. I can take it."
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It shouldn't feel so good to hear those words from Tim, but it does. He does nothing to stop the little thrill it sends up his spine and back down again. Bruce gives Tim's hand one reassuring squeeze and presses a kiss to his jaw, before he steps back so he can guide the tip of his hard cock into Tim's hole.
No stretch, no preparation. Tim could take it. Just like Bruce knew he could.
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The first push in is the worst for the pain and best for the pleasure both somehow at once, Tim's nerves lighting up at the biting hurt and the glorious sweep of arousal that courses through him. He gasps, arching under Bruce's body and opening up for Bruce to go in deep before his body fights against it and clenches tight. The guy at the bar never would have filled Tim up this good. Never would have made Tim feel dizzy with need and desperate to be broken in two.
He reaches below to grip himself, spits in his hand to get it wet enough to touch himself, his hand unsteady at best, his fingers trembling. It's awful and perfect and he's up on his tiptoes again to make it even worse. He can smell Bruce all over him, in him, and it's heady, heavy, thick in the air.
Perfect. Everything.
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The thought has Bruce putting his hands on Tim's shoulders, bracing against them as he pushed and pushed into Tim until their hips met.
He groans when he is in at last, breath hot against the back of Tim's neck. Bruce kisses him there. Once then a second time.
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Tim gasps as Bruce pushes in, using Tim's own shoulders as leverage. Tim bends fit to break, his spine dipped so dangerously low and his ass pushed out for Bruce to drill into. Bruce is deeper than Tim has ever allowed anyone else, and he feels like Bruce has gone past what's even possible at this point. He's so thick it strains Tim's hole open, and the kiss relaxes him enough to let Bruce sink in until his balls are resting against Tim's hole.
The second kiss has Tim whimpering.
"S-o deep," he murmurs. "Gimme---a second. To adjust."
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Wait? Could he wait, when he wants nothing more than to fuck Tim into the table he's braced against? Bruce does wait, though every moment that passes feels like a lifetime. He exhales softly, before he digs his fingers into Tim's hips. When he can't wait anymore, he pulls back that scant inch before he drives his cock back into him again.
"Tim." Tim's name comes out in a quiet growl, filthy and full of infatuation.
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That moment to breathe is appreciated. A kindness that Tim doesn't think he deserves but is unbearably thankful for. Especially when Bruce finally pulls back, only to push in again. Tim's knees wobble beneath him, used to staying braced for pressure but not for this. He bows his head again, shoulder blades knotting up, the muscles Bruce helped to shape moving under his skin.
He starts to jerk himself off, slow and jerky motions as his toes curl from the pleasure. It's a dream, really, to be the one that Bruce craves to this degree. To be the best soldier for the mission. To be the first choice, even if a scared voice in the back of his head wonders if Dick or Jason might say otherwise.
""S'good---so good, Bruce, so--fucking good."
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And that's where the difference is. Dick and Jason had to be tamed. Tim had something to prove and an eagerness to please. That's what drew Bruce in. That's what had him here, balls deep in the best soldier he's ever brought into the fold.
"You like it when I fill you up," He grunts, an arm slides under Tim's chest to hold him close while he takes an earnest pace, breathing hard against Tim's back. "Don't you?"
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"I do," Tim gasps, arching against Bruce and giving in to whatever angle his former mentor wants him in. If Bruce wants him spread eagle, he'll do it. Or against the wall. Or riding him in his lap. He's slick with sweat against Bruce's body, closing his eyes and leaning his head back onto Bruce's shoulder. It's suffocating, being held like that, by someone like Bruce.
No one else came close.
"I love it. Love you filling me up---" Bruce hit a sweet spot and Tim convulses, toes curling and cock weeping pre.
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"You want me to breed you, Tim?" He growls into Tim's ear. "Make you mine forever?"
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"God, yeah, I want---" Tim has to gasp, half-choking on his swallow as Bruce rams into that sweet spot over and over and over. It's painful, makes his belly feel full and shivery, but it's good, too good to stop, too good too good, too-- "--breed me, fill---fill me up, please, I'll take it, I'll be--I'll be so good Bruce, I promise, I'll be your best boy--"
Tim's babbling, drunk on pleasure as he spasms around Bruce's length. He stops touching himself, wanting desperately to hold himself back, arching into Bruce's massive body. Tears in his eyes from the intensity of the moment.
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Tim's babbling only winds Bruce up tighter, makes his whole body feel like it'll catch fire with just the right spark. Tim could take it and Bruce parrots it back at him with each brutal slam of his hips against Tim's. He couldn't bring himself to care if it hurt or not. Tim could take it. Bruce's grip tightens, squeezing Tim against him as he comes, spilling until he feels so incredibly empty and spent.
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Tim is definitely crying then. Bruce is huge, he's holding Tim so tightly it's hard to breathe and---Tim has wanted this for so long. Long enough that it's embarrassing, humiliating to admit that he wants his father and mentor and coach and god in these deviant ways. This is so much more all encompassing. Bringing Tim to his own brink just feeling Bruce empty in him.
Tim barely touches himself. He just comes. From Bruce.
And cries, softly, his body convulsing against Bruce's, shivery and over simulated. That man at the bar could never have brought him here. No one could. And if anyone ever tried, they certainly wouldn't have been able to hold him like this through the come down.
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And he holds him until he's out of the thick of it and is coming back down to earth.
He's reluctant to pull out of Tim, to pull away from the warmth of his body. He knows once he does reality will sink in and Tim might remember Bruce's intrusion when he had been asked to stay away. So kisses the back of his neck, a reminder. I'm here. I'm right here. A hand plants smooth across Tim's chest so he could feel his heart hammering against his palm.
"You did well, Tim." Quiet praise and another anchor to keep Tim from slipping away too far.
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As the high of his orgasm starts to wane and he comes down from the other planet it took him to, he realizes he's leaning his tired body fully against Bruce's. Bruce hasn't pulled away yet, is complimenting his performance--an intense high of its own to hear the words whispered against the wet whorls of his ears like that. With Bruce's big hand flat on his naked chest, where his heart is beating out of control still. Where his breath hitches with every sob until he's evening out a little, nodding, some shame coming through but still distant.
"Thank you," he says and feels even dumber. He's tied to Bruce, there's no question on that, but this is---he's not a child. Why does he feel like one in Bruce's arms?
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Because it's too good. It's too damn good.
He catches Tim's hand - the one he'd used to stroke himself - and kisses his fingertips, savoring that faintly salty taste that's so distinctly Tim. Meets his gaze whenever Tim finally turns to look at him.
"I have to finish patrolling."
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When Bruce finally slips out, Tim whines. Pathetic. He's so worn out, used. He would have liked to curl up in bed, have Bruce's arms around him, or maybe be awake and available enough to go out and patrol with him. But neither of those things will be happening. Tim knows that.
Bruce got what he came for.
"Right," he says, drowsy and stupid and feeling a little sick if he's honest about it. It's like an addiction, isn't it? Worse maybe because it's Bruce and it's allowing the man so much control over him in ways Tim doesn't just give up to anyone else. He forces himself to get up, his legs quivering like a fawn's. Embarrassing. He gets himself to the bathroom, leaning against the door frame, turning to look at Bruce. "Did you come here just for that?" What they just did. To keep Tim under his thumb.
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When had this become something so dangerous?
Probably when Tim put his weight against the door frame of his bathroom. When he turned to look at him with eyes that could see clean through him. Bruce hated it. Hated feeling exposed like a raw nerve. He gets up but only to put his cock away and to gather the scattered pieces of his suit. He doesn't bother closing the space between them. He doesn't have to. Tim is tethered to him, whether he likes it or not. All Bruce had to do is tug on the lead and he'd be right back where Bruce wants him to be.
That doesn't do much to settle that guilty feeling.
"I didn't plan this, if that's what you're asking."
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"Hah, right, sure." The words come out sluggish and lazy, a little more Jason than Tim but he can't be blamed for being mad, can he? At the very least, Bruce owes him understanding. And Tim's--he's still drunk. Still exhausted. Still hazy and red faced from crying and so, so embarrassed.
He tries to sober himself. A little. Enough.
"It's fine. You know the way out."
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"I'll come back when I'm done."
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"You don't have to do that," Tim says, even though his voice wavers. He wants Bruce to want to come back, to put aside the entire Mission for him, to put everything aside. To stay because he wants to, because he wants Tim. That's not what this is. Bruce is---guilty? It's surprising, but it's not unheard of. "I'm just tired." And drunk. And so in love with everything Bruce is but knowing Tim's not on that same level in reverse.
There's so much that's more important than Tim and his needs.
"Just---be safe."
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"You should rest. I'll be here when you wake up."
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"Sure," Tim says, and closes the bathroom door behind him. He needs to clean out, shower if he can manage to keep himself standing long enough to do it properly, and then crawl into bed. He's certainly not expecting Bruce to be there when he opens his eyes again. Something will come up that's bigger, more important, and---
That's the thing, isn't it? Tim gets it. He's the same for most other people. The Mission comes first. Before his own needs, before his own wants, before love or sex or anything. But even Tim would make a single exception. For Bruce.
[ooc: if you wanna continue to a different scene or have Bruce be there when he wakes up, I'm totally down!!]
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It's early morning by the time he makes it back to Tim's apartment, slipping in the same way he had the first time. He's exhausted and isn't entirely careful about shedding the suit. It ends up in a heap on the floor by his bedroom door. The bed dips under his weight and whether Tim is there or not, Bruce is asleep the second his head hits the pillow.
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Because really--when was the last time he'd seen Bruce actually sleep and not just rest his eyes or take a power nap at the console in the cave? Tim couldn't legitimately remember if he'd ever seen it. As a young teen, he'd half assumed Bruce was lying about not having super powers, figuring his meta ability was just not needing sleep.
Bruce looks soft like this. Hair over his face, his mouth gently agape. Tim bites back a smile. Stays cuddled in a bit longer, because if this is happening then he'll watch Bruce a little while longer. Maybe get up, make them some breakfast. Maybe help Bruce with his case. Like old times. So easy to fall into.
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Part of him could stay like this forever. That quiet part that he keeps buried under a relentless need for the Mission. It’s a part of his humanity that he denies himself. At least until he’s caught up in a quiet moment like this one. He doesn’t wake when Tim does. Once Bruce does the illusion is shattered and it’s back to reality. He just wants this for a few more minutes.
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Tim stays put for a few more moments, just watching, and then his antsy brain starts up and gets in the way. He reaches over Bruce for his tablet, balancing precariously but quieter than a mouse as he slips it off the nightstand and then settles back to login to his systems. To check for updates he missed on his evening off. It had been necessary, but now he'll pay the price by the feeds flying up over his screen.
He checks Bruce's as well, easily still able to see where Bruce left off in certain cases, and fills in some gaps that he can from his own Intel. He tells himself he'd have done that no matter if Bruce was there beside him or not.
Eventually, he gets up, throws on a pair of pajama pants and starts up some coffee and eggs. Protein and caffeine. The necessities.
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Tim's bed though...
That's something else entirely. He's okay with waking up alone. He can smell breakfast and that's enough to push himself upright and to pad silently through the apartment like he's done it hundreds of times before. Tim's there, of course, working with quiet efficiency. Bruce breezes by him, like he's always belonged in this space and searches out a couple of mugs for the coffee. Hopes Tim doesn't notice he doesn't need to ask. The second time he passes him, he drops a kiss on Tim's bare shoulder.
"Good morning." While he waits for the coffee to finish.
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Tim glances up as he hears Bruce's soft footfalls, and watches him seek out the mugs like he's done it a hundred times, and no, it doesn't go unnoticed that Bruce doesn't have to look. But Tim's too caught off guard by the kiss to his bare shoulder, the way Bruce's body lingers in close behind his, distracted by the rough murmur of Bruce's low voice against his skin.
Is this--Bruce isn't just leaving. Was taking his time. At least long enough for coffee and eggs. Which is more than he gives anyone, let alone Tim.
"You came back," Tim says, and then flushes, plating the eggs. "I hope you don't mind, but I tidied up your notes on that trafficking case. I was in the Bowery and talked to a club owner and promoter who knows that guy Charlie you mentioned you were looking for." Talking about cases is much easier.
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He snipes a plate of eggs and sits down at the table, the same seat he occupied just the night before and takes a few leisurely bites of egg. He grunts at Tim's admission. He'd never mind the extra set of hands when it came to intel gathering. It saves him time and he could get back to tracking and closing down this most recent operation.
"Sionis has been moving a lot of people and weapons between here and Bludhaven. Charlie's been a point of contact." And Bruce means to wring every bit of information out of the man he could manage. He flicks his gaze to Tim, chews his eggs thoughtfully. Swallows and then says, "Come with me tonight."
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There's a really, really big part of Tim that wants to. Of course he does. They had once upon a time made the perfect team, partners who could read one another and finish each other's sentences without second thought. But things had changed with Damian. And Tim had his own life now, away from Bruce. Away from most of them, if he was honest, only reaching out when it was absolutely necessary.
These days, he'd much rather work with the Teen Titans. Kon was easiest to understand, Cassie made fast work of getting the answers they needed, Bart was growing on him. It was a much better situation mentally.
He sat across from Bruce at the table after dragging his black coffee with him and shook his head. "It sounds like you've got it under control without me."
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Not like he wanted Tim's.
"It is. But there's some overlap with one of your cases." He eats without looking up. Without meeting Tim's gaze. Had he been in Tim's files? Possibly. He did have a hard time with boundaries.
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"Bruce." Tim has to stop mid bite, annoyed as ever when Bruce goes pawing through his stuff. He's a little hungover now that he's facing the light of day properly, or maybe it's a tension headache coming on from Bruce always stepping on his toes. "How did you---" No, that's the wrong question. Tim focuses, tries again. Because asking how Bruce got into his grandma encrypted files is like asking how Bruce got into his apartment the previous evening. How Bruce knew the clubs he was at. "Look, I-- don't think it's a good idea. Us working together like that again."
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"What are your plans for the day?" He'll drop it for now.
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Tim gives Bruce a look. "You've already hacked into my stuff. That means you've seen my schedule, too. I know you wouldn't have just skipped over that temptation."
Which means Tim needs to keep a paper schedule instead. At least for a bit. To keep to himself and away from Bruce.
"So you know my schedule. Wayne Enterprises business with Lucius until midday. Then I'm head down in my own cases, big patrol on the East end tonight."
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"Then I should let you get ready for it," he says when his cup is empty. He gets up without another word and sets the dishes in the sink. Briefly, he considers washing them and putting them on the rack to dry. But decides that's too domestic.
He takes that walk back to Tim's bedroom in a few short strides of his long legs and gathers up the suit so he could place a call to Alfred for a pick up.
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Tim hesitates. He's pushing Bruce away, and that's the right decision. It is, it has to be. If he lets Bruce stay or worse goes back to being some shadow version of his partner while Damian is still there being the real thing, it'll end in the same pain and heartache. It's this or it's--hurt.
Those are the only options.
So Tim stays to clean up and pour a big thermos of coffee to take with him once he leaves.
"Bruce?" he asks, leaning into the bedroom to look at his mentor gathering his things. "I---need to ask you again. To give me space. Last night can't happen again." Much as Tim would have loved it to happen every night.
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Maybe it should have given Bruce pause, to hear Tim ask again for space. Maybe it should have told him that something had gone desperately, perhaps irreparably wrong in their relationship. That this isn't working and he needed to do something differently, if he ever wanted back into Tim's life, without forcing his way back in.
But it doesn't. It only makes him think of the eyes he has on Tim's place now and how many more he might need later. It isn't the same as being here, close enough to see Tim with his own two eyes. Close enough to reach out and touch. Or hold down and fuck. But so long as Tim was going to be like this, he'd have to make do.
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"I mean it," Tim says, forcing himself to sound as serious as he needed to for Bruce to get it. "No watching. No swinging by because you're in the neighborhood. No knowing my schedule and reaching out if I don't adhere to it. Okay? Please."
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"I'll leave you alone, Tim."
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It's the right call. It's the right move. It's exactly what he asked for, what he wants. So why does the look on Bruce's face absolutely destroy Tim? It leaves a thick lump in the back of Tim's throat, a knot in his stomach.
But it's--better this way. Tim needs to be away from Bruce. He can't just fall back into place by his side when Bruce came here last night just to check up on him, just to ensure he was still under his thumb. Right? He stayed the night but so what? That was the trouble with Bruce: it was hard to tell what was real and what was just part of some unseen plan.
"Thank you." Tim moves around Bruce to gather his things, to get changed into his suit for Wayne Enterprises.
Did a little time jump. Just let me know if you need anything changed.
But it's part of the ruse and deep down? There's a storm brewing.
He keeps his word this time. Actually, keeps his distance like Tim asks. No contact, no unannounced visits. When they're at Wayne Enterprises together, Bruce hardly acknowledges him. Sometimes before patrol, he checks his footage, but he doesn't sit and watch the feeds, even if he's tempted to. Tim could do whatever he wanted, sleep with whomever he wanted (Bruce did keep track of who), and Bruce never said a word.
At least nothing direct. Limiting Tim's access to the Batcomputer's files had said enough.
Days pass. Then weeks. Tonight, he's followed a lead to the docks, where a stash of weapons is waiting to be distributed. Another branch of Sionis' operation. Tonight, Bruce plans to snap it from the tree. Tonight, he suspects he isn't alone and glances over his shoulder to see who might have joined him.
"What are you doing here?"
Perfect!
But. Bruce kept his word. That's something. Tim isn't going to go back on this. He needs his freedom. Right...?
And getting locked out of parts of the Batcomputer that he had access to before is fine. It's fine. He can get by without knowing every single thing. After all, space goes both ways. And he's not even a little angry about it...
"Last I checked, the docks of Gotham don't belong to just Batman." It's not cold, exactly, just letting Bruce know Gotham is protected by more than just one hero. "That guy-" Tim gestures, "--the one in the track jacket. I need a list he has on that hard drive in his computer."
It's a coincidence, he tells himself
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It makes his blood boil now. But he's not here for that. For once he's not tracking Tim's movements. He's zeroed in on his goal. For once, it feels like Tim's the one following him.
There's movement below them and Bruce circles around to follow it and keep his eye on his target. He doesn't look up at Tim. If he does, he might get angry.
"Then I'll make sure you get it. Anything else?"
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This, Tim tells himself, is much better. For both of them. To help one another without actually being glued to each other. It should be good for them, to work as partners in a single mission. To have each other's backs. But Tim can't help but feel lonely being in Bruce's presence again after how close they were the last time.
"Where's Robin?" he asks, before he can help himself. It's normal to ask. Right? Damian is Bruce's partner, after all.
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"If that's all you needed, I have work to do."
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This is pretty normal for Bruce and the way he speaks to people, but it feels off. It feels short. And directed at Tim.
"Yeah, we're all busy." Tim's a little short too, and he hates that this is what it's come to, but it's necessary. Right? He takes a deep breath. Work comes first. They can snark at each other after. "I'll go down first. Draw them in. Give you an opening."
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"There are two gunmen on the stairs. Another by the window and another near the far exit."
When he finally does look up at Tim, it's to assess him. Give him a once over to make sure he's ready. That's what he tells himself.
"Switch to channel two. On my mark."
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Tim nods, and he's a good boy as ever, waiting for the go ahead. Despite his actions to the contrary lately, he takes The Mission very, very seriously. And because of that, he takes Bruce very, very seriously. Jason would have cursed him and jumped into the fray wherever. Even Damian would have likely shirked the order. But Tim dutifully switches to channel two on his comms. It's a private channel, and that doesn't go unnoticed. But that's normal for these kinds of things. Means the two of them can keep in touch during the fight without getting in anyone else's ears.
That Bruce looks him over is neither here nor there and certainly doesn't redden Tim's cheeks under his own cowl thinking about it. And he doesn't at all wonder how he looks to his mentor. If he measures up. Or if Bruce can smell all the men who've been on him these past few weeks.
When Bruce gives him the go ahead, Tim slips down through the shadows, focusing on the plan of attack. It's easy enough to get the guys away from the stairs. They're the biggest, bulkiest ones. Hardest to take down but easiest to lure away.
"Hey!" the guy by the window yells. "Where you two think you're going?"
"Somethin' weird down there by the shipments," one of the guys said. "Me and Dom'll check it out."
The guy by the window cocked his gun. "Shoot first, ask questions later, Travis."
"Cool," Travis said, cocking his own gun, a thing too big for his meaty hands. Which would make it easier for Tim to get it once the guys get close enough. But now the steps are clear. Bruce could choose to sneak in or go for window guy or exit guy.
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He breathes out slow and then - "Now."
It's a familiar rhythm and that makes it easy to fall into. But then Bruce and Tim had always been efficient. A machine. Even if the gears grind a little under the strain. No matter the silence. No matter the distance. The work never suffers. Tim slips inside and vanishes into the ink-black shadows. And Bruce watches him work, beautiful as ever as he moves. He hates himself a little for thinking it.
When Batman sees the opening, he doesn't hesitate. Even though the guy by the window is alert now, he never sees the Bat. Not until it's too late. Not until Bruce drops from above and disarms him, sets him gently on the ground to sleep off that precise blow to the head. Exit guy next. Bruce melts back into the darkness. A shadow moving through the shadows. Close enough now to watch and wait for an opportunity to strike and take this one down just as cleanly.
"Red Robin, status."
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The goons seem to get bigger and bigger every year, but it's nothing that Tim hasn't handled before. In fact, as Robin, he'd have distracted worse so that Bruce had the opening he needed. Currently, when he hears Batman's gravely voice in his ear, Tim is busy fighting off Travis, who is actually a better fighter than he looks. The gun is disabled, long gone kicked under some boxes so nobody can reach it, so it's just Red Robin versus the huge bulk of this guy until Tim can get a good hook and jab in. Then it's easy to get the opening he needs to get his arm around Travis's thick neck, to choke him into he crumbles to the ground.
A little less finesse than Batman but Tim had taken the big guys, after all.
"Two down. Meet you by the exit." Even though his side is throbbing. Travis had managed one really good punch after all.
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The goon near the exit hesitates, calls out for Travis in a voice that doesn't sound too sure. It's half a second and it's all Bruce needs. He moves, a shadow unfolding from the darkness. The man doesn't even have time to cry out before Bruce has an arm around his neck, pulling him down fast and quiet.
He does not linger near the exit, opting instead to begin tagging the crates. He would hear Tim when he approaches.
"Get the weapons. I'll finish tagging the crates."
A beat of silence follows and then: "You were slow."
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"They were big," Tim says, a little tersely, as he gathers the weapons. Bruce is tagging them, so that takes care of that, but they'll need to confiscate the more dangerous ones. Get them out. Not all of them but enough to stop them from getting into the city streets and in the hands of Sionis's men. Or worse. "It's fine, I got them both, they aren't getting up, so you can stop nitpicking my style."
It's not Tim's style. But he's annoyed and a little embarrassed that Bruce noticed. Of course he did.
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"You're not usually this sloppy." He stops for a moment, glances at Tim over his shoulder. Just for a second. Then he gets back to work, marking the crates. Some for GCPD and the ones for the Batwing. "Have you been training?"
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"Just because I didn't get to it in five seconds doesn't make it sloppy." But Tim's not exactly disagreeing. He's not in his best form. He's tired, he's lonely, he feels absolutely eviscerated in front of Bruce whenever the other man looks at him. "Of course I've been training." He stops then, looks at Bruce, watches him work. The efficient way he catalogues and gathers. God, he misses him. "You really haven't been following my schedule?"
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It sounds almost like an accusation. Delivered flat, but no less sharp. As if Tim's forgotten that this - the silence and distance - had been his idea. Exactly what he had asked for. Bruce isn't being entirely honest, of course. The watching never really stopped, even if it's not as often. He knows Tim's schedule probably better than he knows his own. He knows when Tim trains. How long. How hard. And where it fits into the punishing pace of a vigilante's life.
Doesn't mean he's satisfied with it.
"You should come by the manor and let the computer run a full analysis."
A pause. Like he's considering saying the rest at all.
"I won't bother you."
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"I did say that," Tim murmurs, finishing up his own gathering and preparing it for pickup from the Batwing. He misses the tech too, he's not going to lie. Having access to everything that Bruce has at his whims. Red Robin doesn't exactly have a special Red Robin Wing. He figured Lucius could help there, but Tim never wants to feel like he's owing anybody anything. It's better to do things on his own. Simplify it.
As he considers Bruce's offer--because it is an offer, clear as day where Bruce is concerned--Tim finds the track jacket guy and unzips his laptop bag, crouching down at the man's unconscious side. He fingers out a tiny screwdriver from one of the canisters on his bandolier, using it to make quick work of getting the hard drive out. That goes into a pocket on his back, secured in tight so it doesn't fall out. Then Tim's moving on to zip-tying the guys' hands and feet for police pickup.
"I could swing by." He glances up between zipping Travis nice and tight. "For a few."
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"Your access codes still work. Come by any time."
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That's the kind of stare that will keep Tim up at night. It always did, when he was younger. When they were undressing in the Cave together or when he saw Bruce walking around half-costumed. It was, frankly, still fodder for masturbation sessions when Tim needed it. And the guys he'd tried out in their interim time apart had certainly not been anything near the man he was looking at now.
Fuck.
Tim nods, finishes up his work as Bruce leaves, and lets out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. He tells himself he's going to finish his own patrols, get into the hard drive, finish up his case, and call it a night.
But by three in the morning, he's steering his bike into the Cave. Bruce is probably still out. It would be better if he was. But there Tim is, excited when he spies him at the Bat Computer. Tim pulls in and kicks the stand out, turning the bike off and getting the helmet free as he steps off. Hangs it over the seat. Pries his cowl down so it hangs off the back of his neck, revealing a flushed, sweat-damp face that almost looked too young to be in such a stern, tough guy costume night after night. "I'll be quick," he says by way of greeting, already moving to strip himself of his bracers and gauntlets. The scan on the computer will go faster if he's out of uniform. Or at least strips out of the thicker layers.
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Because Tim's not going to come tonight.
He spares a glance to the manor's security feed when it alerts him to a vehicle approaching. High rate of speed. Tim Drake, the automated voice announces and asks Bruce if he wants to grant him access. He doesn't have a chance to answer. Tim uses his codes to enter. And for a moment, Bruce smiles to himself.
Bruce doesn't say anything as Tim comes in and begins to strip down. He said he wouldn't bother him and he won't. But he suspects he doesn't have to. He suspects Tim will ask him to. And he's been patient enough. He could wait a little while longer.
"Which simulation do you want?"
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Tim rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, slides his bo staff out as he approaches the pad to get scanned and begin the simulation. Bruce's were always the worst, most grueling trainings, programmed to give even Batman a run for his money. But Tim's here to prove he's not shirking his responsibilities just because he's a little slow taking down two seven foot goons.
"Surprise me."
He aims to ace this. Even after a long patrol.
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The computer begins a countdown but Croc takes his first swing without waiting for it to finish. There's dozens of cameras recording the fight; Bruce doesn't have to watch if he doesn't want to. But he does. Because there's something different about watching Tim work in person and he wants to see it with his own eyes.
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It's true that Tim isn't at his prime tonight. Maybe that's why he came here after all. To be seen by Bruce, to be told off for it. Punished. The thought occurs, unbidden, of Bruce throwing him over his lap to spank him while Tim moans Daddy like a litany.
Still, he focuses on the attacks at hand. Just because it's only a program doesn't mean it won't hurt when Croc swings. Luckily, even tired and worn out and sluggish, Tim is faster than most and easily able to figure out the moves coming at him. Croc's downside is he's sluggish due to his size, at least compared to the other kinds of villains they face day to day.
Tim makes it look easy despite the things going on in his life. His body moves fluidly, bends like Dick taught him, throws punches faster than Jason, and uses his brains like Bruce. The bo staff is an extension of him as he moves, eventually getting Killer Croc to his knees. Not after Croc got a swipe in against his side, but that's par for the course... Right?
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Tim's good. Bruce isn't surprised. The mistakes are easy to spot. His staff droops a little lower than it should. He doesn't pivot fast enough to avoid Croc's swipe. He's tired. Sluggish. Minor issues. Simple things to correct. But Bruce doesn't correct them. The analysis finishes compiling and he turns to glance at the results.
"You were about eight seconds faster in your last run." He says. And then he gets back to work.
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Tim rolls his shoulders again as the program fizzles away and leaves behind the cold reality of the Cave and Bruce's asked for neglect. Tim can't blame anyone but himself for how chilling Bruce's tone feels, how distant. He asked for this. He demanded it. So why is it Tim that's left feeling guilty? Like he did something wrong.
He moves to the computer to look at the results and makes a sound with his mouth not unlike Damian's little ttchs. Eight seconds slower means eight seconds of improvement. It's not Tim's best work, and he knew it wouldn't be, but what he expected was for Bruce to get up and put his hands on him, show him where he was slow, maybe linger a second too long, maybe lean in and kiss him, maybe just stroke down his spine, maybe coax him into the bedroom. It's stupid to want the very things he was pissed off about a month ago, but that had been under duress, and this was---well, because he wanted it, right?
He'd always been desperate for Bruce's approval, whatever form that took.
"You have a Batman scenario in there yet?" he asks, lingering at Bruce's side. "Gimme a real challenge."
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He finally stops when Tim asks for a Batman scenario. There is one, though it still needed testing. He could pit Tim against it. Watch the outcome and point out where Tim went wrong. But that's not what Tim is after. Not really. And Bruce knows it.
Besides, why bother with a simulation when the real Batman is standing just inches away?
"It isn't ready," he says, tone flat, still focused on the work. But he does stop eventually and tugs the cowl off so he could see Tim. And more importantly, so Tim could see him.
"If you want a Batman scenario, you'll have to settle for me."
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It's probably the most obvious way Tim could have asked Bruce to spar with him, to touch him in any way that doesn't break Tim's rule of 'staying away', but at the moment, he doesn't care. Bruce is right there, and when he pulls the cowl down, it gives Tim chills to see Bruce's handsome, weathered face bared before him again. The man is absolutely perfect physically, hard-earned and kept up meticulously, but it's not just his body and his mind--it's his face. The jagged, raw edges of jaw. The slight stubble that's trying to shatter the illusion of perfection.
"You're the one who said I was slow out there," Tim says, quietly, stretching out his arms by pulling one in front of his chest, then the other, as he walks backwards towards the training pit. This is probably a really, really bad idea. But Tim already feels high as a damn kite having Bruce just look at him after so long away. "Come prove it."
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He watches Tim back away toward the training mats and it only takes a moment to decide. Bruce unclips the cape and pulls off the cowl and follows Tim into the pit. This is probably a terrible idea. But then Bruce also dresses like a giant bat to terrorize Gotham's lowlifes. He's not exactly known for having great ideas. When they're face to face and Bruce slides into a stance, he smirks and beckons Tim to make the first strike.
"Come on. Try to hit me."
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Tim's done it before. He's managed to get a swat or kick in when he's really firing on all cylinders, when his brain is precisely focused, when he's at his prime. But tonight, he's certainly not. He's not only distracted by Bruce but by the anticipation of being touched by him in any way after starving himself from it for a month, but he's also tired, it's past three in the morning, and Travis down by the docks did get a good punch against his ribs on the right side.
Not to mention he did his best against the last program of Killer Croc.
Even so, Tim hopes he's doing something to make Bruce proud as he darts forward and fakes out twice before going for Bruce's jaw.
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"You're hurt." There's a hint of concern in his delivery, but nothing beyond it. It explains why Tim's reaction time is slower than usual at least. Besides the exhaustion.
"Again. Come on."
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Tim huffs, annoyed by the ease with which Bruce stops him, redirects all his momentum with barely a flick of his wrist. But also aroused if he's truly honest about it. Bruce is never so beautiful as when he's in motion, perfect in every diversion and dodge and shift, as if he isn't built like a damn brick wall.
"That guy at the docks got a little hit in before I subdued him, that's all." Tim tries again, this time swinging once with his elbow and then ducking low to try for Bruce's knees. That's one of the only weak spots he knows Bruce has, and it's barely even weak honestly. Just an easier target than the rest of him.
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The elbow is easily blocked and he pivots when Tim dips low to aim for his knees. He allows the blow to connect, so it keeps Tim close enough to grab and haul upright. The grip on his arm is merciless. Not brutal. Just almost inescapable.
"Is this what you do with space, Tim? Sloppy work. Poor judgement." His grip tightens. Unyielding.
"Is this what happens without me to keep you in line?"
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Bruce is so fast. Even Tim forgets sometimes, until he sees it with his own eyes, how Bruce is standing still one minute then easily leaning away from a punch the next, only to grab Tim's arm in an iron grip and haul him up to his tiptoes to not fall off balance in the next. Tim sways, but he's steadied by the brutal clench of Bruce's thick fingers around the meat of his arm. Inside, his mind rages, vacillates between break me and stop. In the end, he's just looking up at Bruce and trying to take another swing, even knowing it won't land.
Are they still even sparring?
"I'm---human, Bruce," Tim pants out, his face red at Bruce's easy deciphering of all his mistakes. Catalogued in his face. "I'm fine. It's nothing serious. We all get injured."
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It doesn't feel like sparring anymore. Not when he catches Tim's swing and holds it in mid-air. His grip tightens just slightly, eyes grim. Cold.
"I didn't train you to be like this, Tim."
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The hurt in Bruce's gaze is hard enough to cut glass, an undercurrent of--something else. Something darker. Tim can't be sure, but whatever it is, it slices through his heart as Bruce catches his other hand too, holding Tim easily now so that there's no escape unless he wants to dislocate something or truly fight Bruce off like he meant it. But he didn't mean it. He loved Bruce.
The words cut even deeper somehow. Disappointment.
"To be like what?" he asks, terrified of the answer.
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"You're not taking care of yourself. Letting mistakes slide." His voice is as sharp as his gaze - precise and withering. But there's something else. Something deeper. Quiet, faint. He softens. As much as a man like Bruce could.
"This isn't who you are, Tim."
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Bruce has the stunning ability to see right through him. Everything that Tim is and does and wants and needs. He feels suddenly very, very small again. Like the scrawny child that coltishly wandered up to Dick Grayson and begged for a chance. That same child who had told Bruce that Batman needed a Robin and if it wasn't Dick then Tim would train and do it. Bruce had always been so hard on him, pushing Tim's every limit to better himself. And now is no different.
Tim pulls against the grip Bruce has on him.
"I'm sorry I can't live up to your impossible standards. I'm not you. I'm---" Broken. Lonely. Hurt. "--I messed up. I know. I'll do better."
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Even if Tim pushes him away. Tries to push him off. Bruce would just keep coming back because he could never have enough. Tim would never give him enough. Not until Bruce has wrings him dry.
"Let me help you. You were better when you were with me, weren't you?" Everything was better. He draws in close, pressing an almost kiss to the corner of Tim's mouth while he murmurs the words into his skin. "Say it, Tim."
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Tim closes his eyes and---God help him, he loves the tone of Bruce's voice, the softness in it as Bruce hums it against the corner of his mouth. A mouth with lips that parts just so in anticipation of more and then closes again when it doesn't come.
"When we were partners, it was perfect," Tim agrees. "But we're not partners anymore, Bruce. You have a new Robin." Dick's fault, really, but Bruce showed so much more attention to Damian when he'd come back and it still hurts. Still feels biting that he's not Bruce's first choice. That Bruce still has Damian in the suit that Tim built from the ground up. And he's--he's happier now, right? Being Red Robin. Being his own hero, in his own way, without living up to anything.
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He thought Tim would adjust with time. He thought Tim would understand he couldn't leave his son to flounder. That didn't mean Bruce cared any less about him. It just means he had to do what's best for the mission. He's still close to Tim, breathing in the smell of him. Lips parting to pepper kisses along his jaw. He's missed that taste. "Damian needed me," he says, quiet and even. "You didn't." At least not at the time. Bruce could see now that pushing Tim out of the nest had been a bad call. But he'd fix it. If Tim would just give him the chance.
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"I did," Tim whispers, practically moans as Bruce's kisses pepper sweetly along his jaw, sending goosebumps down his neck. He's breathing heavier now, sucking in the scent of Bruce, and his free hand clasps against Bruce's bicep for support. Clinging. Desperate.
God, Bruce makes him so desperate.
"I did need you. I always needed you. I was the one---I searched for you. I gave up everything for you." Tim's babbling. They can't do this again. They can't keep falling into one another. No matter how badly they both want to.
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Bruce can hear the shift in Tim's breathing, the heavy pulls of air he's taking as his hand clutches at Bruce's arm. It makes him want to put his hands on Tim's bare skin and the layers between them feels like a hindrance.
"Then come back, Tim." He lets Tim go at last, to snake an arm around his waist, to press him in close so there's no ambiguity. No doubts whatsoever. "Let me take care of you again."
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Tim folds into Bruce like a tree bending in a storm, caught up in the moment of Bruce actually asking again. It's as close as Bruce will ever come to begging. And he's like this for Tim. Wants Tim. Not Dick or Jason like Tim had always thought were more aligned with Bruce's desires. After all, Dick is a peak human being and they've all seen how easily he bends himself in half--that flexibility must be tempting. And Jason, who is all raw power and dark desire.
Wouldn't Bruce rather have them?
"Is that really all you want? Just to take care of me?" Because to Tim, lately that had felt more like owning him. Putting trackers on him. Following him. Tim wasn't sure he was even capable of going back to that for good.
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It had to be Tim. It had to be. There isn't room for anyone else.
"You think I want something else from you?" The question is muttered into Tim's neck, where Bruce kisses a line down the curve of, pulling at the bodysuit to make way for his lips. The watching and quiet vigilance had all come later, after Tim started pulling away. It wouldn't be necessary if Tim would only stay where Bruce could see him.
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"I don't---I honestly don't know, Bruce," Tim murmurs, absolutely melting under the pressure of those warm kisses as the suit is pried off Tim's skin until he has to help and pull his arms free. Bruce will be able to see all the little bruises and bites left from other men now, up close in all their rough glory, and now it might make more sense why Tim had gotten swiped by a lowlife thug--he was already hurt in the same spot. Almost a hand print, from someone holding him just a little too tight.
Tim's not thinking about other men now though. He's shivery under Bruce's touch, breathless, getting hard.
"I've wanted you---for so long... I know you know. I know you've known for a long time. Maybe even longer than me."
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"You have a very odd way of showing it, Tim," Bruce says, voice quiet. Restraint against the sudden flare of anger. He traces a finger over a bite mark. "You let someone else do this to you?"
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Tim's face is already red, embarrassed at being caught by Bruce in this. If Bruce didn't already know all the names of every single man Tim had been with in the interim.
"I was lonely," he says, barely and excuse. "I needed an outlet." He looks up at Bruce, touches the man's strong jaw a tender cup. "I was as safe as I could be getting what I needed. I know you understand."
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"Is this what you wanted? For someone to hurt you?" Tim's touch is tender, but there's nothing tender in how Bruce speaks, his voice a harsh cutting edge. "You should have come to me."
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"Bruce," Tim says, in a calming voice, low and steady. He leans up, brushing his lips tentatively over Bruce's clenched jaw. As if to soothe the beast inside him that's growling and ready to bite. "I tend to like things---in that department, anyway---a little, um..." Rough. Hard. Sadistic. Disturbingly raw. He swallowed, another kiss to placate the honesty of his words. "A little dark. I know you'd---I mean, we already did things that--" Tim's losing the thread, his brain sticking on the 'things' they've done already in just a few meetups.
Rooftop sex. Tim's consent had been dubious at best that night with Ivy's poison flooding his veins. And then at his place, over the table. Maybe in the middle of the Cave where someone might walk down to see wouldn't be so unusual.
"I don't know what we are to each other, Bruce." He leaned back, tracing his fingers along Bruce's cheek, over the raw stubble trying to poke through his skin, into his hair to spread and massaging. "What are we?"
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The question is jarring. What are we? He almost says nothing. Instead he reaches for Tim's wrist and grips it in his hand tight enough to bruise.
"You tell me, Tim. You're the one who keeps pushing me away."
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It's impossible not to wince at the grip. Bruce is unforgiving when he wants to be, and it gets Tim's blood boiling in all the right ways. He remembers the first few times they seriously sparred, when Bruce could easily pin him, hold him down, and how exciting it was. How breathlessly terrifying to be held and know this person could break him in half if he had a mind to.
"I mean," he clarifies, "You adopted me. I didn't think--you wanted me like that. Until Ivy's." He swallows, heart thundering in his chest, because it's so complicated. He loves Bruce as a father and a sexual partner and a mentor and a friend even under the right circumstances. It's too much for two people to be to one another, isn't it? It's too messy. "Do you really want me?" And not anyone else.
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"Yes." The admission comes as Bruce yanks Tim toward him, pressing his body in close. He could overlook the marks. The imperfections. They would heal and Tim would be all his again. "But I won't share you. Not with anyone. So this stops. Tonight."
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Tim lets loose a breathless laugh, nodding, his pulse skittering at Bruce's tone. He knows. Of course he knows. There's no more allowing Tim to run off with other men, but Tim doesn't want other men. He's never wanted other men. The whole thing had been just to satiate a desperate need. This, with Bruce--this is everything.
But. The look in Bruce's eyes is enthralling. And God, sue Tim wanting to play with him to get more.
"And if I say no?" he asks, leaning up on his tiptoes again to find the corner of Bruce's mouth to nip and kiss there in kittenish sweetness. "If I continue to let other men touch me?"
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So while he's still close, Bruce shifts, fast as lightning and drags Tim into a kiss. He holds Tim against him tight like he's trying to merge with him. Drag him into the dark too.
"You won't," he growls into Tim's mouth.
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The kiss is hot as fire and deep as the ocean, Bruce's tongue thick and unyielding as it punishes its way through Tim's mouth. It's perfect, everything--the way Bruce crushes Tim close, the way he bites that warning into his lips. Of course Tim won't. If Bruce is serious about wanting Tim, then Tim won't ever need someone else to bruise and try to break him. The only person he wants doing that is Bruce.
"What about all these marks on my body?" he whispered between panting into the kiss. "Are you gonna replace them? All the spots that other men have bruised me?"
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"Show me. Let me see how far down they go."
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It's a little embarrassing, but that's part of the thrill, isn't it? Showing off all that he did just to hurt himself when he wanted Bruce but wouldn't allow himself to have him. Tim unzips the rest of his suit, talking a step back so Bruce can see. He's already seen the ones on Tim's ribs, the bites at his abdomen, but as Tim shucks the bottom half of his suit and kicks it aside, Bruce will see the true reality of how rough these men were with his boy.
Tim turns, slowly. "The worst of them are on my hips." And it's true. The bruises are fresh and in handprint placements from gripping Tim's hips too hard, as well as a pretty nice welt on his ass that must have come from a spank. Flushed from once again being naked in Bruce's presence while Bruce himself is mostly clothed--and in the middle of the Cave, no less--Tim looks over his shoulder at Bruce. Watches the darkness in his eyes. "I'm sorry."
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It's that welt that makes Bruce's blood boil the most. His jaw is tight as Tim turns and he sees it the first time. Angry and red and stark against Tim's skin.
"Did you work like this?"
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"Of course," Tim says, quietly. It feels like a trick question, but Tim is compelled to answer either way. If he didn't go out and save the city, Bruce would be disappointed. If he did go out sporting all the bruises and welts, then Bruce would also be disappointed. Tim didn't know which way would be worse, so he went with the truth. "I needed things, but I didn't--I mean, I tried not to let it get out of hand if I was going out after." Normally these kinds of trysts are reserved for after patrol or during a rare night off. But lately, Tim couldn't afford to be picky.
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"Not hard enough." He's quiet again, then his expression shifts, as if he's made up his mind about something. "On your knees."
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Bruce's voice sounds different, and it sends shivers ricocheting down Tim's spine. He does as he's told with no argument. He's in no position to talk back or even ask questions, really. Part of him realizes how lucky he is that Bruce hasn't smacked him across the room for the insubordination, let alone what feelings it clearly brought up in his mentor.
So he goes down, knees to the mats they'd just been sparring on. Looking up. Waiting for direction.
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He's slow and deliberate in the way he rolls the lower half of his suit down, his cock hard and bobbing once it's free.
"Open your mouth."
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Tim swallows as he watches Bruce roll his suit down. Deliberate. Slow. Meant for a show that Tim was helpless but to devour. And god, he does. He devours the sight of Bruce like that, above him, strong and capable and perfect even with ages of scars older than Tim slashing across his rock hard abdomen. The divots of hard-earned musculature, the V leading down to Bruce's hard cock--it's enough to make Tim squirm, his mouth actually watering.
"Bruce, I--" But he stops himself. Bruce gave him direction. And Tim is a soldier.
His mouth opens after another swallow to clear the spit. Hands loose at his sides but anxious, his own cock jumping sweetly in anticipation. Because Bruce is huge. And the last time, he barely fit in Tim's mouth. It's never going to get easier, but fuck does Tim want it to be difficult. Always.
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He approaches slow, stooping just enough to brush a hand over Tim's jaw. "Keep your hands by your side. No touching me or yourself. Understood?" Not that Tim's answer really mattered. Bruce didn't give it a chance to before he's pressing the tip of his cock into the warmth of Tim's mouth.
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The soft yet stern touch to his jaw had Tim's skin prickling with goosebumps. He would have nodded in agreement, started to speak to promise Bruce all the obedience he deserved from Tim, but the words barely got off his tongue and he certainly couldn't move his head as Bruce guided the tip of his cock against Tim's parted lips. Tim's eyes flutter shut, and he tries to get his tongue perfectly under the heft of Bruce's massive length, the weight of it on him like a godsend.
A moan slides past, desperately pitched as his hands find themselves balling into fists to rest on his thighs. He won't touch. He won't. But it's nearly impossible, his body crying out for more comfort, more connection. His eyes open again to look at Bruce, to show that he's here, he's aware, he's doing everything Bruce wants, and he won't stop. He leans a little forward, encouraging Bruce to go deeper.
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For a minute, Bruce relaxes. The tension eases from his shoulders and his jaw doesn't feel clenched so tightly. For a minute, he forgets that he's angry or that deep almost visceral sense of betrayal. It all melts away under the smooth glide of Tim's tongue. He's never one to lose himself in a moment, but for this? For Tim, he does. Just a little. His eyes slide close and and his breathing hitches and he just let's what he's feeling happen, without trying to tamp it down or lock it away.
But it's only a moment and when it passes, he reigns himself back in and opens his eyes to see Tim gazing up at him, his hands curled into fists on his thighs. It's a gorgeous sight. His lean forward pulls Bruce a little deeper into his mouth and he could go deeper still. Stretch Tim's jaw to accommodate the girth of him. For now he wanted to savor the feeling, let it build slow until it broke under the strain. So that's what he does - ease his way in and watch the way Tim has to work out how to breathe and how to keep from choking. Bruce wouldn't give him long. He'd reach the limits of his patience soon enough and it wouldn't matter much if Tim was ready for that or not.
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His name on Bruce's tongue. It's a sound unlike anything else in the world. Softly hummed like a prayer, and Bruce would never pray because he is god and vengeance and all that Tim needs in the whole universe. Tim moans. How couldn't he, hearing Bruce like that? Watching the man's eyes close and his features soften for just that bare second. It's perfect. Tim would live here on his, sucking Bruce off forever in supplication if it meant he could glimpse that side of Bruce again.
That tenderness that no one else ever got to see.
Saliva builds as Tim takes a bit of the lead, bobbing his head gently to take Bruce in and out, to slick his length. It's already at the back of Tim's throat and Bruce has barely moved and has more to go and that's a beautiful warning to Tim, who is eager to choke and cry again for Bruce, to be put in his place and then told he was a good boy for healing.
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Tim will know when he's had enough, when his patience has reached its limit when those fingers curl tighter and Bruce rocks his hips forward. He pulls back, hand in his hair holding Tim steady for when his hips surge forward again and marveling at the softness of the back of Tim's throat. That makes him moan too.
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Tim's balled fists curl tighter, and he presses them firmly against his thighs, hard enough to bruise if he isn't careful. It's more difficult than it has any right to be, keeping still, not touching. All he wants is to worship Bruce's body with his reverent hands or maybe hold his cock where even his mouth can't fit it all in. He wants to cup Bruce's balls or hold his ass to feel him make that first, brutal thrust where the head of his length pushes against the back of Tim's throat hard enough to make his stomach quiver.
Tim's drooling. He can't help it. Bruce doesn't even give him time to suck it back, or breathe, or anything, just holds his head still and thrusts in deep. Tim tries to open his throat to accept him. The men he's been with, they're nothing compared to Bruce, not just in temperament but in size and girth. No one has made Tim's gag reflex trigger. No one has made Tim want it to. His eyes water as he opens up his throat for the next thrust, whimpering pathetically as his cock twitches with every thrust in Bruce makes. It hurts. His throat is on fire already but he loves it, loves being on his knees and giving Bruce what no one else can.
Not Dick or Jason or anyone else. Just Tim.
He can't help it; his hands jump on the next deep thrust, holding Bruce's thighs, pushing against them. An automatic survivor's instinct to keep from choking. And then out of sheer desperation to hold on and be grounded by touch.
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It's perfect. Too perfect. And the illusion is broken when he feels Tim's hands on his thighs, pushing back against him. He opens his eyes, tilts his head down to look at Tim's hands, small when compared to the thick meat of Bruce's thighs. Part of him thinks about letting it slide. He could hardly blame Tim for wanting some sense of control over the encounter. Bruce isn't gentle as he fucks Tim's mouth. He grips his hair tight. His pace is unrelenting; Tim hardly has space to breathe in between. Bruce could see the tears wetting his cheeks. But then he sees a bruise pressed into his hip. Remembers the angry, red welt on his ass and Bruce decides Tim doesn't have the privilege. He hasn't earned it yet.
"Hands, Tim," he growls. The warning rumbles up from somewhere deep, a note of Batman, thick and hoarse from the high he's chasing.
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The worst part of it all is that Tim can't even apologize. He can't say he's sorry, that he's trying, that there's never going to be anyone else but Bruce and Bruce doesn't have to worry because Tim is a good boy and doing everything he can---but please---just a little gentler, a little slower, a little moment to take a breath.
Or maybe it's the best part, because his hands immediately are back to his own thighs, slapped down loudly, fingers gripping his own muscle as he gulps down Bruce's next brutal thrust and feels his cock finally push past the tight resistance and edge down his throat. With Tim's head tipped back as it was just to take the length at the best angle, it feels like Bruce will be able to see the outline of his thrusting cock against the red, stained tendons in Tim's neck.
His tongue is lolled out, inviting Bruce even deeper, gagging but pushing himself for Bruce. To be perfect. To be his vessel.
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"Good boy, Tim," Bruce says, his voice humming as he feels himself winding up, getting closer and closer to that precarious edge. He tilts his head back, lips parting as he tries to catch his breath. It feels like it's slipping away, like he's going to drown. He's close, he's so close. "You're a good boy for Daddy, aren't you?" Just for Bruce.
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For---for Daddy.
Tears stream down Tim's red cheeks, his own cock mercilessly weeping as well as the word sinks in. He's never once called Bruce that. It's so filthy and obscene, filling up Tim's head with so many different, conflicting feelings. Bruce is his father, had stepped in to replace the real thing, had been that for Tim over the years, and that was part of the reason Tim never let thing get out of hand. It's too complex to want both a father and a lover both in the same body. But Daddy is on another level that Tim had only dreamed of in private.
His toes curl, knees shifting wide so he can spread his thighs a little, give himself room. Room for nothing, really, since he can't touch himself, his hands spasming against the meat of his own naked thighs, nails dragging into his skin.
Daddy.
Tim's eyes roll back as Bruce's cock slides in deep. He can't breathe. Can't think. All he can hear is that single word repeated in Batman's gruff growl over and over again in an echo chamber, in time to the beat of his own heady heart. His face is turning colors. It's perfect. He holds there for Bruce, swallowing him, gagging on him, giving Bruce everything that's in him and then some, more than he'd ever give to anyone else because nobody deserves this sloppy, degraded, desperate part of Tim but Bruce.
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It feels right because he can see the way Tim reacts when his head drops to watch him. He can see his cock weeping and Tim's wet cheeks and it drives Bruce over the edge. His orgasm hits like punch to the gut. It seizes him and every muscle and every thought and all Bruce can think is Tim and how beautiful he looks on his knees and desperate and lips wrapped around the thick girth of his cock. For a long few moments, it feels like Bruce won't ever stop coming, like he'll deflate when he's emptied out completely.
But it does stop eventually and the grip he has on Tim's hair relaxes and all of the tension and anger he felt leaves him as he takes a few weary steps back, giving Tim space to catch his breath. He isn't angry anymore. He could forgive the bites and the welts and the bruises. They would heal. He could forgive because Tim would not forget this moment and if he thought to ever ask for space again, he'd remember it would never be like this with anyone else. Not ever.
Bruce doesn't trust his knees to hold him up. So he sits down on the mat near Tim, panting and sweating and trying to will his heart back to something closer to his baseline. Then he reaches for Tim, pulls him close and presses a warm kiss to his sweat slick forehead. As much praise as he had in him to give right then.
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It's another tsunami of come from Bruce's cock, and Tim has to wonder if anyone has ever successfully sucked the man off and lived to tell the tale. Tim can take a lot, swallows so much more than should be humanly possible, but even he can't keep up entirely, spluttering on the last few spurts as they slide out the corners of his overstuffed mouth. It's perfect, though, really. Tim just slack there, a vessel to be used for Bruce's needs. To fulfill Bruce. Crying and turning blue in the face and so relieved when Bruce finally does pull away but already missing the intensity of that high.
There's nothing like it. No one else could ever take him there. He would have never trusted some strange man to do that to him.
Tim sags when he's let go, boneless and doubling over to cough with one single, quivering arm holding him up, his body a wreck of spasms from the rough come down. And then Bruce is gathering him close, kissing his forehead, and all Tim can do is bow in against him, crawl slowly into his lap and straddle his waist, arms looping lazily around his thick neck. He gives a pathetic thrust against Bruce's stomach, his cock rubbing there. And moans.
"Please?" he murmurs. "Just---stay like that." Tim would do the work. Rutting against Bruce, using his skin as friction for his desperate cock, rocking in against his abs as he buried his face in Bruce's neck and shoulder, panting.
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When he feels that hard press of Tim’s cock against his stomach Bruce pulls back, just enough to watch him rut against him, with a hand sliding over his hip. Subtle encouragement.
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Tim's body undulates like a beautiful serpent as he rocks against Bruce. His ass rubs along Bruce's soft length, his own hard cock thrust against Bruce's abdomen. He winces at every catch of the head against Bruce's deep toned muscles, then moans at the hand subtly on his hip just keeping him steady and giving him permission to do this. He's dizzied by it, blood rushed south and his head still spinning from the lack of air during that blowjob.
Head bowed, he rides into Bruce, moving in short, jerky little bursts.
And then, quietly, "Daddy," whispered into Bruce's chest. Horribly quiet and embarrassed to say it but the flush on his body gives away how much he likes it.
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As it has time to settle, Bruce decides he likes it just fine. His free hand graze over the beautiful curve of his spine, while he leans forward to kiss his shoulder and kiss his neck. Then up his cheek and close to his ear.
"Are you going to come for Daddy?"
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"Can I?" Tim gasps, shivery at hearing it again from Bruce, right there against the shell of his ear. In that dark, intimate voice. "Can I come? Please, can I--can I touch myself and come?"
He couldn't yet say the word again, too distraught as he rocked into Bruce, close but needing more to get off and still under Bruce's spell enough to ask for permission. He'd been told not to touch himself. He wouldn't. If Bruce said no, he'd buck into him all night to get off or go without.
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When he asks again, Bruce doesn't answer. Not right away. He looks down to watch that hard flesh pressing into his abdomen.
"No." There's nothing malicious in the denial. Just a quiet warmth to go with Bruce wrapping his fingers around Tim's cock and stroking him in tandem with every roll of his hips. "Don't stop."
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"No-no? Bruce, I---haaah...." Tim shudders, clenching his legs around Bruce as those thick fingers find his aching hardness. He's too worked up to know if Bruce is saying no to coming or no to touching or no to both, so he just breathes through the absolute torture of the pleasure and continues to jerk and thrust into Bruce's fist and against his body. "I ca-n't, Bruce I can't--please...." He can. He tells himself he can. He'll wait as long as it takes, as long as Bruce wants.
Forever, if he asked it. Tim is his soldier and perfect boy and he would wait for permission.
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So after a few lazy strokes, he kisses Tim's jaw again and says, "It's okay, Tim. Come for me."
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It's an explosion out of Tim barely a few seconds after permission is given. Tim had been holding his breath and he lets it all out in a huff as he arches his body back. Holding his arms loose around Bruce's neck, he thrusts two more times into Bruce's perfect hand and then comes. Thick spatters of come against Bruce's chest, down the man's fingers, onto his own body with how his cock is arched that way, twitching helplessly in the rough texture of Bruce's grip. Tim doesn't shout, instead his lips are merely parted and nothing really comes out except a sigh of gratitude.
The other men hadn't known what to do with Tim, how to give him what he needed. The pain was fine, good even, but it's nothing compared to the emotional toll being with Bruce takes on him. Like being wrung dry.
When it's over, Tim sags against Bruce, face buried against his shoulder as he pants and tries to catch his breath.
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They'd have to get up soon enough, but for now, Bruce just wants to hold Tim for a moment longer.
"Feeling better?"