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."
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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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