"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."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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