Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/894112.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      DCU_(Comics)
  Relationship:
      Harvey_Dent/Bruce_Wayne, Barbara_Gordon/Tim_Drake/Bruce_Wayne, Tim_Drake/
      Barbara_Gordon, Harvey_Dent/Tim_Drake/Bruce_Wayne, Jason_Blood/Bruce
      Wayne, Tim_Drake/Bruce_Wayne, Cassandra_Cain/Tim_Drake, Tim_Drake/Clark
      Kent, Tim_Drake/Dick_Grayson, Harvey_Dent/Martha_Wayne, Harvey_Dent/
      Original_Female_Character(s), Janet_Drake/Thomas_Wayne, Jason_Blood/
      Martha_Wayne, Jason_Blood/Tim_Drake, Tim_Drake/Jason_Todd, Martha_Wayne/
      Thomas_Wayne, Thomas_Wayne/Original_Female_Character, Dinah_Drake/Tim
      Drake, Tim_Drake/Original_Female_Character, Stephanie_Brown/Tim_Drake
  Character:
      Harvey_Dent, Bruce_Wayne, Tim_Drake, Dick_Grayson, Barbara_Gordon,
      Cassandra_Cain, Stephanie_Brown, Jason_Todd, Jason_Blood, Damian_Wayne,
      Original_Female_Character(s), Dinah_Drake, Janet_Drake, Martha_Wayne,
      Thomas_Wayne, Alfred_Pennyworth, Clark_Kent
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Established_Relationship, Alternate_Universe, Magic, BDSM,
      Pseudo-Incest, Incest, Dubious_Consent, Multiverse, Threesome_-_F/M/M,
      Threesome_-_M/M/M, Voyeurism, Emotional_Hurt/Comfort, Polyamory, Heavy
      BDSM, LGBTQ_Female_Character_of_Color, LGBTQ_Character_of_Color,
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Alternate_Universe_-_Race_Changes
  Series:
      Part 2 of Author's_Favorites:_DC_Comics_Part_Five
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-05-03 Completed: 2012-05-04 Chapters: 17/17 Words: 258396
****** In love and madness ******
by Teland
Summary
     "I can't believe you built a time machine in your floating orgy
     house, Tim."
Notes
     Disclaimers: Basically nothing and no one here is mine. I make no
     claims.
     Spoilers/Timeline: Many, *many* references to both ancient and
     relatively new storylines, though pretty much all of them have been
     run through the AU filter. As to the timeline... well. Events in this
     story happen over the course of forty years, and not especially
     linearly. It's discussed throughout the story, but I highly recommend
     you keep the first chapter -- which is the timeline -- open while
     reading the rest.
     Author's Note: Mildred gave me the first generation of this *bizarre*
     bunny last year as part of her blatant, shameless efforts to get me
     to write good parenting. It was a *heroic* -- and psychotic -
     - attempt on her part. Back in March, when my sinking health was
     getting me down, Britt reminded me that I'm never actually happier
     than when I'm writing truly insane AUs. This bunny was right there
     waiting. Jack then stepped in with the perfect storytelling device.
     Acknowledgments: Much love and gratitude to Mildred, ShadowValkyrie,
     Britt, Spice, Nonie, Melissa, Pixie, and my Jack for audiencing,
     encouragement, critique, helpful suggestions, and anachronism
     spotting. I couldn't have done it without you guys. <3
***** Timeline *****
1927: Thomas Wayne born.
1932: Martha Kane born.
1938: Lucius Fox born.
1941: Janet Evans born.
April 1, 1958: Martha and Thomas marry.
April 1, 1959: Martha and Jason Blood meet.
1959-60: Thomas orders Lucius into MBA program.
1960: Bruce Wayne and Harvey Dent born; Thomas meets Janet.
1962-63: Janet and Jackson Drake marry and found Drake Industries.
1965: Tim "Drake" born.
1972: Barbara Gordon born.
1974: Bruce and Harvey enter Exeter, Lester Dent killed, Harvey adopted by the
Waynes.
1975: Tim begins a life in the shadows.
1976: Dick Grayson born.
1979: Bruce and Tim begin training together -- as opposed to separately.
January 1980: Helena "Drake" born.
1983-84: Bruce begins going out as the Batman, Jason Todd and Cassandra Cain
are born, Harvey graduates from Hudson Law.
1985: Tim begins going out as the Batman, Stephanie Brown is born.
1986: The Batmen first encounter Barbara.
1988: Barbara becomes the first Batgirl.
1989: Thomas dies, Dick becomes the first Robin.
1992: Martha dies.
1995-96: Jason does his best to lay the smack down on Bat!Tim. Another Robin
flies.
1997: Cassandra joins the family. Another Batgirl flies.
1999: Stephanie starts going out as the Spoiler. The Batmen make a manful
attempt not to kidnap her... but another Robin flies.
***** June 2000: Tim Plots And Schemes *****
Tim isn't allowed in the gymnasium -- not the one featured in Gotham Homes and
Gardens last August, and *especially* not the one which sprawls for three
stories below his and Bruce's *hopefully* still innocent-*enough*-seeming
townhouse. Barbara Gordon is the other name on the deed -- and she even *does*
stay here at times, just as Bruce sometimes stays in various other places -
- but...
But.
This is his home with Bruce, and it *has* been for sixteen years. Bruce had
formally invited Tim to live with him when Tim had graduated from high school,
and by then...
Well, by *then* Bruce was no longer doing *everything* formally. It had been...
notable. Different.
Special.
For a moment, Tim builds a fantasy of applying pressure to those particular
memories. He could take Bruce aside, gaze up into those admirably *steely* blue
eyes until they softened --
Remind Bruce of all the years when they wouldn't soften, at *all* -- no, not
that. He would remind Bruce of all the good times, and of how good and obedient
and generally *cooperative* a person -- a *brother* -- Tim has been.
'Bruce,' he would say, 'it's not that I don't know *how* to take care of myself
in a gymnasium environment.'
And Bruce --
Well, he's the *other* Batman. He's not the easiest mark in the world. Tim
would have to work for it.
'Bruce,' he would say, 'I know I *have* overworked myself in the past, and
worsened my injuries -- *annoyingly* --'
No, not that.
'I -- I won't do it *again*,' he would say. Plead?
He could plead. He certainly knows *how* to plead -- even though it's been
nearly four weeks since he's been *capable* of getting down on his hands and
knees --
'Bruce,' he would say, 'it's not my mother*fucking* fault that I got blasted
through a mother*fucking* brick wall by mother*fucking* Star Sapphire and I
will not mother*fucking* get better just by sitting on my mother*fucking*
*ass*.'
Tim spends a few moments letting the fantasy whirl around his brain. Just --
Bruce had thrown Tim to the League with a haste which could only be termed
*unseemly* once Tim's training was -- nominally -- complete, and, really, Tim
thinks he's done a fairly *good* job leading and organizing the team in its
various incarnations since then. He's had Clark's help for all of it, and, for
the most part, they work well together.
In truth, the mission that had left Tim with two dislocated shoulders,
seventeen new scars on his back, a broken tibia, a broken ulna, and a kneecap
made of materials which -- technically -- should not exist on the *planet*...
was a *success*. Slabside Penitentiary has eight new residents. The death toll
was -- happily -- measured in the single digits. The monetary damage was, for
once, well within the parameters of the emergency fund New York City had set
aside.
The injuries -- other than Tim's -- were minor.
And --
And he can be honest: That burns.
That --
That *burns*. He's the (other) *Batman*. He's better than (nearly) *everyone*.
He doesn't *get* taken out of the game like this. A gunshot wound every now and
again -- sure. A knife slash requiring twenty to fifty stitches -- of course.
But this?
*This*?
Oh -- wonderful. He's fuming again. He's *fuming* -- and he's no closer to
getting into a gymnasium. It's three-seventeen in the afternoon. In forty-three
minutes, one of his ever-so-unofficial nephews will be showing up to make sure
he does his physical therapy exercises and *only* his physical therapy
exercises. Cassandra -- one of his ever-so-unofficial *nieces*, and how many
children does Bruce *want* --
("Were you never...")
And Bruce had trailed off, but there had been no softness and no *distance* in
his eyes in that moment. He had *looked* at Tim --
*Into* Tim --
("*What*?"
"I know you were lonely --"
"Oh -- not that --"
"I know you were -- that you were *empty* --"
"Bruce --"
"As *I* was --"
"The answer isn't to build some sort of vigilante *orphanage*, Bruce!")
And Bruce had -- smiled at him, sharp and --
Bruce had smiled, and Tim had felt like he was thirteen again, skinny as much
as he was lean, *needy* as much as he was --
Anything *else* --
And Bruce had been that -- *then* -- *ever*-so-important five years older than
him.
Again. Tim had sighed.
("You don't have to say it."
"No...?"
"Of *course* I love them, too --"
"Need them, I believe.")
And there was a moment when his mind was -- a riot.
Dick's giggles when tickled.
Cassandra's gasps when clutched.
Jay's curses when --
When --
And Stephanie --
Thirty-five minutes. Will it be Dick today? Dick's sympathy for Tim's *plight*
is warming, of course -- well. In the eleven years Tim has known Dick, there
*have* been occasions when Dick has said or done things which were not, in some
way, heartwarming. However, Tim has reason to believe that these failings have
far more to do with his general inability to *be* warmed, at times, than with
Dick's... everything.
Tim smiles ruefully, wheels away from his secondary console, and -- pauses.
Thirty-four minutes.
If he presses one small, unobtrusive button at his primary console, certain
alarms secreted on his family's persons will cease to function. He could then
shut down all the cameras in this room with *impunity*, and then --
Well.
It's been a long month.
It's been --
Three days into his convalescence --
Ten hours after the Kryptonian knee surgery --
Twenty-five minutes after the drugs had worn off enough *just* in time to allow
him to really *focus* on the fact that Harvey and Bruce --
That his *brothers* were making out like *teenagers* next to his *bed* --
("Ah... Little guy, sorry 'bout that. You know --"
"Yes, Harvey. I know.")
And Harvey had managed *that* expression: a blend of rueful good humor with a
general sense that Tims everywhere need to suck it up.
Tim hadn't rolled his eyes *once* while he was a teenager and he certainly
didn't start then. What he *had* done was raise his eyebrow --
("You could consider gettin' yourself a hobby, little guy."
"A hobby."
"Yeah, you know. One of those things human beings do when they're *not* eating,
sleeping, beating the crap outta people, or screwing teenagers.")
And Harvey had *looked* at him --
Crossed his arms over his chest --
Practically *dared* Tim to mention that Dick *and* Barbara are both in their
twenties *now* --
That *Harvey* had been the one who *started* it --
Tim had sighed, instead.
("I am, of course, open to suggestions."
"Brother, you know there are any number of books --")
Tim had looked at Bruce.
Bruce had coughed and raised his hands.
("So *don't* read a book. Read a newspaper *without* looking for crime, for
once. Build a model car. Rent some pornos from the adult video store I'm not
supposed to know the Batman uses as a front for a safe house. *Something*.
Because you're *not* goin' out there to fight any crime for a *while*.)
Harvey's expression had spoken eloquently about all the voluminous amounts of
*it* that needed to be sucked up. By Tim, of course.
No one else.
Still, Harvey had been as sympathetic and gentle as Dick would have, when Tim
had asked them both to leave him --
("Yeah, I won't sit on you, little guy. I know that's not what you need. But
*you* know how to get hold of me when you *do* need me. Or just *want* me.")
Harvey's name was never on the deed to this house, but he was the one who had
urged Bruce to buy it in the first place back in nineteen-seventy-nine, to move
*out* of Wayne Manor and into someplace where they could -- all -- be together,
even though Harvey attended Yale in New Haven during the school year, and even
though Tim was only 'visiting' while he was still in high school.
*Harvey* had an apartment big enough for all of them *in* New Haven --
And some of Tim's 'visits' to both places had lasted for days at a time.
There were, in fact, any number of projects that Tim *didn't* have time for
when he was healthy enough for the street, or even healthy enough for a halfway
normal training regimen --
He's *not* thinking of the amount of deconditioning --
*Projects*.
*One* project in particular, because *one* aspect of life as a member of the
Justice League is that it is fundamentally impossible to be ignorant of certain
things -- such as the fact that they live in a *multiverse*, made up of any
number of bizarre and *terrifying* dimensions where all *sorts* of things can
be true --
Or not true, at all.
After coming in contact with a Bruce Wayne who had never even *heard* the name
Tim Drake save as the apparent *biological* and *young* son of a minor local
*business* competitor --
A Bruce Wayne who had, with the help of his frighteningly powerful and
*corrupt* pseudo-League, all but taken over the *world* --
Well.
That Bruce also built a machine which allowed for contact and travel between
dimensions and across different *times*, and that was far too interesting not
to acquire the plans for.
Before bombing the man's *cave* -- apparently, all Bruces will have a taste for
high drama which will run *wild* if left unchecked -- into the Stone Age, of
course.
Tim had gathered the materials for the machine over the years -- you really
never *do* know -- and his family has been extremely agreeable about bringing
the pieces to him and helping him put them together when his body has failed at
the various tasks.
He's spent the past two weeks programming it.
Building its brain, as it were -- and hoping with everything he *is* that
Shayera's gift of nth metal isn't allowing the thing to develop
*consciousness*. That would be... problematic.
Twenty minutes.
The machine can do other things. The --
Tim frowns and wheels himself to the primary console, reaching into the strange
and quietly *eldritch* space in front of the machine's 'viewscreen.'
Portal.
Monitor -- whatever.
He watches all the hairs on the back of his wrist stand up and... undulate.
He moves his arm.
He turns on his *actual* monitor and considers, for the forty-third time,
creating a less primitive user interface. Barbara would be disgusted with the
one he *had* created, for all that its functionality is perfect.
Barbara appreciates elegance in her computing -- though in relatively few other
things.
Barbara -- is the only one in the extended family with any inkling of what he's
been building. Doing what it would take to keep his actions from her would've
added *weeks* to his construction time, and he couldn't --
He is not the most patient person in the world.
And the machine can do other things.
It's *reasonable* -- if one squints after having consumed just enough wine and
theoretical physics -- that time moves *differently* in different dimensions.
Tim is thirty-five in *this* dimension, and Bruce is forty. They were twenty-
nine and thirty-five when the League first happened across those dimension-
*hopping* Leaguers. *That* Bruce had certainly appeared to be in his mid-
thirties, as well --
But that Tim Drake, according to information gleaned during his interrogation
of that other Bruce, had been no more than *nine*. The possibilities --
He had, of course, *wanted* to study that universe more thoroughly. Had that
Tim looked anything like Jack Drake? How *old* was Janet Evans Drake? Where
were the *Robins*?
But the possibilities raised questions that were more general, as well. If
timelines could be shifted that *seriously* --
Well.
Last night, while his family was patrolling, he'd looked in on his first
alternate dimension. He'd used the remote he'd built to spare his shoulders the
necessity of typing, and he'd set the machine to show him coordinates that
would correspond roughly to the half-collapsed caves beneath Wayne Manor -- it
was just too *Bruce* an idea *not* to -- and he hadn't been disappointed.
He'd found himself looking at a Bruce who had to be at least *seventy-five*.
Withered in some ways. Scarred. *Bent*.
And in the process of *vigorously* fingering a black-haired, blue-eyed
adolescent -- with a mouth not unlike Jay's -- who was bent over the pommel
horse.
Tim's heart was warmed.
As was Tim's penis.
Still, even though Tim had taught himself all *sorts* of mental tricks to get
the 'camera' angles to shift as he wanted them to -- nth metal is as responsive
to directed thought and *will* as the Lantern rings, but less *choosy* -- he
couldn't recognize the teenager, at all. The cheekbones weren't *entirely*
unlike Cassandra's, but really, the resemblances were all superficial.
He'd saved the dimensional coordinates and forced himself to take detailed,
coded notes about everything he'd learned.
And then he'd forced himself to go to sleep, because, along with everything
else, he needs more *rest* now than usual.
Fifteen minutes.
Fifteen -- and he'd set this schedule himself. Three hours of physical therapy
in the morning, followed by as much as he can stand in the afternoon -- with
the caveat that *Clark* would be monitoring his vitals from wherever he'd
gotten *himself* to, even if he was in the middle of a *battle*.
The truth is, he's going to want more than fifteen minutes for this.
The *truth* is --
Well, if he can see the future, why *not* the past?
If he can see *potential* futures, why not *absolute* pasts?
Nth metal is *notoriously* non-Einsteinian in terms of its properties --
And Tim has known for a week how to look in on his own reality. *Everywhere* in
his own reality.
And, now, every*when*.
Tim swallows and catches himself staring at his closed bedroom door. *Dick*
always knocks -- and then walks in anyway. *Jay* waits after knocking, now, but
that's only been the case since he'd walked in on Clark being decidedly Kal-ish
with Bruce.
Kal and Bruce enjoy rather more *extensive* CBT than Jay can ever be truly
comfortable with --
Jay can be... gentle. In some ways.
Tim touches his tongue to his upper lip. He's staring at the door for another
reason entirely.
Twelve minutes -- no, eleven.
Tim closes his eyes.
It's not that he's worried his calculations are off -- he knows they aren't -
- and it's *not* that he's worried about what he'll *see*. It's --
He *knows* the answers to all the questions his parents -- and 'parents' -
- have always been too genteel and correct -- if not simply uncaring -- to even
allow to be properly *voiced* over the years. It's --
It's who he *is* --
But it's *also* who he is to want to know why, and how, and *exactly* when.
What had made Thomas *Wayne* break his marriage vows so *thoroughly*?
When *did* Harvey know that *Martha* Wayne had had his father killed -
- presumably to facilitate his adoption as Bruce's brother?
He knows when *Bruce* figured that little tidbit out -- it was one of the
things which had brought him and Bruce closer *together* that last year before
Bruce had left to travel the world -- but...
There are other questions.
There are so *many* other questions --
And he wants the answers to all of them.
Ten minutes.
Tim takes a deep, cleansing breath, sets the dimensional coordinates for *this*
reality -- and the physical coordinates for the part of Wayne Manor that exists
*aboveground*.
Temporal coordinates are somewhat trickier to pin down, but hardly impossible.
Were he a Thanagarian, he could simply *touch* the machine and *will* it to
show him Wayne Manor at, say, six-thirty-five p.m. on April twenty-ninth,
nineteen fifty-eight -- an hour, or so, after Thomas and Martha would've
arrived home from the private Wayne airstrip after their lengthy honeymoon in
Greece.
As a human, he must ask for every detail as plainly and clearly as he can -
- or, rather, as *thoroughly* as he can in the perfectly functional code he had
worked out for this eventuality years before he began *building* this machine.
If Barbara is monitoring his keystrokes --
Again --
And it's not that he wouldn't tell her if she asked. She's *barely* seven years
younger than Tim himself is, for one thing; and, for another, she has a deep
and acute understanding of what it's like to have... inadequately communicative
parents.
Her biological parents may not have been all that *genteel* about keeping vital
information from their beautiful, brilliant daughter, but kept it they had, and
--
And.
It had been one of the nights Barbara had chosen to stay with them -- though
she had timed her arrival to come after Bruce had already retired for the
evening with Jason and Stephanie, and Dick with Cassandra.
She'd needed fifteen stitches to replace the eight emergency stitches and glob
of wound sealant over her left lower ribs, tape for the two cracked ribs on her
*right* side, and thorough massage for an old shoulder injury. And then the two
of them had begun to make slow and somewhat *cautious* love on one of the
gurneys -- until she'd laughed at both of them.
("Yes... Barbara?"
"I... mm. My hair hurts."
"I could stop pulling it --"
"The hair on my *arms* hurts, Tim.")
Tim had blinked, looked Barbara over more thoroughly --
("Yeah, I'm coming down with something, too.")
And her smile was rueful and annoyed and *sad* --
("That isn't the only thing wrong -- though I find I'm not sure whether I
should pull out."
"My *pussy* doesn't hurt, Tim.")
Tim had raised an eyebrow --
And she had snorted and winced, gripping her sides --
("God, it feels like my uterus has a *rock* in it -- fuck, I just want an
*orgasm* --"
"And that's why you arrived long after everyone has usually... paired off?")
She'd given him a long look then, hot and narrow and perhaps a little angry.
Tim had brushed her hair -- gently -- back from her forehead.
("I'm willing to accept 'I knew you'd still be up' as an answer."
"Even though you know it would be a lie?"
"Even then.")
Barbara had swallowed then, and looked down --
There'd been a *tear*, and there was the usual panic for that, the sense of
being inadequate, inadequately *trained* --
But he'd lived with Bruce for a long time by then. He'd pulled out slowly and
pulled her close, holding her gently and breathing in the warm and sweaty scent
of her hair, her conditioner --
The rising scents of blood and something like *pain* --
And they'd stayed like that for several minutes, until --
("I think -- I maybe wanted more than just an orgasm."
"Anything is possible.")
Laughter, thick and wet --
The feel of her pressing *closer* --
Barbara is -- at five feet, seven inches tall-- only two inches shorter than he
is, and the truth is that they can each wear some of the other's clothing. When
she feels smaller than that, it's frightening, and there is a heat Tim isn't
sure what to *do* with --
But he had held on that night, and laid them down side by side on the extra-
wide, extra-thick gurney, and turned off the fluorescents directly over the bed
--
Which had made her snort and point out the other *dozens* of fluorescents in
the gymnasium -- all of them burning bright at nearly *all* times, for various
reasons.
("It's the thought that counts...?")
And she had been silent again, though not stiff. She had breathed slowly and
evenly, pressing closer and closing her eyes...
Someone else might have thought she'd been asleep.
Tim knew that she had, perhaps, found something temporarily better than that.
He had taken those moments to enjoy the *victory* of being able to give
something like that to someone he cared for, of being able to *provide* --
And then he'd kissed her temple and reminded her, gently, that she could tell
him anything, at any time.
*That* had made her stiffen, but only for a moment before --
("I don't know my parents. I don't -- it just hit me, tonight -- I mean, my
biological father has been dead since I was fifteen. My biological mother
didn't even make it until I was *fourteen*. I told myself -- God, Tim, part of
me just wants to tell you off for how much of this shit you *don't* tell us."
"I --"
"I already know you tell Bruce some of it, and Harvey, too, but we're not -
- *some* of us aren't kids, anymore, all right? Will you just -- pay *lip*
service to the *idea* of remembering that so I can get back to *whining*?"
"You're not *whining* --"
"*Please*!")
And Tim had heard himself gasp --
*Felt* himself wanting to backpedal --
("I'll talk. About my past.")
And Barbara had stiffened again before turning over to look at him, to *study*
him with hope and suspicion and something *frighteningly* like need --
There is only ever one way to respond to need. He remembers having doubts about
that when he was a teenager... but those doubts hadn't lasted very long once
Harvey and Bruce began looking at him.
*Seeing* him --
Tim had shaken his head and cupped her face, stroked her wind-roughened cheek
with his thumb --
("One day -- and, no, I don't know precisely when, yet -- I'll begin working on
a project that's directly related to my own issues with my childhood and my...
parents."
"A *project*? What --"
"Once I make decent headway, I'll be able to talk about it. I -- though perhaps
only with you, at least at first.")
She'd frowned at him, then... but only for a moment before she pushed close and
told him things he'd already known: about how she'd thrown herself into her new
families, how she'd made Jim Gordon into her father before either of them were
ready to have anything like that happen, how it had been the best thing she'd
ever done for herself and still the most frightening, the most --
("I don't know who I could've been if I wasn't Jim Gordon's daughter. I don't
know if that person could've been any good. I don't know where that person
*went*. I don't know..."
"If she'll pop up and surprise you someday...?"
"I -- God. That's horrifying.")
And she'd snorted and elbowed him --
Tim had hummed and kissed her temple --
("I'm sorry."
"No you're not."
"Well... true. Horrible psychological surprises are an important aspect of
adulthood --"
"You're *not* that much older --"
"Old enough -- in some ways. And I don't mean to argue, or belittle you, or
anything --")
Tim had shaken his head --
("I'm grateful for this, Barbara."
"I... oh. I'm not blushing."
"No, you're not. Tell me more?")
And she had, until night became morning, until morning became *late* morning
and they'd had to go upstairs to grab snacks from the kitchen and from there to
Barbara's bedroom -- where *no* one invades without knocking *and* asking --
And Stephanie occasionally pretends to want to know how Barbara had *managed*
that --
They'd spent the late morning and early afternoon in her soft bed, and Tim had
failed to talk about the project, but Barbara had forgiven him *enough* --
And now there are only five minutes before his exceedingly *punctual* nephews -
-
Tim growls and picks up the telephone -- carefully. He *is* healing well -
- Clark's access to nanotechnology wouldn't have it any other way. It's just
that his sensitivity to the surgical lubricant and his allergy-like immune
response to the nanites themselves wouldn't allow for more intensive treatment
--
("I'm so sorry --"
"It's all *right*, Clark --"
"It's only -- if I'd known --"
"I know --"
"I would've had the AI begin looking for a workaround for your physical profile
immediately --"
"Yes, I imagine --"
"Would you... would you like a hug?")
It had been very, very difficult not to glare at the man.
It had been --
At times like those, it's important for Tim to remember the differences between
his upbringing and Clark's own, the definition of terms like 'well-meaning' and
'politesse,' the fact that Clark is a *phenomenal* lover, and the fact that -
- sometimes -- Tim really does enjoy being hugged.
By Clark, even.
Tim had smiled.
Clark had winced.
Tim had smiled *ruefully* -- and meant it --
("Perhaps I'll offer someone *else* a hug...?"
"I think that would be for the best.")
Clark had hummed, kissed his cheek, and left the room so quickly he'd seemed to
disappear.
And Tim had gone back to his plans and plots and schemes --
Three minutes.
Three --
He's better than this.
He dials, the telephone rings *twice* --
"Yes, Tim...?"
"Barbara... it's time," Tim says, and feels something *twist* inside him, twist
*painfully* for the fact that he's about to expose secrets, expose *himself* --
She's *family* --
That's supposed to *mean* something --
He'd *known* that as a child -- even if he'd had no way to prove it then. He --
He breathes.
And listens to Barbara breathe.
And waits --
*Waits* --
"Barbara --"
She laughs then, and it's the breathless and *strained* thing which usually
means that she *is* blushing, that she's thinking of pulling away, hiding
herself --
And the thought of that causes an entirely *different* twist -- "Don't --"
"Don't *what*, Tim? I'm -- does *anyone* else know what you've been doing?"
Tim closes his eyes -- no. He opens them. "Bruce -- no. No one else."
"Bruce -- how do you *know* Bruce doesn't know?"
That... Tim smiles, and knows it for the one which had tended to make Harvey
eye his teenaged self warily, and to make Bruce look *pained*. If he were
remotely sane, he would've beaten it out of his repertoire of facial
expressions entirely. As it is... "If he'd known... he would've stopped me."
Barbara snorts --
Giggles for a moment which fills Tim's mind with the memory of coltish legs,
and freckles which have long since faded --
And sighs. "All right, you have a point. When am I coming over?"
Two hours of physical therapy -- no more than that, because it's Dick walking
in his door with a smile on his face, and Dick has a tendency to work himself
too *fast* for his own training if he feels he has a limited amount of time.
Dinner at six...
"Consider... consider being here at seven to seven-thirty," Tim says, and
resists the urge to stroke the space in front of the portal before he shuts the
machine down entirely.
Dick has a cheerful question in his eyes.
Tim mouths 'Barbara.'
Dick smiles even more broadly. "Hi, Babs!"
Barbara makes a sound reminiscent of all the times Cassandra has hugged
Stephanie while Stephanie was in the process of growling. There is that same
quality of *affronted* pleasure -- "I can't believe you're letting other people
in that room --"
"Think about it," Tim says, in something like the Voice.
She lets the growl out unimpeded this time. "Oh -- tell him I said hi back,
please."
"Of course," and Tim turns to Dick, who is arranging the assorted mats and
rehab tools and toys and devices while whistling a Boy George song and dancing
unselfconsciously. "She sends her regards."
Another *bright* smile -- and Dick goes back to work --
And Barbara sighs. "Of course you're doing it to allay suspicion. If everyone
*sees* you working on something, then it can't be something horribly dangerous
and disturbing --"
"And interesting."
"And *interesting* -- I'll be there."
Tim smiles. "Good."
"You'll let me --"
"Yes."
"Is it really --"
"Yes."
She growls at him again. "You've had these plans for nearly four *years*!"
"Very, very true," Tim says, and allows Dick to help him out of the wheelchair,
biting back several different curses --
Snarls --
Growls --
He's upright, and he can even stand relatively straight. He can walk, as well -
- he's just not supposed to do it nearly as much as he wishes to. He can,
however, walk to the parallel bars, and that's just what he does.
One ridiculously awful step at a time.
One --
"Tim..."
"I'm listening, Barbara," Tim says, and ignores the pain sweat -- and the feel
of Dick hovering nearby. Dick is fully two inches taller than Tim is, now, and
nearly thirty pounds heavier.
When Dick was thirteen, such a thing had seemed *impossible* --
"I'm listening, but I'm going to be hanging up momentarily."
She sighs. "You could let one of the magic-users work on you. Some of them even
*like* you."
"Yes, the world *is* full of wonders, now that you mention it," Tim says, and
steps up carefully onto the mats --
Sweat rolls and tickles its way down his *spine* --
*Already* --
And Tim does his own sighing. "Let's just say I haven't ruled it out
completely."
"Oh --"
"Until later, Barbara. You have my love."
Barbara snorts. "And you have mine. Good sir. Please feel free to imagine me
gesturing with a fan as if I were a character from a Jane Austen novel."
Tim hums and hangs up --
Dick takes the cordless away from him and places it dutifully on the receiver.
"How *are* you feeling, Uncle Brother?"
Uncle -- Tim sighs as expected for the epithet and grips the rubberized
parallel bars. "Better than yesterday." Sometimes, Dick lets him get away with
that --
"Really...?"
Sometimes he doesn't. Tim shows his teeth and begins the process of walking
*therapeutically*. "Emotionally, I'm *much* better, Dick."
"Oh, *good*. Honestly, Tim, you're shut up in here so much -- *too* much -- you
could at least come down to the gym to *visit* --"
"No, I couldn't."
Dick frowns, years falling away from his expression --
It's only when he smiles that he looks like a man in his mid-twenties -- his
laugh lines are the only usually-visible feature which show his age. Dick has
very, very few frown lines, and --
Sometimes Tim wonders if he'd put every last one of them there. He stops
showing his teeth. "I'm sorry, Dick. I'm still..."
"You... you'd feel like you weren't working hard enough?"
Tim smiles *ruefully* -- *damn* it, he *can* keep his affect *friendly* -
- "Precisely."
Dick bites his lip and nods.
Tim breathes, and focuses on walking to the end of the parallel bars. He turns
and walks the twenty paces to the other end. He regulates his *breathing*. Back
and forth and back again, and the turns almost feel natural now, almost feel
like something he'll be able to do -- someday -- without having to think about
it.
He *is* getting better, and he won't have to trust himself to Zatanna's
marijuana-enhanced spells, or to Doctor Fate's increasingly *esoteric*
mysticism, or to Jason Blood's --
Anything.
Tim represses a shiver and *focuses* --
"We miss you," Dick says, quiet and low.
Tim blinks and --
"Don't stop. Don't -- you've got a good rhythm," and there's *guilt* in Dick's
voice --
"Dick --"
"It's not -- I mean, you're *going* to visit with Babs tonight, so that's --"
"You -- you feel I haven't been spending enough time with the family?"
And Dick is staring at the floor.
Weeks of only the physical therapy and whatever family meals he had the stamina
for after his exercises.
Weeks of his *project* --
Dick is staring at the *floor* --
No -- "Dick... I've been --" Busy. *No*. *Not* that, because he'd promised
*with* Bruce not to do that to his children --
*Their* children --
"I'm sorry," Tim says, and forces himself to keep *walking*. "You're absolutely
right --"
"It's okay --"
"No. It isn't. I allowed myself to... to become wrapped up in my project -
- which I shouldn't have been putting ahead of family," and Tim ignores the
pang --
The tearing, screaming *whine* which wants him to know how close he is to
knowing, finally knowing, and can't they wait for just a *little* while --
Tim segregates the whining part of himself and beats it into a coma. And then
he breathes. "Please look at me."
For a moment, Dick continues to look at the floor --
"Please."
Dick *shivers* -- and looks up, and his eyes are the blue of sunlit seas, and
his skin has the *dark* olive tint which tells him more about the season than
anything else --
Tim hasn't had the *night* --
And Dick's eyes are full of the fact that the family which seems *terrifyingly*
large to *Tim*... is just as terrifyingly *small* to Dick.
Compared to what he had once had.
Tim sighs and *has* to stop, and reach, and stroke Dick's perfect cheekbone --
Dick blinks. "Tim...?"
Tim smiles. "Now I know it's been too long. *This* should never surprise you."
A blush that comes and goes so quickly Tim can almost believe he'd merely
hallucinated it -- and then a leer. "You're feeling *that* much better, Uncle
Brother...?"
"Hn." Tim strokes down to Dick's mouth, his lower lip -- bitten. He'd hidden
that with his perennially too-long hair. "Not enough to interrupt PT. But...
yes."
The leer becomes something of pure *joy* --
And Tim realizes with a jolt that feels like the entire multiverse smacking him
*vigorously* for being an *idiot*... that it's been a long month for
*everyone*. "Little brother. It remains too easy for me to... forget myself,"
Tim says, and presses his *thumb* to Dick's lower lip.
Dick nods solemnly. "I know, Tim. I -- I *don't* get it, but I don't blame you,
either."
"Perhaps you should --"
Dick shakes his head violently and *bites* Tim's thumb. "Just -- come back when
we remind you to, okay? And -- dinner with the family tonight?"
Tim looks down at his legs, which are not shaking *yet* -- but. Bruce has been
bringing Tim's meals to him for most of the past month, knowing perfectly well
that Tim wouldn't *want* to see anyone else...
"Hey, it's therapy, *too*. Walking through the house, sitting on normal chairs,
dealing with Cass on your lap --"
Tim coughs --
And Dick beams. "Please? Please please?"
The bloody, twitching Tim in his mind whines from his hospital bed, but --
He's better than *that*, too.
"All right --"
"Yay! Okay, back to walking," Dick says, and claps. "We have to get back on
track -- I got some great new massage techniques from this physical therapist I
met on the subway -- he works at Kessel! He kept trying to stick his hand down
my pants, but he had good ideas."
Tim laughs and gets his hands back on the bars after giving himself one more
moment to *catalog* the feel of Dick's skin --
His stubble and warmth --
He has ninety more minutes of this.
Then slightly more than an hour of dinner.
And then Barbara will join him... and he can begin.
*
***** May 1979: Harvey In The Library *****
Wayne Manor is, Harvey thinks, the scariest freaking house he's ever been in.
For one thing, he's actually supposed to think of it *as* a house -- no.
Martha and Thomas Wayne -- his Mom and Dad for the past five years, and when he
thinks about how *that* went down he gets a little --
A *lot* --
Freaked.
Harvey sighs and doesn't fidget, or shove his hands in his pockets, or tug at
his tie, or any of that crap. He's wearing the latest in a pretty damned long
line of *truly* perfect suits -- this one's even that *smoky* brown Bruce likes
to see him in so much -- and he's not gonna ruin the look even a little.
It's his first summer home from Yale, and even though he'd had plenty of visits
from Bruce during the year -- not that there could ever be enough of *that* --
He wants to look good. He wants --
Martha and Thomas *both* talk a good game -- a *real* good game -- about
wanting Harvey to think of the place as his home, wanting Harvey to be
comfortable, wanting Harvey to know -- right down to his *bones* -- that he's a
member of the family. That he's a *Wayne*, now and forever, and never mind
*everything* the rest of the world has to say about that, because, in the end -
-
The Waynes are the people who make the rules.
So, yeah, *part* of wanting to look good today -- his first *day* home from
blowing absolutely *all* of his exams out of the water, thank you very much -
- is all about wanting to show Martha and Thomas that he is, in fact, still
worth it.
It's just that...
It's just that Wayne Manor is a freaky, huge, dark, *old* house full of shadows
and memories and *ghosts* -- and Harvey's pretty damned sure that at least some
of those ghosts didn't go quietly, even if *Lester* Dent's shade couldn't find
his way out to Bristol with a map and a compass.
Harvey licks his lips and checks his -- gorgeous -- watch.
Thomas had given it to him when he'd graduated from Exeter last year -- to go
along with his three *other* hideously expensive and perfect watches, and, oh
yeah, the chocolate-brown Accompli Spider with cream interiors. Like maybe
there'd been something *wrong* with his two-year-old deep-green Lexedes?
Anything?
At *all*?
Harvey laughs to himself. *Bruce* is the smart one -- always. He'd been careful
to let his -- *their* -- parents know that he *definitely* didn't want a new
car ahead of time, so *he* doesn't have to feel guilty about a perfectly good
piece of rolling iron *languishing* in the garage --
The garage that's big enough to hold a family *reunion* in --
Harvey sighs and lets himself pace around the library a little, trying to enjoy
how spacious -- *airy* -- and beautiful the place is, even aside from the sheer
volume of *good* books. It's a great freaking library, full stop. It's --
He's not really enjoying it too much. It's not like the Waynes to be late for
anything -- and, technically, they're not. It's just that it *is* like them to
be early for *everything*, and they're rapidly running out of time to make that
work.
Their graduation gifts from Martha were more personal. *Every* gift from Martha
over the years has been personal.
To congratulate them for being co-valedictorians -- and Harvey never, *ever*
wants to know what Lex had to put up with from his ever-so-suspiciously-and-
*recently* late father for coming up *salutatorian* -- Martha had presented
them with first-class tickets to Greece, penthouse reservations at the King
George Palace hotel, and the reminder --
*So* unnecessary --
That it was *exactly* where she and Thomas had spent their honeymoon way back
in fifty-eight.
And she had smiled. Specifically, *that* smile. The one that tends to make
Harvey a little queasy *while* Bruce blushes -- and while Thomas looks
*studiously* at Something Else.
They've known from the jump about him and Bruce. They --
One day -- and he means this -- he's actually gonna talk about that with Bruce.
They talk about every-freaking-thing *else*, really, and --
Yeah.
A part of Harvey *needs* to know *how* fucked-up it is, how much it *hurts* him
--
("Harv -- oh, *Harv* --")
How much -- how much he wants to change it --
("I *need* you!")
Harvey covers his face with his hands. Just for a moment. Just --
He just needs a *minute* --
But then the air or the light or the *vibe* changes, and Harvey knows he's
*exactly* too late to move his hands --
Because that's a *small* hand resting between his shoulder blades, and there
are rings on those clever little fingers --
"Harvey...? What's wrong?"
Martha Wayne's voice is --
Smooth. Cool. *Sleek*.
Vodka straight from the freezer -- and not the rotgut kind, either. It's not
that she *never* has emotion in her voice -- right now she's got that *mild*
concern going on. It's just that --
It's just that he'd returned to Exeter for the second semester of his freshman
year in January nineteen-seventy-five with a whole lot of bruises he couldn't
explain to anyone *but* his brand new best friend, who just didn't *understand*
it when Harvey pushed him away or shut him down --
Who *hurt* when Harvey did that.
And who wrote to his parents twice a week *every* week.
And -- and it maybe would've been nice to know *this* -- who told them *every*
goddamned thing. Every --
Lester Dent was dead before they'd *half* cracked the spines on their brand-new
textbooks.
Harvey was a Wayne -- not before he could blink. But *well* before he could
*think*. Because, see, it's *not* that he'd thought his useless old man had a
long life ahead of him or anything like that. It's just that he was thinking -
- a bullet in the head.
An ass-kicking that went too far.
A drunken freaking *fall*.
Something -- something *normal*.
*Not* a sudden and apparently hideously painful series of *massive* internal
hemorrhages that left his old man looking like a hot water bottle full of
blood. Full --
He'd *burst* on the autopsy table --
And the orderly who'd told him that had spent the next twenty minutes
apologizing and begging Harvey to let him get him *drunk* --
("Jesus, kid, you *gotta* hurry up and forget this shit *fast*.")
Harvey doesn't get drunk. Ever.
Harvey doesn't forget anything, either. And Incredible Exploding Fathers make a
lot more fucking sense when you find out that your Brand New Mom is banging an
immortal sorcerer -- and has been for a good, long while. He --
There'd been a moment -- long and *queasy* -- when he'd looked at Bruce's big,
shining eyes --
When he'd thought about how Bruce's happiness at the prospect of living with
Harvey year-round was thick enough to *taste* --
When he'd wondered about Bruce and what he'd known and when he'd *known* it and
what --
What he was *capable* of --
("Harv...? Are you all -- oh, what a foolish question. I'm sorry. Would you...
would you like to talk? Or... we could...")
And Bruce had smiled ruefully, dropping his big, perfect hands to his sides.
("I'm afraid I'm not any good at this, at all, Harv. It seems wrong to ask you
to teach me how to do this, as well, but... please?")
The moment passed. Just --
Bruce is *Bruce*. He *says* he wants to be a vigilante when it's all said and
done, says it's the *only* thing he wants and the only thing he's *ever* wanted
-- and, considering what Bruce has been *doing* for the past year, Harvey even
*believes* him. But. The guy makes sugar trails to lead ants out of the house
instead of stepping on the damned things, and he'd designed and built cute -
- and *humane* -- little mouse hotels when the crazy hoarders next door brought
the wrong kind of wildlife to Bristol.
Bruce could *never* --
"Harvey...?"
But Martha sure as *hell* could.
And Harvey really is still just standing here *looking* like he knows he's in
the room with a murderer.
Can't have that.
Harvey pulls a smile onto his face -- rueful, not too bright, a little tired -
- and turns around to face her, not incidentally stepping back enough to get
that perfect little hand off his body. "Sorry, Mom, just -- tired."
She raises an eyebrow at him like she knows *exactly* how much shit he's full
of -- but then she lowers it and nods, glancing around the library with that
faintly critical expression that usually means she's going to add something
*else* beautiful and perfect to the room.
Last time it was the new upholstery on the window seats. The time before --
She's looking at him again. Christ. "What's up?"
Her amusement is as palpable as it ever is, the sense that she's just --
Just --
One day, Mom, Harvey doesn't say, I'm gonna ask you *why* you like having me
around so much. And you're gonna be so honest with me that I'll wanna run
screaming. And --
And we both know that I won't go anywhere, at all.
She hums. "Your father and Bruce are still in the solarium... but I'm not
supposed to tell you what they're up to," she says, and her smile turns wry and
confiding. *Inviting*.
Harvey knows how this goes. He crosses his arms over his chest and raises both
of his own eyebrows. "Yeah, hunh? You know secrets are just *poison* for a
family, Mom."
Another hum, a little bit of *sparkle* in those grey-blue eyes -- "So I've
always been told. Still," she says, and strokes a slow line over the back of
the chaise Harvey's voted most likely to wind up broken in half *one* of the
times he fucks Bruce on it --
"Still...?"
She grins and *taps* the back of the chaise. "They swore me to secrecy, Harvey.
You know how seriously I take that sort of thing."
Are you a sorceress, too, Mom?
Did you grin like that when you were planning it all out with Jason freaking
Blood?
What happens if I ever make Bruce cry?
"Heh. Oh, I know, all right," Harvey says, and stalks a little closer. "You're
a regular little Vestal Virgin --"
Martha coughs, long hair swinging just as free as always and hiding her face
for a moment. The late afternoon sunlight makes the few dramatic -- and just a
*little* enhanced -- streaks of white look blonde and a little wild.
When she looks up she looks even wilder, even --
Crazier? Is that what it is?
It's a question Harvey has asked himself a *lot* over the years -- it would
make some things a whole hell of a lot easier to *take* --
But.
It would also be underestimating her by a long freaking road. Crazy people, as
a rule, don't run *quite* as much of the world as the Waynes do, after all. Not
that kind of crazy. Not --
Right?
*Right*?
"Harvey..."
Damn, he's losing a little of his cool. Can't have that, either. "Sorry --"
"You *are* tired," she says, and *arranges* herself on the chaise, peridot
sheath dress clinging just a little where it counts and nowhere else.
Classy, like. Harvey shrugs and goes to sit on the table nearest to her,
stretching out his legs a little. "I probably should've waited an extra day
after exams before coming home, but --"
"You missed us...?"
("Harv... every day without your scent is an *ache* in me..."
"Ah, big guy --"
"You don't -- you don't feel --"
"Of course I -- God, just come *here* --")
Harvey does *not* lick his lips. "You could say that."
Martha hums again, and this is more of a *glitter* than a sparkle. "Bruce has a
surprise for you --"
"Then don't tell me," Harvey says, and bites back a wince -- that was a little
too sharp. "Sorry --"
She waves a hand. "I wouldn't dream of coming between you, of course.
Brotherhood is... so very important."
Last summer, Bruce taught him a few tricks about how to avoid sweating when
you're anxious. Harvey's nowhere near as *good* at it as Bruce is -- but. He's
got it down enough for this. "You never had a sibling of your own, Mom --"
"Very true --"
"You don't know... you don't know what it means. You can't know," Harvey says,
and lets his voice be low and serious and *honest*.
Martha catches her breath a little --
Looks *into* him --
And Harvey looks right back. Just --
You're not the only one in this freaking mausoleum who can brazen things out,
*Mom* --
But he's the one catching his breath when she inclines her head. When she -
- concedes the point.
Of all the things Harvey had planned to do today, winning a not-argument with
his adoptive mother was *not* on the freaking list. He breathes.
Just -- breathes.
"I meant it, you know," she says, and her voice is still sleek and smooth, but
it's just a little too low to be cool. "I *wouldn't* come between you." And -
- she's still looking down.
Harvey's dead sure that shouldn't make her more trustworthy -- but it's not
like he *hasn't* seen her lie with a straight face about a million and a half
times over the past five years. So -- go with it. "No?"
"No," and Harvey can see the edge of a smile that actually looks *soft* -
- until it doesn't. "Your father wanted Bruce and the... Drake boy to be
significantly closer than they are --"
"Uh. I mean -- yeah?" And Harvey does his own coughing.
Martha's laugh is musical, bright -- the kind of thing that makes everyone at a
cocktail party stop yammering and pay attention.
Harvey's seen it happen dozens of times now --
"I see you understand the problems inherent in that particular... desire."
"Hey, there's nothing wrong with the little guy." Except for how he couldn't be
more obviously Thomas' *bastard* without growing a mustache and graduating from
med school, and Bruce is as likely to forgive the kid for that as he is to
forgive Thomas for letting it *happen*.
Martha...
Well, either immortal sorcerers shoot blanks or they're a lot more freaking
careful than doctor-CEOs.
And Martha is looking at him again. *Shrewdly*.
Harvey raises his eyebrows. "*I* like the kid."
"And that's why you invite him over so often...?"
That -- Harvey blinks. "Uh -- *he's* not my brother." Not the one I can admit
to *here* --
Even though that's not freaking *right* --
"And your brother -- and your brother's *feelings* -- are very important to
you. Yes, I know," she says, and turns to look toward the tall, curved windows.
Alfred, Harvey knows, gets up at four in the morning on window-cleaning day,
drags in a two-story ladder, and takes care of business while the rest of the
family is sleeping the sleep of the entitled. It's not that Thomas and Martha
*haven't* offered to hire him more staff, it's that Alfred is stone freaking
crazy.
Or --
Harvey guesses it could just be a British thing.
Maybe Martha will send him and Bruce to *London* to screw themselves silly this
summer --
"I have nothing against the boy."
Translation: She wants something *from* the kid. Maybe. "No...? It'd be
understandable --"
She waves that off like the bourgeois nattering it is, but --
"Seriously, Mom --"
"Did you think I felt he could ever be some kind of threat to Bruce's
position?"
"Well..."
Another musical laugh. This one is a little like bells, really. "Harvey. Thomas
will never, ever acknowledge the boy. You can be *absolutely* certain of that."
*She* sure is... and Harvey knows damned well that Tim is, too. "Heh. Got it,"
Harvey says, and rolls his head on his neck a little to kill some of the
tension. "The kid's... thirteen now?"
"He'll be fourteen --"
"On July eleventh. Yeah, I remember. I planned to take him out for a game or
something. Probably 'or something,' since he doesn't really go for that kinda
thing --"
"You know him that well...?" And there's just a little hesitancy in her voice.
A little... something.
Harvey frowns. "He's got about as many bosom buddies as Bruce did before we
met. As *I* did --"
"You... pity him?"
"I -- no. It's not --" Harvey frowns a little harder and catches himself trying
to stare through the back of Martha's head. "He's an interesting little guy.
Sharp. Smart. Witty, like." Kind of like what would happen if Bruce were more
like you, only not horrifying.
Mostly.
*Mostly* --
And Martha steeples her fingers. Harvey can see the edge of an *ugly* little
frown, and it's the kind that makes Harvey want to get the hell *gone*, but --
"Hey, what's that about?"
"Janet's pregnant again."
"Whoa -- uh. Uh. And -- uh. You're sure --"
"I'm sure, all right," Martha says, and finally turns back to face him. The
frown on her face isn't all that ugly anymore -- ugly never *lasts* on Martha
Kane Wayne -- but it's still pretty freaking scary. "She does, in fact, allow
Jack Drake into her... bedroom. But that wouldn't be the case if he hadn't had
a vasectomy the week before the wedding."
Harvey winces, but -- "Those things -- they're not always permanent --"
Martha's laugh is half a purr. "Look who's been studying obscure medical trivia
with his brother. Yes, Harvey, I'm *fully* aware of that little tidbit. And I
am *also* fully aware of the fact that Janet drags Jack to his urologist by the
*scruff* to have the *status* of his vasectomy *confirmed* *every* three
months."
All right, now he's not wincing so much as he's *grimacing*. And clutching at
his *belly*. Just -- "And Dad knows?"
A *sour* look -- "He's in scientist mode."
Translation -- he knows damned well that his married freaking mistress is
pregnant with his child, but he's going to exhaust *every* other possibility
*first*. Just --
There's a voice in Harvey's head right now. It's a loud voice. It's a clear
voice. It's a *strident* voice.
And it's telling him not to ask the question bubbling up at the back of his
throat.
It's telling him to do everything in his freaking *power* not to ask that
question.
It's telling him -- "Why do *you* know? I mean -- don't tell me," Harvey
finishes, but it's just as weak as the drinks Alfred mixes for him on the
holidays and -- "Ah, Christ, Mom, just tell me you didn't bring Blood a vial of
her pee or something."
Martha *snorts* -- and sparkles at him again. It makes her look twenty years
younger and less frightening than *wicked*, naughty, fun --
And sometimes, when Harvey is *just* on the edge of sleeping, his mind offers
all *sorts* of suggestions about the *sounds* those autopsy doctors had heard
when his old man had --
Burst.
So Harvey just shows his teeth a little and waggles his eyebrows. "Liked that,
hunh? I got a million of 'em."
Martha crosses her legs at the ankle and sighs with luxurious pleasure. "So you
do, and may you *always*, darling. And yes, I managed to restrain myself -
- once again -- from stealing Janet's urine for nefarious purposes. I did,
however, slip a champagne flute she'd been drinking out of into my purse, and,
well, Jason did the rest. She's in her ninth week."
"Jesus, that far along? What the hell is she -- she's planning to have the
baby."
Martha spreads her hands. "I can't say for sure... but, well. It isn't as
though Drake Industries couldn't use the insurance."
Harvey frowns. "That's --"
"Disgusting, yes. As are many, many other things. I can't judge her --"
"Meaning you'd maybe lay Bruce out on some altar if you thought it would get
you something *you* wanted?"
For a moment, she looks like nothing but a freaking *snake* -- but.
"Yeah, like that, Mom. It's not the same," Harvey says, and lets his voice be
as hard as it wants to be.
For a moment, she keeps looking *exactly* like someone who could take someone
out the *hard* way -- and then she laughs, musical and *low*, and shakes her
head. "You judge Janet more harshly than you judge me. That... it's not often
that I'm honestly surprised, Harvey."
His old man had probably *sloshed* on the way to the medical examiner's office
--
His old *man*... wasn't an innocent kid.
Harvey rolls his head on his neck again. "You know where I stand."
A *shrewd* look -- "Yes, I suppose I do. I... I don't ask Bruce for very
much..."
Harvey raises his eyebrows. "You don't ask *me* for much, either. What's up?"
The shrewd look gets hard again -- "Your father cares for Janet deeply, in his
way. It's become abundantly clear to me that he always will -- no matter *what*
she does... or doesn't do. *He* has been kind enough to... Timothy, but we both
know how far that *won't* go, yes...?"
"Yeah, I do." Harvey frowns again. "You want... no, I got nothing. What is it,
Mom?"
Martha curls her nails against the arm of the chaise and claws at it... "Jason
tells me that Bruce's life will be in terrible danger -- *soon* -- without
Timothy at his side, Harvey."
Harvey rears back. "What the -- *how*?"
Martha frowns and shakes her head, and all the years are *right* back on her
face. "He couldn't tell me any more. He -- and I know it wasn't one of his
little games. *He* likes Bruce too much to risk him."
As far as Harvey is concerned, Martha could have just said 'he likes Bruce too
much.' The guy gives bitchy old queens a bad name. The guy gives nasty old
*perverts* a bad name. But -- "Nothing more specific about this danger? At
*all*?"
"Nothing. But he was clear that Bruce needed Timothy. And... and were I to ask
Bruce to let the boy into his life --"
"You'd just be reminding Bruce of all the things he doesn't like to think about
too much, yeah, I know," Harvey says, and scratches a little at his jaw. "But
you think I can get him to open up to the kid. Let him in."
A brittle smile. "At this point... at this point, it's more of a fervent hope.
Thomas will be punishing Janet for her manipulation by pulling away from her in
various *subtle* ways. Janet will respond by denying him access to Timothy -
- but Timothy is old enough, now, to make at least some of his own decisions,"
she says, and then looks up at him with wide, searching eyes. "Isn't he?"
"I -- yeah. And -- this is serious?"
"As the proverbial heart attack. Please, Harvey. Do what you can."
"I don't know anything *about* magic --"
"*Please* --"
"I'll do it," he says, and raises his hands, pushing at the air a little. "Of
course I'll do it. Anything for Bruce. And it's not like it wouldn't do Bruce
good to let go of his grudge against Tim. It'd be good for *both* of them."
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "Thank you," she says, and stands,
smoothing her dress unnecessarily over her hips. "I'm going to convince Thomas
to leave Bruce to you, now. He should be joining you momentarily. Please -
- work quickly."
Harvey frowns and nods. "I -- it'll be okay."
She raises an eyebrow at him... and lets his weak little platitude just kind of
*sit* there as she walks out the door. Right. Fine. Okay.
What kind of danger? What the hell --
Well, no, what would Blood get out of *lying*? Martha hadn't said anything
about Bruce needing to *do* anything with the little guy -- just keep him
close. Somehow, Harvey's pretty damned sure that thousand-year-old sorcerers
need more than *innocent* brotherly love to get off. And --
Well, yeah, *Bruce* gets off like crazy on calling him 'brother' when they're
making love --
Bruce is maybe a little too *attached* to the whole incest *thing* --
But it's not like they're related by *blood* or anything. Tim may look like
Janet freaking *budded* him out -- except for how he has Thomas' black hair -
- but he's damned well Bruce's little brother.
Emphasis on the little.
Bruce doesn't even *go* for --
Well, Bruce doesn't really go for much of *anyone*, other than Harvey and
people who look 'interesting' enough to sketch. Back when they were fourteen,
Harvey had tried about six different times to get Bruce to tell him what his
*type* was --
("But... why would anyone want to limit that sort of thing, Harv?"
"Uh. It's not... it's not really about *want*, big guy."
"No? Then... I don't think I understand.")
So Harvey had *tried* to explain it --
("It's only... it seems so rare that people *can* find other people with whom
they can share their interests and... and *emotions*. These limitations seem so
*frightening*.")
And tried *again* --
("But.. the world is *full* of beauty, Harv. And... and on the other side of
things, I've noticed that many of the people who are considered to be
particularly aesthetically pleasing *physically* are truly *terrible* in terms
of their personalities --"
"Yeah, but --"
"It seems far more sensible to come to *know* a person before deciding whether
or not one wishes to consider them your 'type'."
"You -- decide -- uh.")
He'd given up. He'd --
The *fact* is, Bruce had grown up one lonely weirdo of an intellectual in a
world that *really* didn't welcome that kinda thing at all. The other kids
wanted to talk about their toys, their TV shows, their sports, their vacations,
their parties -- all that jazz. *Bruce* wanted to talk about bizarre medical
facts and nineteenth-century literature -- and, oh yeah, art and history and
politics and ethics and philosophy and beauty, *always* beauty.
Hm.
What does the little guy like to talk about? He *always* lets Harvey lead the
conversations, so they've spent a lot of damned time talking about baseball and
girls. Getting him to open up isn't *impossible*, but...
What?
He's been working on building some kinda *computer* in his *bedroom* of all
things for the last couple-few years, so there's that. He *reads* --
What does he read?
Harvey reconstructs Tim's bedroom in his mind, filling in the thick, cream-
colored carpeting that only sadists and idiots put in teenagers' bedrooms, the
big, old-fashioned desk, the two utilitarian work tables covered with wires and
weird chips and plastic crap -- bookshelves.
Bookshelves full of...
Medical stuff. Just like Dad, right. But also some... science fiction? Fantasy?
Yeah, Harvey's pretty sure he remembers seeing some of that. He tries to
convince himself he saw one of the Brontes or some Shakespeare, too --
Yeah, no dice.
He blows out a breath.
Maybe he can get Bruce to read some Tolkien or something. Pretty interesting
stuff, there, though no way will *Bruce* be able to ignore all that racism. He
might find the Christianity stuff interesting, though. Had Tim?
God, is he really trying to get a freaking Wayne/pseudo-Wayne/sorta-Wayne
*book* club started up?
*Really*?
Like maybe Tim's gonna save Bruce's life by holding a big ol' copy of Grey's in
front of his chest?
How *is* Tim gonna save Bruce's life? The kid is *tiny* -- just like his
mother. *Harvey* has gotta be a foot taller than him, and he was skinny as a
*rail* the last time Harvey had seen him... last year. Bruce is even bigger
than *that* -- though. Maybe those Wayne genes kicked in?
Hopefully?
Harvey covers half of his face with one hand and laughs, and lets himself keep
laughing when the world gets that kind of heavy --
The *right* kind of heavy --
"Harv..." And the pleased *wonder* in Bruce's voice --
Like maybe Harvey did something better than just freaking *dressing* himself
this morning --
Bruce sighs and stops -- yeah, it *will* be about three paces away.
Harvey drops his hand, looks up, and grins at his brother --
His best friend --
The most beautiful man --
Inside and *out*, and -- "Jesus, big guy, didja get *bigger*?"
"Yes," Bruce says, and just keeps staring and smiling at him. He's not blinking
even a *little*, and he's wearing one of the pale linen suits that Martha keeps
picking out for him -- like maybe one day he'll be casual enough to look
*right* in 'em, instead of just gorgeous.
And maybe Harvey's doing his own grinning. "Ah, c'mere," he says, pushing up
onto his feet and opening his arms --
And *then* he notices the big map case in Bruce's right hand -- Bruce sets it
down on the table Harvey was sitting on, pulls Harvey into his arms, buries his
nose against Harvey's *throat* --
Like that *doesn't* make Harvey shiver *every* damned time -- "Bruce --"
"I've needed you. Badly."
God, just -- right out there.
*Always* right out there, because Wayne Manor is *just* that big, and the two
of them... might as well be alone. Harvey shivers again and lets his hands
spasm on Bruce's waist --
"Harv..."
"Yeah," Harvey says, and turns his head enough to nuzzle Bruce's cheek a
little, press the bridge of his nose against Bruce's cheekbone the way that
always makes Bruce --
Bruce *pants* -- "I have things to show you."
"Yeah, Mom said --"
"I need you too much. Too --" Bruce groans and pulls back *only* enough to kiss
him, kiss him *hard* --
Kiss right there in the light, in the library --
Harvey can still smell Martha's *perfume* --
But mostly he can smell Bruce, smell that *dark* musk they'd picked up for him
in that weird little market in Athens, and underneath it smell *him*, big and
heavy and clean and male and *big*, and *yeah*, big is a scent --
Big is a *taste*, too, and Harvey wants it in his mouth, in his throat --
Bruce is *licking* Harvey's mouth as much as he's kissing it, but this is
S.O.P. for every time they've been apart from each other for a while. This --
("I need. I need to taste something other than your *absence*, Harv!")
Harvey needs other things, like the feel of that *perfect* ass in his hands, so
muscular and *hard*--
God, how much *has* he been working out?
Bruce groans and *shoves* his tongue in Harvey's mouth, backs Harvey up until
he's bumping the table again --
And the last time had been two months ago, a weekend in the New Haven Chilton
with just a *little* time on the town being brothers, *normal* brothers who
dance with girls and get their pictures taken --
And the rest of the time in Bruce's hotel room, because Harvey hadn't been
*able* to get up off his knees --
("*Harv* --"
"*Please*!")
And then hadn't been able to get up off his *hands* and knees --
("So beautiful, so -- *brother* --")
And he'd needed it just like this, just like --
Harvey turns out of the kiss to groan --
Bruce *thrusts* against him, grips Harvey's hair with one hand and his *dick*
with the *other* --
"God, *please* --"
"Yes, *please*, Harv!" And that voice --
Harvey licks his lips and tries to think, tries to just --
Bruce sounds *too* desperate. Too... "Big guy, are you *okay*?"
Bruce shudders -- hard and all *over*, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment -
- and when he opens them his eyes are *bleak*.
"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" And Harvey stands straight again, cups Bruce's
*face*, kisses him *lightly*. "C'mon, tell me."
"I -- it's not. It's unbecoming."
And sometimes -- just sometimes -- he thinks he could hate Martha *just* for
the fact that she read Bruce Jane freaking Austen for his bedtime stories. But
now isn't the time for that. "Hey, none of that, we're *brothers*. You tell me
*everything*."
A *wounded* look --
He squeezes his eyes *shut* --
"Bruce, brother, c'mon --"
"He is --" Bruce sets his jaw, takes a deep breath, and opens his eyes again.
"Father... Father believes that... Janet Drake... has conceived again."
"He *told* you?"
Bruce blinks. "He told *you*?"
"Uh -- no. Mom did --"
"*She* knows? Oh -- I have to *talk* to her --"
Harvey grips Bruce's great, big, wonderful shoulders. Hard. "Not right now,
okay? She... uh. I'm pretty sure she needs more time to... think about that,"
Harvey says, and tries not to think of the *incredulous* look that'll be on
Martha's face when Bruce tries to comfort her. Just -- no. "But... it's okay --
"
"It *isn't*, Harv! It -- it's *incorrect*."
And this... this is a conversation they've been having from the *beginning* -
- almost. Bruce hadn't *wanted* to tell Harvey about the fact that his parents'
marriage was pretty much a sham -- he hadn't wanted *anyone* to know that -
- but he'd damned well felt *honor*-bound to make sure Harvey knew all about it
once the word 'adoption' started getting thrown around.
The first time Harvey heard the name 'Timothy Drake'... was the first time he'd
seen Bruce cry.
Just -- hell.
So -- he can think about this a little, and he can lead them over to the
*couch* that Martha had put in here for *him* --
The couch they pretty much never *make* it to because it's back in the
*stacks*, a little -- but they're here now, and Bruce is making the couch look
like a damned love seat and feel like --
Something much bigger. Too big. Harvey knows what he needs -- and what *he*
needs, too. He gets his shoes off and pushes back against the arm of the couch,
throwing his leg up and hauling on Bruce until his back is against Harvey's
chest.
"You're too stiff, big guy --"
"I shouldn't -- this isn't what you *want* of me --"
"I *want* everything *about* you, Bruce. *Remember* that --" And then Harvey's
grunting, which wasn't the plan, but it's something that *happens* when Bruce
uses those big, hairy hands on his thighs like --
When Bruce *grips* his thighs --
"Big guy..."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I want -- too many things," Bruce says, and even with
him turned away, Harvey can see how *thunderous* that frown is, how freaking
*poisonous* --
"It's *okay* --"
"*Nothing* --" The frown gets worse, and then smoothes out in the *exact* wrong
way. "I'm sorry. I will... control myself."
"Ah, Jesus, big guy, not that. *Never* that. Not with *me*," and Harvey wraps
his arms around Bruce's chest and squeezes him, holds him --
A part of him is only trying to estimate how *much* more new muscle Bruce has
put on in the past couple of months --
He really must have been working out like *crazy* --
And now is *not* the time to molest his brother. *Soon*, *please*, but not now.
Harvey kisses Bruce's ear to make him shiver. "You know I never want your
control, yeah?"
"But --"
"Never. Not ever."
Bruce covers Harvey's hands on his chest, slow and *shaky* --
Harvey *fights* back the urge to beg him to put those hands back on his thighs
where they belong --
Maybe higher --
*Definitely* higher --
No, thinking, definitely -- he can do that. "Talk to me, big guy."
"You don't..." Another frown. "You've never been as... offended by Father's
behavior as I am."
"Well... true --"
"I'd like. I'd like to understand that. He won't. He did not *say* that the
child was his, but he did not have to. He..." And Bruce just -- stops there.
And Harvey blinks, because *that* --
"I'd like to understand," Bruce says again, and squeezes Harvey's hands.
Harvey holds Bruce a little tighter. "I don't wanna make it worse, big guy --"
And Bruce laughs, sharp and bleak at once. "Perhaps you can understand why I
doubt your ability to do so."
"I understand why you *think* that I can't -- ah, Bruce, it's like this: *Lots*
of husbands cheat on their wives, and lots of wives cheat on their husbands --"
"Mother -- Mother never took *up* with Jason Blood until *after* Father began
his affair --"
"Okay, okay, I know, I hear you, but -- gimme a sec, okay?"
Bruce frowns again, but nods.
"Or -- we could skip --"
"No, Harv. Please."
Harvey closes his eyes for a moment, counts to five, squeezes Bruce *hard* -
- and kisses the back of his neck even harder. "I love you more than anything
or anyone else in this world, big guy --"
"I feel the same --"
"I know it, and that makes me so happy -- anyway. Anyway. I'm just gonna say
all this, okay? And you have to promise me that you'll remember that I'm not
getting on you, or -- or saying *anything* about how you should *feel*, okay?"
Bruce nods. "You would never do anything of the kind. I know that, Harv," Bruce
says, and there's just a little *scold* in his voice --
"Good enough. *Most* people? When they cheat on their spouses? They keep it a
*secret*. A *dirty* secret, even. Meaning they make their spouses doubt, and
suspect, and fear, and all that crap. They keep the other person on the *hook*,
you know? They let them believe that everything is *okay*."
"Oh -- but..." Bruce frowns again. "I did know that."
"You just didn't really put it in perspective before, yeah?"
"I... please keep going."
"Okay, anything you say, big guy," Harvey says, and kisses the back of Bruce's
neck again. "I know this might shock you a little, but... Mom isn't exactly...
uh."
"What is it, Harv?"
*Mom* is crazy and a murderer and evil and also she wouldn't be faithful to
Thomas freaking Wayne if he ejaculated chocolate and laughing gas -- okay,
maybe not. New tack. "It's nothing, big guy. Nothing *big*, anyway. It's just
that Mom and Dad went into this -- *all* of this -- with their eyes wide open.
I don't think they *would've* married each other if they really had a choice
about it --"
"Oh -- no --"
"Just listen for a minute, okay? Please?"
Bruce inhales sharply. "Yes, Harv. Don't -- don't let me stop you."
God, Bruce... Harvey hugs him even harder. "They're just. They're just
different people, big guy. It's not. It's nothing on *either* of them. Dad
likes science, Mom likes art. Dad likes business, Mom likes literature. Dad
likes quiet nights at home, Mom likes parties." Dad likes ice queens, Mom
likes... other queens -- no. No. "Uh... do you know what I'm saying?"
"It's... it's a *cliché*, Harv. You -- you *know* --"
"Yeah, I do. 'Opposites attract.' It's just... it's only true for *some*
people, okay?"
Bruce looks that *sad* kind of hard, and Harvey knows in his *bones* that it's
the same damned look that's been *behind* every *other* look on his face since
Tim was born. Just --
Right. "Bruce..."
"I understand."
"Do you?"
And there's -- something like a shiver. Something like the *beginnings* of a
break, because --
"There's no shame in it, you know. There isn't a single kid in this world who
*doesn't* want their parents to love each other as much as he or she loves
*them*."
"Somehow... somehow they manage to *accept* -- no. Please keep going, Harv. I
know... I know it will *take* this time."
So does he, and -- he hates it. "Sometimes. Sometimes it's okay to be innocent,
big guy --"
"And sometimes it is not. Please."
Harvey blows out a breath. "Okay, here goes: Mom and Dad are doing this as
close to right as pretty much anyone can. They're honest with each other *and*
with us; there are no huge, screaming fights where everybody rips each other to
shreds; and nobody -- gets ignored." Harvey frowns --
"Harv...?"
"It's nothing --"
"You hesitated."
Harvey closes his eyes and just -- lets himself think a little about his last
day in Gotham *last* summer before he'd headed up to New Haven.
Specifically, in a certain townhouse he had no real business in.
*Specifically* --
("I... have a question for you."
"Yeah, little guy? I just might have a couple-few answers for ya.")
And Harvey had grinned and sat back in the almost grotesquely oversized -- for
Tim -- dark and painfully *classy* wingback chair in Tim's bedroom, crossing
his legs and waggling his eyebrows and not thinking about Bruce --
Not thinking about what Bruce would say about him being *here* --
*Again* --
Not thinking about any of that, no sirree, because Tim had that frown on his
face that made Harvey wonder why *anyone* believed the kid *wasn't* a Wayne.
Something about all that Scottish highland blood just makes a kid -- or a
grown-ass man -- look like he's carrying around all the storms in the *world*.
Or maybe that was just his eyes.
("Seriously, kiddo --"
"Why -- why are you here?")
And Harvey had blinked --
*Thought* about saying something flip and meaningless --
But then Tim had looked right *into* him, and there *wasn't* a plea in his eyes
-- not then -- but Harvey knew in his bones that that had more to do with the
fact that Tim Drake's pleas never got answered than with anything else. So.
("No b.s.?"
"Please."
"You're my other brother, Tim. And I -- that means something to me.")
A blink -
*Narrowed* eyes --
("Thomas Wayne will never acknowledge me -- publicly *or* privately."
"Yeah, I know, little guy. But *that* doesn't mean crap to me. Okay?")
It had been -- a good day. Not perfect. Not *easy*. But who ever said family
was *supposed* to be --
"Harv... please tell me."
"I..." Harvey gives Bruce's shoulder a little push. Just enough to get him to
turn around and kneel facing him. "Do I really have to, big guy?"
When Bruce narrows his eyes, he looks more like Martha than anyone else --
But then, so does Tim. "You know what I'm saying."
"I know you... approve of the... boy --"
"Your brother."
"*You're* my brother, Harv. My *only* --"
Harvey holds up a hand --
And Bruce flares his nostrils and shakes his head once. "Not this, Harv.
Please."
Harvey winces. "You're gonna make me force the issue, big guy? After all this
time? He's just a *kid*."
"If he were only that to you, then you would not --"
"You're right. You're absolutely right. He's *our* brother, because even though
it's somehow not *correct* for Dad to actually acknowledge his *other* kids --"
Bruce growls and balls his hands into fists, turning his head and glaring -- at
the floor.
"Damn, I -- I'm not doing this right. I just wanted you to feel better --"
"No."
"Bruce --"
"You. You feel *I* have been incorrect."
God, and in Bruce-speak... that's pretty much accusing him of the worst of the
worst. But. "The part of me that's always been in love with you wants to deny
that, big guy."
"And the rest of you?"
You're still not *looking* at me -- Harvey shakes his head. "The parts of me
*you* love the most are all *about* me pushing this. Right now."
Bruce's glare gets *hotter*, but his voice is perfectly even when he says, "you
haven't before."
"No, I haven't --"
"Why not."
"Because I didn't want to hurt you --"
"And?"
Ah... fuck. Harvey squeezes his eyes shut -- but only for a moment. "You don't
want me to say it, Bruce."
Bruce nods slowly. At the *floor*. "Please tell me anyway."
Harvey takes a shaky breath and -- "I need -- I need to feel you --"
"Please."
"Yeah. Yeah, okay. It wasn't my place. That's -- that's it, big guy."
Bruce makes a *sound*, low and *hurt* -- and the look on his face when he
finally turns to *stare* at Harvey is just --
"I know -- I know what you're gonna say --"
"*Brother* --"
"I *know* --"
"You can't -- you *must* --"
"Bruce --"
And then he just *is* in Bruce's arms, feeling like a *small* ragdoll as Bruce
squeezes about half the *life* out of him, as Bruce holds him and strokes him
and -- "I *need* you --"
"I need *you*, Bruce --"
"You promised -- you promised you'd be my brother *forever* --"
"I *will*. Just -- always --"
And then Bruce pulls back enough to glare into Harvey's eyes. "Then how can
anything not be your *place*?"
Harvey winces. "Ah, God, big guy, I just --" He shakes his head. "You had
fourteen years *without* me, okay? And for *nine* of those years --"
"I." Bruce swallows hard. "For nine of those years... I denied the brother of
my blood. And then continued to -- Harv... Harv, I have... I don't know what to
do."
Harvey bites his lip for a second and nods. "We gotta... we just gotta do
better, is all."
Bruce's laugh isn't *completely* without humor -- but.
"Yeah, okay, that wasn't exactly the most useful thing I've ever -- I *promise*
he's a good little guy, okay?"
"Is he. Is he very like... his mother?"
Harvey blinks -- but, no, that's actually a good question, because if he'd
somehow met Martha *before* meeting Bruce, he probably would've run in the
opposite direction when he saw Bruce *coming*. And he really can't say any of
that out loud. So. "Not... not that I've been able to see. Just, you know. In
looks."
Bruce nods solemnly. "I dislike Janet Drake... a great deal."
No, *really*? "I know, big guy --"
"I mean -- it isn't only because of the... affair."
How long does an affair have to be going on before it's just another
relationship -- no, not asking that question, either. "You wanna tell me about
it?"
And that's more of a *glower* than anything else --
"Bruce --"
"Don't... don't humor me, please --"
"I'm *not* --"
"Or. Perhaps I mean don't *coddle* me," Bruce says, releasing Harvey and
standing, pacing *away* --
"God, don't *do* that when I haven't seen you in forever --"
Bruce freezes and turns back to face him, blinking in *shock*. "I -- stopped
touching you."
"Uh... yeah? You really did --"
"Harv. Harv..." Bruce shakes his head and all but tears his tie off, then
shrugs off his jacket *while* stepping out of his shoes --
"God, finally, yeah, let's do *this*," Harvey says, standing up to do his own
stripping at *speed* --
Unbuttoning his shirt from the bottom because --
Because Bruce loves to shove his big, hard hand up under it, loves to pet and
stroke and *scratch* Harvey's abs --
Or maybe just loves the way Harvey always -- *always* -- twitches for it.
Harvey closes his eyes and licks his lips, finishes unbuttoning his shirt and
shrugs it off --
"I love your suit --"
"I know you do, big guy --"
"I wore this one -- Mother likes --"
"I know that, too," Harvey says, grinning and working on his fly. It's
*possible* that someday there'll be someone *other* than him and Bruce who
knows the reason why Harvey never wears belts, but for now Harvey's just gonna
be grateful that he can afford the best tailoring there is --
And more grateful than that to have Bruce's *other* big hand in his pants,
cupping and squeezing him through his briefs -- "Harv... open your... your
beautiful eyes..."
Harvey does just that -- and nearly closes 'em right back up again for that
*squeeze* -- "Bruce --"
"I want -- I always want you *near* --"
"So don't let me go when we *can* be together --"
"Never -- *never*," and Bruce drops to his knees --
"Ah -- *damn* --"
"*This*, Harv --"
"I won't -- I won't say no --" Or much of anything at *all* once Bruce yanks
Harvey's pants down the rest of the way and starts *nuzzling* Harvey through
his briefs, sniffing and kissing and *nibbling* --
Sucking and sniffing *more* --
"God -- God, big guy, I don't know if I wanna shower again or sweat more --"
"*Sweat*," Bruce says, and grips Harvey's *ass* --
And Harvey was *expecting* to make a noise for that, but that was -- he'd cried
*out* --
And Bruce is staring up at him hungrily, curiously, *hungrily* --
Harvey licks his lips. "We can -- we can talk later, yeah?"
Bruce nods *slowly*, dragging his *face* against Harvey's dick --
Harvey moans and *shudders* -- "Anything for you, big guy, anything *always* --
"
"Then be loud for me," Bruce says, and *then* pulls back just enough to drag
down Harvey's briefs, to look Harvey over like a project, a meal, a
*possession* --
"Yours -- uh. Loud? *Here*?"
Bruce narrows his eyes and *claws* Harvey's ass --
"God -- hell -- yeah, yeah, okay, not arguing, not arguing at *all*, because --
" Because it's not like this house doesn't need people fucking in it who love
each other the *right* way --
And he's not saying that out *loud* --
And, thankfully, Bruce doesn't even look like he *wants* to ask before he
starts licking Harvey's dick. The head, the shaft --
The head again, and Bruce is making *those* sounds, those panting moans that
always mean that he's too hungry to stop for long enough to make a *real*
noise, a serious --
Bruce *growls* --
But it's not even *half* over before he's swallowing Harvey --
Before Harvey is gasping and *whining* --
And Bruce is glaring at *him* --
"Can't -- wasn't *ready* for that, big -- big guy --"
Bruce nods *slowly* --
And pulls back even slower than that, scraping his freaking teeth the entire --
Way --
*Harvey* growls and *shoves* his hands into Bruce's hair -- "Gonna be mean to
me, brother? Make me feel it?"
Bruce nods, eyes just *burning* --
"And you want me to *yell* for it, yeah? Yell the whole freakin' library -- no.
Yell the *house* down."
Bruce nods *again* and pulls Harvey back in *halfway* --
Just *halfway* --
"You -- know how to get it from me. You *know* how."
Bruce narrows his eyes in a smile that's just --
Harvey doesn't even know *how* he's reading it as a smile, considering how
narrow and dark and *evil* --
Bruce should never be *able* to look evil --
Except that his eyes get even hotter when he lets go of Harvey's ass with one
hand and pushes two fingers into his mouth *slowly* --
Right next to Harvey's *dick* --
Harvey's dick isn't freaking *small* --
"God -- God, big guy --"
Another freaking *nod* --
"Not. Not too wet --"
Bruce growls again --
Stops and pants through his nose --
Sucks hard enough --
"*Unh* -- *Bruce* --"
And his eyes say 'brother,' and 'love you,' and all the other good things -
- *best* things. It's just that they also say '*louder*.'
"Yeah. Yeah. *In* me -- oh, *Jesus* --"
And Bruce is so fast, so good, so *good* --
Bruce is already in to the first knuckle with *both* fingers, and it burns, it
--
Freaking *aches* --
It's not like he'd slicked himself up before driving *home* --
It's not --
"God -- God, let's get our own place," Harvey blurts, and *then* realizes that
his eyes are closed --
He opens them and Bruce looks *stunned*.
Harvey laughs breathlessly --
Clenches and *whimpers* --
"Ah, big guy, I *need* you --"
And Harvey didn't *mean* 'shove your fingers in deeper,' but he also really did
--
He *always* means that with Bruce, and how could he forget?
How could he --
"Your fingers are so *good*, so --" And Harvey shoves his own fingers in his
mouth --
Bites down and moans and *fucks* his own mouth --
But Bruce is growling again, shaking his head --
Harvey's supposed to be loud. Just -- he pulls his fingers out of his mouth and
grips Bruce's hair again, pulls it a little until Bruce is looking him right in
the eyes, seeing him and feeling him and *having* him the way he always does --
The way he always *should* --
"Fuck. Me."
Swallowed again --
"Nnh --"
And then those fingers are just --
Just so --
Harvey groans and tries to remember *how* to lock his knees a little, how to
stay *upright* even when he's getting the kind of taken --
The kind of *fucked* --
One thrust after another after --
Bruce is *holding* Harvey in his throat, and the late afternoon May sunshine is
turning everything gold and fuzzy and beautiful --
And every time Harvey grunts it freaking *echoes* --
And Bruce is giving him that hungry look, that *starved* look like something --
Like *nothing* will be right until Harvey gets his *other* hand in Bruce's
hair, too --
Until Harvey opens his stance just like *this* --
Until Harvey starts to *thrust*, in and in and *in*, and now he's growling,
too, *begging* and growling, *needing* --
"Opening -- opening me right *up* --"
Bruce nods and *twists* his fingers --
Harvey *shouts* -- and just barely remembers not to bite it back, not to do
*anything* but feel it, feel himself losing it a little more, an inch at a
time, every last *one* of his inches shoving down Bruce's tight throat --
And sometimes it seems wrong that he's had sex with *anyone* else, that he's
ever even let himself touch all the pretty girls who've made themselves
available to him ever since he became a Wayne. *Bruce* hasn't -- it was all
Harvey could do to get him to make *out* with girls sometimes for their
freaking *cover* --
And times like these it feels like Bruce has the right of it, feels like
something --
Like *this* should be pure, heavy, right, *theirs* --
"Need you, *need* you -- *UNH* -- oh, Jesus, that *crook* --"
And now Bruce is making him feel it, feel every --
Every freaking --
God, they're bare-ass naked in the *library*, and Harvey's inner fourteen-year-
old is cursing and screaming in *none* of the good ways, but he was supposed to
therapize that kid away *anyway* --
Harvey laughs and gasps --
Thrusts *harder* --
*Aches* inside and thinks helplessly about what happens next, what --
God, he's fucking his brother's *throat*, and it's not like his dick likes all
that many things *better* than that -- but.
Bruce is opening him up --
Bruce is sweating and staring at him *unblinkingly* --
Bruce isn't even *touching* his *own* dick, and -- Harvey can't. He *can't*,
because now he's shaking and *molesting* Bruce's head, feeling him up and
losing --
He's not even thrusting *half* right anymore --
He pulls out and staggers back, *making* Bruce pull out --
"*Harv* --"
"Fuck me, you gotta --"
Bruce growls -- and there's that speed again, that *crazy* grace that Bruce
hadn't needed to play *any* sports in order to get, because he's up and moving
both of them, pushing Harvey back and back --
Kissing Harvey so deep, licking into Harvey's mouth and --
Down, down on the couch, and it's good, it's great, because Harvey's pretty
sure Bruce is *hairier* than he was two months ago, too --
Bruce pulls back and Harvey arches his head back -- "Please --"
But the word isn't even *out* before Bruce is licking Harvey's throat, mouthing
and *biting* --
"Oh, yeah, *yeah* --"
"I *love* you --"
"You -- *nnh* -- ah, *damn*, big guy, not so -- "
"I won't *mark* you there," Bruce says, and he sounds angry, sounds hungry,
sounds --
"It felt so *good* to wear you in Greece --"
Another growl --
And Bruce bites him *hard*, *low* on Harvey's throat, and it isn't the best
place, but it might as well be, because Bruce's mouth is as big as the rest of
him, Bruce's teeth are sharp, Bruce tongue is *slick* and *hot* --
"Need you, big guy, *need* --"
And then he's crying out, arching and *lifting* Bruce --
Bruce is *sucking* his neck, sucking *kisses* --
Harvey feels himself twitch and -- he's not gonna stop anytime soon. Just -- he
knows that. He's *close*.
He *was* close, and --
"*Fuck* me. I *know* you brought slick --" And Harvey grunts for the feel of
Bruce pulling away --
Not far. He pulls the tube of K-Y out of his pocket, slicks his hand up --
Harvey throws his leg over the back of the couch -- and *grips* himself,
because Bruce is staring at him like Harvey's been teasing him, like Harvey's
been freaking *torturing* -- "C'mon, big guy, *do* me --"
"I. I *need* --"
"*Anything* --"
"Let." Bruce licks his lips and *stares* at Harvey's dick --
It twitches *hard* for that --
It knows what it *gets* when Bruce does that --
"Bruce --"
"Stroke. Let me. Please *stroke*," he says, and *then* pushes back in with two
--
Slick and sleek and easy and *right* --
Harvey groans and squeezes himself again --
"*Please*, Harv --"
"Fuck -- yeah," and Harvey does it, closing his eyes so he can keep a little
control, so he can just *feel* --
But that makes him feel hot all over, makes him feel Bruce's *gaze* all over
his body, like he's the hottest thing on two legs, the best, the worst *tease*
--
"You want it -- like this?"
Bruce groans and *crooks* --
"*Fuck* -- sorry --"
"No, no -- loud. Even your *curses*."
"But --"
"*Father* hates rough language," Bruce says, and there's so much *anger* in
that voice --
Harvey can't hold back a *wince* -- "He's not -- he's not a bad --"
"*Enough*," and Bruce crooks and *drags* his fingers --
"Ahn --"
"*Curse* for me, Harv!"
And so Harvey has to open his eyes, has to *stop* stroking for just a second,
just long enough that he can *focus* on Bruce's eyes, on the need and anger and
hunger and *love* --
So much *love*, like maybe Harvey is the only family that --
That freaking *counts* --
Except that Harvey isn't allowed to tell Bruce that neither of his parents
*really* deserve him --
And Harvey isn't *ever* allowed to point out that sometimes he's pretty damned
sure *he* doesn't deserve him --
"Harv, *please*!"
Harvey growls and spreads his legs *wider*. "*Fuck* me. Shove your dick in
*deep*. Don't -- don't even *bother* to prep me any fuckin' better than this --
"
Bruce grunts and *spreads* his fingers --
Harvey feels himself --
*Smells* himself sweating --
"Yeah, yeah, come the fuck *on* --"
"Harv, yes --"
"*Give* it to me, big guy, fuck me so hard -- *unh* --"
And that's still just his fingers, but Jesus, fucking -- no, say it --
"Jesus fucking *Christ*, that's good, that's -- hnh -- hnh -- *hnh* --"
"*More*, Harv!"
"*Fuck* me!"
And Bruce growls and crooks his fingers for every thrust, and Harvey is
twitching --
Leaking --
Licking his lips because -- "You're making me fuckin' *drool* for it -- *mm* --
"
And this kiss is hard, hard enough to make Harvey's lips swell like Bruce's --
Bruce is *yanking* on Harvey's hair and *crushing* him down against the arm of
the couch, shoving and moaning and -- God, trying to crawl right *into* him --
And Harvey just wants Bruce to know that he *can*, that he's *welcome*, that
he's the *best* --
*Brother* --
And the best way to do *that* ---
Harvey grips Bruce's ass with his free hand and starts stroking *fast* with his
other hand, stroking *hard* and really digging his knuckles in against Bruce's
abs --
Bruce grunts and *thrusts* against Harvey's thigh --
Again and *again* --
And they might as well be fourteen, rolling on Bruce's bunk until they fell off
onto the ice-cold floor, shivering themselves closer together, begging and
pleading and promising and moaning, pushing and *pulling* --
("More --"
"Yes, *more* --"
"Big -- big guy --")
And the first time Bruce came on him, Harvey's mind had just *blanked*, filling
with nothing but heat and light and a *wild* feeling that convinced him that
*he* was coming, too --
But he didn't. Not until --
("I want. I've *dreamed*, Harv!"
"About -- tell me, *please* --"
"I want. I want to touch... your penis."
"You. You *can* --"
"With my mouth --")
And *then* he'd come on Bruce, grunting and bucking like he'd been
*electrocuted* or something --
He remembers every *moment* of that --
The look of crazy-horny *wonder* on Bruce's face --
And the way it just got deeper when Bruce had tasted his come --
When Harvey had swirled their come together and tasted *that* --
And now he's groaning into Bruce's mouth, stroking faster and faster *while*
trying to hold on, trying --
God, Bruce is really *doing* his thigh, shuddering all over just like --
Harvey turns out of the kiss -- "C'mon, *in* me --"
"I won't -- I won't *last*," Bruce says, and he sounds *mournful*, but --
"I *know*, big guy, and I want you *in* me when you come, want you to fill me
up, want you to *slick* me up --"
Bruce growls and bites Harvey's *lip* --
*Glares* into Harvey's eyes --
And Harvey smiles just as sharp as he can, just as hard and *wet* as he can --
And *this* growl ends with his left thigh pressed to his freaking chest and
Bruce pushing, just *pushing* --
And *then* Harvey feels the aftermath of Bruce pulling out way too fucking fast
--
But the head is in before Harvey can make a *sound* -- and then the only sound
he *can* make is a moan, hungry and desperate and loud, loud like Bruce *wants*
--
"*Harv*!"
And he's nodding for it, trying to arch, trying to get it *faster* --
Bruce shoves Harvey's leg up *higher* --
"*Fuck*, Bruce --"
"Tell me -- you must tell me if it's too *much* --"
"Never, *never* too much --"
Bruce groans and *thrusts* --
And there's a hot little fraction of a second when Harvey realizes that he
won't be *able* to swallow this scream --
Another when he remembers Bruce doesn't *want* him to --
He lets it out, chokes on it when Bruce grinds, screams *louder* when Bruce
knocks Harvey's hand away from his dick and squeezes --
"So -- so fucking *hard* --"
"For *you* --"
"Give it to me, fucking *give* it to me --"
"*Always*, Harv!" And Bruce is *gripping* the back of Harvey's thigh --
Bruce is *staring* down at him --
Bruce is fucking *stripping* his *dick* -- but none of that means a goddamned
thing against the feel of *Bruce's* dick filling him up, shoving so deep, so --
God, *every* thrust dragging against his prostate, and the rhythm is fucking
*basic*, but it's the best --
It's what *he* likes --
"*Bruce* --"
"*Tell* me!"
"Don't -- *don't* --"
"*Please*, Harv --"
"Can -- can feel you in my *throat* --"
Bruce growls again, *squeezes* again --
"Fuck, hurts so *good* --"
Bruce gasps and thrusts *hard* --
Harvey *screams* again --
Bruce *sobs* -- and then the thrusts are faster, rougher and harder and
*faster*, like maybe Bruce has been saving this --
Of *course* he's been saving this, and now Harvey's *laughing* through all the
yelling and screaming, tossing his head and groaning --
"Fuck, you always make me feel so *tight* --"
"You *are* --"
Harvey snorts -- "Really *fucking* not, big guy, my guy, come on, come on,
*harder* --"
And then the *strokes* get harder --
He's fucking *pulling* on Harvey's dick --
Making --
God, he's so --
Hot all over, sweating and needing, clenching and gasping --
Stomach turning over in the best way, the sweetest --
"*Harv*."
And he knows that sound, that *voice* --
"*Harv*!"
Bruce is close, Bruce is --
"*Please*!"
"Gimme -- the head, just the head -- *fuck* --"
And Bruce is rubbing hard circles and pressing, *massaging* --
He's got a fucking *callus* there somehow --
He --
And this clench fills Harvey's head with fucking *stars* --
This clench is just so --
He's so --
Full --
"Harv, *now*!"
And there isn't even a fucking *second* where he can resist that fucking
*command*, where he can do anything but throw his head back and *howl* for it,
shooting off --
"Oh, *yes* --"
And shooting off *more* when Bruce gets fucking brutal, fucking perfect,
fucking --
"My --*brother*!"
Every time, every *time*, and it feels like he's getting wrung out, *worked*
dry, because Bruce is hitting his prostate even though he's in the process of
freaking *coming* --
Even though he's groaning and staring down at him so hurt, so hungry, so --
Harvey reaches up to cup his beautiful *face* --
And Bruce shudders hard and slumps, thrusting *slowly* a few more times and
then just panting right along with him.
It sounds loud as *hell* --
*Obviously* loud --
*Ridiculously* --
"Harv...?"
Harvey loosens himself up with a shiver and uses his *forebrain*. "It's okay,
big guy, I'm just bein' an idiot."
"Harv."
"No, *really*, because I was just lying here thinkin' we were *panting* too
loud."
"I -- hm."
"Yeah."
Bruce raises an eyebrow at him.
Harvey grins and strokes it, and the bridge of Bruce's never-broken nose --
And Bruce kisses Harvey's fingers when he gets them down to Bruce's mouth. "I
love your sounds."
"I had my suspicions about that," Harvey says, and pushes against Bruce's grip
on his thigh until he eases up a little and Harvey can lower his leg --
And *immediately* feel some serious come-shifting happening in his ass.
Damn --
"Harv --"
"We... are gonna stain this couch badly and *obviously* if we're not *real*
damned careful, big guy," Harvey says, and smiles ruefully.
Bruce's frown is dark. "I don't care."
Oh -- that. "Okay, you're mad at Dad, I hear you, I *really* do. But *Dad is
not the one who cleans the furniture*."
Bruce blinks --
Winces --
And nods. "I take your point," he says, and smiles ruefully. "And I believe I
have a solution."
Harvey raises his eyebrows. "Other than you rolling us onto the floor before
the dripping starts?"
Bruce hums. "As exciting as that sort of thing was when we were students
together..." And Bruce leans over and tugs his handkerchief out of the breast
pocket of his jacket.
"Heh. All right, better than the upholstery. Kiss me first --"
And Bruce *lifts* him into the kiss like he weighs *nothing* --
So *strong* --
And the kid in Harvey still wants to see Bruce playing football or *something*,
but not as much -- *never* as much -- as he wants just this: the feel of being
held and held up and held *close* for a kiss that's warm, wet, loving and
*right*. Harvey hums into the kiss, smiles into it, *licks* into it -- and gets
his tongue sucked just the way they *both* like. He pulls back *slowly* --
Bruce catches Harvey's tongue between his teeth, *lightly* --
And Harvey waggles his eyebrows before taking it back. "Missed you like crazy,
big guy."
Bruce just nods for that, solemn and heavy and unblinking. Which --
"Off-campus housing for me next year. Which -- no roomie. We can talk pretty
much whenever we want."
Bruce takes a deep breath and nods -- and then pushes the handkerchief between
them and pulls out slow and easy.
Harvey closes his eyes and breathes through it --
Remembers *not* to shift as much as he wants to --
And *then* he can get up and wipe up a little before dressing like a person who
honestly believes that he *won't* be completely obvious about all the fucking
he just did.
*Bruce* looks picture-perfect -- except for the missing hankie -- but Harvey
doesn't *have* to see the lust on Bruce's face to know *he* looks freaking
*debauched*. "Fix me?"
"I'd rather not."
"Heh." Harvey wags a finger at him. "Think with the big head, big guy. You know
we'll be doing the family dinner thing soon."
And that frown comes back in a *big* way -- damn.
"Okay, okay, no. You heard me before --"
"You want... would you truly want us to move in *together*, Harv?"
Harvey spreads his hands. "We're nineteen, big guy. We're *supposed* to be
getting out and about. And -- okay, maybe it'd be kinda weird for you to be
living up in New Haven and *not* going to school --"
"Harv --"
"No, no, I'm *not* gettin' on your case about that right now, I promise. I know
you have your own plans, and -- hell. I still think you're crazy, but you're
*my* crazy brother, and I trust you, and I'm always gonna be right behind you.
Just like you were right behind *me* when *I* was crazy. Okay?"
Another frown. "Do you -- you believe my training to be a phase I'm going
through."
Harvey smiles ruefully and steps close, close enough to cup Bruce's shoulders
and look up those couple of inches into his eyes. "Nah, big guy. I *hope* it's
a phase. I *believe* you're gonna carry this through right to the end --"
Is *that* how the little guy is gonna save Bruce?
What --
He's *thirteen* --
He's a *tiny* thirteen and --
("Yeah? You like superheroes, too?")
And Tim had lit up like Kane Center at Christmas, like a bonfire, like --
Like a *happy* kid --
("The Justice Society has done so *much* for the world, Harv! They -- for the
*entire* world! I think -- I mean -- I don't mean to be... excitable.")
And he had looked down -- again.
But the smile had stayed in his eyes for an *hour*, and --
("I've thought... about boxing. Lessons, I mean. I know it's ridiculous --"
"Hey, no --"
"I don't have anything like the musculature --"
"You can work *out*, little guy --"
"There's this one particular gym -- I -- never mind --"
"No, no, tell me about it?")
And Tim had balled his hands into hard little fists --
*Correct* little fists, as Harvey couldn't help but notice --
But then Tim had looked up again, and his eyes were so sad, so --
("Let me... change the subject?"
"Are you *sure*, little guy?"
"Yes. Please.")
So he had -- but.
Harvey frowns and steps back from Bruce, pacing a little and rubbing at his -
- no, wait. He gives Bruce *his* handkerchief --
"Thank you, but...?"
"I... there's something..."
"I can tell, Harv," Bruce says, and there's a good-natured tease in his voice,
a willingness -- no. A *desire* to share. And how long had it taken to get
Bruce to the point where he'd show that *automatically*?
Harvey shakes himself all over and turns back to Bruce with a rueful smile.
"Sorry, big guy, I'm just -- thinking about Tim."
A frown that looks *reflexive* -- but Bruce damned well wipes it off his face
and stands straight, nodding like a damned *soldier*.
"Hey, don't treat it like nasty-tasting medicine --"
"I -- I'm sorry," Bruce says, and he absolutely means it --
Damn. "And don't let me push you too hard, *either* --"
"No, Harv. You -- I *need* you to push me," Bruce says, and folds Harvey's
handkerchief into his pants pocket. "I won't -- I will not be incorrect about
this. Not anymore."
Harvey winces. "Big guy --"
"Please tell me your thoughts about... is 'Tim' what he truly prefers? I've
always called him 'Timothy.'"
Harvey thinks about arguing the point --
Thinks *hard* about it --
And then he thinks about Martha clawing at the chaise because her freaky
boyfriend scared her *that* bad -- yeah, this is necessary. Harvey nods. "Tim,
yeah. Or -- he seems to -- he said he liked it when I called him 'little guy.'"
Bruce smiles wryly. "I find myself somewhat less than shocked by that."
"Hey, most guys would *hate* that --"
"A nickname given by a man like you, Harv...?"
And yeah, Harvey *is* nineteen years old, but right about now he's *absolutely*
sure that Bruce'll be able to make him blush when he's *ninety*. "Aw, c'mon,
big guy --"
"Is he. I've seen him... looking at you."
Harvey frowns. "Looking when? How?"
Bruce closes the distance between them and starts straightening Harvey's hair
and suit with quick, easy motions. "At the parties, of course. He... studies
you. And everyone else, truly. I've wondered about the conclusions he's drawn."
("Have you ever...")
And Tim had trailed off, frowning, tapping at his own lean thigh with the
fingers of his right hand --
("'Ever'...?"
"I -- it's not important --"
"Maybe let me be the judge of that?"
"You're very -- agreeable.")
And Tim had blushed *hard* *while* he was saying that -- but he hadn't looked
away.
Harvey had grinned and shrugged.
("When people are worth it, yeah?"
"This. This is your fifth visit."
"Uh, huh.")
Tim had bitten his lip -- but only for a moment before nodding sharply.
("I've come to believe that most people tell themselves... lies. Often very
many lies at once."
"Heh. Something tells me that's about... half? A quarter? Of what you
*actually* wanted to tell me.")
The blush had gotten deeper --
("Perhaps there'll be more... on another visit.")
Only he hadn't gotten back *down* here -- Martha had insisted they do the
holiday thing in the Caribbean this past year -- and --
"You have your own thoughts about what those conclusions might be," Bruce says,
and flat-out re-ties Harvey's tie.
"I -- thanks --"
"You're welcome," and Bruce raises an eyebrow at him.
Harvey frowns. "He's a smart kid. I -- need to go see him. Without you, I
mean."
Bruce nods solemnly. "I will use the time to... prepare myself."
And he'll damned well do *exactly* that -- "I love you."
The solemnity blows away like dandelion fluff in a stiff freaking *breeze*.
"And I you, Harv."
Harvey grins right back. "You know what we can do that wouldn't look weird, at
*all*."
"What?"
"You get yourself a place -- a nice *big* place -- in the city proper down
here... while I get my *own* place up in New Haven. We can visit each other all
the time, throw nice, suspicion-easing parties --"
"And give... Tim places he can go that are away... from his parents."
Harvey smiles ruefully and cups the back of Bruce's head, leaning in close
enough that they can rest their foreheads together. Of course Bruce would
figure that out before *he* had in his own freaking head. "You saved *me* once,
big guy. Time for me to pay it forward a little."
"I feel... I still feel as though I asked you to accept far too much, brother."
And this is why I will never, ever tell you what Martha did to my old man -
- but. "Never too much, brother."
"Harv --"
"Nothing's too much when it means I get to have you."
Bruce shudders all over and *crushes* Harvey against him --
"Oof, hey --"
"I'm sorry," Bruce says, but doesn't ease his grip even a *little* --
Which means it's time for Harvey to just go with it. He wraps his arms around
Bruce's waist and kisses his cheek. "I missed this, too, big guy."
"Yes," and Bruce's voice is low and heavy and *fervent* --
So Harvey kisses his cheek again and just goes with it.
*
***** May 1979: Tim, Measurements, Secrets *****
Tim checks his height, weight, and certain other measurements every day. Most
of the time, this makes him quite sure that he's developing a dangerous degree
of masochism --
Just like his -- no.
It's practical. The dojo he's been attending for karate lessons for the past
year doesn't offer *everything* Tim wishes it to -- there's been hardly *any*
weapons training -- but one of the senseis just happens to be a nutritionist,
as well. Kathleen has been *exceedingly* helpful in terms of helping Tim
develop new muscle -- if not much in the way of other growth -- and is a firm
believer in record-keeping.
Tim approves of that wholeheartedly.
He would *like* to keep his records on his computer -- and he does, when it
comes to his personal growth and other non-incriminating sorts of things -- but
the fact of the matter is that his computer, while being something about which
he's *very* fond, is not in the slightest bit secure.
Tim keeps his other records... other places.
At the moment, those places are all secret compartments in his *bedroom* -
- which is less than optimal for a number of reasons -- but it will have to do.
A year ago, one of their live-ins had discarded the seventeen floppies Tim had
left lying out on his worktable. While there was nothing of any *true* import
on those disks, pretending there had been had proved entirely useful in terms
of his gaining the right to care for his own living space.
Only his mother comes in here uninvited now, and *she* will never crawl along
the baseboards knocking for hidden compartments.
Tim smiles at himself in the mirror as he wraps the measuring tape around his
chest. It's not the best smile in the world --
He doesn't want to *think* about what could happen if his mother found out
about what sorts of things he's been keeping records of --
He's not really smiling, at all, anymore.
And his chest isn't any broader than it was yesterday. Nor are his legs or arms
longer.
He seems to be a full pound *heavier*, though, and that's something to rejoice
about. The diet Kathleen designed for him is somewhat daunting in terms of the
amount of grains and proteins, but...
But.
He's thirteen years old.
He's five feet tall.
Four months ago, he was still *barely* one hundred pounds -- and often dropped
below that if Jack Drake -- the man he must still, somehow, call 'Dad' -- was
going through one of his phases when he insisted the live-in of the moment cook
nothing but British food. Or, rather, *attempt* nothing but British food, as
Jack tends not to hire live-ins for their *cooking* skills. Kathleen -- and
karate, and weight-lifting -- has brought him to a respectable one hundred and
seventeen pounds.
He doesn't look much *bigger*, but there's a great deal of definition to his
musculature now, and he feels...
Better.
Closer.
More... correct.
Tim re-rolls the measuring tape, places it in its small case, and sets it where
it belongs in his armoire.
He then moves to stand in front of his mirrors and examine himself thoroughly.
His thin, straight, black hair is too long for *his* comfort -- it brushes his
chin annoyingly -- but fashion makes its own demands for teenagers. Thomas
Wayne wears his hair much shorter, and Tim will be able to do the same once
he's older.
Perhaps even before he graduates from high school -- and it *will* be Exeter.
His mother wouldn't have it any other way, and never mind that there'll be no
way to *escape* from the whispers there --
That he'll be *trapped* in the middle of *nowhere* --
Away from Gotham --
Away from the *JSA* --
How will he continue his *training* -- no. Not that. Examination now.
Tim takes a deep, meditative breath, adjusts his posture, and slips into a
position from which he can move *easily* into any of four different ready
positions and adequately well into three others.
He hadn't needed Kathleen *or* Takumi to tell him that he was learning quickly
and well. At this rate, he'll be a black belt before he has to leave for
Massachusetts -- no. The concept of 'jinxing' *feels* patently ridiculous, but
Martha Wayne has been sleeping with a known magic-user since before Tim was
*born*.
*Possibly* since before his mother had *planned* Tim's existence.
Tim doesn't shudder. The Justice Society has worked with Jason Blood multiple
times over the years and, while reading behind the lines of the various post-
mission interviews suggests that the missions themselves weren't always marvels
of cooperation and bonhomie, the fact is that Blood is an acknowledged hero.
Even though he is --
("Well. Timothy Drake. This *is* a surprise.")
And Blood had spun on his stool until he was facing Tim from behind the
cluttered counter --
There was not one thing in his shop Tim felt was safe enough to *touch* --
The cigarette in Blood's holder was the color of old blood --
His mind had insisted that the smoke smelled like the color *chartreuse* --
And the holder itself... changed. Every time Tim tried to focus on it. It --
("Mm. What *can* I do for you, hmm? Hexes? Curses? Fetishes? Love potions...?"
"Do you *do* that sort of thing?"
"For the people ignorant enough to *believe* in that sort of thing. I've owned
a sizeable portion of Gotham for hundreds of years, but there are still
*incidental* expenses.")
And Blood had *winked* at him --
("Admit it, Timothy -- may I call you Timothy? -- a part of you is scandalized
*most* by the fact that I'm a *tradesman*."
"I -- I don't consider myself --"
"Yes...?")
Tim had frowned and drawn himself up.
("I feel no need to -- judge you."
"No...? Merely to examine me for your own purposes...? Perhaps to build
something of a... dossier?")
He hadn't been able to keep from *blushing* --
And Blood had laughed, low and not ungently.
("Free advice...?"
"If. If you want to. Offer --"
"Oh, I *absolutely* do. Watch from the shadows -- no. *Live* from the shadows,
Mr. Drake. *Something* tells me that you'll find them entirely... cozy."
"Life -- isn't about comfort."
"Oh, yes, it is. Comfort and *pleasure*. *Survival*, now... that's a bit
stickier. I believe you'll prefer the shadows for *that*, too...")
And he had looked Tim *over* -- and smiled.
("And, perhaps, just a *few* more years under your belt. Here.")
And he'd exhaled chartreuse for -- too long. Longer than *anyone* with that
approximate lung capacity *should* have been able to exhale. Tim had caught
himself trying to time the exhale --
And then caught himself trying to make the world go back to being the right
*color* --
And then caught himself blinking on the sidewalk two blocks away... with a
half-eaten ice cream cone in his hand. The flavor was chocolate.
He'd given it to a homeless man and gone back home.
Tim had been ten then -- *new* to his studies -- and Blood's advice had been
reasonable. While there is much he will -- possibly -- *never* be able to find
out about his extended family -- and 'family' -- there is far, far more that he
*has* been able to find out about the *world* by working from the shadows.
One can get a great deal done when one's parents have separate, soundproofed
bedrooms, and when one has a large, sturdy tree outside one's window.
This time, the smile on Tim's face is much better -- for certain values of
'better.' It's the smile that tends to make Thomas Wayne *pause* when it's on
Tim's mother's face, and make him *start* to reach out when it's on Tim's own.
A hand on his shoulder, a careful stroke over his hair -- once, an unnecessary
straightening of his tie.
Thomas Wayne doesn't *disapprove* of him as a person, and possibly even --
No, not that. Not --
Most of the time, Tim is reasonably sure Thomas Wayne likes him, and possibly
even cares about him in -- filial ways. Possibly. Thomas Wayne has been known
to smile down into Tim's eyes whether or not anyone is watching --
The *touching* only happens when they're alone, but --
("You have an interest in the history of psychology, Timothy?")
One day, perhaps, he'll tell Thomas Wayne that he prefers 'Tim.'
Or perhaps he'll just continue to allow his mother's edicts about the man's
preferences for formality to stand.
*That* day, while Tim sat at his desk and Thomas Wayne sat in the somewhat
*depressingly* brown leather wingback chair that's an *exact* match for the
chairs in the man's study in Wayne Manor --
His mother *insists* on Thomas Wayne's comfort *always* --
While Tim repressed the urge to fidget *and* the urge to return the lion's
share of his focus to Hume's A Treatise of Human Nature --
Anything to avoid looking at Thomas Wayne's perfect suit and wet *hair* --
Anything to avoid *knowing* that his mother was *recovering* --
Not that she'd ever *put* it that way --
Not *ever* --
But Tim was already nine, and too well-trained *not* to respond to Thomas
Wayne's frown with a correction of his posture, a smile --
("I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne. I was distracted by... ah..."
"Scottish alienists...?")
And Tim had *wanted* to laugh -- such a silly word -- but --
("I don't think they were called alienists then, Mr. Wayne.")
And Thomas Wayne had smiled, mustache twitching agreeably --
("So they weren't. But you didn't answer my question, Timothy.")
And Tim hadn't asked how often he smiled at Bruce --
Or whether he would smile at his *new* son Harvey like that --
Or what the touching would be like --
("The human mind is very interesting, Mr. Wayne. I've been studying --")
And he'd remembered not to stumble, or stammer --
("-- local crime statistics. Gotham City has... a great deal of crime committed
by people who turn out to be mentally ill. Severely mentally ill, I mean.")
And Thomas Wayne had raised his moderately bushy eyebrows --
("Is that the field you'd like to enter when you're older? Treating the
criminally insane?")
Not... quite.
Dad.
But Tim *hadn't* been entirely sure what he wanted then, so he'd played along
just as he was supposed to --
Watched Thomas Wayne's *hair* dry --
And, when his mother had glided -- not walked -- in half an hour later with her
*own* hair wet and the long-sleeved, full-coverage robe she *has* to wear on
days the man visits belted on *tightly* --
They had been laughing, and smiling.
They were too far apart for his mother to rest one hand on Thomas Wayne's
shoulder and one hand on Tim's, and so the wingback chair has been much closer
to Tim's desk ever since.
It --
Tim isn't smiling anymore.
Tim isn't --
Tim gives himself permission to cover his eyes with a -- currently -- imaginary
mask, his torso with skin-tight body-armor of the sort favored by Mr. Terrific,
his legs with tights --
They would be... red and black, he thinks. Something dramatic, but still dark
enough to blend in a *little* with *some* shadows.
He'll be a *hero*, and then --
And then there'll be people who want to speak with him, and be with --
He'll be a hero, and he'll do useful things, and the vast majority of the lies
he tells will be for --
They'll be *mission*-related, in some way. He'll only hide his name to protect
his life and the lives of his --
Friends?
Lovers?
Tim looks at himself in the mirror. *Studies* himself, and his -- careful -
- lack of a blush.
He has, of course, fantasized about the various members of the Justice Society
-- extensively, even. He --
He's *been* to Serenity Flowers, because Dinah Drake Lance's dominos are
*fragile*, because she's human and easy to *follow* --
She's beautiful, of course. *Incredible* in her corset and seamed stockings -
- and how does she manage to keep them *perfect* so often? But beautiful even
just in jeans and a t-shirt potting plants with her ten-year-old daughter.
Her suspiciously *muscular* ten-year-old daughter --
But, of course, if *Tim's* mother were a superhero, he would insist on learning
everything she and her allies could teach, too. And one day...
Tim presses his hand to his sternum and strokes down and down over his chest
and abdomen until he reaches the waistband of his -- slightly -- too-tight
briefs. One day, he'll be good enough -- *ready* enough -- to approach them. If
not Dinah, then Ted Grant -- whose large, perfectly-muscled body is
*unmistakable* in the Wildcat uniform.
Or --
One of the others, perhaps?
Hour-Man is frankly worrying, considering what Tim has deduced about *how* he
goes about acquiring the superhuman abilities he apparently doesn't have at any
other time.
Rex Tyler is only in his early forties... but the two times Tim has
photographed him through his apartment window after missions...
He'd looked much, much older.
That doesn't mean it isn't *tempting* to try to develop his own biochemical
solution to the problem of his physical inadequacies --
Something *useful* --
Dinah has proven, time and again, that such things aren't necessary.
And she does it with style.
She --
Tim touches his tongue to his upper lip and strokes down over his briefs.
Lightly.
As far as she knows, Tim Drake has a girlfriend who favors yellow roses, and
who receives them from him once a week. She *teases* him about the entirely
fictional girl, who Tim named Jean -- never Jeanie -- and who has Harvey
Wayne's eyes --
So deep and brown --
("Oh, *really*, lover-boy...? Like mine?")
Tim had blushed *easily* for that --
("They're much -- much darker than yours, ma'am --")
And Dinah had blown a raspberry and swatted him with a spray of baby's breath -
-
("Leave that ma'am stuff for librarians and schoolmarms, lover-boy. My name is
*Dinah*."
"Oh! I wanted --"
"To be respectful. I know, nice boy like you...")
And Dinah had winked at him.
("What does she give *you* every week, hmm...? These roses don't come cheap out
of season."
"I -- I -- ah --")
And then she'd *giggled* -- and reached across the counter to ruffle his hair.
It had been *abundantly* obvious that she was only a few inches taller than he
was --
Just as it was abundantly obvious that her muscles and scars spoke of a
*lifetime* of experience. He --
("You -- you're very nice -- I mean. Ah.")
And he'd blushed *again* --
And her smile had *quirked* --
("Some people say that, lover-boy. Some*times*."
"Not... all the time?")
And her smile had been Black Canary's, brilliant and sharp --
And Tim's briefs are around his ankles --
And seeing those eyes without a domino over them had been shocking,
*pornographic* --
And Tim is squeezing himself, squeezing himself so *hard* --
And she'd licked her *teeth* --
And Tim doesn't moan; it's too early in the day; he'll get caught --
("Sometimes *no* one would say I'm nice, lover-boy. Remember that.")
He will, he *will*, he just --
Tim brings his free hand to his mouth and bites his wrist --
Fills his mind with the bounce of her breasts as she runs --
Leaps --
Kicks higher than her own *head* --
And the noises she makes belong to some other sort of bird entirely, some --
A raptor, a hunter, a --
Not a killer, never a killer, but a *predator*, and the Tim in the mirror wants
to *be* prey, wants --
Needs --
The Tim in the mirror drops to his *knees*, because three weeks ago she'd been
carrying huge bags of potting soil back and forth in her shop, and the scent of
her sweat had been almost *sharp*, almost --
Tim *grunts* around his wrist and wants salt, wants --
He should've worked *out* more this morning, should've --
He yanks his wrist out of his mouth and swipes through the light moisture at
the base of his throat --
Sucks his fingers --
Doesn't *moan*, but now he's stroking himself faster, now he's on his knees on
the --
The *stone* tile at Serenity Flowers, and it's dark except for the faint and
*ghostly* light from the gaslights outside, and the leather of Dinah's corset
creaks, and the silk of her stockings *whispers* --
But they don't go all the way up --
And the corset --
Opens --
And Tim gives up on visualization -- he doesn't *want* to imagine Dinah having
any of the vulvas he's seen in Jack Drake's poorly-hidden pornography -- and
drives himself on by the imagined scent, so strong and --
Would it be musky? Deep?
Dark and --
Wet, female, *dark* --
And he would push close --
He's so hard, so hungry and --
He would push *close*, and nuzzle and *lick* --
He needs this, he needs this so *much* --
Suck, he could suck, and have her in his mouth --
He's *studied* anatomy, and maybe she would --
What's it gonna be, lover-boy...?
Oh --
Tell me what you like...
And her voice is so -- so *smoky* --
Lover-boy!
"*Nnh* --"
And Tim shoves his fingers *deeper* --
Gets *rocked* by an image of Dinah yanking his head back by the hair so Ted can
push --
In --
We both know this is what you *really* want...
Both, it's --
Everything -- oh --
Oh --
Oh -- God --
And Tim is shuddering and arching, shuddering and *ejaculating*, and it's too
much, too perfect --
He could be --
*He* could be beautiful, and right --
Something --
Something like *perfect* --
Though hopefully with less semen on his furnishings.
Tim sighs at his spattered mirror for a moment, then works on correcting his
breathing while he retrieves the paper towels and the glass cleaner from the
small cabinet he keeps under his secondary worktable. He cleans his mess,
checks the floor to make sure he hadn't missed anything -- ah, a droplet four
inches from the mirror.
Tim throws out the paper towels, then retrieves the rag and the *carpet*
cleaner.
When he's done, he looks over his room to make *sure* there's nothing
incriminating, then he takes his robe into his en suite bathroom and showers.
In truth, even the live-in -- the latest one is named, he believes, Berenice,
and he's very proud of himself for remembering that, considering the fact that
she has the same long black hair, dazzling smile, and pneumatic proportions as
the last *four* -- won't be awake for another hour. *Everyone* sleeps in on the
weekends in this house, short of some disaster at Drake Industries, and --
And it's entirely possible that someone --
Harvey?
-- would call him paranoid.
Harvey is, Tim knows, home from Yale now, which means --
Tim frowns as he soaps himself. He shouldn't make assumptions. The fact that
Harvey has visited *every* time he's been in Gotham for the past two years --
Even when he was only here for two *days* --
Tim swallows and soaps himself faster. He's not --
He doesn't want to masturbate while thinking about Harvey again. It isn't --
It's too *much* --
("You know you can call me Harv if you want to, little guy.")
And his smile had been easy and warm and so --
*Not* all of Harvey's smiles are real -- Tim has *seen* that -- but all of his
smiles for *him* are real --
And it's so hard to be *professional* around --
Around a smile like --
Harvey Wayne is, objectively, an incredibly beautiful man. He just --
As of last August, he was approximately six feet, one inch tall, and, given his
musculature, somewhere between one hundred sixty and one hundred seventy
pounds. His hair, which *he* feels no need to keep as long as fashion demands,
is a thick, dark brown with the sort of wave which must require a great deal of
--
Care --
It's too *easy* to imagine Bruce running his fingers through Harvey's hair, too
easy to imagine him *gripping* it --
He's never *seen* it happen, but he's seen the way they look at each other
sometimes, seen the way Harvey's lips part when Bruce narrows his eyes in a
certain way, seen Bruce's eyes fill with nothing but *hunger* when Harvey
throws his head back to *laugh* -- though he usually only does that *for* Bruce
--
Or for Martha Wayne.
He doesn't want to think about Martha Wayne. He --
Harvey's shoulders are broad, and his arms are long, and strong. When he wears
a t-shirt, the definition and *power* of his musculature is obvious, *clear*.
Harvey played baseball at Exeter, and, Tim knows, continues to play any number
of sports recreationally at Yale, while also working out steadily in other,
less organized ways.
When Harvey is dressed in only shorts and a t-shirt --
When he's sweating and smiling --
He tans so *dark* --
Tim licks his lips, tasting the strange and worrying sweetness of Gotham water
and wanting --
He wants sweat again, wants dark copper skin and muscle --
Harvey has so little *body* hair --
He has so little body *odor* because of it --
But if Tim were to kneel and press his face to Harvey's groin --
Yeah, that's the ticket, little guy...
Oh -- oh, he can't groan in the *shower* --
Mmm, you... you've been waitin' for *just* this, haven't you?
There are too many *echoes* --
And Harvey's hands are callused from baseball, writing --
He'd mentioned *handball*, too --
Basketball --
*Those* shorts are so --
Tim wants to *see* --
But Harvey could cup the back of Tim's neck and *grip* --
Gotcha now, little guy... or maybe I should just call you little brother...?
Tim groans -- *no*, too *loud*, but he's so clumsy right now that just
attempting to cover his mouth leads to him nearly *punching* himself --
Yeah, you're my little brother, all right. Tiny little thing... but don't think
I haven't noticed you gettin' stronger --
No --
No. No. He won't --
He can't notice -- or. Of course Harvey is very intelligent and observant, but
Tim can't just -- just *assume* --
Can't let himself fantasize about something that might not *happen* --
That would be --
He can't *expose* himself to that kind of *disappointment*. Too many
disappointments at a young age lead to... to... difficulties. *Emotional*
difficulties of the sort that Tim would dearly like to *avoid*.
When he's an adult, he will be escorting people to Arkham Asylum -- *not* the
other way around. And --
And. He has yet to discern a method for forcing his erections to subside. He --
He retains *hope* that such a thing is possible without the excruciating pain
of *tucking* while erect, but, for now --
He tucks.
And grits his teeth.
And finishes sluicing off.
The sudden, *desperately* wonderful image of Bruce forcing Harvey back against
a tiled wall and washing him clean with his massive hands, so powerful, so --
Tim shivers and explains to his penis that *that* is what Harvey likes, and
that that is what he will *continue* liking for the foreseeable future. When
his mother had brought Tim to Thomas Wayne for his last physical, the man had
explained that Tim would likely never grow much taller than five feet, nine
inches -- assuming he reached *that* height -- and that he would likely always
remain lean.
Even the *women* Harvey dates are statuesque --
And Tim isn't hard anymore. Knowing his body's schedule, he'll be hard enough
again by mid-morning to *require* another masturbatory experience, but --
Perhaps he'll have Harvey out of his mind by then.
Tim steps out of the shower, dries himself, and dresses. In an hour, he'll fix
himself breakfast -- Berenice has, at least, proven herself to be reasonably
competent at acquiring the groceries Tim requests for the meals he prepares for
himself -- but, for now, he's going to make his third attempt at slogging
through Kent Nelson's books on Eastern mysticism. He's not at *all* sure if
there's anything in the books which can help him -- other than, of course, the
chapters on meditation and energy -- but if he's going to present himself to
the JSA someday --
If he's going to insist on being taken as someone useful, someone already
*partially* prepared --
He reads.
At the end of the hour, he goes downstairs and prepares himself a large meal of
Kathleen's homemade whole-milk yogurt mixed with her granola as well as a cup
and a half of blueberries. Six months ago, he would've balked hard at eating
this much to start the day, but he *does* have a larger appetite now than he
did before, and, as far as he's concerned, every pound gained is a victory over
his genetic blueprint.
Not that there's anything wrong with his mother --
Or Thomas Wayne --
He'd like to ask the man so many questions. The fact is, were his mother to dye
her auburn hair black, wear colored contact lenses to -- *slightly* -- soften
the blue of her eyes, surrender half an inch of height, and allow herself to
age more dramatically, she could *almost* be Martha Wayne's twin. As it is, any
number of people who really should have already known better -- assuming they
*hadn't* in fact known better and simply not cared -- have made comments along
the lines of how his mother and Martha could easily be sisters.
Does Thomas Wayne only have *one* type? And -- his mother had been quite clear
about the fact that the very, very quiet rumors about Thomas Wayne making use
of high-end escort services from time to time are true. His tastes are --
What of those women? What do they *look* like?
How shallow *is* he?
Martha Wayne and his mother are nothing alike in terms of temperament and
personality. His mother and Thomas Wayne can and do discuss the world of
business and their respective companies for hours at a time, whereas, if his
mother were to be tested on the contents of either of the literary journals
Martha Wayne edits -- and which they subscribe to for the sake of appearances -
- the results would be dismal at *best*.
*Tim* reads them every quarter, of course -- just in case -- but he's
reasonably sure his mother hasn't read a novel since graduating from Hudson
University, and that she's entirely pleased by that.
He'd also like to know what sort of things...
Was it a matter of Martha Wayne not appreciating the same sorts of things his
mother clearly does? The Psychopathia Sexualis and the Kinsey Report -
- difficult to acquire, but not *impossible* -- were quite clear about the fact
that any number of people enjoy sadomasochism, though they were far less clear
about *why*. Still, it remains recreation for the *minority*, and thus...
What?
Tim doubts -- sincerely -- that Jason Blood scatters rose petals on a sleigh
bed for Martha Wayne. It's just that there's a great deal of room between
*that*, and...
And the need for robes that provide full coverage.
This train of thought isn't doing very much for his appetite *or* peace of
mind, and so Tim meditates, focusing on the grain of wood in the kitchen table
--
The tick of the clock --
The creak of the door to the servants' quarters -- Berenice is awake.
Tim abandons meditation and simply focuses on eating at a measured pace until
she enters the kitchen. *Her* robe is pink, fluffy, and ends at mid-thigh. It
gaps over her impressive chest.
She's already wearing *heels* --
Tim bids her good morning, and she smiles at him with an *empty* brightness
which speaks voluminously about the many, many questions about the world and
her place in it which she will never care to ask.
Tim has watched her struggling to read a bag of *coffee* --
And *not* one of the foreign ones --
She bids him good morning, *hugs* him --
She still smells a little like Jack's cologne.
She --
Tim pats her back, thanks her aloud for the hug and silently for the extra time
she had given him to be free of sexual arousal, and finishes his breakfast
while she puts the 'cuffee' on.
The fact that she's up this early *strongly* suggests that Jack will be rising
early, too, and so Tim simply retrieves the newspapers and puts them in the
usual place before returning to his bedroom. In a good week, he can limit the
amount of time he spends in Jack's presence to under two hours.
He would very much like to beat his record.
He stretches slowly and thoroughly for half an hour, meditates for forty-five
minutes, then returns to the mysticism. He's not due at the dojo for another
seven hours, and while he would *like* to simply spend all day there, it's a
Saturday. The senseis will be busy with younger students until well into the
afternoon, and there simply won't be any *space* for him.
He will do katas on his own once he's digested more of his --
The knock is 'shave and a haircut.'
Tim knocks 'two bits' on his desk reflexively, *fights* back a *beam* until
it's just a smile --
And knows Harvey can see it in his eyes just the same. He --
"Do I get a hug, little guy?"
"I -- yes," Tim says, standing and feeling awkward and clumsy and *wrong* until
--
Until he's hugging Harvey, who is tall and beautiful and smells like the dark
and *faintly* sweet Adon cologne which is either his favorite, or his favorite
cologne for occasions when he knows he'll be seeing Tim.
Tim had spent the two hours at Scents and Sensibility he required to be sure
which colognes Harvey favored. He'd purchased all of them, as well as a small
selection of scents for himself.
He tries --
He doesn't sniff the Adon very often.
Only sometimes --
"Hey, somebody's put some *muscle* on. Nice!"
He'll be sniffing it tonight --
Harvey is gripping Tim's *biceps* --
Pushing him back --
Grinning down at him *proudly* --
He'll definitely be sniffing it tonight. It -- it's important to acknowledge
one's --
"So what have you been -- oh, I *see* those weights over there," and Harvey
lets go of him --
And Tim breathes --
And doesn't sway on his feet --
Harvey is wearing a t-shirt and *jeans*, just like he doesn't *care* that
Thomas Wayne is his father, like --
But he doesn't have to care.
And he looks -- very, very nice.
And he picks up the barbell Tim *struggles* to bench-press... with one hand.
And whistles.
"Harvey."
"Hey, hey, don't gimme that sour-puss. You're *thirteen*. I wasn't lifting this
much when *I* started out, and I was *bigger* than you," and Harvey raises his
slim, dark eyebrows at him.
They're very nice eyebrows --
He's not going to be an *idiot* --
"I -- all right," Tim says, and tries very hard to breathe through his need to
blush. Very, very --
Harvey smiles *gently* and jerks his chin at him. "So gimme the skinny, hunh?
Weights and what else?"
"I -- ah. Karate?"
"Oh, yeah? Some kinda Bruce Lee action going on?"
The blush is just -- going to be on his face. He has to accept that, too. And
it's time for the cover story -- the one he hasn't actually *needed* to use at
*all* --
No, he's not going to think about that.
He's just going to smile like *this*, and -- "It occurred to me that, given my
body type, I would probably have better luck with the martial arts than I would
with nearly any other sport."
Harvey gives him a *shrewd* look and sets the barbell down gently and easily.
"You sure about that, little guy?"
Tim blinks. "I -- yes? I mean --"
"You're absolutely, *positively* sure about that?"
"Ah --"
"'cause I'm thinking maybe... heh," and Harvey turns to walk to Tim's largest
window, pushing aside the curtains and looking out at Gotham. Or possibly at
Tim's dearly beloved tree.
"Harvey?"
"Nuh-uh, that's not what you call me," Harvey says, but he sounds...
distracted. Distant.
Tim frowns and -- doesn't ball his hands into fists. "Are. Are *you* sure --"
"Oh -- damn. Sorry, that --" Harvey shakes himself in a distinctly canine way,
drops the curtains, and turns to face Tim again, leaning back against the wall
and crossing his arms over his chest. His muscular, beautiful --
He's not as *big* as Bruce and he doesn't *need* to be --
" -- with me, little guy?"
*Damn* it -- "Yes, I'm sorry," Tim says, and smiles ruefully. "I -- I woke up
early to work out."
Harvey raises his eyebrows again. "But you do that every day. Don't you?"
"Yes --"
"But you were up late last night...?" And Harvey's smile is *sly*.
"Ah... I was. Actually." He won't know until he gives himself time in his
basement darkroom, but he thinks he took some very passable pictures of Hour-
Man *and* Dr. Mid-Nite.
Harvey raises his eyebrows *higher*... but then he nods and looks down at the
floor. "Would you... no. No." He looks up at Tim again. "First off? You
*always* call me Harv, unless you're *really* pissed at me, okay? Aside from my
parents, Alfred, and Dr. Thompkins, the only people who call me Harvey are
people who can take a flying leap. Okay?"
"Does that include *my* parents?"
Harvey looks *horrified* for a moment --
Tim wants to *kick* himself -- "I --"
"Don't," Harvey says, and holds up a hand. "'cause that's the second thing I
wanted to say. Wanted to *have*."
"I. Yes?"
"I wanna make a deal with you, little guy."
"What. What kind of deal?"
Harvey smiles ruefully. "Honesty. Just -- honesty. I'll never bullshit you, and
you -- you'll pretend that you can trust me with anything you want. Because I
*promise* that you can."
Tim doesn't *mean* to rear back, but --
"Yeah, I know, it's kinda -- I always let your little lies and half-truths
slide. *Especially* when it has to do with your parents... and not-parents."
Tim's hands are sweating. That, more than anything else, lets him know --
"So who taught you how to make a fist, hunh? It couldn't have been your
parents, and I *know* the school you go to doesn't *half* have that kind of
thing to deal with," Harvey says, and pushes up off the wall.
Tim blushes *again* --
And Harvey nods thoughtfully. "That's another lie you wanna tell me. I think I
knew it would be already. But it doesn't have to be, okay? I'm never gonna get
on you for *anything*, little guy. I'm not..." Harvey bites his lip for a
moment and closes the distance between them, cupping Tim's shoulders again and
squeezing -- firmly. Not hard. "I like you. You're my brother. I'm *your*
brother. Those things aren't gonna change. Get me?"
"I. I like you. Too. Ah."
Harvey grins. "I know you do. I could always feel it. Like maybe I was making
something a little better just by showing up here --"
"A lot -- a lot," Tim says, frowning and looking down because he *has* to --
Except that Harvey has his fingers beneath Tim's chin --
Harvey is lifting Tim's *face* -- "Harv --"
"Yeah. Tell me a secret?"
"Ah. Could you. Be more specific?"
The smile on Harvey's face... quirks. "Are you playing for time?"
"Maybe...?"
Harvey snickers and... chucks Tim's chin. "Okay, I'll tell *you* a secret. I
think Martha Wayne is one of the scariest people I've ever met. Not society-
scary. Not even *mom*-scary. Scary *period*."
Tim frowns. "You... make it sound as though you're *physically* afraid of her."
"And maybe that's ridiculous, little guy...?" Harvey chucks Tim's chin again.
"Watch your back around her. *Always*."
Tim blinks... a lot.
And *keeps* blinking, because Harvey isn't laughing, and his smile doesn't
speak of jokes, or even of 'jokes.' It's a *pained* smile, and a *worried*
smile --
"Harv...?"
"I... ah. I'm not softening that one bit, Tim. Watch your back. Just like I
know you can, because -- well. Tell me a secret. I'll even be specific," Harvey
says, and holds Tim's chin in *place*. "Tell me what you want to *do* when
you're an adult."
"I -- I've thought about being a psychiatrist --"
"No."
"But -- I do -- I'm very interested in abnormal psychology. Of course, I'll
have to take over Drake Industries --"
"Tim. Why are you lifting?"
"Because -- because I hate being *skinny* --"
"Why are you... a purple belt? A brown belt?"
"Brown --"
"Tell me. And I'll tell *you* more secrets. Okay?"
Tim's heart is beating -- very fast.
Tim is chewing on the inside of his *cheek* --
And Harvey is frowning.
Harvey is frowning, and that means he'll leave, doesn't it? He'll leave, and
he'll be disappointed, and this time he won't come back, won't --
He'll *never* come back, and Tim will be alone, and he won't have a brother,
any brother --
Never --
He'll never --
"Maybe -- maybe I'm pushing --"
"*Please*! I."
Harvey blinks. "Hey, it's okay, it's okay, I don't mean to -- damn, I'm really
doin' this all wrong, c'mere," and Harvey pulls Tim in for another hug -- "Oh,
you're *shaking*. Jesus, I'm really messing you *up* here --"
"No -- no, it's okay --"
"It's not --"
"You never -- you never *hurt* me -- and I, I'll tell you, I'll tell you
anything --"
"You don't have to --"
"It's just -- I don't know -- I don't know if you *keep* secrets --"
And Harvey's laugh is explosive, breathless --
Tim pulls --
Tim *tries* to pull away, but Harvey won't let him. Harvey is *strong*,
*exactly* as strong as he looks --
Tim doesn't *moan* --
"I only laughed because I been keeping secrets my whole life, little guy,"
Harvey says -- *whispers*. In Tim's *ear* --
Tim *shivers* --
"All nineteen years of it. I -- I won't rat you out to *anyone*, okay? It's
just us. And -- maybe Bruce someday?" And *then* Harvey pulls back, but only
far enough that he can look into Tim's eyes.
Which. Tim never wants to *frown* like this at Harvey, but --
"Yeah, okay, I knew *that* wouldn't fly all that straight," and Harvey's laugh
is a little better. "How's this: he knows exactly how bad he's treated you."
"He -- he has no reason to treat me *well* -- *mm* --" And those are Harvey's
*fingers* on his *mouth* --
"Not that, little guy. *None* of that, because I'll tell you something: I am
freaking *sick* of this family -- and we *are* a family -- acting like maybe
it's *okay* to treat each other like crap even when nobody's done anything
*wrong*. And -- okay, I got another secret for you. One I *didn't* tell Bruce,
yet, and I'm hoping *you* won't tell him, either. You ready?"
He never *talks* to Bruce -- he nods.
"Jason Blood told Mom you were gonna save Bruce's life soon. And this -- look,
I *know* you're looking to be a vigilante when you grow up, okay? You don't
have to -- and there's the blush anyway. Did you think I'd screw with you about
that? I *saw your face* when we talked about the JSA. Every *time* we talked
about the JSA. A kid like you -- you should be going out there to make friends
or at least start scamming on chicks with that sweet little body you're
building for yourself, but no, you're just working *harder*. And studying
*mysticism*. And *boxing* -- you think I forget *anything* you tell me?" And
Harvey *scans* his bookshelf -- "Heh. And *other* martial arts, too, goin' by
that section right there by all the anatomy books." He smiles and shakes his
head. "I know, okay? And it's okay by me."
All Tim can do is stare. And --
Just --
"My interests -- all sorts of people --"
"Are interested in the JSA. Yeah, I *know*. But why don't you go with the fact
that I have *two* brothers, and that maybe those brothers have something in
*common*," Harvey says, and raises his eyebrows again, moving his fingers back
to Tim's chin.
"What -- I don't -- what. Are you saying?"
Harvey grins ruefully. "Well -- that's *his* secret to tell. But I think you
already know."
Tim shakes his head *dumbly*. He can't --
Bruce is already brilliant and muscular and -- and *huge* --
Bruce probably won't have to --
The JSA would *welcome* --
Bruce wouldn't have to -- to *work* --
Tim hears himself make a *terrible* sound, and that -- no. He backs up, and
he... he tugs his polo shirt down, and he neatens his hair --
No, he's not going to *fidget* --
They'll never want *him* if they can have --
"Little guy?"
No, no, no --
"I was thinking... I was thinkin' maybe this would *help*," Harvey says, and he
actually sounds *confused*, and that's --
That's *hilarious* --
Tim should *laugh* --
He can't. He can't.
Dinah would probably... probably find Bruce *extremely* attractive -- her late
husband was a relatively large, hirsute man --
Dinah wouldn't even *see* Tim if Bruce were in the flower shop --
"Little guy...? C'mon, talk to me --"
"No. No. Please. I think. I think. I need. I have work to do --"
"Ah, Christ, what did I *say*?"
"How can you not *know*?" And that was a *blurt*, and it was too loud, and he's
never supposed to yell --
He's supposed to have *control* --
Harvey --
Harvey looks *confused*, and -- what would his mother do in a situation like
this one? He can't *fire* Harvey, and he doesn't want to. He just --
He just can't talk to him right *now*. So. Tim stands up straight again, and
takes a deep breath. "I would like for you to leave now, Harvey -- Harv.
Please."
And now Harvey looks -- wounded. *Hurt*.
That --
Tim shakes his head and reaches out because he *has* to -- except that doing
that leads to Harvey *gripping* his hand --
Twining their fingers *together* --
His hand is so much *bigger* --
"Tell me what I did."
"I -- it's not --"
"Tell me what I did so I can freakin' *fix* it, Tim. I -- you know I need you
happy, right?"
Tim shivers *hard* --
"Yeah, c'mon, just *tell* me. *Whatever* it is --"
"You can't. You can't fix it."
"*Tim* --"
"You can't make Bruce... smaller. Or less competent. Or -- less desirable. You
can't make me... more. Ah. You can't make me more of anything," Tim says, and
forces himself to keep looking up as he *tries* to tug his hand away from
Harvey's --
It doesn't work. It --
"Please, Harv --"
"Tim... Jesus, little guy, you think this is... some kinda crazy
*competition*?"
("Listen to me *very* carefully, Tim: you're the *second*. You will always *be*
the second. Others have relished this position, but only because *their* firsts
have been, in some way, inadequate. *You* don't have that luxury... and you
never, ever will.")
There's no way he can *say* that --
He shouldn't *have* to --
And Harvey inhales sharply and nods. "That's exactly what it is, isn't it?
You're supposed to be better than Bruce, and maybe -- no. *Definitely* you were
hoping there was at least *one* thing you'd never have to compete with him for.
Yeah?"
Tim -- doesn't chew his cheek again. He doesn't *sniff*. He nods. Once.
Harvey nods again -- and *yanks* Tim close --
"Oh --"
And kisses his forehead *hard* --
Tim makes an even *worse* noise --
"Little guy. Little *brother*. You think maybe Black Canary is having arm-
wrestling contests with Wildcat in that headquarters of theirs?"
"I --"
"Or maybe Dr. Mid-Nite is chesting up against Doctor Fate about which of them
can see better under the worst conditions? That freaking helmet's gotta be
*awful*."
"You -- that's ridiculous --"
"Yeah," Harvey says, and pulls back again. "It *really* is. Because I don't
know *jack* about superheroes, but I *still* know enough to know that they're
all freaking *different*. Hell, that's why they *have* a team." And Harvey
isn't just looking into Tim's eyes, he's --
He's *willing* knowledge into him by main *force* --
He --
"You --" Have such beautiful, deep-set eyes. "Ah."
"Yeah, little guy? You're hearing me a little, maybe?"
He wants to. He *always* -- "It. It seems... too easy."
"Like maybe lifting is easy? And -- you changed up your diet, too, didn't you?"
"One. One of my senseis is a nutritionist --"
"Uh, huh. I can see you got a little meat on you. And a body like yours -- you
had to *work* to put it on."
Tim blushes *again* --
"*And* the karate, too. Heh. *Bruce* hasn't done that, yet. You could probably
teach him a few things."
He doesn't *want* --
("Listen *carefully* --")
He can learn by *himself* --
He can --
Tim lifts his chin. "That would require him exchanging more than banal
pleasantries with me."
Harvey's smile is wry enough to suggest that he'd overheard *everything* in
Tim's mind, and --
And perhaps he'll simply continue to blush. Tim swallows --
"Like I said, little guy -- he knows he's done wrong by you."
"I don't. I don't *require* --"
"Anything from him? Maybe not. But he needs *you* --"
"And you need him to have me, yes, I know. Well, I certainly have no intention
of letting him *die* if I can help it --"
Harvey holds up his free hand. "I need us, okay? *Us*."
Tim frowns. "What. What does that mean?"
Harvey *squeezes* Tim's hand. "Brothers. All of us. Because -- okay, Bruce? On
the *surface*, he's a lot like Dad. Formal. Correct. *Conservative*. And you've
seen that, yeah?"
"Yes, of course."
"Uh, huh. Underneath? Nothing like that. He's all emotion. All -- heat and art
and *passion*. Running through him like a freakin' *river*. All the *time*. He
spent his whole damned childhood *desperate* for someone to *share* that with,
and there was no one. *No* one."
"Until -- until you."
Harvey nods. "And you know all about that, too, don't you."
"I'm not -- I'm not especially passionate --"
"*Bullshit*."
"I'm *not* --"
"You're on *fire* inside, little guy. Anyone who looks you in the eye -- heh.
No. Anyone who looks you in the eye when you're not *hiding* can see it. And
you don't hide from me."
"It -- you -- it's what you *want* --"
"And that's the only reason for it, maybe...?" And Harvey tilts his head to the
side and smiles again. "You never go a little wild when Black Canary kicks the
living hell outta some bank robber? You never get crazy when you're *alone*?"
"I'm *always* alone -- let *go* --"
"No."
"*Please* --"
"*No*. *Talk* to me. Just -- be *honest* with me, okay? *Be* my brother. I'll
give you everything *about* me --"
Tim growls -
"Yeah, like *that* --"
"Oh -- what do you *want* from me? You already *have* a brother you can fuck!"
Harvey blinks and -- rears back. Loosens his *grip*.
Tim doesn't want --
He yanks his hand away and takes a step back because it's the right thing to
do, the best thing, he has to -- to establish control --
"So that was -- you know that was the first time you ever cursed in front of
me?"
"Should I have called it 'making love'?"
Harvey shakes himself again -- and snorts. And grins at him. "Yeah, maybe. No,
definitely. That's what it is. *Every* time --"
"I -- I'm *happy* for you --"
"Are you? How much *have* you been watching?"
Tim -- doesn't narrow his eyes. His mother is always very obvious when she does
that. She --
Harvey nods like he had done it, anyway. "I think you want to be closer to me."
"You're welcome to think --"
"I'd *like* for you to admit it -- things go a lot smoother when people admit
that kinda thing to each other -- but I *don't* actually need you to. So I'm
just gonna say this: I wanna be closer to *you*. I want us *all* to be close. I
want people to look at us -- the *three* of us -- and know that if they try to
mess with -- *fuck* with -- one of us? They'd be *fucking* with all of us. I
want the Wayne brothers to take *over* this *fucking* godawful family, and
then? I want us to take over this whole *fucking* town. You're smart, funny,
loving, dedicated, and, yeah, *passionate*. The same goes for me and Bruce. We
*belong* together, little guy --"
"You -- you sound like you want a *threesome* --"
"And *you* sound like you either spent too much time spanking it this morning
or not *enough* -- but I was thirteen not all that long ago, so I
*understand*," and Harvey *waggles* his eyebrows --
Tim *flushes* --
"Ah, Tim, brother -- how's this: ask me any question, anytime. *Call* me
anytime. *Visit* me anytime. *You'll always be welcome.* That? Is what
brotherhood means to *me*. Okay?"
He can't. There's nothing. He doesn't know what to *say*. He's standing here
*staring* --
He doesn't know what to --
He's shaking his head, and he has to *stop* that, because Harvey is frowning
again --
He can't --
"I can't have this!" Tim blurts again, and there's something -- it feels like
there's something behind his *eyes*, or maybe in his sinuses, and he doesn't
know what it is, and he's frightened, so frightened --
"What can't you have, little guy?" And Harvey's voice is so *gentle* --
What will his mother *say* -- other than to tell him to take advantage, take
*every* advantage, get *close* --
Tim hears himself make another *sound*, and heroes are better than this, heroes
--
Heroes can *smile* when good things happen, and -- and *recognize* them without
*fighting* --
And this. Isn't this a good thing?
A part of Tim is only kneeling amidst a -- a *flutter* of Harvey memories,
studying and examining, indexing and collating, trying to put *this* into some
--
Some sort of *context* --
And Harvey is moving closer again, and if he touches Tim again --
If he touches Tim before Tim can -- can figure this *out* --
He cups Tim's face --
He cups Tim's *face*, and the silence is staggering, *shocking*, because Tim is
moaning in his mind so much, so loudly, so *desperately* --
If Tim opens his mouth, he'll *beg* --
And Harvey strokes Tim's cheekbones with his thumbs, stares into his eyes and
searches him, *sees* him --
He *must* see --
There's something behind his *eyelids* -- only it's not really *behind* them,
at all, because he's --
He's *leaking* --
All the moisture is blurring his *vision* and he's *leaking* --
"Ah, Tim..."
Tim shudders, and he can't move, he can't even *move*, because Harvey has never
*touched* his cheekbones before, never --
His thumbs are so *hard*, so *rough*, and Tim thinks that if he could just
*feel* them between his teeth, taste *lightly* --
Not lick, not that, but just bite *down*, and hold, and *touch* with the tip of
his tongue until Harvey's salt makes him salivate, until he has to pull back to
avoid getting Harvey wet, *messy* --
"-- you out of here? Please?"
Tim blinks and stares -- dumbly. There are more *tears* rolling down his cheeks
--
And Harvey pulls a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wipes them away like
Tim is *four*. He --
Tim steps back --
"Okay, okay, but take it?"
"I -- yes," Tim says, and wipes his eyes, and tries to will himself to stop -
- crying. That is the correct word for what he's doing. Wonderful. Just --
At this rate, he'll *ejaculate* on the man next.
Laughing at himself does, however, make it easier to -- eventually -- catch his
breath. His cheeks feel hot, his eyes hurt, and his nose feels *swollen* --
He blows his nose, which is the absolute *last* thing he's ever wanted to do
with a handkerchief that smells like Harvey and Adon.
And Harvey really is just standing here petting his hair. And his back.
And periodically rubbing his *shoulders*. Like -- like this is *normal* --
"I'm sorry," Tim says, when he can control his voice. It's still too low and
rough --
"You got nothing to apologize for. I promise."
Tim frowns and -- folds the handkerchief --
"*Nothing*."
"Harv --"
"You think I don't cry sometimes? You think *Bruce* doesn't cry?"
"You -- you have *reason* --"
"And so do you," Harvey says, and spins Tim around to face him. "You gotta let
this stuff out sometimes, okay? That's -- all right, I *hated* having to go to
Dr. Feelgood --"
"What -- what?"
"Heh." Harvey grins and -- chucks him under the chin again. "That's what I
called Dr. Feeney. And I *think* you know all about why I was seeing *her*,
yeah?"
The warnings in his mind for that are -- themselves. But they push the tears
even further back, and, perhaps, it would be all right to simply nod --
"So say it."
Or not. "I --" Tim *tries* to look down -- Harvey won't let him. All right.
"You were... abused. By your biological father. The rumors suggest that the
abuse was physical and... extensive."
"It really was," Harvey says, and smiles ruefully. "And I... well, I was a mess
by the time I was your age, really. Bruce saved me just by being there and
being *himself* --"
"And -- by loving you. Liking you."
Harvey blinks -- and smiles a little more widely. "Yeah, that helped. That
helped one whole hell of a lot -- lemme get us out of here? Just for a while?"
"Or --" Longer than that. Much -- Tim frowns at himself, but doesn't even try
to turn away. He knows it won't work.
"'Or'?"
Tim shakes his head. "It's not -- I often want to... spend time with you."
Harvey *grins*. Like -- like Tim had said something *good* --
*Worthwhile* --
"So you *will* come with me?"
"I -- have to go to karate --"
"What time?"
Tim blushes *hard* -- "Ah... four-thirty. I know -- you probably didn't mean
that you wanted to spend that much time -- I'm sorry --"
"I'll drop you off. Maybe watch you kick a little ass?" And Harvey waggles his
eyebrows again.
And Tim... finds himself grateful for every moment of practice he's had of
*living* with ridiculous erections, because he's certainly going to have to do
just that -- today.
*All* day.
With *Harvey* --
"So...?"
"Ah. Ah. Let me get my... my gi. And my -- just a few other -- I'll be ready in
a minute."
Harvey grins *again*. "Well, all *right*. I'll go tell your maid what we're up
to so she can tell your parents when they're up -- uh. What's her *name*? She's
not the same as the last one you guys had."
"Ah... no. She isn't. Her name is Berenice." And she might not *remember* --
And my parents might not *notice* --
And it doesn't *matter* --
But Harvey's already out of Tim's room. He --
There *is* a part of Tim which is only insisting that Harvey will leave, that
it was all a joke, a *mean* joke --
That Harvey will *laugh* at him with Bruce, and somehow his mother will find
out about it, and --
And then --
And then, perhaps, his mind will *collapse* under the weight of his own
paranoia. Tim smirks at himself in the mirror --
And deals with the fact that the bravado only *quiets* the thoughts -- as
opposed to chasing them away -- by the simple expedient of gathering his
things.
He --
He *has* to try this.
He'd *promised* himself that he could have as much of Harvey's companionship as
Harvey wanted to *offer*. And -- well, he'd been *nine* at the time, but that
doesn't mean the promise is worthless. It --
Children aren't always *wrong*.
And Tim is as prepared as he's likely *to* be. He --
He goes.
*
***** June 2000: Tim, Barbara, And Bruce -- and Martha and Thomas *****
"You were *adorable*," Barbara says from the bed. She's resting on her stomach
with her socked feet kicking in the air, and she would do something truly
horrible to him if he were to share footage of the pose with Stephanie.
There are some things the Batwoman never, ever does.
Or, at the very least, never, ever admits to.
Tim has moved back to his wheelchair -- his lower back prefers it to the bed
whenever he's watching something -- but he is close enough to touch Barbara's
hair. He winds a lock of it around his index finger. "Adorable enough to catch
*your* attention...?"
Barbara shows her teeth to... the room at large. "You built a computer in your
bedroom. In the *seventies*."
"Oh, yes."
"You stalked superheroes -- and trained yourself to *become* one."
"It seemed the thing to do."
Barbara looks at him from under her -- moderately -- thick eyelashes. "You
jerked off in front of your *mirror*."
Tim raises an eyebrow. "What better way to be sure of my form...?"
Barbara purses her lips.
Tim raises his eyebrow *higher* --
And Barbara snorts, giggles, and snorts *harder*. "You *weren't* joking about
that."
Tim smiles and leans back, rolling his shoulders slightly -- the pain levels
are quite low tonight. "I had extensive fantasies of performing for a lover."
"You hardly ever *do* that."
Tim unwinds Barbara's hair from around his finger and spreads his hands.
"Actual sexual experience taught me to enjoy other things far, far more."
"I'm tempted to pout."
"You *do* have the mouth for it."
She sticks her tongue out at him -- something else that never happens when
Stephanie is around. "But thank you. *You* know my kinks."
Tim shows his own teeth. "Adequately."
"Fine. *Be* a bitch --"
"All right."
Barbara snorts again and throws a pillow at him -- far too lightly.
Tim pretends not to notice her care as he plucks it out of the air and throws
it back. "So you *don't* want more of Harvey's inimitable Harveyness...?"
"I -- mm. I didn't say that. I definitely didn't -- it's not *fair* that I'm
somehow still too young for him --"
"You're not," Tim says, and lifts the leg-rests on the chair. "That's just his
excuse."
"His -- all right, what *is* the real reason?"
"The mathematics of distance," and Tim massages his thighs --
"Let *me* do that --"
"I'm strengthening my hands, as well. I promise I'm not simply... being
myself."
Barbara looks at him *narrowly* for a long moment --
"I promise," Tim says, and smiles ruefully. "Dick... made his point, earlier."
She narrows her eyes *more* -- but then nods. "Jay did say you were behaving at
dinner. All right, talk mathematics to me."
"He's never forgiven himself for becoming sexually involved with *me* when *I*
was the violent teenager in question --"
"Oh -- but --"
"A part of him *also* never forgave the rest for 'corrupting' Bruce back in...
hmm... yes, that would've been 'seventy-four."
"That --"
"*That* allowed him to forgive *both* of us quite handily when you and Dick
came along and Bruce and I -- as Harvey put it -- 'tripped over our own
dicks.'"
"Oh, for -- all right, that's *convenient*, but, come *on*!"
Tim laughs quietly and digs *in* against his quadriceps. "If vigilantes B.W.
and T.D. were 'too young' for D.A. H.W., then not only is it comprehensible for
those vigilantes to take up with other young vigilantes, but those other young
vigilantes *must* be 'too young' for H.W., and thus untouchable in every -
- *every* -- possible way."
Barbara's expression speaks eloquently of pain for Harvey, but --
"Be gentle, Barbara. We've asked him to accept a great, great deal -- and he's
done just that."
"How often do you let him *rescue* you?"
"Not very. When... when he needs it," Tim says, and moves to his other thigh.
"Would you like to know *why* he needs it?"
The vicious look on her face lasts for another moment -- and then crumbles
dramatically. "He -- told me about his mother."
"Did he tell you that he'd tracked her down?"
"Oh -- God. No. I take it there's a reason she's not in his life?"
Tim smiles ruefully. "She won't take anything from him. Not his forgiveness,
not his money, and not his presence. She'll never forgive *herself* for running
away and leaving him to Lester Dent's tender mercies, and... well. I believe
that's an attitude we can understand...?"
Barbara's expression is somewhat *queasy* now. "I -- yes. Let's go back to
other people's pasts now, please."
"Would you like to --"
"No. Unless..."
"I'm listening, Barbara."
"Were you maybe *not* about to ask me if I wanted to talk about my own
childhood? *Again*?"
Tim smiles at her ruefully. "Such things are somewhat... de rigueur. At times
like this."
She flaps a hand at him -- and then uses it to point to the viewscreen.
"As you say. Any particular requests?"
She reaches up and back to grip her ankles, pulling them down toward her
shoulders in a stretch --
Tim's smile isn't rueful anymore. "I remember Dick teaching you how to do
that."
"I remember you pretending you didn't have a truly *impressive* erection under
your jock. Uncle Brother."
"Hnn. These things happen. Little sister."
Barbara gives him a *hot* look --
And Bruce's knocks have been the same since he was a teenager -- only just hard
enough for the sound to carry, and eminently polite.
"Come in," Tim says, and sets the controller for the machine on the worktable
Bruce never touches without *invitation*.
When Bruce walks in, all he's wearing are a tightly-woven undershirt of the
sort he prefers for when he'll be suited-up *imminently*, and a pair of black
boxer briefs. He is tall, scarred, beautiful, and huge.
He is *cautiously* happy -- that much is clear by his expression -- and he is
carrying a bowl of fruit which is heavy on red plums, white peaches, and red
grapes -- Barbara's favorites.
She twists out of her stretch and sits upright on the edge of the bed. "I was
already planning to stay a while, but thank you, Bruce."
"You're quite welcome," he says, and his voice is -- a touch.
A *caress*.
It wasn't always that way --
It has been for so long that sometimes Tim isn't sure *why* his mind insists on
reminding him of the time before --
Why he can't simply let it *go* --
And, of course, there is a large, warm hand on his shoulder, and another on the
back of his working right hand. Bruce is crouching beside the chair. "I presume
you've already forbidden Barbara the right to help with this." His smile is a
caress, too.
"You presume correctly," Tim says, and smiles helplessly. "My hand strength --"
"Has not slipped in the past month. You haven't let it," Bruce says, and raises
an eyebrow at him.
Tim can *feel* Barbara glaring at him -- but.
"I feel weaker. All over."
Bruce nods. "You are not... but I believe I can understand how such a feeling
can come to pass. Brother... will you tell me of your project?" And Bruce's
eyes are wide and full --
Bruce's hands are *gentle* --
Bruce's *scent*, free of all of Bruce Wayne's colognes, is something to be
sought, to be *reached* for --
("I'd like. I'd like to begin again. If you... if you think we can.")
And the rage in Tim had been a desperate thing, hungry and --
("Please.")
Here, in this moment, Tim can stop working on his quadriceps and smile
ruefully. "Sometimes I think that I've spent the past twenty-two years trying -
- unsuccessfully -- to find a way to say no to you."
Bruce frowns --
And, this time, Barbara doesn't reduce the force of her pillow-toss, at all.
Tim catches it, winces, and nods. He can -- do better. *Be* better. "All right,
let me try that again: Yes, I will tell you about my project. I'll tell you
absolutely everything about it, and I'll tell you in detail --"
"If -- you need do nothing of the kind if you don't wish to, brother --"
"No -- no. Not that. I..." Tim lets his smile become as crooked and broken as
he feels. "I'm not at my best, Bruce. Not -- inside."
Bruce nods once, and -- he isn't blinking.
Tim shivers. "Brother..."
"Always."
"I..." Tim shakes his head and cups Bruce's freshly-shaven cheek, stroking for
the warmth, the smoothness that won't *last* --
And Bruce turns his head enough to kiss Tim's fingertips -- but not enough to
break eye contact. He is asking -- again -- to be let in.
He *isn't* asking Tim to remember how much warmer it is -- how much *better* it
is -- when they're together in as many ways as possible -- he'd never *do* that
--
He'd never *push* that way, not when he knew Tim was hurt, broken, *hurt* --
("I *need* you -- oh. No. I'm sorry, I'm very -- I won't -- I won't *pressure*
--")
And the hell of it was that he'd *meant* that, that he *hadn't* known Tim would
throw himself at him, that he'd been *surprised* --
Tim touches Bruce's hard mouth. "I'll tell you. And... I suspect you'll dislike
it a great deal."
Bruce frowns -- but nods. "I will not interfere. I trust you."
And that --
He doesn't actually *need* Barbara's low, *impatient* growl to know -- that
he's continuing to do this wrong. He gets it anyway --
"No, Barbara, we must give Tim time --"
"No, Bruce," Tim says, and turns him back to face him. "I'm not... functioning.
And it's getting in the way of all of us functioning as a *family*. And that's
a problem."
"I will not *rush* you, brother --"
"Bruce. I'm looking into our pasts. *All* of our pasts."
Bruce blinks... and turns to *glance* at the machine before looking back at
him. "The nth metal."
"Yes. And... certain other things."
"Tim... are you certain this is *safe*?"
Tim smiles ruefully again. "I have no intention of doing anything to change the
past. I just... I want to see it. I need to see it."
Bruce frowns again and strokes Tim's thigh -- not innocently. Not --
"Bruce --"
"Brother... I am a better man than once I was."
"We all are -- *nnh* --"
Bruce's *grip* on Tim's thigh is --
Bruce knows exactly what that grip *does* to him -- "Bruce, don't --"
"Let me show you. It's been -- much too long since we've been intimate. Since
you have *allowed* us intimacy," and there's anger in Bruce's voice, and, yes,
*hunger* --
"I'm *injured* --"
"Not all of you, brother. Let me *please* you."
Tim feels himself *flushing* --
And Barbara is already at the door. She --
"Barbara, don't leave --"
"Well, since you insist," she says, and takes off her *shirt* --
"I -- I meant --"
"I *know* what you meant, Tim, but Bruce has a *very good point*," and she
leans back against the closed door to open her jeans --
Tim knows that *scent* --
It's -- it's *wrong* that he can't smell her already, that he's not there on
his knees --
His knees don't *work* that way anymore -- yet. They don't work that way *yet*,
and they will again, he just has to work, to *focus* --
To be kissed, apparently, because Bruce is looming over him, gripping Tim's
genitals through his shorts with one hand and the back of Tim's *neck* with the
other --
Bruce is moaning like the lingering taste of Château Margaux -- and of *course*
he had felt it necessary to celebrate Tim joining the family for dinner -- in
Tim's mouth is something more than irritating and unfortunate --
Tim has to brush his *teeth* --
Bruce is *squeezing* --
("I will never *pressure* you --")
And he'd believed that, hadn't he?
It had been *true* -- in some ways.
It had *always* been true, because Bruce would never --
Bruce is --
Bruce has always been --
Better --
And there's a moment when Tim thinks he'll be able to breathe, to *think* -
- Bruce's kisses have migrated to his cheek, his ear, his *throat* --
But Barbara kisses his mouth, and Barbara already tastes like peach --
How much *time* has passed --
So *sweet* --
Her lips are so --
They've always *been* so soft, and --
And she had blushed the first time Tim kissed her, freckles disappearing under
a wash of red that made Tim feel young and hungry and monstrous all at once --
His gauntleted hand was in her hair --
His *bare* hand is in her hair now --
He'd bitten --
He's biting her lip --
And she and Bruce are moaning together --
Their hands are *twined* together on the back of Tim's neck --
Tim bites her harder, growls and tries to *stand* --
He wants to push, he wants --
He *doesn't* want to be up in Bruce's arms like this --
"Oh -- God, Bruce, put him *down* before he *stabs* you!"
"I must -- *please*, brother, let us *have* this," and Bruce's eyes are wide
and wild, Bruce is looking at him as if four weeks have felt more like four
*years* --
Bruce is ignoring the stiletto Tim has pressed to the soft flesh just beneath
his left eye.
Bruce is ignoring -- everything. Except that he isn't.
Except that he knows *exactly* how much Tim is panting for this treatment,
exactly how flushed Tim is, exactly how *hard* Tim is --
"*Please*, brother!"
Tim growls and lets his stiletto fall to the worktable. Just -- "*Bed*."
And this kiss comes with motion, heat, the *careful* press of his body against
Bruce's own, the drag of all of his new scars against the duvet --
Against Barbara's skin --
And turning away from Bruce to have her is the better --
Is this valor? Is this --
What is he *gaining* by pretending he doesn't *need* --
No, no, he doesn't want to think about that, or anything but the feel of her
thick hair between the fingers of his right hand --
The feel of his shorts and boxer-briefs sliding down his legs --
"Oh -- Tim -- "
And his arms are still strong, still --
He can pull her close, pull her *over* him, because her breasts have always
been sensitive --
"*Beautiful*," Bruce says, and Tim can feel him watching, feel him *studying*
the way he had when Barbara was sixteen and Tim hadn't even been able to finish
getting out of the *suit* before he had to touch her, stroke her, *taste* --
("Oh -- oh, *ow* --"
"Should. Should I *stop*."
"No! But -- your gauntlets..."
"I'll be... more gentle --"
"*Only* more gentle on my nipples. *Please* --")
He has a lot more control with his *teeth*, and so he nibbles, bites and licks,
bites and *sucks* --
And Barbara's growl catches low in her throat, catches hard and *deep*. Her
freckles have faded almost everywhere *except* for her breasts, and if Tim were
a different person he would lick them all, connect the 'dots' --
("Oh -- truly, it's one of the more worthwhile pastimes one can take *up*,
Tim."
"*Thank* you, Clark --"
"If you'd like for me to demonstrate --"
"Clark --"
"It's -- well, it's just that she makes such wonderfully *indignant* sounds --"
*Clark*."
"Out of curiosity, Tim, how *much* consideration have you given to the sorts of
thoughts that tone of voice tends to put in *my* head?" )
Hours and hours and --
And Barbara cries out and braces herself on her hands, does enough of a push-up
that her breasts swing over Tim's face --
Tim *grips* them and licks, suckles -- *shouts* when Bruce wraps his hand
around his penis and squeezes *gently* --
When he *strokes* --
His hand --
His hand is never *harder* than it is right before patrol, hours after he would
reasonably use moisturizer, hours *before* the gauntlets would leave them
softened and sweaty --
Tim *pants* against Barbara's nipple --
Barbara whimpers and *yanks* Tim's hair --
"*Yes*," Tim says and suckles again, *laps* as he licks, as he *works* his lips
-- and his fingers on her other nipple.
She begins to rock, to moan *rhythmically* --
And Tim remembers the way Bruce had moved closer and closer that day twelve
years ago --
The way his rough, *tortured* breathing had seemed like the loudest thing in
the gymnasium --
("Touch -- you. Please *taste* her, brother...")
And Tim had pulled off with a *slurp* --
Pulled off the way he *can't* right now --
Bruce is stroking him *faster* --
("Why don't *you* taste her?")
And Tim can feel the mattress shifting, feel Bruce moving between his legs --
He stops stroking --
Tim chokes on a *cry* -- and can't help but let it out when Bruce spreads Tim's
legs wide so *gently*, so *slowly* --
"Brother..."
Tim growls --
Barbara *gasps*, and --
And. Tim pulls back and licks his lips --
Tastes her *salt* --
"Please, *one* of you --"
"*Wait*," Tim says, and he's ultimately unsurprised that it comes out in the
Voice --
That Barbara *shudders* --
But he can be -- something like *responsible*. "You. You don't have to let me
work out my *issues* --"
And that... is Barbara's hand around his throat. Her hand is actually quite
small for her frame, and so the hold isn't as effective as it *could* be --
Except that his idiot penis had, of course, twitched for it. "I'm listening,"
Tim says, through the constriction.
"I just watched Bruce fucking a nineteen-year-old Harvey --"
"What --"
"Shut *up*, Bruce --"
"But --"
Barbara growls -- and eases her grip on Tim's throat --
"I'll explain later," Tim says. "Please continue, Barbara."
"*Thank* you," she says, and squeezes hard again --
Tim *arches* --
She parts her soft, swollen lips --
Tim *wants* --
"Oh -- God, I don't *have* to talk --"
"Do. It. *Anyway*," Tim grits --
And Barbara growls again and digs in against Tim's throat with her nails. "Like
I said. You were *adorable*."
"Hnn. Ride me until you come."
Barbara licks her lips. "What about Bruce?"
"The two of you can suck me off... after."
"God, you're such a *bitch* --"
*Bruce* growls -- and his speed is perfect as he catches Barbara by the hair --
As he *yanks* her back into a kiss that looks like the world's most sexually
*focused* *mauling* --
Barbara claws his forearms --
Bruce *catches* her wrists in one hand -- and strokes down to her vulva with
the other hand, pushes *between* --
She squeaks and *moans* --
Bruce *rubs*, and -- is he massaging? Spreading her lips and exposing her to
the air? Pushing in?
It wouldn't be deep --
It *couldn't* be deep in that position --
She's flushing so *dark* --
And Bruce opens his eyes and stares at Tim, stares *into* him and silently
calls Tim a tease *while* begging, demanding, *pleading* --
Tim is nodding and *panting* --
He never knows what he's *agreeing* to --
Except that Bruce breaks the kiss --
"*Fuck*, Bruce --"
"I can't wait," he says, and *moves* Barbara until she's over Tim's groin, and
Tim's already holding himself --
Bruce is guiding her by the hips --
"Oh -- God, guys, I'm not *sixteen* --"
"You've grown into... such a beautiful woman," Bruce says, and bites her
*throat* --
She shouts --
Tim pushes *in* --
She shouts *with* Tim, and Tim bites it off and pants through his nose,
*braces* himself --
But her clench still makes him growl, still makes him need to fight, *arch*
again --
"*No*, Tim," Bruce says, and holds his legs still --
He was about to bend them up and *use* them --
Use them the way they're supposed to be used at times like these, the way he
*needs* to, and Tim knows that this growl makes him sound more like an angry
cat than like the Batman, but he can't --
"Just -- just use your *arms*," Barbara says, and there's a plea in her eyes,
desperate and --
She's beautiful, she's always *been* beautiful, and he misses the glasses she
wore when she was a teenager --
And he misses his mother*fucking* legs --
But he can damned well sit up and grip her hips, which are far heavier and more
curved than they were when she was sixteen, which *fill* his hands --
Stephanie --
No, just Barbara right now, and this kiss he can *take* as he lifts her --
As she shouts into his mouth --
As Bruce *grips* Tim's scrotum --
And Tim wants to tell him not to squeeze, not to make him lose --
Lose control --
But he's already *yanking* her into his half-awkward thrusts, already --
She's bouncing and crying *out* into his mouth --
She's clenching --
And clenching --
And --
Tim growls and bites her lip, her chin, her jaw, her ear --
"*Tim*!"
He shoves his tongue in her ear and uses every bit of his strength to make her
ride him *faster* --
"Oh --"
*Harder* --
"Oh, *fuck* --"
"I *need* this," he says, and he sounds like a Crime Alley junkie, like a
desperate fucking *animal*--
"Brother, *yes*!"
And it only gets worse when Bruce starts to work him, starts to *molest* his
scrotum --
Tim cries out and *grips* Barbara's hips --
Barbara shudders and wraps her arms around Tim's neck, shudders and *clutches*
--
He --
He has to slow *down* if he's going to last --
Somehow --
He has to slow down and *stop*, *give* Bruce something --
He *always* wants Tim in his *mouth* --
("I've never had your *taste*, brother!")
Tim *flexes* and hears himself sob for it --
Bruce squeezes *hard* --
Barbara *whines*, and that sound does what it always --
It's a stiletto in his *mind*, it's a goad, a whip --
And Tim is growling and releasing her hips --
Yanking her head back by the hair and gripping her by the *jaw* -- "*Ride*!"
Barbara grunts and clenches hard enough to make Tim's vision *blank* --
Tim tries to bend his knees again --
He has to hold her in *place* --
But Bruce is holding him, Bruce is massaging him, *lying* on him --
And the sound Tim makes when Bruce takes Tim's scrotum in his mouth -- is no
more embarrassing than the sound he makes when Barbara starts clenching on
every down-thrust, no more loud, no more --
God, he's sweating and *writhing* for it, jerking in and in and --
Barbara looks so --
So *soft* --
She's *wincing*, but she's still riding, still --
"*Tell* me!"
She gasps and nods as much as she *can* with Tim's hand in her hair --
She opens her mouth and moans so *loudly* --
"*Barbara*."
She winces again, clenches --
They groan and shudder together, and he has to kiss her again --
She turns out of the kiss, but -- "Good -- so *good* -- *nnh*--"
And the rest of that is a moan, and Tim remembers that she never likes to kiss
when she's close to her orgasm, that she always wants to be able to cry out -
- to her lover if not to the night --
And Tim is with her on the roof of the Klein building --
And Tim is bending her over the roof of the car --
And Tim is here, *right* here, because her clenches are random and vicious, her
clenches are making him groan and *shake* --
She throws her head back --
She screams --
She screams --
She *slumps*, and Tim knows that her orgasm was too fast for her tastes, that
she needs -- more.
He lets go of her jaw and pushes his right hand between them until he can rub
her clitoris fast and rhythmically while he thrusts --
He still can't slow *down* --
Bruce is *nibbling* on him and *moaning* --
And Barbara nods and cries out, nods and pants and cries out again, again,
clenching *purposefully* --
She's so beautiful, so flushed and *beautiful*, and Tim can hold on, Tim *will*
hold on --
Somehow --
She's so *slick* --
"I need to *taste* you," Tim growls, and he hadn't even meant to say that
*aloud* --
But she *grunts*, shuddering hard and clenching harder for her second, smaller
orgasm --
Tim *whines* through it --
And *can't* fight when Barbara shoves him down onto his back. The bounce makes
his knee twinge warningly --
But he can't think about anything but *loss* when Barbara lifts herself off him
-- except that that only lasts --
"Oh. *Brother*..."
-- for a moment. Bruce *swallows* him --
And then sucks hard while pulling off --
And then swallows him *again* --
"*Bruce* --"
And then pulls *off* again, and Tim is spasming, reaching --
And Barbara takes his hands as she straddles his face --
As she drips on his chin --
His lips --
His cheek his nose his *tongue* --
Their mingled scents --
God, he'd forgotten a *condom*, and the fact that Barbara had chosen to have
Clark's monitor-servant surgically remove even the *slightest* possibility of
her ever becoming pregnant doesn't *matter*. He's supposed to be more careful,
more --
More *neat* --
And perhaps that's a good *enough* reason to be groaning as he rears up to
lick, to suck and nuzzle --
"*Oh* -- oh, I wasn't -- ready for -- "
To *growl* as Bruce scrapes Tim's erection with his teeth --
To shove his tongue *deep* once Barbara lowers herself down and down --
She's using *all* of her hand-strength to grip him, which means he can't have
her hips, can't *control* this --
But it's better not to be able to, better to just lose himself to the blend of
her ejaculate and his own pre-ejaculate, to the slick softness of her inner
labia -- no, she likes to be mouthed there, to be *lipped* there --
She grunts and *thrusts*, knocking Tim's head back -- but only slightly. It's
enough to make him *buck* --
Into Bruce's mouth --
Bruce's hot, wet, *needy* mouth --
He's still baring his *teeth* --
He wants Tim to *last* longer, but it's not going to happen. It *can't*,
because Barbara is *grinding* against his face, *flexing* her hands against
Tim's---
Bruce is gripping Tim's thighs so *hard* --
And Tim wants to tell him to push *in* --
He has to know --
It's been so *long*, and Tim can hold himself still, keep his stupid, *stupid*
legs --
Bruce is releasing his left leg --
Bruce is sucking his fingers *next* to Tim's penis --
Oh -- yes --
Bruce always *knows* --
"Oh, God, I just *heard* that sound -- I want to *see* --" And Barbara releases
Tim's hands, stands, turns around, and *then* lowers herself onto Tim's face
again, and now the bridge of Tim's nose is crushed against the vestibule of her
vagina --
Now he can make love to her clitoris with his lips and tongue and teeth
*easily* --
Barbara *whimpers* and braces herself on Tim's chest --
Bruce pulls his fingers *out* --
And Tim can't keep himself from begging, even though it comes out slurred and
incomprehensible --
Barbara whimpers *again*, *bucks* --
And Bruce pushes --
And pushes --
Tim keeps *begging* --
And then Tim *can't* beg, can't *breathe*, can't do anything but *shudder*,
because Barbara is pinching and twisting his nipples --
And Bruce is *thrusting*, already *thrusting*, and he usually prefers to
*wait*, to make *sure* Tim's had time --
Tim can't make a *sound* --
The burn is so --
He's shuddering and *sucking* Barbara's clitoris --
She's *grinding* against his face, and the burn is impossible, perfect, more
right than anything in his life *should* be --
He's not alone --
He's full and he can't breathe and he's not *alone* --
"Tim... come," Barbara says, and *chokes* him again --
And Bruce groans and chokes *himself* --
And crooks his fingers --
And Tim is beating at the bed with his fists --
Straining against *himself* not to kick, not to bend his knees, not to *clutch*
at Bruce, keep him, hold him --
He's not alone, but he needs more, he needs *more* --
And then Bruce starts fucking him harder and all he needs is what he has, all -
-
So --
And Barbara is lying down on top of him and he can't *get* to her clitoris as
well anymore --
He's *confused* --
And then *she* grips the thigh Bruce isn't holding and he's not confused, at
all, he's --
He's so grateful --
He's *howling* and he's *grateful* --
He's full and he's not alone and he's *grateful*, because he can writhe --
And jerk --
And *spasm* in the heat, the light, the *grinding* pleasure -- but not too
much.
He's *safe* --
And somewhat flattened.
And -- extremely sticky. Tim laughs, unsurprised by the hoarseness of it -- and
then moans when Bruce pulls off and pulls out. "Bruce..."
"Brother. I... What may I have?"
A part of him wants Bruce to roll him over on his stomach and shove *in*. It's
just that that part of him has wanted that since puberty, and doesn't actually
pay attention to Tim's physical, intellectual, or emotional realties. Tim taps
Barbara's hip with two fingers --
"Some of us are comfortable," she says, and... wriggles.
Bruce hums --
And Tim turns his head enough to bite her inner thigh --
"*Gah* -- *okay*," she says, and rolls to the side to glare at him for a moment
before turning to Bruce. "He was *never* any good at afterglow, was he?"
And Bruce is *smiling* as he shakes his head, but he doesn't actually say
anything -- and his eyes are wide and more than a little full. Wild. Crazy.
Tim licks his lips and reaches for him --
And Bruce takes Tim's hand and moves almost *arthritically* slowly to cover
him, to *shadow* him -- "Brother..."
"Kiss --"
The shocking thing is that the kiss *isn't* brutal, isn't *rough*. It's wet and
deep and *hungry* -- and Bruce never closes his eyes, even when he starts to
shudder.
Tim closes his own --
Bruce *groans* into Tim's mouth and shudders more, and -- yes.
Tim turns out of the kiss and wraps his arms around Bruce's neck -- "I think
Bruce could... use a hand," he says, and *then* turns to Barbara --
Who smiles at him *while* snapping on a glove.
There is an ache in his chest for moments like this one --
Something --
Something heavy and almost *tearful*, even though he's still not *alone* --
Because he isn't?
He doesn't know, but it feels *correct* to kiss Bruce again, to *pull* until
Bruce gives him all of his weight --
To kiss deeply and seriously and *repeatedly* the way they almost never *did*
when Tim was a teenager, because back then Tim was convinced it was something
Bruce could only share with Harvey, the one he *loved* --
("Brother, please, I'll give you *anything*.")
But Tim couldn't ask for years, or confidence, or *faith* --
He can ask for this. He can *have* this: Every *dip* of Bruce's tongue as he
makes love to Tim's mouth, every moaning sigh as he bites and sucks -- and
thrusts *roughly* against Tim's thigh.
There's a twinge for it every time Bruce grinds --
A more *dangerous* twinge when Bruce pauses for Barbara's push and then *bucks*
--
But it would be terrible if he were careful *now*, if he didn't *show* Tim --
But Tim can open his *eyes* --
And Bruce groans louder, more *deeply* --
Bruce shudders --
Barbara *hisses* -- and Tim knows Bruce is clenching for it, that he's just
that *hungry* --
His brother.
*His* brother, and he needs another kiss, needs to stroke Bruce everywhere he
can reach, needs to blink as rarely as *possible* -- in part to show Bruce
everything he's feeling, but mostly to allow Bruce to show Tim what *he's*
feeling.
Nearly fourteen years with nothing of the kind --
The emotional equivalent of a *heartbeat* when Bruce had been unsure --
And then twenty-two years of this. Promises made, *apologies* --
No, the *concept* of apology is too small for this, for anything that could
make Bruce shake like this and tear the *sheets* as he thrusts with tongue and
hips --
As he -- gives.
He wants Tim to *have* everything, and it's not his fault that Tim doesn't
always know how to *take* --
"*Brother*," Bruce slurs into his mouth, and Tim nods, *sucks* his tongue,
claws his back the way Selina Kyle tends to whether or *not* she's in a good
mood --
Bruce bucks again --
Grinds *viciously*, and there is pain for this, but also a needy and a
*specifically* wrong kind of pleasure, a twist low in his abdomen that tells
him that he'll pay for this --
He *wants* to --
*Needs* to once Bruce starts grunting and thrusting off-rhythm --
Barbara gasps --
*Whimpers* --
And Tim can see her shivering as she throws her head back and bites her lip --
*Both* of her hands are working --
Bruce is less kissing than *nuzzling* Tim's mouth, panting and *groaning* into
it as his thrusts gets more and more *ragged* --
Tim knows these moments with all of himself now, knows that there will *be* a
moment --
Bruce's eyes haze *over* --
"Brother. *Come*."
And now the thrusts are even more ragged, even more *desperate* as Bruce
*tries* to kiss him --
Tim cups Bruce's face and uses his tongue to fuck his *mouth* --
Bruce *shouts* -- and goes absolutely rigid as he begins to ejaculate on Tim's
thigh and abdomen. The part of Tim which has wanted the same thing since
puberty is yelling about waste.
The part of Tim which will be having more physical therapy in approximately
twelve hours is relieved -- and resentful for having to *be* relieved.
He needs -- more.
And one of the many, many wonderful things about making love with Bruce is that
'more' tends to be available, even when Bruce should be doing things like
preparing for patrol. Tim turns out of the kiss and pulls Bruce's face against
the right side of his throat. Just -- for a moment.
Bruce stiffens in surprise --
But then relaxes all over, giving Tim even more of his weight.
Barbara hums. "A girl could get jealous..."
Tim closes his eyes and smiles. "Alternately, a girl could take vicious
advantage of her lover when he's temporarily needy and low of spirit."
Barbara *snorts*. "You're *always* needy and low of spirit, Tim. You're just
usually bitchier about it," she says, removing the glove and discarding it
before cuddling up to Tim's left side. "So how long will the rest of the family
have to wait?"
Tim blinks. "I... you're making me picture a line outside my door."
Bruce kisses Tim's throat. "They would, of course, arrange themselves by age."
"Mm-hmm," and Barbara strokes Tim's calf with her toe. "It's only fair."
"I... I'm not exactly ready... ah. Help?"
Barbara raises an eyebrow at him. "You have *responsibilities* --"
"Barbara," Bruce says, shifting only just enough to be able to meet her eyes.
"I don't believe his *penis* has responsibilities."
Barbara shows her teeth. "The kids are young and impressionable, Brucie. They
have *needs*. They've been confused and *bereft* without their other parental
figure --"
"Oh, God --"
"And, frankly, Tim could use about sixteen more blowjobs to loosen *up*."
And Bruce looks *thoughtful*, which is -- problematic.
"All right," Tim says, and gestures stand-down. "I will admit that I haven't
been a marvel of emotional health by -- any stretch of the imagination. I will
also admit that I've been in desperate need of intimacy of *all* kinds --"
Bruce chooses then to kiss Tim's throat --
Tim shivers and *moans* --
And the moan goes on. It just --
It *lasts*, and it wasn't a shiver. He's *shaking*, and it's been so long, and
he's not *whole*, he can't trust his *body*, he's not *whole*, and he's so
lonely, always so lonely, and his mother will --
Will --
"-- you hear me? Brother, *please*!"
Tim blinks and inhales sharply, feeling himself held, feeling himself *sticky*,
yes, but warm, and *held*. "I'm here. I'm -- sorry," he says, and thinks about
pushing Bruce away so he can sit up -- no.
Not just yet.
He licks his lips and turns to Barbara. "I'm feeling... my inadequacies. I -
- no, don't say anything yet, please. These inadequacies are nearly wholly
physical, but they're reminding me -- painfully and inevitably -- of the
inadequacies I felt twenty-two years ago."
"Brother, leave such things to the *past*!"
"I can't, Bruce," Tim says, and turns back to him. "I -- I'm *haunted*. I have
to see these things, and know them. I have to chase them down to and put them
all in their places, because I think. I think I never *did* before. I
*pretended* I was moving on, and you and our loves -- our *children* -- kept me
busy enough that that was *possible*."
Bruce is frowning *deeply*, and --
God, Tim would be *inhuman* if he didn't feel the hurt of that, the *need* for
Tim to be someone who can let go of all --
All of that *poison*, but --
"You *know* me, Bruce. You know how I *work* -- and how I don't work, at all,"
Tim says, and strokes Bruce's cheek.
"My love... there is so much hate I would never expose you to."
Tim smiles ruefully. "I know, Bruce. And... I suspect there are going to be any
number of things... well. I'm going to know our family, Bruce. And then,
perhaps, they won't have power over me anymore."
Bruce's expression is even more *pained* for a long moment --
And Barbara strokes a light path down over Tim's arm. "I'm not sure it works
that way, Tim."
Well, it was a good try. Tim looks down and lets a rueful smile onto his face.
"Perhaps not. But..."
"You have to try?" And Bruce lifts Tim's chin and searches his face.
Tim fights back the urge to hood his expression as best as he can -- "Yes."
Bruce closes his eyes for a moment and nods. "Perhaps... you'll look at happy
memories, as well."
"That was the plan, yes."
Another nod, and Bruce turns to Barbara. "Will you stay with him?"
"When I'm not patrolling -- or working on my own projects. I planned on
suggesting he give the rest of the family history lessons, too," Barbara says,
and smiles... diabolically.
Bruce winces. "There is... so much shame --"
Tim holds up a hand. "And our children -- *all* of our children -- have shared
their own difficulties and traumas with us, Bruce."
Bruce inhales sharply -- and sits up. "You are correct, of course," he says,
and inclines his head to both of them. "You have my apologies."
Barbara's expression gains that precise quirk it tends to get when she's
tempted to offer Bruce her hand to kiss. She restrains herself to a nod, as
does Tim.
"For my part, I don't think the family will want to see everything I want to
see... but I'll leave the offer open. I'll... I won't lock my door," Tim says,
and smiles ruefully again.
Bruce sighs, and his breath smells of -- them.
Tim shivers --
And the kiss is gentle, warm --
So *loving* --
But Bruce pulls back much sooner than Tim had expected. He --
"Bruce?"
"You... will not let me apologize again."
Tim lets his expression be as sour as it wishes to be.
*Bruce* smiles ruefully. "Then let me love you always, brother. Let me..."
Bruce shakes his head. "I do not know how to ask for what I need, other than to
ask for forever."
And that --
Tim moves Bruce's hand to the place over his sternum where he can most easily
feel Tim's heart pound --
Tim doesn't *shutter* himself --
And Bruce's smile grows broad, warm, *happy* -- he nods. "Thank you."
That -- well. Tim reaches out to stroke the bridge of Bruce's nose -- *he* has
responded well to Clark's nanotechnology, and so the fact that he's had his
nose broken three times over the years doesn't show in the least -- and then
down to Bruce's mouth. "You're welcome." He turns to Barbara, and her
expression is openly calculating. *Studying*.
She is, perhaps, trying to imagine what it would've been like to grow up with
her cousin James, Jr. Even if the man *didn't* have as many psychological
issues as he *does* have, he still would've been raised by the woman who hated
-- with bad *and* good reasons -- the man *Barbara* still idolizes more than a
little. Jim Gordon had, in many ways, exchanged one problematically violent -
- if, sometimes, only emotionally -- family for another --
Barbara was raised for the first part of her childhood by alcoholics, then
given to a man who *struggled* with the bottle and with the often -- too often
-- painfully and *brutally* dangerous world of Gotham City. James, Jr. -
- what's left of him -- spent the entirety of his childhood with one of North
America's *most* justifiably angry and bitter women...
And they are all the products of their childhoods -- too much.
Far too much. Tim reaches out and cups Barbara's face, stroking her cheekbone
with his thumb --
And she hums with a wry amusement. "I'm here. Just... thinking."
"Amazingly enough, I understand how that sort of thing can come to pass."
Barbara holds her wryness for another long moment -- and then leans in to kiss
Tim softly. "You need a shower."
And, of course, Tim immediately feels -- everything. It isn't that he didn't
feel it before; it's that he feels it all *more* now. Perhaps even more than he
*would* feel it... were he not at the end of a rather long day. "I... may need
help --"
"Brother, may I --"
Tim sighs, fighting back the *powerful* desire to let it be gusty, long-
suffering, and terrifically immature. The fact that he's sighing at all is -
- more than enough. "Yes. Let me..." And Tim is capable of sitting up, of
swinging his legs over the side of the bed once Bruce moves, of --
His good leg can take his weight, but he's not *supposed* to use it quite this
much --
He's not supposed to *favor* his injuries --
Tim growls. "Help me, Bruce."
"Of course --"
"*Just* to stand," Tim says --
Grits his *teeth* --
"For now."
Bruce nods and helps him to his feet easily, smoothly, *gently* --
Tim's shoulders twinge for it, but no more than they *should*, considering what
he was doing with Barbara. It's -- all right. He didn't re-injure them. He can
*feel* that.
Just as he can feel that he's standing evenly and *correctly* --
That he's *not* about to fall --
He *isn't* --
Tim reaches out -- and Barbara places the cane in his hand. Neither of them ask
him how he is --
How much pain he's in --
If he needs anything *else* --
They *know* him, and this allows him to breathe as he walks as easily as he can
into the bathroom. He reminds himself that he has not, actually, become even
remotely flabby. He reminds himself that the past hour had proven -
- conclusively, even -- that he could still be desirable to at least *two*
people --
He reminds himself that his scars mark victories over mortality, criminality,
*injustice* -- and that works much, much better. Better enough that his next
breath relieves him of -- approximately -- eighty-five percent of his tension,
which, in turn, relieves him of at least sixty percent of his pain. When he was
thirteen, the power of endorphins had astounded him.
Tim is, apparently, still capable of that sort of wonder.
He smiles to himself, leaves his cane by the bathroom door, steps into the
shower -- Tim had, before moving in with Bruce, suggested that *all* the
bathrooms be made handicapped-accessible just in *case* -- and waits with his
hands braced against the tile.
Not long.
While this *isn't* her kink in the slightest, Barbara is clearly amused enough
-- or impatient enough -- to join Bruce in the loving and thorough *cleansing*
of Tim's body. With her there, the process goes quickly enough that Tim doesn't
need the shower chair before he steps out again. Barbara focuses on cleaning
*herself* --
And Bruce dries him with *vigorously* gentle care, moisturizes him, and
shamelessly tests at Tim's myriad injuries with his fingertips.
Tim doesn't insult either of them by telling Bruce that he's 'all right,' and,
eventually, Bruce nods and stands, helping Tim get his robe on, then guiding
Tim to the cane with a hand at the small of Tim's back and the promise -
- silent and absolute -- that he will not let Tim fall.
Tim makes it back to his wheelchair without incident, settles in, and ignores
the small voice which is telling him that all he *really* wants to do is
*sleep* --
And watches Bruce strip his bed and begin remaking it with fresh linens, just
as he's been doing for the past four weeks. It --
Tim smiles ruefully. "A part of me is... twitchy only because of all the missed
chores."
Bruce hums and gives the sheets the perfect military corners Alfred Pennyworth
had taught him before *allowing* Bruce to move out of Wayne Manor. Alfred had
taught him -- all of them -- *many* things over the years, and sometimes...
Sometimes Tim wonders if the man wouldn't have preferred to leave the manor
*with* Bruce... but, in the end, he'd never brought the matter up, and neither
had Bruce. He *visits* often, and he's been a wonderful source of advice,
information, and *recipes* --
But he's spent the years since Martha Wayne's death helping to turn the Wayne
Foundation's community theater program into something every art-centric charity
in the country looks to with admiration and not a little *awe*. When he's *not*
turning Gotham's youth into the kind of actors -- and set designers, and
costume designers, and lighting engineers, and everything *else* -- who can all
but write their own tickets, he's living quietly with Leslie Thompkins, and
helping her with her clinics.
Far away from Wayne Manor.
Barbara leans in and nuzzles Tim's cheek before moving to help Bruce with the
bed. She'd used his body wash, and the combination of *subtly* masculine and
feminine scents is enough to make him --
Aware.
Again.
And Bruce picks that moment to look *into* him from over the pillow he's
covering. Right.
Tim smiles and shakes his head. "*You* have patrol, Bruce."
Bruce hums *again* --
Continues to *stare* --
And then smiles. "Stephanie has threatened... mayhem if she has to wait much
longer for your crepes."
Tim laughs. "That -- is warming."
Barbara *brutalizes* the pillows on the side of the bed she's working on. "Jay
says his room 'smells funny' since you haven't been helping him with his
laundry."
Tim snorts. "That's because Jay is physically incapable of using enough
*detergent* unless someone tells him it's *allowed*."
Bruce blinks.
Barbara -- coos.
"Does he believe that we will... run out? I always try to buy enough --"
Barbara waves a hand at him. "We're talking about a kid who makes everyone pile
into the car for a trip to the grocery store when there's a *suggestion* of an
empty space in the pantry. There's no such thing as 'enough.' He may or may
*not* grow out of that."
Bruce nods thoughtfully and turns to pull a fresh duvet out of the closet. "You
understand this well."
"Better than you two rich boys," Barbara says, and raises an eyebrow at Tim.
"You miss shopping with him, don't you."
Tim smiles ruefully again. "Badly. The battles between his need to make sure
there are enough nutritious foods from every possible food group for every
member of this household and his need for Funyuns and pork rinds are awe-
inspiring."
Bruce shakes the duvet out over the bed -- perfectly. "I'm still not entirely
sure we shouldn't be discouraging him --"
"Bruce."
"Tim, he eats those things by the *case*."
"Very true," Tim says, and steeples his fingers. "Were we to try to stop him,
however, he would *promptly* remind us of all the *vastly* unhealthy things
*we* do."
"But --"
"He would include the *emotionally* unhealthy things, as well, Bruce."
"I... hm. I suppose that would include the rather large amount of
intergenerational lovemaking."
Barbara snorts and throws herself back onto the bed, rolling onto her stomach
again. She is naked save for the pair of her panties Tim keeps in his own
underwear drawer, and she had not washed her hair. The scent of it would be -
- no.
Tim lowers the leg-rests on the chair and wheels close enough that he can bury
his face in her hair and breathe --
And breathe --
Bruce exhales quietly -- but not quietly enough.
Tim looks up and raises an eyebrow.
"A rather large part of me would like to stay here with both of you."
Barbara grins. "But you can't."
"Hmm. Cruel," Bruce says, and strokes her cheek with his fingertips. "Perhaps
you should be punished for such things."
Barbara's grin grows -- sharp. "Perhaps you should make sure you survive
patrol."
The light in Bruce's eyes turns *wild* again --
And Tim has no compunctions whatsoever about squeezing himself through the
robe. It feels --
It feels good to be this desperate, this -- awake. As if he'd been sleeping -
- comatose -- for the past month.
This time, Bruce's exhale is even louder. "Brother. I'm frankly unsure whether
to ask you to wait for me or not."
Tim smiles. "You've nearly always been an exceedingly fair man, Bruce."
"Too fair...?"
Tim shrugs with a casualness he could never feel -- and watches Bruce catalog
the motion of his shoulders, looking for the pain Tim *doesn't* feel --
Bruce nods with satisfaction. "I will return as soon as I can. I promise you
both."
Barbara hums --
Tim inclines his head --
And Bruce gathers the dirty laundry and walks out with it, naked and half-hard
and utterly unashamed.
He closes the door behind him.
"When did you know you wanted him?"
Tim smiles. "When did you...?"
Barbara gives him a narrow look. "You already know the answer to that
question."
Tim laughs and rests his hand at the small of her back. "You have no idea how
much I fumed that *he* was the Batman who got to carry your amazingly
*precocious* self away from danger that night when you saved Jim's life."
"I was *fourteen* -- wait, you don't actually care about that. Except that I
didn't have *breasts* --"
"Cassandra's breasts remain quite small."
"Or *hips* --"
"You didn't really grow those until you were... mm. Nearly eighteen."
"I *could* break your *other* kneecap."
Tim smiles. Broadly.
And Barbara snorts and *flicks* Tim's knee with her fingers. "Bitch. You're
saying you honestly started lusting for me way back *then*."
"Not on a *nightly* basis... but you began making a habit of finding your way
onto the roof of Central after that, despite Jim's best efforts to the
contrary. It wasn't hard to see what you wanted."
"But you never *encouraged* me!"
Tim raises an eyebrow.
"All right, fine, you *needed* Dad not to sic the entire GCPD on your asses,
but *Jesus*, one little *word* wouldn't have *hurt*!"
Which... Tim smiles ruefully and nods, tracing an infinity symbol at the base
of her spine. "It's a lesson we've learned since then --"
"I *know* that. It's -- a little jealousy-inducing, actually," Barbara says,
blushing and turning -- slightly -- away.
Oh -- no. "Wait," Tim says, and wheels over to the work-table for the
controller, setting the machine to show the gymnasium on -- his birthday in
nineteen-eighty-six, at four-thirty in the morning.
As always, audio comes before visual. Specifically, the sound of Tim's favorite
car at the time -- a *heavily*-modified Chrysolet Thunder which Ivy had used as
an impromptu planter some two years later. The spores had eaten through the
chassis in *minutes* --
And the visual shows Tim stepping out of the car and peeling back the cowl -
- which was hardly armored, at all, at the time. He was twenty-one then, but,
to his own eyes, he barely looks eighteen onscreen.
He hadn't even managed to break five feet, nine inches, yet --
And, next to Bruce, he looks -- precisely like himself. Meaning that he looks
far too abstracted and grim for the pleasure and *relief* on Bruce's face. It -
-
"Oh -- this was..." Barbara trails off and shakes her head, pressing her lips
together.
Tim had been on the street as the *other* Batman for *nearly* a year at that
point, but it must have seemed like an *eyeblink* --
"Brother..."
The Tim onscreen peels off his gauntlets, rolls his head on his neck, frowns
more deeply --
"I'm fine."
*Bruce* frowns -- "That wasn't in doubt --"
"Really...?"
"Tim... what's wrong?"
His inner teenager wants to curse dramatically at Bruce for being able to read
him that *easily* --
His inner teenager was a lot *closer* then -- but. Tim wasn't truly angry that
night, which is clear enough when the Tim onscreen shakes his head, tilts his
head back, and laughs quietly.
Barbara takes a breath --
And Bruce wraps his arms around Tim and presses a soft kiss to his cheek.
"Please tell me."
"Mm. She was on Central again tonight."
"Oh... Tim."
"Yes, I *do* hear the forbidding undertones to your voice, Bruce... but."
Bruce squeezes Tim much tighter -- obviously so.
"Didn't that *hurt*?"
"Yes," Tim says, and draws another infinity. "That isn't what you wanted to
ask."
"I --" Barbara bites her lip and shakes her head.
"Brother... we can't."
"She wants us to. Badly."
"I... it isn't enough. I don't. I don't think it's enough."
"It was enough for me, Bruce."
"She -- she is not our sister."
And the Tim onscreen frowns *darkly* --
And Bruce *shudders* -- "I want her to be our sister."
"*Yes*, Bruce --"
"We *can't*. We can't simply *take* -- and your growl for this makes me long to
give you everything you could ever *think* to desire, brother, but we must show
*care*. Mustn't we?"
Barbara shivers as the Tim onscreen narrows his eyes. "*Which* of you is the
oldest?"
"Me... whenever I want something he can't give me *instantly*."
Bruce squeezes his eyes shut and nuzzles Tim's *ear* -- "Please, brother. Speak
--"
"Turn -- ah. I get the point," Barbara says, and she is flushed dark -- and,
perhaps, blushing.
Tim 'homes' the machine instead of shutting it down, and it's entirely unlike
looking in a mirror --
Or watching real-time video --
Or anything *sane*, because the angles of the 'cameras,' shift as Tim *thinks*
about turning --
"Oh -- God. I'm not going to look at that."
"Perhaps for the best," Tim says, and strokes *up* her spine. "But...?"
She smiles at him wryly. "You still let me work for nearly a *month* without...
well."
"Claiming you...?" Tim smiles. "Dinah asked *very* nicely for more time with
you."
"Oh -- she -- *what*?"
Tim leans back and spreads his hands. "Bruce owed her a rather exceedingly
large favor."
"What about *you*?"
Tim closes his eyes and smiles. "I dreamed of seamed stockings, not fishnets,
but..." He opens his eyes again and raises an eyebrow. "I still dreamed of
birds."
"Fine. I reserve the right to stay bitter."
"As you say."
"And Bruce sounds better than you when he says that."
"He makes *many* things sou--"
"Don't be jealous of him, Tim."
Tim raises his eyebrow higher. "I'm not thirteen anymore, Barbara."
"You're also not the only detective in the room. You -- you *said* it, Tim.
Your injuries are bringing all the old feelings back. Never mind Bruce not
deserving your bitterness anymore, *you* don't deserve it. You..." Barbara
kneels up, heavy breasts swinging. "Please be happy, Tim. Please *let* us all
*make* you happy."
There is -- panic for that, old and unworthy and not small *enough*. "I'm
working on it," Tim says, and hopes he's being honest --
And Barbara frowns and nods -- and very clearly pushes the thought aside. "What
do *you* want to see tonight? You've been *very* accommodating --"
"I need. I always need you to be happy," Tim says, and forces himself not to
*grip* at the wheels --
She looks at his hands for a moment anyway before looking up into his eyes and
raising an eyebrow of her own.
"I recognize... that the feeling is mutual."
"*Good*."
"I... this," Tim says, and programs the machine for Athens on April third,
nineteen-fifty-eight at nine-thirty in the morning. He isn't sure of the exact
coordinates, but he has had years to collect significant amounts of material
from his parents -- and their loved ones. And 'loved' ones.
Setting the machine to seek out certain biological signatures --
-- gives them the sound of the sea crashing against a shore *distantly*. Closer
is the unmistakable sound of a newspaper being folded, and of a china cup being
set gently into a china saucer --
And when Martha Wayne sighs with *obvious* bored disgust --
When the viewscreen fills with an image of her twenty-six-year-old self draped
in a silk robe and negligee -- both the color of rich cream --
When she crosses her legs -- always so long for her height --
She's beautiful, of course. She --
She's been dead for *eight* years, and he's looking at a ghost --
*Less* than a ghost --
Except that she's filling her bergère chair with grace and style.
Except that her hair is long and black and thick and perfect -- she'd worn it
up every *day* for the last five years of her life, but now it hangs free,
shining down around her shoulders --
Except that she's Martha Kane Wayne, and her gaze should be burning holes
through --
The angle shifts accordingly --
-- Thomas Wayne's copy of Le Monde. *He* is sitting at the small breakfast
table, bathed in light from the open French doors. He is fully-dressed in a
three-piece suit, and even his mustache is perfect. At thirty-one, there isn't
a single grey or white hair in either his mustache or the hair on his head --
And this is a Thomas Wayne who has, perhaps, never even heard the name Janet
Evans.
This is a Thomas Wayne who has no children, at all.
This is a Thomas Wayne who could grow into someone who acknowledged all of his
children, who reached out and --
"Thomas."
"So you *have* decided to move beyond non-verbal communication today."
And Thomas Wayne lowers his newspaper and raises a -- moderately, at this point
in time -- bushy eyebrow. His eyes are filled with amusement and *pleasure* --
("Your mother tells me your grades are perfect, Timothy."
"I -- I try to work hard, Mr. Wayne."
"That's the most important thing --")
It *isn't* the most important --
No. No.
*Thomas* has been dead for *eleven* years, and Tim is --
Tim is strong enough for this. He squeezes Barbara's hand -- and *then* becomes
aware that he's holding it. He has to do better. He has to --
She squeezes back *hard* -- it's a message.
Tim meets her eyes without even trying to hood his own --
"You don't have to *do* this --"
And Thomas Wayne chuckles, low and familiar and easy. "Or not. Martha, you're
welcome to glare at me for the length of our honeymoon -- for the length of our
*marriage*, really -- but I believe you'll eventually get a terrible headache."
"Oh, for the love of -- fine. What the *hell* are we supposed to *do* with this
marriage, Thomas?"
"'Do'?"
"Yes, *do*! We can't *stand* each other!"
And Thomas Wayne *hums* the way Tim has never actually heard him -- no. He used
to hum fairly often when Tim was a *young* child. It's just...
Had he ceded that particular sound to Bruce?
Had it been his idea of a *gift*?
Tim catches himself leaning forward --
"Oh, never mind, now you're *interested*."
"Hnn. And you aren't?"
"I didn't say --"
"For the record, Martha..."
"*What*?"
"I've been in love with you for ten years." And Thomas Wayne smiles again,
smiles *brightly* --
The 'camera' angle shifts with a thought -- yes, there is something of a light
*dancing* in the man's eyes --
A happiness Tim had only ever seen in *glimpses*... when the man had been
looking at Janet Evans Drake.
Another shift gives him Martha Wayne's expression, which is...
The only word which comes to mind is *acidic* --
And Thomas Wayne hums again. "It's true that I don't like you very much,
though. Exactitude is important, don't you think?"
"With absolutely *all* of myself."
"Truly?"
"No."
Thomas Wayne laughs and takes another sip -- it would be tea. He didn't start
drinking coffee until the studies proving its health benefits were published in
the eighties. "I was informed that I would never have control of Wayne
Enterprises until such time as I produced a suitable -- read: male -- heir,
with you and no one *but* you. What did they tell you?"
"Why do you care?"
"I'm curious. Rather desperately so, actually. I didn't think there *was*
anything you wanted enough to make you agree to this."
If anything, Martha Wayne's expression gets darker -- and hotter. She has never
been Tim's type -- he will *always* prefer women who have scars and the
motivation and drive to acquire more of the same -- but in this moment...
Barbara twists her hand free and slaps him. Hard.
Tim coughs. "I never actually *made* it to a lustful thought, Barbara --"
"You're *welcome*."
"I --"
"Freedom. I wanted my freedom -- and you're going to give it to me."
Thomas Wayne blinks and raises *both* of his eyebrows, setting his teacup down.
"Is this... was it something to do with all of your little jazz parties and the
like?"
Martha Wayne bares her *teeth* -- but only for a moment. "Tangentially, only,
Thomas. I was informed, in no uncertain terms, that I would either marry you on
April first of this year -- a traditional wedding date in the Kane family --"
"Yes, I know --"
"Don't ever interrupt me again."
Thomas Wayne's nostrils flare -- and he inclines his head.
Martha does the same. "If I *didn't* marry you, I would be carted off bodily to
a certain 'rest home,' drugged to the tits, electrocuted -- therapeutically, of
course -- and locked in a small, dingy room to await the repetition of the
process... until such time as I agreed to marry you."
"That... that's *barbaric*!"
"Oh, you think so...? Well, so did I. When I expressed this belief, my father
invited a weedy little man in a -- dingy -- doctor's coat into his study. He
was braced by two Swedes who were anything *but* weedy, and, well... his point
was made. Curiosity satisfied?"
Tim -- shudders. And watches Thomas Wayne gape at his new wife as the
Mediterranean sun glances highlights off their dark hair --
As Martha Wayne stares back *patiently* --
"They... really did things like that back then."
"Yes."
"What -- didn't Edward Kane die mysteriously?"
Well... Tim wheels himself to the fruit bowl, then brings it back to the bed.
He sniffs the Anjou pear -- one of his favorites -- but can't quite bring
himself to bite into it, yet. He --
"Tim --"
"He burned to death."
"Oh -- God --"
"On Martha Wayne's first wedding anniversary."
"Uh."
"In his study... where not one item of furniture was even singed."
"She -- that's not *subtle* --"
"No, it isn't," Tim says, and bites down -- tart sweetness, the faint
creaminess which speaks of the fruit being the precise ripeness he prefers. He
swallows --
"Why didn't you *tell* me?"
Martha Wayne snorts -- and then begins to laugh somewhat hysterically.
"Wait, wait, *pause* that -- *can* you pause that? Without leaving the...
scene?"
"Possibly," Tim says, and thinks very hard about it --
The viewscreen stills on an image --
It looks like Martha Wayne is screaming.
It looks like Thomas Wayne is about to *vomit* --
Well, that's accurate enough. Tim turns to Barbara. "Yes?"
"That... is *really* -- all right, I'm not looking," she says, and turns to
him. "*Bruce* said his mother didn't get involved with Jason Blood until after
your father had been involved with *your* mother for a while."
"How *exactly* did he phrase it?"
Barbara opens her mouth -- and closes it again. And winces. "'Mother's
companionship with Jason Blood didn't *truly* begin until...' et cetera, et
cetera." She frowns. "Is he really *still* in denial about that?"
Tim spreads his hands again. "Bruce loved his mother very much. And, in truth,
it's difficult to say *what* sort of relationship Martha Wayne had with Blood -
-"
"Bull. Shit."
"Hnn. Here's what I -- currently -- know for certain: Thomas Wayne began a
sexual relationship with Janet Evans when she was nineteen years old... and
when Martha Wayne was twenty-eight. The question becomes how one defines 'a
while.'"
"The *question* is how old Martha was on her first *anniversary*."
"Twenty-seven."
"*Well*?"
"I did plan to look in on her relationship with Blood eventually."
"Do it -- hm."
"Yes, Barbara?"
She bites her lip and sits back on her heels, scratching a thin line between
her breasts with the nail on her index finger. "That seems... dangerous. More
dangerous than the rest of this, I mean."
"If all else fails, we'll remind Blood that he doesn't want to upset *Bruce*."
Barbara snorts. "God, that's -- so much *sicker* than it *used* to be."
"Not really. It was *always* rather impressively twisted."
"I -- did he screw Bruce's grandfather, too? His great-grand-aunt?"
"The family horse, perhaps?"
Barbara chokes and slaps him again --
And Tim grins. "I have no idea. And I wasn't planning on asking. Shall we?"
She gestures at the viewscreen with a flourish. "Let's."
Tim focuses on the viewscreen and *thinks* about it --
And Martha Wayne is laughing --
Wheezing --
Coughing --
Wheezing *more* --
"Martha, really, you've made your point. I am not *wholly* ineffectual --"
Martha Wayne *hoots* -- and flaps her right hand at Thomas Wayne while rubbing
at her upper chest through the negligee with her left. "One -- hmm. One moment,
please."
"Take your time."
"Oh, and now you're *offended*. Mm. You always did have your adorable moments,
Thomas."
"Was that a compliment?"
Martha Wayne smiles -- brilliantly. There's even a hint of softness to it, and
for a moment Tim can only wonder how she's *managing* that --
"It's probably the closest thing to a compliment you'll get from me *today*...
so."
"Hmph. Noted. Martha, I never would've agreed --"
"Oh, *save* it, Thomas. It's not that I *don't* think you're noble enough to
have struck out on your own and hung your shingle in some picturesquely shabby
part of our fair city... but that just means that I would've been tasked to
*convince* you to marry me."
"Father isn't --"
"*Think* about for a moment, would you...? Please...?"
And Thomas Wayne's expression turns *dark* --
Martha Wayne raises a delicately-shaped eyebrow --
And Thomas Wayne takes a deep breath before nodding. "Father, as dearly as I
hold him in my esteem, had a rather unseemly determination that the Wayne
family fortune be combined with that of the Kanes."
"As *my* father was determined... and so on. I was *vastly* tempted to get
myself thoroughly impregnated by someone thoroughly *unsuitable* before the
wedding, but, well, my father made it clear that *you* were more than capable
of performing abortions."
"I would *never* perform an abortion on an unwilling --"
"Oh, *relax*. He *also* made it clear that you had gathered something of a
*coterie* of abortionists around you --"
"You needn't make it sound so sordid, Martha. It's an important and criminally
overlooked medical procedure --"
"Yes, yes. If you ever knock me up *after* you -- somehow -- manage to sire a
son on me, I promise to give you *lots* of practice at it."
Thomas Wayne glares at Martha Wayne.
Martha Wayne pours herself a cup of tea, adding two lumps of sugar and the same
surprisingly large amount of cream she used over the course of her entire life.
She stirs her tea slowly and thoroughly --
And Thomas Wayne blinks and turns away, breathing roughly.
Martha Wayne sips her tea, looks thoughtful for a moment, sips again, and then
sets her tea down again. "I prefer Lady Grey, for the record."
"I will remember that."
She smiles -- warmly. "I believe you about that, you know. I've never... mm.
I've always known you were... conscientious."
"You need not compliment me --"
"Oh -- you're about to fall into a *welter* of guilt about our relative levels
of suffering and obligation, *aren't* you."
Thomas Wayne blinks -- and then looks up again, obviously searching her for
cues and clues.
She sighs. "I'll make it easy for you, darling: What's done is done, and you
are now my lawfully-wedded husband. One day you'll have *absolute* control over
Wayne Enterprises and my father will be -- painfully, one hopes -- dead. On
*that* day --"
"I will not fight -- I will give you whatever you wish in the divorce."
Martha Wayne blinks rapidly, lifting her sharp chin. "You... mean that, too."
"Yes."
"Even if I *don't* give you a son."
"Yes."
"Even if we never so much as *touch* each other --"
"I did not commit rape in the first thirty-one years of my life, and I have no
intention of beginning to do so now."
Martha Wayne licks her teeth, then leans back and crosses her legs. She frowns,
and studies Thomas Wayne openly.
"Please. Ask."
"Tell me about this 'love' you have for me, Thomas."
Thomas Wayne laughs, obviously surprised and pleased. All right. You are the
most beautiful woman I have ever met. You're brilliant, witty, stylish, bold,
and never -- ever -- at a loss for words. This has been true since you were
*sixteen*. It may have been true before then, but I did not know you at that
time -- and I am frankly glad that I didn't, for reasons that I'm sure you'll
find obvious enough...?"
"Oh, yes. Intriguingly perverse, too -- and there's the frown. Let's see. I'm
also catty, mean-spirited, frivolous, inclined toward becoming intoxicated on
various substances... what else?"
"I believe you are... unstable."
"Oh, yes, that's entirely true. It runs -- wild -- in the Kane family, as you'd
know if...?"
"I did, in fact, study your family history -- and present it to Father with a
list of my objections to our marriage."
"But he was having none of it?"
Thomas Wayne inclines his head. "Psychiatry is no longer merely a hobby for
drug-addled dilettantes --"
"Like me...?"
"If you'd like. I... I find myself worried about any child we would make
together, Martha."
She closes her eyes and smiles with something which looks like rueful *pain* --
"You understand."
"Yes, Thomas, I do."
"Do you... do you *wish* to have a child?"
"No."
Thomas Wayne takes a quick, deep breath. "Then --"
"You will not have control of Wayne Enterprises -- or the Kane fortune -- until
I give birth to a son."
"Martha --"
"Thomas. Think about it. Please." And she opens her eyes and looks at him
again, grey-blue eyes wide and full --
"Oh -- God, *pause* it, Tim!"
Tim does --
And Barbara covers her face with her hands. She's covered in gooseflesh. She --
Tim transfers to the bed and pushes and pulls until he can wrap the duvet
around her --
"You can't let Bruce see this --"
"No."
"You can't let Bruce *know* this, Tim!" And she moves her hands and *glares*
into him -- but there is more horror than anger in her expression.
Tim hugs her through the blanket. "He's already aware that the last thing
Martha Wayne wanted to do before she was thirty was have a child --"
"That -- that's not the *same* --"
"He is also already aware... Martha Wayne *told* him a great deal --"
"God, that's so *wrong* --"
"I know --"
"*Do* you? *Christ*, Tim, they're on their honeymoon planning their *divorce*!
And -- we *all* know how Bruce felt about his mother. How he *still* feels
about her!"
"I think she's doing rather well for herself, considering --"
"Oh -- God. I keep forgetting you were raised by *wolves*," she says, and her
laugh is cracked and *hurt*. "Where's Dick when you need him?"
"Presumably turning a routine patrol into something spectacular --"
"*Tim* -- are you really not seeing -- no. *Tell* me what you're seeing.
Please?"
Tim frowns and nods. "I see two -- flawed -- people who had a limited number of
choices available to them because of choices they'd made earlier in life -- and
because of choices they had no hand in, at all. They're in the process of
making the best of it, and they're about to choose to make, between them, one
of the greatest men I've ever known or am ever likely *to* know. They're not...
they're not the best people in the world. They're not... I still don't know why
Thomas Wayne treated me the way he did, beyond the gross facts of how he
defined the word 'correct.' I still don't know what, precisely, drew him away
from Martha Wayne and toward Janet Evans. I don't know --"
"Tim..."
"Barbara. What do you want me to say?"
*Barbara* frowns at him, searches him *deeply* --
"It's all right --"
"I don't. I don't think it is," Barbara says, and laughs quietly before
shrugging off the duvet and hugging him hard. "I have to believe you're getting
something you need from this --"
"I am --"
"I have to believe it's not hurting you *more* --"
"I'm not -- but I think I'll just avoid saying something patently ridiculous,"
he says, and pulls back to smile ruefully -- and hopefully invitingly -- at
Barbara.
She bites her lip again and nods. "Don't do this alone, all right? Not -- not
the parent stuff."
"I can hardly take you away from your projects and patrol *every* night --"
"No, you can't, and you're *already backsliding*! You said you'd share with the
family!"
Tim winces. "I -- yes. It's entirely possible that I'm imagining them reacting
to this sort of thing even more poorly --"
"*You don't need us to like them*. *Any of them*."
"I think. I think I do."
"Oh... Tim..."
Tim laughs somewhat painfully. "It's -- all right. It's all right."
"No, it really isn't."
"You're right, it isn't, but..."
"Tim --"
"Wait," Tim says, and sits back slightly, rubbing at his eyes -- no, he doesn't
need to do that. He also doesn't need to pinch the bridge of his nose or cover
his face with his hands or --
"I'm waiting."
He smiles, knowing it's crooked and weak. "I need -- I've always needed to
understand them. More than anything else --"
"No, you needed them to *love* you --"
"Well -- all children need that sort of thing --"
"'That sort of thing.'" Barbara's laugh is a *pained* scoff. "Tim."
"Barbara," Tim says, and cups *her* face. "If I can understand them, then I
can... have them."
She frowns. "What does that mean?"
"It means... ah... virtual intimacy, perhaps? All right, that sounds terrible
outside the dank fastnesses of my *mind*, but --"
"No -- no. I think I get it. I think..." She frowns more deeply. "It's the only
intimacy you can have with them now."
"Or... ever."
She bites her lip -- but only for a moment before nodding. "It's -- I'm going
to explain this to the rest of the family --"
"You don't have to --"
"I really do, because I can *translate* for you, and that's *necessary*."
"Is it so --" No. No. "Never mind."
"No, what -- oh. *Yes*, Tim, it's *exactly* that strange!"
Tim laughs again and uses his arms to swing and pull himself back against the
headboard. "I'm *not* the only one who's ever wanted to understand more about
their bizarre, poisonous and -- occasionally -- actively abusive parental
figures."
"No -- no, you're not. But you're the only one who'd do it *this* way. No one.
No one opens those bedroom doors by *choice*."
Tim raises an eyebrow.
"They don't turn on *kliegs* after they do it!"
"Are you --"
"I'm *sure*!"
Tim hums. "I think I'd like more data."
"I think I'd like to *stab* you for every single conversation you've ever had
with Lex Luthor."
("Darling --"
"Don't."
"No...?")
And Lex had been surprised and *predatorily* amused as he spun back and forth
in his chair. They'd been in his sun-drenched -- but *ruthlessly* UV-filtered -
- office, and he'd been backlit to an extreme --
Tim Drake, businessman, never, ever takes his sunglasses off in Metropolis ---
("Why not...?"
"Because I just buried Martha Kane Wayne, and there are only so many vaguely
incestuous memories I can take at any given time.")
And Lex had *coughed* his way through a snort --
("All right, now I have *two* things to apologize for. You *do* know what I
tend to do to people who leave me in that position, don't you?")
And the *Batman* had smiled *briefly* --
And the world's most *attractive* -- to him, and his opinion *does* matter from
time to time -- supervillain had smiled *back* --
And then Tim Drake and Lex Luthor had gotten down to the more *public* sorts of
business for an entirely fruitful ninety minutes before breaking for a lunch
date full of silent promises and invitations and --
All of the things that they can never actually have, short of the sort of
détente even Bruce has stopped hoping --
Tim catches Barbara's wrist before she can nerve-strike him --
Blocks her jab --
Yanks her *close* --
"*Tim* --"
"I'm repressed. Unfortunate sexual thoughts are... only to be expected."
She narrows her eyes.
"Would you prefer me thinking about Martha's beauty again?"
"She's not -- wait. I can't actually decide whether she's better or worse than
Luthor."
Tim smiles. "She has a lower body count."
"True --"
"As far as we know."
Barbara gives him a *horrified* look --
And Tim laughs softly and kisses her knuckles. "I love you. I will not
backslide. I only *occasionally* want Lex to fuck me. Feel free to inoculate
the rest of the family against my insanity. Let's watch more."
She twists her hands free and slaps him again. "You should let more of the
nerve-strikes land, by the way. *That's* going to bruise."
Tim hums and tilts his head back against the headboard... and presses against
the heated place on his cheekbone with his fingertips. "So it will."
She snorts again and smiles at him fondly, and --
"Stay with me tonight. I -- please."
She blinks --
"Or --" Tim laughs and shakes his head. "I'm sorry --"
She *shoves* his fingers against the rising bruise. "You never ask."
"I --" He doesn't.
He doesn't.
He -- "I prefer... I prefer to know, with all of myself, that people are
staying with me by choice."
"I... can understand that."
Tim smiles ruefully. "I promise to be less of a mess *eventually* --"
"I never needed you to be my father, Tim."
"But did you --"
"A Daddy, every now and again, is something different," she says, and raises an
eyebrow. "And you *know* that."
"I -- yes, I do. Bruce is --"
"Bruce is hairier, stronger, and has a deeper voice. He could never be as
*mean* as you. And you know what all of those things are worth."
He *does* -- "I. Again --"
"We're not letting you be alone for a good, long while. You know that, right?"
"Barbara --"
She shakes her head and mimes rolling up the sleeves she isn't wearing before
curling against his side. "Let 'er rip, Daddy."
"You're tempting me to blush --"
"*Do* get that out of the way *before* Martha starts talking again."
Tim -- coughs. "Noted." He focuses --
And the Mediterranean crashes against the shore --
And the drapes whisper against the walls --
And Thomas Wayne makes a pained noise. "There must be another way --"
"Must there? I suppose it's *possible* we could convince the old monsters that
a daughter would be suitable *enough*."
"I've never --" Thomas Wayne clears his throat. "I have always felt that women
can produce equal contributions to the fields of medicine and business --"
"Yes, yes. *Are* you fucking the Thompkins woman?"
"That really isn't any -- hm. But you *are* my wife."
Martha Wayne shows her teeth. "I believe you answered my question sufficiently
well, just the same."
"She isn't -- Leslie and I are friends --"
"Are you trying to reassure me, Thomas...?"
"It... seemed the thing to do," and Thomas Wayne colors faintly. There is
laughter in his eyes once more. "She will never be a threat to our marriage.
Certainly not more of one than *we* are."
Martha Wayne's laughs is delighted, and makes her look like a teenager -
- perhaps like the teenager Thomas Wayne had fallen in love with, considering
the brief wash of *hunger* over his features.
"Oh... my."
"Hnn. We know Bruce wasn't conceived *that* day... but."
Barbara giggles. "I will admit..."
"Yes?"
"If it wasn't for the mustache..."
Tim hums. "Should I slap you?"
Barbara *snickers* --
"Thomas...?"
Thomas Wayne leans back and shakes his head, smiling wryly. "You are, as I've
said, a remarkably beautiful woman."
Martha Wayne tilts her head to the side, undoubtedly aware of what it does for
the fall of her hair, the play of light on her perfect skin --
And Thomas Wayne hums. "I am, of course, offering no --"
"Offers...?"
"Nothing of the sort."
She purses her -- unpainted, this morning -- lips. Thoughtfully.
"Please ask."
"Did you want my voice, Thomas?"
"There is a music to it... I find I much prefer it to the sort of thing your
generation is *calling* music these days."
"It's *your* generation, too --"
"Five years makes a difference --"
"And I told you not to interrupt me."
Thomas Wayne's nostrils flare. "You have my apologies."
"And if I don't want them?"
"Then perhaps you'd let me give you something... else."
She smiles... and folds her hands on her softly curved abdomen, inviting --
And Thomas Wayne lets his gaze... move on her. Briefly.
She nods once. "You're discreet."
"The alternative is distasteful."
"Is it?"
"To me, yes. And, I believe, to you, as well."
"Really."
He narrows his eyes in a smile. "While it is known that you *are*... active,
there is not one *reliable* source who can say with whom."
"And you've made it your business to ask."
"Of course... wife."
"That's terribly untrusting... husband."
"Some would say a certain cynicism is becoming. Charming."
"Would you?"
"Yes."
Martha smiles slightly more widely and rolls her right foot on her ankle,
clockwise, then counterclockwise. "Then I suppose I should say something about
how obvious it is that you're trying to use a certain amount of my... persona
in order to seduce me."
"I may simply be --"
"No, Thomas."
"Hmm. Very well. I consider myself a scientist, Martha. Scientists are not
known for their tendency to rely on methodology which has failed them in the
past."
"And so you're trying something new...?"
"I wonder... if I could ever shock you."
Martha Wayne laughs then, bright and pleased -- but her expression is curious.
And her nipples are erect under her negligee.
And --
And they are, for the moment, simply staring into each other's eyes.
"Oh... wow."
"Yes."
"Tim..."
Tim takes a deep breath and turns to kiss Barbara's temple. "I'm listening."
"This is where a sane person would stop watching."
"Almost certainly."
Barbara breathes, low and *ragged* --
Tim touches the tip of his *tongue* to her temple --
And she giggles and shoves her small, hard hand beneath his robe --
And Thomas Wayne stands, tall and dark and *backlit* --
And Tim *yanks* Barbara's panties away from her vulva --
"Oh --"
"Mm. I suppose you are *something* of a magnificent specimen..."
"I'd rather not be displayed in the Gotham Natural History museum until some
time after my death, Martha, but if you think it would add..."
"'Spice,' Thomas...?"
Thomas Wayne offers Martha Wayne his hand. He's still smiling, but the light in
his eyes has a sharpness, a *hardness* Tim can't help finding familiar and
strange at once, *difficult* --
As difficult as Barbara's calluses on his erection --
As strange as the scent of someone else in this bed has *become* --
As familiar as pleasure, the sound of Barbara's *swallowed* moans --
She's trying to be *quiet* --
And Martha Wayne stands with the grace of a dancer *before* resting her hand in
Thomas Wayne's --
It's so small --
And Tim remembers how soft it *always* was --
And Tim remembers the *ruthless* care Thomas Wayne always took with his own
hands --
"Were you planning to wear all of that to bed, darling...?"
"It *is* my favorite suit..."
"We'll buy you better ones," and Martha Wayne easily unknots his tie --
And Thomas Wayne shrugs off his jacket -- and pauses.
"What *is* it?"
"I'm thinking, once more, of shocking you."
"Really."
It's a *dancing* hard light in Thomas Wayne's eyes -- "You could consider it an
experiment."
"Darling, if you're going to bring test tubes into our bedroom, we really *are*
going to have to -- *oh* -- "
Martha Wayne looks even smaller in Thomas Wayne's arms than she had standing in
front of him. Tim is reasonably sure it *shouldn't* work that way -- or.
He doesn't know. He --
Barbara is *squeezing* him --
And Martha Wayne is frowning. "I *don't* put up with this sort of treatment
from just *anyone*, Thomas."
"I assure you, Martha, you will not be in the air for long," And he walks
*quickly* into the bedroom --
And *tosses* her down to the bed --
"*Thomas*."
"One moment, please," and he removes his slim, leather belt -- but nothing
else. He holds the belt between his hands and raises an eyebrow.
"Oh, *really*."
"You're blushing, Martha."
"It *happens*."
"It's beautiful. I don't hold with that particularly vulgar adage about how one
should go about treating 'queens' and 'whores.' I believe all women should be
treated as individuals --"
"*Very* interesting. Really."
"Let me tie your wrists. Please."
Martha Wayne... blinks.
"The first shock...? I would very much like more."
"I'm not... unfamiliar with this sort of thing."
"That makes things... easier. Or it could, if you let it."
Martha Wayne narrows her eyes. At this angle, in this *light*, her breasts seem
to *heave* --
But she is only twenty-six, and she has never given birth. Her breasts are no
larger than a A-cup. She --
Barbara is panting and licking her lips --
Barbara is *growling* under her breath --
And Tim realizes that he's *teasing* her, only just *barely* dipping his
fingers into her vagina before pulling out again --
Pushing in --
Pulling out --
Pushing --
"What *exactly* do you intend to do to me, Thomas?"
"Shock you... in several hopefully pleasurable ways."
"Be *specific*."
"No, I will not."
Martha Wayne glares at him for a long, *hot* moment -- and then she snorts, and
bites her lip, and snorts *again* --
"Martha."
"Oh -- oh, darling, you have to give me a *moment*. I never *predicted* this!"
"There are more things under heaven --"
"Oh, yes. And there's a great, *big* thing under your *pants* --"
"Let me --"
"Don't *interrupt* --"
"*Let* me. And I will please us both."
She inhales sharply --
"Oh, Jesus, come *on*..."
Tim pushes *deep* --
"No! Not yet!"
Tim *grunts* and pulls out again, *teases* --
Barbara *shivers* --
And so does Martha Wayne in the moments before she holds out her slim, pale
wrists.
Thomas Wayne doesn't hesitate. The belt is around her wrists in moments, and he
more than has the strength and dexterity to punch a new hole in the belt to
keep it tight. He winds the tail of the belt around his fist --
And *jerks* Martha Wayne up onto her knees --
She grunts and *glares* again --
"You've never had any difficulty speaking up for yourself, Martha, and I do not
expect you to begin to have such difficulties now. If you *don't* like
something I do, you *will* tell me so... after you've duly considered it."
"Were you planning on *taming* me, Thomas...?"
He tilts his head to the side. "Do you think that's possible --"
"No."
"Then no. But I welcome your curiosity, as it gives me a great deal of hope for
this marriage," and he *drags* her along the bed --
"Oh --"
Loops the tail of the belt through the upper part of the headboard and ties it
*off* --
And then leaves the room. Leaves --
"Tim! *Follow* him!"
"I --" He can do that. But --
Martha Wayne is almost *sprawled* on her left hip, arms stretched over her head
and legs --
Long legs --
She's *panting* --
She's *growling* -- ""*Thomas*!"
"I *would* apologize for that... hm... caesura, but experience has taught me
that a certain degree of artificially-created passion --"
"Thomas. Jonathan. Wayne."
Thomas Wayne chuckles and walks back in range of the 'cameras' -- with a pair
of surgical scissors in his right hand.
"What -- why the *hell* did you pack *those*?"
"Oh... call it the persistence of hope. I've wanted to cut you out of your
clothes --"
"Since I was sixteen?"
"I wonder," he says, and begins slicing a path up through what may be the exact
center of the back of her robe, if I should continue to let *you* interrupt
*me*."
"You don't have a choice. Answer my question!"
"You were wearing a *deeply* conservative... oh, such lovely embroidery. Hm.
We'll have it remade for you --"
"So you can *destroy* it again?"
"Perhaps. As I was saying, you were dressed quite conservatively. A gown that
would've been entirely appropriate on your mother, or even your grandmother."
"Oh -- God. I *remember* that awful thing. Of *course* *you* liked it --"
"I lied. Well, implied an untruth. I did not want to *cut* you out of it," and
Thomas Wayne *rips* the robe the rest of the way open --
"You wanted to tear it off. I see. I suppose you *are* repressed enough -
- *nnh* --"
"How *many* men have you allowed to spank your lovely posterior, Martha? Shock
*me*."
"You haven't even *seen* it, yet --"
"No, but I'm about to --"
"Don't -- nnh -- *NNH* -- *Thomas*!"
"Do answer my question. I'd like to develop a baseline for your sexuality.
Martha Wayne growls and twists away from Thomas Wayne's hands --
And he *puts* her on her knees at the center of the bed.
She pants --
"Oh -- *God*, he shouldn't be reminding me of *Bruce* --"
"I disagree," Tim grits and tries not to thrust into her *fist* --
Barbara squeezes *harder* --
Tim closes his eyes --
And misses whatever it is that makes Martha Wayne *gasp*. He can't --
He *needs* --
He *focuses* --
And the 'cameras' zoom in on the surgical scissors *dimpling* the flesh at the
base of Martha Wayne's *spine* --
And then Thomas Wayne drags them down --
And down --
The blades dip between her *buttocks* --
"Oh, *fuck* --"
Martha Wayne is *shuddering* --
"I believe... that you'll want to stay rather more still than that, Martha."
"Oh -- God, you -- what --"
"Another shock?"
Martha Wayne's laugh is breathless, explosive -- and cut off with another gasp
when Thomas Wayne tears open the negligee, baring her --
God, he's staring at Martha Wayne's *ass* --
And it's precisely as pale, creamy, and *heart-shaped* --
Tim hears himself *growling* --
"Oh, God, I can't even *blame* you for wanting to fuck that."
"I don't --"
"Stop *lying*!"
Tim coughs a laugh --
Groans and *arches* --
And Thomas Wayne --
*Thomas* starts spanking *Martha*, *Thomas* does it, and doesn't he know the
man well *enough* at this point?
Isn't it --
*Shouldn't* it be allowed?
At least in his own fucking *head*?
"How many men, Martha? A good wife would answer that question..."
"Hnh -- nnh -- Thomas --"
"You'd like to be a good wife, wouldn't you? A *worthy* wife --"
"*Fuck*, no!"
Thomas pauses --
And Barbara splutters, hand *spasming* on Tim's penis --
"*Barbara* --"
"You can't *blame* me -- oh, look at his *face*!"
The focus is immediate and comes with the clarity of *crystal*. Thomas is the
picture of consternation -- and rueful amusement. "Not even for the sake of a
game, Martha?"
"Not. Even. *Then*."
"Then... you can be my *reluctant* wife," and he spreads her thighs --
She is pink and swollen and *wet* --
"Thomas --"
"Even your scent... but I always knew you would be exquisite. Let's try this,
And he pushes his left thumb *deep* --
"Rather -- rather *abrupt* --"
"I will not believe you if you tell me that you haven't taught yourself to
appreciate such things --"
"I *haven't* taught myself to appreciate them from *you*."
"No. But... jazz singers? Trumpet players, perhaps? Cannabis salesmen?"
"All of the above, and *then* some -- *ohn* -- *Thomas* --"
"Your clitoris is quite large for such a petite woman. One wonders about your
testosterone levels --"
"What are you *babbling* about?"
"How *often* must you shave to stay so attractively sleek, Martha?"
The noise she makes is affronted and nearly *deep* --
And Tim can't *tell* what Thomas is doing with his fingers, can't --
But the focus shifts --
The *zoom* grows *intense* -
And the view is perfect, heated, *shadowy* with Thomas' working fingers on her
-- large -- clitoris --
"Tim, you *pervert*!"
Thomas is *massaging* it --
She is --
She is *just* as wet as Barbara is --
She is grunting and *moving*, and the 'cameras' move *with* her, *follow* her
as Thomas --
Manipulates --
"Are you ready, Martha?"
"Mm -- nn -- what will you do if I say *no*?"
"Redouble my... efforts," and Thomas begins working his fingers *quickly*,
nearly *vibrating* them --
Martha cries out --
Again --
*Again* --
"Oh -- oh -- wider view! Wider view!"
Tim pants and focuses --
In time to see Martha throw her head back and start to *yank* at the belt as
she shudders --
Thomas *grunts* -- "Not quite yet, Martha," and he pulls out and begins to
*spank* her outer labia --
"Oh my *God* --"
"T-*Thomas*!"
"I'm afraid I'm going to leave the tissues somewhat inflamed... are you
accustomed to that, as well?"
"*No*! I mean -- I --"
"You're tempting me to bring you to orgasm as often as possible, Martha, which,
again, bodes well for our marriage --"
"*Fuck* me!"
"No."
"*What*?"
And Thomas chuckles... and starts spanking her harder, but no faster.
"And I can finally see the family resemblance -- *HNH* --"
"I believe it was necessary for you to feel *three* fingers for that, Barbara."
"Oh -- oh -- fuck. Uh. Uh. Please?"
Tim licks his lips --
Watches Martha yanking on the belt --
Watches Thomas gripping Martha's right hip with one hand --
Holding her in *place* --
"Stop stroking me and play with your breasts."
"Tim --"
"*Now*," Tim says, using the Voice --
And Barbara's moan is long and loud --
"And don't. Say. Another. *Word*."
She *grunts* --
*Martha* grunts -- and whines. She --
Tim focuses --
The angle shifts to show her biting her lower lip, show her flushed and
sweating, hair curling at her temples. And now Tim *wants* to have looked in on
her past before this point, wants to know how much of this *is* familiar.
Dark brown hands on her hips?
Her breasts?
Her throat?
("No offense, Batman --"
"John. If I'm going to call you by *your* first name...")
And John had laughed that *deep* laugh, the one that always seems designed to
make Tim's sternum *thrum* --
("I suppose I *should* call you Tim, then, yeah. But."
"But...?"
"Like I said, no offense... but that kinda makes me wonder if you're about to
put the moves on me."
"Ah... hm."
"What with the way you tend to relate to everyone *else* who gets your first
name and all.")
And John had grinned at him *wryly*, eyes glowing *vividly* green...
And Tim had finally laughed and shaken his head.
("I won't say I've never been tempted..."
"Whoa --"
"... but I think I can contain myself around your ever so *powerful*
masculinity if you can restrain yourself around mine.")
John had *coughed* -- and clapped Tim's shoulder through the suit.
("You got a deal.")
There are other men -- and other women, too.
There are --
There is Barbara, and the *vicious* clench of her vaginal muscles as Tim shoves
as deep as he can --
There is *Martha*, and the shine of her sweat in the morning sunlight, the
*glow* of it on her flushed skin --
So *pink* --
But *not* as pink as her outer labia, not as --
She isn't *shaved* there, and that suits the time period, but it also feels
like a *tease* --
And the focus zooms in hard and *deep*, showing the flush *through* her dark,
thick hair --
Showing the *shiver* of the flesh after every one of Thomas' spanks --
So *hard* --
So --
Barbara whimpers and squirms --
"Stay *still*."
"*Mm*!"
And Tim uses his free hand to claw his own penis, to *pinch* it when it
twitches -- giving himself that same bright *flare* of feeling he's loved since
he was pubescent --
And then he begins to *twist* his fingers inside her, begins to use the
position and his own force to *stretch* --
She whimpers --
And the outline of Thomas' erection is no more visible -- no less *tangible* -
- than Tim's need for more, for --
A kind of *completion* --
"We could converse more..."
"Mn -- about. About *what*?"
"The upcoming Congressional elections come to mind --"
"Bought -- bought and *sold*!"
Thomas's sigh is exaggeratedly disappointed. "Cynicism in the young is --"
"*Charming* --"
"And desperately sexually attractive."
Martha pants --
And Tim isn't even aware of focusing before the angles shift and he's watching
an expression of purest calculation come over her features. Her eyes are narrow
and *hotly* thoughtful, her lips are swollen and tight at once --
Tim twists *harder* --
"*Please* -- *fuck* -- sorry --"
"Twist your nipples *exactly* as hard as I would."
"Oh --" But Barbara clamps her teeth shut on whatever word would've come next,
pinches and *pulls* her nipples, and then twists them in opposite directions.
She pants for it, ragged and beautiful --
She --
She's *throbbing* around his fingers --
And Martha licks her teeth. "You don't -- you *don't* believe in female
equality."
"Of course I do --"
"You want -- *nn* -- women under your *thumb*."
Thomas chuckles again --
Barbara clenches *hard* -
"Twist in the opposite direction. Now."
Barbara *whimpers* -- and does it.
Tim licks his lips and drags his fingers *back* until he can manipulate her G-
spot --
Until he can make Barbara *groan* --
Thomas is still *chuckling* --
"You -- you're proving my *point*!"
"Not truly. I'm merely desperately amused by your lack of sophistication --"
"*Fuck* you --"
"Rough language is, at best, a clear. Sign. Of. A. Failure. Of. *Imagination*,"
and Thomas spanks her *harder* --
Martha cries out *repeatedly* --
"And yet you can take this so well, so... mm. A proper sexual submissive is, in
my experience, a *truly* strong person, able to surrender resolve, reserve,
repression --"
"You want to -- to *punish*!"
"No, Martha. I *need* to punish. I am... a very needy man in this moment," and
Thomas' smile is broad and wild --
Thomas' hand is wet and *shining* with Martha's fluids --
And he pauses.
And Martha jerks for the strike that *doesn't* come, making a curiously
*squeezed* sound in --
"Shock...?"
Martha growls and yanks *hard* on the belt --
*Repeatedly* --
But she neither asks *nor* demands to be freed. Had she forgotten that was a
possibility? Or...
Tim licks his lips and stills his fingers inside Barbara. He -- "Stop twisting
your nipples. Fuck your mouth with the fingers of your right hand and play with
your clitoris with the fingers of your left."
Barbara opens her mouth -- closes it and nods frantically as she obeys --
And Thomas is watching Martha struggle, watching -- the tension playing over
and within her slim, pale back. Is he thinking of whipping her? Flogging her?
*Caning* her?
Where had he *learned* this? Where -- but there's something like a *pit*
yawning open within his mind for that question, something --
He *can* look further back --
He can *study* --
*Leslie* is still alive. She could, perhaps, be willing to provide certain --
Martha stops struggling and slumps.
"What. What do you want from me?"
"Martha... I want everything."
"You can't *have* it --"
"I know that. I've *known* that. So I will settle -- happily -- for your pain
and our pleasure."
Martha pants, ragged and --
She's so *beautifully* flushed --
And a part of Tim is only remembering Stephanie bent over the pommel horse,
naked and rude and slick nearly to her *knees* --
Jason tied spread-eagled to Bruce's bed and *sobbing* --
And Thomas hums and pushes two of his long, thick fingers *deep* --
Martha *shouts* --
"What do you want from *me*, Martha...?"
"I want. To be. *Fucked*."
"And then left alone?"
"I have. I have things to *do* --"
"It's said there are certain little clubs and cafes where you can still see
dancing boys..." And Thomas starts to *thrust* --
And Barbara whimpers and *shudders* -- she wants Tim to do the same.
Tim will not. Yet --
"Oh, *really*."
Thomas chuckles *again* -- "You are the single most *impressive* woman... well.
I was thinking it was something *you* would enjoy. Though I'm sure I could find
some measure of aesthetic pleasure --"
Martha snorts -- and then makes a sound like a *cat*, shuddering all over and
drumming her feet on the bed --
"My experiences with female anatomy have led to me to suspect that the clitoris
extends -- beneath the surface, of course -- to an area around the vestibule of
--"
"Do -- do that *again* --"
"No."
"*Thomas*!"
"Beg."
This time, Martha's growl is entirely animalistic -- and she begins to work her
hips, fucking *herself* on Thomas' fingers --
"Beautiful... but not what I asked for," and he pulls out --
"*Damn* you --"
"Do tell me how you feel about this," he says, and he spreads her outer labia
with the fingers of one hand --
And begins to spank her clitoris. He --
Barbara makes a *mewling* sound -- yes. Tim spanks *her* clitoris --
Barbara is biting off *whimpers* and shuddering --
And Martha is gasping, louder and louder --
Martha is *gulping* air --
*Thomas* is flushed --
He spanks *faster* --
And Martha groans and lowers her head between her outstretched arms. Sweat
patters to the bed --
She's --
"Thomas..."
"You know what to do."
"I -- I --" And she groans again --
Again --
*Again*, more deeply, more *seriously* --
"You know *precisely* what to do, Martha. You always have."
Martha sobs --
"You should never doubt your beauty, your... but I've already said that you're
exquisite. There is no jewel, no wine, no bodily process --"
"You -- you -- *please*!"
Thomas takes a deep, shuddering breath -- "Of course," he says, and stops
spanking. His hands are shaking as he opens his pants, exposing simple briefs -
- "I'll have to switch to boxers once we begin our efforts to conceive in
earnest --"
"Shut *up* --!"
And Thomas' laugh is almost -- *almost* -- uncontrolled --
Barbara groans and grips Tim's *wrist* --
"Yes," Tim says, and points to his penis --
And Barbara's expression is pleased, incredulous, hungry, amused, *wild* --
And there is a moment when Thomas smiles as he takes himself in hand --
And Tim feels himself smiling the same way --
Feels the world *shiver* --
But he knows it's only his own need, the *perfection* of Barbara's grunt as Tim
stops spanking --
Of her scent as he drags his fingers over his lips -- and hers, as well. For a
moment they're only staring into each other, *knowing* each other as people who
could be *this* aroused *for* this --
"On me."
Barbara licks her lips *slowly*... and straddles him with her back to his
chest, lowering herself down --
And down --
Tim snarls and bites her throat --
And Martha and Barbara cry out together, low and *high* --
And Thomas hisses beneath his teeth as he pushes in --
And *in* --
"Do you. Do you exercise your pelvic floor, Martha?"
"Shut up and *fuck* me!"
Thomas laughs *breathlessly* -- "It's only that you're still so very *tight*. I
can't help but find that surprising --" And then he grunts and thrusts *hard* -
-
Martha screams --
And Barbara starts to ride, bending over to grip Tim's thighs -- and to make
sure Tim's view is unimpeded. She --
"Good girl," Tim grits, and *flexes* --
Barbara *clenches* --
"Do *that* again, Martha --"
"Fuck me, *fuck* me --"
"Oh, I will -- but you really ought to work your pelvic floor muscles again --"
"What are you -- talking --"
"Oh... oh, like that. Mm. Such a remarkable woman. Here," And Thomas grips
Martha's hips and *rocks* --
And Tim grips Barbara's hips --
And Barbara gasps --
And Martha *croons* --
"Beautiful, so beautiful -- were you a virgin at sixteen?"
"Nnh -- unh -- of *course* not --"
Thomas sighs and *covers* Martha, cupping her small breasts and squeezing -- "I
forgive you for ruining any number of dearly loved fantasies, but only because
your vagina is so. Very. *Wonderful* --"
"*Ahn* -- *ahn* -- ohn -- oh, Thomas --"
"I have always... mm... always enjoyed hearing my name in moments like these --
"
"Sign of -- of *ego* --"
"Terribly true, but --" And Thomas rears up and brushes Martha's hair aside --
And Tim holds Barbara as still as he can and *bucks* --
And Thomas *grips* Martha's neck and pushes her head *down* --
"Thomas --"
"Does this count as you being 'under my thumb'?"
"*Yes*!"
"Let's see how much we enjoy it," Thomas says, and begins to *grind* --
And Martha growls and *grunts* --
And Barbara pants and *strains* to ride --
And Tim wants to let her, needs to --
No, not yet, not --
"Oh... Martha. Are you religious?"
"*No*!"
"Good, that's -- *mm* -- you feel -- your body -- but of course you're... very
strong..."
Not stronger than Barbara, not --
But Thomas is fucking Martha at least as hard as Tim is fucking Barbara --
They're --
They're *all* crying out --
*Martha* is straining --
"Not -- not yet --"
"My -- my -- *touch* me!"
"Not. *Yet*," and Thomas thrusts *faster* --
And Tim makes Barbara ride him in *his* rhythm --
And Barbara digs her *nails* in against Tim's thighs --
Breaks the *skin* --
Tim growls --
Thomas grunts like an animal and *shouts* --
And does it again --
Barbara whips her head up to stare -- and Tim knows her sounds mean 'please,'
knows what she *wants* --
Tim *focuses* --
And the viewpoint shifts to show Thomas *snarling*, sweat rolling down his
smooth-shaven cheeks as he grits his teeth --
His growl --
His growl is so much like *Bruce's* --
And Barbara cries out and begins clenching around him randomly, powerfully,
perfectly --
Barbara shouts and tosses her *head* --
So beautiful, so --
"*My* turn, Thomas!"
"So. So it is," and Thomas pulls out too *fast* --
Martha *screams* --
And screams again when he pushes back in with the first two fingers on his left
hand and begins massaging her clitoris with his right --
And Barbara is shuddering and *trying* to ride even though her body clearly
wants to *slump* --
Tim knows exactly how to make this -- faster. He focuses with every part of him
which *can* --
Split-screen: Martha's slick and *puffy* vulva on the left, Martha's almost
*anguished* expression on the right --
And perhaps she gave Bruce her passion more than anything else, her ability to
*throw* herself into what she desires despite everything telling her to do
nothing of the kind --
She looks so *hungry* --
So pained and *hungry* --
And Tim can't keep himself from groaning anymore, from just --
Losing it --
Bucking so *hard* --
Barbara is grunting for every *thrust*, and it just highlights the *lack* of
rhythm, the --
Thomas is already catching his *breath* -- "How soon... do you think we'll be
able to repeat this?"
But Martha doesn't answer in words, Martha growls and *works* her hips,
slamming back and back and *back* --
She's leaking semen and her own fluids --
Barbara has left Tim wet to the *thighs* --
But Thomas thrusts hard enough to make the fluids *spatter*, and Tim hears
himself make a sound like something --
Something *dying* --
He can see Martha *clenching* --
Tim flexes --
And flexes --
Martha opens her eyes so --
Wide --
Tim is *braced* for the scream --
But Martha *whimpers* as she clenches over and *over* again --
Whimpers and --
There are *tears* rolling down --
Tears and sweat --
She whimpers *again* --
And Tim hears himself *bark* as he throws his head back --
As something massive and *vicious* grips his spine and *yanks* --
And *then* Barbara starts to clench purposefully and he's yelling, wordless and
helpless --
He's ejaculating and *yelling* --
He can't open his *eyes* --
He can't --
He can't even *hear* what's happening --
He feels so *warm* --
So --
And then it seems as though he's *fallen* against the bed, against himself,
*into* himself --
He gasps and pants --
Yanks Barbara close by the hair --
Kisses her cheek. Just her cheek -- no. Her ear, and her temple, and her cheek
again --
Her jaw --
She hums and turns enough to *bite* his lip --
"Barbara..."
And then she nods toward the viewscreen --
Where the... action is paused. Hm. "All right, I'm officially impressed with my
control," he says, and kisses her again. "Please start talking again."
"*Thank* you. Was it the tears?"
"Quite possibly. I'm choosing not to examine --"
"Pussy."
Tim hums and flexes again --
"*Yee* -- oh, start it up again! Let's see how the crazy people do afterglow."
"You don't think *we're* crazy?"
"I *know* we're crazy. But... we're the good kind of crazy."
"Really."
"Oh, yes," Barbara says, kneeling up and *hissing* before moving to curl
against Tim's side again. "Stephanie was *very* clear about this."
"Well, so long as you have reliable sources --"
"She's going to hit you so, *so* hard for that."
"You'll tell on me?"
Barbara smiles at him. Toothily.
Tim hums. And takes a deep breath.
And focuses --
On the sound of panted breaths and slick -- *slick* thrusts --
More whimpers --
A sob that makes Tim's penis *twitch* --
Tim catches Barbara's hand before she can grip him.
"No?"
"I'd rather not cry tonight."
Barbara snorts and *giggles* --
And Martha clenches so hard that she *spurts* -- or. Hm.
"Did she --"
"Oh, my. Do you ejaculate on a regular basis, Martha?"
"W-what? No... I... pull *out*. *Slowly*."
Thomas hums and releases her neck, then leans in to kiss her there softly and
*wetly* as he pulls out -- slowly.
Martha moans and shudders --
Clenches and *leaks* ---
"Ejaculation is quite rare in females, but not unknown --"
"You need to shut up now."
Thomas frowns. "You were far more agreeable --"
"When my pussy didn't feel like it was made for a woman twice my size?
*Amazing* how that works. Untie me. Now."
Thomas... slumps. But only slightly before he unties the belt and releases
Martha. She moves away from him immediately -- but stays on the bed as she
massages her wrists, frowning at the ligature marks.
"I'll have to wear long sleeves. In *Athens*."
"Did you want an apology, Martha?"
And Martha's expression... bears a certain resemblance to descriptions Tim has
read of basilisks.
Tim has, of course, avoided looking at actual basilisks --
"We don't yet know each other well enough for your non-verbal communication to
be entirely effective --"
"No."
"'No'?"
"No, I do not want an apology," and Martha flexes her hands once, twice --
Pushes her hair back behind her ears --
And then cups and lifts her breasts. "Do you not like these?"
Thomas narrows his eyes and it is, abruptly, very obvious that he is still
partially erect. "I like them very much. I --"
"Too much to punish them...?"
"I... prefer using certain implements for that. Toys --"
"No."
Thomas raises an eyebrow.
Martha smiles. "Your non-verbal communication, while rudimentary, is clear
enough. You will not use your *implements* on my breasts... or anywhere else on
my person."
"And my hands?"
"Entirely acceptable."
"'Entirely'?"
Martha makes a moue. "If you're looking to be graded on your *performance* --"
"It was, in fact, our very first time."
"So it was. So..." Martha sighs and closes her eyes for a long moment. In the
morning sunlight, the tear tracks are startlingly visible, and make her look --
"She almost looks like she could be a *nice* person that way."
Tim smiles and kisses Barbara's temple. "I believe this is where something
should be said about horseshoes and hand grenades."
Barbara snorts and elbows him --
"You gave me two *very* good orgasms. They weren't the *best* orgasms I've ever
had, but they were still far more than simply adequate," and she opens her eyes
and smiles wryly. "They were far, far better than what I usually tend to have
with men with whom I've never had sex before. You're a good lover, Thomas."
Thomas inclines his head. "*Will* we be able to repeat the experience?"
"Not *immediately*... but. Yes. Though... are you only *capable* if the woman
in question is in pain? I don't *judge* you, you understand, but...?"
Thomas... colors. "I am capable, yes."
"But you much prefer... hm. Even with *Leslie*?"
"No, not with Leslie --"
"Is that *why* she's only a friend...?"
Thomas hums and scratches at the very edge of his mustache. "The thought had
occurred."
"But you chose not to pursue it...?"
"A man is allowed a certain degree of mystery, Martha."
*Martha* hums... and lies down among the pillows. "That's not a very
*scientific* statement, Thomas."
"So it isn't. I would like to lie with you."
"Would you."
"Yes."
Martha shows her teeth... and kicks out to stroke a line down the center of
Thomas' chest with the big toe on her right foot --
Thomas' penis rises -- slightly -- more --
And Martha hums again and takes her foot back. "Order us something positively
decadent and unhealthy for brunch, darling. We'll cuddle up *right* here and
eat it like the cheerful newlyweds we can *absolutely* pretend to be, and
then..."
"Yes...?"
"And then we can get back to the business of making a son so that we can,
eventually, find lovers we can *wholly* approve of. Off you go."
Thomas uses speed he *shouldn't* have -- to lean in and kiss the soft rise of
her abdomen --
"Oh -- very sweet. Chop chop!"
And Thomas gets up and walks 'off-camera.'
After a moment, Martha winces and stares down at her mound --
And then she laughs in a manner which can only be described as *musically*
raucous --
And Barbara sighs. "I think that's enough of that."
Tim takes a deep breath and watches for a moment longer --
Focuses --
And the view freezes on an image of Martha with her mouth open wide and her
eyes full of something like wild-eyed *rage* --
"*GYAH* -- *Tim*!"
"I had to check," Tim says, and grabs the controller off his wheelchair. He
shuts the machine down entirely --
And *then* becomes aware of something very much like the *absence* of
electricity -- or. Some other kind of energy. He doesn't know.
Barbara shudders and presses closer to him.
Tim breathes.
And breathes --
"Tim..."
"Yes?"
"Have you -- you've never wanted to get married."
Tim smiles ruefully and lies down, settling them both under the covers. "The
only people I've ever wanted to marry are you... and Bruce's children."
"Your children, too."
"Unofficially."
She jabs him, but it's gentle. "You know what --"
"I know what it says about me, yes," Tim says, and turns off the lamp. In the
dark, Gotham's gaslights cast their usually faintly *eldritch* glow through the
windows.
"Never Bruce."
"Never."
"Harvey?"
Tim laughs quietly. "There was a significant length of time when I would have
long, confusing, and *heated* dreams of him being my *father* --"
Barbara chokes --
"... but those dreams were, ultimately, a relief. Considering what the dreams
of him being my *mother* were like."
Barbara *cackles* --
*Extensively* --
And Tim smiles up at the ceiling. He feels... different.
He's not sure *how* different, or what those differences *entail*... but.
It feels like a good start.
*
***** May 1979: Bruce Refines His Definitions Of Brotherhood *****
It's seven-forty-eight in the evening, and Harvey has been gone since this
morning. This --
Normally --
Bruce frowns, stands up away from his sketchbook, and begins to do push-ups
again. He's already done one hundred and fifty today, but he believes that it's
a better use of his time than -- brooding.
He knows precisely what Harvey is doing --
No, not that, either.
Harvey had told him, clearly and evenly and with a *sharp* sense of finality,
that he would be going to visit the --
That he would be visiting *Tim*.
Bruce will, from now on, refer to him as Tim -- unless Tim himself asks him to
use some other mode of address. It -- it is correct.
Bruce removes the frown from his face.
Harvey has, of course, visited Tim before. Bruce knows --
He's seen the way Tim looks at Harvey, of course. It's... well, it's one of the
more *positive* things about him. He clearly holds Harvey in high esteem --
His smiles for Harvey at the assorted parties and other gatherings are all
quite real. They are open things, if, perhaps, younger than they should be --
Bruce frowns again --
Forces himself to focus on his push-ups and *only* his push-ups --
Tim's smiles tend to look... very hungry.
Tim's smiles for *Harvey* --
And of course Harvey is kind, and beautiful, and brilliant, and passionate --
Of course Harvey is the most wonderful --
Even some of the most worthless and *shallow* people at Exeter and its brother
and sister schools had been drawn to Harvey, had wanted to be near him, to
*touch* --
("Ah, it was the *weirdest* thing, big guy!"
"What?"
"James -- Harrington, that is -- just put the moves on me!"
"What."
"Yeah, he -- whoa. Big guy? Are you...")
And Harvey had waved a hand in front of his face --
And that had been what let Bruce know that he was clenching his fists, that he
was growling, that he was staring at the door to their dorm room as if it was
the Harrington boy --
("Bruce, you're scarin' me a little here --"
"I -- I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Are you -- no, tell me. Tell me?")
And they had *discussed* Bruce's jealousy, they had --
They had *shared* that the way they shared everything, and --
("It's only that it's hard enough to watch you touch *women*. I -- I know you
*need* women, Harv --"
"I do, I *really* do --"
"And sometimes... sometimes, now, I can see their beauty --"
"Hey, that's great!"
"Aesthetically -- they still seem so terrible --"
"Not all of them, I *swear*, and maybe you should try some of the quiet girls?
You know, the ones who *don't* come after you like Wayne-seeking missiles --"
"*You* don't like --"
"Ah, you can't go by *me*, big guy! I'm just a guy -- I see a nice pair and
things go a little funny in my brain pan --"
"*Harv*. You're not *like* that --"
"Big guy. I'm *absolutely* like that, because some of these girls I don't even
*try* to have conversations with. Okay?")
And Bruce remembers frowning, remembers feeling the ground beneath him *shift*
--
("You thought I *liked* them? *All* of them?"
"I... I thought there were *aspects* of them --")
And Harvey had *snorted* --
("Oh -- uh. Sorry about that. But -- no, Bruce. I don't... I don't really
expect to meet any girls I actually *like* until I go to *college* -- which
most of these chicks will *not* be doing. Get me?"
"But why don't *you* try to become closer to the quieter girls? Surely, some of
them --")
And Harvey had closed the distance between them, obliterated it as easily as he
always did --
Harvey had cupped his *face* --
("Sometimes? I'm pretty damned shallow, big guy."
"It -- it doesn't *suit* you.")
Harvey's smile had been quirked, fond, beautiful --
But he had turned away from Bruce's kiss. He --
("Please --"
"One sec, okay?"
"I'm listening. I -- I will *always* listen --"
"I know. I know that with *all* of me, big guy. *You* suit me. Sometimes -
- sometimes I think you're the only one I'll ever *need* --"
"Oh -- *yes*, I feel the *same* --"
"You're the best thing that ever happened to me --"
"*You*, Harv --"
"And you're not allowed to murder guys who grab me by the dick and squeeze
unless I *ask* you to. Okay?"
"He *touched* --"
"Big guy.")
And Harvey's *tone* had been stern, but the light in his eyes had spoken of
humor, pleasure and pleasure in *Bruce* --
("It's only that they don't *deserve* you, Harv!"
"Bull."
"They *don't* --"
"Oh, I know. I *absolutely* know -- most of the time, anyway --"
"You should know it *all* the time --"
"It's just that I *also* know that it's not *just* that, at all. You don't want
anyone else's hands in your pie.")
And Bruce had frowned for the imagery then --
He's frowning again now. He --
The conversation had ended with Bruce promising to do better, to be less
*selfish*, less --
("I want. I want more than our parents have, Harv."
"Ah, big guy, I know. I *really* know, and I want you to *have* it. But we're
*brothers* *first*."
"It seems... it seems so dangerous that I could ever forget how wonderful it is
to be your brother."
"Well... it *is* pretty fantastic being your lover...")
And Harvey had smiled so wryly, so *hotly* --
("I need you. I need you -- please.")
And Harvey's smile had become something much hungrier, something... something
almost *loose* as he tilted his head back --
Harvey *always* tilts his head back when he wishes Bruce to be aggressive with
him --
Bares his *throat* --
He's up to one hundred and seventy-three push-ups, but the motion is rapidly
becoming painfully *suggestive* --
*Every* time Harvey calls him lover --
Tim would almost certainly want--
But --
Bruce doesn't know that.
He has watched Tim dance with the young girls Janet Drake has introduced him
to, and he hasn't recoiled from them, or shown any signs of --
But then, neither has Bruce himself.
Bruce is glaring at the *floor* --
Bruce switches to sit-ups, careful of his form. Harvey has been exceedingly
helpful with that sort of thing -- with *all* of Bruce's conditioning
exercises, truly --
Harvey has been familiar with such things since long before they had met,
because he had always been a student athlete --
It would be... natural for Tim to find Harvey attractive. Beautiful.
*Desirable*. He --
Has he touched himself while dreaming of Harvey's touch?
Harvey's smile?
Harvey's *kiss*?
And Harvey -- Harvey can be so *generous*, so *open* with his heart. Harvey,
Bruce knows, had accepted Tim as his brother *years* ago. He hadn't spoken to
*Bruce* about it, but that was only because he wished to *spare* Bruce, to --
Harvey is protective, too.
Could he be protecting Bruce from jealousy even now?
Has Tim attempted to -- to *seduce*?
His *mother* --
("Oh, boychik. Janet was a *lovely* girl of nineteen when she set her sights on
your father. Frankly, I'm not sure anything would've -- could've -- stopped
*either* of them."
"Oh, Mother, I'm so *sorry*!"
"No, no, it's *all right*. You *must* understand, darling, your father and I
have an *understanding* --"
"He -- he should have --"
"Shh, shh. Remember that we both love *you*. All right?")
He tries. He -- he *tries* --
He's been trying to comprehend what 'understanding' could mean since he was a
*boy*, but it's still --
It still seems to boil down to his father choosing a younger, crueler woman
over Mother.
It *always* seems to boil down to that. It -- but.
("Is he. Is he very like... his mother?")
And Harvey had *blinked* --but.
("Not... not that I've been able to see. Just, you know. In looks.")
That's bad *enough* -- no.
He's being incorrect again. He must not *indulge* himself in this -
- unworthiness.
While Harvey *does* spend time with people he does not care for even when he
doesn't *have* to, it's only with women, and it's only for *sex*. Even if Tim
*were* female, he wouldn't be Harvey's type. He's too short *and* too small.
Harvey would never think *twice* about --
Harvey likes him.
Harvey has *chosen* him.
Harvey --
("Ah, I'll be honest, big guy -- I would've spent *more* time with him --"
"If you had not been protecting my.... my feelings?"
"I... yeah.")
And Harvey had smiled ruefully as he sat against Bruce's headboard. It had been
five o'clock this morning -- one half hour before Harvey usually leaves to
return to his own bedroom for the sake of appearances -- and he had been mussed
and beautiful, with a faint shine of sweat at his temples that was barely
visible in the uncertain pre-dawn light.
He had reached for Bruce --
And Bruce had gone to him, of course. Bruce will *always* go to him, and take
him in his arms, and kiss the faintly sour taste of sleep from his mouth --
("Mmm -- God, I love you --"
"And I you. Please, I -- you've *chosen* him?"
"Chosen how?"
"Harv...?"
"I... okay, I guess I *didn't* need to ask that question. Ah, big guy. For all
I know he's grown into a real jerk while I was away all year --"
"But you don't think he has."
"No. No, I don't. He's a good little guy. He reminds me of you in a *lot* of
ways --"
"Do you love him already?")
And Harvey had frowned at him, cupped his jaw and searched his eyes --
("He's my *brother*, big guy. That kinda thing -- you know what it means to
me.")
He knows *everything* it means to Harvey -- or. He knows everything it *could*
mean to him. He hadn't been able to ask then, though.
He hadn't been able to *bring* himself to ask --
He had used his mouth to make love to Harvey with *desperate* speed, instead,
biting him everywhere --
("Oh, *yeah* --")
-- before taking Harvey's long, slender penis in his mouth --
Before taking *himself* to the sound of Harvey's desperate and *choked* moans -
-
He tries so hard to be *quiet* up here, just as if their parents *ever* open
the door to their suite.
Just as if there wasn't a door built into the far wall *of* the suite --
("No, boychik, come to my *real* bedroom."
"Mother?"
"Do you really not... but of course you don't.")
And Mother had laughed softly and *ruefully* --
Mother had cupped his *face* --
("Come with me.")
He had -- and seen a suite filled with pillows and drapes and the lingering
scent of incense. The colors were warm and rich and almost *bright* -- and the
record cabinet was massive and full.
This, then, was where she entertained Jason Blood -- and their few common
friends -- when he visited. Right on the other side of the entirely innocuous -
- and soundproofed -- door leading into his father's dark, staid, and *dour*
suite.
Bruce dislikes *both* suites --
He will never tell Mother that.
He --
He has done two hundred sit-ups, and his abdominal muscles are somewhat unhappy
with him. He'll only do twenty-five more.
It's after eight o'clock. The sun will be down -- very soon. Harvey isn't
*home* --
What could he be *doing* with Tim?
*Had* he chosen to take him to see a baseball game? Does Tim like that sort of
thing? Would he *lie* in order to spend more time with Harvey?
Bruce -- blushes. In truth, *he* doesn't find baseball games Harvey isn't
participating in very interesting, at all... but he still attends them with
Harvey. He still --
It's only that Harvey becomes so *excited*. So -- happy.
Anyone would wish to see him smile, to see him jump and shout as popcorn
scatters from the sleeve --
And he enjoys eating hot dogs so *much* --
He is --
Bruce must remember that he has his own... failures of nobility.
He must --
Harvey hugs Tim every --
Bruce has *seen* it --
Will he kiss Tim's cheek this time? His forehead?
How will Tim *resist*?
The first time Harvey had kissed *Bruce's* cheek, Bruce had *groaned*, even
though it had been the middle of the day, even though they'd been fully-
dressed, even though Harvey's roommate Sylvester could've returned at *any*
time --
("Big guy? Are you -- are you okay?"
"Harv..."
"Hey, your voice is a little... uh...")
And Bruce could only stare at Harvey, only offer his need, his *understanding*
of his need -- and *that* had only come because Harvey had made Bruce run with
him out into the woods surrounding the campus one night before curfew --
Harvey had been so *graceful* as he'd leapt over dead twigs and cut around
trees --
Harvey had *stopped* them by a deadfall --
("It's gorgeous here, isn't it?"
"I -- suppose --")
And Bruce had been panting like a *bellows* --
("Ah, you big lump, look *around*!")
And Harvey had spun around with his arms in the air --
And Bruce had looked up and seen --
Golden light on green, shining leaves --
Brown and reddish leaves carpeting the ground --
Countless tiny frogs on the trees --
And Harvey's smile --
And Harvey's sweat --
And Harvey's lean and perfect *grace* --
And Harvey's *excitement* --
Bruce mouths the words 'I want to touch you,' as he does his two hundred
twentieth sit-up. He didn't say them aloud then, either. He --
He'd agreed that it was beautiful --
And then he'd asked Harvey about girls, as if he could ever truly *care* --
("Ah, that, big guy? I can tell you a *story* about *that*...")
And he had, right there in the *woods*. He --
It was the first time they'd masturbated together, and it was all Bruce could
do not to stare at Harvey, at his working hands -- he'd stroked his own thigh
so *restlessly* with his left hand --
At his slender penis -- significantly shorter then, but still perfect, still
copper-dark and beautiful --
At his squeezed-shut eyes --
At the pre-ejaculate beading --
Dripping --
("And she -- oh, she let me suck her *breasts*, big guy --")
And Bruce had groaned and ejaculated all over a scattering of mushrooms, lost
to images of Harvey suckling, mouthing --
Using his soft *lips* --
("Oh, yeah, big guy, *do* it!")
And Bruce had nearly *fallen* as he'd ejaculated *more* --
("*Harv* --"
"Oh -- nnh -- *nnh* -- *NNH* --")
Bruce hadn't been *able* to look away, then. Not --
Harvey's expression had been so *desperate* --
His beautiful eyes were open and focused on *him* --
And Bruce understood his own need. Bruce --
Some part of him had understood *everything* then -- or it had felt that way.
They had used that deadfall several more times --
And then Harvey's father had died, and Bruce's parents had become *their*
parents...
Was it their father who had insisted to the Exeter administration they share a
room after that? It doesn't seem *like* him, but Bruce isn't entirely sure the
headmaster and the Master of Students would've *listened* to Mother alone
without causing the sort of friction she finds *distasteful*.
Not that that would've been enough to *stop* her --
She's always wanted him -- *both* of them -- to be *happy* --
("Well, boychik? What *is* it like to be *rooming* with your brother, hmm?"
"Oh, it's *wonderful*, Mother! Of course, I never want to be apart from him --"
"Oh, of course...")
And Mother had smiled *slyly* as she rested on the deep-red chaise in her
sitting room --
Bruce had blushed from the overstuffed pillows she'd insisted he sit on --
("Do you think *Harvey* is happy?"
"He -- I believe his biological father hurt him very often, Mother.")
And Bruce had looked down at his knees --
("So you implied in your letters... but that horrible man is gone forever now,
and your father and I -- and you -- will *always* take care of Harvey."
"Oh -- yes!"
"And... you won't ever leave him... alone for his nightmares and the like..."
"No, Mother!"
"You won't... hmm... fall back on your *reserve*, will you?")
Bruce had blushed *again* --
And Mother had -- had *pinned* him with her beautiful eyes. There's always so
much in them, so much laughter and light and --
("He. He's very *passionate*, Mother.")
She had parted her lips --
("Is he."
"Yes, Mother, and... and... he... encourages me to be the same.")
She had bitten her lower lip --
*Giggled* --
("Oh -- I like that sound very much, Mother."
"Yes, I *know* you do, darling -- well. Be a *good* brother to Harvey --"
"*Always*!"
"And... hmm. Be just as passionate as you'd like.")
And that had been worth *another* blush, because --
Because, of course, he's never been able to keep *any* secrets from Mother.
It's not that they'd ever *discussed* the fact that he and Harvey were making
love -- it's that they didn't *have* to.
And a part of Bruce had already...
A part of Bruce knew, from the beginning, that they would *never* have to, that
Mother would *understand*, even if their father wouldn't --
And their father has no right to judge *anyone* for how they negotiate their
romantic relationships.
And --
Bruce has lost count of the number of sit-ups he's done.
And Harvey still isn't *home*. He --
Bruce moves back to his desk, looks over his sketch -- a first draft of another
apartment building designed to be attractive, sturdy, and affordable to low-
income families.
He audited two architecture classes at Hudson University while working on his
physical conditioning, and discovered something of a passion for it. Not enough
of one to steer him away from his *true* passion, of course, but...
Gotham has a great deal of crumbling architecture. Some of it *can* be saved -
- Mother has agreed to have the Foundation look into it -- but others are
wholly condemned, and must be razed to the ground. It would be a terrible
mistake to replace the old buildings with flimsy, ugly 'cracker box' style
tenements, no matter how 'cost effective' it seemed to be.
Harvey *and* Mother had been very encouraging of his few preliminary designs -
- just as his professors had been, truly -- but, of course, he'll have to
contact professional architectural firms, and also *politicians*.
For that, he'll need their father...
Bruce frowns and closes his sketchbook, then reaches to stroke the map case
with his more finalized designs.
Their father hadn't *discouraged* him, but he had been far more interested in
urging Bruce to matriculate formally at some four-year university -- or even a
liberal arts college -- than he had been in discussing the designs.
That wasn't a surprise. That --
Harvey isn't home, yet.
Bruce takes a deep breath, and leaves his room for the gymnasium in the East
wing. Their father had converted the smaller, secondary ballroom as a gift for
Harvey's fifteenth birthday, and they've used it extensively over the summers.
It was difficult, at first, to use it alone while Harvey was at Yale, but Bruce
had his many memories. For now...
For now, Bruce does chin-ups, and waits. And tries not to --
Tim has very pale skin. Very --
He looks so *much* like his mother. Neither of them spend very much time in
direct sunlight -- if they did, they would be *much* darker --
Or.
Do they use the LuthorCorp 'sunblock'?
*Lex's* skin had always been *dramatically* pale -- far more so than Tim's.
More attractively so, as well.
His mouth was almost... almost the color of *peach* skin when considered
against the skin of his face, and his lean body was always *shocking* --
He always seemed far too languid to be as well-muscled as he was.
Is he working out still? He almost certainly isn't taking *runs*.
His last letter to Bruce --
("And that's *another* reason why you're not allowed to go crazy when I talk to
other people, big guy.")
And Bruce had blinked somewhat *stupidly* up at Harvey, who had been sitting on
the corner of Bruce's desk --
And Harvey had tapped the letter -- written on lavender stationery -- in
Bruce's hands. And raised his eyebrows.
("Oh. *Oh*. Oh, no, Harv --"
"'No'?"
"No! I've never -- I *would* never --"
"*Lex* would."
"He's never so much as *propositioned* me, Harv. I -- of course, he does seem
to enjoy making me blush --"
"He looks at you like meat on the *hoof*, big guy."
"That's rather gruesome --"
"*You* look at *him* like you're trying to decide where to bite down *first*."
"His skin is very -- but I wouldn't --")
But Harvey had snorted -- and ruffled Bruce's hair.
("It's *okay*, big guy."
"Harv --"
"I promise. Even though *I* think he's a funny-looking skinny little *bitch*."
"He's actually not very skinny at --"
"Big guy."
"I -- hm. I appear to be proving your point.")
And Harvey had raised his eyebrows higher and nodded... very, very slowly. And
pointedly.
Bruce had blushed --
("I truly wouldn't --"
"I know. But it'd be okay even if you *did*."
"I think... I think I want you to be more jealous.")
Harvey had snorted --
("No, big guy."
"Hm. As you say. Perhaps I'll answer this letter at some other time.")
And Harvey had waggled his eyebrows --
And gripped Bruce by his *necktie* --
("So maybe I should give you something else to do?"
"It's said that idle hands are the devil's workshop, Harv."
"What do you know about devils, hunh? Nice secular boy like you...")
And Harvey had *pulled* on Bruce's tie --
Pulled Bruce onto his *feet* -
("I feel -- I could be damned --"
"For this, big guy?"
"For something -- something so pleasurable --"
"Yeah, hunh? Why don't you get down on your knees and pleasure *me*?")
And Bruce had *wanted* to tell Harvey that he was always on his knees, that
he'd been on his knees since the very first day of school, when Bruce had seen
him *smile* --
But all he could do was moan and *shake* as he lowered himself --
As Harvey *slowly* eased his grip on Bruce's tie --
As Harvey spread his -- his long legs --
Bruce has no idea how many chin-ups he's done, save that it hasn't been enough
to make him shake with fatigue.
He's going to have to do better --
But Harvey isn't --
"Big guy, there you are! I been lookin' all over this mausoleum for you!"
Bruce smiles because he must, releasing the chin-up bar and dropping to his
feet, turning --
Tim.
*Tim*.
In their *gymnasium* --
And he steps back, undoubtedly because he could see the smile freeze on Bruce's
face. He --
He's wearing a *suit*, and that doesn't --
It doesn't *fit* with Harvey's jeans and t-shirt --
*He* doesn't fit --
"Ah -- I'll go --"
"What -- oh, Jesus, Bruce, *not* this," Harvey says, and his tone is irritated.
*Exasperated* with him --
Bruce winces and turns away, *fixes* his expression --
"It's -- it's all right," Tim says --
"It *really* isn't, little guy --"
"Little --" Bruce hears himself grunt and -- he's blushing. And. And that
*can't* be any better than his frozen *grimace*, but he can -- be honest. He
turns to look at them both, to --
To plead.
"If -- I need."
"*What* do you need, Bruce?"
Bruce winces again --
And so does Tim. "Harvey --"
"*No*."
"Harv. I mean -- he needs... time. He wasn't expecting me, and -- he was
probably -- we spent a long time together today," Tim says, and nods at Harvey.
He's blushing, too --
And Harvey is looking back and forth between them with so much *frustration* --
Bruce shudders -- "I'm sorry."
Harvey inhales sharply -- and looks only at him.
Bruce knows... what is needed. He inclines his head to Tim --
"Oh -- please don't --"
"No. I must -- you have my apologies, Tim. I. It's true that I was not
expecting to see you this evening, but there is no excuse for my... behavior --
"
"You -- you didn't *do* anything --"
"I believe that's the problem."
Tim rears back and blinks, biting his lip -- he stops that and shakes his head
slowly.
Bruce frowns. "If. If you feel my apology isn't sincere --"
"No! I -- I know you would never want to... disappoint Harvey -- Harv."
*Harvey* frowns -- and the need in his eyes --
The disappointment which is there *already* --
Bruce swallows and -- doesn't clench his hands into fists. "I must -- do
better."
"No. No, you really --"
"Yes, Tim -- I -- may I call you Tim?"
Tim's expression is *dark* -- but he nods. "Of -- it's what I prefer. I mean -
- yes."
"Thank you," Bruce says, and takes a step closer --
Tim steps *back* --
And when Harvey hisses between his teeth, Tim's eyes grow wide and
*frightened*. He doesn't *quite* look at Harvey, but the sense that he *wants*
to is very powerful -- he steps forward again. He --
"Oh... Tim. You don't -- you don't have to --"
Tim's laugh is pained. "*I* don't want to disappoint Harv, *either*," he says,
and his expression turns wry.
Bruce blinks and -- "Do you desire him?"
"*Big* guy --"
"I'm human, Bruce," and Tim raises an eyebrow. "And he has been unfailingly
kind, gentle, brotherly... and many, many other things. Now, I imagine you want
me out of your home even more --"
"*Tim* --"
"I." Bruce swallows. "I was not expecting your honesty."
Tim lifts his chin. "Harv has been... convincing about that. Honesty, I mean."
Bruce nods slowly and clenches his hands into fists --
Tim glances at them --
"Jesus, you guys, come *on* --"
"A moment, please," Bruce says, and takes a deep breath. And then he walks
several paces closer --
Not enough that he will *loom* --
Tim *stiffens* -- and then relaxes himself with a *conscious* grace that Bruce
finds himself studying helplessly --
Tim raises an eyebrow --
Bruce nods. "Will you try to take him from me?"
Harvey growls --
And Tim holds up a hand to him. "Even if that were possible, I have never
particularly wanted to be... that sort of person."
Bruce stares at Tim --
Breathes and *stares* --
Tim stares *back* --
He's so *small* -- but not as small as he was last year. That's perfectly
sensible -- *reasonable* -- but...
"You're not a child."
Tim raises his eyebrow higher. "By whose definition --"
"Your own. Please."
Tim nods. "Then, no. I'm not a child any longer."
"I think." Bruce clenches his fists tighter. "I believe that I still am."
Tim blinks and frowns.
"I would like. I would like to -- stop."
Tim blinks *rapidly* --
Starts to turn to Harvey --
And Bruce doesn't mean to grip Tim's chin, doesn't --
He can be gentle, of course, and he --
He's only ever touched Tim's *hand* --
His *right* hand --
Harvey catches his breath -- but he doesn't say anything. He waits. He -- he is
waiting for Bruce, because he *trusts* him --
Even though Bruce isn't entirely sure he trusts himself. He --
He doesn't stroke Tim's jaw with his thumb, even though it's as downy *as* a
child's --
"Bruce...?"
"I have -- distrusted you."
Tim nods, as much as Bruce is *allowing* --
"I have... you have... hated me?"
Tim narrows his eyes -- shutters them, easily and well.
Bruce shakes his head --
"Little guy..."
"Oh --" And Tim shudders and blinks, showing something which looks very much
like *anger*. "All right. You're the first son. You're the *desired* son.
You're the *acknowledged* son."
"Our father... has treated you cruelly?"
Tim's smile is sharp, cold, and entirely reminiscent of his mother's --
Bruce will not *let* himself step back -- "Please. Please tell me --"
"Do *you* think that's Thomas Wayne's style, Bruce?"
"Style -- I. I believe it's rather more than a question of style, Tim."
"Hnn. Perhaps it has to be -- for a Wayne. For *me*... he will always be *Mr.*
Wayne. His gifts will never be personal, or any more thoughtful than they
'should' be for the child of a business *associate*. His *conversation* will
never show any particular -- it's possible. Maybe one day --" Tim shudders
again and twists away, blocking Bruce's reach for him easily and turning to
face the door. He crosses his arms over his chest and breathes... raggedly.
Bruce looks to Harvey --
But Harvey just raises his eyebrows. He --
Bruce nods and turns back to Tim, moving until they can face each other again -
-
Tim looks down at the floor between them.
Bruce reaches out --
"*Don't* touch me again -- please."
"All right. I'm --"
"Don't -- apologize. Either. Please. Not for that."
Bruce... has no idea what to do with his hands. It's usually not a difficult
*question*, but -- no. It's not important. Not right now. Not -- Bruce takes
his own ragged breath and nods. "I do not care for -- our father."
Tim stiffens again --
*Relaxes* himself again --
"Because of his relationship with my mother -- no, that's not enough, is it?"
And *then* Tim looks up, studying him openly. "You... you're angry at him for
allowing me to come to be. This... has allowed you to justify your behavior
toward me. Yes?"
Bruce closes his eyes -- no. He opens them again. "Yes."
"Because I'm... a mistake? A cruel joke? A pathetic failure on Thomas Wayne's
part?"
"I. I have also been unable to look at you without seeing a terrible insult to
Mother, whom I love dearly and passionately."
Tim raises an eyebrow. "*She* has always treated me like a person."
"She's very kind and --"
Harvey is making a choking sound. He sounds almost *distressed*.
Bruce turns to him --
"No, no, go on, big guy. You guys are doin' fine, really."
Bruce frowns and nods, and when he turns back to Tim, Tim is studying Harvey.
But only for another moment before turning back to Bruce. "I'm a thirteen year
old boy with parents who have made... questionable choices. Nothing more,
nothing less," he says, with something like unassailable *dignity* --
"You. You're not a child -- I'm repeating myself," Bruce says, and frowns
*again* -- no. He shakes his head. "You're more than that."
"I'm not --"
"You're." There's something --
There's something *speaking* within him, something --
There's something spreading within him, stretching and making him *hurt* -- no.
He has to hurt in this moment, and in many, many others. He has to *hurt*,
because this --
"I am -- so sorry --"
"Don't --"
"I --" Bruce hears himself make a terrible sound and shakes his head --
Steps closer --
And of *course* Tim would stiffen every time Bruce moved within range, of
course he would doubt Bruce's *intentions* --
"Please," Bruce says, and -- he doesn't reach out. He doesn't --
Tim doesn't want to be *touched*, and --
"It's only... I know... so few ways of making myself understood when I have
made mistakes --"
"Because you don't *make* them?"
There's something *tearing* at him from the inside, because he can hear the
*chill* in his voice every time he's wished Tim a good evening and meant
nothing of the kind --
He can feel the *disdain* that had been on his face for Tim's attempts at
conversation --
Tim used to *try* --
But he hasn't for a very, very long time. He --
"I am a *child*. I have acted --" Bruce groans and drops to his knees -
Harvey coughs again --
Tim blinks rapidly and nearly *trips* as he staggers back --
Bruce catches him by the hips, *steadies* him --
"No -- you -- what are you *doing*, Bruce?" And Tim pushes at Bruce's hands --
Yanks his own hands back --
Pushes *more* --
"*Please*," Bruce says. "I am. I am *limited*. There is so much I have never
known, so much I only *do* know because Harv has been patient enough to *teach*
me --"
"You -- you don't have to --" Tim growls and -- does something *exceedingly*
painful to the backs of Bruce's hands.
Bruce pulls back -- "Was that -- some sort of pinch?"
"*Yes* -- I -- look, if this is some sort of -- of sick *joke* --"
"*No*," Bruce says, and reaches for Tim again --
Tim *snarls* --
And Bruce drops his hands to his thighs. "I -- you have my apologies. For
*everything*, Tim, but especially -- oh, Tim, I don't know what to *say*. I
have been *worse* than a child, because children have some -- some *excuse* for
their behavior --"
"You -- you were protecting your mother --"
Bruce's laugh sounds no more pained than it is. "She will never need *my*
protection, Tim. She -- I allowed myself to treat you disrespectfully -
- *disgustingly* -- because *I did not have the courage to remonstrate with our
*father*. I -- I *must* do that, but first I must make *amends* --"
"*How*? How do you intend to *do* that?" And Tim is staring at him almost wild-
eyed, almost --
For a moment which shifts the ground beneath his feet -- beneath his *knees* -
- no more than anything *else* has in the past fifteen minutes, it seems that
Tim's eyes have far more in common with *Mother's* than they do with Janet
Evans' --
It seems --
It seems they could be *beautiful* --
His skin had been *downy* --
And he had asked a question. Bruce licks his lips and *offers* his hand, palm
up, without touching. "I'd like. I'd like to begin again. If you... if you
think we can."
If anything, Tim's eyes seem even wilder, seem hungry and *dark* --
"Please. I... I can only beg in this moment --"
"What do you *want*?"
"Brotherhood. Companionship. A -- a chance to come to *know* you. I -- you
spoke of jokes --"
"*Sick* jokes --"
"My sense of humor is *rudimentary*, Tim --"
"It really is," Harvey says, and -- moves close. *He* doesn't hesitate to touch
Tim, to cup his lean shoulders --
Tim tenses again --
Shivers and frowns --
Shivers again and *relaxes* -- but only once Harvey squeezes.
"Little guy... this is the Bruce I know. This is our *real* brother."
"On -- on his *knees* --"
"I've often felt as though I've belonged nowhere *else*, Tim," and Bruce smiles
ruefully. "Please. You -- Harv is so *gentle* with me, so -- so *forgiving*. I
think, perhaps, that I've *needed* a brother who could be --"
"Cruel?"
"*Practical*."
Tim firms his mouth into a hard line... and turns to look at the floor to
Bruce's right.
"It's okay, you know, Tim. It's -- well, it's *gotta* be scary and ridiculous
and screwed-up for you right now, but the thing is? We *know* that. And we'll
*remember* that when we're with you --"
"And -- and treat me with kid gloves?"
Harvey squeezes Tim's shoulders again. "Kid gloves feel pretty damned good on
naked skin, little guy. Don't knock it 'til you've tried it."
"I --" Tim snorts and twists free, apparently solely to stare incredulously at
Harvey --
Who waggles his eyebrows at him. He --
Tim blushes and *starts* to look down at Bruce -- but then he looks at the
floor again, and that --
"This is what desire looks like on you, brother?"
Tim gasps and *stares* at him --
Searches him --
"May I call you that? May I... I feel we should share *more* than -- than our
*inadequate* father --"
"He --" Tim frowns. "Has he... been inadequate... with you?"
"Please. Please take my hand?"
*Tim* makes a sound, and it's high and sharp and animal --
He almost *claps* their hands together --
And Bruce twines their fingers together. It's immediately obvious that Tim's
hand, though small, is quite strong -- and well-worked. Bruce squeezes gently.
"I'll tell you everything. I -- but you asked *one* question." Bruce laughs
softly. "He offers me fatherly advice -- from time to time. He is available for
-- conservative -- physical affection on a reasonably regular basis. His gifts
are generous and thoughtful --"
"I -- I see --"
"I am a disappointment to him, and I always have been, Tim. That much has
*always* been clear. I am too emotional, too inclined toward the arts, too..."
Bruce shakes his head. "When I was a boy, he looked at me with confusion very
often. Now that I am older, he makes pointed comments about *waste*. Wasted
time, wasted money, wasted *education* -- as if that which we received at
Exeter was anything to be *proud* of -- no. I must not... I must not become
distracted," Bruce says, and licks his lips. "Tim, Mother has always been
honest and *open* with me, both about her relationships, and about her
ambitions for me. Our father has been circumspect and *correct*, and I find
that... loathsome. Harvey believes I have been unfair to the man --"
"Not anymore I don't," Harvey says, and steps even closer to Tim. "I didn't
know the half of how he treated the little guy."
Bruce flares his nostrils against the *rush* of feeling --
Is it jealousy?
Fear?
Or is it simply *heat* -- specifically, the heat of *new* feeling, new
*possibility* --
"Tim..."
Tim jumps -- for the sound of Bruce's voice? The roughness of it? He winces,
then, shakes his head --
And Bruce and Harvey squeeze together. Bruce reaches with his free hand to
touch Tim's face again --
Just his cheek --
With just his fingertips --
"Bruce. I -- you should -- ah."
"Tell me. Please."
Tim shakes his head, and it drags his cheek against Bruce's fingertips --
So *soft* -- "Tim, I... anything. It can be anything."
Tim frowns in *consternation* --
And Harvey sighs. "You should listen to him, little guy. Bruce doesn't do
*anything* by half-measures."
"Do -- *neither* of you do!"
"Heh, okay, yeah, that's true. So what do you want? What can we give you?"
"For -- for *what*?"
Harvey leans in over Tim's shoulder, and his smile is warm, bright, *happy* -
- "You. *Brotherhood*."
"I don't -- I don't know how to *do* this --"
"Then let us teach you," Bruce says -- blurts. "Let us... I have learned
*those* lessons well, I believe."
"Oh -- stand *up* --"
Bruce does --
But Tim was not ready to be loomed over. That much is clear by the way he steps
back -- against Harvey.
"Steady, little guy --"
"I'm sorry --"
"You got nothing to apologize for --"
"You -- you're both very --" Tim shakes his head and moves *away*, moving to
form the upper point on an isosceles triangle --
"Hey, not so far --"
"*Yes*, this far! Because -- because --"
"Because...?" And Harvey raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms over his
chest.
A part of Bruce only wants to step back and *let* Harvey guide this, whatever
it will turn out to *be*, but --
But he owes more than that.
And wants -- much more than that. Bruce nods to himself and walks closer to Tim
--
"Oh -- stop!"
Bruce stops -- and raises his hands --
"I'm not -- I'm not skittish! I've never *been* skittish!"
"Okay, little guy --"
"Don't *patronize* me!"
"No. Not that," Bruce says, and lowers his hands. "Please. Tell us what you
desire."
Tim looks at both of them as if they're *mad* --
"We had a good day today, didn't we?"
Tim blinks rapidly --
Blushes --
"Yes. Yes. Of course -- I. I appreciated --"
"*I* appreciated it, little guy," and Harvey jerks his chin at Tim. "We can
have that all the time."
"We -- I'm going to Exeter -- and you'll be in New Haven --"
"And Bruce'll be in Gotham, yeah, I..." Harvey grins. "I've had some thoughts
about that."
Tim blinks more and looks *hopeful*. "You. You have?"
"Uh, huh. See -- Exeter has the name and the pedigree, but you have to be
*real* damned motivated to get anything out of your education there that
*isn't* for Latin, French, or Literature, and -- Bruce?"
Bruce frowns and shakes his head. "Once you become an upperclassman, Tim, the
Literature courses are as mediocre as the rest, I fear. I learned far more from
my mother when I was a boy than I learned from Professor Sharpe."
"God, that woman -- well, you'll see. Or maybe you *won't*, because you know
something? I'm betting your mother -- and I'm not saying a word about her or
anything, okay? I'm betting she wants you to be *close* to Dad as much as she
wants you to follow in his footsteps. And there are *other ways you can do
that*. Other ways you can do that while getting a more useful-to-you education,
even. In *Gotham*."
Tim's eyes are *wide* -- and then he shutters them. "Close to Bruce."
Harvey grins. "Close to the brother who'll damned well bring you to visit your
*other* brother *all the time*."
A blush --
"I would, Tim. I know... I know it will take time for you to accept me, and to
accept what I feel for you --"
"*What* do you feel for me? Do you even *know*?"
"That's a pretty good question, little guy --"
"Oh, let *him* talk!"
Harvey snickers. "Are you sure about that? Because... he'll absolutely talk. I
mean, when you give him invitations like that, he pretty much *has* to."
Consternation --
Worry --
And determination. Tim lifts his sharp chin *slightly* and stares at him.
"Answer my question. Please."
Bruce smiles. "Thank you."
For a moment, the determination *wavers* -- but only for a moment. "Go on."
"When I was younger, our father called me precipitous, and, for all of his
faults, he has always been a vastly intelligent and perceptive man. I would
throw myself at the other children in kindergarten, always striving to make
connections, to have... to have an end to loneliness," Bruce says, and steps
closer to Tim.
Tim stands his ground --
And Bruce nods. "It did not work. The other children found me hopelessly
strange when they did not find me frightening or laughable or both, and, in
truth, I came to find *myself* all of those things, as well. I simply remained
incapable of *changing*, of becoming *less* strange..." Bruce smiles ruefully.
"What I *did* gain with age was the ability to come to know people quickly and
well. To... to *observe* them, and to use those observations to form reasonably
accurate impressions of who they *were* as people --"
"You just didn't *use* that with me?"
"No, I did not," Bruce says, and takes another step closer. He's only two paces
away now --
And Tim flares his nostrils, but stands his ground.
"I allowed myself to be blind around you, to... to throw up walls of
distraction and *falsehood* in order to *wallow* in my own immaturity --"
"You -- you *covered* this. I didn't mean to bring it up again. I -- talk about
--"
"My feelings for you? All right," Bruce says, and takes another step closer. "I
am, thankfully, incapable of making myself utterly blind. Even when I was a boy
flinging myself headlong at the other children, I could see that they were far
more interested in fighting over brightly-colored and noisy toys than they were
in discussing books, or even in learning anything about the human body -- hmm.
Harvey is fighting back a laugh at the sort of child I was, but he would be the
first one to tell you how much he enjoyed reading when *he* was a boy --"
"I liked the toys, *too*, big guy. *And* the games."
"You always were far better suited to the wider world... but I will not become
distracted," Bruce says, and turns back to Tim. "I could see the other
children, and even understand them to a certain extent. Just as I could see the
people at the various interminable parties, see their blank, lying, or just
hateful eyes, see their boredom and cruelty, see their *intense* lack of caring
for me -- the son of the people whom they all wished to impress. And so they
would bend to me, and *touch* me..." Bruce shakes his head. "I was filled with
disgust from a *young* age, Tim, but my memory is quite prodigious. I remember
every true smile, every moment of sincerity, every -- every moment of
*interest*. And I remember how many of those moments came from you."
Tim rears back -- but only for a moment before he narrows his eyes.
Bruce nods. "You are correct to feel anger for that statement, to --"
"I *don't* need your approval --"
"Did you ever?"
Tim inhales sharply and *starts* to shake his head --
And Bruce smiles ruefully and steps a half-pace closer, close enough that he
can touch Tim's face once more --
"Bruce --"
"You tried to give me brotherhood."
"I -- I had an *assignment* --"
"To become close to me. To gain some -- further -- measure of our father's
approval. To, perhaps, learn secrets which would reflect poorly on me or on
Mother --"
"Of course -- oh. Don't... do that."
Bruce pauses with his thumb pressed to Tim's lower lip, which is soft and
smooth, but which looks far *less* plush than his upper lip. He would rather be
touching that. He --
"Please -- Bruce..."
"Of course," Bruce says, and cups Tim's cheek, instead.
Tim frowns -- but doesn't object.
And Bruce nods again. "I wonder... I *must* wonder if your mother also told you
that you had to feel eager to know me, that your eyes had to light when you saw
me coming near --"
"Don't -- she --" Tim growls and shakes his head --
"I disdained your gift. I acted... I may as well have *been* one of the
countless people I have learned to hold in contempt. Harv allowed me to be cold
to you, but, at the same time, tried to lead me by example. I... I can be so
very *slow*, Tim --"
"You -- not *now*!"
"No, not now," Bruce says, and suspects the smile on his face looks somewhat
mad. "I am not always foolish, Tim. I am not always *dim*. When I saw Harvey on
the quadrangle at Exeter, when I saw the light and life and *brilliance* in his
eyes..." Bruce shakes his head. "It was all I could do not to *tackle* him --"
"You *wanted* him!"
"Badly. As I want you."
And, for a moment, there is only silence, only --
No, there is the tick of the small, tasteful wooden clock Mother had insisted
upon after the seventh time Bruce and Harvey became so caught up in exercising
that they were late for dinner --
There is the slight scuff of Harvey's sneakers against the mats --
There are Tim's panted *breaths* --
And he is flushing now, staring up at Bruce --
The consternation and fear are still there, but now there is wonder, curiosity,
*hope* -- and something Bruce's mind will not *allow* him to see as anything
but desire. There is something frightening about that -- something *dangerous*.
He has been given so *much* since Harvey had come into his life, and he has
taken even more.
This --
"I do not deserve this --"
"No. No, you -- you *don't* --"
"But... you wish you give it to me just the same?"
Tim frowns deeply, *thunderously* --
And Bruce has to take a deep breath. "You seem almost young like that --"
"Let -- I -- what -- I don't know what you *want*," Tim says, but it's less of
a thrown gauntlet than a request, it --
Tim is *searching* Bruce's eyes --
And Bruce can *feel* Harvey watching both of them, feel --
He wants to know Harvey's *thoughts* -- but Bruce believes he can already feel
the shape of them --
Already *taste* what it was like to spend the day in the company of someone
brave, and brilliant, and hungry -- and desirous. Bruce lets himself shiver and
takes the last half-step closer --
"Bruce --"
"I want what I can have, Tim. And more." Bruce smiles ruefully. "That answer
will, I believe, always be the same." He cups Tim's other cheek with his free
hand and tilts his head back. "Will you tell me... something?"
"I -- I. Something?"
Bruce nods. "Anything. I have to know you."
"You -- implied --"
"I know several facts about you. Harvey has shared others. I have deduced still
others. I want -- please tell me more. I promise I will do the same."
Tim makes a soft and *pained* sound --
"Please don't back away again."
"I -- please -- I don't -- know."
Bruce strokes Tim's high, sharp cheekbones with his thumbs. "You could tell me
what you don't know."
"I... everything?" And now the pained sound is a *laugh* --
Tim is looking around for *escape* --
Bruce leans in and kisses his forehead. He does it softly and lets it linger --
Tim *moans* --
And Harvey grunts. "Okay -- uh. Uh. Maybe... uh. Hell," Harvey says, and his
laugh is soft and somewhat *panicked* --
Tim pulls back and turns to face him --
Bruce does, too, but in truth... "The way Harvey is gripping his own hip with
the fingers of his right hand..."
Tim swallows. "I. I see -- that --"
"The way he's pinching the bridge of his nose with the fingers of his *left*
hand --"
"He -- he's exasperated --"
"Uh --"
"No," Bruce says, and cups the back of Tim's neck --
Tim moans again --
Bruce squeezes because he *must* --
And Tim's knees buckle. He --
Bruce lifts Tim into his arms --
"Jesus. Jesus, big guy, you gotta --"
"He is -- young. So many..." Bruce licks his lips and searches Tim's eyes.
"Many of these feelings are... quite new?"
Tim is *panting* and shaking his head --
"Please, Tim. Please tell me," Bruce says, and shifts his hold until he can
*grip* the back of Tim's neck again --
Tim *groans* --
"Big guy -- you. Maybe talking's not the number one thing on Tim's mind right
now..."
Tim blushes *deeply* --
And Harvey's laugh is breathless. "I know it's not on *mine*. Christ, Bruce,
you -- but we can do this," he says, and moves to Tim's other side.
Tim immediately looks up at him with wide eyes, *shocked* eyes --
And Harvey's smile is the warm and crooked and *endlessly* reassuring one --
Tim whimpers.
"Yeah, little guy? Let's just say I remember thirteen *real* damned well. Lemme
make sure the door -- no, screw that. *No* one bothers us in here. Or anywhere
we're together," and Harvey waggles his eyebrows just once and starts working
on Tim's fly with one hand --
"H--*Harvey* --"
"Shh, it's okay. We got you. Okay?"
"I -- I'm about. To make a mess. Ah."
Harvey grins. "That's the funny thing, little guy. You're not *alone*," and
Bruce learns that Tim wears briefs --
That his penis is relatively slim and quite straight --
That when it's erect it's almost *dark* -- though not as dark as Bruce's --
Bruce licks his lips --
Harvey wraps his hand around Tim's penis and squeezes so *gently* --
Tim throws his *head* back and cries out --
"Yeah, just feel it this time, little guy. Just *feel*. Don't even worry about
telling me what you like -- unless you *can*. Just let me give it to you..."
"Let *us* please you --"
Tim whimpers and *jerks* --
And Harvey stares hotly into Bruce's eyes as he begins to stroke -- not slowly.
Not.
Bruce licks his lips. "I want to touch you, Tim. I want -- I've never had your
*taste* --"
The sound Tim makes is *strangled* --
"Squeeze his neck again, big guy --"
"*Please* -- I -- "
Bruce does --
"*Ohn* --"
"Yeah, you like that pretty good. So do I when Bruce is holding me down. He's
*strong*, Tim. Stronger than *anyone* --"
"Nnh -- oh, please --"
"Maybe you wanna feel that? Feel someone holding you down?"
"I -- *Harv* -- *please* --"
"Yeah, I hear you, Tim. I hear you, and I'm not letting go for *anything*," and
Harvey strokes *faster* --
Tim *shouts* --
Goes *rigid* --
"Ah, Jesus, I need -- " And Harvey growls and leans in to take Tim into his
*mouth* --
Bruce groans --
Tim shudders *violently* -- but doesn't make another sound even once he starts
bucking into Harvey's mouth. Harvey does nothing to *still* him --
And Bruce feels himself ache with the need to touch, to give, to *take* --
He'd always thought the feeling would be *less* if he'd ever found himself
desiring a second person --
It's one of the reasons he'd resisted even -- even *looking* for such a person
--
But it's only fitting that it would be Harvey who would find that person, who
would *bring* Bruce that person --
All but place him into Bruce's *arms* --
Bruce clutches Tim *tighter* -- and then Tim sobs and gasps and *whimpers*,
over and over --
Harvey doesn't stop *sucking* --
And the whimpers quickly turn to groans as Tim flushes once more and tries to
toss his head, tries to *arch* -- Bruce is holding him too tightly for that.
Bruce *wants* --
And Harvey pulls off with a slow, *wet* slurp -- and grins at both of them.
"Bruce's turn...?"
Tim makes a shocked noise -- an affronted noise?
Bruce drops to his knees and lays Tim down gently on the mats. "We can do
anything you wish --"
"You -- you -- what do you *want*?"
"What --"
"Don't say 'what I can have'!"
Harvey coughs into his fist -- and licks his lips. And shivers before gripping
Tim's chin and turning Tim to face him again --
"Oh --"
"You kinda -- you gotta get used to answers like that from Bruce, little guy."
Tim frowns *deeply* --
"Oh -- I can do better --"
"Oh, yeah, big guy? Prove it," Harvey says, and winks at him. "Tell Tim
*exactly* what you wanna do with him."
"But -- there's so much --"
Harvey's laugh is somewhat high-*pitched* -- "*Start* telling him. It might
just work like it works on *me*."
"How -- I'd like to know -- ah. Never mind."
And then he and Harvey both are staring down at Tim --
Taking him *in* --
"That's *intimidating*!"
"Is it a *problem*, little guy?"
"I... ah. You. Of course -- I'm not a *coward*!"
"No, you are not," Bruce says, and strokes Tim's cheek once more. "Do you
shave?"
"What? I -- no. I mean. Once a week, a few hairs... my mustache -- what do you
*want*?"
"I'd like to kiss you. To... to *nuzzle* you. Your cheek is so very *downy*,
Tim --"
"I'm not *that* young --"
"You really are," Harvey says, and coughs a laugh. "But we're kinda not
thinkin' about that. Much. Or at all. Or -- I think I need someone to slap me."
"Harv --"
Tim *punches* Harv's *side* --
"*Oof* -- hey, that's gonna *bruise* -- and I'm back on track. Good deal," and
Harvey lies down on his side next to Tim. "You're that young. We're that -- uh.
I'm thinking we'll be hearing about this from Blood -- though God only knows
what that guy'll actually *say*..." Harvey sighs and shakes his head. "I don't
care. You taste good. You *are* good. Tell Bruce to keep talking."
Tim stares into Harvey's beautiful eyes --
He seems almost *mesmerized* --
"Oh, yeah, little guy? How's this," and Harvey leans in and kisses Tim hard,
*deeply* --
Tim groans and *shakes* --
And Bruce can't stop himself from resting his hand over Tim's sternum, from
*pressing* until he can feel -- the pound of Tim's heart. Bruce's penis
*twitches* --
And Harvey hums and pulls back *slightly*, eyes tracking back and forth behind
the lids before he opens them. "Kinda... mm. Lick my mouth a little?"
"Oh -- yes. I mean. I'm sorry --"
"Nuh-uh. You're doin' just fine, little guy. And tell Bruce to talk. Go on."
Tim pants and turns back to face him, eyes wide and lips swollen and *wet*.
Bruce narrows his eyes --
"You -- you look *angry*!"
"I am not," Bruce says, and breathes deep, searching for Tim's scent -
- pleasure. Sharpness. Sweat and an unfamiliar cologne -- "I want to taste
you."
Tim grunts -- and *his* penis twitches --
"Hey, look at that, you didn't *have* to ask," Harvey says, and grins -- and
strokes Tim's mouth with the tip of his index finger. "Another kiss?"
Tim squeezes his eyes shut --
His penis twitches violently and *repeatedly* --
"Oh -- yeah, I'll take that as a yes," and Harvey turns Tim back to face him --
And Tim lunges up to *take* Harvey's mouth, to -- yes, he's licking, lapping
and *tasting* --
Harvey moans and nods --
Rolls Tim on *top* of him --
And Tim makes a sharp noise and *thrusts* against Harvey's abdomen once --
Again --
*Again* --
Harvey grips Tim's hips and yanks them down over Harvey's own --
"Oh -- oh, *God* --"
"Are you religious?"
Tim blinks and stares at him. "No. I'm. What?"
Bruce nods thoughtfully. "Thank you for telling me. Have you fantasized about
doing that?"
"Doing -- what -- oh --*ohn*!" And Tim grips two handfuls of Harvey's simple
white t-shirt and *stops* thrusting against his groin.
Harvey growls --
Tim cries out and shivers --
And Harvey shakes himself all over and smiles again. "Sorry about that, little
guy. Answer Bruce's question."
The blush is impossible to tease away from the flush. The --
Tim is *rumpled*, now, and Bruce has never seen him that way, never *touched* -
-
Bruce licks his lips and grips himself through his shorts, squeezes *hard* and
lets himself moan --
And Tim stares at him hungrily, shockily --
Tim's eyes are taking him *in* -- and Bruce can only nod and *give* of himself,
try -- try to *push* his gaze into Tim's own -- "Please tell me, Tim."
"I -- wanted. I've thought about... being held down. While Harvey thrust
against *me*," and somehow Tim's flush grows *darker* --
He looks *away* --
"I wanted that, too," Bruce blurts. "I -- " He shakes his head. "He was always
so strong, so graceful and beautiful... I wanted to be forced down, forced to
*take* --"
Harvey growls and *claws* Tim's hips --
"*Oh* -- I'm sorry --"
"No, you. You didn't do *anything* wrong. Keep listening. Keep talking. Keep -
- c'mon, I --" And Harvey laughs and shakes his head, closes his eyes and
*bangs* his head against the mats --
And Bruce reaches to slip his hand beneath Harvey's head -- as Tim does
precisely the same thing.
Harvey moans --
And Bruce stares into Tim's eyes, Bruce *looks* -- "You want to protect."
"I -- always. Yes --"
"I want that, too."
Tim pants -- swallows and nods jerkily. "Harv. Harv -- told me."
There is *fear* for a moment, but only because he is so much less *intelligent*
than his brother -- his *brothers*! "It's more than desire for you."
Tim lifts his chin again. "More -- it's my life. What -- what I want for my
life --"
"What you'll *have*."
Tim bites his lip -- stops that and growls. "Yes. Yes, it is --"
"Brother."
Tim shudders --
"*Brother* --"
"Oh -- Bruce, I -- "
"May I -- "
"Kiss me, please just --"
And it's *difficult* not to lift Tim into his arms again, but *he* would want
to stay close to Harvey, to stay in *contact* -- and so Bruce leans in and
covers one of Harvey's hands on Tim's hip --
Bruce pushes Tim *down* against Harvey --
Tim groans into his *mouth* --
And Bruce has seen, Bruce can -- Bruce makes his kiss forceful, *aggressive*,
Bruce pushes his tongue *deep* --
Tim shudders and twists to grab for Bruce's shoulders --
Bruce nods and squeezes hard, *takes* Tim's mouth --
Tim cries *out* --
Shakes his *head* -- oh --
Bruce pulls back --
"N-no, don't --"
Bruce cups the back of Tim's neck with one hand and his groin with the other --
"*Bruce* -- *mm* --"
And Bruce makes this kiss *more* forceful, *deeper* --
Bruce *opens* Tim's mouth with his own and growls -- no. He pulls back enough
to bite Tim's upper lip --
Tim *grunts* --
Bruce nods and sucks him there -- "I want more," he says, and *licks* Tim's
mouth --
"*Please* -- I mean. What -- tell me --"
"Did you like Harvey's mouth --"
"I'm -- I'm *human* --"
Harvey snickers and *bounces* Tim on his groin.
"*Gah* --"
"We like that kinda thing around here," he says, and licks his lips.
Tim turns to stare at him, to nod and lick his own lips --
Bruce can't stop himself from staring at Tim's *cheek* --
He leans in to kiss it, to nuzzle --
"Oh -- your *stubble*, I -- I didn't --"
Bruce pulls back. "You don't like it."
"No! I mean -- I do like it. I don't -- I didn't expect. I've never felt -
- ah."
"Heh. Wait 'til you feel that stubble other *places*, little guy."
"Oh, God -- I mean -- I'm *not* religious --"
"Sometimes these things slip out. We get that," Harvey says. "Right, Bruce?"
"Yes," Bruce says, but he can't look away from Tim's *cheek* -- or. He looks up
into Tim's eyes again --
"You -- look angry again --"
"I am not."
"This -- this is what you look like --"
"When I am... very aroused," Bruce says, and spreads his knees enough that his
erection will be... obvious. More obvious --
"Oh -- fuck. Of course you're huge *everywhere*," Tim says, and *snorts* before
covering his face and laughing somewhat hysterically --
And Harvey laughs with Tim and folds his hands under his head. "You shoulda
been with me when I was watchin' it *grow*, little guy. I would think to myself
'okay, that's a good size, it'll stop there.' Then I'd wake up the next day and
there'd be a whole 'nother *inch*."
Tim snorts again --
Bruce -- blushes. "That's -- it's not -- it's not quite --"
"Big guy. It's *huge*. And that's a *good* thing."
"It's an *intimidating* thing," Tim says -- but he's smiling. "And... ah. A
somewhat... motivating... thing."
Oh... "Would you... would you tell --"
"Would you show me?"
Bruce pants through his nose and nods, kneeling up and pushing his shorts and
briefs down --
"Oh, *yeah*, look at that, little guy..."
"I. I'm looking..."
"I always get a little -- heh -- a *lot* crazy for that view, knowing it's all
for me..."
Tim -- licks his lips. And blushes. "It must. It must be -- flattering."
"Turns me right the hell on -- *heh*. More. Of course, it's *not* all for me
right now. Right, big guy?"
*Bruce* blushes and nods.
"You maybe want Tim to touch that, big guy?"
"Yes -- but."
Tim makes a strangled noise and looks *up*. "I -- 'but'?"
Bruce shakes his head. "Only. Only if you wish --"
"You. You should tell me. Ah. You should tell me what you want. Please."
Bruce sighs and cups himself, squeezes --
Harvey grunts and arches *up* --
And Tim moans and clutches Harvey's hips with his thighs --
Harvey *grins* -- and nods to Bruce.
"I. I want... to see your penis, too."
"You say 'penis,' too, hunh? Just like Bruce." Harvey shakes his head. "I
should make you both *wait* for my *dick*."
Tim shivers --
And Bruce laughs softly. "Please don't."
"Ah, this is why I'm not the disciplinarian in this house --"
"You're *not*?"
"*No* one is. That's why we're such a mess. Well, *one* of the reasons why.
Scoot back juuust a little -- yeah, like that," and Harvey opens his jeans with
a sigh and a *soft* groan that makes Bruce's palms sweat, makes Bruce *ache*
more --
But Harvey doesn't hesitate before tugging his penis out through the slit of
his briefs. It is much, much darker than *both* his and Tim's, and so *slick* -
-
"This what you wanted, little guy?"
A sharp inhale -- "Yes. I -- yes."
Harvey grins. "Ever think you'd have two rock-hard dicks waiting for you?"
Tim blushes deeply again. "I've -- fantasized. Ah."
"Oh..." Bruce licks his lips and strokes Tim's cheek again. "About us?"
"No! I -- not. Not the two of you... together."
"That's a shame, little guy. We get pretty hot, if I do say so myself," and
Harvey grins more broadly --
"I... have no doubts about... that."
"Then why did your thoughts not -- no," Bruce says, and indulges himself by
stroking Tim's mouth with his thumb again. "It seemed too much. Too...
unbelievable."
"I -- yes."
"Hey, that's what fantasy is *for* --"
"No, brother. There would've been... too much pain?"
Tim looks down... but nods.
Bruce nods, too, and lifts Tim's chin. "I will never deny you."
"You can't -- you can't make promises like that --"
"I can."
Tim looks to Harvey --
"He absolutely can, little guy. *I* can't, though. For all I know, we'll get
into a knock-down, drag-out argument one day and I *won't* wanna put it to you
like there's no tomorrow... until we make up. But you'll still be my brother."
"You -- you want --"
"Yeah. And it's what *you* want... isn't it?"
Tim pants and strokes down to his penis, which twitches *twice* before he can
grip it --
"Yeah, you *don't* actually have to answer that question aloud. A boy like
you... so *hungry*..." Harvey licks his lips. "You Waynes drive me up a
freakin' *wall* with the hunger --"
"*You're* a Wayne --"
"I'm just a guy --"
"No, brother," Bruce says, and cups Harvey's shoulder with the hand he isn't
using to stroke Tim's cheek, his mouth, his chin -- "We're all *one* now. We -
- there must be no divisions."
Harvey narrows his eyes and pants -- "I -- heh. Guess I asked for just that --"
"*Yes*," Tim says. "I -- you have to -- please --"
And Harvey sits up and kisses Tim *hard* --
"*Mm*!"
Harvey pulls back and licks his lips. "No divisions anymore. No *breaks*. Just
us. The *three* of us -- okay?" And he looks back and forth between him and Tim
--
"Yes, brother," Bruce says --
Tim *moans* -- "I still don't know -- how --"
"We'll teach you everything we *know*, little guy -- little *brother*. And
you'll teach us, too."
Tim pants and moans and nods, looking back and forth -- and leaning toward
Bruce with his eyes *nearly* closed --
Bruce nuzzles his mouth this time, dragging his mouth and cheek against Tim's
soft lips --
Tim moans again and nuzzles back -- and bites Bruce's chin.
"Oh. I like that very much, Tim."
Tim growls and bites Bruce harder, then bites Bruce's cheek, and lower lip, and
upper lip, and lower lip again --
And then he *coughs* a cry against Bruce's mouth --
Harvey is stroking Tim's penis again -- "Could *not* keep lookin' at that
without gettin' a little more touch. Hope you don't mind...?"
"Unh -- nnh -- I want..."
"You want...? What do you want, little guy?"
And Tim squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment --
Pants and grits his *teeth* --
"Hey, hey now --"
And then he opens his eyes and stares *into* Bruce. "Please. Please -- show me?
How. How you want. I. I don't know how to *ask* for --"
"Oh, I *really* think you do, little guy," Harvey says, and lets go. "I just
also think that was good enough for government work. Big guy?"
Bruce smiles helplessly --
Tim rears back --
"Don't worry about that too much, Tim. Bruce always looks terrifying when he's
happy. Trust me -- you *will* get used to it."
"O-okay -- ah. Bruce --"
"May I move you?"
"Yes -- oh, *fuck* --"
"Did I mention that I like the way you curse, little guy? 'cause I *really*
do."
"That's -- good, oh, you're stripping -- me --"
"I must see you," Bruce says, and wills his fingers to be deft, to regain at
least some of the cleverness they have when he *isn't* aroused --
He feels as though he's been aroused for *hours* --
But Tim's necktie is in his hands --
Pressed to his face. The cologne has a sweetness to it, but it's mostly a musk
which would be appropriate for a much older male. Bruce snorts the scent out of
his nose and promises himself the chance to at least try to convince Tim toward
other things.
He is --
He is wide-eyed as he stares up at Bruce, and his cheekbones are sharp, and his
nose is as Gallic as his mother's. His mouth is soft -- swollen *softer* --
He is flushed so *deeply* --
Bruce swallows as he pushes Tim's jacket back off his shoulders, as he works on
the buttons of his shirt --
"Oh... Bruce?"
"It's -- " Nothing. But he must not lie to his brothers. He -- "It's
embarrassing... but I find myself wondering what Tim would look like in...
makeup."
"Uh."
"You -- *what*?"
Bruce blushes and pushes Tim's shirt off --
"Bruce --"
"You are -- I feel very. Very *foolish*, Tim. I did not see your loveliness."
"You didn't -- you didn't see *me* -- and -- I'd rather not --"
"Perhaps... only lipstick? Or... eyeliner. Eyeliner can be very dramatic --"
"Big guy."
Bruce hums and tugs Tim's pants and briefs further down -- "Oh, your legs are
very strong, very..." Bruce leans in to kiss Tim's inner thighs --
"Nn -- I --"
He kisses his way *up* --
No, he licks, and nibbles at the *well*-defined musculature. Does Tim run?
Exercise his legs in some other way?
He can exercise *with* Bruce -- !
Neither of them have to be *lonely* --
And Tim's scent here is -- heady. There is a sweetness that fills Bruce with
memories of the darkness of his bedroom --
His *lonely* bedroom before he ever knew Harvey, before he knew there could
*be* anyone who would want to touch him, to share with him this strange and
frightening thing that not even Mother could wholly explain to him, could
wholly take the *sting* from.
His father's words had been too clinical, meaningless against the rush and
*run* of feelings inside him, too cold against the *heat* --
And Tim is hot here, Tim is --
His scrotum is so *tight* --
"Oh, *Bruce*!"
And so perfect in Bruce's mouth, so --
"Oh, yeah, big guy, *suck* it..."
He can, he *will*, because Jason Blood had *appeared* in Bruce's bedroom one
night and filled the air with strangely *cold* fire -- and he'd covered Bruce's
bed with books in languages Bruce didn't know, showed him pictures of things
Bruce had never *guessed* at --
Jason had *explained* everything, and from then on Bruce's fantasies had been
much more *full*, much more *interesting* --
But he'd still needed Harvey to teach him the beauty and joy of making
fantasies *reality* --
("Jesus, big guy, where -- where are you *getting* -- *unh* -- oh, *deep* --")
Yes. Yes, he *needs*, because isn't it a statement of intent as much as it's
anything else? Isn't it the lovemaking which can *least* be denied?
Bruce moans as he pulls back from Tim's scrotum --
Bruce flips Tim over onto his hands and knees --
"*Oh*!"
"Oh -- Jesus, big guy --"
"No *pain*," Bruce says, because other speech has become difficult, slippery,
dangerously *ambiguous* --
Harvey *grunts* -- and pushes his long, beautiful fingers into Tim's collar-
length hair before lifting Tim's head. "Bruce won't hurt you, little guy. He
just wants to rock your little world. Okay?"
"Ah. Ah. Don't -- do we need... lubricant?"
Harvey shakes his head, but his smile *trembles* on his face -- "But I'm gonna
want some when he's done with you."
Tim moans and *shivers*. "I've -- stretched myself --"
"Oh, *yeah* -- I -- " And Harvey shakes himself in a very canine-like manner
and jerks his chin at Bruce. "Do him. And then be ready to keep us *both* from
going *crazy*."
"*Yes*," Bruce says, but he truly means 'anything' and truly desires
*everything* -- starting with the spread of Tim's firm and *gently* rounded
buttocks --
"*Oh* --"
And his anus looks so small, so --
So *pink* --
Bruce licks a long stripe --
Tim cries out and jerks --
"Try to stay still, little guy --"
"But -- he --"
"Trust me -- this is gonna drive you *crazy*," and Harvey grips Tim's hair
harder and strokes Tim's mouth with his free hand. "*Let* it."
"I -- I only had a *brief* shower after karate!"
"Bruce can taste just that. And he *likes* it. Don't ya, big guy."
"*Yes*," Bruce says, and licks again, *again* --
Tim cries out and jerks again --
Shudders all over --
Clenches his anus nearly *shut* --
And now Bruce is shuddering, because the taste of musk and salt is one he
hasn't had since his last visit to New Haven --
Because *this* musk is entirely new --
Because Tim is a boy, *just* -- no. Never that.
Tim is his brother, old and new at *once* -- and Bruce can have him. Bruce
spreads Tim *wide*, giving himself a moment just to stare at the shine of
saliva on the taut flesh --
To stare at the *endless* clenches and flexes --
("In *my* day, the *vaguely* educated people called this 'the Devil's Kiss'."
"What did you call it, Jason?"
"Good, dirty fun. Though I *don't* recommend doing anything *like* it if you
don't have the materials to *thoroughly* clean one's mouth to hand. Without
them, the morning after can be somewhat... hellish.")
And Jason had grinned for his own pun --
Complimented Bruce for his *curiosity* --
But how could Bruce *not*? He's *always* wanted to taste, wanted to touch and
feel and *have* with his mouth --
To push *in* with his tongue when Tim flexes open --
In and *in* --
And Tim's cries begin to *peal* almost immediately --
Tim's body begins to shake with desperate *force* --
"Oh, yeah, yeah, I know *exactly* what he's doin' to you now, little guy..."
"P-p-*please*!"
"Shh, just enjoy it, little guy. Just -- hey, how 'bout I give you two of my
fingers to suck?"
"Please please please -- *mmmm* --"
"Oh, look at you rocking for this, back and forth and back again... mm. *Hot*
boy..."
Bruce nods and tries to delve *deeper* -- he can't, but he can thrust faster,
he can *take*, twist and *wriggle* his tongue --
Tim cries and moans are *muffled* --
"Three fingers, little guy? Are you *trying* to make me lose control -- heh,
and look at you nodding. So maybe we should all be just as crazy as you and
Bruce are right now?"
Muffled *words* -- no. It's 'please,' over and over again --
"Maybe. Maybe I should just push my dick right in there? Right into your pretty
little --"
And Tim shouts around Harvey's fingers --
Clenches *hard* around Bruce's tongue -- and then clenches repeatedly and
*convulsively* as he ejaculates on the mats --
"Aw, *yeah*, Tim, *just* like that -- yow, watch those teeth, now --"
Bruce slips his tongue out and sucks at the wrinkled flesh of Tim's anus --
And Tim screams --
"There we go, all free again --"
"Please! Please let me -- suck!"
Bruce hums and *grips* Tim's buttocks --
Tim growls and shudders --
"You *sure* you want it, little --"
"God -- oh, God, yes, *please* -- I can't -- I can't *think*!"
Harvey shudders out a long breath -- and then laughs. "I know the feeling. Ease
up on the kid, big guy..."
Bruce hums and nods --
Tim groans and -- that sound almost certainly means that he's beating at the
mats with his entirely clever fists. He --
Perhaps nail polish?
Lex wore *clear* nail polish sometimes --
And Tim is beating *faster* --
"Big guy, c'mon..."
Bruce had begun licking again. He -- he pulls back and sits on his heels,
wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He can't quite keep himself from
holding Tim spread with his other hand --
From watching him *continue* to clench --
"I can *tell* how much you liked *that*, brother --"
"Brother. I... yes. I want more," Bruce says, and he and Harvey both look to
Tim --
Who is clawing at the mats and panting with his head down. He is flushed all
the way down to his waist. His skin is shining with sweat. His body is -- lean,
not skinny, but Bruce believes he will always be somewhat small. Somewhat...
Perhaps... 'glam' clothing?
Bruce licks his lips and massages Tim's back carefully, using the lessons he
and Harvey had learned on each other's bodies --
"Oh -- oh, Bruce..." And Tim looks up --
And Harvey grins. "You should see the expression on our little brother's face,
Bruce. He looks *completely* out of it --"
"You -- Bruce just had his *tongue* in my *ass*!"
Harvey snickers. "He'll put it right back there if you give him half an excuse
-- heh. And now you look like you can't decide whether to be terrified or
turned-on --"
"You -- it's *rational* --"
"It sure as hell is, little brother. It's -- mm. It's pretty much how I spent
the first *year* Bruce and I knew each other."
Bruce hums. "You were quite adept at rarely showing your fear, brother."
"Hey, I didn't wanna give you the wrong idea. You might've *stopped*." And
Harvey jerks his chin at Tim. "And you don't want Bruce to stop, do ya?"
Tim -- moans.
Harvey grins again. "Didn't think so. Still want my dick?"
"I -- please --"
"Yeah. I -- don't try to take too much all at once. I *don't* need you to
swallow me like some kinda pro, get me?"
"I want -- I want to --"
"You want me in your throat? Choking off your air? Making it so the only thing
you can feel and smell and taste is --"
"*Please*!"
Harvey shivers and licks his lips, then shuffles forward on his knees until Tim
is panting on the head of Harvey's penis -- but he's still holding Tim by the
hair. He --
"Oh -- oh, Harv, please *let* me --"
"*Slow*, little brother. For *my* sanity, okay?"
Tim whimpers and *strains* against Harvey's hold --
"God, Jesus, c'mon, Tim --"
"Brother -- let him," Bruce says, sitting back on his heels and squeezing
himself hard. "He has... I can *taste* this fantasy within him."
"I *know* what you can taste --"
Tim *sobs* --
"Ah, Jesus, okay, okay," and Harvey lowers Tim's head toward himself --
*Grips* his own penis and aims to make it easier for Tim --
Who takes the head in immediately, sucking and humming and *shaking* --
"Oh -- oh, *damn* --"
And Tim looks up with a panicked expression on his face --
But Harvey only smiles and shakes his head. "Perfect, Tim. Just -- yeah. Do
*that* -- *unh* -- or you can use your tongue. You can definitely --" Harvey
moans and shudders. "Gotta remember to -- take it easy..."
Tim hums and shakes his head *vehemently* --
And Harvey chuckles and *musses* Tim's hair. "*Yes*, little guy. Because if I
fuck your face the way I want to? *Someone* will notice you *looking* like you
got your face fucked."
Tim flushes hard, deeply, *thoroughly* --
Bruce licks his lips and begins to stroke himself. "I want your mouth as well,
Tim."
Tim grunts and thrusts at the *air* --
"Oh -- the idea arouses you. I'm very glad," Bruce says. "I... perhaps I
should... say more?"
Tim nods --
Harvey snickers breathlessly -- "What did we tell you? What do I *always* tell
you?"
Bruce hums and squeezes the base of his penis as hard as Harvey had the first
time Bruce had told him that he wished to be *taken* -- "You might have said...
something..."
"God, you're the *worst* -- oh -- oh, Tim, *yeah* --"
"Harv, tell me --"
"He's -- mm. Lickin' the slit. Really. Really *shoving* his tongue at it.
Trying to push in?"
Tim nods and hums again, *slurps* --
Harvey *grunts* -- "Love that sound. Love that *feel*. C'mon, Bruce, get me
even higher --"
"I want. I want to *teach* Tim how to take you in his throat --"
Tim's moan is high-pitched, even more vehement that his nods --
Bruce sighs. "It is... a swallowing motion. A *gulping* motion, as well -- but
you must wait until *Harvey* is ready --"
Tim whimpers and claws at the mats --
"And..." Bruce licks his lips. "You should touch him. You should... perhaps cup
his hips, or his wonderful scrotum..."
And Tim's hands are shaking when he lifts them --
When he gazes up into Harvey's narrowed eyes --
"You wanna get me crazier, Tim?"
Tim nods *slowly* -- no, Harvey is gripping Tim's hair so tightly that he
almost certainly *can't* nod any more quickly than that. He --
Harvey pants through his nose --
His own flush is so *dark* --
"I can't *fuck* you, little guy," he says, and -- oh. He's *pleading* --
*Bruce* shuffles closer and yanks Harvey back against him, holds him *still* by
the hips. "I will keep you steady, brother," Bruce says, and kisses Harvey's
temple --
Harvey pants again --
*Again* --
And nods as he loosens his grip on Tim's hair. "And -- and touch me, really --
" Harvey groans in just the way --
"He has your scrotum."
"So. So *gentle*, big guy..."
Bruce pushes his erection against the small of Harvey's back --
Slides it in the warm *sweat* --
"Do you want him to be gentle, brother?"
Harvey groans again -- it's an answer.
And Tim meets *Bruce's* eyes when Bruce looks over Harvey's shoulder.
Bruce nods at him. "Harder, Tim --"
Harvey throws his head back and *tries* to buck --
Harvey cries out and rolls his head on Bruce's *shoulder* --
And Bruce has always loved this position, loved being able to *feel* his
brother *this* way, loved being able to gather his brother *to* him --
Harvey enjoys Bruce's size so *much* --
And Tim seems so small between Harvey's strong thighs, seems --
So *determined*, and yet so *careful*. He *isn't* trying to take the whole of
Harvey's penis right away. He --
Bruce shakes his head. "Tim... the first time Harvey allowed me to take his
penis into my mouth, I choked myself again and again trying to have *all* of
him. It ended with me coughing and *gagging*. You are..." Bruce smiles. "Yours
is, by far, the better approach."
Tim raises his eyebrow -- and takes in another half-inch --
Harvey whimpers and *shakes* --
*Strains* --
And Tim's curiosity and *banked* sarcasm fades under a haze of wonder and
*lust*.
Bruce nods. "You're pleasuring him, Tim. You... he's struggling quite hard to
thrust into your mouth --"
Tim groans and slurps again --
Again --
Harvey grunts -- "*Please*!"
And saliva slips down Tim's chin despite his efforts. It --
"I'd like to taste you everywhere, Tim," Bruce says, and *grinds* against
Harvey's back --
"*Mm* --"
"I would like -- your nipples have never been bitten? Or... suckled?"
And Tim looks up at him with wide eyes --
Tim begins to take himself with Harvey's penis hungrily, desperately --
Bruce licks his lips and kisses Harvey's flushed ear --
Harvey is shuddering and gritting his teeth --
Straining and trying to *twist* away from Bruce's hands --
"Be easy, brother," Bruce says. "He only wants your pleasure --"
Tim shakes his head *sharply* --
"No? Oh... this is *your* pleasure, as well."
Tim nods and *mouths* Harvey --
Takes *more* of him -- and lets his eyes roll back.
"Oh... beautiful. Perhaps you will convince Harv to take your mouth anyway --"
"Bruce, *please*!"
Bruce scratches at Harvey's hips. "He can stay with *us* tonight, brother. A...
'sleepover', I believe it's called? His mouth will *heal*."
"*Hnh* --"
And Tim moans and takes himself more *slowly*, which is curious -- but then
Bruce realizes that the head of Harvey's penis must be bumping and dragging
against the back of Tim's throat. He --
"You're trying not to gag, Tim?"
Tim nods and continues to take himself --
"Oh, God -- God, please, go *easy* --"
"Shh, Harv, our brother needs this. Needs *you*."
Harvey pants -- and his penis twitches repeatedly --
Tim makes a surprised noise and pulls back --
"No -- no, please --"
And Tim grunts and takes Harvey in again, sucks hard enough to hollow his
cheeks --
"Ah -- ah, God, so *good*, so -- just this, *please*, just this --"
Tim *growls* around Harvey's penis --
Harvey *whimpers* just as he does whenever *Bruce* growls for him in moments
like this --
And Bruce wants to let go and caress Tim, wants to hold him and pull him
*closer* --
It's not time. It's not --
But Tim narrows his eyes and focuses on something that perhaps only he can see
in the moments before he breathes deep --
And gulps --
"Don't -- ah, *fuck* --"
Tim coughs and pulls back --
"I need -- I need so *much* --"
"Shh, brother. Tim will... Tim will give you everything," Bruce says, and
kisses Harvey's temple again, massages his hips -- "Tim, you must time
yourself. You must wait until the head is at the back of your throat and it
seems you will cough. Do you understand?"
Tim nods once and looks at him with *gratitude* --
Bruce smiles helplessly --
And Tim begins to work himself on Harvey's penis again, up and down and up
again as he sucks, as he slips his tongue out between his lips to tease and
inflame --
Harvey is groaning and *shuddering* --
Biting his lip and sweating --
The scent of him is so high, so powerful and *high* --
Tim slows himself --
Takes Harvey in deep --
And deeper --
And the gulp is *obscenely* loud --
And even if Harvey *didn't* whimper and go *rigid*, Bruce would know that Tim
had managed to take Harvey into his throat by the way Tim's eyes lose their
focus and gain something like dazed *wonder*. He --
Bruce can't --
Bruce grips Harvey's right hip harder and reaches out with his left, cups and
*strokes* the back of Tim's head --
Harvey and Tim shiver *together* --
"Big guy -- Bruce, *please* --"
"He needs you now, Harv --"
"I can't -- God, I *can't* -- *hnh* -- *HNH* --"
Oh... "Are you manipulating his scrotum, Tim?"
Tim nods almost *dreamily* --
He's flushed and -- and he can get no air like this.
Harvey isn't *thrusting* -- and Tim isn't working himself, anymore. Tim is
*keeping* Harvey's penis -- and this is something Bruce understands very well.
He can -- he *must* help.
"I want -- Tim, let me *show* you something --"
Tim nods and groans in his *chest* --
Saliva patters to the mats --
And Bruce grips Tim's hair *carefully* and tugs him back --
Harvey cries out -- and thrusts *deep*, choking off Tim's cry almost before he
can *make* it.
"Oh, you're both so *beautiful*," Bruce says, and pulls them apart again as
they moan --
As they *shake* --
"Big guy --"
"*Now*, Harv --"
Harvey cries out and thrusts --
And thrusts --
And *yells* as he cups Tim's face and *pulls* him in, *holds* him against his
groin as he grinds --
Tim's eyes are so *wide* --
He doesn't seem to know what to do with his *hands* -- and so Bruce takes them,
holds them and holds them against Harvey's working hips --
"Ah, God, I'm sorry, I'm *sorry* --"
And Tim curls his short nails against Harvey's hips --
Bruce pulls Tim's hands to Harvey's buttocks --
"Oh -- oh, *fuck* --"
"Give him your pleasure, brother --"
"Can't -- *have* to -- ohn --"
And now every thrust is rough, *wild* --
Now he's *moving* Tim with his thrusts --
Tim is *clawing* at Harvey's buttocks --
Harvey is crying out again and *again* --
And Bruce realizes that *some* of the violence of Harvey's motions is the way
Bruce himself is thrusting against Harvey's back, the way Bruce is -
- demanding.
Needing --
"Please -- *please*!"
But Bruce can't *not* know what Harvey needs, what would make this even more -
- "I will *always* love you," he says, then licks his fingers and forces
himself to pull back enough to slide his fingers between --
To push *in* --
Harvey *screams* --
And Bruce knows that he's ejaculating even as he thrusts -- oh. Semen is
spilling out of Tim's mouth even as Tim *tries* to slurp, to *keep* --
Bruce gathers it on the fingers of his other hand --
Harvey clenches and gasps --
Screams again *briefly* --
And slumps back against Bruce, panting and moaning *softly*.
Bruce kisses his cheek and pulls out slowly, *gently* --
And Tim makes... many, many arousingly *wet* sounds as he pulls back, as he
licks Harvey's twitching penis clean, as he licks his lips --
Tim moans and blinks rapidly, seeming almost to be in the process of waking
himself *up* --
"I want. I want to sleep with you," Bruce says, and reaches for Tim --
Tim makes a questioning sound -- and then obviously notices the semen on
Bruce's fingers and *lunges* to take them into his mouth. His --
His wet mouth, so --
So warm and *soft* --
His lips are even more swollen than they were before, even more *plush* --
Bruce groans and *shoves* himself against Harvey's back --
"Ah -- ah, God, big guy, what are you gonna *do* with that thing?" And Harvey
kneels up and shifts enough that he can face Bruce --
"I..." Bruce swallows --
He can't look *away* from Tim --
From the way he is *taking* himself with Bruce's fingers --
And staring deeply into Bruce's eyes. He --
He is smiling.
Bruce groans *again* --
"Oh, hey now, you -- you might *hurt* the little guy -- wait. Did *I* hurt you,
Tim?" And Harvey turns to look at Tim, to *search* him. "Ah, God, your poor
*mouth* --"
Tim tugs Bruce's fingers out his mouth --
Bruce *grunts* --
And Tim licks his lips again. "My mouth feels... very... well-used, Harv." His
voice is -- less hoarse than Bruce had expected, but --
Harvey still winces. And then he nods and reaches out --
And Tim smiles wryly. "I tend to think... ah. I'm very happy about that."
"Yeah, but -- and I'm not -- and that was *fantastic* --"
"Harv."
"Tim --"
"I... ah. I'm not going to regret sucking you off."
Bruce blushes --
And Harvey grunts. "You -- heh. I forget you *can* talk like that when you want
to, little guy."
Tim smiles *sharply*. "I noticed."
"And you --" Harvey narrows his eyes. "That hurt."
"What?"
"That smile. I saw the way you narrowed your eyes. The way your shoulders
tensed up a little," Harvey says, and reaches to cup Tim's jaw gently. "You're
*hurting*."
"Ah. It can't really be *unexpected* --"
"I didn't wanna hurt you, little brother. I didn't want *any* of this to --"
"I was a *virgin*, Harv! These things *happen*," Tim says, and the asperity in
his voice --
"You're quite sharp --"
"I -- what -- yes? Yes. Does it bother you?" And Tim frowns *cautiously*.
Oh -- not that. Bruce strokes Tim's mouth with his saliva-damp fingers. "It
impresses me, considering how aroused you are once more. How..." Bruce shakes
his head. "I'm never especially intelligent after Harv has taken me."
"Taken -- he. Oh. Oh. He -- did. Didn't he. Um." And Tim looks to Harvey --
*Harvey* smiles wryly. "I fucked your mouth but *good*, little guy."
"*Nnh* -- ah. Ah. I... no longer know why I'm... arguing."
"I believe you were --"
"Big guy, this is *not* where you help him."
"Harv --"
"I think -- I think I would like Bruce to help? I mean. That's not a question."
Harvey winces and releases Tim's jaw. "I -- am *real* damned late at this whole
growing a conscience thing, aren't I?"
Bruce wraps his other arm around Harvey's waist. "Yes, brother. I think, for
some things... no. We have *learned*, between us, that there can be more
between brothers than what society would approve of."
"Yeah, but --"
"But Tim is young, and lovely, and, in some ways, quite innocent," Bruce says,
and kisses Harvey's cheek. "I am not ignorant in all ways. You... you did not
expect to lose control with Tim --"
"*Really* not --"
"It was the last thing you *desired* --"
"God -- you *know* --"
"I know, brother. But I also know that your loss of control aroused Tim
powerfully, physically *and* emotionally."
"Oh -- *yes*," and Tim nods -- and kisses Bruce's fingertips. "Please -- keep
explaining."
Bruce smiles and press his fingertips against Tim's mouth in another kiss. "I
will try," he says, and turns back to Harvey. "I can only imagine how it
would've felt if, the first time we made love, you had held back from me --"
"Oh -- no, big guy, but -- Tim is *younger* than we are --"
"And smaller, and -- so lovely, but the emotions are the *same*. The *need* is
the same. You -- you *outlined* it for both of us --"
"Brothers, yeah, and -- God. God, I know what you're saying, what you're *both*
saying --"
"But now that you're not aroused, it's harder to... see?" And Tim smiles
ruefully.
Harvey blinks --
Stares --
"Ah, *Christ*, and now I'm making it *worse*?"
"It -- it wasn't bad, at all, before -- *oof* --"
And Harvey is clutching Tim against him, kissing him all over his face --
Bruce slips his arms from between them and hugs them both, *holds* them both -
- "We must give everything, brother."
"And -- and *take*?"
"*Please*," Tim says, and -- "I don't -- I'm never supposed to beg for
*anything* --"
"Ah, don't -- sometimes begging's the *best* thing, little guy! Sometimes
begging just -- puts you right on the *map* between who you are and what you
*need* -- I don't even know what I'm *talking* about --"
"I --" Tim shudders hard and hugs Harvey back. "Then. Then please don't -- pull
away from this. Please don't *regret* this --"
"Please let *Bruce* fuck your poor little mouth?"
"*Yes*! I mean -- I mean *yes*, Harv. You can -- you can be gentle with me
*later*... um. As long... as you keep. Touching me -- *gih* --"
Harvey growls. "I know I'm holdin' on too tight. I *know* -- God, Tim, just let
us *fix* things for you a little, okay? Let us -- let us be brothers --"
"Yes --"
"And I won't freak out and lose the freakin' thread. I won't -- God, you're
such a *sexy* little kid --"
"I'm not a *kid* --"
"Yes, you *are* --"
Tim growls and bites Harvey's *ear* --
"*Yow* -- okay, *okay*, but *I* was a kid at thirteen --"
"I'm not you!"
"And now you're *yelling* in my ear, and what if I decide you need a *spanking*
sometime, hunh?"
Tim grunts and *bucks* against Harvey --
Blushes *deeply* --
"Oh, God -- I didn't -- I mean --"
"I vastly enjoy spankings, brother," Bruce says, and strokes down to Tim's
buttocks. "Giving and receiving --"
"Oh -- and now I'm picturing -- ah. Hm." Tim pulls back and stares at both of
them.
Harvey grins and waggles his eyebrows. "You should *hear* the begging I do when
Bruce has me over his lap."
"Or the begging I do when Harv has me bent over, say, a couch."
"So what I'm saying is -- you're in good company, little guy. In fact, let's
*talk* about your kinks --"
"Yes, please --"
"No! I mean -- ah. Not yet?" And Tim licks his lips -- and stares into Bruce's
eyes.
"Oh... brother," Bruce says, and smiles.
"And that's my cue to get out of the middle," Harvey says, and shifts away.
There's the usual moment of cold --
But Tim shuffles closer immediately, cupping Bruce's face --
Stroking Bruce's *stubble* --
"We are *not* allowed to give the little guy stubble burn, *too*, by the way --
"
"Noted," Bruce says, and leans in to kiss Tim carefully -- and deeply. He moans
for the taste of Harvey in his mouth --
For the taste of Harvey's *semen* --
And Tim must enjoy being licked like this, being *tasted*, because he's moaning
and trying to push closer, *nuzzle* closer --
But Harvey moves behind Tim and pulls him back by the hair --
"*Oh* --"
"You can kiss *me* like that all you want, little guy -- I don't *get* stubble
like Bruce. But we can already see that you mark up like *crazy*... so maybe
save kissing Bruce like that for right after he goes at himself with those
straight razors."
"He -- you use a *straight* razor?"
"The shave is far superior --"
"It's very annoying to find that arousing."
Bruce frowns. "Is it?"
Tim snorts. "*Yes*," and he wraps his small, strong hand around the base of
Bruce's penis --
"Nnh. Oh. Tim..."
"It's. It's one more way for you to be *bigger* and *stronger* and *manlier* --
"
"He's actually pretty girly, little guy."
"I -- I truly am. Please. Please squeeze?"
Tim licks his lips and squeezes *viciously* --
"Oh -- thank you. I. I enjoy... Impressionists. Debussy. Lady Grey --"
"Eh, that last -- you like damned near everything Mom likes. That doesn't
really count."
"I -- ah. I think it should," Tim says, and starts to stroke slowly, awkwardly
-- but only for a moment before he finds his rhythm --
Bruce shudders and clenches his hands into fists. "Tell... me more?"
"Well. It makes you a 'mama's boy,' as it were. That... is automatically
'girly.'"
"Now *me*," Harvey says, and strokes down to *grip* Tim's penis --
"*Ohn* --"
"I never understood why being a *papa's* boy was supposed to be all that much
better. I mean, let's face it -- either way? You're letting someone else live
your life for you."
Bruce frowns. "I don't think I *am* letting Mother live my life --"
"Not *anymore*, you're not. But you absolutely were *before*."
"I -- oh. Oh, Tim, please -- you have wonderful calluses --"
"Thank you," Tim says, and smiles sharply through his flush. "Please keep
talking."
"I -- about?"
"*This*," Tim says, and squeezes hard in emphasis --
Bruce groans and thrusts into Tim's fist -- "Please --"
"Better listen to the little guy, Bruce. He has you -- heh. No. Grab him by the
balls, Tim -- yeah. Like that."
Tim *grips* Bruce's scrotum, and Bruce feels sweat roll down his spine --
His cheek --
Bruce licks his lips and starts to *take* Tim's fist --
"Oh -- that -- you never felt moved to be more like your -- *our* -- father,
Bruce?"
Bruce growls -- "Never."
Tim licks his teeth. "Because of my mother."
"Because --" Bruce shakes his head. "Even before I understood the truth about
his relationship with -- your mother -- oh, please. Please --"
"My thumb on the head? I like that, too --"
"I like that *three*," Harvey says -- and begins to work Tim's penis almost
*ruthlessly* --
"Ah -- ah --" Tim bites his lip and *shivers* --
His wide, grey-blue eyes are heavy-lidded --
And Bruce was saying something -- important. "Even before then, he was...
uninterested in that which. That which interested *me*. He was -- he wanted me
to be a *scientist* and *businessman*."
Tim blinks and frowns. "There's nothing wrong with that --"
"No, there -- there isn't," Bruce says, and licks his lips. "But there was...
little allowance for other choices."
And for a moment Tim's eyes are *hooded* --
"Oh -- Tim --"
"Hey, I *felt* that, little guy. Stay with the program, now," and Harvey
squeezes hard and strokes *harder* --"
"*Ahn*! Oh -- oh, God, I -- I can't -- I can't focus!"
"Then merely stay with us," Bruce says, and twines his fingers with Tim's own
around his penis when Tim's hand begins to spasm and shake. "We can speak about
anything you wish --"
"I -- I only -- I *never* had choices!"
Harvey growls. "Yeah, that sounds about right -- and *completely* wrong," and
he leans in to bite the join of Tim's throat and shoulder --
"*Please*!"
"Mother -- Mother rejects every part of me which leans toward business *or* the
sciences... but welcomes every -- other -- oh, Tim, tell us a *fantasy*!"
"I can -- I mean -- *what*?"
Harvey pulls off with a *suck* --
"Oh -- oh, that feels so -- "
"It can be anything, little guy. Maybe -- heh. You get to thinking about those
JSA guys? Wildcat's pretty damned huge for a guy who wears whiskers by
choice..."
Tim groans and starts stroking *faster* --
*Bruce* groans -- and smiles. "I believe he liked that thought, Harv."
"*I* believe you're right. C'mon, tell us --"
"He -- he -- I think about him with -- Black Canary... ah."
Bruce blinks --
Harvey blinks and raises his eyebrows. "You *do* like women, too?"
"That's -- *yes* --"
"Hey, all right! Trying to get Bruce to check out a female of the species is
like trying to get Dad to read a freaking *comic* book -- c'mon, what are the
*ridiculously* hot superheroes doin' in your head?"
"I -- ah -- ah..." Tim blushes *deeply* --
"Please... please tell us, Tim..."
"But -- you don't like women!"
"I've always thought that female superheroes must be a far better class of
woman than what I've been -- exposed to -- oh, Tim, yes, squeeze more, harder -
-" Bruce grunts and starts to thrust faster --
"She's -- she's amazing. And beautiful. And -- and she's not." Tim swallows and
*whimpers* --
"She's not what, little guy? C'mon --"
"She's not -- very *big*. She --"
"Oh... she's small. Like you..."
Tim nods *vigorously* -- and begins to *pump* into Harvey's fist. "She -- and
Wildcat. Wildcat is --"
"Big. Like *Bruce*."
Tim groans --
Harvey squeezes him so very *hard* --
Tim cries out and squeezes him with *both* hands --
And it's all Bruce can do not to throw his head back, not to give himself over
to the *feeling* --
But it's better to watch his brothers, his beautiful brothers --
Harvey is licking Tim's *ear* --
"Oh, *God* --"
"More, little guy --"
"She -- she could -- *hold* him. With her thighs. His -- his head --"
Harvey growls -- "I like the way you *think*."
"Perhaps... perhaps he could hold her hips? Or... her buttocks?"
Tim nods frantically -- *his* eyes are closed --
"You want her to ride *your* face, little guy?"
Tim cries out and nods *more* --
Harvey *grins*. "That's it, big guy. We're double-teaming you --"
"I -- I certainly hope so --"
Harvey snorts. "You're gonna get your dick wet with a female of the species if
I have to *hypnotize* you first --"
Tim cries out -- and ejaculates all over Harvey's fist --
His own chest --
*Bruce's* chest when Harvey *aims* Tim's penis at him --
"Oh, God -- oh -- oh, *God*," and Tim is panting, *swaying* on his knees --
He never loosens his *grip* --
"I freaking *love* making you come, little guy --"
"That -- oh, good. I --" And Tim shakes his head and almost *dives* down to
Bruce's lap --
"Hey --
Bruce groans and pushes his free hand into Tim's hair --
They're all going to need *extensive* showers, but --
But Tim takes the head in his mouth and sucks so --
Tim pulls *back* --
Bruce grunts and *struggles* not to pull --
"*Easy*, big guy --"
"I -- I'm sorry. You're too big --"
"Oh, *I'm* sorry --"
"No! Really -- no. Ah. I just meant -- I won't be able to take more than the
head -- right now. Today. Tonight? I have no idea how long it takes to
*recover* from this sort of thing!"
"It *absolutely* varies, little guy, and also? No *pressure*."
"Yes. Yes, Tim --"
Tim moans and *stares* at Bruce's penis. "I like the way you taste. I like -- I
like the way *both* of you taste. I never imagined --" Tim shakes his head. "I
always thought *women* would make me feel this way, that -- that with men it
would be the *sensations* more than anything -- um. I need to stop talking now.
So that's what I'm --" He takes the head in once more --
Bruce moans and *rocks* --
"*No*, Bruce --"
Tim *whimpers* --
"Harv -- Harv, *hold* me --"
"I *can't* hold you still -- "
"You can. You can *remind* --"
"Yeah, yeah, okay, we can do that," and Harvey bends to kiss the back of Tim's
neck --
Tim makes a high and *surprised* noise --
And then Harvey hitches up his jeans and moves to kneel behind Bruce, gripping
Bruce's hips with his --
His beautiful hands --
Bruce licks his lips and nods. "I -- I'm ready now -- oh, *Tim* --"
The *humming* suck is so forceful, so --
It *feels* as though he's trying to *pull* Bruce deeper into his mouth --
It feels as though he *wants* that, *needs* that --
He's gazing up into Bruce's *eyes* --
And Bruce is already shaking with the need to thrust, to --
Bruce pants -- "Stroke. Stroke me -- again --"
"Mm-hmm..."
Bruce growls and grips Tim's *hair* when Tim starts to stroke him *fast*, so -
- he doesn't pull. He doesn't *pull*. He --
He thinks of Tim's fantasy, and -- but. "Have you ever... Black Canary's
fingers... must be. Strong."
Tim's eyes lose their *focus* as he nods --
Bruce licks his lips -- "She. She could take *him*."
The noise Tim makes speaks of nothing but *lust* --
"Meaning," Harvey says, and Bruce can *hear* the grin in his voice, "that our
little brother has thought about *just* that. Man. I wonder what she *smells*
like."
And Tim seems to be trying to say something --
Something *fervent* --
But then he shakes his head and begins to suck *rhythmically*, humming for
every brief *release* --
Relief --
There *is* no relief, and Bruce doesn't *want* -- but.
Black Canary wears cosmetics. He's seen --
*Everyone* has seen the pictures. She may or may not wear anything around her -
-
Her eyes --
But --
And the images are sudden, and, perhaps, more shocking than they should be. The
images are --
"C'mon, big guy, *easy* --"
"I -- I. *Tim*. Have you ever... would you ever wear a corset?"
"*MM*?!"
Bruce licks his lips and pants --
*Strains* --
"Or -- stockings. Seamed -- or they don't have to..." Bruce groans and sweats,
*licks* sweat from his upper lip -- "They could be... thigh-high..."
"*Jesus*, big guy --"
"It's only --" Bruce shakes his head and forces himself not to *thrust*, not -
- "Such beauty --"
"You need a woman *bad* --"
"I don't *want* --"
"You just want to dress up our little *brother* like a -- uh. Not that there's
anything wrong with what Black Canary runs around in, Tim," Harvey says --
And, when Bruce looks, there is indeed a very *dark* look in Tim's eyes. He --
Bruce strokes his sharp chin, the *cut* of his cheekbones --
Bruce tugs and musses Tim's fine and overlong hair --
Bruce sweats and shudders and *strains*, and it feels like everything he is has
started to throb, to *pulse* with the beat of his heart --
No, with the rhythm of Tim's *ruthless* suction --
His --
"Your lips are already so *red*," Bruce blurts, and touches them with the hand
he doesn't have in Tim's hair, strokes them and *presses* --
Tim makes a soft and almost *mewling* sound --
Bruce's penis *spasms* --
Bruce grunts and -- doesn't thrust. Doesn't --
He needs --
He needs so *much*, but --
"You're already -- so lovely, and I -- I can't help -- I would *worship*, Tim -
-"
"You'll do that, *anyway*, you big freak," Harvey says, and bites the back of
Bruce's neck *viciously* hard --
Bruce cries out --
And cries out *again* when Harvey pulls *back* --
He's -- he's so *close* --
"Tell you what, big guy: *When we have our own place*? We all get *rip*-roaring
drunk, and then we pull out a makeup kit for all three of us. Tim's little -
- no way he can hold his liquor better than we can."
And Tim makes a *terribly* affronted sound --
Tim bares his *teeth* --
Bruce shouts --
"Ah, hell, I saw that -- be ready, little guy --"
"Mm -- *MM* --"
Just -- just a little thrust, a little --
But he has to do it again --
Again --
Tim's mouth is so hot --
So -- so *plush*, and in this moment it belongs to him, all the pain of it, all
the *pleasure*, all the *sharp* sounds as Tim stares up at him with wide,
shocked eyes --
As Bruce holds him in *place* --
Just --
Just like *Harvey* --
Oh, but --
He has *two* brothers now --!
And Bruce is expecting to shout, but this sound is more like a growling *yell*
as he pushes deep, as he tries to push even deeper, to *take* Tim's throat --
It must be *bruised* --
And he will soothe, he will hold, he will *keep* --
Always --
"*Always*!" And then everything is the heat that *taught* him this, the heat
that *showed* him this new possibility --
This new *truth* --
He is sweating and moaning so *loudly* --
He is arching and *losing* himself to his brothers, to the only touch he will
ever truly need --
He could even --
Even live without *Mother's* --
And in this moment, even blasphemy feels correct, feels like something which
*should* be given in the name of love --
And hope --
And brotherhood. He --
Bruce *slumps*, but not before he pulls Tim up into his arms, not before he can
kiss him, nuzzle and *suck* his own semen from Tim's tongue --
"Aw, yeah, gimme some of that --"
*Always*, and his arms are shaking, but he can lift Tim higher yet,
nevertheless --
"Oh -- *mmm* --"
And Harvey kisses Tim over Bruce's shoulder, kisses him wetly enough that
saliva and semen *drip* onto Bruce's shoulder --
Bruce shivers --
Needs with a *quiet* force --
And is answered when Harvey pulls him into the kiss just as if a kiss with
three people is something which can work as easily, as smoothly, as sweetly --
So wet and salt and *hot* --
So *soft* --
He has two brothers!
Bruce smiles and turns his body enough that he can hold them both.
*
***** May 1979: Harvey In Martha's Boudoir *****
Somehow -- and Harvey would *love* to figure out how *this* happened -
- showering and getting redressed had left *him* looking the most respectable
in the bunch. Granted, it was obvious it *couldn't* be Tim. Never mind the fact
that he doesn't *live* here -- his face looks *exactly* like the aftermath of a
pornographic lightsaber battle. Bruce, though --
Bruce has no damned excuse.
For Christ's sake, he doesn't even have a single pair of jeans which aren't
*ironed*. He --
He looks too happy, is the thing.
He's been walking around on a *cloud* for the past hour of them getting
themselves together and horsing around a little, and even though he's perfectly
put together in a clean pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt --
Well, for one damned thing, he's got a semi.
For *another* damned thing, he's *smiling*.
A *lot*.
And, see, that'd be fine if they just had to go talk to Mom, but they need to
talk to her *and* Alfred, because they damned well *all* missed dinner.
Which means *he's* elected, even though Harvey's *absolutely* sure that no
amount of brushing is gonna get the smell of underaged boy jism out of his
mouth. He --
"Harv? Are you all right?"
And that would be the *incredibly perceptive* underage boy in question, picking
up on the fact that Harvey's just been staring out the window of the ballroom-
cum-emphasis-on-cum-maybe-he-should-just-shoot-himself-now-gym. Harvey sighs --
"Oh -- you're not all right. Should I --"
Harvey reaches --
Tim blocks him with the kind of *perfect* reflexes that Bruce'll probably learn
approximately ten minutes ago --
So Harvey turns and smiles ruefully. "I'm still a little mixed up. Even though
I shouldn't be."
There's a *hollow* little frown behind Tim's eyes, something --
Something Harvey really *should've* predicted --
He shakes his head. "It's not on you, little guy --"
Tim raises an eyebrow, which --
Harvey snorts. "Okay, I can *see* how that sounds like a whole lot of bull in
hardly any words, at all --"
"But?"
"*But* -- uh." What, exactly?
What does he get out of brooding about this -- other than the chance to *squat*
on moral high ground he has about as much right to as Tim's mother had to that
white wedding gown she wore when she married Jack Drake... some three years
*after* she started balling *Dad*?
And Tim is waiting for him. Just --
"You'll wait for me some kind of forever, won't you?"
He gets a blush for that -- but Tim doesn't actually look away. He --
"I like that. I *love* that, actually. Keep --"
"Ah. What?"
"You. You just -- brazening it out. Lookin' me in the eye even when I'm saying
ridiculous and *crazy* stuff," Harvey says, and cups Tim's cheek. "I just -- a
lot of me says you're too young --"
"Harv --"
"Wait a sec, okay? Please?"
Tim frowns and nods --
And Harvey checks -- Bruce has his sketchpad and is still presumably planning
out ways to make this place a gymnasium-built-for-*three*. Okay --
"This -- you still haven't told Bruce that his life is in danger."
"No, but I will *tonight*," Harvey says, and turns back to face Tim before
smiling ruefully. "Now that I've got you guys together the *right* way."
Tim nods thoughtfully. "Some... some would say you shouldn't have told me."
Harvey raises his eyebrows. "*You* never would've believed a thing I told you
again if I hadn't told you ASAP. Right?"
Tim's got a rueful smile of his own. "Ah... yes. I still... never mind --"
"It still doesn't feel real. It still feels like we're using you --"
"No! Or -- I. I don't know --"
"People have been using you -- and throwing you away -- for your whole damned
life, little guy --"
"It's not that *bad* --"
"Give us time to be right for you," Harvey says, and cups Tim's pretty little
face, tilting his head up a little. "Just -- give us time, okay? Because that's
the only thing that'll make *all* of this right."
Tim frowns again. "It seems -- wasteful. Not to just... go with this, I mean."
Harvey grins. "Yeah, I can see it. And I guess it kinda is? But it's the kinda
waste that's completely human. It took me a *while* before I could really relax
and settle *into* having a family that *didn't* beat the shit outta me all the
time."
Tim lifts his arms --
Blushes --
And lowers them again. He --
"Okay, for the record? Hugging me is pretty much always allowed."
The blush gets more serious -- "'Pretty much'?"
"Hugging me when I'm rock-hard when you *don't* wanna fuck might cross my wires
a little," and Harvey waggles his eyebrows. "Other than that? We're fine.
C'mere."
And Tim walks into his arms --
Tim squeezes him *tight*, and yeah, lots of strength in those lean little arms
--
In that lean little *body* --
And there's just a little *heat* for that thought -- the kind of heat that can
get serious in a *heartbeat* if he lets it --
Or if Tim does *anything* --
No, not anything. Not -- it's not quite that bad. Good. Bad --
Harvey sighs and kisses Tim's temple. "So I was gonna tell you something."
"Something -- else? -- you wanted to keep from Bruce."
"Yeah, I -- it's like this: part of me thinks I should've kept my dirty hands
off *him*, little guy."
"What -- *why*?" And Tim pulls back to search him *incredulously*.
"He knew all this -- all this *stuff* about sex and bodies -- more than *I* did
-- but he was still innocent as all *hell*. And... you can maybe understand
that? A little?"
Tim frowns *again* -- but he nods.
"Yeah, you can. He made it clear from the jump that he wanted me to be his
*older* brother. That he *saw* me as his older brother. And -- God, I loved
that. I *still* love that. But..."
"Older brothers are supposed to... protect."
Harvey knows his smile is crooked -- he nods. "Yeah. Just -- yeah."
Tim nods thoughtfully and turns away slightly -- obviously to think even
harder. So Harvey just waits, and pets Tim's hair a little --
Does he like it this long? It doesn't seem *like* him at *all*.
Bruce's hair is a nice, grip-able length without being all floppy and annoying,
but he periodically tries to get Harvey to grow *his* hair out. That'll happen
right around the fifteenth of Juvember.
Maybe they can have a nice, brotherly trip to the barbershop? You can hear a
lot about what's going *on* in a city in the right kinda barbershop, and
Harvey's been away from Gotham for a long damned time --
"I don't..."
"Yeah, Tim?"
Tim frowns up *at* him. "I don't want your protection, Harv. Not -- in that
way."
"See, and I *expected* that answer, but -- older brothers kinda *have* to pick
and choose about that kinda thing --"
"But younger brothers -- when they've shown themselves to be reasonably
responsible -- should have veto power," Tim says, calm and dignified and --
"How do *you* know?"
Tim purses his lips. "How do *you* know?"
"I --" Harvey snorts. "Okay, you got me there, but --"
"Harv... it. It hurts."
Ah... damn. "It -- maybe feels like I'm pulling away from you?"
Another blush -- "I shouldn't -- you've been very -- "
Harvey *grips* Tim's face -- "Yes or no. Please."
Tim closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, *shudders* --
"Please, Tim."
Tim nods -- and then opens his eyes again. "Then -- yes. And it feels like -
- like you're looking for a way to... push me aside while still being... polite
--"
"*Christ* --"
"And it feels like you're... dumping me on Bruce --"
"Oh -- okay, okay! Uh. Damn, Tim!"
Tim winces. "I'm sorry --"
"*No*. I *asked*. And -- no, wait, if there's more, you pretty much have to
tell me," Harvey says, and strokes Tim's chin with his thumb, nods what he
hopes is *encouragingly* --
"I... don't think that would be the best --"
"It *really* is --"
"Harv --"
"Tim. I'm better at this emotional stuff than you *or* Bruce. But I still
*suck* at it, because I was raised by a guy who never met a bottle of bourbon -
- or a belt buckle -- that he didn't like. Okay? I need the guidance, *too*."
Tim inhales sharply. "You. I'd like it -- I mean. I wouldn't *like* it -- ah."
Tim stares -- *glares* -- at the floor.
"Hey, what's --"
"Oh -- right." Tim looks up again and squares his little shoulders. "If you -
- if you wanted to talk. About your childhood. With me. Ah. Yes."
God -- "I love you."
"Oh -- oh. Harv --"
"Don't worry about saying it back --"
"No, I -- I mean -- you've always been --"
"I didn't let myself think about it, or even really *feel* about it. You were
the brother I was only allowed to have over *there*, you know?"
Tim bites his swollen lower lip and nods slowly. His eyes are so wide, so --
Harvey smiles ruefully again. "I love you. That's it. And we'll all talk
together. And probably drink."
"Do you... I've never seen you... inebriated."
"And you never actually will, no matter how much I talk about it. But I let
myself get tipsy sometimes. That's allowed -- especially since I know Bruce
will *always* have my back --"
"And -- and me. I will. I mean --" And Tim growls and *glares* at him as the
blush just takes *over* his face --
But Harvey knows that Tim isn't really angry with *him*. He pulls him in for
another hug --
Tim makes his *ribs* creak a little --
So Harvey returns the favor --
"I -- I. I've always. Loved you."
Harvey shivers. "Do I get to ask how many people get to hear those words from
you?"
"Ah... you. No one else. No one else wants -- or. I don't know. I think. I
suspect Bruce would want... I mean. When I feel -- it won't take *long*," Tim
says, and --
"Heh. You sound a little pissed about that, little guy."
"Yes, *well*?"
Harvey snickers a little -- coughs himself to a stop. "I'm only laughing
because it took me an *embarrassingly* short amount of time to fall for the big
freak. Well, and also?" And Harvey pulls back *just* enough to meet Tim's gaze.
"You are *so* freaking allowed to be pissed about liking him now."
"And that's *funny*?"
"Well -- yeah. I'm afraid so," Harvey says, and strokes down the bridge of
Tim's nose. "This is where I call *asshole* older brother rights."
Tim gives him a *sour* look that's pretty much the cutest freaking thing --
Harvey can *see* Tim seeing him *finding* it cute --
The sour look turns to a *mean* look --
But then Tim snorts. "I suppose it would be *more* annoying if you were
perfect."
"There ya go. I promise I will *never* be perfect. *Ever*. Now tell me what you
were holding back before."
"Well... that's it, really," Tim says, and strokes Harvey's waist lightly -
- then firmly. That --
"I like that."
"Oh -- good," and Tim smiles up at him --
Harvey is *not* thinking of how young he looks like that --
"And -- ah. It's just... I love you. Not... not the version of you who never
loses control, or... ah. I don't know how to say it. I mean, you *have* been
basically perfect since you *introduced* yourself --"
"Hey, I was pretty awkward --"
"Because you were trying to make *me* feel comfortable, and -- and I *never*
feel comfortable --"
"I want you to. *Always*."
"Well -- ah. Then you should... relax. And... lead by example," Tim says, and
smiles almost shyly. "Bruce seems to think you're good at that sort of thing."
"*Bruce* thinks --"
"That you're wonderful in every way," Bruce says, *appearing* out of nowhere
and kissing Harvey's shoulder. "So far, my original observations have been
borne out."
Harvey sighs. "You're still smiling, big guy."
"Yes. My face is starting to be somewhat sore, but I can't say that I mind."
Tim hums. "Then we match in more than one way, Bruce."
"Oh... so we do. I don't suppose I could join this hug?"
"It's a very nice hug," Tim says, and pulls back enough to make room --
"Thank you very much, Tim. Harv?"
Harvey sighs and wags a finger at Bruce. "Remember that we have to look at
least a *little* respectable when we walk up out of here and you can have all
the hugs you want."
"As you say," Bruce says, and *blanks* his expression.
"Ah, *Jesus*, big guy, save that for the *parties*. You see that, Tim? You see
what I have to - *gah* --" Because of *course* Tim is blanking his *own*
expression. "Okay, if either of you people do this crap to me again *before*
you're on slabs somewhere? There's gonna be a problem."
Bruce hums.
Tim shows his teeth.
"That's it, no hugs for anyone."
"Brother --"
"Nope, no one's gettin' any of the good stuff," Harvey says, crossing his arms
*tightly* --
And then Tim starts... blinking. Or...
Well, his eyes are *really* wide --
And his *lip* is trembling --
Harvey knows he looks freaking *horrified*, but -- "All right, little guy,"
Harvey says, and leans in so they're nose-to-nose. "You *can* fake it if you
wanna... but there are *consequences*."
Tim blinks again and smiles with a kind of *sharp* hopefulness -- "Spankings?"
Bruce hums *again* --
Cups Harvey's *ass* --
And Harvey's dick is reeeal damned clear about the fact that he's losing this
one. That he has, in fact, *lost* this one --
"Okay. I give," Harvey says, uncrossing his arms and standing straight --
Tim looks him *over* --
Bruce *squeezes* his ass --
Tim *starts* to reach for him --
And Harvey does a little boxer's dance out of range. "Both of you, seriously,
*I'm the one who has to talk to the adults*."
Tim frowns mildly. "You don't consider yourself an adult?"
And that -- is a good question. Harvey smiles and waves his hand a little.
"Sometimes I do. Other times I think of myself as the person who *should* be an
adult. *Other* times? I think of myself as the overgrown horny kid who
*absolutely* doesn't know any better."
"Harv, you were never --"
"Big guy. *Remember what happens to me when I look at your dick*."
Bruce coughs. "I... could hardly forget. But --"
"But nothing. You guys sit tight -- or, heh. Pick a suite to hang out in while
I go look responsible and not at *all* like I'm planning to come back up here
and screw. *Okay*?"
"As you say," Bruce says, and then the two of them turn to Tim --
Who is absolutely checking out Bruce's hands. Heh. Harvey grins and whistles --
And Tim jumps a little and looks up, blushing *hard* -- "Ah -- I missed
something. Please tell me --"
"Bruce'll tell you. And maybe show you a thing or two with those big, big
hands," Harvey says, shoving his own hands in his pockets and walking backwards
to the door --
"I wasn't -- oh, God. I can't be this obvious --"
"You can," Bruce says, and smiles warmly at Tim. "If only because it will -
- hopefully -- guarantee that I won't miss your cues."
And Tim's expression for that is -- complicated. Sourness, hunger,
consternation, hope, wonder --
Bruce steps closer --
Tim *doesn't* move away or shutter his eyes --
Yeah, Harvey can leave them to deal with it. Now to do *his* job. It's after
ten o'clock, so there's an extremely limited number of places where Martha can
be. It's not that she goes to bed early -- ever, even though she damned well
gets *up* early most of the time -- it's that...
Well, sometimes Harvey thinks she hates Wayne Manor *just* as much as he does -
-
That all the little decorative touches she's added to make the place brighter
and homier over the years make her feel like she's --
Giving in?
Giving aid and comfort to the enemy?
He's frankly not *sure* if Thomas would object to Martha giving the whole place
a *serious* makeover, to letting her banish all the shadows that make walking
down this hallway full of old -- and perfectly-maintained -- portraits feel
like taking his life in his hands --
Or maybe just his soul.
Thomas lets Martha get away with everything *else* --
Not that she ever does anything *too* scandalous *publicly* --
He doesn't know. He doesn't know and he doesn't *wanna* know --
And he damned well needs to pick himself up and make himself *ready* for -
- this.
Harvey knocks on the newest door in this hallway. In the daylight -- not that
much *gets* to this part of the hall from the windows at the ends, but still -
- you can see that it's just a little redder than the rest --
A little *bloodier*, maybe --
"Now *who*," Martha says, "could that be...?" And it's her amused voice, but
Harvey hadn't been here for a *week* before he knew she could be amused in a
lot of damned *ways* --
No, no, she likes him, and he's damned well gonna go with it. "Just me, Mom.
I... uh. Have a favor to ask."
She *purrs* -- "Well, come in!"
So he does just that. And no, she's *not* in the entryway, of course, so it's
*right* into the *boudoir* --
Which is like what would happen if Scheherazade's murder-happy sultan got high
with Mingus and then gave *birth* to Martha --
But no, that kid would probably be less scary.
Harvey pulls on a rueful smile and picks his way through the pillow-maze until
he gets to Martha's blood-red chaise -- reupholstered twice a year *every*
year, and if the furniture people take too long, heads *roll* --
Metaphorically.
And Martha smiles up at him *warmly* and offers her small, soft hand.
It's gotten a little more vein-y over the past five years, maybe a little
*knuckle-y*...
But she's forty-seven years old, her manicure is perfect; her long, white-
streaked hair is perfect and swinging free, her *makeup* is perfect --
Hell, she doesn't even *have* any of the pancake-y stuff on --
She doesn't *need* --
And he doesn't need to be checking out his mother.
Even though it always makes her happier. Well, at least his rueful smile is
*real* now. He squeezes her little hand gently and sits down on the
overstuffed, body-sized pillow that will let Martha gaze benevolently down upon
him.
He keeps holding her hand for a little bit longer --
"You *do* want a favor," she says, and raises an eyebrow at him. She's wearing
--
Well, on anyone else it'd be a tarted-up housedress. On Martha, it's something
that makes light blue cotton with darker blue paisleys all over it look like
something that could be worn to a freaking ball.
She rolls over onto her hip and *slowly* takes her hand back. "Harvey.
Darling..."
"Yeah?"
"The answer is yes."
Harvey coughs. "I -- you gotta let me actually *ask* this one, Mom."
"Harvey. Over the course of a *day*, you managed to get Bruce to acknowledge
the boy he previously chose to treat like ninety-eight pounds of disease-ridden
elephant dung -- the boy who will save his *life* -- as not just his brother,
but as his *beloved* brother. What *precisely* did you think I would say no
to?"
Harvey's jaw -- drops. "Uh."
Martha smiles at him. Slowly.
"Uh. So." Harvey licks his lips and tries *real* hard not to sweat --
Not to sweat like he's *dying* --
Not to *bathe* in his own sweat -- okay, fuck this. "So... you've been paying
attention."
"I had help," Martha says, and turns *languidly* toward her huge and freaking
*diaphanously* curtained bed --
Where an extremely naked Jason Blood is sitting at the foot and filing his
nails --
"*Fuck* --"
Harvey scrambles *back* --
"*Don't* worry, Harvey, I *wasn't* here when you walked in."
"Uh -- you. You just kinda... walked in?"
"You could say that," and Blood smiles at him *fondly* with those teeth that
always look a little too *ready* to be used --
A little too --
But they aren't any sharper than anyone else's --
But some of those scars look *fresh* --
*Incredibly* -- fresh --except that that stops being true *while Harvey
watches* --
They won't *be* there in a little while. They -- but.
Blood's never hurt *him* --
Just his father. Just --
There's a really, really *neat* conical pile of red dust forming on the pillow
directly below where Blood is filing his nails.
There's not one goddamned thing *Harvey* can see on the guy's nails that looks
red, at *all*.
There's --
There are so many damned alarms going off in his head right now, and the fact
that only *half* of them are for Martha is just -- what his life looks like
right this second. So Harvey takes a deep breath.
And then another.
And then another --
"That's more like it, darling. Back on the pillow!"
"Uh -- sure thing, Mom," Harvey says, and gets right back on the pillow like
the good boy he is. He -- no, he's gonna do this right. He turns to Blood. "So
how are you, Jason?"
Blood's smile gets brighter. "Healing at the expected speed -- and with the
expected *thoroughness* -- from an unfortunately necessary battle with a Woth
demon... and charmed *breathless*, as always, by you."
"Uh... thank you --"
"Oh, behave, Jason, you're not even *close* to being his type."
Jesus --
"More's the pity, really," and Blood looks critically at the nails of his left
hand for a moment --
They *grow* while Harvey *watches* --
"Oh, this --" And then Blood shakes his head and makes a sound Harvey can't
even *guess* at --
It makes Harvey feel like his *throat* is closing --
Martha hums and *strokes* her throat --
And what looks like a full *cup* of red dust showers down from Blood's -
- entirely normal-looking nails.
"There, that's *much* better," he says, and Harvey's throat is back to normal -
-
And Blood *nudges* the dust-covered pillow with his foot until it freaking
*disappears* --
And then he *tosses* the file into -- into *nowhere* --
And that's absolutely Martha's hand on his shoulder. "Keep breathing, darling."
"I'll just -- do that. Now."
"Good boy."
"*Very* good boy," Blood says, and smiles at him again. "You would've loathed
the company of the knights with whom I spent the vast majority of my time when
I was mortal -- they were, for the most part, a venal, ignorant, and drunken
lot who were anything *but* averse to rape when the peasant boys and girls were
pretty enough -- but... you, Harvey, are the ideal they aspired to be. Or what
they told themselves they aspired to."
Harvey narrows his eyes. "Really. What were *you* doing with all those peasant
children way back when?"
Martha squeezes his shoulder *hard*, but --
Blood smiles even wider. "Buying and seducing, of course. I did have a certain
nobility of spirit... once upon a time."
"What happened."
"Life... and lots of it," Blood says, and cocks his head to the side. "I will
never be a rapist, Harvey."
"Just a voyeur?" And a *murderer* --
"You're angry that I showed your mother what your tireless efforts brought to
fruition...? Or perhaps there are other crimes you wish to discuss."
And the hell of it is that Blood's voice is *gentle* for that last, that --
Gentle like --
Like --
("Oh, Harv, shh, shh, we'll just stay in here and wait for your Dad to... to
feel better. Okay?")
Harvey -- shudders.
And holds on. Just --
Holds *on* -- and tries a laugh that isn't fooling any goddamned body, at all.
"I'll stick with the thing where maybe a little privacy wouldn't be a *bad*
thing --"
And Martha digs *in* with her nails --
Harvey's not *looking* at her --
But Blood is. He --
"Martha... perhaps you could give us a moment alone?" And there's that *gentle*
voice again, soft and low and *quiet* --
She digs in even *harder* --
And Blood stands, three-piece suit that looks like something between a mod
revival and a funeral *flowing* over his body until he's right there looming
over the chaise and cupping Martha's chin. Dear one, he says, in French with no
accent Harvey's ever *heard*, Nothing of any import will ever be kept from you
if I can --
Martha growls. "He *speaks* French!"
Blood laughs. Truly...? So be it, he says, and switches to what *sounds* like
Russian --
Martha's replies are angry and frightened and hungry and --
Jesus. Just --
It's not like he *wants* to be alone *anywhere* with Jason freaking *Blood* --
But Harvey thinks that saying that aloud would just make things worse right
now. So -- he keeps himself quiet. And he waits --
And, about two minutes later, Martha *whirls* up off the chaise and storms out
of the suite, hair flying behind her. It's actually halfway down her *back*
now, and he hadn't noticed that before --
She slams the door behind her --
"She *isn't* the most beautiful woman I've ever been involved with -- not even
now that she's grown into all the promise she had in her twenties -- but...
well. The *confusion* of your feelings for her tells me you understand what I'm
saying very well," Blood says, and sits on the far end of the chaise Martha had
vacated. "You're welcome to join me. I feel no need to look down on you, save
when we're standing and I must once again mourn the lack of proper nutrition
during my youth --"
"*Wait*. You've been reading my *mind*?"
Blood blinks in what looks like surprise -- and then snorts. "Not at all,
Harvey. You are a teenager, and, while you have a *fair* gift for diplomacy,
you are, at base, a very *honest* teenager. When you have powerful emotions
about someone, they *show*."
Oh -- damn.
"To be fair... I *have* been observing humanity for over a thousand years," and
Blood winks at him. "Please come up here."
"Are you --"
"I will not touch you in any way, shape, or form -- with or without the powers
at my disposal."
Harvey -- breathes. And gets up on the other side of the chaise, resting his
hand on the armrest. He can smell Chanel no. 22 and something muskier than that
-- her shampoo?
Something Blood gave her?
Something *magical*? He --
He turns to *look* at Blood, to really take him in. He's not *tiny*, but at
five-nine and one-forty or so, he's pretty *compact*. Not anyone's idea of a
knight in *this* day and age -- and *really* not when you look at the way he
carries himself. Pervy old queen right down to the *bone* -- even to the way
he's crossing his freaking *legs*. But.
Reddish brown hair, brown eyes that only *seem* like they should be reddish,
too. Thin lips. Cheekbones not too different from Tim's, but the cheeks
themselves are more hollow. Nose that was broken and set *really* well...
probably sometime before 'the New World' was even thought about by the people
Blood palled around with.
Murderer.
Murderer --
And he's not gonna ask. He's not --
He's never --
He's never gonna have a better chance than this. Ever. He takes another deep
breath, sits straight --
"Yes, Harvey...?"
"How many bodies on you, Jason? Seriously."
Blood shakes his head, and his smile is old. *Old* -- "Harvey... I lost count
of *that* when I was *mortal*. The wars of succession began when I was a
*squire*. Kings and queens, princes and princesses... *they* can go into exile
when they lose. Their followers rarely ever have that option."
"And you were on the wrong side."
His smile gets older. "Eventually. We all believed... well. Arthur was, in
fact, a very good man. He *wasn't* the best of us, but he was good enough to
surround himself *with* the best. *Always*." The smile slips. "Perhaps...
perhaps too many of the best, in the end."
Harvey shivers. Just -- "Bruce... told me a little about your history."
"Bruce was *always* a wonderfully curious boy," and Blood's gaze is distant for
a moment -- only for a moment. "Martha loves him, you know."
"I know --"
"Listen very carefully, Harvey: Martha *loves* him. She does *not* love anyone
or any*thing* else. She is fond of you, and she is most assuredly fond of *me*
-- we are *useful* to her, after all, and entirely entertaining -- but she
*only* loves Bruce. This has raised that love... hmm... perhaps I mean it has
*alchemized* it. That love is stronger than any crystal, now, more pure, more
passionate, more *devoted* than nearly any other love I've ever seen."
Harvey shakes his head. "You don't -- you don't spy on your kid having sex.
That's *not* love --"
"I didn't say her love wasn't *also* as twisted as a two-hundred-year-old
*witch* hazel tree. She wouldn't be... well. From the very first day we met, on
April first, nineteen-fifty-nine, at just around noon right here in the manor,"
Blood says, and stares *weirdly* at a space in front of them for a long moment
-- and then turns back to him. "From the first day -- the first *moment* -- I
knew she was mad. It did *not* take *much* longer than that to discover that
she had no love for anything, at all. At the time, I thought she never would...
but."
"I don't get it. Why do you even get involved with someone like that?"
Blood smiles. "Why do *you* want to make love with her?"
"Hey, *watch* that --"
"All right, we'll leave that aside. You're *certainly* adept enough at mental
contortionism to repress that -- again --"
"Look, just because I think she *looks* good --"
"And sounds good, and *smells* good, and -- "
"She's my *mother* --"
"And you never, ever think of her that way. Or do you?"
Harvey narrows his eyes -- and doesn't say a word.
Blood nods like he'd answered *anyway*. "But, to give you a less antagonistic
answer to your question... *I* found her stunningly beautiful. *I* found her
wildly entertaining. She *shocked* me with her desires -- and she continues to
do so. Perhaps you could guess how *rarely* that happens...?"
"But you knew it wouldn't *go* anywhere --"
"And do *you* require every one of your relationships to be mutual ones? With
*women*?"
"Heh. *I* don't, but you've been with a woman who you *know* will never love
you since the *fifties*. That's -- well, it wouldn't *surprise* me if you were
that kind of masochist --"
Blood laughs, low and pleased and -- dark. "Harvey. I've loved *her* from -
- nearly -- the beginning. Functional immortality means, among other things,
that one has the *time* for *just* as many problematic relationships as one
cares to have --"
"Or maybe you just don't know any better."
"True love and *only* true love every time, Harvey? What *will* you do when you
meet a *strong* woman? A woman with whom you wish to converse? A woman who
makes you laugh? A woman who *excites* rather more than just your perfectly
lovely cock?"
Harvey rears back --
And Blood laughs again. "I'll give you a hint: you will *first* compare her -
- almost certainly unfavorably -- to dear, *dear* Martha, because, at the
moment, Martha is the *only* woman you know whom you actually respect. And
that... is precisely as frightening and tragic as it should be, considering the
sort of man you *wish* to grow into."
Harvey stares --
Tries to --
"*Leslie*," he blurts --
"Oh, yes, the dry little *stick*. I suppose it's possible she gains a measure
of juice for *Alfred* -- *many* things are *possible* -- but... I've seen the
way you look at her, too, Harvey," Blood says. "I haven't observed that quite
as *much* -- I do have *some* other hobbies -- but, at a guess, I would say you
find her... hidebound. *Admirable*... in certain oh, *so* limited ways, but, in
the end, no one with whom you would wish to actually spend *time*."
And he's sweating again. He's --
"But this isn't *really* what I wanted to talk about. I... well -- oh. Have I
given you too many uncomfortable truths at once?"
"I don't -- I don't hate *women* --"
"No, of course you don't, Harvey --"
"I'd never hurt -- and I'm not a bad *guy*," Harvey says, standing and pushing
his hands back through his hair, one after the other after --
"Really, you --"
"There's -- there's two. Two ways of doing things. *Two*. There's a right way
and a wrong way and I'm not my fucking *father*!"
"Harvey. You want to sit down now."
Blood's eyes are... they *are* bloody, and -- and *round* -- "I wanna sit
down."
"You may."
"But I'm not a bad --"
"You want to sit down now."
Harvey feels himself nodding, feels his knees just --
Harvey sits down, and he's just -- he's *yanking* at his own hair, and that --
There's a right way --
"Harvey... calm down."
"But --"
"Shh. Calm down," and his eyes are even rounder, even *bloodier*, like maybe
they'll start leaking red tears --
Blood all over --
There was blood all over his mama's *face* and more kept coming out more and
more and more --
"Harvey... you're in the present now. All is well."
"But --"
"Shh, shh, shh..."
"Yeah. Yeah, okay, I can be quiet," Harvey says, and he can take his hands out
of his hair, too. He can rest his hands right --
Right on his knees --
And Blood is doing -- saying? -- something. Something low and just -
- *rhythmic* . Something --
It's *beating* in him, but not like a --
It's not bad. It's a heart, and it's so *close* to his *own* heart, and he can
get it even closer, can't he?
He can --
He can really --
Just --
Sink.
"... course, you'll have an *infinitely* easier time of it if you start paying
attention --"
"To women who *don't* fall all over me because I'm a Wayne, yeah, I -- what?
We're... talking?" And Harvey pats himself down, but he has no idea why. It's
not like he's trying to remember what pocket he put his damned wallet in --
Where --
*When* --
And he can *feel* that his hair is all messed-up, that he's --
There's something like a damned *speed* bump in his mind where there should be
nothing but smooth freaking *asphalt* -- something happened.
Something happened in his *mind* --
And Martha just *blooms* in his head, bigger than life and twice as beautiful,
infinity times as *scary* --
And Harvey remembers -- everything. Absolutely everything. He's still *calm*,
but -- he winces.
The flick of a lighter --
And the familiar crackle of -- a clove cigarette.
Harvey wrinkles his nose. "You usually smoke better things."
Blood raises an eyebrow -- and blows the smoke away from him. "I thought you
might find this more pleasant than my usual cigarillos. Even *I* find those
positively evil."
"Then why -- never mind. Just --" Harvey shakes himself like a dog and pats his
hair vaguely back into place. "Cloves are what a guy I *really* dislike smoked
up at Exeter."
Blood inclines his head -- and then the black cigarette is shorter, thicker,
and *brown*. And evil-smelling.
But in a kinda nice way.
Harvey nods. "Thanks."
"You're quite welcome," Blood says, and blows a smoke ring before smiling -
- hunh.
"You did a spell on your teeth to make them look better, didn't you."
"No. I did a spell on my entire *jaw* to *replace* the nineteen -- or twenty,
it's difficult to be sure -- teeth which were shattered when I was hit in the
face by a large man who was *quite* skilled with a spiked flail. This was...
hm... yes, I was eighteen at the time."
"Jesus. Uh. Ow?"
"I was left for dead after the battle -- this was also when my nose was broken,
and I was *quite* a mess -- and, when I woke... well. I *considered* letting
myself die -- *very* deeply," he says, and smiles *nostalgically*. "But I was
surrounded by the freshly -- and violently -- dead. There is a great deal of
power in that sort of thing -- if one has the ability and will to use it."
"And -- you did."
"Oh, yes. And then I foolishly tried to go *right* back to my old life -- after
all sorts of people had seen the *ruin* of my face -- and I was very nearly
summarily drowned. After being beaten again, of course. By then, however,
Merlin was with Arthur, and he convinced the man that my destiny was twined
with his own. Devious old bastard."
"I could say something here about pots and kettles."
"*I* was practically a naïf -- at the time. I didn't even know how to *read*."
"Then how the hell did you know -- uh. Never mind."
Blood laughs and blows another two smoke rings. "You shouldn't try to stop
yourself from asking questions. You *do* want to be a prosecutor, don't you?"
"God, how much *do* you spy on me and Bruce?"
"Oh, *good* question," Blood says, and takes a long drag. "I think you can
guess how Martha reacted when Bruce started sending home long, loving, and
*desperately* detailed letters about you...?"
Harvey winces. "I don't *want* to --"
"Because you don't like to think about those sorts of desires. Well, all right,
I'll do the thinking for you: She was, of course, *jealous* -- wildly so -- but
you must understand that she was also thrilled to her very soul. Up until then,
Bruce's passions had been dry and almost universally *bookish* things. She
loved him -- and knew she always *would* love him -- but she feared that he
would --"
"Grow up like Dad."
"Precisely. But then there was you, and she could... hm. I was *going* to say
that she could see *herself* in Bruce, and that's even true to a certain
extent."
"But?"
Blood smiles -- nostalgically again. "She was so beautiful as she rushed into
my shop that day. It was positively *pissing* rain, and she'd remembered to
wear a mack, but she hadn't covered her beautiful hair. It was hanging and
dripping like a Shakespearean hag's, but her eyes made her look even younger
than she did when we met. Here," he says, and gestures --
And there's something like a hole in the air --
And then there's Martha, *bursting* through the door of Blood's magic shop in a
sleek and fancy green raincoat that isn't fastened; a half-drenched pink dress
that looks like something she'd wear to a Foundation function at a *library*;
and heels which probably *had* been pink when she'd left the manor, but are now
a wet and grungy no-color. No way those things hadn't gone right in the trash
after that. Her hair *is* crazy -- and she absolutely looks young. Excited.
*Happy*. She --
Harvey squeezes his eyes shut and shakes himself all over again --
"All gone," Blood says. "But perhaps you can see why, in that moment, I
promised myself that I would do whatever was necessary to stay in her life
until the day when she undoubtedly made me kill her in some undoubtedly
fascinating way --"
"*What* the --"
"Martha wishes to outlive Thomas. She does *not* wish to grow old. I believe in
*choice*, Harvey," and he *looks* at Harvey like he's gonna kick if Harvey
protests, but --
"You're talking about killing my --"
"Martha. I'm talking about killing *Martha*. *When she wishes to die* -- and
not one moment before. If I *don't* do it... she will ask Bruce."
"*No*! He can't -- you can't let her --"
"*Choice*, Harvey. Nothing will stop Martha when the time comes. Grow used to
the idea now -- and prepare yourself to console your brother-lover. He'll need
it."
Harvey winces and puts up his hands, pushes at the *air* -- "Okay. Okay. Not
thinking about this. You were saying? Before?"
Blood takes another long drag -- and taps the ash in a weird, shallow, off-
white... bowl.
It -- "That's a kneecap, isn't it."
"Oh, yes. But it isn't human, so you can relax."
"Uh."
"As I was saying: She saw herself in her beloved son... but she also saw *him*.
Perhaps for the very first time. She saw a whole and beautiful person who was
*perfectly* happy and *perfectly* in love and who only wished to share it with
the person he cared for most. With the *family* he cared for most. I believe,
in that moment, Martha came to understand -- as much as she ever *will* -- the
*meaning* of family. The *truth* between all of the saccharine and sap -- and
recriminations and hatred. *She* had never felt such a thing for *her* parents,
but *Bruce*! Why, the things *Bruce* felt *made* her. *Defined* her. She was a
*mother*, Harvey. And she had a *son*."
Harvey frowns and just -- "All right. I'm hearing you. I'm absolutely hearing
you."
"But?"
"I'm still not seeing how you get from point A to point 'let's watch my kids
get it on.' I mean -- all right. I *know* I'm in my own glass house here. Bruce
*isn't* just my brother on paper, and he never has been. I commit incest every
single freaking day -- at *least* in my heart -- and so does Bruce. But we do
it *together* --"
"And you wouldn't be doing it at all if Bruce didn't return your feelings?"
"Hey, I can control myself. If Bruce didn't want me, I'd be -- it's not like
I'd try to seduce him, or -- I'd love him *like* a brother," Harvey says, but
he can feel his gut twisting a little, feel -- "She's not in love with him."
"She is."
"Being in love -- it makes you *better*."
Blood raises an eyebrow. "Does it? Hmm. She does everything in her power to
make sure he -- and you -- have everything you could ever want or need."
"Yeah, but --"
"She never -- ever -- interferes with your relationship."
"She -- wants to --"
"She protects you from the *consequences* of your actions..." and Blood
*waits*.
And -- yeah. His gut is twisting again. "Thomas -- Dad wanted to put his foot
down."
"Does that truly -- no. I *know* it does *not* shock you."
"I -- just haven't been thinking about it."
"No, you have not."
"Christ. *Christ*. I don't *want* --"
"To be in her debt...? I believe you've lost your chance for that --"
"When you killed my fucking *father* --"
"She did that, actually," Blood says, and takes another long drag.
Long enough for Harvey to really -- "She's -- she's got magic of her own."
Blood exhales -- and *then* shakes her head. "Only what I give her, when I give
it to her. But..." Blood sighs and gestures --
And there's an image of a letter in the air. Bruce's plain, classy stationery
covered in Bruce's neat handwriting -- only. It's not neat, at all. There are
scrawls, and some words are scratched out completely, and the paper is --
It got *wet* in a few places, and Bruce is always *careful* --
But then he sees the date on the paper. He --
"Those are tears. Those -- Bruce cried on that letter --"
"Oh, yes. Martha insisted I taste them for myself. And then she insisted that I
give her the use of my power -- again. While she was never precisely *neat*
with it, she *was* always *judicious*. And, I will confess, *entertaining*.
I..." Blood shakes his head. "I won't show you what she looked like that day -
- I'm reasonably sure I've made my point about how you feel about her --"
"*Yes* -- Jesus --"
"But she was... something else, as you young ones are wont to say," Blood says,
and crushes his cigarillo out. "Her rage was incandescent. That someone would
*dare* to make her beloved boy *weep*! Well. I'm afraid your biological
father's life was forfeit from the moment Bruce placed that letter in the
post."
That -- Harvey squeezes his eyes shut, but --
He knew that.
He *knew* that --
*But* -- "Would it have made any difference for me to say anything." He can't -
- he can't even make that sound like a real --
"To me? Yes."
What --
"Though I would've tried to convince you to do things Martha's way. I knew, by
then, that she would do everything in her power to give you a better life. She
may not be loving, but she *is* capable of gratitude. You *gave* her --"
"You would've let me convince you -- not to kill him." And Harvey can't even --
Can't even look *up* --
Blood takes a deep, *slow* breath. "I will not belittle your loss. I will not
*mock* it. I will only ask, in this moment -- for my own edification -- whether
you have considered the alternatives --"
Harvey growls -- "That's *not* for your own *edification*!"
Blood looks down at his ash-filled kneecap, mouth twisting -- and then he looks
up again, looks --
Gives Harvey a *steady* look, a *level* look --
Harvey *shudders* --
He -- "Don't -- don't fucking *nod* or -- or *smirk* --"
"I will not."
"Just because I didn't think about -- I was a *kid* --"
"You were."
Harvey pants --
Grips at his own thighs --
Yanks at his -- his jeans --
"I was aware, of course, that the Waynes, with all of their money and influence
--"
"Shut up. Just --" Harvey *tries* to growl, but it comes out a moan, a --
He's gripping his own *face* now, and he's not gonna cry, not gonna fucking
*cry* --
He's *done* with Dr. Feelgood --
He's *done*, and he'll never get a chance to tell his old man what a bastard he
is --
And he'll never get a chance to *catch* the belt before it hits him --
And he'll never get a chance to pick up that bottle --
That one --
Pick it up, so slick and just a little greasy from fingerprints, pick it up and
just --
He passes right out at the kitchen table, snores and drools like some
overgrown, smelly *baby* --
And Harvey can pick *up* the bottle --
"You are in the present, Harvey."
"No -- *no* --"
"You are in the present, Harvey... and there is nothing you can do about that."
He can --
But he can't feel the bottle.
And he can't hear the old man's snores.
And he --
He can smell Martha, Martha all around him, Martha just --
("Oh, Harvey... of course you don't know *me*, yet, but I feel as though I know
*you* from Bruce's letters. Please let me know if there is *anything* you need
-- or, if you don't feel comfortable with that, yet, tell *Bruce*.")
Because he tells you -- everything.
Everything.
Harvey shudders, swallows --
Hears himself make another *noise* --
He drops his hands and shudders again.
Again.
And then he takes a deep breath --
And then there's something *cool* brushing his hand -- a glass. A glass full of
some kind of yellowish liquid he can't recognize - "The *last* thing I need
right now is a drink --"
"It is *not* alcoholic --"
"What is it?"
"Mango juice."
"Uh. What?" Harvey frowns. "You can get that around here?"
"Yes. For certain values of 'around here.' I'm quite fond of it. Try it?"
Harvey frowns more deeply, but -- fine. He takes the glass, sips -- that's
mango, all right. Sweet and thick and kind of pine-y, just like it was on that
family trip to the Bahamas last Christmas. Martha had 'forgotten' to book him
and Bruce in the same hotel she was staying in with Thomas.
Funny how bad her memory gets for things like --
Like that.
"My head hurts."
"I haven't been especially soothing," Blood says, and, when Harvey looks, he's
got a freaking *sword* on his lap. A -- small sword.
"Uh."
"This? Is for young Mr. Drake. I suspect he'll need it sooner rather than
later."
"Uh. I don't think he knows how to *use* a sword."
Blood sighs. "You have no comprehension how *strange* the state of education
seems to me in this day and age -- well," he says, and lifts the sword in his
left hand *exactly* like he knows how to use it. "This *wasn't* my first true
sword -- that one was swept away in a flooding Thames along with most of my
belongings and the finest, most loyal pony I ever knew -- but it *does* have a
fair amount of history... and power."
And, now that Harvey is looking -- yeah. It's clean, and it's smooth and
*sharp*-looking, but... lots of scratches. Lots of places where it obviously
bit *into* things like armor and *bone* -- "How *old* were you when you were
first using real live swords?"
"I was twelve in my first battle. I pissed myself, *shat* myself, *stabbed*
myself -- shallowly, thankfully -- and then another boy tripped and fell on my
sword and killed himself, and I was named a man. But that's neither here nor
there," and he gestures --
The sword is a knife with a *vicious*-looking double-edge. The hilt is sized
for a smaller hand than Blood's --
A *much* smaller hand than *Harvey's* --
"Look, I don't think you should be giving Tim *weapons*. It's not he like he
knows --"
"Harvey. Have you forgotten what Martha told you already?"
Harvey -- winces. "No. But I thought --"
"That the danger was past. It is not," Blood says, flips the knife handily, and
slaps it down in Harvey's palm hilt-first. "Should Timothy need direction,
remind him to lead with the pointy end... and not to test the blade on himself,
as it is most assuredly cursed."
"*What* --"
"Oh, it won't do anything lasting to *him* --"
"What will it do to *other* people?"
"Stop them."
"I -- you want. Look, we can just call the freaking *cops* if something -
- something happens --"
"And it is my *sincere* hope that that is all you will *need* to do, Harvey.
However, I have not been able to scry *clearly* for this, beyond knowing that
certain items and people were needed. That weapon in your hand. Whatever
Timothy is keeping in the secret compartments in his bedroom --"
"What are you *talking* --"
"-- Timothy, himself. And you."
"And you -- what the hell are *you* going to be doing?"
"I can't be certain. However, the *quality* of this lack of certainty suggests
a mission with the JSA. Which will almost certainly be desperately irritating
to every part of me save the one which misses my King -- my *only* King -
- *most*."
And that -- "Where *is* that guy? The *good* knight you were back then. On a
day-to-day basis, I mean."
"Waiting in weapons like that one," Blood says, and strokes down the *center*
of the blade with one finger. "Other than that... oh... I suppose I *could* say
something, here, about the look I see in Bruce's eyes when he thinks about his
future --"
"Hey, you -- leave him alone --"
And Blood smiles at him sharply. "Did you think I planned to seduce him,
Harvey...?"
"*Yes* --"
"You're absolutely correct --"
"*Christ* --"
"He was a beautiful little boy --"
"*Leave* it --"
"And he has grown into a beautiful young man. Even if Martha *hadn't* urged me
to --"
Harvey stands up and points the blade at Blood --
"Do be careful, Harvey."
"*You* be --" But something catches at his shirt -- and, when he looks, he's
somehow aiming the knife at his own belly. "*Fuck* --"
But trying to turn it toward Blood just gets it closer to stabbing him --
He's torn his shirt --
He turns away and aims the knife toward the *door* -- it lets him. It --
He's not bleeding. He's whole and he's not bleeding and he's not *cursed* --
Right?
"Do *consider* letting this be a lesson to you about the wielding of magical
weaponry... not that *you* should be wielding any weapons, at all."
Harvey growls and turns back to face Blood, holding the knife *away* from
himself. "You'll give a kid a deadly weapon, but --"
"But not you," Blood says, and re-crosses his legs. "The dimensions in which
Harvey Dents gain proficiency with deadly weapons are *not* the most cheerful
places in the multiverse."
"What -- *what*?"
"Of course, I *haven't* checked on the dimensions where the Harvey *Waynes* are
provided with weaponry, but, as difficult as this may be for you to believe, I
am not *profligate* with the lives of those mortals I care for --"
"You don't give a *damn* about me --"
"Harvey," Blood says, and raises *both* eyebrows at him. "Were it not
*staggeringly* pointless, I would be taking this time to try to seduce *you* --
"
"You -- you'd fuck --"
"Anyone? Any*thing*...? Not quite. I may have the body of a twenty-five year
old, but my libido has become rather more rarefied than that over the years.
The fact that I find murderous madwomen desperately attractive does *not* mean
that I would find just anyone... well. This is all rather beside the point --"
"It --"
"*Is*. Timothy Drakes *all* across the multiverse were all but *designed* for
the use of assorted kinds of weaponry. *Most* of them design entirely new
weapons while they're still in their teens --"
"What -- that -- *no* --"
"*Yes*, Harvey. They are *especially* proficient with sharp, pointy things -
- given half a chance with them -- which I believe bodes *quite* well for your
chances to come out of this crisis, whatever it will turn out to be."
Harvey frowns and just -- "My little brother is not a *killer*, Blood!"
Blood blinks. "I never said he was. While it's true that some few Tims in some
of the more *problematic* dimensions are less than averse to *permanent*
solutions to their problems, the vast majority of them are far, far too in love
with superheroes -- and with the idea *of* superheroes -- to ever, *ever* cross
that particular line."
And that --
What if he's in danger?
What if it's the only --
The only *way*?
Harvey hears himself making another freaking *awful* sound, but -- "I'm a
killer."
"In many, many dimensions."
"A -- worse than Martha."
"Much, by most measures."
His hands are shaking -- he presses the heels of his palms to his eyes --
The hilt of the knife is digging in against his eyebrow --
His hands are still *shaking* --
"Not here, Harvey."
"You can't -- you can't even protect *Bruce* --"
"But I can make sure that other people *can*... and that people can protect
you, as well. Martha wouldn't do it -- she'd frankly love it if you lost the
plot --"
"*Jesus* --"
"Though only if you could still make Bruce happy, of course. I..." Blood folds
his hands together on his knee and looks thoughtful. "There are... devices.
Amulets and the like."
Harvey shudders, but -- "For... for protection?"
"Precisely so, but... I don't usually bother with them. Most of them can be
stolen or lost too easily, but by then the person has grown accustomed to
taking otherwise foolish chances with their life and health --"
"Could you --" Harvey drops his hands. "Could you protect my mind."
For a moment, Blood only looks at him with sympathy, only --
"You can't. You --"
"I can. But I would have to --" Blood shakes his head. "There would be... an
intimacy."
Harvey frowns. "What -- you'd have to fuck me or something? Christ, if it would
keep me --"
Blood holds up a hand -- and then stands. For a moment, it's stranger than
*strange* that he's nearly four inches shorter than Harvey and at *least*
twenty pounds lighter. He --
Harvey can't *shape* Blood in his head, can't place him in *just* this room,
can't *see* him the way he's always seen him --
Blood's *bigger*, right now, or --
He's taking up more room, more *space*, and somehow Harvey's sure that that
space isn't all *here* --
It hurts to *look* at him --
And Harvey can't --
"Maybe. Maybe I should just go back to Dr. Feelgood. I -- I."
Blood nods once. "That is what I would recommend."
Harvey frowns and searches him, tries to -- "*Why*?"
Blood smiles ruefully -- and a smiling naked guy with horns like a freaking
*goat* and a --
A tail --
Long black hair --
*Beaky* nose --
Skinny gold bangles on his throat, wrists, and ankles --
He's -- he's kind of *pretty*, but --
He's walking out of the *air*, and he's smiling, and --
And Harvey can't even ask 'what the fuck' before he's just -- deflating like a
freaking *tire*. Just -- "Don't *any* of you people believe in clothes?"
The -- the *new* guy looks down at himself --
Makes his *half-hard* dick twitch --
And looks up and smiles again. "No? I have to go with no. But then, I *am* an
incubus."
"A -- demon? A *sex* demon?"
"The *only* sort of demons I'd traffic with -- if I had any choice in the
matter," Blood says, and turns to the demon. "Dick, please tell him what you
could do for him -- if you chose."
"Your *name* is *Dick*?"
The demon -- *Dick* winks at him, lolls a tongue that's at least five inches
long and *pointy*, *shakes* his dick at him --
"Okay! Okay. Uh. Maybe I shouldn't -- ask --"
"Oh, don't be like *that*, Harvey! Can I call you Harv?"
"Uh. Can you drag me to Hell if I say no?"
"Technically, I could drag you to all sorts of different Hells -- or just throw
you there -- no matter *what* you said."
Harvey bites his lip.
"I wouldn't!"
"I -- no?"
"No. Those places really aren't any fun. I mean, the sheer *number* of people
who insist on getting torn limb from limb, and raped, and torn apart *while*
being raped --"
"*Jesus*," Harvey blurts --
"Wants no part of it, really," Dick continues smoothly. "I mean, ever since
your species turned him into a demigod, he's really been keeping himself *to*
himself, you know?"
"Oh -- fuck. Uh. What? I'm gonna --" Harvey sits back down on the chaise.
Dick pats his shoulder. "You should just relax for a minute. Maybe do some
meditating? Did your Bruce teach you how to meditate, yet?"
"What -- I. My Bruce? I don't think he *knows* how to meditate."
Dick blinks twice and turns to Blood --
Who spreads his hands. "I have not guided him."
Dick purses his lips. "I... suppose this one doesn't *really* need it..." He
sighs and shrugs, turning back to Harvey. "Okay, just breathe a little. Nice
deep breaths."
"I'm -- I'm calm. Really."
"You're really *not* --"
Harvey pushes at the air a little. "What... why did Blood -- Jason, I mean -
- why did he call you?"
Dick studies him for a long moment, frowning *worriedly* -- but then he sighs
again and nods. "Because you're afraid of losing your mind. Yes?"
"I -- yeah. I am --"
"Well -- it happens to a lot of Harveys across the multiverse --"
"I -- please --"
"But *not*, generally, to the ones who get help when you did."
"What -- that *generally* --"
"You can't live with that. I... I suppose I couldn't, either. Considering,"
Dick says, and smiles ruefully before dropping into a crouch in front of him
and splaying his fingers on Harvey's chest. "I can help you --"
"Do it."
"You -- let me tell you --"
"Just -- just freaking do it, I don't care -- I'll pay anything."
Dick frowns and turns to look back at Blood, who *shrugs* --
"*Please*, Dick -- *hnh* --"
And there's a hand in his *chest* --
God, it's -- right up to the fucking *wrist* --
"Don't move," Dick says, and gives him a *hard* look. "What I'm doing won't
hurt your *body*, but one wrong move and your soul could be bruised for... a
very, very long time."
Harvey *starts* to nod --
Starts to *swallow* --
He looks into Dick's eyes and thinks 'I won't move' as hard as he freaking
*can* --
"All right. Here's the deal. A piece of your soul -- not all of it, just a
piece -- is going to belong to me until the day you die --"
"Oh --"
"Be. Quiet."
Harvey's *teeth* click shut -- he doesn't nod.
"I'm going to feel it when you fall in love -- I already know everything about
your feelings for your brothers. I'm going to feel it when you're happy, when
you're sad, when you're angry -- everything. Just a little *alert* that will
tell me *exactly* what's going on with you. And *if* things ever change for
you... if the world inside your mind ever *darkens*... well, I'll know that,
too. And I'll be able to come to you, and guide you to where you need to be. Do
you understand?"
He's -- he's sweating and --
Christ -- fuck -- he's *shivering* --
He has to stay *still* --
"*Harvey* --"
"I understand!"
And Dick's expression stays hard for about twenty more seconds, and Harvey's
all fucking set to *go* with the idea that that's as bad as it *gets* --
A demon in his *soul* --
But then Dick looks *sad*, looks -- looks like he's *hurting* for him --
"Don't --"
"Shh, Harvey. Just a few seconds more," he says, and --
Fuck, Dick's *trying* to smile and *failing* --
Harvey -- stays still.
And quiet.
Just -- keeps himself --
But then he's *groaning*, because it feels like everything he is has just got a
major case of the *shudders*, feels like everything that *makes* him who he is
--
It's over. It's -- over.
Harvey takes a deep breath.
Dick is *searching* him --
"I -- I don't feel any different."
Dick smiles ruefully. "I'm good at what I do. It was a gift from the
Morningstar for being good at the *other* things I do."
"The -- that's a fancy name for 'devil,' isn't it?"
"It's more of a title than a name, and it wasn't *always* his title, except in
some dimensions, and he doesn't really like it *all* the time even in *those*
dimensions... well, it's complicated. Still, I think I know what you meant,
so... yes. Regrets?"
Harvey winces and rubs at his chest. It doesn't hurt, or itch, or -- anything.
And -- "I can't afford those. Thank you."
"Don't --"
Harvey holds up a hand. "Don't ask me not to thank you. Not for this."
Dick frowns -- but he nods. "All right. You're welcome," he says, and stands,
leaning in to kiss Harvey's forehead. "May you never need me."
"I -- thanks for that, too."
Dick walks backwards then, waving with his tail -- and then whips around to
stroke a path down Blood's chest to his groin with one hand while gripping
Blood's shoulder-length hair with the other.
Blood smiles --
But Dick doesn't kiss him. He -- butts at him. Like a goat. Like --
Okay. Just -- okay.
Harvey looks at the knife he's still holding instead of paying *any* attention.
Unlike the sword it was made from, it looks brand new. *Shiny* new, like it's
never been used for anything -- much less for anything *violent*.
And -- it looks normal. *Not* cursed, and *not* like anything that'll turn in
your hand if you point it at the wrong person.
The lights are never too bright in here, but even holding it up *to* one of the
lights doesn't show him anything in particular -- maker's mark. Harvey looks
closer --
He can't quite focus --
It's almost like it's -- changing.
Every few seconds.
Right in front of his eyes.
What. The --
Harvey stops looking. Just -- stops. He turns to Blood --
And those spidery and weirdly *hot* fingers are on his forehead --
"Hey --"
"Forget about Dick."
"But --"
"Forget. About. Dick."
"I don't... want... hey, you said you weren't gonna touch me!"
"My apologies," Blood says, and moves his hand away. "I had to be sure the
blade had left no ill effects in you."
Harvey frowns. "Somehow I don't trust that."
Blood smiles wryly. "Do you trust *anything* about me, Harvey...?"
"Well... no." Harvey snorts. "Jesus, you really want me to give this thing to
my *thirteen-year-old little brother*?"
"Oh, yes. I daresay he'll wield it well and truly when the time is right. Well.
I suppose it's more of a *hope*... but hope is *supposed* to be just as eternal
as I am, no...?"
Harvey knows the look on his face is... not as friendly as it could be.
And Blood laughs. "Oh, Harvey. Please do remain *entirely* yourself... for as
long as humanly possible. And beyond that, too."
"Yeah, I -- keep your hands off Bruce."
"For just as long as he wishes me to. Or were you intending to make your
relationship with him exclusive?"
Harvey -- doesn't scowl. He knows it'll just make him look like *he's* the
thirteen-year-old --
And Blood'll probably *like* that --
But what is he gonna do about his *mind* --
(It's taken care of.)
Hunh?
(Everything's copacetic.)
What --
And there's something like a shadow in his mind and something like a twin, and
when he was a kid that always meant the bad things were coming -- or were
already *happening* -- but.
But all the shadow is doing is kicking back on a freakin' *beach*.
He's *never* on a beach. He's never --
He's never in freakin' *sunlight*, as opposed to lurking in whatever shadows
Harvey's mind can *build* --
Or maybe just the glare of *neon* --
But this --
Waves crashing on the shore, drink in a coconut, zinc oxide on his nose, smile
creeping *right* up the left side of his face --
Higher and *higher* --
But a closer look shows the water crashing right through him --
And the sand *blowing* right through him --
(Like I said -- I'm taken care of now, Harv, old buddy.)
That isn't --
(It's all you now, kid.)
But --
(Make the best of it...)
And the shadow is just -- gone.
And the half-filled coconut hits the sand and spills --
And the beach chair crumbles in on itself --
And the beach itself fades --
And fades --
And --
Harvey jerks and *pants* --
Nearly falls off the damned *chaise* --
Blood doesn't catch him. Doesn't -- touch.
Harvey settles himself and rubs his chest again --
Again? When had he --
No, no, just shake it off. He's been in the freakin' boudoir with the big,
scary magic-user for about half-past too freakin' *long*. No wonder he's got
the heebie-jeebies. He's gotta --
He's gotta cope. So that's what he does.
Nice, deep breaths.
No staring at the knife in his hand.
Some more deep breaths.
And then Harvey turns to face Blood again. "Sorry for checking out like that --
"
"It's quite all right. I assumed you had... unfinished business."
"I -- yeah. That's about right."
Blood inclines his head.
"You're -- gonna keep showing Mom --"
"Yes. *None* of us desires the alternative."
*What* alternative -- but he doesn't have to think about that, either. So he
won't. Harvey takes a deep breath and nods. "Maybe you can *try* to keep that
from Bruce and Tim?"
"I will not lie to them should they ask -- assuming they both live, they will
be *important* allies in my future -- but I also will not volunteer the
information. I will *ask* Martha to show the same level of courtesy --"
"But you don't think it'll work?"
Blood shrugs. "Who can say? She has not become *more* predictable with age."
And that's -- nothing but true. And -- "Christ, I still have to ask her --"
"You don't."
"Blood -- uh. I mean --"
"Call me what you will, Harvey. And understand that while Martha *will* expect
regular *updates* from you about this and that... she will *not* expect you to
come to her like a supplicant. Not for this."
"*You* don't even know --"
Blood looks at him.
And then Harvey beats at his own head a little, because, yeah, they *both* knew
that he was coming here to ask permission for Tim to stay over -- and for him
to do it *often* --
Right. Freaking -- right.
"Okay."
"Yes...?"
"Yeah," Harvey says, and stands. "Now I just gotta --"
"I am *quite* certain that you'll find that Martha has had Alfred send up a
tray for the three of you."
Well... Jesus. But -- "She wasn't exactly in the best *mood* when she left here
--"
"No, she was not. But she will always, *always* do everything in her power to
provide for Bruce's happiness."
That -- fine.
Harvey takes another deep breath, moves the knife to his left hand, and offers
Blood his right.
Blood smiles. "Are you sure you want to touch me, Harvey...?"
"*Hell*, no. Do it anyway."
Blood *laughs* -- and shakes his hand just like a normal, non-pervy --
He clasps Harvey's forearm. And raises an eyebrow. Well -- okay. Harvey returns
the gesture and nods. "Thank you for not *actually* driving me crazy tonight,
eh?"
And Harvey's expecting a smirk, a nod, a *comment* --
But Blood just looks his age for a long moment. *All* of his age.
It --
"Hey, are *you* okay?"
Blood inhales sharply. "I'll be absolutely *grand* once your mother is bouncing
on my cock --"
"Oh my -- Jesus freaking -- I'm going."
Blood laughs then, and pulls his hand back *slowly*. "You do that. And *do*
give my regards --"
"*No*."
He sucks his teeth. "Mean boys don't get *any* treats --"
"I think I can live with that," Harvey says, throwing up a hand and turning to
go. *He* can't storm out of this room without tripping over the six hundred
pillows and falling on his ass --
This is just another way Martha is freakin' *special* --
He walks as quickly as he can.
*
***** June 2000: Tim and Jay -- and Martha and Jason Blood *****
"What the fucking fuck."
Tim hums noncommittally and focuses on homing the machine --
"Tim --"
"One moment, Jay."
"Tim, what the fucking *fuck*?"
Tim -- doesn't sigh. It's not like he *isn't* feeling --
"*Seriously*, Tim!"
He splits the difference and shuts the viewscreen down, then turns his
wheelchair to face the bed --
But Jay is already there, leaning in to grip Tim's shoulders --
"Don't. Shake me."
"I'm not shaking!"
"Continue with that, please."
Jay's expression is somewhat *stricken* -- and then he shudders all over and
glares. "Why the fuck did that *demon* look like *Dick*?"
"I don't know."
"*Why* don't you --"
"Jason Blood is an ally, not a friend --"
If anything, the glare gets angrier. "Then why the fuck was he fucking *looking
directly at you* to tell you when to set the machine to see his fucking meet-
cute with Grandma Incestpants?"
Grandma -- hm. Tim raises an eyebrow. "Have you been studying our allies and
enemies, Jay...?"
"What? Of course --"
"Name *one* magic-user who *hasn't* shown some ability -- however small -- to
move between dimensions."
The stricken look is back -- but only for a moment before Jay is *scowling* at
him. "Time is *different*!"
"For us, yes. For them...?"
"Aw, god fucking damn it, I *hate* this shit!" And Jay growls and stomps back
to the bed, sitting -- no.
He flings himself back -- keeping his feet planted on the floor -- and covers
his face with his hands.
Last week -- or even a few days ago -- Tim would've been able to watch that
*without* cataloguing the flex of Jay's calves, or his remarkable thighs.
*Without* hungering for the way his -- green -- 'FUCK' t-shirt rides up over
his well-muscled abdomen. *Without* --
Tim sighs internally. That was only partially -- very partially -- true, even
given the realities of pain, disability, and... focus.
Obsession.
At sixteen, Jay is taller than Tim *himself* is, and more heavily-muscled, as
well. Jay's *penis* has been bigger for the last six months, and if Jay didn't
take so *much* joy out of bending over for --
Well, everyone in the *family* --
"Seriously, Tim, *fuck*!"
"I know, Jay."
"*Do* you?" And Jay sits up on his elbows. "'cause Babs said you were crazier
than usual."
Tim raises his eyebrow again.
"Okay, fine, she *also* said you were getting better, but -- answer questions!"
"I don't know why there's an incubus who looks exactly the way Dick looked when
he was nineteen."
Jay whimpers. "I *remember* --"
"I know."
"That *hair* --"
"Yes."
"But -- *horns*, Tim!"
"Yes."
"And -- "
"Yes --"
"Fucking A, *call* Blood!"
Tim raises his eyebrow higher. "Right now."
"*Yes*!"
"You would like me to call the man -- the *immortal magic-user* -- who not only
always hits on you, but *also* always tricks you into learning magic you never
want to use."
"Would *you* wanna use it?"
"No, I would not. And..." Tim shakes his head and smiles. "None of us judge you
for your desire to keep yourself as... free of magic as possible. But if I make
this call, that will be more difficult."
A queasy look --
A determined look --
A *queasily* determined look -- "Do it. Just -- seriously, Tim. Answers *now*."
"So be it," Tim says, and taps his comm. "Though there's nothing to say the man
is even on this plane of existence."
"Just -- *try*!"
Tim gestures for silence, toggles the 'roving operative' channel -- "B-2 to
Blood --"
"You don't call *nearly* often enough, Timothy," Blood says, and walks out of -
- nothing. Of course. At first glance, his suit could be an undertaker's, but
the cut is as perfect as one of Tim's own, and the shirt is a rather daring
coral, rather than white.
His boutonnière is *moving* --
Blood taps it --
It stops moving.
"May I...?" And Blood gestures to the brown, bulky, and painfully conservative
wingback chair Tim only keeps in his bedroom because he's a masochist.
It doesn't even match the rest of his furniture --
His mother isn't --
Thomas is *dead* --
And Tim makes what could conceivably be construed as a welcoming gesture.
"Thank you *very* much," Blood says, and sits, crossing his legs at the knee -
- and looking Jay over like a meal.
Considering what Tim was doing less than five minutes ago -- while Jay was
*unaware* -- he really can't judge, but --
He judges, anyway.
Jay, for his part, is giving Blood the blackest scowl in his repertoire.
"Mr. Todd..."
"What."
"Have you given much thought to the question of the multiverse?"
"No. Why?"
Asking a question -- that would be Jay's *first* mistake.
"Well, Mr. Todd, it's simply this: if we consider the wide and rather *wild*
concatenation of life -- of all things *living* -- then we must at least
*consider* the possibility that the multiverse itself is alive --"
"I don't -- what the hell are you *talking* about?"
Mistake number two.
"Bear with me a moment. If we go *that* far... well. Then we *must* accept the
possibility that communication -- in some form -- is possible --"
"We do not! That's -- that's too many assumptions! Even *I* know that."
Arguing -- oh, Jay...
Blood smiles like a *shark* -- "Is it? Perhaps. But communication... what could
that mean to a being -- an entity -- made up of space and time? *All* of the
space and time which could ever exist?"
Jay frowns. "Well. I mean. It's everything. You'd have to -- it'd have to want
to *feel* something..."
Tim raises an eyebrow. He's not at *all* sure how Jay got *there* in his
mind... save that he suspects that the journey is a great deal easier for
people with the ability to be magic-users. And --
Blood leans *in* -- "Oh, yes?"
"Something... well, if some of the beings *in* the multiverse could move, you
know, *between* --"
And Jay is gone.
Just -- gone.
Tim sighs. "I trust you can bring him *back*?"
Blood raises a finger --
"gaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK
WHAT THE --" And Jay falls out of the air approximately three feet *above* the
bed, lands on his back, scrambles to his feet, and *lunges* for Blood --
Who stands and sidesteps easily. Truly, dear one --
"I don't fucking speak fucking FRENCH!"
Blood raises an eyebrow.
Jay scowls. "Fine, but I don't wanna speak it with *you*! What the hell did you
do to me *this* time?"
Blood opens his mouth -- closes it, and then turns to Tim. "Perhaps you would
care to explain it to him?"
Tim sighs again and steeples his fingers. "Jay, you now have the ability to use
a power -- the power to walk between *dimensions* -- only approximately two
dozen other people on this planet have --"
"I don't fucking *want* it!"
Blood spreads his hands. "Life is tragedy," he says, and sits down again. "But
I believe the two of you had questions for me...?"
Jay continues to glare at Blood.
Blood smiles *brightly* --
A vein begins to twitch over Jay's *eye* --
Tim takes a breath. "Don't do that, Blood."
"Hmm...? Oh, yes, I suppose I *am* being obnoxious. Terribly sorry," he says,
and pulls on an expression of staid contrition.
Jay looks horrified --
And Tim gestures him back to the bed.
"Fucking -- *fine*. *You* ask questions, Tim."
"All right, I will," Tim says, and *looks* at Blood. "The incubus. Please."
"As you say. Dick has -- among his many hundreds of *thousands* of siblings -
- two *particular* brothers and a sister. Their chosen -- human -- names are
Jason, Tim, and Stephanie --"
"*What* the --"
"Oh, did you wish to continue conversing, Mr. Todd --"
"No! *No*! Talk to Tim!"
Blood smiles again --
*Slowly* --
And then turns back to Tim. "A Bruce from one of the dimensions where *you're*
some twenty-one years younger than you are in *this* one, while afflicted with
an *impressively* nasty fever, *summoned* demons to his bedside... and shaped
them to look like the partners he desired from behind *vast* walls of
repression via the crucible of his *will*."
Tim -- blinks. "All right. I honestly didn't expect you to say that."
Blood inclines his head. "They're quite wonderful people, in their way.
*Somewhat* murderous -- but far less so than the average demon. The Bruce who
summoned them wanted nothing to do with them once he *had* shaped them, so Dick
set out to find a Bruce who *would* want them. It took several millennia --"
"Uh -- I'm not talking!"
"Time is relative, of course," Tim says. "Go on."
"They eventually succeeded, and, when last I checked, they were all in the
process of living happily et cetera, et cetera. You might consider looking them
up sometime. They *vastly* enjoy being helpful to Battish families who *aren't*
afflicted with crippling repression."
That -- "Hnn. How... reassuring."
Blood shows his teeth. "Timothy. When will you let me take care of... this."
And he gestures at Tim's body --
Tim blinks. "I -- no, thank you --"
"Wait, wait, are you saying you can *fix* him?"
"Jay --"
"Technically, *you* can... but you'd need a great deal of training first which
would frankly make you want to strangle me *daily* and *not* with your
increasingly impressive cock --"
"Oh Jesus fucking -- *fix* him! I'll *let* you teach me!"
Blood shows *more* of his teeth -- and inclines his head.
This is getting out of hand. "The answer is no --"
"Terribly sorry, Timothy, but I do *not* answer to you," Blood says, whipping
out his boutonnière and *throwing* it at Tim --
Tim *can't* dodge in the chair --
He throws himself out of it --
He *starts* to throw himself out of it, but the boutonnière -- which is
suddenly a twenty-foot long pulsing red *vine* -- winds around and around him -
-
*Lifts* him --
He can't talk --
He can't move he can't breathe --
And then he's *screaming* --
The vine is pushing *inside* him --
*Melting* inside --
The burn is --
Is --
He can hear Jay cursing --
He can't see --
He can't breathe he can't see --
Everything *burns* and he can't --
And then, gradually, the burn becomes focused in his back, and shoulders, and
knees. The burn becomes an *itch* -
The itch of healing. The --
It feels like his new Kryptonian patella is disintegrating *and* melting -- and
he can feel every second of the growth of a new one. A human one. A *perfect*
human one --
The itch is fading. He can breathe. He can't *see* --
He opens his eyes and realizes that he's floating several feet in the air,
suspended in a red haze. He looks --
And Jay has -- somehow -- built himself a baseball bat out of what seems to be
pure energy. He's *battering* Blood with it while cursing and threatening him
on Tim's behalf, but Blood's distinctly ominous and *pulsing* shield seems to
be holding for the time being. He --
Blood folds his arms behind his back and raises one reddish-brown eyebrow. "All
better?"
"Hunh?" Jay stops hitting.
"Apparently," Tim says. "Let me down."
But, of course. Blood gestures --
And Tim makes a three-point landing, wincing for -- no reason, at all. He
hasn't felt this *perfect* --
In years.
Damn it.
Tim stands, stretches meditatively, and nods. "You planned this."
Blood spreads his hands. "You really should've come to *one* of us as soon as
you knew Superman would not be able to be of assistance. The *others* almost
certainly would have been able to do this without *hurting* you --"
"What -- precisely -- did you do to me."
"Healed you --"
"*And*?"
Blood smiles ruefully. "You're going to have a positive *bitch* of a time
against wielders of earth-magic -- like young Mr. Todd, here -- but then, as an
entirely *un*-magical human... you always would have. Cut your losses and get
back on the street where you belong."
Tim narrows his eyes. "There's such a thing as *consent*, Blood."
"And there's such a thing as obsession... but, well, it would've been *idiotic*
to believe this would change your course --"
"Are you warning me about something."
Blood raises an eyebrow. "Would it matter...?"
Tim lifts his chin --
"Hey, uh... Tim? Maybe... maybe we should listen to the pervy asshole? You
know, a little?"
Tim -- blinks. And turns to Jay -- oh... "Were you aware that your baseball bat
had turned into a giant *penis*, Jay?"
"Wha -- GAH! Oh, get it off get it off --"
"I believe you can accomplish *that* with just a bit of *stroking*, Mr. Todd --
"
"Fuck -- you --" And Jay's expression takes on a look of *deep* concentration -
- the penis is a bat again --
A spiked *flail* --
"Oh, dear, none of *that*, please," and Blood gestures --
The energy dissipates with a sizzle that makes the short hairs on Tim's arms
and the back of his neck stand up.
Jay glares at Blood. "I was trying to back you *up*, asshole!"
Blood sighs. "I know, truly, I know, but... well... call it youthful
exuberance?"
Jay clenches his hands into fists --
"Perhaps not. Still... there is a bargain between us now. I expect you to honor
it --"
"Hey, I *always* keep my fucking promises!"
"*Excellent*. Now, is there anything else...?"
Jay crosses his arms over his chest --
And Tim realizes he can do the exact same thing without even the *whisper* of
pain.
That he can cross his legs --
And jump --
And *kneel* --
Tim shivers and closes his right fist around the memory of a knife-hilt. He
closes his *eyes* -- no. He opens his eyes and meets Blood's gaze with his own.
"Thank you."
"So you *will* call more often --"
"Probably not," Tim says, in the Voice.
"Oh, *Batman*. I'm all *aflutter*."
Tim lets the right corner of his mouth lift. Slightly.
And ignores the expression on Blood's face which suggests he'll start *cooing*
*imminently* -- it passes. And Blood turns to Jay. "*Do* give me a ring when
you have some time to spare, hmm?"
"Yeah, yeah, *go away*."
Blood blows Jay a *kiss* -- and steps backwards into nothing.
Tim doesn't sigh until Jay stops sniffing at the air and nods. "He's gone,
man."
"Good. Where -- do you *know* where you went?"
"Uh... there were stars. Or maybe... eyes? And... uh. I think I saw God."
Tim blinks --
Considers --
"*Which* --"
"I don't fucking know! Hug me!"
Right. He can *do* that -- and he does, pulling Jay into his arms --
"*Finally*." Jay wraps his powerful -- more powerful, seemingly, by the
*moment* -- arms around Tim's chest, and Tim does the same, squeezing as hard -
-
He squeezes *harder* than he normally would --
"Aw, *yeah*. God, Tim, you always feel so *good*," and Jay tucks his face
against Tim's throat, nuzzling immediately --
*Licking* immediately --
Licking and *kissing* --
"Jay --"
"Fuck, yeah. And... uh. Fuck? Fucking? Fuck-fuck?" And Jay pulls *just* his
head back and smiles and nods at him *slowly*. Encouragingly.
"Jay."
"Hey, you *can*, now -- and then we can go out and break some fucking *heads*.
You hadn't patrolled with *me* for weeks *before* you got all busted up -- and
you're giving me the sad look. Aw, don't give me the sad look! Come *on*.
You're at a good spot! You made B grovel and Harv sucked you off and -- okay,
then you made us watch the poor bastard *lose* it -- wait."
"Yes...?"
"He -- we know about -- Demon Dick. Does he... still... not?"
Tim pulls back --
"Aw, *damn* it --"
He can't -- Tim *can't*, and so he spars Jay *back*, throwing several of his
*less* dangerous -- if not less *mean* -- strikes --
Jay blocks quickly and well -- "Hey, c'mon, save this for the *criminals* --"
And so Tim uses his kicks, appreciating the fact that he's in workout clothes
from his earlier physical therapy --
He catches Jay's forearm --
"Tim --"
Jay's *wrist* --
"Fuck -- *ow* -- be *nice* --"
Tim spins into a kick Jay can only counter by --
Throwing himself back onto the bed.
"Jesus fucking -- you could've just *asked*!"
Tim smiles and flexes his fists. "And where would've been the fun in that...?"
Jay scowls at him. "I'm gonna hex you into next fucking *week*. You just wait."
"With bated breath, of course. Show me your penis."
"Uh -- what if I don't wanna anymore?"
Tim raises an eyebrow. "What if I sit back down and turn the viewscreen back
on?"
Another *stricken* look -- and Jay glares at him. "You're abusive. I'm calling
freakin' DYFS on you."
Tim smiles. Slowly. "You'd tell on me, Jay?"
"Yes!"
"You'd tell them how I put you on your knees and offered you my penis to suck
when you were only twelve...?"
"Y-yeah!"
"You'd tell them how I put you on your *hands* and knees and fucked your mouth
while Bruce rimmed you?"
Jay moans and grips the duvet -- and glares again. "*Fuck*, yeah!"
Tim nods slowly. "Perhaps... perhaps you'd tell them about the time when I used
your body to teach Barbara the proper use of a riding crop...?"
Jay *whimpers*, penis twitching visibly beneath his cut-off sweats -- "Uh. Uh.
All about that. You -- you're a fuckin' perv is what you are."
Tim shows his teeth. "Perhaps you --"
"Please? Uh. Please --"
"Shh. You know what to do, Jay."
Jay groans and squeezes his eyes shut -- "God, what you fuckin' do to me -- I
*know* what *you* want --"
"Do you...?"
Jay glares at him again, sitting up on his elbows. "You look at my cock like
you *dream* of bouncing on it, *Uncle Fucking Brother*."
Tim shakes his head and laughs softly, peeling off his t-shirt --
"Are you *denying* that?"
"Bruce and Harvey taught me a *long* time ago that there was no percentage in
denying *any* of my kinks... though Harvey came to regret that when Bruce and I
began making love with Barbara... well," Tim says, and crosses his arms over
his chest. "Did you think I *didn't* still want to, as the kids are wont to say
--"
"Don't fucking talk like fucking Blood!"
Tim snickers for a moment --
Coughs --
"I'm... sorry?"
"Don't apologize like him, either! Seriously, Tim --"
"Seriously," Tim says, and strokes a line up the inside of Jay's calf --
Jay grunts -- just for that.
"Oh... Jay. *Strip*."
"Tim --"
"You'll fuck me *after*."
And Jay's beautiful, thickly-lashed eyes are *wide* -- "Oh. Uh. Uh. *Yeah*?"
Tim smiles. "Yes. Now don't make me wait."
"Sir, yes, *sir*," Jay says, sitting up and making his usual attempt to take
everything off at *once* -- just as if he'd like a bit more direction.
Tim laughs *darkly*. "*No*."
Jay *jerks* -- and sits up with his shirt half-off and his shorts around his
thighs.
"Shirt. First."
"Uh -- yes, Tim," Jay says, and shrugs it off before letting it dangle from the
fingers of his left hand.
Tim nods --
Jay lets it fall --
"Now your trainers. Left, then right. Simply let them fall at the foot of the
bed, toward the corner on your right."
Jay's penis twitches again, but he doesn't moan before he follows orders -
- quickly and well. When he's done, he looks up, lips parted --
And Tim can't not stroke his face, his --
Tim can't not stroke his broad cheekbones, his *bluntly* beautiful features --
"You shouldn't be as beautiful as you were when you were twelve."
"Uh. Sorry? Please don't sound like B, either."
Tim smiles. "Is he so --"
"*Stupidly* pervy? *Yes*."
Tim laughs -- and shoves his thumb in Jay's mouth. "Suck it."
Jay moans and does just that, looking up into Tim's eyes and -- asking, not
begging. Or...
It's *Jay*. Every request like this is a plea waiting to happen. He --
("You want me to beg? Heh. Daddy...?")
And Jay had gripped himself through his pants --
("All you gotta do is... heh. Anything.")
Squeezed *hard* --
("You know I --"
"Bend over and grab your ankles."
"Fuck, *please* -- uh. Heh. See?")
Tim licks his -- teeth, not his lips. Just --
("God, every time you people do that I feel like I'm about to fuckin'
*bleed*!")
And Jay moans around Tim's thumb, eyelids slipping low...
"You *are* beautiful, I'm afraid. Stunningly so," Tim says, stepping closer -
- "Spread your legs for me."
Jay does -- as widely as he can with his shorts around his thighs. The cut-off
sweats stretch quite well... but. They'll have to do something about that...
very soon. For now...
Tim *grips* Jay through his -- black, today -- boxer-briefs --
Jay moans again --
"*Suck*."
Jay cuts himself off and sucks *hard*, nodding and -- pleading with his
beautiful eyes.
"Good boy. I have no difficulty understanding why Bruce is so often driven to
art -- and expressions *of* art -- with you," Tim says, and starts to *fuck*
Jay with his thumb. "Certain things are just necessary when faced with beauty
like yours... for some people."
Jay *swallows* --
Tim smiles more broadly. "You always get what you want from him anyway. Don't
you...?"
A nod --
"You always get... mm. What you *need*," Tim says, and squeezes Jay's penis
*hard* --
Jay starts to *lick* Tim's thumb, starts to toy with the tip of it *precisely*
as he would if it were a penis --
"Oh... but you're such a good boy, aren't you."
Jay nods and *shivers* --
"Such a -- you *want* to obey."
A *fervent* nod -- and Jay is testing his tongue against Tim's thumbnail.
"Perhaps... mm. Perhaps you'd prefer to be my *pretty* boy...?"
A *slight* frown --
"It's safer that way, isn't it...? Beautiful boys get lifted up on pedestals.
*Pretty* boys get bent. Right. Over."
A grunt -- and Jay is twitching and *leaking* in Tim's hand, right through his
boxer-briefs.
"Yes, I know what you need. I've always known. Haven't I?"
The plea in Jay's eyes gets -- heavier. Perfect.
Tim pulls his thumb out, lets go, and steps *back* --
"*Please* --"
"Get the rest of your clothes off *right* now."
"God, yeah --"
"When you're done? Kneel on the pillows at the head of the bed and grip the
bedposts."
"Oh --"
"Shh."
Jay nods *fervently* and works his shorts and boxer-briefs off together,
*obviously* considers leaving his socks on --
Obviously *remembers* who he's about to make love with --
He takes them off and tosses them toward the door, then *crawls* up the bed to
the pillows.
It --
It seems like *yesterday* that Jay wasn't *big* enough to stretch his arms out
to hold the knobs of the bed-posts --
Tim hasn't considered the ramifications of his own aging recently -- but he's
thirty-*five*, not fifty --
And a twelve-year-old Jay would've been *just* as likely to mime masturbating
the bedposts in this moment if he *had* been able to reach. Tim laughs to
himself, gives himself a moment to enjoy the play of muscles in Jay's
increasingly triangular back...
"I'm going to hurt you, Jay."
Jay grunts again and *stops* stroking the bed-posts -- "Uh. Yeah?"
Tim smiles, and makes a point of focusing on the back of Jay's neck for ten
seconds --
Twenty --
Jay shivers and *moans* -- "Please. *Please*."
"Do you want to bleed...?"
"*Fuck* -- uh. Uh."
"I'll take that as a yes."
Jay moans and *sways*, *gripping* the bed-posts -- and then steadying himself
on his knees. "Just -- you know. Dick wants me doing more acrobatics training
tomorrow --"
"Then I'll be... careful."
"Oh -- God, Tim --"
"Shh. Wait until I start hurting you," Tim says, and walks to the wingback
chair Thomas never sat in -- and never will.
He moves it two feet to the left, crouches, lifts the carefully -- and subtly -
- cut carpet, and opens the compartment. Nipple clamps make Jay beg *always*,
but would possibly be too distracting. The scourge makes him happy, but won't
make him bleed -- not the way Tim uses it. Nor will the cat. The cane...
The cane really does *belong* under the wing chair --
But Tim's penis -- and Jay's own -- are being very, very clear about the fact
that it also belongs in Tim's hand. Right now. Tim takes it out and closes the
compartment, moving the wingback chair back into place --
Spares a moment to shudder internally about Bruce's insistence on keeping all
of *his* sex toys in a *drawer* --
And then spares a moment to look, just to *look*, because Jay is shivering
periodically --
Because there is a shine of sweat on the knobs of the bed-posts --
Because there is *more* sweat rolling down Jay's spine --
Tim licks his lips and strikes for Jay's left trapezius -- the center of the
muscle, which will not need to flex and move against *other* muscles, no matter
*what* Dick makes Jay do --
"*God*!"
Tim strikes again --
"Fuck --"
And for the right trapezius --
"*Tim*!"
And for the right deltoid -- blood. Tim licks his *lips*, since Jay can't see
him. "You're bleeding, Jay."
"*Unh* --- I -- uh." Jay shakes himself like a dog. "Tim. I'm -- really, really
fucking hard."
Tim smiles. "So am I."
"Oh. That's good. That's really -- *fuck*! Fuck fuck -- oh, *fuck*, Tim, I have
to sit *down* tomorrow --"
"That's debatable," Tim says, and continues to cane Jay's ass, *slowly*
increasing the force of the strikes until --
"*TIM*!"
"You're bleeding again..."
"Oh, God -- oh, fuck --" Jay pants and shudders --
*Claws* at the knobs --
"*Grip* them, Jay."
"Yes, Tim! *Fuck*, I need --"
"You need to bleed more," Tim says, and strikes for the right latissimus dorsi,
so large on Jay, so *strong* --
And bleeding in three places. Move to the left --
And strike --
Jay cries out --
Tim *strikes* --
"*Please*! Please, Tim, *please*!"
"Please what...?" And Tim strikes for Jay's right oblique --
Jay *sobs* -- and never flinches. Never --
"You drive me --" Tim growls and tosses the cane across the room. "On your
stomach. *Now*."
"Yes, Tim, yeah, yeah," and Jay's already moving, Jay is panting and *sniffing*
--
Jay is *bleeding*, and that --
He should never *do* that, he should --
Jay is *Bruce's* son, but hasn't Tim held him when the work has made him cry?
Hasn't Tim taught him, and trained him --
Such a beautiful boy --
Such a perfect --
But he will never be Bruce, he --
He doesn't have that much --
Tim shakes it off and finishes stripping his own clothes off while Jay lays
himself out spread-eagle and grips at the duvet with his fingers and toes.
And then Tim licks a path up the back of Jay's left leg to his red-stained
buttock --
Jay *jerks* --
And Tim sucks on the wound, Tim nuzzles and kisses, stains *himself* with Jay's
blood --
So rich and *metallic* --
And Tim can't be shocked by the sound of his own growls, or by the way he's
*biting* at all the wounds he'd left on Jay --
Or by the way Jay is *beating* at the bed even as he grinds, as he *humps* --
"Be. *Still*."
Another sob --
A shudder that rolls through Jay's entire *body* --
And Jay is still save for the nod of his head, the *flex* of his fingers on the
duvet --
"Pretty boy..."
"*Fuck* --"
"Hnn..."
"Tim, please, *Tim* --"
"Shh," Tim says, and licks the wound on Jay's oblique --
*All* of the wounds on his right latissimus dorsi --
He can't --
He can't actually *stop*, not even to discipline Jay for his moans, the bitten-
off *curses* --
Jay is humping the *bed* again, but then -- Tim is biting him... a lot. This is
something he usually only allows *from* Bruce, and so the question becomes -
- is it a special occasion?
A reward?
A seduction away from the path Tim is taking?
"*PLEASE*!"
Or is it, simply, that Jay hasn't had his touch in too long --
Jay --
Tim groans and kneels up, snarling and feeling the dry and drying blood on his
face stick and *pull* -- "I *know* you."
"You do! You really fucking do!"
"You never --" Tim growls and tries to shake it off, tries to be *more* than
just his needy penis --
The taste in his mouth --
The need to *claw* -- no.
Tim draws back and *spanks* Jay --
"*Tim*!"
-- right over the wounds. Again --
And again --
"Tell me what you want, Jay."
"Jesus Jesus *Jesus* --"
"*Tell* me --"
"*Everything*! Starting with your *cock*!"
And that --
That *isn't* all of Jay -- nothing could ever be *all* of a boy who could lie
in *wait* at one of the strolls he knew the Batman visited --
Who could *leap* out of the shadows and get in the Batman's *face* --
("What the fuck do you think you're *doing* around here, hunh? Who the fuck
asked *you* for help?")
And the other sex workers had laughed and jeered --
And Jay's color had been high --
("We don't fucking *need* you!"
"Don't you...?"
"Shut -- shut the fuck up!")
So *high* --
And Jay had been shaking with hunger and a fear he wouldn't let *touch* him --
("What's your name, boy."
"What's *yours*, asshole?")
And Tim had smiled from behind the cowl --
And Robin -- *Dick* -- who had known him from the very beginning, had thrown
Jay over his shoulder and carried him to the car.
He --
"You cursed -- you cursed all the *way*," Tim says, and he knows he isn't
making any *sense* --
But perhaps nothing he said in *this* moment *could* make sense, not with Jay
whimpering and rising into Tim's spanks --
Whimpering and scrambling up onto his *knees* again -- and leaving his elbows
down, because it hadn't taken *him* long to come to know Tim, too. He --
There.
*There* -- the shine of lubricant -- and it *will* turn out to be STARslide Jay
had applied *before* coming to this room -- between Jay's buttocks. He --
"I *know* you," Tim says again, and Jay is nodding frantically, *desperately* -
-
Jay's ass is red with blood and rising *bruises* -- and no, he *won't* be
sitting down very much tomorrow.
The fact that that makes Tim's penis twitch --
The fact that Tim's slicking himself with the STARslide that Jay had helpfully
placed on the bed while Tim was retrieving the cane --
The fact that he's spreading Jay with one hand --
Jason is reaching back to spread the other *cheek* --
"*Good* boy," Tim growls, and shoves *in* --
One long *push* --
"Good -- so *good* --"
"Oh, *yeah*!"
And Jay clenches for him immediately, but that's not *quite* what Tim wants -
- so he reaches down to squeeze Jay's scrotum *meanly* --
Jay screams and flexes *open* --
"Perfect, pretty boy," and Tim starts thrusting fast and *hard* --
"Fuck --"
"Exactly."
"*Fuck*!"
And Tim laughs and squeezes Jay's scrotum *harder* --
"Ow fuck God fuck Tim -- Tim, I'll come too fast --"
"*Not* too fast for *me*."
"Aw, *Jesus* --"
And Tim starts to *pump* --
Shifts his angle just enough to --
And Jason is beating at the bed and screaming again -- so Tim grips his too-
long hair and yanks his head back enough to strangle the sounds --
"*Nnk* --"
"Have I -- nn. Have I mentioned how *much* I love the fact that I can *give*
you a ride like this, pretty boy?"
*Clench* --
"*Open*."
Jay sobs and does it --
Shudders and *gasps* --
Whines in his *throat* --
"You're just such a *slut*, pretty boy," Tim says, and thrusts *harder*.
"You'll take *anything*, won't you?"
"Yeah --" And Jay coughs -- too strangled. Tim eases his grip --
Jay gasps and coughs again --
Clenches and *screams* --
"I *won't* slow down --"
"Oh, God -- oh, God, *Tim* --"
"I won't --" Tim pants and groans for the feel --
For the --
"You're only just slick *enough* --"
"I know -- fuck, I *know* --"
"And you can still take. This. Just. *Fine* --"
"*You*, I can take *you*," Jay says, and he's sobbing again, tossing his head
and panting *with* Tim --
"Oh, Robin..."
"B-Batman!"
He is. He *is*, and that means it's right to grip the back of Jay's neck and
force his head *lower* --
"*UNH* --"
A little -- a little *dominance* behavior never -- never *hurt* --
But this hurts perfectly. This -- this perfect *fucking* fuck, as Jay would
say, this *beautiful* ride, because there's just enough friction --
Because Jay is grunting and sobbing for him *again* --
So *loudly* --
"*Shameless*," Tim growls, and feels himself flexing, twitching and leaking and
--
Needing so *much* --
*Getting*, because there is completion in releasing Jay's scrotum --
"*Please*!"
-- and stroking his thick, perfect penis, instead --
"Batman, please, Batman, don't -- don't *stop*!"
-- just the way he likes it, the way they *both* like it: fast and dirty and
inclined to use every *drop* of pre-ejaculate --
Every --
Every *molecule* of it, and the stickiness means that his hand is still covered
in Jay's blood, but that's better, so much better --
Sometimes --
"Sometimes -- Batman needs to get *dirty*, Robin..."
And Jay whines and shudders, twitching *violently* --
And Tim smiles at *that* place on the back of Jay's neck for five seconds --
Ten --
Jay cries out and *seizes*, clenching -- "Oh, God -- fuck, I *can't* --"
"*Do* it," Tim says, and doesn't let himself *blink* --
And the clenches get *harder* --
Tim gasps and --
His rhythm is *stuttering* -- but he's going to hold on. He's going to --
No, a faster stroke with his hand *and* his penis --
And now the sobs are broken with *screams* --
Screamed *curses* --
And Tim is growling constantly now, panting and *glaring* --
He wishes Jay could *see* this, Jay always *loves* --
But Jay goes rigid and gasps --
*Gulps* air --
And screams *desperately* as he comes, *punching* the headboard and clenching -
-
*Milking* Tim -- yes.
Tim drops, covering Jay and locking his free arm around Jay's shoulder from the
back -- "Stay *up*."
Jay nods, but he's blowing now, shuddering and spasming in Tim's hand as Tim
*slams* in --
And in --
So *deep* --
He can't -- stop --
And then Jay *whimpers* and it makes something inside Tim flex and *heat*,
makes his spine feel fused and *useless* --
"Jay --"
"Yeah -- *do* it --"
"*Jay*!"
"*Do* it, Batman!"
And he bites Jay's neck and growls --
Bites harder and *jerks* -- he's coming, he's --
He's spilling and *groaning* --
He sounds like *Bruce*, and the only *possible* excuse for that is --
This boy.
And all of their other children, too.
*Laughing* while coming isn't a strange experience --
Even though his inner thirteen-year-old is staring *suspiciously*,
*incredulously* --
We're not alone, Tim thinks --
We're not --
He's *begging* his own inner teenager, and he doesn't even know --
"Ohfuck --"
Collapsing on Jay is, perhaps, understandable -- but not what he wants. Tim
kneels up, slipping out partway --
"Jesus --"
Grits his teeth against the way his body wants to *sway* --
"Tim --"
And then *slams* back in --
"*TIM*!"
"Yes, Jay...?"
"Uh. Fuck?"
Tim laughs quietly and claws a path *around* Jay's new wounds -- and grunts for
Jay's shiver and clench.
"Fuuuck..."
"Mm. How are you?"
"Uh. If you gimme a minute, you can totally ream me again if you want. You
know, if you *want*."
Tim laughs again. "Is that what *you* want...?"
"What kind of fucking question *is* -- oh. *Oh*. Fucking fuck, pull *out*!"
Tim smiles *broadly* and *bucks* -- a few times --
"Unh -- unh -- *unh* -- oh, c'mon, Tim, don't make me pick!"
"I wouldn't want you to... settle -- *hnh* -- well. That... is an impressively
tight clench."
"I *know*. Steph has been fucking *mean* with the butt plugs since you've been
laid-up."
Tim gives himself that image for... several moments. And then he taps the base
of Jay's spine twice. "She loves you very much."
Jay flexes open. "Yeah, I *know*. Unlike *you*."
Tim raises --
"And I can *feel* you raising that motherfucking *eyebrow* at me, but you're
fucking mean in a different *way*."
Tim *grinds* --
Jay *whines* -- "Tim, come *on* --"
"Shh," Tim says, and pulls out... slowly.
Jay moans and shivers again --
So *beautifully* --
And flips onto his back *immediately* once Tim is out, heedless of his wounds
save for a *minute* wince -- "*Fuck*, you're a fucking mess."
This time, Tim allows himself to *focus* on the feel of the blood cracking and
pulling on his face as he smiles. "Do I look like a vampire...?"
"No, you don't look like a fucking -- wait. Are there fucking *vampires*?"
"Yes."
"*What*? Why didn't you fucking *tell* -- it's in the reports, isn't it."
"The ones you 'totally read all of forever ago,' you mean? Yes, it is."
Jay winces *while* trying to smile ingratiatingly.
"Hnn. Lucky for you, it was in the section for extra-dimensional threats.
Meaning...?"
"Uh. League business taking you out of *this* dimension?"
Tim inclines his head and sits on his heels. "Hopefully, we managed to be
convincing to the... gentry about the intelligence of leaving our dimension
*alone*."
"You didn't just *stake* the fuckers?"
Tim swipes semen up from Jay's abdomen and licks it from *between* his fingers
--
Slowly --
"C'mon, *tell* me!"
"Kal burnt fourteen of the most belligerent ones to ash. This convinced the
rest to release us from mindless sexual slavery --"
"Uh. You -- they -- are you *okay*?"
Tim smiles wryly. "We enjoyed ourselves immensely -- they made sure of it. I
still ordered Kal to maim the twelve most *lustful* creatures. And then I
vomited all over some *very* nice statuary, convinced Kal not to murder the
*rest* of them... well, we came home. And Bruce and Barbara and Dick were
exceedingly solicitous until such time as I could touch silk without getting a
*sick* erection. And then I wrote the reports and moved on. Read the reports."
"Uh -- fuck. Okay. Sorry --"
"Shh. And Dick has a week with you now."
"Oh -- *Jesus*, Tim, he always breaks my *balls*! *Literally*!"
Tim strokes down the bridge of Jay's nose, leaving it sticky and pink. "Then
remember that for next time."
Jay blushes --
Bites his lip --
And nods.
"Good boy --"
"You -- you always took care of me. I mean... when you first dragged my ass
home."
Tim blinks -- and rests his hand on Jay's abdomen. "You don't think that was
more Dick...?"
"Well -- yeah. I mean, Dick was all *over* my ass. I had this whole plan where
I was gonna give all of you people the silent treatment until you shipped me
off to a social worker I could *escape*, but, you know." Jay smiles ruefully.
"Dick wasn't having it."
Tim smiles back. "He never would."
"Yeah, and. I mean, of course he found out about me hooking, and of course
*all* of you guys were all over me and making sure I was okay and had
everything I needed and was never cold or hungry or lonely or -- *any* fucking
bad thing... but..."
Tim rubs Jay's abdomen gently. "Tell me."
"Well -- there was something special with all of you guys back then, you know?
With Dick, it was how he just -- never even *blinked*. He was just 'yeah, I
*know* you were hooking, and how damaging that can be, and blah blah we can
talk and whatever, but we can also *totally* bone,' and okay, I'm fucking
paraphrasing, but he'd be smiling that smile that makes him look innocent no
matter fucking *what*, you know?"
Tim laughs and grins. "I know."
"Yeah. And *Babs* was there, and she was doing that thing where she's all
*soft* and *warm* and *sweet*, and that still makes me blush to talk about it,
even though she's done it with *all* of us now -- *you* know."
"I know."
"And *Harv* -- well, Harv had all that psych stuff *down*. Like maybe he
should've been a *doctor* instead of a damned *lawyer*. I mean, he knew the
words for everything I was feeling before I even knew *what* I was feeling."
Tim smiles. "He's remarkably good at that sort of thing. And you and I both
have some idea why, now --"
"Jesus, yeah. But -- I don't know, Tim. Sometimes pasts don't matter. Sometimes
it's just who you *are*."
Tim raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps. But tell me more."
"Yeah?" Jay bites his lip.
"Please," and Tim presses on Jay's abdomen gently.
Jay sighs and arches into the touch. "Love that. Love -- well. Okay. Your
little sister Helena was only seventeen then, and she was totally *focused* on
going off to Yale -- well, she *should've* been, but instead she was right here
hugging on me and promising me that the family would do right by me. She -
- she's not even *in* this life and she was dead sure about *everything*. I
thought she was the youngest kid I'd ever *seen*."
"Really."
"Heh. Until I saw her eyes, anyway. Um. Yeah." And Jay blushes and looks down.
"You and Bruce were... hard. At first, I mean."
Tim scratches lightly. "Tell me, please."
"Well -- you know --"
"I am... hungry, Jay."
Jay frowns and looks up. "For *me*?"
"Is it so strange?"
"*Yeah*. You've shut yourself up in here for a *month*!"
"I --" Was injured.
The look on Jay's face *dares* him to say that aloud. Just --
Dares.
Tim smiles ruefully. "I am not always sane, or even particularly intelligent --
"
"You don't have to be like Bruce in *every freaking way*!"
"I need you, Jay," Tim says quietly.
"So -- so *act* like it!"
"As much as I can --"
"*More*!"
"Jay. Tell me."
And Jay looks uncomfortable -
*Unhappy* --
Tim *can't* --
"Sometimes. Sometimes I wonder what I might have been like... had I had someone
like you as an older brother. Someone to *be* with me in the years before
Harvey convinced Bruce... well. The fantasy falls apart. I wouldn't expose
anyone to my mother."
"I've *talked* to Hel about your Mom. *And* your -- uh. Jack Drake --"
Tim coughs a *painful* laugh --
"I would've gotten you the fuck up *out* of there. Which, well. That's what
Harv and Bruce *did*, yeah?"
"Yes."
"Just... not really soon enough."
Tim spreads his biohazard-covered hands and smiles ruefully.
Jay bites his lip again and nods. "I -- I hear you. You don't... talk to your -
- to the Drakes. At all."
"No, I do not. Helena claimed the right to handle all intrafamily communication
when she was eighteen."
"God, and you *let* her?"
That... well. Tim smiles. "Do you know what she does for Thanksgiving, Jay...?"
"Uh. What?"
"She sends a card."
"Jesus --"
"Do you know what she does for Christmas?"
Jay winces. "Another card?"
"A *postcard*. Usually with an overweight cartoon companion animal, as Janet
Drake loathes all of the above," Tim says, and smiles at the memory of the
tuxedo cat batting at mistletoe while its fat rolls partially obscured rolls of
ribbon. "I quite enjoy helping her choose."
Jay stares at him.
"Yes...?"
"That's fucked-up."
"Yes."
"You *know* that's fucked-up."
"Oh, yes."
"What the fuck do the Drakes send *back*?"
"Benchmark cards, usually. Positively dripping with the sort of sentiment that
forces me to imagine Janet Drake gagging in her private washroom."
"Uh."
"Too far...?"
"*Yes*!"
Tim snickers, coughs into his hand --
Remembers last year's card and everything it said about the 'joy' he and Helena
had brought them, the 'happy tears' and '*pride*' --
He snickers more --
And Jay sits up and punches him -- lightly -- in the stomach --
Tim grunts --
"Hey -- you let that land!"
"So I did," Tim says, and rubs blood and semen into his abdomen while smiling
into Jay's *frightened* eyes --
"Uh..."
Tim lets his smile grow *wide* --
"Oh, Jesus, Tim, just hurry up and *hurt* me more!"
Tim darts in --
"*Fuck* --"
-- and bites Jay's lower lip, slowly increasing the pressure until Jay is
whimpering again --
And Tim is rising again. Not that he'd *softened* especially much in the first
place. He smiles and *sucks* Jay's lip, kisses it and bites it *harder* --
Jay whimpers *louder* --
"You were saying something," Tim says, and pulls back slowly.
"Uh? I totally wasn't --"
"You were."
"Tim --"
Tim presses his fingers to Jay's mouth --
"Oh, fuck, that *smell* --" And Jay sucks *three* of Tim's fingers into his
mouth --
Moans and bobs his *head* --
His *eyes* are rolling up --
"Normally... normally, I would encourage this sort of behavior..."
"Mm-hm mm-hm mm-hm!"
Tim laughs and pulls his fingers out *slowly* -- they aren't, actually,
noticeably cleaner. "We're going to have to sanitize me --"
"Well, *yeah*. But *later* --"
"Tell me -- please tell me."
Jay blinks. "Oh -- oh," he says, and smiles ruefully. "I didn't actually mean
to put you off -- not for that."
"No?"
"Well, not *now*," and Jay shuffles closer until he's straddling Tim's thighs
and can press his beautiful, scarred body against Tim's own -- "I mean, you're
being good and all."
"Am I...?"
"Oh, yeah. Sharing, caring, all that good shit."
Tim hums. "Will you fuck me *very* hard, Jay...?"
Jay stares at him with his mouth open for a long moment --
A longer one --
He licks his *lips* --
And Tim cups Jay's hips and squeezes, pushing him back. "Let's start getting
you used to the idea."
"Uh?"
"Back."
"Yeah. Yeah, okay," and Jay shuffles back, giving Tim room to crawl to the
center of the bed and brace himself on his hands and knees --
Jay groans... impressively.
Tim smiles back over his shoulder -- and works his hips in small, tight circles
--
"Oh... fuck. Tim..."
"Yes, Jay?"
"It's not like -- uh."
"Do tell."
"I mean -- Bruce wants it all the *time*."
"He's a greedy, greedy man... from time to time."
"Yeah. Yeah," Jay says, nodding and licking his lips. "And that's just it! I
could see that you were *both* really greedy. I could -- I could fucking *feel*
it, and in the beginning I was waiting for the other fucking *shoe* to drop. I
mean, Bruce would just flat-out *stare* at me, and then apologize *while*
talking about how fucking beautiful he thought I was, and then apologize more
and *vow* to never abuse me or try to *seduce*..."
"You didn't believe him."
"Of fucking *course* I didn't! Except that I totally *did* believe him within a
fucking *week*. He just -- he was so *sincere*, and he was always so
*surprised* when I asked him a fucking question about *anything*, like maybe he
*wasn't* the most interesting fucking --" Jay shakes his head. "But I knew he
meant it, even though I also knew he was screwing Dick *and* Babs -- not to
even mention you and Harv. He just -- he was... pure, somehow. I could feel
it."
Tim sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. "He has... so much light."
"Yeah. *Yeah*. Like maybe *he* should've been the Robin, even though that
would've been really fucking *scary* --" Jay snorts. "Now I'm picturing you
throwing him around the way he used to throw *me* around out there. The way he
still *does* throw me around."
Tim laughs and spreads his knees slightly wider apart -- mainly because he
*can*. "I take your point. I was never pure."
"*Fuck*, no. And I was *really* waiting for you, because you would just *burn*
at me all the time -- like you were *thinking* all the things Bruce was saying
about me being beautiful, but not saying them. And *not* thinking the
apologies."
"Well. There was a certain amount of that..."
"Psh. You think I don't know?" Jay shoves at Tim's ass -- "God, your ass is.
Uh. Are you sure --"
"Oh, yes."
Jay moans and massages Tim's ass with *rough* skill --
Tim growls and lets his head hang --
"And -- God, I've always loved how low your *sac* hangs, man."
Tim blinks --
Considers looking back between his legs -- no.
"Yes?"
"Well -- it's like a *metaphor* and shit. It's not all huge like Bruce's, but
it's just way the fuck *down* there, *daring* a fucker to be a fucker."
Tim licks his lips and frowns --
"Aw, shut the fuck up. I'm having a *moment*!"
Tim *bites* his lip -- no. "I wouldn't dream of interrupting --"
"*Any*-fucking-way. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, yeah?" And Jay
starts massaging Tim again.
Tim takes a deep breath --
Another --
"Yes. Tell me."
"Uh, hunh. I'm *watching* B fall in love with me, and it's the craziest thing
I've ever seen, because he's *Batman*, but I'm also watching *you* getting
ready to eat me *alive* -- and I'm *not* an idiot, so I figure out that that
means that the *other* Batman is falling in love with me, too."
Tim -- shivers. "Yes. From --"
"Heh. The first *moment*? *B*?"
Tim growls again. "*Yes*. Call it a factor of the Wayne legacy --"
"Call it fucking *crazy* is what I'll fucking *call* it, man. 'cause there I
am, *twelve fucking years old*, and I'm *finally* not cold, and I'm *finally*
not hungry, and I'm *finally* getting through whole days -- weeks! -- without
the taste of strangers' cocks in my mouth -- but there you both are," and Jay
*grips* Tim's hips --
Tim's penis twitches -- "Jay..."
"Yeah, you like that. I've *seen* B do it to you enough times... does Harv do
it, too?"
("Maybe I should just hold you *still* for me, little guy..."
"Nnh -- I -- Harv --"
"Maybe I should just make. You. *Take* it.")
And Tim's heating for a blush *before* the flush takes him -- "Yes."
"Wanna see that. Wanna --"
"He won't --"
"I *know*. And now I know *why*, Jesus. But -- I still want it," Jay says, and
squeezes hard.
"Clark --"
"Not the *same* -- wait, the vampires couldn't... uh... get him? I mean, he's
*vulnerable* to magic --"
Tim laughs somewhat breathlessly. "There was no Superman in that dimension -
- or any other superpowered being who could conceivably respond to being staked
out and shackled in an area which would receive large amounts of powerful and
direct solar radiation... in the way Kal responded."
"They. They staked him out in the sun."
Tim smiles. "Yes."
"They'd beaten him -- enough to *get* him tied up --"
"Yes."
"And then they left him in the *sun*?"
"For *hours*," Tim says, lowering his head just enough to catch the pillow sham
between his teeth and growl -- for a moment. He lifts his head again. "We
laughed until we cried."
"After the puking."
"After that, yes."
"Jesus, that's -- okay, yeah, I'm reading all the reports now --"
"Good boy."
"And I'm totally -- heh."
And that's the sound of Jay slicking his fingers -- and his penis. Mm. "So
soon...?"
"I'm *not* gonna wanna wait."
Tim smiles. "All right. But tell me --"
"It was the love that made it all better," Jay says, and pushes in with two -
- "Nn -- Jesus, you're -- you're almost *tight* --"
"It's been -- oh, Jay --"
"God, I'm inside you. Uh. Uh. I'm not gonna have a brain in, like, thirty
seconds --"
"That's fine --"
"So I'm just gonna say this, okay?"
Tim squeezes his eyes shut and nods, *fighting* not to clench around those
fingers, so warm and hard --
So long and --
*Not* as thick as Bruce's --
But just as good. Just --
"Tim -- Jesus, you're all tensed *up* --"
"I *want* you, Jay --"
Jay moans -- and there's a little spatter of wetness on the back of Tim's right
thigh.
"You twitched."
"*Hard*. Uh. Uh. Don't say anything for a second!"
Tim pants --
Smells *blood* and *clenches* --
And they're moaning together --
And Tim is rocking back --
*Back* --
"Ah, *fuck*, I just -- okay, okay, *listen*," Jay says, and grips Tim's left
hip with his free hand as he starts to *thrust* --
"*Yes* --"
"*Fuck*, yes. Look, I *know* the fact that you guys were in love with me
shouldn't have made one goddamned fucking *thing* better, and I even knew it
*then*, but -- but it felt good, and warm. The kind of warm that went all the
way *down* --"
"*Please* --"
"I knew you'd *keep* me --"
"*Always* --"
"And -- and I knew that even if I didn't wanna *be* kept -- I knew it would
still feel fucking *fantastic*, and that's all I've got, that's -- oh, God,
Tim, I can't believe you're letting me --"
"*Harder*!"
"Any-fucking-thing you *say*," Jay says, and starts *pulling* Tim into his
thrusts --
"Do this -- do this when your penis -- *hnh* ---"
"Yeah, yeah, I got your -- your prostate --"
"God, *Jay* --"
"Wanna make you *come* --"
"Then *fuck* me!"
"Let -- let me *open* you first --"
"Not too *much* --"
"Oh -- oh, *yeah*," Jay says, and now he's thrusting hard, thrusting *fast* --
Tim groans and *meets* Jay's thrusts, gritting his teeth until his body lets
him relax --
"God, I *felt* that -- *fuck*, Tim --"
Until he's just groaning and riding, *needing* --
He *never* needs to be worked open too much --
He --
From the time he was *pubescent* and fantasizing about *Dinah's* fingers --
Ted *Grant's* fingers --
And his penis -- and even showering with the man after a joint JLA/JSA mission
five years ago had showed that said penis wasn't *quite* as long as adolescent
fantasy had *insisted*...
Well. He still hasn't seen it *hard*. And that's an excellent reason to laugh
*while* shoving himself back onto Jay's fingers --
"Yeah, yeah, do it, Tim --"
"*Jay* --"
"C'mon, get *open* --"
"Get me *slick*."
"I -- I'll just shove *in* --"
"*Precisely*," Tim says, and remembers that Jay is *not* him -- and so he
starts to clench --
"*Fuck* --"
To do his best to *crush* Jay's fingers --
"Oh, God -- come *on*, Tim --"
"*Jay*."
Jay *whimpers* --
Tim clenches because he *needs* to --
"It's so *wrong* how much you love that fucking sound --"
Tim *growls* --
"*Okay*!" And Jay dumps more lubricant directly on Tim's hole, slips out for
long enough to make Tim growl *again* --
And then he begins slicking Tim in earnest, working it around *without* trying
to stretch him --
"God, Tim --"
"Yes -- *yes* --"
"I'm so --"
"*Now*!"
Another whimper -- and Jay pulls out again. "Tim -- I need --"
"*Yes*," Tim says, dropping onto his cheek and spreading himself with both
hands --
"Ah, *fuck* -- *fine*," Jay says, and pushes in --
And in --
So -- so *slowly* --
"Fuck fuck fuck -- *fuck* --"
Tim shudders and pants --
Shudders and *twitches*, because it's been *weeks* since he's had a penis
inside him, weeks since he's felt this --
This *warm* --
"Tim -- God, is it *okay*?"
Tim nods -- and then realizes that he's gritting his teeth again, that he's
straining in *place* --
"*Please*, Tim!"
Jay can't *see* a nod like this --
Jay always arches *back* when he's entering --
Tim opens his mouth to order Jay to get all the way *in* him, to *fuck* him, to
make the feeling inside him make *sense* --
Tim groans and shudders and groans more --
He's clawing at the *duvet* --
"*Tim* --"
"*Nnh* -- *more*," and that's a word, it's definitely --
Jay can *understand* that --
Jay won't make him wait --
"Are you -- are you *sure* --"
"Jay, *please*!"
"Jesus, Tim, it's just -- no, no, you're right, and I fucking -- you feel so
good --" And Jay moans as he *rocks* in the last two inches --
Moans and shudders --
"Your fucking *sac* -- I --"
"*Please* --"
"Yeah -- God --" And Jay groans and grips Tim's hips again, *holds* them -- "I
need -- I need *this*," and he pulls out *nearly* all the way --
Tim clenches on nothing and *growls* again -- and the growl becomes a yell when
Jay shoves in --
Shoves *deep* --
"*Jay* --"
"Yeah -- oh, *yeah* --"
"*Again* --"
"Any -- *anything*," and Jay pulls out and *holds* himself there, holds himself
*still* --
"Jay --"
"Heh. Say *please* again."
Tim *grunts* -- and grins. "Please."
Jay pushes in *slightly* -- "Louder --"
"*Please* -- *nnh* --"
"Yeah, that was -- mm. That was worth about *half* my cock -- c'mon, *earn* the
rest, Daddy --"
"*Please* fuck me *hard*, Jay --"
"Oh, yeah --"
Tim laughs and licks his teeth. "Please make me take it. Please -- please make
me *cry* for it --"
"Uh."
"*Please* fuck me so hard I bite the pillows and howl. Your. *Name* --"
"Jesus fucking *Christ*, Tim, you always gotta take it so *far* --"
Tim snickers --
Clenches and *coughs* --
Jay jerks and *spasms* --
"Please... do it *right* now," Tim says, and grins back over his shoulder again
--
"Fucking *fine*, but when I get a fucking *complex* and I --" And Jay growls
and *pushes* Tim nearly off his penis --
Pulls and *thrusts* at once --
Tim *shouts* --
"Oh -- oh fuck *me* --"
"*Later* --"
"Uh, hunh, yeah, I'm gonna --" And Jay pushes Tim again --
Pulls and *shoves* --
They yell *together* --
And Tim feels something low in his abdomen *flip* for this, feels himself heat
and *sweat* --
Jay is nearly twenty years younger than he is --
Jay is --
He's taught and trained and *raised* --
"I *love* you," Tim says, and flushes harder when Jay whimpers *again* --
When he can't keep himself from twitching and clenching and doesn't want to
*try* --
But is it better to be bent over for one's son than it is to have the
alternative? Is it --
Could it be something of --
Of *equality*?
And Tim is laughing again, laughing as he gasps and *grunts*, because Jay is
crying out for every *vicious* thrust, Jay is all but *lifting* him with the
*force* of his thrusts --
And Tim knows that Jay's eyes are squeezed shut --
And that every cry is a *plea* --
That every *slap* of their scrotums is --
Is --
Perfect. Right --
*Necessary*, as necessary as the *impossibility* of truly working his hips in
Jay's grip --
So *strong* --
Tim clenches --
And the burn makes him scream, makes him -- "*Jay*!"
And Jay thrusts so --
So much *faster* --
Oh --
It *hurts* --
And he knows what will happen if he sobs --
He --
God, can he *do* that to Jay?
To *Jay* --
His *love*, and does Jay realize how quickly he had given himself to them? How
*completely* -- no, of course he realizes it. Of course he --
Welcomes --
"*Tim* --"
God, yes --
"*Please* -- oh, God, I don't -- don't even know --"
*Yes* --
"I need you so fucking -- so fucking *bad*," and Jay is slamming in now,
rocking the bed --
Knocking the headboard against the *wall* --
And Tim knows if he sobs --
If he lets that --
He *sobs* --
"*Tim*!"
He sobs and he *keeps* sobbing, because it hurts, because Jay is his --
"Oh, God -- God, I can't *stop* --"
"*Don't* --"
"*Fuck* --"
"Don't *stop* --" And the sobs break the words --
The sobs make him --
Make him scrub his *face* against the pillows --
"Oh, God -- oh, God oh *fuck*, Tim -- I'm sorry, I need you, I won't -- I won't
stop for fucking *anything* --"
And Tim is nodding, panting and --
*Gasping* and sobbing more, and he doesn't realize that Jay isn't gripping his
hips anymore until he feels those hands moving on him, stroking and petting him
so *gently* even as Jay fucks him *harder* --
"Love you -- love you so *much* --"
And a part of Tim wants to warn Jay *away* from him, wants to point out that
he's crazier than he'd looked, that he --
That he'll *take* --
But the best he can do is groan *between* the sobs, shudder and cry out --
"I'll do -- do it all the *time* --"
"*Jay*!"
"*Hnh* -- ohn -- *ohn* -- fuck shit *fuck*, I --" And Jay grabs Tim's penis and
squeezes hard --
Tim chokes and *shudders* --
"Yeah, yeah -- okay -- it's just -- you gotta *come*," he says, and Tim is
nodding and *working* himself between Jay's hand and Jay's penis --
Tim is gulping air and --
And *trying* --
He wants to keep this *feeling* --
But Jay has *barely* started stroking when Tim realizes for what feels like the
*first* time that he won't, that he *can't*. It's too good, too --
Too *hot*, and there's salt in his eyes and blood on his tongue --
He'd bitten his *cheek* --
He wants to *kiss*, to stroke and taste and *touch* --
He wants *this*, and he *has* it, and Jay is *riding* him, *taking* --
Jay is fucking him so *hard* and stroking him that much *harder* --
Tim feels --
Tim feels so *much*, and the only surprise is that clenching over and over
*doesn't* make him scream --
But then he realizes that he's *already* screaming --
That Jay is driving him over --
Over the *edge* --
And that was more of a snarling *growl* than anything else, but he's *spasming*
for this, hitching --
Screaming again -- no, that's Jay, and he has no rhythm, at all, anymore --
He's stroking Tim *violently* and fucking him with a desperation --
So much *force* --
Tim grunts and collapses onto his *face* --
"T-*Tim*!"
Oh, Jay...
And Jay *slams* in --
Whimpers and pulls *back* --
And then thrusts fast and relatively *gently* as he ejaculates, whining high in
his throat and squeezing Tim's penis hard enough to make Tim *wince* --
And want more.
Eventually.
Tim laughs at himself --
Jay shudders and squeezes him even *harder* --
And Tim feels no shame whatsoever about letting the laugh turn to a hoarse and
somewhat bovine groan.
Jay shudders more --
*Whimpers* more --
"Fuuuck..."
Tim smiles. "Precisely."
"Uh... uh?"
Tim laughs again and pushes up onto his hands, shivering for the shift in angle
-- and ejaculate. "I'm going to have to bareback at least once with the
*entire* family now, aren't I."
"Uh?"
Tim hums. "Never mind," he says, and rolls his shoulders, his head on his neck
--
Arches his back --
"God, you're so *hot*," Jay says, and he sounds *mournful* about it.
"Jay...?"
"No, I -- I just want -- I know that wasn't *all* of what you wanted --"
"Jay."
"*Seriously*, Tim. I *know* you wanted to be, you know, *topped*."
Tim laughs and crawls forward until Jay slips out --
Jay grunts --
And Tim flips over so he can meet Jay's gaze. "I wanted to be fucked. By you.
And that is *precisely* what I received."
Jay frowns at him skeptically.
"Jay."
"Seriously --"
"*Seriously*, Jay."
Jay bites his lip.
"You *look* twelve when you do that, you know."
"I -- heh. You love it."
Tim smiles and nods *slowly*.
Jay snickers. "Perv. Okay, fine, I'm a *great* fucking fucker."
"Note the tear tracks."
Jay stops snickering -- and licks his lips. "Uh -- yeah. That was really *hot*,
Tim. Does that -- I mean. I haven't seen... you know."
"I don't usually let myself go quite that much --"
"With the *kids*?"
"When there's more than one other person present. Nothing -- *nothing* -- takes
me over quite like being thoroughly fucked."
Jay licks his lips and squeezes his penis... which has *stopped* softening.
Tim smiles. "Not again tonight."
"Aw -- no?"
Tim shakes his head.
"I mean -- I can -- I'd have more control, you know?"
"When I want control, I fuck Batman."
"You *are* -- wait. There's something I've always wanted to know," Jay says,
and sits on his heels.
Tim rests on his elbows with his right foot planted. "Ask."
"Do you *call* each other Batman when you're fucking?"
"Yes."
"At the same *time*?"
Tim laughs and shakes his head. "Though the temporal distance between such
events can sometimes be... small."
Jay looks at him as if he's *crazy* -- which is entirely fair.
"You almost never want to make love with the Batman."
"Too fucking *cold*. It's good when you lose it enough that you can't *help*
being Batman, but other times? No fucking way."
Tim inclines his head. "So be it."
Jay nods and throws himself down next to Tim, cuddling close and scratching his
chest in a very bad impression of casualness. "So..."
"Yes, Jay?"
"Uh... Blood."
Where, exactly, *is* the Kryptonian patella? Is it still in his bloodstream
somewhere?
Lodged in his muscle tissue?
He'll have Clark scan him. For now -- "Ask."
"I thought he was really fucking *hurting* you."
"He was."
"*Asshole* --"
"But he would never, ever injure me."
"How do you even -- I've asked *around*. *No* team wants him."
Tim stretches and calls up... the taste of chocolate ice cream. The smell of
chartreuse. He hasn't experienced either since he was ten, and he doesn't
intend to ever again. "Very true."
"*So*? Why do *you* trust him?"
"Other than the fact that he's saved my life and the lives of people I care
very deeply about many, many times?"
"*Yes*, other than that, because we just fucking *watched* him fucking
*admitting* to killing people. *Lots* of people. More people than he could keep
*track* of -- and *not* only murderers."
It's tempting to ask Jay *precisely* how he feels about, say, the pimp they
stumbled over seven weeks ago with a penchant for *clipping* the *ears* of his
'stable' --
But *he* is not Blood. Still...
"When Bruce and I were building the Batman between us, we realized -- quickly -
- that, as much as we wished it could be otherwise, we *couldn't* set our rules
in stone. We... well, we had *already* learned that the *hard* way --"
"Yeah, but it's one thing for you guys to make a fucking serial killer
disappear -- and you *know* I'm all for that --"
"I do know --"
"It's *different*, Tim!" And Jay turns on his side and rests his big, warm hand
on Tim's chest. "I mean, it's not like my old man was worth *anything*, but I'm
still glad you guys finally took out the Joker, even though you *didn't* only
do it *because* he killed my father. You know?"
Tim takes a deep breath -- and nods. "I know."
"But you still -- you would've sided with Blood and Grandma Incestpants."
That -- "You're going to keep calling her that, aren't you."
"Yeah, pretty much. I mean, I'll *try* not to do it in front of B, but -- yeah.
Answer the question?"
"Always, Jay," Tim says, and covers Jay's hand with his own --
Jay smiles at him so *warmly* --
"I love you," Tim says, and sighs. "I never shared a room with Harvey when he
was having the worst of his nightmares. I never watched him wake up yelling. I
never watched him cringe into a corner before he woke up fully enough to
understand what he was doing --"
"Jesus --"
"Bruce saw all of that, and more."
"And -- told his parents."
"Considering how politely *frigid* Bruce's relationship with Thomas became over
the years -- before it became *worse* -- it was probably just Martha."
Jay frowns. "Okay, okay, *wait*. Did he know about her watching? Does he know
now? Did *you* know?"
"He knew, from the beginning, that she was *aware* of his relationship with
Harv -- and, eventually, with me. I... we all talked about it. We had to --"
"*Jesus* -- but. *Wait*. He still *worships* her!"
"I wouldn't say --"
"Okay, okay, fine. But compared to how you and Harv are about *your* parents?"
Tim smiles ruefully. "That truly isn't saying much, Jay --"
"*Work* with me --"
"-- but I know what you're saying. And I don't know what you want me to tell
you."
"Yes, you do!"
"All right, you want me to tell you that Bruce has an entirely sane and
reasonable relationship with the concept of family, despite the fact that he
adopted you not long after he began fucking you *stupid*."
Jay glares at him.
Tim raises an eyebrow.
"*B* isn't *creepy* about -- uh. Heh. Uh." Jay snickers --
Wheezes --
Rolls onto his back and *cackles* --
Tim smiles and rolls onto his own side, stroking firmly down the midline of
Jay's abdominal muscles with his fingertips and waiting --
For a somewhat long time --
"Okay, okay -- heh heh -- no, I'm -- *heh* -- I'm good. Whew. Wow. Okay. Man, I
can't believe I got that much of that sentence *out*."
"I was duly impressed," Tim says, and kisses Jay's shoulder.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm awesome," and Jay stretches, then folds his arms behind his
head. "And fine, Bruce loves Grandma Incestpants now and forever."
"Yes."
"And *Blood* loved her -- how *did* he off her in the end?"
"I couldn't say. He came to the three of us after it was done, and brought us
to her sitting room. She was reclining on her chaise in a rose-colored silk
negligee and matching peignoir, her makeup was perfect, and she had a smile on
her face."
"Okay, see, that just sounds *creepy*. What the hell did Blood *say*?"
"Nothing. He was weeping silently, and excused himself once we told him we
required nothing else at that time."
Jay blinks. "Oh. I... oh."
Tim lets his smile be a gentle one. "It's all right, Jay. You're allowed to
continue to dislike even the people you sympathize with."
"She -- she was *nuts*. And --"
"Had many, many other flaws, yes."
Jay growls. "They were probably fucking *perfect* for each other."
"Inasmuch as any couple can be, I suppose --"
"You *suppose*? You're *not* gonna look it up?"
"Oh, I'm absolutely going to look it up... but you're welcome to skip the
experience...?"
Jay scowls blackly.
Tim smiles and kisses his shoulder. "I'm going to wash the top layer of bodily
fluids off. I'll be back in five minutes. And then..."
"And then *what*?"
"Your choice, Jay. Always."
"Oh, I'm fucking staying. I'm gonna be *learning* from the asshole soon, and -
- hurry up!"
Tim laughs softly. "Of course."
It winds up taking seven minutes of scrubbing at the sink before he can look at
his hands and face without cringing, and Tim promises himself a long shower
after... after.
For now, he dries off -- then fills a basin with the *moderately* hot water Jay
prefers --
"Come *on*!"
-- and acquires the other disinfectant materials, as well.
Jay grumbles, but submits to Tim's ministrations. As expected, he requires
neither stitches nor wound sealant -- though the duvet will almost certainly be
stained forever unless Tim himself, Bruce, or Stephanie does the washing -- and
only requires three small bandages.
By the time Tim is done, Jay has a truly *ferocious* look on his face...
Tim bites it off.
Slowly.
Jay's penis is rising again when Tim eventually stops, and so Tim grabs the
controller, tugs the duvet roughly back into place -- just in case -- and
settles back against the headboard.
"We're totally not gonna put it in the laundry, yet."
"No, we are not."
"Because *you're* expecting to get turned the fuck on by --"
"'Grandma Incestpants', yes," Tim says, and makes a come-on gesture.
Jay's sigh is long-suffering, but he crawls on just the same, sitting close. He
smells of sweat, semen, alcohol, and his own usual *mellowly* sharp musk. He --
"As an aside, you're *also* one of the most sexually *magnetic* people I've
ever known --"
"Uh, huh, I know."
"Hm. I wasn't aware that Bruce said --"
"Nah, not him," Jay says, and puts his arm around Tim's waist. "Cass, you know,
kind of danced it out."
Tim attempts to picture it --
"It was hot, but not -- I mean, it was her *translating*, you know?"
Tim powers up the viewscreen and raises an eyebrow. "You usually don't need
that sort of thing."
"Nah, but she's usually, you know, not talking *about* me, as opposed to *to*
me."
"True. Do you feel you understood everything she was saying?"
And Jay... blushes.
Hm.
Tim enters the date, time, and location --
Martha's first *anniversary* --
The *manor* --
Will he see Thomas again?
Is he ready for --
"You okay, Tim?"
Jay is, of course, one of the single most *intuitive* people he's ever met, as
well. The advent of Cassandra into all of their lives has only made the inborn
talent more *acute*. And Cassandra...
("Not my bed-room.")
And Tim had blinked, and gone over the layout of the room in his mind. It was
spacious, received a great deal of light, and, thanks to Bruce's and
Stephanie's efforts, already had a large amount of otherwise indefinable
*warmth*. But --
Cassandra's expression had been *adamant*.
("Tell me why."
"Space-full. Space-more.")
She'd frowned deeply and patted Tim's mouth *firmly* with her hard, callused
fingers --
("Too much space?"
"Yes! No people. Bad!")
And so it had been necessary to move extra beds into Dick's, Jay's, and
Stephanie's rooms --
It had been so *hard* not to buy extra beds for his and Bruce's rooms -- but
Cassandra is Cassandra, and had not needed them to know that she was welcome
whenever she desired...
In the past six months, she has spent the vast majority of her nights in Jay's
bed -- whether or not Jay, or anyone, was her chosen lover for the night -- for
reasons of her -- hm.
"Tim?"
The machine is homed. With Tim is thinking of nothing in particular *other*
than his family, it shows a split-screen of the bed and the -- currently empty
-- gymnasium. And -- "Do you know why Cass has spent so much time sleeping with
you lately?"
"Uh -- heh. She says I need it," and Jay blushes harder.
Tim blinks and stares at Jay.
"Because I've been... a little worried. Because maybe I've been having -- uh.
Things happen."
Tim narrows his eyes.
"Not big things! Just, you know --"
"Magic."
"... yeah."
"Jay."
"Only -- only when I'm in the parks and shit. And just, like, more power? More
power. Sometimes. I was actually gonna tell you -- or Bruce --"
"You're calling Blood tomorrow."
"I've got Dick tomorrow!"
"And Blood."
"Hey, he said *I* could choose --"
"And *I'm* saying something *different*," Tim says, in the Voice.
Jay winces and nods. "Jesus, *okay*! Okay! I'll -- uh. I mean, I'll need one of
the big-bear comms --"
"I *doubt* that... but you'll have one just the same. You will not wait."
"I -- yes, Tim."
Tim nods. "Why did you blush before?"
"Uh? Oh, I..." Jay shrugs a little. "It's... you know. It's a little weird to
hook *up* with Cass after we're fucking around with language lessons and shit.
That's all."
Tim frowns. "Why?"
Jay frowns at *him*. "Because I've been *teaching* her -- Jesus, you're a
perv."
Tim raises an eyebrow.
"Well, you totally are. *Most* people would get that *without* needing to have
it explained, *Daddy*."
Jay -- is probably right about that. Still... Tim shows his teeth.
"Okay, yeah, you being a perv *is* working for me -- put the *movie* on!"
Tim hums and focuses --
And the screen goes *dark* --
And the bedroom fills with the sound of papers being shuffled --
Birds singing --
And a low, menacing growl broken periodically by hitched breaths. Sobs?
"Jesus, what --"
And Martha is there in the library of Wayne Manor. She's *not* on any of the
chaises, and that's disconcerting enough to be --
No. Focus.
She's seated at the worktable nearest the -- blazing -- fireplace --
No, it's an older table than the ones Tim is familiar with. The wood is darker,
and there is an almost *demandingly* masculine feel to it. Additionally, there
are hunting trophies scattered here and there on the walls --
A *bear* pelt in front of the fireplace --
Tim can't help curling his lip.
"Fuck, I didn't know Thomas was into all that dead animal shit."
"He wasn't, but *his* father was. By all reports, so was Martha's father."
"Hunh. And both of those guys are alive at this point?"
"Yes, they --"
Martha growls again, *deep* and animal, and takes a long drink from the bottle
of very expensive gin that had been sitting at her right elbow. She glares at
the papers in front of her.
She growls again --
*Again* --
And three tears roll down her cheeks and patter on the pages.
"*Fuck*. What is she -- uh. I mean, maybe we shouldn't look at this?"
Oh... Jay.
"I mean -- fuck. She's obviously alone for a reason --"
Tim rests his hand on Jay's thigh. "Knowing what I know of her..." Tim shakes
his head. "She was proud of her relationship with Blood, Jay. She would've
shared it with the world if it wouldn't have made things difficult for Bruce."
Jay inhales sharply -- and nods. "Yeah, I -- okay. Okay."
Tim nods as well, and focuses -- and the zoom shows that the papers are at
least two dozen short letters from Edward Kane. Notes, really, in his
aggressively neat handwriting. Certain phrases are... impossible to miss.
"What the *fuck*?"
Phrases about Martha's lack of *fecundity* --
"Is he seriously --"
About her *failures* --
"No, no, that's not what you say to your fucking *daughter* --"
About the *fortune*, and how she'll never see a penny more of it until she does
her wifely --
Martha screams -- quietly. The echoes don't carry for an especially long time -
-
And then she's on her feet, tearing the notes into tiny pieces. It's shocking,
once more, how small she is. How --
No, focus. Take in every detail. The view circles her slowly as she picks up
the papers and tears them and tosses them and picks them up again --
As she shakes her head and snarls and growls like an *animal* --
Her face is flushed.
Her hair -- obviously uncombed this morning -- is wild around her shoulders,
and still fully black.
Her clothes -- a negligee and peignoir nearly identical to the one she'd died
in, save that the color is a pale gold -- are somewhat rumpled, and cling to
her body here and there with sweat Tim thinks he should be able to *smell*.
Her feet are bare.
Her eyes are -- hurt. Angry. Trapped. Terrified. *Enraged* --
And then simply *wild* as she whirls to pick up the three-quarters-empty bottle
of gin --
As she flings it -- into the fireplace.
The fireball is improbably *large* --
And the bear pelt catches fire immediately.
Martha's smile can only be described as *dementedly* pleased --
"Oh, fuck, look at that shadow --"
"Which shadow?"
"*That* one --"
And Jason Blood, wearing a *culturally* anachronistic indigo Nehru jacket and
matching slacks steps out of something that, on deeper investigation, looks
more like a smudge on the *air* than a shadow. His hair is queued to the space
between his shoulder blades, and he looks no older or younger than he ever -
- no. He looks *excited*. He clears his throat --
And Martha whirls on *him*, baring her teeth and seeming only moments away from
leaping for his eyes.
"Peace, good woman," Blood says, and bows low. "I mean no harm."
"Uh."
Tim raises an eyebrow.
Martha, for her part, looks *confused* -- but only for a moment before drawing
herself up to her full five feet, one inch of height. There is, abruptly, no
trace of anything save *affront* in her eyes. "Who are you? What are you doing
in my home?"
Blood flares his nostrils as he stands straight once more. "I was born Guthlac
of Mercia, but I am now called Jason Blood. As to why I'm here... you summoned
me."
Martha narrows her eyes *slightly*. "If you're going to insist on speaking
nonsense, then I will have to summon the authorities," and her voice is cold
and *clear* --
Blood smiles. "I would rather you did *not*... but I am not unknown in those
circles, good woman --"
"My *name* is Martha Kane *Wayne*."
"Is it truly...? I am a sorcerer, good woman. I am in the business of -- among
other things -- *true* names --"
"What are you *talking* about?"
Blood holds up one long, thin finger. "Would you like for me to do something
about your burning rug?"
It is, in fact, burning *merrily* -- for some definitions of the term -- and,
for a moment, the wildness comes back to Martha's eyes --
Along with something very much like malicious joy. "Could you make it burn
*faster*?"
Blood shows his teeth... and gestures. This time, the fireball is a pale
aquamarine --
"*Fuck*!"
And there's an *actual* bear within it, standing up and snuffling curiously
before roaring its *defiance* -- and turning to walk into nothingness.
Where the pelt had been, there is a *neat* pile of ash.
Martha gasps and claps like a child --
And Blood flares his nostrils again --
Leans *toward* her --
Stands straight and folds his hands behind his back. "Does it suit, good --"
"Martha. Martha is -- enough," she says, and there is something like a *skin*
of calm --
Something like *amusement* -- no, she is Martha. It *is* amusement. Though what
*precisely* it's for in *this* moment is anyone's guess. She tucks a lock of
her hair behind her faintly pointed right ear. It has, Tim remembers, a
slightly different shape than her left ear. It --
"My mother chose the name Martha for me."
"You loved her...?"
"Of course -- and when you flare your nostrils like that, Mr. Blood, you look
like you're thinking of taking up *cannibalism*."
Blood smiles. "Are you sure I haven't already...?"
Martha hums, and there is a light dancing in her eyes. "That brings me to my
next question."
"Please ask... Martha. And please call me Jason."
She shows *her* teeth... and winds another lock of her hair around her finger
like the sort of schoolgirl Stephanie would consider battering.
Blood takes a step closer, but continues to hold himself in a near-militaristic
posture.
Martha hums. "Are you a good witch or a bad witch...?"
"Which would you prefer...?"
Martha makes a *moue* --
"You're *absolutely* correct, of course -- you *have* already answered that
question," Blood says, and the light in his eyes is *hungry* -- "I am a *blood*
witch --"
"A bit on the *nose*, don't you think?"
"Some of us believe in truth in advertising, Martha... and truth in general.
Your mother died when you were four."
"And?"
"Do you remember her?"
The expression on Martha's face turns vicious --
Dark --
*Ugly* --
She turns away without a word and begins kicking idly through the torn scraps
of paper. She picks up some few with her toes, then sends them fluttering away
again --
She hums something -- no, Tim had done his research for this. It's --
"John Coltrane, Martha? Is he a favorite?"
"I think you should leave, Mr. Blood-witch," she says, and there's something
deeper than boredom in her voice, something almost *lifeless* --
"Fucking *A*, she's crazy."
"Yes."
"I mean -- *not sane*."
"Yes."
"I mean -- oh, Jesus, look at *him*," Jay says, and --
Tim is. Blood's hands are still behind his back, but now he's *gripping* at
himself --
*Straining* --
"I would rather not, Martha."
"Why not?"
"Because I believe you summoned me for a reason --"
"What is this business of me *summoning* you? Are you some sort of *servant*?"
And there's life in her voice again, but it's -- pettish.
Blood still inhales sharply. "I could be *your* servant, Martha --"
"I *have* servants. Very good ones, too. They'll clean up *all* of this mess
and -- and you won't be able to tell..." She crosses her arms over her chest.
In the light from the fire -- the one *in* the fireplace -- there is the shine
of new moisture on her cheek.
Blood sighs. "Some messes require special sorts of servants... in my
experience."
"And what sort of experience is that," she says, lifeless again.
Blood clenches his hands into fists -- opens them and closes the distance
between them, tugging her hands into his own and holding them. "Incandescent
rage on a day of foolery, at a time of power, in a location... well. I knew
Hezekiah Wayne well enough, Martha --"
"What are you -- he died three hundred years ago!"
"Shh. Simply listen for a moment," Blood says, and squeezes her hands gently.
His eyes -- change --
"*Shit* --" And Jay covers *Tim's* eyes with his hand.
"Jay --"
"He's putting the fucking *whammy* on her."
"Ah. I suppose that would explain my sudden desire to listen to Blood speak for
hours. Here," Tim says, and focuses --
"Yeah, okay, we're looking at just her now. All good," and Jay moves his hand -
-
" -- ley lines, Martha?"
She frowns slightly -- prettily. Dreamily. "No, Jason."
Blood sighs 'off-camera,' and the sound of it is somewhat -- shaky. "I believe
I would *dearly* love to hear you call my name... well, we'll get to that.
*Hopefully*. In brief: despite *all* of my most *fervent* advice to the
contrary, old Hez *insisted* on building this monstrosity -- *and* the earliest
generations of the Wayne businesses -- at the confluences of several lines of
power. This guaranteed him large amounts of money and influence, but also...
well. Perhaps you've noticed how young Wayne spouses tend to die and how
*exceedingly* haunted your home is?"
The dreaminess fades under a *wave* of rage -- "*Yes* --"
"Just so. I don't *have* to scry -- your child, should you choose to bear it,
will hate it for every day of his life --"
"What -- I -- I'm pregnant?"
"You didn't know? Ah, but it is a *very* new pregnancy. *Is* it cause for
congratulations?"
Martha's expression... twists. It never grows truly *ugly* again, but the sense
of her being *trapped* is back in *force* --
"Oh, Martha... as I've said, I am a man of blood. I can and will remove your
nascent problem with a *modicum* of muss and fuss --"
"What. What would you want."
Another sharp breath, and Tim -- re-focuses --
"Hey, *careful* --"
"Martha is clearly out of his influence," Tim says, and looks -- yes. Blood is
staring hungrily, *desperately* --
And then he calms himself with obvious effort. "There is power in you, Martha.
You are no witch, but you don't *need* to be. You have been... stifled. That
much was obvious to me within seconds of walking *into* this... house. I
dislike that. I find that wildly *offensive*. And, with your permission, I
shall set about making it so that you will be *happy* --"
"Why? Because you *love* me?"
Blood blinks -- and obviously considers for a long moment before nodding
thoughtfully. "The words 'it's for your own good' have been used with you -
- *at* you -- in the recent past, haven't they? There's been... oh... a certain
paternalistic *theme*?"
Martha snarls, expression *livid* --
"You are *beautiful*, Martha. Now tell me what you *want*. Because, in return
for your companionship, you may *have* it."
She lifts her chin. "What's the matter, *Jason*? You can't just *magic* the
pretty socialites onto your prick when you're feeling lonely?"
"I am not now, nor have I ever *been* a rapist, Martha. Your *undoubtedly*
perfect cunt will be safe from me *and* my cock until such time as you would
have it otherwise --"
"Even if that's *never*, Jason?"
"Even so. Gotham has been my home since the late seventeenth century, chère.
While there are cities with prettier whores, and cities with *cheaper* whores,
there will never be *any* city with *madder* whores, and that --"
"I'm not *mad*!"
Blood raises an eyebrow --
And the expression on Martha's face...
"Uh. Fuck?"
"Hnn. When Clark looks like that --"
"He's about to fuck shit *up*. All *kinds* of shit."
"You tend to get a little... dreamy for that expression," Tim says, and crosses
his legs at the ankle.
"Well, *yeah* -- hey, not for *her*!"
"Of course."
"She needs a hug and some *therapy*, and I'm not even sure about the order
*there* --"
"That's not what Blood thinks she needs."
Jay snorts and pushes his free hand back through his hair. "*Blood* thinks she
needs the dicking of her young fucking *life*, but -- and I'll say this slow
just in case you miss it -- *Blood's fucking crazy, too*."
Tim smiles and watches Martha and Blood stare at each other --
*Into* each other --
"Man, I am losing *so* much respect for your cock --"
"Shh."
"-- power in madness, as well, Martha --"
"Shut up! Just --"
"There is power -- there has always *been* power -- in slipping beyond the
paths laid down by *society*. And you know that already, don't you...?"
*Martha* inhales sharply -- "I'm not -- I can't *be* a rebel and a socialite!"
"You can be what you wish -- and what you *will*. Or will your husband demand
so much...?"
She snarls -- "Oh, he has me on a *light* leash. I can do whatever I -- I
*want* -- "
"Except leave. Except be your own woman. Except take control. Yes?"
"*Yes*, damn you!"
"I will show you how to have every last one of those things, Martha. I will
take you around the world -- and the multiverse -- in a moment. I will *remind*
you of all the things you wanted to do with your life. And I will *help* you
put a leash on... Thomas, is it? And I will do so while *dreaming* of licking
the sweat and musk from your pretty little arse."
Martha blinks and *jumps* -- but only slightly.
"So you *are* experienced. Excellent," Blood says, placing two fingers beneath
her chin and lifting her face. "I truly only enjoy training virgins -- and
relative virgins -- when they're young enough to be *biddable*."
Martha narrows her eyes again. "I will *never* be biddable."
"Even better. We wouldn't want my cock to get bored --"
"Your *prick* isn't my concern --"
"Yet...? No...? Ah, a man can dream, Blood says, and smiles broadly. "Let me
tell you more about madness."
"I'm *not* --"
"Chère, you've cycled through so many emotional responses -- appropriate and
not -- while I've been here that I frankly have *whiplash* --"
"Then go *away*!"
"I *want* you. I want you and your *wildness*, Martha. I want you to surprise
me every day of my long, long, *long* life. I want your tears and your laughter
and your rage -- and everything else. I want to show you everything you can
*do* with it... with just a little help from me. Come to me, Martha. *Be* with
me."
And Martha's eyes are petulantly angry for long moment --
And then they're nothing of the kind. There's a darkness to their grey-blue
depths, a kind of bruised and shadowy *youth* --
And Blood shudders and *cups* Martha's face. "Ah... and sometimes you *are*
only a girl, are you not...? A perfect and lovely girl, so hurt and alone -- I
will not *leave* you alone, Martha. I am *not* your parents... though I could
play them if you'd --"
"*No*," she snarls, shoving Blood back in the seconds before she slaps him
*hard*. "No! *NO*!"
Blood shakes himself like a dog and nods thoughtfully. "Not the baby, then. Its
grandfather. Shall I read these notes on the floor? Or shall I simply --"
"Burn them! Burn -- burn everything everything *everything*!" And Martha sobs
and drops into a crouch in the center of all the shreds of paper. She's
clutching at her own upper arms and staring at nothing --
She's rocking and digging her *nails* into her own upper arms --
Blood shivers -- and clenches his hands into fists again. "Martha..."
"Nn."
"Will you answer a question of mine?"
"Nn. Nn. Nn -- anything is possible. I suppose," she says, and her laugh is -
- ghostly.
"God fucking --"
Tim squeezes Jay's thigh *hard* --
"I *know*. I -- I can't just -- she looks -- she *needs* something!"
"I believe she's about to get it."
"There have to be ways -- there have to be things she can have that *don't*
fucking end in murder and fucking *mayhem* and *incest*!"
Tim focuses -- and the image pauses on an image of Martha staring at nothing
and everything at once with her fingernails biting into her own flesh -- and
Blood focused on no one but her. *Feeding*...? "What can you sense about Blood
in this moment?"
"He's ready to fucking eat her *alive*."
"Parasitically?"
"What? *Yes* -- or. I don't know. I think..." Jay squints and scratches at the
stubble on his chin, obviously deep in thought.
Tim waits for it, and thinks --
Tim fills his mind with the memory of Stephanie as she had looked as the
Spoiler. Military grade body armor under all-too-thin spandex. Perfect boots
and overly thin gloves. Perfect cowl and the *madness* of a *ponytail* --
And Bruce had taken her laughter, her insecurities, her passions, and, yes, her
right cross, and built a lover in his *mind* long before any of them had truly
known who she was as a person.
Tim had done the same thing. Tim --
Tim *hadn't* dragged her home right away, because following her had led him to
a home with *two* parents. But one of those parents had turned out to be an
aspiring supervillain, while the other had been so deeply buried in
addiction...
Right now, Stephanie's mother is in her fourth round of rehabilitation.
Stephanie last saw her three months ago, and came home ready for little save
patrols which would allow her to be brutal.
For that, she had had Jay -- and Tim, himself.
Had he fed on her?
*More* than he fed on his other children?
Differently?
In worse *ways*?
He's rubbing *restlessly* at Jay's thigh now, and that --
That lasts for precisely seven seconds more before Jay tugs his arm from around
Tim's waist and covers Tim's hand with his own. "I think... I don't know him
well enough, man."
"If -- you're sure."
Jay frowns at him for a moment -- but then nods. "You're totally worrying about
*your* inner Daddy eating us alive."
Tim knows his smile looks pained. "Sometimes... he's not especially 'inner.'"
"Yeah, well, obviously. *Daddy*."
"Sometimes he'd prefer you to say that --"
"Without being an ass about it?" And Jay looks at him from under his lashes.
"Sometimes I'm maybe a little worried about --"
"Encouraging him?"
Jay bumps Tim with his shoulder. "Can we stop pretending there's a whole other
person in the room? He's you, just like Batman is you. He's *part* of Batman."
Tim closes his eyes -- but only for a moment before nodding. "Yes. And other
parts of me, as well."
"Well, *yeah*. And -- it's not on you that I have to, you know, kick.
Sometimes."
Tim... doesn't dig his short nails in against Jay's thigh.
"It *is* you that you don't *punish* me for it --"
"Don't I?"
"*No*. Because you give me what I want and *need*. We both know what it would
*really* take to punish me, yeah?"
Cold. Isolation. Lies -- Tim narrows his eyes at the inside of his own mind and
nods.
"So, yeah. You're Daddy all the time, even if we're not your kids all the time.
It's cool so long as *you're* cool. And you are."
Is he?
Jay shifts --
Tim catches the punch and pinches --
"Yagh --"
*Lightly* --
"Oh. Hey. Yeah?"
"I don't know. I don't always know who I am," Tim says, and forces himself to
meet Jay's eyes.
Jay frowns. "Well... that's what you have *us* for, man."
Tim blinks. "I believe. I've always thought that we must look within ourselves
--"
"Oh, yeah, yeah, for most of this stuff, sure. I mean, you guys couldn't tell
me the important stuff about who *I* am -- and I'd never fuckin' let you. Just
like you'd never fuckin' let *us*. Yeah?"
"Sometimes I want to --"
"Everybody does. I *swear*."
Tim raises an eyebrow.
"*Seriously*," Jay says, and nods a little -- apparently to make sure Tim gets
it. It's a mannerism he hadn't *had* before meeting --
Tim hums. "Stephanie has been making you spend more time with Young Justice."
"Uh -- oh, fuckin' A. *Yes*. She's got these fucking *kinks* --"
"She does, indeed."
"And -- and they're all *friendly* and shit."
"So I've gathered."
Jay scowls and yanks his hand away from Tim's. "Only fucking needs to be *one*
of me," he mutters.
"Of course."
"And -- wait. *Wait*." Jay turns the scowl on *him*, which...
Tim pulls on a bland expression.
"*You* think Kon's *hot*!"
The reflex to lie is -- just that. Jay has never been *that* sort of family,
however, and so Tim merely shows his teeth.
"*Augh*. He's an *infant*!"
"Which is why you've been... helping Stephanie with her kinks?"
Jay's blush is *impressive* -- and fascinating.
Tim hums again. "Perhaps you've started helping Stephanie with her kinks
involving Impulse, as well...?"
"He -- he's fucking *pretty* --"
"Very true. I *had* been wondering about the... status of his adolescence --"
"Oh, *Jesus*, Tim!"
Tim smiles and leans back against the headboard, uncrossing his legs and
bending his left knee up. "I suppose I'll have to wonder about different things
now."
Jay looks somewhat wounded --
And Tim laughs quietly. "You shouldn't let me change the subject like that --"
"You're *right* --"
"But I did take your points."
"I -- oh. Yeah?"
"You -- all of you -- will keep me... steady."
"Damned right. *And* we won't, you know, jump down your fucking throat if
you're not perfect. We already fucking *know* you're not perfect, because, you
know, we've *been* here."
"Will you tell me..." Tim frowns and -- considers.
"What is it?"
But, truly, he's just *pretending* to consider. He knows what he wants to ask.
He takes a deep breath. "What's the worst thing I've ever done, Jay? In *your*
opinion."
Jay blinks and frowns at him.
"A serious question."
The frown gets darker -- and then Jay nods. "This."
Tim inhales -- "I see --"
"I mean -- not the machine, and not even the Magical Incesty Tour. It's -- the
hiding. And what was behind the hiding. Babs said... Babs said you've been
really fucked up about all of this stuff, man. For a *long* time. And -- you
never said anything."
For a moment -- a moment at least as damning as *anything* else -- Tim is
*confused* --
"God, do you seriously not -- "
"I get it. I -- I always insisted that all of you... share."
"*Everything*. And you were right to, Tim. And -- you had us all thinking that
you were *just* quieter and less emotional and more buttoned-up -- *except*
when you were fucking -- than all the rest of us. You *let* us all think that."
Tim squeezes his eyes shut -- no. No. "I lied to you."
"Yeah."
"I... do you believe me that I'll do everything I can not to do it again, Jay?
That -- I don't know if I can express how easy it is to hide. To... the
*desire* to hide is a warning, and I can keep myself from listening to it, but
sometimes I'm hiding *before* --"
"The wanting -- the *desire* -- hits," Jay says, and nods, biting his lip.
"I... yeah, no, I know you're trying."
"Jay --"
"I know it," and Jay's voice is steady, even --
Tim frowns and searches him --
And Jay smiles ruefully. "You're you. You learn *everything* quickly -- once
you decide to."
"And I... hadn't decided to learn not to lie to my family before."
Jay nods toward the viewscreen. "Going from all of this -- and from what Babs
told us about -- I can see why."
"I -- Bruce and Harv --"
"Couldn't touch you where it counted. Not really. Not all the way down, yeah?"
"They should've been able to."
Jay shrugs. "Maybe. But you can let them touch you *now*. They'd love it. Just
like all the rest of us would. You -- hey, does Dick *ever* fuck you?"
Tim smiles ruefully and waves two fingers in the air. "Just before you found
us. There was..." Tim shakes his head. "It was the Mastrano case --"
"Oh -- fuck. Dick told me about that one. That -- the kids."
Tim nods once. "Bruce needed someone to hold *him* -- I sent him to Harv and
Gilda. And Dick was there for me."
"And then you were there for Dick."
"After weeping copiously. Which, in turn, happened after I ejaculated
copiously."
"Heh. Twice, even."
"Three times, actually. I had been somewhat... pent up."
Jay snickers and shoves him.
Tim smiles ruefully and twines their fingers together. "I love you."
"I love you, too. Asshole. You'll give us *everything* now, yeah? Even if it
*does* make you sound like your brothers."
"I had *hoped* to be somewhat unique --"
"You built a fucking time machine in your bedroom, Daddy. I think you're good."
Tim -- licks his teeth. And squeezes Jay's hand. "Shall we?"
Jay shakes himself like a dog and blows out a breath. "Yeah, let's do this. She
can't get any crazier, right?"
Tim coughs -- and focuses.
The sound of Martha's breathing is the first thing that registers, ragged and
*slow*.
The birds aren't singing, anymore --
And there's a high wind outside the manor, slamming the tree branches against
the walls and windows.
"Martha..."
"Nn."
"Yes, I see. But you gave me an order, and Blood gestures --
And the scraps of paper whirl up -- into the ghostly, shifting shape of a man.
A very *specific* man --
Who brings Martha to her feet immediately. Her eyes are *blazing* --
And whether the blaze is hotter or brighter than the ball of white flame that
appears when Blood makes a fist and all the papers *contract* --
There isn't even any *smoke* --
And Martha shows her teeth... slowly.
"Is it what you want, Martha?"
She curls her hands into claws -- relaxes them and stands straight, shuttering
her gaze and lifting her chin.
"Beautiful *and* impressive... but."
"I *don't* like being teased, Jason."
"Ever...?"
She tosses her hair back over her shoulder. "The privilege must be *earned*."
"I beg you, chère. Tell me *how*."
For a moment, she is only haughty, only cold and *apart* -- but then her gaze
drifts back to the ball of flame floating over Jason's fist. And turns
*hungry*.
"Would you take my power...?"
Martha flares *her* nostrils -- and reaches for the ball of flame with the
speed and grace of... her son. Whether she notices Blood gesturing just
*beneath* the ball before she touches it is a question he'll almost certainly
never know the answer to --
"Jesus --"
"Yes."
And Martha is *crushing* the now somehow *solid* flame in her fist, working it
down and down into something she can hold *easily*.
Blood shivers --
And Martha narrows her eyes. "What is it?"
"You're touching me rather intimately -- and viciously. I've always been fond
of that sort of thing."
"I want your *power*!"
"You have it," Blood says, and inclines his head toward the flame in her fist.
"As much of it as I ever give at one time. It remains tied to my soul, however
--"
"Let me *use* it!"
Blood smiles and spreads his hands. "Use it as you will, *whenever* you will. I
recommend burning this house to the ground --"
"Oh, no. It's *mine* now."
"Very well --"
"But..." She bites her lip, and she looks young again. Younger than *Stephanie*
-- and unsure.
Blood touches the edge of the ball of flame with his fingertip --
"Oh -- warm!" And her smile is *brightly* young --
Pleased and almost *thrilled* --
Blood bows again. "Ask your questions. Please --"
"*How* do I use it?"
"Focus on what you want -- *precisely* what you want and nothing else, because
it will *not* work without the whole of your will --"
"Oh, it's -- gone. Where --"
Blood grunts and *staggers* -- but only for a moment before he's standing
straight once more. And smiling sharply. "You *knew* what you wanted, Martha."
Her eyes are wide --
Shocked --
Frightened --
And then shining with hope, bright and pure and so *beautiful*. She clenches
her hands into fists and giggles like a child. "*Show* me!"
"Are you *quite* --"
"Show me show me -- oh, do it *now*, Jason!"
Blood laughs softly. "As you wish, chère... but this will not be especially...
pretty --"
She giggles more -- it becomes a predatory *growl* -- "I *know*."
"Mm. I believe you *do*, at that," and Blood gestures almost *grandly* --
And a large, oval-shaped hole opens in the air between them and the fireplace.
It's clear that they're looking into the study of a male who treasures a
certain *kind* of early-to-mid-twentieth-century masculinity, but, beyond that,
Tim can't say for sure *whose* study it is. The only person currently *in* it
is --
"*Fuck*. What the -- *fuck*!"
"You don't have to look, Jay --"
"She -- they -- they're watching this like fucking *fireworks*!"
"I --"
"As an aside..." And Blood folds his hands behind his back once more, turns -
- and *winks* at them before turning back to the 'show.' "I always try to watch
the deaths I have any part in causing --"
"Oh, oh, he's *screaming* like a *baby*! Daddy's screaming like a *baby*!"
"A *tortured* baby, to be precise --"
"Be *quiet* -- no, no, he has to know why this is *happening* to him! How do I
tell him before he *dies*?"
"*Vicious*... here," and Blood widens the oval until it touches the floor. "Go
on. You'll be able to get back whenever you wish."
Martha gasps --
Giggles --
And *runs* through the hole in the world into her father's study.
Blood gestures again, and the greasy-*looking* smoke flows into the fireplace -
-
"Jesus. Fucking. *Christ* --"
Blood turns back to look at them. "Did you want to listen -- oh, wait, it would
probably be *terribly* paradox-inducing for us to communicate in any sort of
*mutual* way right now... so I believe I'll just assume the answer is yes, he
says, and gestures *curtly* --
"Did you think you wouldn't *pay* for this, Daddy?"
"Martha -- Martha, *help*!"
"Did you think I wouldn't get *revenge*?"
"It hurts... so much --"
"Die *slowly*, old man! Oh, but one thing -- I *am* pregnant. With the
*gardener's* baby."
Blood chokes on a laugh --
Sobers himself with a *cough* --
"It's only... well, I so rarely get to *have* her, multiversally speaking. I
still don't know if she will..." Blood shakes his head, crosses his arms behind
his back again, and very obviously waits for Martha.
And waits.
And *waits* --
"She is seriously watching every fucking *second* --"
"Yes."
"How is he -- he's still fucking *screaming*!"
"Yes."
"Where's the rest of his fucking *family*?"
"Martha is it," Tim says, and watches as the *extremely* localized fire creates
a different kind of magic in Martha's eyes --
"Where are the *servants*?"
"Good question. At a guess? Cowed to the point that they would never dream of
entering that room without a direct summons." And out of the corner of his eye
--
He can see Jay's horrified look. He --
"Jay... I will not dream this. You --"
"How the fuck do *you* know?"
"I've known about this for quite some time. Blood described it... vividly
enough."
"But you still -- fucking *Christ*, Tim!"
Onscreen, Blood is watching Martha sway on her feet as her father -- succumbs.
His body is still *whole* within the flames, but he is no longer screaming or
flailing. His arms are pulling up --
Tim focuses on Martha, who is young and beautiful -- and visibly happy. He
would very much like to know if she's *aware* that she's cupping and stroking
her abdomen with covetous pleasure --
Does she know that Bruce will be, for all intents and purposes, all hers?
Has she already *decided* that?
Will --
"*Tim* --"
Tim twists his hand free and raises it. "Had I been *her* son --"
"You wouldn't have been able to jerk off in peace!"
"Hnn. But before then, someone might actually have loved me."
Jay jerks -- recoils, really --
Tim shakes his head. "I'm sorry --"
"No -- no. That wasn't -- that was you being honest. You didn't actually stab
me or anything."
"Still --"
"You're not allowed to apologize for shit like that, Tim," Jay says, solemn and
low.
Tim squeezes his eyes shut -- no. He covers his eyes and just doesn't think
about what he'd actually said --
"I'm -- we're *all* totally allowed to be sad for you that Grandma fucking
Incestpants still looks like a good mother to you."
"Yes. Yes, I imagine so."
Forty years in the past, Martha is humming... Tim thinks it's Chet Baker.
Blood is humming with her, and waiting for her *favor* --
Tim drops his hands. "I'm all right --"
"*No*."
"I'm not all right," Tim says, laughing quietly and reaching toward the
viewscreen. "I even *look* a little like her, Jay --"
"You look a *lot* like her, and I'm trying to *forget* that -- wait, did your
Dad --"
"Thomas. Or, if you must, Jack Drake. I do not now -- nor did I ever -- have a
'Dad'."
"Right, right, sorry --"
"No, I -- I didn't mean to *scold* --"
"No, that was an *important* correction, and I -- really. Uh. I just wanted to
know if Thomas only liked *one* kind of woman. Is all."
Tim swallows and thinks of Helena...
No. No.
"As far as I've been able to tell, after his marriage, Thomas was sexually
involved with Martha Kane Wayne, Janet Evans Drake, and assorted discreet,
petite, dark-haired escorts who were paid exceedingly well for their
willingness to be thoroughly bruised --"
"*Jesus* --"
"-- if never, strictly, injured."
"Uh."
"Yes, Jay, I knew about his proclivities from a young age."
Jay winces and pushes a hand back through his hair.
"I tried... I tried to go a different direction..." Tim frowns and looks down
at his hands. They're clean. They --
They're *clean* --
And Jay reaches over and *grips* Tim's hand. "It's okay that you both are into
-- I mean -- it *happens*. Look at *Dick*, you know? He told *me* that *his*
Dad was a big, bendy, violent guy with a hairy chest. That's like you and B
mushed together, yeah?"
Tim laughs --
Looks up --
He'd paused the playback... at some point. Martha is in the process of walking
back into the Wayne Manor library through the hole in the air. She's smiling
radiantly -- and Blood is clutching at his own hands again.
Tim breathes deeply and evenly. Just --
"Tim... you're a better man."
"I know."
"*Do* you?"
Tim laughs and smiles. He knows it's *deeply* crooked on his face, but -- "I've
somehow managed to convince all of you that *I* love you. That's -- well, I
don't know *how* --"
"You do, though. You were there for us, and you were -- you wanted us. Even
when we weren't convenient, or useful, or even fucking *pretty*."
"Jay --"
"Okay, okay, we were *always* pretty. *Fine*. But -- fucking A, Tim. You
actually *learned* something from your childhood."
"I --"
"Well -- okay, you learned a lot of damned things, and some of them were really
fucking fucked. But you know -- that just makes you even *more* family. It's
*okay*."
Tim... strokes the hair on Jay's knuckles.
"Yeah?"
"I'm a better man."
"Fuckin' A."
"Even though --"
"Fucking. A."
Tim laughs again. "I think I need a break."
"Uh. Yeah? We can totally --"
"Grab the chair, and bring it to the gymnasium. I'll be down in a moment."
"The wheelchair?"
"No. The wingback chair."
Jay blinks at him. "You mean... the chair none of us are supposed to ask about
ever?"
Tim frowns and stands, gesturing Jay up. "I never said that."
"You didn't *have* to, man. Also -- Babs told us what it meant."
"She -- well, I suppose she does know, now. Hm. All the more reason to get rid
of it."
"Isn't that chair, like, more expensive than half my fucking *wardrobe*?"
"Yes --"
"But you want to -- you're about to take a fucking axe to it or something,
aren't you."
Tim frowns. "I was actually thinking of one of my experimental flamethrowers --
"
"Tim. You have. A fucking. *Charity*."
Tim *blinks*. "I -- there's such a thing as *catharsis*, Jay --"
"There's also such a thing as being too fucking rich for your own fucking
*good*. Look, I will totally hide the chair so you never have to look at it
again, and then we can break some shit that *isn't* technically a work of
fucking art."
"It's -- not the same."
Jay glares at him.
"I'm not saying I don't take your *point* --"
"I'm gonna go hide the chair. You find something *cheap* to break, then break
the *shit* out of it. *Okay*?"
Tim licks his lips. "You do that. And I'll... do that."
Jay manages to imbue his nod with a level of pugnacity even Stephanie would be
impressed with, and then carries the chair out and away.
Tim... looks around his room. There isn't very much which could be defined as
'cheap.'
There's even less which could be defined as *expendable* --
Tim goes down to the gymnasium.
For a moment, he can only breathe in the smell of *work*, the smell of
potential and struggle and *force* --
He tapes his wrists and ankles because he has to, and Jay joins him at the
heavy bag, holding it steady while Tim... breathes.
Slowly --
And his kicks are perfect -- devastating.
Evenly --
And his punches make Jay grunt and *leer* --
Deeply --
And his strikes make him want the Batman, the *other* Batman, because he needs
to test himself, hone --
And the look in Jay's eyes says that he knows it just as well as Tim does. He
is -- rueful. "You'd destroy me in a spar right about now and not even *enjoy*
it."
Tim goes for one last heel-kick --
An uppercut for the foolish shadow opponent who mistakenly stepped *in* --
And a haymaker he'd never actually *use* on the street to make Jay whistle and
clap.
Tim smiles at him. "I always *enjoy* it, Jay. But -- yes. Now I would be
somewhat frustrated, too. More so because I'm not *actually* ready for...
this," Tim says, and lets his gesture take in the whole of the gymnasium.
Jay bites his lip and nods. "You're in the past."
"Yes."
"With -- heh. Okay, let's go."
"You should, at the very least, be reading reports."
"And I *will*. *After* we watch Grandma Incestpants get it on with -- was he
kinda like your stepdad? Bruce's? I *know* he wasn't Harv's."
Tim coughs -- "No. I'm reasonably sure Blood has never been *anyone's* 'Dad.'"
"As opposed to 'Daddy,' yeah, I hear you. Still -- he was right up *in* that
house. I mean -- all the *time*, yeah?"
"Oh, yes," Tim says, and starts walking toward the pneumatic elevator -- oddly,
it had been easier to hide the construction of the elevator than it had been to
hide that of the stairs -- "The walls between Martha's suite and Thomas' were
soundproofed."
Jason snorts. "I fucking *hope* so. But -- that place is fucking *huge*."
"Yes?"
"*Why the fuck did they stay next door to each other*?"
Tim steps into the elevator and smiles, giving himself a moment to just... look
Jay over as he steps in after him. Neither of them had bothered with clothes,
and Jay is even more perfect in motion --
Jay strikes a bodybuilder's pose.
Badly.
While crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out.
Tim laughs quietly. "Your point is made."
"It fucking well better be," he says, standing straight and punching the button
for the top floor, where Tim's bedroom is. On the upper floors, only a very
specific selection of people knows *how* to set the elevator to go down below
the *official* basement. The selection is larger than Tim had ever thought
*possible* when he and Bruce began training together --
And perhaps he would not be himself if there wasn't fear for that to go along
with the -- aching -- warmth.
They walk out of the elevator, and Tim starts removing the tape from his
knuckles -- "You asked a question."
"It wasn't important. I mean, I was pretty much filing it under 'they were
fucking crazy.'"
"And they were, but... there were also any number of parties given in the manor
during the sixties, seventies, and eighties. The guests wandered, as guests are
wont to do, and...?"
"It would've looked strange if they *weren't* right on top of each other. Okay,
yeah, I hear you. Still fucking fucked-up."
"Agreed," Tim says, and walks back into his bedroom, breathing in the *many*
scents of sex --
And blood --
And the indefinable *something* that means magic has been expended --
Jay snorts air out of his nose and opens the windows.
"Yes?"
"Smells like a tree came in your hair. Your *sweaty* hair. After you've been
using that gay-ass *product*."
Tim blinks... several times. And leaves it, sitting back down on the left side
of the bed and patting the right.
Jay throws himself on -- and rests his head on Tim's lap.
"Oh, yes?"
"You'll gimme something better to look at when I start to freak, Daddy."
Tim hums and pushes the fingers of his right hand into Jay's -- moderately -
- sweaty hair. "So I will."
"So... uh. One more question."
"Ask."
"The Drakes. What -- did *they* throw parties?"
"Some, but rather fewer than the Waynes. Our fortune was much smaller -- and
our social standing much lower. Janet *wanted* more of that sort of status -
- and so did Jack -- but they both happily settled for the... hmm... 'golden
ticket' that was Wayne approval of one's business concerns in the mid-twentieth
century."
"So they were all about the cash."
"With some exceptions --"
"That didn't involve you *or* Hel, so fuck them."
"I..."
"Yeah?"
("Tiiim!")
At three, Helena was taller than Tim had been at *six* -- though not more
graceful. She had run *headlong* toward him through the living room, careening
heedlessly off antiques and statuary --
But Janet hadn't said a word. Janet had spent the nearly four years since Tim's
declaration of independence saying relatively little to *him*, as these things
go -- Tim being allied with Bruce and Harvey was *almost* all to the good, as
far as she was concerned and as far as she *knew* -- but Tim had been *worried*
about Helena.
She'd been too *young* for them to take in any meaningful way, and so all
they'd really been able to do was prevail upon Thomas to demand Janet hire a
nanny with a *soul* --
But Janet hadn't said a word, and then Helena was in his arms, as warm and
solid as an incongruously *giving* block of wood, or perhaps as a bag of wet
sand which had somehow gained the ability to give -- hugs.
("Tim Tim Tiiim! TIM!")
At seventeen, he'd been more than strong enough to lift her high --
To spin her around --
To *studiously* ignore Janet's attempts at 'motherly indulgence' --
But she hadn't said a word, and Helena had been happy to show him her toys, and
her books, and her flash cards, and her stuffed animals, and her flash cards
again.
And, while she had been overjoyed to go *with* Tim to visit her uncles -- ever-
so-unofficial while she remained that young -- she hadn't treated it as the
reprieve from a bleak and awful prison existence that Tim would have at her
age.
And she never actually did. She --
("It's not that she woke up and became a good mother overnight, Tim, but...")
And *that* day, Helena had been fourteen, new to St. Julia's and perfectly put-
together in the perfectly hideous uniform. Tim had taken her off-campus to her
favorite vegetarian restaurant for lunch --
Tim had considered and rejected any number of conversational gambits which
began with the words 'Superman would like to meet you --'
At twenty-eight, he hadn't quite been able to *comprehend* the idea that any
sister of his -- and Bruce's, and *Harvey's* -- would somehow *not* want to
fight crime in *some* way, shape, or form --
As soon as *possible* --
Barbara and Dick had already *joined* them --
But he had focused, and waited --
("Well, part of it's that she wanted a girl all along. I mean -- I know she
pretty much *had* to stab you with that at some point, right? She wouldn't have
been able to *help* herself.")
Tim had hummed and inclined his head --
("Exactly.")
And *she* had hummed and sipped her smoothie --
("Anyway, one day you'll decide that I'm old enough to know about *all* the
skeletons in the family closet --"
"We can start now --"
"-- and it will be sometime when *Bruce* can give me hugs, because he's
*better* at it than you are --"
"This is absolutely true --"
"-- and... oh, Tim, I don't know. I just wish... sometimes I feel guilty."
"Because she hasn't been entirely poisonous with you?")
And she had nodded, grey-blue eyes wide and full --
And Tim remembers needing a moment to stop thinking about the impressive
breadth of her shoulders, the strength and *ranginess* of her form --
She used all her natural athleticism for *field* hockey of all things --
Her independent studies were about corporate *ethics* and she didn't even want
to ride on his *motorcycle* when he'd asked --
And Tim had sighed and smiled and shaken his head.
("Tim --"
"It's better this way."
"Well -- of course it is, but --"
"*But* -- it would've driven me crazy -- more crazy -- to leave you in that
house with her if she hadn't proved that she could be... benign."
"You... wanted to raise me?"
"With Bruce's and Harvey's help, yes.")
And Helena had stared at him for a long moment --
And then snorted --
And then snorted repeatedly while *hooting* --
Tim had waited it out, toasted her with his green tea, and crossed his legs
carefully enough to conceal the fact that he'd had a five-inch knife slash on
his right thigh that had required thirty-seven stitches.
It was a good lunch.
It's been...
It's been a good *relationship*, even though he knows, with all of himself,
that Helena will not want to move in with the rest of the family after she
graduates from college. Even beyond the fact that she will almost certainly
seek her Master's --
Or.
Lucius Fox is as healthy as any man in his sixties could be, thanks to Clark
surreptitiously injecting him with nanites. Lucius, Jr., short of some
disaster, *will* rule the Wayne Enterprises legal department until the day he
dies, but that leaves the role of Executive Vice President open. There *are*
other qualified candidates, but Helena would not be *his* sister if she didn't
know that she was the one the entire extended family had their hopes pinned
on...
And Jay really is lying here patiently while Tim scratches his scalp. Tim
laughs ruefully. "I'm sorry."
"You're good. Where'd you go?"
"Yale."
"You talked to her recently?"
Tim smiles somewhat painfully. "Last week. She was entirely ruthless about
taking the opportunity to talk up business as a viable career for retired
vigilantes."
"Aw, that's *low*. And we can't even *hit* her."
"I'd certainly prefer you avoiding it. She agreed to taking a self-defense
course, but, by all reports, the results were less than spectacular."
"Jesus. Are you *sure* she's your --"
"Yes, Jay, I'm sure. And I... well, in response to your earlier comment, I
think Janet is capable of caring about her, and even uses those capabilities
from time to time."
"Because Hel's a girl?"
"Because she's a girl who isn't afraid to be ruthless and cold. Though, her
first victories were all about Thomas' fascination with her."
Jay turns on his back and frowns up at him from Tim's lap. "What *kind* of
fascination?"
"Not that kind... as far as we've been able to tell --"
"Meaning you suspect?"
"Meaning Helena has always been capable of keeping secrets -- and capable of
deciding that things *I* wouldn't keep secret were, in fact, worthy of her
silence. I..." Tim frowns and closes his eyes for a long moment. And then he
opens them again. "My inner thirteen-year-old is convinced Thomas couldn't do
it, no matter what. I have... more doubts now. All that said... I still don't
actually *suspect* it."
"Are you gonna look for it?"
"Yes. If she ever gives me -- or any of you -- reason to do so."
"Will it -- no. Never mind."
Tim frowns and strokes Jay's hair. "Tell me."
"It's not -- it's not anything you can do anything about --"
"I can be honest with you, Jay," Tim says, and smiles ruefully. "I find I want
that badly."
Jay inhales -- and nods. "Okay. Would it -- have you ever thought of hooking
*up* with Hel?"
And that question -- isn't a surprise. It -- "Yes."
"Oh. Uh. Do you -- I mean. What *kind* of thoughts?"
"Training her. That's --" Tim shakes his head. "That's where all the thoughts
begin -- and end. She has so *much* innate strength and grace -- when she
remembers to use it."
"And she's family."
Tim smiles ruefully again. "I seem to have very limited ways to respond to
that."
Jay frowns. "Do you think she knows?"
Tim tugs lightly on Jay's hair with one hand and strokes his abdominal muscles
with the other. "I think... that she is a very intelligent young woman who
knows exactly how I relate to every other family member I communicate with on a
regular basis."
"*Dick* would be asking if she felt left out."
And not you...? No, he doesn't need to ask that question. "When I allow myself
to consider the matter -- which I rarely do, because I would've noticed if
Helena had shown any sign of responding with more than polite refusal to any of
your, Dick's, Barbara's, Cassandra's, Stephanie's, or *Bruce's*... offers -- "
"But you totally watched."
"Of course."
"Because you want -- yeah, okay, I hear you. Go on."
Tim inclines his head. "As I said, I don't allow myself to consider it often.
But, when I do, I'm forced to assume that Helena received enough actual, non-
poisonous, non-incestuous parenting that the idea of... hmm... rewriting and/or
rebuilding that sort of relationship now that she's nominally an adult is less
than compelling."
Jay frowns. "*I* got good parenting, Daddy."
Did you? "It's not a perfect model. There are no hard-and-fast rules that apply
to every child, everywhere."
Jay gives him a suspicious look.
Tim laughs quietly. "We've already discussed the sort of childhood I wish you
could've had."
"But you *don't*, really, because then I wouldn't be fucked-up the *right*
way."
"Mm, there is that. But I love you too much not to wish you happiness -- past,
present, and future."
Jay blushes and shifts slightly -- "I -- uh. Hel."
"Yes?"
"It's the same with her? You're glad she grew up happy *enough*, but you wish -
-"
"Sometimes. Only sometimes --"
"Oh, I know --"
"I -- don't mean to be defensive --"
"Hey, I *did* just ask you if you wanted to put it to your little sister."
Put it to -- Tim suspects he looks pained.
Jay looks... bland. He holds the expression for a beat --
Another -- no, his expression has begun to look like the moments leading up to
a truly *spectacular* sneeze --
And Jay is snickering and rolling his head back and forth on Tim's thigh.
"I'm -- very -- glad that you're amused."
Jay has begun to make sounds reminiscent of a cartoon cat --
Tim sighs and focuses on the machine --
On Martha and Blood --
And the song Martha is humming is "Almost Blue," though Tim isn't well-versed
enough in that sort of jazz to know *precisely* which version it is. She *had*
been humming something that was recognizably by Chet Baker before, but it
wouldn't do to make -- assumptions.
"Jesus, is she really --"
"Dancing through the library like a character in a musical? Yes. The music
doesn't really suit --"
"After offing her fucking *father*."
"Yes," Tim says, and strokes through Jay's hair as he watches Martha's peignoir
flare and swing --
Curl around her ankles like an affectionate companion animal -- *is* he getting
to be too much like Bruce?
Should he be suggesting that *they* take in more pets? Several more? That would
be the fatherly thing to do, for some definitions of the term. Bruce's adopted
cat Hercules had died only weeks before they took Dick in, and then there were
no others until... Dog. Dog -- who will almost certainly never have another
name -- is friendly with the entire family, but gives his *allegiance* to Jay
and Jay alone -- hm. "Where is Dog?"
"Uh? Probably farting on my pillows in his sleep. Again. You know what he's
like when Steph's been feeding him sausage all day. Why?"
Tim shakes his head. It wasn't -- "It wasn't a real... thought. I promise I'll
share when there's more."
"Okay," Jay says, and turns back to the viewscreen --
Where Blood is turning in slow circles, because Martha has begun to dance
around and *around* him.
She is as light on her feet as she was for nearly every day of her life before
the broken hip two years before her death --
And -- there really is no question. If Blood *had* been able to heal it, he
*would* have. Perhaps she was too fragile for his kind of healing by then. Or -
-
He will ask, one day or another. At *this* moment, his dark eyes are utterly
focused on Martha, and the tension in his shoulders suggests that he is
gripping at himself again. Martha...
Martha is wearing the mask of an Ophelia, drifting on streams of her own -
- currently -- pleasurable madness. She could use flowers to strew in her path,
or --
"You're not as hot for her when she's like this."
Tim blinks -- "No, I'm not."
Jay nods as if he isn't surprised in the slightest -- "You like her when she's
more ready to break shit. Even when she's just doing it with the shit she
*says*."
"I -- yes," Tim says, and smiles ruefully. "Then she seems more like someone
who could be related to me. I think... I need therapy."
"Nah, then you might get *much* better. *Nobody* wants --"
"Martha..."
"I'll be with you in *just* a moment, darling," and Martha spins like a
*ballerina*, faster and faster --
She stumbles --
Giggles --
And catches herself on the table she'd been reading at, panting shallowly with
her back to Blood.
"Well, I think your cock is gonna get what it wants, Daddy."
"I'm embarrassed that I missed the *transition* --"
"Eh, I'm pretty sure Blood missed it, too."
Tim hums noncommittally -- but Blood is studying Martha as much as Tim had
been, frowning and *wanting* --
And *Martha* hums --
And spins again --
And hops up on the table, crossing her legs at the knee and resting her hands
*on* her knee. "Let's negotiate."
Blood raises an eyebrow. "About...?"
"Your *prick*. And what you'll be doing with it."
Blood blinks and laughs, spreading his hands and looking down at his groin
somewhat ostentatiously. "Did you hear that, old friend? You're going on the
*table* again."
"Or maybe the floor."
"I *have* been fond of floors since the advent of wall-to-wall carpeting --"
"Oh, and there you are bragging about your *age* again. I like *young* men,
Jason."
Another flare of his nostrils -- "By some definitions, chère, I will *always*
be twenty-five."
A moue -- "You look *thirty-three*."
"I -- isn't that *Thomas'* age?"
The moue turns to something much *darker* --
"Chère. You and I *both* know that, were you to give him small amounts of that
which he desires from you --"
"Yes, yes. I can portion them out over *time* and have him pant after me like
some overgrown, fuzzy-mouthed *hound*," and she crosses her arms under her
small breasts and turns away, frowning -- pettishly again.
Blood steps closer --
Martha glares at him --
"You smell of smoke and death..."
Martha blinks -- and sniffs at her wrists as though she was wearing her
father's murder like perfume.
Blood laughs *delightedly*. "Would you dabble your lovely fingers in his
corpse, chère? What's left of it, I mean --"
"I'd rather *piss* on it... but I've read that policemen can learn a lot from
that sort of thing these days," and now her expression is coquettish --
Viciously amused --
*Ruefully* amused --
And Blood takes another three steps closer, and rests two fingers on the edge
of the table closest to Martha's left hip. "The articles you've read are...
premature. You could spit, bleed, piss, or *come* on those ashes without
arousing much in the way of suspicion. If you'd like --"
"No, I'm *quite* finished with that room." Martha makes a face. "And that
entire house."
"But not this one...?"
"No. It's going to *be* mine by the time I'm done with it, and *no* one will
forget it. Though..."
"Yes?"
"I must admit that it's... daunting. At times," and she shivers and blushes.
Blood closes the last bit of distance between them. "There are ninety-eight
ghosts, shades, boggarts, and... *others* currently taking up residence in
this... house, Martha."
Martha blinks, opens her mouth, and closes it again. "I see. Are any of them
*dangerous*?"
"To Thomas? No. To you, should you stop allowing Thomas to leave his bodily
fluids on and in your person...? Some very much so. There are reasons why the
spouses of Waynes don't tend to last very long."
Martha growls -- "I *will* outlive Thomas!"
"Then you will allow me to act as your exterminator on a regular basis."
"Hmph. And your fee?"
"Negotiable. Let me make you scream, chère."
"And how will you do that?"
Blood tilts his head to the side and looks Martha over slowly. "I'm *not* your
type. Physically, that is."
"No, you are not."
"That could be... adjusted. For the length of a fantasy."
Martha blinks again, obviously excited -- and then she frowns.
"There would be no additional price for the... mm. *Service* --"
"That's *awful* --"
"I'm *terribly* sorry --"
"You are *not*!"
"You're *absolutely* correct," Blood says, and cups her chin, pressing his
thumb to the point of it and tilting her head down slightly.
Just enough that she has to look up to meet his eyes.
"Describe him, Martha."
"*Who*?"
"The man you *most* want to fuck right now."
"Because you can *give* him to me?"
"Oh, yes."
"Fine. He has *huge*, soft breasts and a pussy that would just *swallow* my
fist."
Blood chokes again, turning away to cough into *his* fist --
And Martha giggles and kicks her feet, gripping at Blood's trousers with her
toes.
"It *could* be arranged --"
"Oh, *please* --"
"You *shouldn't* doubt me, Martha... though you absolutely *should* dare me.
*All* the time," and Blood steps back, gestures a circle around himself,
breathes *deep* --
And changes. Or...
"Jay..."
"Uh? Oh. I'm pretty sure he's not doing anything *real*. I mean, I can still
see the real guy's shadow and everything. Or. I guess that's not his shadow? I
dunno. He's still using a *lot* of fucking power to make it *look* like he's
doing something."
Tim nods and focuses, trying to see --
Trying to see more than a relatively tall and somewhat *severe* auburn-haired
woman with large, free-hanging breasts which *strain* at her Nehru jacket and
hips that make her trousers gap.
He can't --
And Martha looks thrilled again, clapping and reaching out to grope the breasts
in question --
Blood sighs and smiles. "Do you like them...?" His voice is higher and *softer*
--
Martha hums and giggles --
Squeezes *hard* --
Blood *grins*. "More for the nipples, please --"
Another giggle -- "You need a *bra*!"
"Oh, did you want to *dress* me...? We could play *that* game, too -- *nnh*.
Martha..."
Martha sighs nostalgically and eases the force of her pinch for Blood's
nipples.
"*Do* tell me. Please."
"See, if you look, you can see that Blood's torso is actually closer to her
hands --"
"Jay."
"You totally can't see it."
"No, Jay, I cannot."
"Oh. Damn."
Tim laughs quietly and strokes Jay's hair more firmly, tugging at it a little -
-
Jay arches for him --
"I really *only* want to fuck women when I'm *paralytically* drunk," and Martha
leans back.
"As you will," Blood says, and seems to almost *pull* himself back into the
shape of a male --
"He's totally breathing in, like, fucking *illusion*. That's *cool*."
"If you learn how to do something similar, we could finally use you for
undercover work."
"Nah, I'm pretty sure you have to *feel* like whatever you're pretending to be
at least a *little* to make it work. Good thought, though."
Tim smiles and shakes his head --
"Did you have any other requests...?"
"Because I can have them?"
"Within reason --"
"*Limits*, Jason...? I think I might be disappointed."
"Then my heart is broken, chère. Truly, though, the only limits are those which
my power demands."
Martha lifts her chin. "You've *weakened* yourself...?"
"Oh, yes.... well. *Nearly* as much as I *ever* allow myself to be weakened...
when I have any choice in the matter."
"Do you *often* have a choice?"
"I tend to make rather *rapid* exits from places where it seems as though I
won't --"
"I doubt that," Martha says, shrewd and -- not cool. Not *quite* that. Her
nipples are visibly hard through her negligee, and it's stuck to her skin in
more places with sweat.
Her scent must be --
"I am *no* one's hero, Martha --"
"I've sobered up enough to remember your name, Jason. Nobody knows how *old*
you are --"
"*Close* to a thousand."
"You -- truly?"
"Yes. Pay no attention to the pathetic little *articles* which have been
written about me, Martha. I do what I must to protect that which I love -- as
any reasonable man would --"
"Stop trying to impress me with how *blasé* you are. Now." And Martha raises
one well-shaped eyebrow.
Blood -- blinks. "Is that what I'm doing?"
"You can be as altruistic as you like, darling... so long as you give me what I
want."
Blood closes his eyes and lowers his head, nodding once. And then he looks up
again. "Tell me what that is."
Martha bites her lip. "That used to be an easy question. But..."
"It isn't, anymore."
"No. I don't even -- I want this *baby*, and I didn't think that was
*possible*! I don't know *why* it's possible!"
Blood smiles ruefully. "The magic of *that*... is far, far older than I will
ever be, I'm afraid. And far more mysterious, as well --"
"Take it *away*!"
"Oh, Martha... all I could do is take your child. I *cannot* take your desire
for it. I might not even be able to make you *forget* --"
"I don't want to forget *anything*! *NO*!"
Blood raises his hands and gestures for peace. "Then I will not touch a single
memory in your mind --"
"*PROMISE ME*!"
"You have my oath. Even if a memory burns you. Even if it *cuts* you. Even if
it holds you away from *my* touch -- you will keep it."
Martha searches him wildly --
*Thoroughly* --
"I'm guessing he never made that promise to Harv."
"I'm reasonably sure that, were we to ask him, we would find out that he'd made
that promise to a vanishingly small number of people," Tim says, and watches
Martha calm herself -- no.
The sense of calm lasts only a moment before the amusement of an *aging*
socialite returns. It is, Tim realizes, the same amusement he knew from her
when she was in her forties -- and beyond.
And her laugh, when it comes, is throaty and low. "It doesn't matter what I
want --"
"It does."
"Do *not* interrupt me. If I don't accept it from my lawfully-wedded husband,
then I *won't* accept it from --"
"The instrument of your revenge?"
Martha snarls --
"Or, perhaps, merely the man who wishes to remind you of --"
"Oh, yes, the power of *madness*. I don't want it. I don't want *any* of it --"
"No."
"Shut *up*!"
"*No*," Blood says, and steps close once more, gripping Martha's face.
"Let --"
"Take your power!"
"Shut up and fuck me!"
"Not until you're ready to *enjoy* --"
And Martha backhands Blood --
"Better, but --"
And then she does it again --
"I do believe you're getting the *idea* --
She *yanks* at the fastenings of Blood's jacket, and the first two of them go
flying --
"All right, how's this: Associate with the people who make you laugh, and no
one else --"
"I need the other useless bitches for the *charity* --"
"Mock them *mercilessly*. They won't understand a word of it," and Blood opens
the rest of the fastenings --
"Oh, you're *muscular* --"
"Swordplay and lots *of* it. Another suggestion: Spend obscene amounts of your
*men-folk's* money on things you know they'll hate, then *decorate* with those
things --"
"I've already *started* that!" And Martha is yanking at Blood's pants --
"More. *Always* more. Another?"
"*More*!"
Blood gestures -- and he's naked and *mostly* hard. Even the thong is missing
from his hair, which hangs down, straight and thick, well past his shoulders.
He offers Martha his hand.
Martha inhales sharply -- and there's a certain covetous gleam as she looks
Blood over. She --
"Eh, your body's better."
Tim -- blinks.
And considers.
And -- "I... hadn't been thinking about the fact that Blood and I share a
build."
"... oh. Uh. Don't? Your body's *totally* better."
Tim laughs quietly and claws Jay's abdomen --
"Unh --"
"Thank you."
"You are *absolutely* --"
"*Well*?"
And Blood's penis twitches, rising still more. It's dark with blood, and it
angles slightly to the left. The curve of it... is increasingly unsubtle --
"*Someone* wants me to be a *shrew*."
"I *could* turn you into one... for a little while." And Blood shows his teeth.
Martha's eyes widen *somewhat* dramatically --
And Blood laughs. "It would be an *excellent* excuse for you to shit all over
*every* part of this mausoleum you dislike..."
"Oh --" And Martha snorts and slaps Blood's chest with her palm --
"Yes...?"
"What *else* can I do, hmm...?"
"You could consider digging in with your *ever*-so-well-maintained little claws
and scratching your way -- oh... yes. Thank you *very* much."
"You're *welcome*," she says, and *grips* Blood's entirely respectable penis.
"I always assumed these were smaller back then."
"Oh, they were. *Everything* was, in general -- in the British Isles, anyway.
But -- oh, please --"
"This stroke...?"
"Yesss..."
"You sound like a *snake*."
"Truly -- truly, I sound more like a *demon*, and I should tell you --"
"Finish what you were saying *before*!" And Martha --
That squeeze looks *painful* --
And Tim wraps his hand around Jay's penis --
And Blood *pants* --
"Mother*fuck*, Tim, *I* don't need this kink --"
"You already *have* *this* kink," Tim says, and... *measures* the forces of his
own squeeze --
Jay arches and closes his eyes --
Blood *groans* --
"Talk talk *talk*!"
"But of course. I... I was landed -- and relatively well-*fed* -- gentry --"
"Another petty little *lordling*?"
"Quite a *large* one for the -- ah, your *nails* -- Martha --"
"Give me more *advice*!"
Blood laughs --
Martha growls and claws his *face* with her free hand --
And Blood catches Martha's hand between his teeth and growls like something
*chthonic* --
"Jesus *fuck* --"
-- and Martha spreads her legs and *pants*.
Blood raises an eyebrow and releases her hand slowly. "Oh, yes...? You have,
perhaps, wanted something inhuman?"
Even Martha's *sneer* --
She's flushed and panting more *deeply* --
"Humanity... has been *disappointing*."
"So be it," Blood says, and his eyes flare red before something black and
liquid almost seems to *swallow* them -
His hair lifts and *stiffens* -- before attaching itself to his back and
growing down his *spine* --
His teeth lengthen and *sharpen* --
"Jay..."
"Uh. Some of that's real."
"Really."
"Yeah. Uh. That's not in the reports, is it."
"No, it *isn't*," Tim says, and shows his own teeth as he starts to stroke.
"But it will be."
"Oh -- oh, good -- fuck --"
And Martha sighs on a *high* note --
And Blood *rolls* out a tongue not dissimilar to the demon-Dick's -- and licks
Martha through her negligee from her abdomen to her sternum --
She gasps -- "What are you going to do to me?"
Blood growls again, low and echoing, and when he gestures it becomes clear that
his hands have gained the look of things *dipped* in blood -- to the elbow. And
his voice, when it comes, comes from *everywhere* -- save for Blood's throat:
"I'm going to fuck you breathless, Martha. And then I'm going to continue
giving you advice."
"And if I want the advice first --"
"You *don't*."
She gasps again -- "Well. You're a *very* intelligent creature and I have
nothing else to say -- make *me* naked!"
Blood sways on his feet and seems to *work* the air between his hands -- until
something thick and smoky *grows* between his hands. He *blows* it at her --
It covers her completely --
And becomes three - no, *five* shadowy figures who work together to strip
Martha... incredibly inefficiently. It --
She's moaning and being *moved* --
And she closes her eyes and lets it happen, going limp as one -- two -- of the
shadows *race* up under her negligee --
Another two slip between her flesh and her peignoir --
And Jay shivers. "He's using so fucking *much* energy --"
"I *don't* think that's why he's crouching like that..."
"Nah, nah, he's giving her the full hellspawn experience, but -- God. He's
*draining* himself for this shit."
"I believe he thinks it's worth it," Tim says, and squeezes Jay again --
"Nnh -- would you -- would *you*?"
"For a lover of generations? Or a mother?"
"You're *you*. *Either*. Or *both*!"
Tim laughs softly and squeezes *while* he strokes --
"Nnh -- unh -- oh, yeah --"
"I don't know, Jay. I don't --"
And Martha groans, long and loud, as the shadows pull her negligee and peignoir
in opposite directions. They've left her supine *next* to the pile of ash from
the pelt --
And Blood *lopes* to her on all fours --
"*Oh* --"
"Shh..."
He dips his fingers in the ash -- and marks her with... symbols. Runes?
"Jay..."
"Unh -- wha? Oh -- oh, shit, he's *binding* -- or. I don't -- I don't know,"
and Jay shakes his head and blinks --
Squints --
"I'm not -- can *you* see them changing, Tim?"
"Not at all."
"Then... uh. Fuck. I don't know *what* the fuck he's doing, because *some* of
that *feels* like slave shit, but some of it feels like *he's* the slave, and
some of it just feels, you know, *protective*... I don't know. And I don't even
know if it'd *work*. It's not like that's *blood* or anything --"
"Thisss was once a living creature... and the soul of the beast is only
*recently* departed. The potency is *quite* high," Blood says to the *air* --
"Fucking fuck that's so fucking *creepy*!"
And Blood smiles, showing teeth that *gleam* in the light from the fire which,
now that Tim is thinking about it, really should've died down by now.
The wind outside the manor is *screaming* --
Blood's eyes are oily *pits* --
And Martha is writhing for each new rune, moaning, shining with sweat that
somehow always rolls *away* from the runes --
And Blood chants something --
Something that almost certainly only *seems* wordless --
Jay whimpers, penis twitching *violently* -- "Can't -- can't even -- he's
makin' it so *real* --"
Oh... "It is real," Tim says, and grips Jay's scrotum with his other hand --
"*Please* --"
"It's *all* real."
And *Jay* doesn't see the ash-drawn runes sinking *into* Martha's body -- but
he twists and *jerks* as if he can feel them, as if -- no.
His hands are flowing into *abortive* passes that are breathtakingly similar to
Blood's own, and Tim knows -- with all of himself -- that *Blood* knew in
nineteen-fifty-nine that this moment would be watched by a *student* sometime
in the future --
Blood is *teaching* as much as he's doing anything else --
"*Martha*..."
"Mm -- *please* --"
"Remember that everything in my power to give is *yours* --"
"Yes -- yes --"
"Remember that I serve only the masters I *choose*."
"Jason --"
"Remember --"
"*PLEASE*!"
"I must -- I must *tell* you --"
And Martha cries out and reaches to *grip* Blood's hair, yanking on it and
pulling him close -- "I want a kiss!"
"You'll *bleed*, chère --"
"Do it any-- *mm*!"
And the blood runs down the right side of Martha's chin immediately --
She pushes closer and it runs down the *left* side --
Blood growls and twitches, clutches her and pulls back --
"NO!"
And Blood nearly *slaps* her with his tongue as he licks her clean --
"Oh -- oh, *God* --"
"There is too much *power*, chère -- and I *lack* the power to control it," he
says, and his voice comes from the rafters, the fireplace, the *stacks* -- "I
*will* make it up to you."
"Yes, you -- *OHN* --"
And there is no *thought* before Tim is focusing the zoom on Blood's long
tongue slipping deep within her vagina --
Before he's watching her clench --
Listening to her *yell* --
Blood locks his red-stained arms around her slim, strong thighs and *holds* her
as she bucks, and --
She was quieter when she was screaming and growling about her father's notes.
She was --
It makes sense. Of *course* it makes sense. It's just that that's the Wayne
Manor *library*, not a honeymoon suite, and --
Has the arrangement been made? Formalized? It's their first *time*. Even Bruce
and Harvey hadn't *immediately* begun --
Bruce's grandfather Jonah still *lives* in the manor. It's *possible* that both
he *and* Thomas are at Wayne Enterprises, but it's equally possible that
they're *not*.
Thomas could be seeing *patients* --
But the part of Tim which is scandalized is being crushed -- *burnt* -- under
the part which can only stroke Jay harder and faster --
"Please, Tim, *please*!"
-- as Martha clenches for Blood, as she --
Yes, split-screen, because she's biting her bloody lips to make them bleed
*more* --
Blood is growling in the *air* --
"Ah, *fuck*, Tim, I can feel it, I can -- *HNH* --"
And Tim realizes that he's *working* Jay's prostate through his perineum --
Jay is shuddering on his *lap*, allowing --
Allowing *everything*, just as Martha is, just --
Or is it Blood who is making allowances? Is the scent of her blood driving him
as much as the smell of Jay's sweat is driving *him* --
Or would it be more?
That doesn't seem *right*. Jay is *his*. His son, his lover, his partner --
*Everything* --
And right now it seems as though Tim should be able to be *broken* by Jay's
grunts and cries, that he should be bent and *driven* --
Martha screams, slamming her groin against Blood's face --
And Blood shudders all over, spinal hair prickling and rising into a reddish-
brown *brush* --
Tim can see her *clenching*, and he must not allow himself to become addicted
to this, he must not --
He focuses, and the angle changes to show her face, her wide and almost
*absent* gaze --
Blood pulls back and licks her fluids all over his *face* -- his teeth are back
to normal, though nothing else is. "Come back to me, Martha. Come back *now*.
She jerks and *spasms* --
And Jay does the same, flailing out to clutch at Tim's shoulder --
He opens his eyes and *pleads* into Tim's own --
And there is no question what he needs. He --
"You're as juicy as a milkmaid in a stable full of *bulls*, chère... and I
believe it's time for me to take advantage."
The noise Martha makes is affronted and *shocked* and *amused* --
And then Tim can hear nothing but Jay's groans as Tim pushes in two fingers
slickened only with the small amount of sweat from Jay's scrotum. There *is*
still a significant amount of lubricant from earlier, but --
"Oh, *God*, Tim, oh, *fuck* --"
"I *love* you --"
"Yeah, *yeah*, please, just do me, do me so *hard* --"
Always, *always*, and it's perfect to squeeze *meanly* while he strokes, while
he *fucks* --
And Jay works himself between Tim's hands --
And Jay tosses his head and shudders --
Arches and *shudders* --
Tim crooks *up* --
And twitches hard and repeatedly for Jay's whimpers, so high and sweet, so
*abandoned* --
"Beautiful -- you're *beautiful* --"
And Jay nods and pants, groans and whimpers *more* --
And Tim realizes that he's *twisting* his fingers, *grinding* --
He tries not to *do* this without adequate lubricant --
And the smell of his own sweat seems *carried* to him on a breeze full of
Gotham fog --
He *needs* -- "Jay. *Come*." And that was the *Voice* --
Jay *barks* -- and nods as he works himself faster, *shoving* himself onto
Tim's fingers harder and *harder* for a moment --
Before he goes rigid and *yells*. Tim aims Jay's penis up -- and gasps for the
sight of Jay coming on his own cheek. On --
On his *face* --
"Oh, *fuck*, Tim -- *UNH* --"
*Again* --
Tim groans and *works* Jay's prostate just a little more --
But the last spurts of ejaculate only make it to Jay's lower sternum.
Tim forces himself to stop. To -- breathe.
Just to breathe.
He listens to Jay pant and *croon* --
Arches and *lifts* Jay's head on his lap --
"Oh -- oh, *yeah*, Tim," and Jay flips over and opens his *mouth* --
"Wait," Tim says, and looks up -- he'd paused the playback. He --
Specifically, he'd paused the playback at a point when Martha was splayed on
the carpet, resting on her elbows and leaking what may or may not have been
ejaculate from her vulva and *blood* from the corners of her mouth. *She* is
staring at Blood's cheek.
Blood... is leering back over his shoulder.
*At* them.
The effect is especially... itself with his eyes black pits of oily
nothingness.
"Aw, *Jesus*, *why*?"
"I think the answer to that is that Blood is --"
"An *asshole*?"
"The thought had occurred --"
"Tim, you're fucking *rock* hard. *Let me blow you*."
"Not yet," Tim says, but pushes his sticky hand back into Jay's hair and
*grips* --
"*Fuck*, yes --"
And focuses --
On the sound of panting. Martha's pants hit a high note every time. *Blood's*
rumble through a growl --
"What are you *looking* at?"
"My future," and Blood turns back to Martha and smiles *broadly*. "Which my
cock wants me to know is infinitely less important than my present. *How* shall
I fuck you?"
Martha... purrs. And lifts one small foot to Blood's right shoulder.
Blood growls again and bites her ankle --
She jumps and *grins* --
"Chère, you are *beautiful*. *Answer* my *question* --"
"Do it *hard*, Jason --"
"As you *wish* --"
"Wake -- wake my little baby *up* --"
And Blood coughs another laugh and bends her leg back to her *chest*. "I
*don't* think it works that way, Martha... but I *could* be wrong --"
"Let's find *out* -- ahn -- *AHN* --"
"Oh, *very* flattering, considering what *Thomas* is *packing* --"
"You -- *looked*?"
Blood *winks*. "I *always* do, chère. Now *scream*," and he begins to thrust
*hard* --
She cries out --
She gasps and cries out again --
*Again* --
"*Come* now, Martha, you can be *much* louder than *that*," and he's *moving*
her with his thrusts --
"Oh -- oh, *fuck* --"
"*That's* right. And this is yours *whenever* you *want* it --"
"Jason --"
"Yes...?"
"*Jason*!"
And this time Blood's growl makes something thrum in Tim's *chest* --
"Mother*fuck* --"
And Martha screams *briefly* --
"*More*, you beautiful little *slut*."
She backhands him again --
Blood laughs and -- it's not saliva. It's something bloody and smoky and
*thick*, and it coils around Martha's *throat* --
"Nnk --!"
"Do you like that, Martha? Do you want it *tighter*?"
And Martha's tongue slips out from between her swollen lips --
Martha's eyes grow wide and *shocked* --
And then they roll back in her head and she shudders powerfully, beautifully,
*powerfully* --
"Oh, chère... I will *not* stop."
"Okay, now I can see her being your Mom -- *mmph* --"
"It's not that your conversational contributions aren't welcome, Jay," Tim
says, and pulls Jay *all* the way down. "It's just that they're even better
around my penis."
Jay gives him a thumbs-up -- and uses skill it *hurts* to think about him
having learned to suck hard enough to make Tim groan --
Shiver --
Squeeze his eyes shut --
"No. No, I need your *sounds* --"
And Martha gasps and *croons*, tossing her head --
Blood is fucking her across the *floor* --
And Tim is using Blood's rhythm with Jay, Tim is --
Tim is fucking Jay's *throat*, giving him no time for anything more than *sips*
of air --
"Ahn -- ahn -- *AHN*!"
"*More*!"
"Jason -- Jason, *please*!"
"What are you begging for, Martha? It's *yours*!"
She whimpers and tosses her head --
Tim bucks and *flexes* --
Jay shoves Tim's leg over the side of the bed and starts *massaging* Tim's hole
with his rough fingers -- or.
There's something --
Something strange and --
Something like being *pulled*, like being *connected* to something --
Deeper --
And when he looks down, Jay has twisted his head enough to meet Tim's eyes with
a *reassuring* look --
Magic. *Magic* --
"*Tell* me, Martha!"
"Oh -- *oh* -- do it! Use your *power*!"
And for a moment Blood looks demented and *starved* --
There's *actual* fire in his eyes --
"As you *wish*," he says, and *claps* his red-stained hand down between
Martha's breasts --
The stain *spreads* --
And Tim knows it must feel like being part of something larger, that he *is*
part of something larger, something beyond tribe and even family, something
beyond --
Blood --
And every pulse brings him the scent of green from the park --
And every *suck* brings him Jay, always *Jay*, and Tim knows he's being moved,
being --
Being *taken* --
Is this what Jay feels all the time? Is this --
Oh, but he's close to everything, close --
His heart is --
Beating --
So --
And there's something pushing in, something --
Something green?
There's something *alive*, and Tim has never been so sure so full so --
(Daddy --)
Loved --
And Tim is coming before he knows that he's screaming, screaming more and
losing so *much* --
He has to clutch has to hold --
Jay he needs he *needs* --
And Jay is clutching Tim's other hand just like --
Tim *grunts* and ejaculates again --
*Again* --
And then he's falling back to -- not earth. Not --
He's falling *into* his body, which he's never been more aware of as something
only *thinly* tethered -- or.
He doesn't know.
He doesn't know.
He opens his eyes and pulls Jay off his penis and into a kiss that slowly -
- slowly -- gives him the ability to focus on more than the fact that he is
not, in fact, one with Gaea.
And that *Jay* almost certainly is -- and always has been.
Tim smiles into the kiss and makes it deeper, *harder* --
Jay moans and nods and *clings* to him --
Tim *drops* Jay onto his back and straddles his waist --
"Oh, *yeah* --"
Tim cups Jay's slick and sticky face and kisses him again, again --
Sucks his soft, swollen mouth and *bites* --
Sucks *harder* --
And then pulls back. And raises an eyebrow.
"Hey, that was *good*. You *know* that was good."
"I also know that you had no idea what you were doing, Jay."
"*Not* true. I totally knew."
"How."
"Uh. You know." And Jay mumbles.
"What was that?"
Another mumble --
"*Aloud*, Jay."
"The All-Mother *told* me, okay? At least, that's what I think that was. I
mean, it *felt* like that."
Tim blinks once. And looks at Jay.
"Hey, fuck you, man, you came *screaming*."
Tim touches his tongue to his upper lip -- and takes a deep, even breath.
"We'll revisit this later," he says, and looks up at the viewscreen --
Where the scene has paused on what seems to be Blood *forcing* a stain *into*
Martha while holding one of her legs pressed to her chest --
Martha has her mouth open in what looks like *shock* --
"Oh -- *oh*!"
"*Yesss* --"
"What -- *tell* me --"
"I'm in -- *hnh* -- I'm about to fuck your *soul*, chère. And you're going to
love every *second* of it."
"Nnh -- burns -- so *hot* --"
"I am a *fire* witch, as well -- but we'll -- we can discuss -- oh, Martha, so
*wild* --" And Blood groans and shudders --
Throws his *head* back --
Martha's scream spirals up most of an *octave* --
*Blood* screams like a *wildcat* --
And it looks less like sex than like two people trying to shove themselves
together, to force themselves into *one* body --
They're perfectly *synchronized* --
And there are hardly any breaths between the screams, hardly any *pause*
between the moments of desperation -- frustration?
They *can't* do what they seem to want more than anything *else* --
The stain *flows* back and forth between them like a *tide* --
Faster and *faster* --
"More -- I need *more* --"
"Don't -- *please* --"
"I've *needed* you, Martha --"
"Jason -- *Jason* --"
"Across -- the multiverse --"
"Don't *STOP*!"
And then their eyes meet --
The stain *slams* through both of them, leaving them dark and *bloody* --
And they seem to come at the same time, clawing and straining at each other,
howling like animals --
So much triumph *and* despair --
They aren't *blinking* --
Until the stain winks out like a light and they slump against each other like
exhausted children, shuddering and moaning.
"Ho-lee shit."
"Hm."
"'Hm'? What *hm*?"
"I -- you *don't* find that tempting?"
"Uh. Tim. They both look like someone shoved them in a bag with dusted-up pumas
who *hated* each other. *And* them."
Tim watches Blood lift one *shaking* hand -- he pauses the playback
*consciously*. And then he raises an eyebrow at Jay. "And yet they came
screaming."
"Well, *yeah*, but there's a difference between coming screaming and coming
*screaming*."
"Is there."
"Fucking *yes*, you freak! Uh. Not that there's anything wrong with you. Uh.
Badly wrong -- wrong in a bad way -- uh. I'm shutting up."
Tim hums and strokes down the bridge of Jay's nose. "I take your point.
Still... that sort of soul-deep *culmination* --"
"See, that's just it, Tim. They were so close that they could feel how far
*apart* they were. We don't *get* that when we're fucking. Uh. Right? I mean
you don't, do you?"
"No. I... there are *moments*, at times, when I feel the *ache* of not being
able to know a lover's mind --"
"Yeah, yeah, but you're not going *fucknuts* about it. I mean, that didn't even
really look -- okay, no, it *did* look fun, but also *scary*."
Tim tilts his head to the side. "You'd never do it."
"Not with a fucking *crazy* lady I just met *who was incapable of love*."
Tim nods thoughtfully. "I wonder if he knew that then."
"If he didn't... fuck, I don't know. It's a crazy-ass risk to take, Daddy. He's
been immortal for too fucking long."
"I believe that's how it works, Jay."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," and Jay jerks his chin at him. "You'd do it. You'd take
a risk like that with someone you didn't know."
("And who are the roses *for*, lover-boy...?")
Tim smiles ruefully. "Not just anyone."
"Then *who*?"
"I spent a lot of time dreaming of the Justice Society when I was... younger
than you are now."
Jay frowns. "Yeah, you said, but -- hunh. With them? Like... no, *you* tell me
which one. Ones?"
"The *first* Black Canary. And..." Tim considers -- and shakes his head. "No,
none of the others. None of them meant as much to me as she did."
"But -- you didn't even *know* her until... wait, did you know her, at *all*?"
"A few -- moderately -- substantive conversations after the rather spectacular
incident with Bruce. The Society retired when I was your age. Dinah kept going
out until the cancer wouldn't let her, anymore..." Tim swallows. "She died too
young."
"You're saying you were kinda in love with her."
"More than a little."
"But --"
Tim holds up a hand. "I know it's strange to you, Jay. But... a part of you
stalked that stroll because you wanted the Batman to *see* you as much as you
wanted to tell him off."
Jay blushes. "Uh. You weren't supposed to fucking *know* that --"
Tim smiles. "Sorry."
"*Liar*. I -- okay, fine. But I *wasn't* in love with Batman *or* Robin. And
I'd only spanked it to Batgirl a *few* times."
Tim *spreads* his hands. "I'm a romantic."
"You are -- not." And Jay squints at him.
Tim raises an eyebrow.
"You... *Bruce* is a romantic."
"Yes."
"*Harv* is a romantic."
"Absolutely."
"You..." Jay squints more ferociously -- and then blinks. "Hunh."
Tim raises his eyebrow higher.
"I... can see it."
"Is it hurting your mind to a certain extent --"
"Fucking *yes*, Daddy!"
Tim laughs quietly and pulls Jay up off his back and into his arms. "I promise
to only act like it *sometimes*."
"Well -- okay. Afterglow with the crazy people?"
Tim *coughs* a laugh. "That's what Barbara said about Martha and *Thomas*."
"*Well*?"
"Mm. Your point, once more, is made," Tim says, and kisses Jay deeply while
letting himself get manhandled back to the head of the bed.
Once Jay has Tim where he wants him, he buries his face against Tim's throat
and -- snuffles. And nuzzles. And growls.
All of the above would *just* be cause for affection -- and a certain hopeful
twitch -- were it not for the abrupt advent of Dog in the doorway.
What *is* the connection?
Is Dog a familiar of some sort?
Jay is still *snuffling* --
He hasn't *noticed* Dog -- or has he? Tim grips him by the hair and tugs.
"Uh? Oh -- hey, boy!"
Dog -- an *exceedingly* large apparent Rottweiler/German Shepherd mix whom Jay
had insisted they retrieve from Crime Alley before he would agree to live with
them -- barks deeply and loudly --
*Prepares* himself to bound --
"*No*," Tim says in the Voice --
Dog barks much more quietly and sits down just inside the doorway.
"Aw, Jesus, Tim, it's not like you don't need to do fucktons of laundry
*anyway*."
"I don't want Dog learning --"
"These are *good* habits. *Awesome* habits. At least let him in the *room*."
He *is* in the -- but. Jay is looking at him.
Pleadingly. He --
Tim is supposed to be a better father than Thomas. He --
Tim takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and nods.
"*Nice*. C'mon, boy!"
Dog barks again and *trots* up to the bed, but happily neither jumps nor
stands. He settles next to Jay's side of the bed and rests his massive head on
the duvet.
Jay immediately shifts closer to that side of the bed and begins petting,
leaving Tim --
Tim thinks of Harvey, sucks it up, and moves closer to Jay. And then focuses on
the machine.
Blood groans --
Martha whimpers --
Dog *growls* --
"It's cool, boy, they're not actually here."
Tim blinks. "Will he... understand that?"
"Uh... maybe?" And Jay turns to look Dog over.
To Tim's eyes, Dog's expression is as blankly inscrutable as it ever is when
Dog isn't threatening, begging, or being playful. No one has ever, ever wanted
to give Tim a dog. *Jay*, on the other hand...
"Yeah, boy, I hear you," and Jay turns back to Tim. "He's good. He totally
wants you to put on something better, though."
"How... all right, never mind," Tim says, and leans past Jay. "Good boy."
Dog continues to give him an inscrutable look.
Well -- he tried. Tim turns back to the viewscreen and focuses once more --
And it's difficult to tell which of them is panting -- no, they both are. It's
just that one of them sounds significantly more pained --
Blood's breathing hitches and he sways -- he's the pained one, for all that his
scratches and bruises are healing as they watch.
His scars -- and there are many -- are almost certainly *all* very, very old.
Martha whimpers again, but doesn't open her eyes.
And Blood reaches out with his shaking hand for her cheek. He strokes her
gently with his thumb. "Martha..."
Martha shudders and moans, shaking her head --
"Please, chère. Please tell me --"
And then Martha *laughs*. The exhaustion is clear, but the laugh itself is
bright and loud enough to carry.
"Your laughter suggests..." Blood shudders and groans as a *deep* scratch on
his back seals itself closed --
And Martha opens her eyes and smiles. "Yes...?"
Blood sways again -- and this time has to catch himself on his hands to either
side of Martha's head.
Martha blinks and frowns. "Jason? Are you all right?"
*Blood* laughs, but it's breathless and half-*moaned*. "I am. I am *moved*,
Martha. The inside of your soul... is not like any other place."
A pout. "I'm not sure I should take that as a compliment, considering the fact
that you look like the first three seconds of a *faint*."
"You don't think acute fucking-related syncope is a compliment --"
"*Don't* talk like Thomas."
"I might have been referring to *music*, Martha --"
"But you *weren't*," and her expression is dark --
And Blood's expression is *avid*. "Chère. I *will* speak Greek from time to
time. It's an *exceedingly* perverse... tongue," and he rolls *his* tongue out
again --
Martha jerks and inhales sharply --
And Blood shows his teeth. "Can you smell yourself on my breath, Martha? I want
to *bathe* in you --"
Martha growls and her expression shows *concentration* --
In the half-second before Blood cries out and shudders, left elbow *buckling* -
- "*Nnh* -- your cunt is a *vise*, good woman --"
"Say my *name*."
"Martha. Chère. *Cherie*. I am *yours*. Make of me what you will."
"I'm not *mad*!"
"Martha --"
"I'm not -- I'm not *weak*!"
And Blood blinks --
Kneels up --
Shakes himself like something *completely* unrelated to a canine --
And when he stills, his hair is simply long hair, his eyes are simply brown
eyes, and the only stains on his skin are from drying blood. He cups Martha's
face --
Martha sinks her teeth into the webbing between his thumb and forefinger --
Blood grunts and smiles. "Martha. You are *royalty*... and *all* of the best
queens were mad as *hatters*."
Martha frowns *doubtfully*, and Blood's blood runs down her chin.
"Everything in my power. *Everything*."
Martha *slurps*... and releases Blood's hand.
Blood *starts* to lick the blood from his hand -- then shakes his head and
gestures, letting the blood fall in an impressively neat infinity symbol around
her nipples --
She gasps -- "Burns --"
"But only for a moment, yes...? I am *weakened* now, Martha. And I find I don't
give even one *eighth* of a damn... save that I'm going to have to ask you to
fuck your husband one more time, as I will be too weak to clear out *all* of
your supernatural pests for at least... hm... fifty-eight hours. Give or take a
dozen."
Martha snarls --
"I *do* understand. I can *smell* how much you've been stifled here, how much
you've been... *lost*. I *highly* recommend positively *begging* him to do
something he normally wouldn't. You can give him hope that he'll win your stony
little heart that way... and then dash it on the stones in question, of
course."
Martha *beams* --
"Yes, I *thought* you'd like that idea," and Blood smiles down at Martha
fondly. "Perhaps you started out that way...?"
"*Yes* -- but..."
"It all began to *weigh* on you. The history, the responsibility, the
expectations, the monumental *Wayne*-ness --"
And Martha growls again, eyes seeming to *blaze* as she stares up at Blood...
though only in the human ways.
"*That*, chère. *That* feeling. *Those* desires. That -- mm. Rage and lust and
violence and power and fun and bitchery and pure, unadulterated *madness*. You
are *yourself*. *Hold* to that."
A *brief* shuttering --
And the coquettish smile of a *teenager* -- *obscene* with all the blood on and
around her mouth --
"Yes, Martha...?"
"What else, Jason?"
Blood smiles. "Everything."
A pout --
"Everything you *want*, that is... and nothing you don't. We'll discover it all
*together*... and you need only let me know that you are bored before I will
*promptly* try something else."
"Because you're mine."
"Oh, yes."
"Because I *summoned* you."
Blood smiles and strokes Martha's stained and wounded and *swollen* mouth. "In
many worlds across the multiverse. Not enough."
"What does *that* mean?"
"That you do not always *allow* me to give you happiness, chère... and so I am
very, very appreciative when you do."
"I..." Martha frowns and turns away, but it's a *thoughtful* frown rather than
a petulant or rageful one. It's... hm.
"What are you thinking, Daddy?"
"She's about to give in entirely."
"Are you surprised? I mean, even aside from, like, *history*, he's pretty much
giving her the sweetest deal ever."
"No, I..." Tim shakes his head and cups the back of Jay's neck, massages it --
"Oh, yeah..."
"I think... I think I understand Bruce."
"Uh. I fucking well *hope* so, Daddy --"
Tim snorts. "You know what I mean."
"Heh. I do, yeah. I don't *want* to, but... you love her now. More than you did
before."
"I didn't... I didn't. I certainly didn't want to *protect* her."
Jay raises his eyebrows. "Daddy, I'm pretty sure the family elected me and *B*
to have the Mommy Issues."
Tim snorts. "Point. I -- it's not --"
"It's totally important. Just, you know. You *can't* protect her anymore, and
you totally couldn't protect her when she was alive, either. And I'm pretty
sure you actually know that?"
Tim closes his eyes and smiles -- nods. And then he turns to the viewscreen and
watches Blood stare with hungry *patience*. His hands are flat to his thighs
and his hair is no wilder around his shoulders than Martha's --
"Jesus, she's gonna have *killer* rugburn, isn't she."
Tim coughs --
"Sorry, sorry, don't mind me --"
And Blood sighs. "My apologies, Martha. I wish to know your thoughts."
She waves him -- or possibly just his words -- away the way she would wave away
a gnat --
And Blood laughs softly. "All right --"
She turns to look at him. "Men have been *claiming* to belong to me since I was
*twelve*, Jason."
He lifts his chin -- and inclines his head. "You have little enough reason -
- at this point -- to believe I am any different from all of those other...
failures. Yes?"
"*Worse* than failures. *Disappointments*."
"I understand, chère. I understand... and, were that sort of thing not
*strictly* frowned upon by the powers and tides which *move* the multiverse -
- and that which lives *inside* me -- well --"
"You'd let me murder them, too? For the crime of making me *cynical*?"
"It's only that I know you'd do it in such entertaining *ways*, chère --"
"Oh --" And Martha's giggle seems to surprise her --
And Blood smiles avidly again. "Beautiful Martha. Surely *some* of them have
committed more crimes than merely dipping your lovely little tongue in acid...?
Go on, tell me *all* about it..."
"*Jason*."
"No...? Another time, then -- and while I do have *some* measure of monetary
wealth to my name, *temporal* wealth is where I truly shine. I am functionally
immortal, Martha, and I want to spend your life with you."
"My life. Not -- yours." And Martha blinks rapidly, thoughtfully --
Blood inclines his head again --
Martha shivers and licks her lips -- "Jason, I'll be *old* when you're -
- this."
"And *I*... will never be *wholly* faithful to you. Such things are not in me.
But, while your youthful body is *quite* attractive to me --"
"It will never be prettier than my *soul*? *Really*?"
Blood smiles. And raises an eyebrow *slowly*.
"I -- oh. Oh. I suppose that we *did* just... hm." And Martha licks her lips
and looks up at Blood from under her lashes.
Blood raises his eyebrow *higher* --
And Martha giggles and drums her feet --
Giggles more and winds two locks of Blood's hair around her small fists --
"Yes, chère...?"
"Kiss me! And then let me watch you getting rid of all the pests you *can* get
-- *mm* -- mmmm...."
And Blood rolls them over and over --
And at least *one* of them is bleeding into the kiss --
And Jay blows a raspberry and begins a slow and decidedly sardonic clap.
Tim hums and shuts down the machine.
"Oh. Yeah?"
"Yes."
"Thank fucking Christ. Do you *have* reports on how much mayhem *they* caused?"
Tim taps his own temple.
"Aw, come *on* --"
"One word: Bruce."
"Two words: *Crime fighting*!"
Tim laughs quietly and shakes his head.
"Fucking *A*. Okay, all right, so Kane was a diseased donkey cock -- I'm with
that. Nobody deserves to be fucking *burned* to death, but fine --"
"Jay..."
"*What*?"
Tim turns enough to meet Jay's gaze and hold it --
And hold it --
And *hold* it --
Jay winces. "You... are totally thinking about me cheering when you... took
care of Savage."
"When I -- to be specific -- chopped him into several still-living pieces and
had Kal put the pieces in separate stasis boxes --"
"And then had him hide the boxes on different planets, yeah, okay, *okay* --"
"All of those pieces are still alive, Jay."
"He -- he fucking *deserves* --"
"The torture will last forever -- on whatever level he can comprehend it -
- until someone puts him back together again."
"I -- yeah. I know. And I know what you're saying."
"Yes...?"
"You didn't fucking -- it's *okay* for you to do shit like that, because you
never cross the *line*."
Tim blinks. "I... am now confused, Jay."
Jay snorts and coughs. "Yeah, okay, I guess I do -- have to explain that. Uh."
Jay scrubs at his face with his hands --
Dog watches him expectantly --
And then begins to pant idly when Jay drops his hands again. "Okay, it took me
about thirty-five *seconds* to figure out that when the killings happened, it
was *you* doing it, with Bruce looking that way and Harv way the fuck over
there looking *that* way. And, like, I thought it was fucking *ass* for a
while, but then I *got* it. Bruce and Harv don't *work* that way, even for real
fucking *shit-stains*, and that was that, yeah?"
"I'm listening."
"Yeah, I know. And -- and I didn't get *that*, at first, and it pissed me
*off*, but they were both -- fuck, you *know* how they are."
"I do."
"And -- you are not cutting me *any* slack for this, are you."
Tim smiles ruefully and strokes Jay's cheek. "I'm not sure I can."
"Yeah, okay. I'll just -- keep going then."
Tim nods.
"So -- okay. There I am, back then, and I get why Bruce and Harv are the way
they are, and I *think* I get why you're the way *you* are, but I also really
didn't. I thought you were like *me*, you know? That you got pissed-off when
people did fucked-up things and fucking well took *care* of it -- especially
when the victims couldn't get up and take care of it for themselves. And you
*are* like that on the surface, and even down deep a *little*, but... you're
also not."
"Keep going."
Jay nods and bites his lip. "You're -- you're *cold* for this stuff, Tim.
You're -- you weigh this stuff *out* in your head, and you figure out... well,
for you, it *wasn't* just that the Joker had killed and tortured a bunch of
people, it was that he'd done that, and that all the best doctors couldn't
figure out how to fix him -- or even what was really *wrong* with him -- and
that *he* was suffering. And then you went in there and you shot him six times
in the head. You didn't beat him to death, you didn't drop him in an acid bath
-- fuck, you didn't even kick him in the fucking *sac* that last time. You
*just* ended him, and then left his body where everyone could see it but no one
could, you know, *desecrate* it until the authorities could take it down and
take care of it.
"And that's what I mean about the line, okay? Because Martha *could've* just
killed her father. Hell, she could've just burned him to death the old-
fashioned way -- you can't tell me fucking *Blood's* power wouldn't let her do
that. It would've hurt like fuck *and* it would've given her time to gloat. But
she had to go that extra fucking *mile*. And that -- I can't go there. And I
can't really get why you can."
That -- Tim nods. Slowly. There was nothing in that he couldn't understand.
It --
He stares down at his hands and tries to -- to find a way *around* the words at
the back of his throat --
The words he *must* say --
And Dog jumps on the bed and tries to get to him --
"Hey, no, boy --"
"It's all right," Tim says, and gestures stand-down.
"*You're* not all right --"
"I cross the line all the time," Tim says, and looks up into Jay's eyes again.
"In my heart."
Jay blinks and *clutches* at Dog for a moment --
Dog twists free and immediately begins nosing at Tim's cheek and ear, very
clearly offering comfort Jay doesn't know *how* to at the moment -- or.
Tim doesn't know. He --
He smiles ruefully. "If there had been a way to ensure that Savage would stay
awake for every moment of his... imprisonment --"
"*Fuck* --"
"I would not have done it. But I would have wanted to."
Jay looks queasy and nods. "Why, though. Why *wouldn't* you have done it?"
"One: I treasure the good opinion of the people I love. Two: I must do
everything in my power to make sure I retain the right and responsibility to
kill when killing is necessary, because I do not trust most of the League to do
it as *well* as I have. Three: I must continue to set an example for Barbara,
who will take this duty when I no longer can."
"And -- it's in that order."
"Yes. I --" Tim shakes his head and reaches for Jay again -- he drops his hand.
"I'm sorry, Jay."
Jay nods and looks down at the bed, frowning deeply.
Dog moans and nudges Tim --
*Bumps* him --
Tim frowns. He doesn't *want* to interfere with Dog in any way, but -- "Jay..."
"He's just -- he's trying to get you to say more."
"Dog... wants me to talk?"
"Not --" Jay shakes his head and looks up. "*I* want you to talk, and I can't
figure out how to --" Jay shakes his head again and whistles sharply --
And Dog moans again, but stops pushing Tim and moves to sit next to Jay.
"I want. I don't actually know what I want you to say."
"I suspect that you'd like me to say that I don't spend time thinking about
torturing people to death."
Jay chokes on a laugh. "God, your sense of humor is so *bad*, Daddy..."
Tim smiles ruefully. "It is, yes. I'm sorry --"
"No -- no. It's not your fault I tried to make you, you know, the Perfect
Fucking Instrument of Justice --"
"I want -- if I could be perfect for you -- all of you --"
"No, Daddy, no way."
"Jay --"
"You'd have to stop loving Grandma Incestpants. And -- maybe Kal, too?"
(<<My companion, I have a need which brings me shame.>>
<<Tim Drake, there is *no* shame -->>)
And Tim had raised an eyebrow --
And Superman had brought him to the Fortress in an instant --
And Clark had blushed --
And Kal had burned at him from behind wind-whipped hair.
(<<There is no shame but that which we decide to *keep*, Tim Drake.>>
<<That, perhaps, *you* decide...?>>
<<If you will.>>
<<Will you -->>
<<Always, my companion. *Speak*.>>)
And Kal had been wearing only the black bodysuit which had come to mean the
comfort of heat, of power and undeniable *force* --
Tim had walked into his arms and began speaking about the most beautiful boy in
the world. More beautiful than Bruce in the middle of a spar, more beautiful
than Harvey in the middle of a *laugh*.
The boy was *thirteen*, and while Tim had long since forgiven himself -- and
Bruce -- for the love they had been sharing with the sixteen-year-old Barbara
for the better part of a year by then --
While Tim had already *taught* himself about coltish legs and high-pitched
cries --
Thirteen was different.
(<<Is it...?>>
<<*Kal* -->>
<<In my experience, my companion, individuals are just that. You've told me of
his beauty, his brilliance, his physicality, his warmth... now tell me of his
*youth*.>>
<<He is *thirteen*!>>
<<My companion... that is not what I asked.>>)
And Tim *had* continued to argue... but they had both known that the *flush* on
Tim's skin had answered every question -- and made every decision.
Just as Tim knows, now, that Dick would've been too young for Jay --
That Jay would've considered it to be at least a *small* obscenity --
"You thinking about Chester?"
Tim laughs and -- doesn't pinch the bridge of his nose. He meets Jay's gaze
again. "Yes."
"You -- you *wouldn't* give up on loving him, would you?"
"If he changed in some fundamental --"
"No, man, the way he is *now*. Freaky identity-changing kidfucker who goes
along with all of *your* plans and does what *you* say and probably already
knew all the *dark* fucking shit in your head, because he fucking taught you
*ancient* Kryptonian when too many people got to know the regular kind."
Tim smiles wryly. "You're answering your own question."
"See -- but are you... no, all right, I don't know what I'm saying. I don't --
" Jay frowns --
Dog barks quietly --
Jay grips Dog's scruff and tugs it back and forth. It seems to calm them *both*
-- "Okay, no, I know what I mean. You loved a woman who was, like, three times
your age and barely knew you from a hole in the ground. Later -- much later? -
- you loved your brothers. And, like, *no* one else. For pretty much your whole
fucking childhood, yeah?"
Tim feels himself tense -- he relaxes himself immediately. "A part of me has a
great deal of reflexive denial to offer here. It -- Harv was there even before
Bruce --"
"No, I know, I... it was still kind of a while, yeah? Because Harv wasn't there
until you were at *least* -- nine, right?"
Tim knows his smile is -- weak. "Yes. But --"
Jay smiles at him ruefully. "I hear you. I do. You don't want to really deal
with -- I mean, no one *would*. But it's still *not your fault that there
weren't any fucking lovable people around*."
Tim -- doesn't look away. "I enjoy loving people. I -- crave it."
Jay nods. "I'm pretty sure any-fucking-body *would* if they grew up like you,
Daddy. I just. I don't know."
"You would, perhaps, advise me that I don't have to love *everyone*?"
"*That*! Yeah! Right there. Because you can do better than Grandma
Incestpants."
Tim hums. "I'll take that under advisement, Jay," Tim says, and leans in to
kiss Jay's forehead before standing. "Let's go take an hour-long shower."
"And get off again? Because I can go for some of that," and Jay tackles Dog off
the bed --
Rolls around --
Gets *gently* bitten and *viciously* stomped on several times --
Dog barks -- Tim thinks that must be joy in his voice. And... hm.
"Jay..."
"One sec, Daddy," and Jay wrestles Dog onto his back and -- licks his nose.
Dog licks him back *thoroughly* --
Jay snickers and pats Dog's belly like a *drum* -- and then he stands up. They
shake themselves together.
"He's your familiar."
"What? No! He's just my friend. Right, Dog?"
Dog barks... noncommittally.
Tim was *reasonably* sure that wasn't *possible* --
And the expression on Jay's face suggests that he was, too.
Tim nods to himself. "You'll take him with you when you go to see Blood."
"Aw, man, no! He'll probably *hit* on him or something!"
Tim turns and walks to the bathroom. "He's a big dog, Jay. He can take care of
himself."
"Fine, but if Blood drops a litter of little flaming puppies, I am *not* taking
care of them."
*
***** May 1979: Tim, Bruce, And Harvey In The Manor *****
Tim wakes up to a strange, repetitive, but *not* rhythmic scratching sound --
And then *jerks* awake, because the bed is wrong, the smell is wrong, the --
"Oh... hm. I don't suppose I could convince you to lie back down?"
Bruce is in his bedroom --
Only. It's not his bedroom. It's the bedroom which had, according to Bruce
himself, last been used by Thomas Wayne's grand-uncle Bertram.
It's right next door to Harvey's --
Which is only used, Tim now knows, in the hours just after *dawn* --
For the sake of *appearances* --
"Or... are you all right? There's tea, coffee, and orange juice --"
"Bruce," Tim says, and then tries to figure out the words which come after
that.
Tries -- very hard.
Very --
He turns toward the area of the room where Bruce's voice had come from -- and
finds Bruce sitting in the blue-upholstered fauteuil which *had* been near the
corner, but has now been pulled into the light from the window. Bruce is
holding a sketchbook. Bruce is also smiling at him.
Tim narrows his eyes.
Bruce blinks and *frowns* --
And Tim remembers -- several varieties of everything. He -- "I... have never
wanted to shake myself like a wet dog before."
"I believe that was the sort of non sequitur Harv tends to smack me for, Tim."
("Yeah? You like that, little guy? You want harder?")
Tim blushes. "Ah -- yes. Well. Yes." Tim looks down at the thin coverlet in the
hopes that it will provide something like --
Inspiration?
Intellect?
A *chance*? "I'm sorry," he says, at the same time Bruce says:
"I shouldn't have woken you --"
"It's all right --"
"Is it?"
Tim blushes harder --
*Glares* at the coverlet --
"I'll leave you," Bruce says, and stands, and a part of Tim is satisfied.
*Happy*.
Bruce should be as uncomfortable as he is --
Bruce should --
Shouldn't --
Tim *growls* --
Bruce walks *faster* --
"*Wait*," Tim says, and pushes the sheets back, *dealing* with the fact that
he's wearing nothing but one of Harvey's long-outgrown pairs of briefs and a t-
shirt --
They hadn't *planned* a sleepover --
Who *has* sleepovers with their unacknowledged bastard brothers --
But Bruce is standing in the doorway, gripping the jamb in one hand and his
sketchbook in the other and -- glaring at the floor.
Tim laughs painfully --
Bruce blinks and *starts* to turn --
Tim can be -- better than this. Tim can --
Last night had proven a lot of things, and changed even *more*. Right?
Right. Tim nods to himself. "I'm sorry. I'm not -- at my best."
Bruce still doesn't quite turn to look at him. "I need not -- you need not...
deal with me --"
"We. We made a start. Last night." Right?
But it stops being a question when Bruce *does* finish turning, because his
eyes are wide and full of hope and want and apology and --
So many other *things* --
Tim swallows and nods because he *has* to, he has to, because --
He's always wanted --
Tim can't quite bring himself to *pat* the bed next to him, but he can... rub
it a little. In circles. Repeatedly.
Does it look like he's trying to scrub off a semen stain? *What*?
He can just *pat* the stupid bed, because it's not like it would send a *more*
welcoming message, and it's not like he *doesn't* want to send a welcoming
message, and --
"Brother..."
Tim tenses -- and stops rubbing. And looks up --
And up -- damn it -- Bruce is standing next to the bed and looking down into
his eyes and --
"Do you really feel *that* much hope?"
"Yes," Bruce says, and it's so -- so *flat*. So *unassailable* --
Tim frowns --
Bruce steps *back* --
"No! No. Don't -- sometimes -- all the time -- I frown a lot."
"Yes?"
"Yes. I. My mother -- she's always telling me to... not," Tim finishes lamely,
and -- he doesn't look down.
So he gets to see Bruce *very* clearly struggling with *all of his might* to
think of something fair and reasonable and kind to say about Tim's mother.
The Homewrecker.
Tim feels something very strange almost *tickling* his throat, and he has no
idea what it *is* --
Until he coughs his way into a semi-hysterical laughing fit.
Oh, dear.
He really needs to stop this.
*Now* --
Bruce is patting his *back* --
And smiling *encouragingly* --
Like Tim is *four* --
Which makes all the sex really *problematic* --
("Would you mind if I... if I could *sketch* you wearing... certain things...")
Tim coughs his way to a *stop*. Was *that* what...? He licks his lips and looks
up --
And Bruce strokes Tim's *cheeks*, studying him closely and seemingly focused on
--
Not something else. Not *someone* else, either. Bruce is focused, in this
moment -- Tim would *gamble* on this -- on the Tim who is already far more
aroused than amused.
"Bruce."
Bruce blinks -- and smiles ruefully. "I'm sorry. There is a very large part of
my mind which has tasked itself solely with berating the rest for not noticing
your loveliness."
Loveliness. Not handsomeness. Not attractiveness. Not even *beauty* -- "How..."
He doesn't want to ask. He doesn't want to ask. He --
"Yes?"
"How *much* do you want to see me in women's clothing and makeup, Bruce?"
Bruce's eyes are full with... something entirely heated.
And inspiring.
And *terrifying*, *considering* --
"Bruce."
"Yes."
"I'm -- I'm definitely not female."
"No. I -- I don't want you to be."
Tim narrows his eyes.
"I don't," Bruce says, and he sounds solemn, and reasonable, and *sure* --
Tim narrows his eyes *more* --
Bruce laughs softly -- *calmly*, *somehow* -- and gestures to the space on the
bed Tim was rubbing.
Tim nods --
And Bruce sits, and immediately turns to face Tim, cupping his chin and lifting
it *slightly*. "I cannot help but notice your cheekbones, which are as dramatic
as a fashion model's despite your youth. Additionally, while your lower lip is
relatively thin, your upper lip has a very sensual pout to it. Your eyelashes -
- and I do not understand why women are supposed to have the longer, thicker
eyelashes, when it's a function of testosterone levels --"
"I *know* that --"
"Good," Bruce says, and smiles in *cheerful* approval. "Your eyelashes aren't
especially well-curved, but they *are* lengthy and thick, and your eyes are
wide and well-spaced. You have a sort of *natural* androgyny --"
Tim growls --
"And that is exceedingly arousing. Have you given any thought to undercover
work?"
What. Tim blinks. "I -- in the future, you mean?"
A solemn nod. "I imagine it would be an exceedingly useful way to acquire
otherwise inaccessible information, and I've been terribly frustrated by the
fact that I seem to be growing even larger and more... conspicuous."
"Whereas I... will almost surely not."
Another nod.
Tim sighs. "It would, in fact, be something of a *coup* if we had operatives
who could disguise themselves as males *or* females --"
"More operatives than the two of *us*, Tim? Harv truly doesn't wish to --"
"I'm not -- speaking about Harv," Tim says, and blushes again. He hadn't really
meant to bring this *up* --
Not *yet* --
"Maybe -- I should have that coffee --"
Bruce stands up immediately, and wheels a tray close to the bed. "Alfred wasn't
sure what you would like, so he provided a selection..." And Bruce shakes his
head once and sets a delicate, beautiful, and obviously *old* china cup on a
saucer before pouring coffee for Tim. The sort of heirloom his mother would
like to have the family *history* for. "How do you take it? I usually prefer
tea in the mornings, but Alfred's coffee is quite delicious."
("I like my coffee black... like my clothes.")
And Dinah's laugh had been low and throaty for the man on the other end of her
telephone conversation --
And she had winked at Tim again as she rang up his order for yellow roses --
And Tim hadn't been able to come up with a single excuse to stay. He --
Bruce is staring at him curiously and *patiently* --
"Ah -- I'm sorry. I take it black with two sugars. I can do it myself --"
"Please, allow me," Bruce says, and smiles into Tim's eyes --
And Tim thinks he could *kick* Harvey for every single piece of advice he'd
ever given Bruce about how to maximize his fundamental attractiveness. It's
abundantly clear that he *knows* how devastating that look is --
But Bruce frowns -- and Tim realizes that he's glaring again. Wonderful --
"Tim... I truly don't have to stay --"
"I want you to," Tim blurts --
And the wry smile is even more devastating. Perhaps Tim should be grateful to
be 'lovely'. His *brothers* are beautiful and *impossibly* sexy without any
effort expended whatsoever --
And he can stop glaring *any* time now. Tim takes a deep breath, then exhales
slowly.
He repeats the process --
Again --
And then he reaches for his coffee, which, judging by the scent, will make
every cup he brews for himself from now on taste like half-charred swill.
The taste confirms it, but in a way that makes Tim relax despite himself.
Perhaps Alfred Pennyworth is not above drugging the underaged children of
homewreckers --
He's not going to get hysterical again. He's *not* --
"I much prefer that expression on your face," Bruce says, and raises an
eyebrow. Devastatingly. "Though I confess that I can't help wondering if I put
it there in some painfully embarrassing way."
Well... Tim waves a hand, and spares himself from needing to speak by taking a
long, deep sip. Really more of a *drink* --
His mother would have something to say about his manners --
And, last night, Harvey had spun open his thermos of hot cocoa with a flourish
and drank with relish, humming as he did.
("He's so beautiful.")
And Bruce had been smiling at him, *inviting* him --
And Tim hadn't been able to do much more than blush and nod --
And the three of them had --
It had almost seemed as though they were *gravitating* toward each other, as if
Bruce's bed was magnetized and they were filled with iron filings. Harvey had
been stressed and *desperate* about something they hadn't *discussed* --
The strange, simple knife currently on Bruce's dresser almost certainly has
something to do with *that* --
But last night...
Tim shakes his head and sets his cup down neatly. "It was easier last night,"
he says, and smiles ruefully at Bruce.
Bruce nods solemnly again. "With Harvey."
"I -- yes. But before then, too. When we were just... speaking together."
Bruce breathes a sigh of --
"Are you -- relieved?"
Bruce offers his own rueful smile. "Before Harvey, no one but Mother and Jason
ever seemed to find it easy -- or even tolerable -- to spend much time alone
with me."
Tim blinks, but --
("He isn't perfect in *every* way, of course. By all reports, he's utterly
hapless -- or perhaps I mean helpless -- in any social situation requiring more
inspiration than cocktail party politesse...")
And his mother had frowned *lightly* -- never enough to encourage wrinkles to
form -- and looked him over.
("It *would* be just our luck that *that* is what you'd have in common with the
boy. *Work* on it.")
Yes, Mother --
Bruce hums. "I have another confession to make," he says, and pours himself -
- perfectly-brewed Lady Grey, judging by the scent.
And really -- "Let me guess: You were sketching me into lingerie."
Bruce *blinks*. "It was really more of a... hm. I think, perhaps, that the
style is too aggressive for me to consider it 'lingerie.'"
*Tim* blinks. And stares.
"But that was not my confession," Bruce says, and reaches across the tray to
cover Tim's hand. "Tim... I want to spend as much time with you as possible. I
want -- more than simply training. More, even, that whatever sexual and
romantic interludes you allow --"
"Brotherhood."
"Yes. I want... I *thought* you enjoyed being alone with me last night, but
it's such a rare thing..." Bruce shakes his head. "I'm... somewhat hopeless
socially, when it comes to people I find even the least bit interesting, or
attractive... I will not believe you if you tell me you hadn't noticed that."
My *mother* did -- but. "I -- I did, yes."
Bruce nods again, and stares into Tim's eyes. "I've learned much from Harv. I
would learn still more from you."
"Bruce... I have no friends. At all."
Bruce raises an eyebrow again. "I also will not believe you if you tell me that
*much* of that isn't due to *choice*, Tim."
Tim... picks up his coffee and drinks, looking at the rumpled coverlet.
"You give me your cheek so often. It feels... like a tease of invitation.
Mother's rouge has a taste of powdery sweetness that blends well with that of
her skin --"
Tim chokes on his coffee --
"Oh -- are you all right?"
He manages not to make a mess. And then he stares at Bruce. Just -- stares.
Bruce stares back.
This could last indefinitely, and *yet* -- no, he isn't going to ask that
question. Yet. "How much time have you spent alone with Jason Blood?"
Bruce blinks -- and then looks thoughtful. "Mother was always there, except for
when Jason was teaching me about sexuality. I would say... a few hours a night,
every night, for about a month."
Tim stares.
Bruce stares back *curiously* --
Tim holds up a finger --
Bruce nods and leans back slightly --
And Tim finishes his coffee. It does not get any less perfect while Tim
pictures Jason Blood blowing chartreuse all over Bruce's bedroom and --
And *what*?
He *can* ask, and that's what brothers are *supposed* to do --
Wonderful. He's blushing.
And thinking of Bruce kissing Martha Wayne's cheek -- slipping his tongue out
to taste? *Really*? Who *does* that?
"Tim..."
"Ah. Yes?" And Tim looks up --
Berates himself for glaring at the tray and not even realizing that he was
*doing* it --
He focuses on Bruce. And raises an eyebrow.
And Bruce laughs quietly. "I may be socially inept, but I *know* I've said at
least one terribly strange thing in the past few minutes... tell me? Or... ask?
Or..." Bruce frowns. "Perhaps it's one of those things Harv wouldn't *want* to
know more about?"
Tim stares at Bruce -- no. No, he's not going to start that again. He's going
to -- wait. "There are... questions Harv doesn't ask you?"
Bruce smiles ruefully. "Yes. Often about Mother. I believe he feels my
relationship with her is... too much. In some ways."
You don't say. But -- he can do this in something resembling the right way. He
shifts until he's on his knees, and then sits on his heels with his hands on
his thighs --
And he watches Bruce taking in his body, his posture, his musculature -- almost
certainly countless other things. And then he nods and looks at Tim
expectantly.
"Why don't you feel that way? Do you think."
Bruce smiles ruefully again. "I would've had no companionship, at all, for the
first fourteen years of my life without her. And Jason, of course."
And Tim wants to *protest* that --
It feels as though there should be something there *to* protest --
("Oh, *honestly*, Tim! Thomas is going to *be* here in less than an *hour* and
he has *no* patience for excessive displays of emotion. We've *discussed*
this.")
What *had* he been crying about -- no, there isn't any real question there.
Even when he was only ten years old, Bruce had had more than enough presence to
pull *off* a genteelly disgusted sneer.
And, at five, Tim had been more than old enough to feel the effects of one
aimed just over his right shoulder.
Perhaps he should be protesting that. Perhaps he should be --
Just --
"Tim --"
Tim throws up a hand and -- takes a deep breath. And another. When he looks up
again, Bruce's expression is worried and sorrowful and *deep*, somehow *deep* -
-
"I'm hurting you solely by being *near* --"
"Bruce --"
"Please, Tim, tell me how I may make *amends* --"
"It's not -- that simple --"
"I was a *fool*. I -- I continue to *be* a fool, and I -- I'm so afraid I will
make more mistakes, *worse* mistakes --"
"Stop."
"Tim, I --"
"*Stop*," Tim says, and grips his own thighs to keep from clawing at them, or -
- anything else. "Please."
Bruce searches him and nods --
Tim nods back and takes another breath. "It was easier last night."
Bruce swallows and nods again. "I -- I will do anything. Please."
"I -- I don't think --" Tim shakes his head. "I was in *shock* last night,
Bruce. I had just lost my virginity -- all right, I'm still a little in shock
about that --"
"We can make love whenever you wish --"
"*No* --"
"*Yes*, Tim --"
"*Bruce* -- I." Tim frowns and shakes his head.
"You -- you're not aroused. You don't wish to *be* aroused?"
Tim smiles ruefully. "There's that. There's also -- I don't think I want to...
ah... have sex every time I don't want to think about something."
Bruce nods thoughtfully. "It would... cheapen the acts. Pervert them."
"Well... yes? Yes."
Another nod. "Are there... other things? I... I know I should not want to shock
you --"
Tim laughs. "You could do that -- easily. Probably just by showing me your
sketchbook -- that's all right! I... am reasonably sure I'm not awake enough
for that. Yet."
Bruce sets the sketchbook back down. "You may -- all of my sketches are yours.
Or... you might not be interested --"
"You -- I... have technical sketches. For my... I've been designing... ah.
Electronics. I mean -- I don't really have much in the way of... art."
Bruce studies him excitedly. "I know little of such things, but many scientists
suggest that computing -- electronics in general -- is the wave of the
future... what do you think?"
Tim offers his own wry smile. "I think my computer made me tear out a
significant amount of hair while I was in the process of building it. I think
that the materials and *possibilities* we have now are woefully limited. I
think... I think that people will be saying similar things even when computers
are capable of doing things -- quickly, easily, and cheaply -- that would stun
us breathless now."
"So you *would* invest?"
"In a heartbeat. I... have been trying to steer my... parents in that
direction."
Bruce narrows his eyes -- almost certainly for the hesitation --
Tim raises his hand --
And Bruce inclines his head. "Would you consider discussing the matter with our
father?"
That... "Would you tell me..."
"Anything," Bruce says, and smiles so *warmly* --
Tim blushes. "Ah. I was just -- You refer to your mother -- all the time -- as
'Mother,' whereas --"
"I impose more distance with our father?" And Bruce raises an eyebrow.
*That* -- Tim laughs quietly. "I suppose you did answer that question last
night." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry --"
"No. Please. I want all of your questions. I. I feel as though I stole you from
myself."
Tim closes his eyes for a *moment* -- "You did."
Bruce makes a small, *hurt* sound -- "I'm so --"
"She -- your mother allows you... emotion? Freely?"
"Yes...? Is that... strange?"
The panic for that --
He hadn't meant to ask such an *obvious* question --
"Oh -- I'm sorry. I don't mean --"
"It's all right!"
"You need not answer --"
"I -- I *asked* --"
"It's important to me -- you must feel *comfortable* here, Tim --"
Tim laughs *painfully* --
And Bruce -- winces. "I. I suppose that is... a lot to ask," he says, and hangs
his *head*.
Like -- like --
He can't possibly be --
("He's *helpless*.")
*Yes*, Mother, but there isn't --
You don't always have to *abuse* that --
*He* doesn't always --
He wants to be a *hero* -- and he can start *right* now. Can't he?
Tim takes another deep breath and adjusts his posture -- no. No, not that. He
kneels up and shuffles closer to Bruce, ignoring -- as best as he can -- the
heat of him --
He's only wearing a *robe* -- or.
Tim doesn't know what he's wearing under the robe. He *isn't* wearing a pajama
top, and his chest is hairy, and --
And he's *sad*, because of the things he's said and done. It's his own *fault*
that Tim's uncomfortable and angry and -- and *wounded* in several discrete
places within himself --
And it doesn't have to matter. At least -- Tim doesn't think it does. He rests
one hand on Bruce's shoulder --
He gives himself a moment to feel painfully, stupidly, *ludicrously* *small* --
And then he cups Bruce's face with his other hand. He --
Bruce turns to face him immediately, looking up the short distance into Tim's
eyes with an expression in his own which --
"A part of you wants me -- to say something hurtful."
Bruce nods once. "Or -- a look."
Tim nods. "I don't... I don't want to be like --" My mother. "That."
Bruce shivers. "You shame me."
"No --"
"Yes. I..." Bruce shakes his head. "I've told Harv countless times about my
loneliness when I was growing up --" Bruce laughs derisively. "When I was
growing *large*. 'Fool' isn't a strong enough --"
"We can't -- we can't move forward. If you're... berating yourself. All the
time."
Bruce frowns and searches him. "Does it ease nothing for you to know that I
know regret?"
"It -- it does. But I already *do* know. And -- I strongly suspect that you're
going to continue to find ways to let me know..." Tim smiles ruefully and
strokes Bruce's cheek. "We... we can try new things now." Right -- no. "Right?"
Bruce takes a deep breath and shudders -- nods. "Anything. Perhaps we could
breakfast together? The three of us, I mean -- or. I don't know how long you'll
be able to stay," Bruce says, and the hope is back in his eyes, so --
So *large* --
And --
("Bruce. Wants you to sleep over. *Tonight*."
"Yes, Mother."
"What on earth -- no, you can fill me in on all the details later. I *trust*
that you already know what to do."
"Of course, Mother."
"Very well. I'll have what's-her-name bring you fresh clothes tomorrow morning.
Until then... remember *precisely* who you are.")
That... is *precisely* what he's going to do. Tim smiles a little more widely.
"I have time. I don't... well. It's Sunday. I don't have anywhere to be."
"We could have the day? I mean -- of course, I wouldn't pressure --"
"Were you --" Tim licks his lips and strokes Bruce's cheek again. "You shaved."
"Yes. I wanted... I was thinking about nuzzling you as I lay in my bed."
"Oh... oh."
Bruce flares his nostrils -- and turns to kiss Tim's fingers lightly. *Dryly*.
"But you were going to ask something else?"
Was it something about your penis? It was probably something about your penis.
"Ah..."
"Or... we could discuss... what precisely *is* a computer?"
Tim blinks. And stares.
"Hm. I know it's a device which can be used for *computing*, but the human mind
is much faster, isn't it? And surely... well, some of the articles I've perused
-- and stories I've read -- posit devices which can perform thousands of
equations at once. How would it be possible to create such a thing? Wouldn't it
require massive amounts of space and materiel?"
Tim licks his lips --
"Your mouth --"
"I was going to ask you -- what. What about my mouth?"
Bruce exhales slowly. "It isn't -- I had thought the swelling would go down...
more."
"Oh." Tim doesn't lick his lips again. He -- "Is it... obvious?"
"To me, yes. I'm not sure it would be to others. You might have simply been
eating... very sour or spicy foods. Do you like --"
"Yes. Many -- ah. Were you... awkward? With Harv?"
Bruce *stares* at Tim's mouth. "I would like to touch you."
Tim -- grunts. There *was* some question about whether he would get hard -- no
there wasn't. Tim laughs and shakes his head --
*Thinks* about it --
"Ah -- that wasn't no."
Bruce meets his gaze again. "When you had your mouth on me, every moment was an
ache. A need to *give* my control to you. And yes."
Tim blinks. Tries -- "'Yes'?"
Bruce stares at Tim's *throat* -- "I was very awkward with Harv. I didn't know
what to --" Bruce shakes his head and frowns. "If it had simply been a matter
of not knowing what to say, I could have *asked* him. I didn't know -- for
weeks -- what I was *feeling*. Save that it was wonderful, and more intense
than anything I had ever known. May I bite your throat."
"Oh -- that wasn't a question."
"It was meant to be. It... I sometimes... lose my questions when I'm very
aroused. Jason must have thought that I was ordering him around when he was
teaching --"
"*How* did he teach you? Ah. Ah. You don't have to tell --"
"But do you want to know."
Tim grunts again --
Leans in *gracelessly* -- but Bruce is there to cup Tim's face in his huge,
perfect hands, to pull him in the rest of the way and position him perfectly
for a kiss --
A kiss that makes Tim *feel* young, as young as he had felt when Harvey was
opening his *pants* --
Or -- maybe younger. Maybe --
Bruce seems *inhumanly* large like this, like --
It would barely take a *moment* for Tim to be on his *lap* --
Would he like that? Would he --
Would he enjoy it in some *disturbing* way? How to even *define* that?
*Laughing* into the kiss makes him feel even younger, distract-able and shallow
--
Until Bruce groans and *moves* Tim onto his lap, moves Tim into a straddle of
his thighs and pushes his tongue deep --
So *deep* --
Tim hears himself making a *strangled* noise, but this is -- good. This is --
Bruce has his hands on Tim's *hips*, and it's *abundantly* obvious that he
could move Tim in any way he *wanted* to --
Move Tim again and *again* -- or maybe just *closer*, because Bruce is hard
under his robe --
So big and *hard* --
Bruce moans into the kiss and pulls *back* --
Tim *whimpers* --
And Bruce bites Tim's *upper* lip -- gently. And pulls back again. And -
- pants. Not rapidly. Not -- it's a somehow *slow* pant, one which speaks of
control which could be pulled on --
Or --
Tim isn't sure. Tim is busy licking his lips and trying to convince himself not
to *grind* --
For -- some reason. He should really think about that. Or at least consider
*not* staring deeply into Bruce's eyes like this --
Bruce nods slowly, as if Tim has answered a question, or *asked* one or --
Tim is nodding, *too* --
"I want you."
"I -- oh." Tim laughs somewhat breathlessly. "I think I knew that."
Bruce smiles, but it's shaky on his face, *difficult* --
"Bruce?"
"You... you were uncomfortable... very recently."
Tim -- licks his lips again. "Yes, but... ah."
"Perhaps... you could tell me what you would like. What I can have."
*Everything* -- no.
Everything right *now* -- *no*.
Everything -- Tim growls and covers his face with his hands --
Bruce *moves* *his* hands --
"No! Don't -- ah. Please?" Tim drops his hands -- no. He puts his hands on
Bruce's shoulders and -- he's not a child. He can't --
He'd *told* Bruce, and Harvey was right there, and --
He's not a child. He licks his lips *again*, and he *breathes* -- "I like. I
like feeling your hands. On me. My hips."
Bruce inhales sharply -- and puts his hands back. "Like this."
No *questions* --"I. You could... squeeze."
And Bruce squeezes gently -- no. Bruce is increasing the firmness of his
squeeze slowly and steadily --
So much *control* --
Tim *moans* --
"This level of firmness."
Fuck -- "More. More. Please."
Bruce pants twice and keeps increasing the firmness --
Tim can't keep himself from *twisting*, but -- "Don't stop --"
Bruce nods *once* -- and the grip is painful now, *frightening* --
The strain in Bruce's forearms is so *impressive* --
Tim moans and strokes Bruce there, squeezes and massages because he *has* to --
"Tim..."
"You..." Tim laughs breathlessly again. "You feel... very good."
"You enjoy pain."
"Ah. Ah. I've only... I haven't really experimented... thoroughly..."
"No?"
Oh, good, a question. How novel -- "Ah. No? Not -- I like it. I want -- I
enjoyed it -- that. Brief spanking. Last night."
"Harv was very aroused. He was... I could smell his *sweat*."
Tim *groans*, but -- "So could I. Is he. Is he sleeping --"
"Alfred drugged his tea this morning."
Tim blinks. And -- blinks. And -- "I... can't seem to make that sentence -
- what?"
Bruce *flexes* his hands on Tim's hips --
"*Nnh* -- oh -- Bruce --"
"I'm not certain how Alfred knew this, but Harv slept badly after you left us -
-"
"Oh, that's -- no, go on. Please?"
"Alfred occasionally provides sedatives when we sleep poorly. I believe he felt
Harv needed more rest today."
"Well. That. Ah." Tim... tries to think about it. He tries --
He realizes -- quickly, he thinks, to his credit -- that he's trying to think
around his own penis. He stops. "Do you think Harv will be all right?"
Bruce nods once, and the light in his eyes is a smile which isn't -- quite -
- making it to his mouth. "Always. He is one of the strongest people I've ever
known."
Tim -- breathes and --
There's an *ache* in him, a part of him which only wants what Bruce and Harvey
have, wants to touch it and *taste* it --
And then he's blushing *and* flushing, because -- he can. He --
"If... if you only wish to make love when Harv is present --"
Tim presses his right thumb to Bruce's mouth -- and then can only stare at the
way the pressure is forcing his relatively thin lips out of true. "I. I was
going to say something."
Bruce stares at him *hotly* --
Tim moans and -- bucking gets him absolutely *nowhere* because Bruce is still
holding him *still* -- "I want everything. That's. That's what I was going to
say before. Ah."
Bruce closes his eyes for a moment, draws back -- and then licks Tim's thumb
from the wrist to the tip.
And then does it again.
And again --
"Oh -- God. Bruce --"
Bruce bites the *heel* of Tim's hand -- and looks at Tim from over Tim's
spasming fingers.
"Nnh -- you. What would *you* like?"
Bruce bites Tim's hand *harder* --
"*Oh* --"
-- and then he pulls back and licks his lips. "I find I'm not sure."
"... oh. Ah. We can -- I mean. I don't know --" What kinds of things did Jason
*fucking* Blood *teach* you for hours every night for a *month*? He can say
that. He *can*. He probably *should* --
"Tim --"
"Yes? I mean -- yes?"
Bruce licks *his* lips. "Your skin is very soft. Very. Do you bruise easily."
There is no part of Tim which can view that *lack* of a question as a non
sequitur. "Ah... yes. To a certain extent. In some places."
"Do you think. Harvey was spanking you very firmly."
"I --"
("Oh, yeah, *yeah*, little guy, I *love* it when you make noise like that for
me, for *us* --")
Tim blushes again. "It. It felt very good --"
Bruce narrows his eyes -- and *slowly* slides his hands around to Tim's
buttocks. And squeezes *hard* --
"*Oh* --"
"Does it hurt."
"No -- no --"
"Would you like it to."
"Oh, *fuck*, Bruce --"
"I vastly enjoy hearing you curse. Please -- answer my question," Bruce says,
and now his eyes are *hungry* and full --
He looks -- "You look at Harv that way -- I -- I can't --"
"Please. I will. I can control myself --"
"I don't want you to --"
And Bruce's growl is low and heavy and -- enough to make something in Tim's
abdomen turn over, enough to make him moan and *grip* at the sheets --
Because Bruce had just *put* him on them. On his hands and *knees*. He -
- "Bruce --"
"Tell me. Tell me I may have you naked --"
"Yes -- *hnh* --" And then he's on his *stomach* and Bruce's robe is fluttering
to the coverlet beside him, and Bruce is *yanking* Harvey's briefs off of him -
-
It's a good thing they were *loose* --
"Bruce --"
"You're bruised."
"Oh. Am I -- where --"
"Here," Bruce says, and presses on a spot low on his right buttock --
"*Mm* -- oh -- Harv. Harv's fingers --"
"So strong. So beautiful. Do you want them inside you."
"*Yes* --"
"Do you want *mine* --"
"*Yes* --"
Bruce growls again and shoves Tim's t-shirt up to his armpits before licking up
Tim's *spine* --
"Oh -- "
Biting his way *down* --
"*Bruce* --"
"Anything. I -- I *enjoy* providing pain when it's desired --"
"That's good! Ah -- *fuck* --"
And Bruce *holds* the bite over Tim's bruise --
Growls and bites *harder* --
And then pulls back and pants. "I thought, for a long time, that I would never
do such a thing. That I would never *hurt* a lover --"
"It's all right! It's absolutely all right --"
"I know," Bruce says, and spreads Tim's *ass* --
"Oh --"
"Jason explained everything," and Bruce licks *wetly* --
"*Hnh* --"
"He... answered every question," and Bruce stabs *in* with his tongue --
"*Bruce* --"
"I want to make love to you with my mouth *daily* -- but I was going to give
you more pain," Bruce says, and scrapes his *teeth* along Tim's *perineum* --
Tim *shouts* --
"Oh, Tim. You... the swelling here is..." Bruce takes a *shaky* breath. "Jason
told me of people who *pierce* themselves here."
"What -- *what*?"
"Other cultures. Other --" Bruce *sucks* the sensitive skin there, and Tim
doesn't know what to *do* with the sensation, how to feel other than in *need*
--
But then Bruce begins to bite again, a bite after *every* suck, and it makes
his scrotum feel both tight and neglected --
It makes his hole feel --
Vulnerable --
"Bruce..."
Another *lick*, all the way from Tim's scrotum *to* his hole -- but Bruce
doesn't push in, this time. He *teases* --
"*Bruce* -- oh, Bruce --"
He sucks *there* --
"God -- *what* --"
Bruce pulls back and breathes *hot* on Tim's hole. "Jason told me about life in
other *dimensions*, about life in the *future* -- perhaps I should have asked
him about computers..."
Tim *gasps* a laugh and looks back over his shoulder --
And Bruce is smiling ruefully. "I couldn't *stop* thinking about sex and
sexuality, Tim. I wanted *him* to touch me, to make love to me even though he
was Mother's lover..."
"Did... did he... ever?"
"No. And when I made a -- desperately clumsy -- attempt to seduce him using all
of the words he'd taught me over the month before, he made me very sleepy,
kissed my forehead, and promised me that I would have love soon enough. Love
that would not hurt me."
Tim... frowns. Or tries to. It's very difficult to *think* at the moment --
"It seems strange to you."
"Yes. Yes, it *does*."
Bruce hums, low and amused --
And then the bites begin again, hard and somehow *heavy* things all over Tim's
ass and thighs -- and *between* after Bruce summarily *spreads* them.
Tim moans for them, content to go without an answer, *almost* content to forget
his question --
He *hates* that --
But Bruce's mouth is so hot, and Bruce lips are soft, somehow *soft* -- or is
it just that his teeth are so hard? So *slick*, and his breath is *cool* when
he inhales --
When Tim shivers and arches --
When Bruce grips Tim's hips and *shoves* him back down --
"*Bruce*!"
"I am not unaware of his reputation, or of the things he does to earn it -
- including the fact that he has been carrying on a deeply sexual affair with
Mother in, among other places, my father's house, for nearly twenty *years*.
But he has been gentle, and he has been caring, and he has answered questions
even Mother turned away from me for, and he has given Mother happiness when..."
And Bruce sighs quietly --
Painfully --
"There have been times, Tim, when I've thought that nothing at all could give
Mother happiness."
"Oh... oh, I see -- and. Blood -- Jason was there."
"Every time he could be, for as long as he could be. He is not my father, but
there are times when I have wished he could be. I would like to take you with
my penis, brother."
"I -- *mn* -- all right..."
Bruce *grips* Tim's buttocks again --
Squeezes hard over all of the *bites* --
"The pain... the pain can be very intense, brother..."
Tim closes his eyes and -- licks his lips. Again. "I know."
And Bruce's hands *shake* on Tim's buttocks --
Bruce groans and spreads Tim again, *pants* against Tim's hole and groans
*again* --
And the kiss makes Tim tense *hard* -- but only for a moment before he's
whimpering and -- God, *melting*, and isn't this the best possible response? He
*wants* Bruce inside him -- as much as is *possible* -- and he has to relax,
has to give *in* --
("You *know* what to do.")
*Yes*, Mother, I do, but I really don't think *you* -- do --
You never --
Tim whimpers again and feels himself sweating, *itching* with sweat -- no,
that's just the desire -- the *need* -- to grind against the sheets --
To hump and *writhe* --
Every time Bruce makes a sound, it *vibrates* Tim's *anus* --
That --
Tim cries *out* --
*Yanks* at the sheets --
And perhaps there should be resistance, something -- something his mother could
understand and *approve* of. Perhaps there should be some moment of hesitation
--
No, resistance is the right word, *fight* against this pleasure that's turning
him liquid, making him *shameless* --
Are you shameless for Thomas Wayne, Mother?
Were you from the very beginning?
Did you tell yourself you were only doing it for what he could do for *you*?
That seems like precisely the sort of lie his mother would tell herself -- it's
expedient and flattering in *practical* ways, and --
And Bruce is *fucking* Tim with his tongue, *moving* --
No, Tim is the one moving, straining to push up onto his knees again --
Bruce shoves him *down* --
And crying out feels so good --
And moving in *only* the ways Bruce is allowing feels so good --
And flushing-clawing-*humping* feels --
("You have to *take* what you want from this world, Tim. *No* one will give it
to you.")
As you say, Mother, and Tim can't help laughing --
Bruce's *surprised* hum makes Tim choke and *whine*, shudder and *whine* --
And then Bruce is pulling back --
"*Please*!"
"Oh... would you like to have an orgasm from my tongue."
Tim *grunts* --
Bruce spreads him again --
"*Wait* --"
"I don't want to."
Tim groans and licks his lips --
He can't keep himself from lifting his hips for Bruce, pushing himself more
into Bruce's *hands* --
"Oh -- so lovely -- tell me what you want."
*More* -- but Bruce would just -- "just" -- *rim* him more --
("I gotta tell you, big guy -- I never *guessed* that I'd grow a kink for you
teaching Tim sex slang? But I *absolutely* have. Keep it up.")
And Bruce had blushed --
And *Tim* had blushed --
("It's only -- "
"Nah, nah, *teaching* now. 'Only' later.")
And Harvey had grinned and waggled his eyebrows --
Stroked a line down Tim's sweaty spine with two fingers --
They'd all still been *panting* --
They'd all been on Bruce's *bed*, and somehow --
Somehow, that can happen *again*, and again --
Tim could've *stayed* last night if he'd wanted --
He --
"Tim. Please."
"I -- I wanted to stay last night," Tim blurts, blushing and hanging his head -
-
Bruce inhales sharply -- "I don't understand."
"I didn't feel like I could. I didn't want to -- interfere. I was afraid. I was
-- I was afraid --"
"Of... overstaying your welcome."
Tim blushes *harder* --
Claws at the *sheets* --
"*Brother*..."
Tim *pants* -- "God, Bruce, I -- you have to *understand* --"
"I *do*. I don't *want* to -- but I will keep this knowledge, Tim. And I will
*use* it."
"Use --" *How* -- except that Tim can't ask *any* questions -- or make any
noises other than *shouts* -- because Bruce is biting the back of his *neck* --
Bruce is growling and *holding* the back of Tim's neck between his teeth --
"Bruce -- *Bruce* --"
A *deeper* growl makes Tim twitch, *leak* -- and Tim knows what Bruce isn't
saying, knows --
Bruce will remember this.
Bruce will *look* at him -- *into* him -- every time Tim says he wants to be
alone, and then --
Tim groans and goes *limp* --
Bruce bites *harder* --
And *then* Tim remembers -- tenses -- "Don't -- don't bruise me there --"
Bruce *snarls* a growl and pulls back -- "I would keep you here --"
"I have to go to *school* tomorrow -- "
Bruce grips Tim's hips -- his hands are shaking. He's shaking *Tim* -- "Yes.
Yes, of course. I will remember."
It feels so good -- no. "I'm glad. I'm glad you forgot. For a moment -- *NNH* -
-" And he's being *gripped* again --
Held and *lifted* until his ass is in the air --
His *knees* are off the bed -- but only for a moment before Bruce sets him down
again, strokes him and massages --
Tim moans and scrubs his *face* against the sheets -- and *grunts* for the feel
of Bruce gripping his penis --
Squeezing it so --
Hard --
"Lovely. Lovely brother..."
And Tim catches himself nodding long after he can do something about it -- but
he can be lovely for Bruce, can't he?
For moments like *this*?
Bruce is *working* Tim's penis, and the only thing wrong -- "I'll come --"
A *shuddering* moan -- "You don't want to."
Tim licks his lips. "Not -- not yet -- *ohn* --"
"I enjoy... your penis feels wonderful in my hand, Tim..."
"Th-thank you --"
"I told..." Bruce's laugh is -- breathy, not breathless. "In the first week of
my education with him, I was convinced that I would never wish to make love to
anyone -- for all that I had grown hungry for touch. For *love*. I was also
positive that I would never commit a homosexual act," and Bruce starts
squeezing Tim's penis lightly, *gently* --
It feels -- "Please -- *please* --"
"A little -- a little while longer. Please."
Tim moans and shudders -- and nods. He -- "I want -- you can touch --" Tim
shudders more and *scrubs* his face against the sheets --
"Please tell me."
Tim groans again -- but. "It feels -- if you touch me the ways you want to --"
"Then you never need worry that I'm merely humoring you. Yes, I see. I am not a
sexual *altruist*, Tim --"
"It's not that I -- don't believe --" Tim groans and tries --
His vision is *blanking* --
And then he realizes that Bruce is squeezing harder again, that he's squeezing
hard with both the hand around Tim's penis and the hand on Tim's *hip* --
It --
"Hurts. *Hurts* --"
"Do -- no. You like it."
Tim nods *frantically* --
Tries to *see* --
He has to be able to *see* -- but he doesn't, all he has to do is feel this,
right? He --
("Just *feel*, little guy...")
Oh -- oh, Harv --
Tim cries out and -- brings his hand to his mouth, bites his fingers, sucks
them and moans, *needs* --
Bruce stops.
Bruce *stops* --
Tim whimpers and tries to push up on his other hand, to do more than shake, to
--
To *shove* his fingers *deep* into his mouth when Bruce pushes one finger --
Just one --
It's *slick* --
Where the hell was Bruce keeping *lubricant*?
What -- what was he *planning*? What kind of assumptions was he making --
The right ones, offers a voice in his mind that sounds too much like --
No, it doesn't have to sound like anyone. He doesn't --
Tim doesn't have to *listen* to anything in his mind, he can just enjoy this,
*take* this the way he already *is*, moan and *rock* --
*Clench* --
Bruce is panting -- and his other hand is shaking on Tim's hip every time he
loosens his grip *slightly*. Every --
It doesn't *have* to be a matter of assumptions --
It doesn't have to be *anything* but desire, mutual *lust* --
"Tim. I want. May I thrust."
And Tim grunts --
Spatters his own abdomen with pre-come --
And he can't even say that he's never been fucked, because there's Bruce's
*tongue* to be considered --
Tim's penis twitches *again* --
Bruce *moans* --
"Yes! Yes -- *oh* -- oh, *Bruce* --"
"I have... some measure of *experience*," Bruce says, and he's doing --
He's moving his finger --
Thrusting and *pushing* --
Working and --
Tim can't stop making *noise* --
"Harv tried to tell me countless times that the body could be more intelligent
-- *wiser* -- than the mind, but I didn't. I didn't believe until *this*, Tim,"
and Bruce crooks his --
Finger ---
Tim's penis twitches *ridiculously*, but that's not as important as the way Tim
is whimpering, *clutching* at the sheets and trying to spread his legs wider --
*Needing* to spread his legs --
"Oh... yes, Tim. But take this," Bruce says, and begins to *work* his finger
around --
And around --
Tim can feel himself *salivating* --
He wants the *thrusts* again --
"I could believe anything of the body after this. After Harv showed me how to
*give* this, how to turn *theory* into *practice* --"
"Yes -- please -- *please* --"
"So lovely, so -- I want to give you another finger, Tim --"
"*Yes*!"
Bruce growls and pulls most of the way *out*, and Tim --
"No -- no, don't --"
"*Tim*. I must -- it's only for a *moment*," Bruce says, and his other finger
is right there *pushing* --
Tim *shudders* a sigh --
"Yes. Yes, you must... please trust me."
Tim groans and nods because -- because --
"I will *always* work to please you, to give --"
"*Please* --"
"*Yes*, Tim," and Bruce pushes in with both fingers --
Not -- not *slowly* --
Tim is making a noise like some kind of animal, like a *desperate* animal, but
Bruce is *opening* him --
Making Tim's body *take* --
"I want to watch you *taking* yourself, Tim --"
And Tim feels himself nodding before he can even --
He's still growling and --
God, it's almost a *yowl*, and what kind of noises is he going to make when
it's Bruce's penis?
Except that just the *thought* of it makes him *yell* --
"Tim. What --"
"Need you -- *need* you -- fuck --" Tim shoves his fingers back into his mouth
--
Bites down and squeezes his *eyes* shut --
But it doesn't help when Bruce moans. When --
When he grips Tim's hip even *harder* and starts to *fuck* him with his
fingers, fast and hard and somehow perfect, somehow --
It's like he *knows* Tim's body, like he knows every internal *surface*, like
he's studied and Tim is an open --
So *open* --
Tim is *chewing* on his hand, but it can't distract from the feel of himself
flexing *open* --
*Relaxing* for this, just as if --
As if Bruce is the one --
The one --
"*Brother*, I am *hungry*."
And Tim is nodding again, and there are *tears* --
He has *two* brothers, and both of them want this for him, both of them would
laugh *knowingly* at Tim's -- former -- belief that *this* act would always be
at least somewhat challenging --
Bruce has had years to *learn* -- and so much desire, so much *reason*, because
wouldn't anyone want to pleasure Harvey?
Bruce had used his fingers with Harvey last *night* --
And Tim had resisted the blind and *driving* need --
("Please -- oh, please, Tim, your hand, tough little -- ah, *fuck* --")
Tim's mouth had been *sore* last night, but Harvey's penis was dark, slick --
Darker even than it had been in the gymnasium, as if he'd been *harder* longer
-- even though that wasn't --
Possible --
And Tim realizes that he's *fucking* his own mouth with his fingers --
That he's grunting *rhythmically* as *Bruce* fucks him --
So --
So *hard* --
"Tell me *when*, Tim!"
And at first that makes no sense, no -- he can't turn the words into *any*
sentence, much less into one which would allow him to respond with more than
grunts and *drooling* --
Bruce feels so *good* --
The only thing that's *ever* felt this good was taking Harvey into his mouth -
- or --
Harvey smiling and taking --
Taking *him* --
Bruce *fucking* his mouth --
"*Tim*."
And Tim thinks that sound has more in common with the noises of excited
*marine* mammals than it does with anything *remotely* related to a teenaged
boy, but it's good --
And he makes it *again* when Bruce *twists* his fingers --
Again when Bruce --
"*No* --" Only that was barely a word --
Tim's fingers are still in his *mouth*, but Bruce is slowing down, slowing --
Is he tired? Does he want something --
Else ---
Tim *yanks* his fingers out of his mouth and says -- nothing, because he's
groaning for the sound of Bruce's growl. He tries again -- "*Fuck* me!"
"Tim, yes -- with -- "
"Your *penis*!"
"*Thank* you," and Bruce sounds so fervent, so *grateful* --
Tim is *shivering* for it -- and he shivers more when Bruce pulls out -- more
slowly and gently than Tim had the first time he'd fucked *himself* --
Bruce *knows* --
Bruce *understands* --
And that sound -- no, Tim has to *see*, and so he flips himself over onto his
back, spreads his legs --
And watches Bruce staring down at him, watches Bruce *studying* him as he
slicks his penis --
His big, thick --
Tim *whimpers* --
"I will *please* you," Bruce says -- *vows* -- and his hair is almost *lank*
with sweat --
His chest is *shining* with it --
And it's impossible not to feel small, thin, *small*, impossible not to be
aware of the relatively *pathetic* amount of space he takes up relative to --
Relative to the man staring at him *desperately* --
*Woundedly* --
That's *confusing* -- until it isn't, because Tim *is* capable of realizing it
when he does things like *tease* at his own slick *hole* while his brother is
*watching* --
Tim feels himself blush and just --
There's something like the physical equivalent of a *stutter* --
"I will do *anything* for you," Bruce -- Bruce *vows* again, and the
*worthless* part of Tim wants to say something about hurting Harvey --
But they both know Tim never *would* ask for that, never would *risk* that* --
"Push... please push in? For a moment..."
And Tim bites his lip and tries to come to *terms* with this moment, with what
he's doing, with what these *sheets* are going to *look* like --
But what he's really doing is staring at Bruce's penis, at Bruce's working
*hand* on his penis, as he pushes *three* fingers *deep* inside himself --
Bruce squeezes himself so *hard* --
His penis is *spasming* --
"Tell me -- tell me you desire --"
"Bruce --"
"It's only that you look so *beautiful*, Tim --"
"Not -- not lovely?"
Bruce blinks -- and laughs breathlessly. "Harv often takes me to task for my
linguistic habits -- oh, Tim, I want to sketch *this* --"
"Nnh -- I -- please don't --"
"I won't. *Yet*. Perhaps -- when we have our own home? The three of us --"
And Tim hears himself make a noise like a strangled *cat* -- but that may have
more to do with the fact that he's *fucking* himself than with anything --
Anything --
"Oh, Tim, *yes* --"
"No -- no --"
"Tim?"
Tim whimpers and shakes his head -- pulls out. "I can't get *deep* enough!"
And the light behind Bruce's eyes seems to *flare* -- "I will not tease you,"
he says, and his hand is huge on the back of Tim's left thigh as he pushes
*gently* -- and implacably. "This will be easier. Do you understand?"
Oh. Oh, he knows --
And somehow Tim had *forgotten* that for just long *enough* --
Tim nods and bites his swollen lip --
Bruce *winces* with obvious lust -- "I will not. I will not be *slow*, brother
--"
Tim groans and tries to fight back the need to spread wider, bend his leg back
*farther* -- no. No. He *does* it --
Bruce *shudders* -- "I love you," he says, and presses the tip of his penis
against Tim --
What -- no. No. He can focus on Bruce's penis --
It's so warm --
It's so --
It's *not* thicker, or harder, or --
But really it's *all* of those things, because Bruce isn't *waiting*. Bruce is
pushing in *steadily*, so --
He's breathing *slowly*, *evenly* -- and Tim realizes that he's guiding Tim's
breaths, that he's *teaching* --
Tim blushes and *clenches* --
They grunt *together*, and Tim feels himself sweating more, *smells* himself so
--
So *dirty* --
"Beautiful. Brother -- please *open* --"
And Tim is whimpering before he realizes that his body is *listening* to Bruce
--
Tim is breathing *evenly* again --
And Bruce is pushing *in* again, stretching him --
His fingers were slightly *smaller* --
And Tim blushes again, blushes *harder* and fights the need to clench, to hold
Bruce still, to --
To --
They're staring into each other's *eyes*, and Bruce isn't stopping even for a
moment, Bruce is *guiding* him into this --
"I love you, Tim --"
"*HNH* --"
"Oh -- so tight. So. I will stop. I will. I will *wait* --"
"*Don't* --"
"Tim --"
"It's too much, please, it's too much --"
"I'll pull out and use my fingers --"
And Tim doesn't *have* long fingernails, but he's still trying to dig them into
Bruce's shoulders, trying to pull him closer, *hold* him -- "Stay, please --"
"Tim --"
"Fuck me, you have to --"
"But --"
"*You're* too much, I -- don't make me *explain*," Tim says, and he's laughing,
but he can feel a tear rolling down his cheek --
He doesn't have to *acknowledge* it --
He doesn't have to do anything but stare into Bruce's *wondering* eyes --
And *grunt* when Bruce rocks his hips --
"Tim..."
"Please -- please -- *nnh* -- *NNH* --"
"Oh... yes, I see," and Bruce's expression gains a look of concentration that's
almost *enraging* -- until he starts to thrust perfectly, starts to move Tim,
*fill* Tim --
"Oh, God --"
"I do love you --"
"*Please* --"
"I will not stop, Tim --"
"*PLEASE* --"
"You arouse me beyond -- but you are my *brother*, and this can only. Be.
*Correct*," Bruce says, and the thrusts are making Tim scrabble at Bruce again,
claw at him and *jerk* --
He's leaking so *much* --
He can't *focus* properly --
He doesn't have to. He doesn't have to do anything but *take* this, because
every thrust is heat and the kind of pressure that makes Tim gasp --
And every gasp makes Tim *flex* --
He's flushing and sweating *more*, but Bruce is moaning, *struggling* to
breathe evenly and moaning even more deeply --
*Loudly* --
And it feels so good to touch Bruce's mouth, to feel the vibration and get
kissed --
To stroke his chest and *muss* that thick and ridiculous chest hair -- more
vibration, *deeper*, and Tim is clenching again --
Crying out and -- God, throwing his head back, *wanting* --
Flexing open --
"Beautiful, so lovely -- nn. You must know my desire for. For you --"
"Bruce -- "
"You must know what I would *give* --"
"Bruce, don't -- don't stop --"
"I *won't*," and Bruce is *clutching* the back of Tim's thigh --
Bruce is gripping the pillow next to Tim's *head* --
Bruce is groaning and -- speeding up. Thrusting *faster* --
Tim pants and --
And clenches again --
Bruce groans *loudly* and *grinds*, and now Tim is shouting, struggling to
spread his legs wider than they can *go* --
He has to have *more* --
"Yes -- yes, I *see*. Perhaps --" And Bruce grips Tim's too-long *hair* --
Yanks his head *back* --
"My love. My brother. *Take*." And now the thrusts are *long* things, hard and
--
And *uncaring* about how much Tim is clenching, or --
"You feel *perfect* --"
Every thrust goes so *deep*, and whimpering makes him blush, makes him need --
"Will you. Will you have an orgasm even if I don't touch your penis?"
He doesn't -- he can't *talk*. He's busy whimpering, arching more --
Bruce is *forcing* his penis in --
So deep --
So *deep* --
"Oh -- don't close your eyes, brother..."
"Nnh -- *nnh* --"
"*Open* them," and Bruce's *voice* is deep, too, Bruce --
Tim can't stop clawing at his *chest* --
"*Now* --"
"*HNH* --" And his eyes are open --
And Bruce is staring into them, staring *down* into them, *looming* --
Bruce is so big, so perfect and *huge* --
Filling --
Tim clenches *again* --
Bruce growls and thrusts hard enough to *move* Tim --
Tim *screams* --
"*Brother*. I. I must -- please trust me."
And Tim is nodding before he can think -- and whimpering for the feel of Bruce
pulling out, taking his penis *away* --
And flipping Tim over onto his stomach --
Holding -- holding him *down* --
"Spread -- *please* --"
Tim *sobs* --
He didn't mean to *make* that noise -- but it's a distraction from what he's
doing, it's --
What does it even *look* like to do this? Can it be attractive? *How* --
But Bruce is groaning like something large and *dying* -- and Tim can hear him
stroking himself fast. *Viciously* --
"Bruce --"
"I could stare -- I *want* you --"
"Your -- please *take* --"
"As you wish," and the shadows shift --
It's so much hotter, so much *darker* --
But all Tim can do is *yell* when Bruce pushes back in, when he --
Oh, God --
Oh, God --
"Deeper. I -- I will *cover* -- "
"Do it, please *do* it --"
And Bruce growls and starts to thrust, starts to *work* --
Tim yells again --
*Again* --
"No. *More*," and Bruce pulls Tim's *ass* up again, *just* his ass --
And this time Tim can't help screaming, can't --
He's in Wayne *Manor* --
He has to --
He shoves his face in the pillow and keeps screaming, keeps --
"Brother... *brother* --"
Bruce is so --
Every --
Every *thrust* --
"Brother, this desire can only -- I *need* you," and that last was more growled
than spoken, more --
*More*, and it feels like Bruce is fucking him *into* the bed, feels like he'll
never *stop* --
But most of all, it feels like Tim will never again be a person who can live
*without* this, because he's still. Fucking. *Screaming* --
Biting the pillow and *screaming* --
Until he stops --
Until he *gasps* --
Not enough *air* --
Because Bruce is stroking his penis fast and *hard* --
Bruce is grunting and *growling* --
And Tim feels his skin come over in gooseflesh and *immediately* prickle with
new sweat --
Feels himself *clawing* at the pillows --
Feels Bruce staring and staring --
Fucking him. *Fucking* him, and there's no coming back from this, no --
And the growl *yanks* itself out of him --
Bruce had just *squeezed* Tim's penis --
He's *holding* it that way and panting --
Blowing like -- like something massive and *overworked* --
"Tim. *Tim* --" But there are only more growls to follow that, more *squeezes*
--
Bruce's *sweat* is pattering on Tim's back --
"*More*."
What -- but there's no *time* for the thought to finish before Bruce is fucking
him *faster*, so much *faster*, and even the squeezes are coming too quickly to
--
To comprehend --
Tim sobs into the pillow --
Bruce growls *more* and squeezes hard enough to make Tim *scream* again --
*Again* --
"I *need* you!"
"Stroke! *Stroke*!"
Bruce grunts and *stops* --
"*Please* --"
But only for a *moment* before he's moving perfectly, *rhythmically*, a
downstroke for every thrust and an *upstroke* every time he pulls most of the
way out --
"Fuck -- *fuck* --"
So fast --
So --
"Brother, *please*!"
"*Please*!"
And they're groaning together, moving and sweating and yelling --
No, into the pillow, the *pillow*, and he can do this, he can give this --
His body --
His -- his --
"*Brother*!"
*Everything*, and nothing has ever touched, no one has ever wanted, nothing
will ever --
He's screaming --
Screaming and *crying* as he comes, but it's so much, it *hurts* and it's so
much --
"My *love* --"
Bruce --
Oh, God, it's *Bruce*, and he sees everything, he'll know, he'll --
But Bruce is still *thrusting*, and it's impossible to hold onto *thought* with
that, to hold onto anything but the feel --
So much --
So *much*, because now the thrusts are short and almost sharp --
So much so *fast* --
Tim lifts his head to *gulp* air --
And Bruce *shoves* a scream out of him with a *ruthless* thrust, makes him
twitch and *ejaculate* again --
Tim feels his *eyes* roll back --
And it's so good to put his face back into the pillows, to clutch them for dear
life as Bruce grunts --
And fucks --
Him --
*Blind*. Tim's body *hitches* with a laugh he can't hold in at *all* --
Bruce slams in so hard that Tim has to catch himself against the *headboard* to
keep from *braining* himself --
And Bruce groans and shudders through -- an orgasm. Oh.
Oh, he's --
Tim feels himself blush to his *hair* --
He'd barely even *fantasized* about a man coming inside him --
He hadn't *thought* -- and now he can feel every twitch, every --
Every *spasm* --
So *wet* --
Bruce is still *groaning* --
Tim shivers. He doesn't feel like laughing anymore. He doesn't --
He *also* doesn't feel especially *panicked* -- beyond the inescapable question
of what may or may not be going on outside his closed door --
He's in Wayne *Manor* --
Oh, there's the panic --
And there's the laugh. Tim hums and scrubs his sweaty face against the pillow -
-
And hums again for the feel of Bruce dripping still more sweat *on* him --
And for the feel of his ass almost seeming to *buzz* --
Oh. Endorphins.
Endorphins? From *sexual* activity that *wasn't* -- well. Tim supposes this
*was* a lot more vigorous than his usual masturbatory activity --
Bruce shudders and pants --
Moans --
"Tim..." His voice is so *emotional*, so --
Tim shivers. "Bruce. I..." What is he supposed to say? "Thank you."
Bruce laughs softly, gently -- "You're quite welcome. Thank *you*. How are
you?"
"Ah... the endorphins are... I feel somewhat high. And scattered." He's
blushing again --
He *wants* to hum for it --
He wants to clench and --
He clenches and they groan together again, shudder and --
That --
That *buzzing* feeling --
Moaning just seems more *appropriate* than humming --
"Brother..."
"Ah... yes?"
Bruce laughs again. "I want to hold you for hours."
"That's... amusing?"
"The image I have of you glaring at me -- nerve-striking me? -- after ten
minutes is *deeply* amusing. Though... hm. Would you *allow* ten minutes?"
"I -- I think I'm affronted --"
"Then you have my apologies," Bruce says, and strokes Tim's back warmly,
slowly, *heavily* --
Tim hears himself make a --
"I like that sound very much, brother."
"It wasn't a purr," Tim says, and wonders why he's *bothering* --
"All right," and Bruce's voice is even, accepting --
Tim is blushing again --
"You left so quickly last night..."
"I -- I'm sorry --"
"You didn't want to. I..." A small, wet sound -- had he licked his lips? "I
will not forget that. I cannot forget that. Perhaps you would've allowed Harv
to hold you had he not fallen asleep so quickly?"
The blush is... going nowhere --
Bruce is still *petting* him --
"Bruce --"
"I want to stay inside you... in part to keep you exactly where you are."
Tim *grunts* --
"And for other reasons, as well," Bruce says, and laughs *again* --
"You're more confident now."
"For this, yes. Thanks to Harv, I have experience with such things. I have felt
-- I am reasonably confident that I have felt what you're feeling right now."
Which... makes sense. Tim laughs quietly and shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I'm -
- I don't know what I am."
"Perhaps somewhat... stunned? By the intensity."
"Yes. That."
"And... still lost. Your body wants you to be *aware* of the great pleasure
you've recently felt."
"*Yes* -- and the pain."
Bruce strokes him again, massages -- "And the pain... had a sweetness?"
Tim closes his eyes -- no. "It still does."
Bruce sighs. "The pleasure you gave me.... I want more of you."
Tim clenches -- and whimpers. That -- that was --
"A sharp feeling, Tim?"
Tim laughs -- "*Yes*. I -- I don't think... ah."
"When Harv and I first began taking each other, it was not something we could
easily repeat... please tell me when you need me to pull out."
It's nearly -- *nearly* -- impossible not to clench again, but he manages it.
And nods. And breathes. The sharp feeling is... spreading. Or possibly
*deepening*. It is and *isn't* similar to what he's felt on nights when he's
fucked himself hard with three fingers. There's more --
There's more.
Tim licks his lips and nods --
"Now, brother?"
"Yes --"
Bruce cups the back of Tim's neck. "Please breathe as evenly as you can."
"Yes. Yes, I -- I know --" Tim shakes his head and focuses on breathing. It's
harder than it's ever *been* --
Bruce is right *there* --
But he doesn't have to be panicked, or --
He doesn't have to see *or* feel his mother's eyes --
He doesn't --
He pushes it away, and fills his mind with a darkness that warms with every one
of Bruce's strokes, every --
"Yes, brother, like that..."
Tim shivers, but even that's warm, somehow --
Every darkness is --
("*Live* from the shadows, Mr. Drake...")
Is it better or worse to have *Blood's* eyes in his mind -- the question
answers itself by the fact that Bruce *can* pull out this steadily, this --
He is relaxed.
And he will stay that way.
Though --
Tim turns onto his back and rests on his elbows, meeting Bruce's warm and
loving and *happy* eyes --
This is easier. This is --
Tim isn't sure if it's a matter of trust or not, but he's willing to go with -
- oh. He winces --
"Pain, Tim?"
"Ah... more... moisture."
Bruce smiles ruefully. "Truly, it feels far, far more copious than it is."
Tim raises an eyebrow. "It *feels* like you hadn't ejaculated for a *month*,
Bruce."
"And you know -- quite well -- that that isn't true."
Tim... smiles. "I suppose I do. That was... that was amazing."
Bruce smiles more broadly. "Yes. It was. You're a wonderful lover."
Tim -- blinks. "Ah... Bruce --"
Bruce hums. "Perhaps... when Harv takes me, I often lose the ability to be
fully cognizant of how I am moving," Bruce says, and raises his own eyebrow.
... oh. "I was... moving?"
"Vigorously. Rhythmically. *Powerfully*. You... brother. We were together."
Tim feels himself blush *again* --
And Bruce strokes his cheek -- with, thankfully, his relatively clean hand.
"You are so lovely."
"Would it have been more arousing for you if I'd been wearing -- all right, no,
tell me --"
"I sketched you into something of a leather bodysuit."
Tim coughs. "I -- do you even know where people *buy* those?"
Bruce smiles sharply. "Do you...? Harv has taken me to many, many parts of the
city."
That -- "All right, that's exceedingly jealousy-inducing --"
"Oh -- no --"
Tim holds up a hand and offers his own sharp smile. "I've spent a great deal of
time wandering various parts of the city by *myself*, Bruce. I know *exactly*
where I could acquire that sort of thing... though I'm not sure I want to
patronize anyone who *would* make something like that for someone my age."
Bruce blinks thoughtfully and nods. "There is that. Perhaps I'll learn to make
one myself."
"Bruce."
"Yes? We'll have to learn how to make -- vaguely -- similar things for
ourselves in the future."
That's... true. But -- "How much body armor is the Tim in your sketchbook
wearing?"
Bruce -- colors.
"I see."
"You can -- I believe you'd look very --"
Tim laughs and shakes his head. "Show me. Please."
Bruce hums. "One moment," he says, and goes to wash his hands before retrieving
the sketchbook from a fold of the sheet. "There are... a few --"
"What -- when did you have *time*?"
"They're really quite basic -- well," and he opens the sketchbook to a study
of... Tim's face, in three-quarter view. All right.
Tim was already prepared for Bruce to be as good at this as he is at apparently
*everything* else, and so he can deal with the fact that looking at the sketch
is like looking at a penciled *mirror* --
Save for the fact that he never lets himself look that *troubled* when he's
looking at himself in a mirror --
And he also doesn't wear eye shadow. Or eye *liner*. Or blush. Or -- hm.
"That's not lipstick."
"No, it's... I've observed younger girls --"
"Lip gloss."
"Yes," Bruce says, and strokes the air above the sketched Tim's mouth.
Tim takes a deep breath. "You did an excellent job capturing the... shine."
"Thank you. You don't like it."
Tim raises an eyebrow.
Bruce smiles ruefully. "It's entirely possible that I've been too... indulged
in my desires."
You're assuming I *won't* -- indulge -- and Tim is blushing again --
"Tim...?"
Tim coughs into his fists, takes another deep breath, and meets Bruce's eyes.
"I don't think the makeup... theme is correct."
Bruce frowns at the page for a long moment. "It's true that I haven't seen
anyone with quite this combination of products and colors -- could you tell
what colors I was thinking of?"
Yes. *Damn* it -- Tim nods. "At least -- I believe so."
Bruce's nod is troubled. "It's the gloss, isn't it."
"Yes. It doesn't fit with the other makeup."
Bruce frowns more *deeply* -- "I was hoping for something... I'm not sure how
to explain it," he says, and sounds... dejected. That's --
Tim can't. He sits up further --
Bites *back* what was undoubtedly going to be a *squeak* --
"Oh -- are you all right?"
"*Yes*," Tim says -- all right, that was more of a *grit* --
What are these sheets going to *look* like --
"Tim --"
"I'm fine."
"*Brother* --"
"The problem, such as it is, Bruce, is that my rectum is convinced that your
penis has a great deal in common with your average firehose. When connected to
a hydrant, that is."
Bruce blinks --
"I'm all right," Tim says again, and raises an eyebrow.
"As you say. But -- I can't help but feel that you only moved that
precipitously in order to comfort *me* --"
"*Well*?"
"Tim --"
"You *needed* it. And you still do," Tim says, and reaches for the sketchbook -
-
"I don't -- you mustn't compliment me where you don't feel --"
"Give me the book, Bruce."
Bruce gives him the book.
Tim tilts his head to the side --
Leaks --
*Ignores* the leaking --
And breathes. "You were... hoping for something which expressed my physical
youth and emotional age. Yes?"
"Oh -- *yes*."
"Something that would express... an essential dichotomy you see within me,
perhaps?"
Bruce stares at him and nods. Slowly.
Tim smiles. "I'm not a mind-reader, Bruce. I just --"
"Deduced my motivations -- no, tell me. Please."
Tim inclines his head. "If you were the average nineteen-year-old male
interested in dressing me up and bending me over, I would assume the lip gloss
spoke to a general... hmm... *continuation* of your assorted perversions.
You're not average."
"I am, however, perverse."
"I have no argument with that statement, Bruce, but... I've observed Harv very
closely over the years. You never would've captured as much of his attention as
you did were anything about you... lesser."
"And so you allowed yourself to... postulate backwards from the sketch?"
"Not the *safest* method of deduction, but... you are my brother."
Bruce's smile is warm and soft -- until Tim meets his eyes once more, and finds
them *blazing*. "Yours, yes. Tell me... do you know much about cosmetics?"
"I asked my mother about them years ago. I couched it as a matter of wanting to
know how to read her female business associates and employees."
"You... 'couched' it?
Oh, dear -- "Ah... leave that? Or..." Tim smiles ruefully. "My mother has
been... concerned about my masculinity. I didn't want to worry her."
Bruce frowns --
"We were talking about *makeup*," Tim says, and -- he doesn't want to glare. He
doesn't --
Bruce nods. "I'm sorry. Please continue."
Tim takes a deep breath and -- shadows. He has shadows, and darkness, and
warmth, so much warmth -- and he can smile. Ruefully. "*I'm* sorry. I didn't
really want to talk about -- anyway. We can talk about that... some other
time."
"Whenever you wish, brother," Bruce says, and very clearly tries to *will* that
*vow* into him --
Tim shivers and rolls onto his knees, shuffling closer -- close enough to
touch, to stroke Bruce's cheek -- "You chose dark colors, and applied the
eyeliner thickly. Dramatically."
"You have... it would suit you."
Tim smiles ruefully again. "The hell of it is... I know you're absolutely
right. I have my mother's complexion nearly exactly, save that she's far less
likely to develop pimples than I am. She was quite clear about which sorts of
makeup which sorts of women should wear to make which sorts of impression... et
cetera. She was also quite clear about the fact that, in her teens, the less...
hmm... *committed* colors did absolutely nothing for her."
Bruce frowns again. "I would think... she is quite beautiful..."
"Yes, and in the paler, less saturated colors, she tended to look as though -
- and I quote -- she were pretending to be weaker than she was. It didn't
work."
Bruce nods thoughtfully. "And the gloss... would have a similar effect?"
"Yes. Though it would possibly just make me look frivolous, as well --"
"No, that's -- that's incorrect," Bruce says, and moves to tear the page from
the book --
"No, don't! Don't. Ah... please?"
"No? It's not correct --"
"It's --" You were thinking of me. You -- Tim blushes. "Perhaps we'll refer to
it... when I go undercover."
Bruce looks at him *hungrily*... and nods. And turns the page.
The next sketch has hardly any detail of Tim's face beyond the -- basic -
- shape of his nose and mouth and eyes, and --
"I really think Dinah pulls that off better than I can."
"Who?"
Oh -- oh, dear --
Bruce is frowning at him *curiously* -- "You have... a friend named Dinah? Who
dresses as Black Canary?"
"I have *no* friends, Bruce, but -- ah. Ah. Damn," Tim says, and pinches the
bridge of his nose. "I wasn't going to tell you --"
"You. You know Black Canary's identity."
Oh -- "Heh. Surprise?" And Tim looks up and smiles ruefully. "I... ah. Followed
her home. From a battle."
Bruce stares at him *wonderingly*. He --
"Are you -- you're probably... angry --"
Bruce shakes his head *dumbly*.
"I -- oh. All right. That's -- that's a relief --"
"It never *occurred* to me -- but. Does she socialize with the rest of her
team? You could --"
"Yes. Ah... and I have... yes." Tim smiles ruefully. "Sometimes... sometimes I
take pictures."
Bruce stares at him.
"I don't -- I always wind up destroying the most... incriminating ones. But
they -- I memorize them first --"
"You keep them. You... hold them."
Tim breathes and -- nods. "Yes. Yes."
Bruce smiles like -- like he's -- "I'm so proud to *know* you, brother!"
Tim stares at Bruce.
Bruce continues to smile at him.
Tim -- just -- "All right. That's -- I'm... red. Aren't I."
"I find your blushes very becoming --"
Tim sighs. "You might've just said yes. You -- ah -- we were looking at your
sketches --"
"Will you show me, brother? Your photographs?"
They're *his* --
No one -- no one *else's* --
"Of course -- of course you need not --"
They're his, and that -- Tim bites his lip and closes his eyes. For a moment.
"It's been... lonely. Keeping them to myself," he says, and meets Bruce's eyes.
Bruce shivers and holds Tim's hand against his cheek. "I would have you never
be lonely again."
"That's rather... impractical? I think that's the word I'm looking for --"
Bruce shakes his head *slowly* --
"All right, but you're five years older than me, Bruce. I'll be fourteen in a
few weeks *and you will not be joining me for my freshman year of high school*
--"
"But I will not be leaving Gotham... unless your mother forces you to attend
school somewhere else."
Tim inhales --
Tugs his hands *away* --
Bruce catches them. "Brother, I will not -- I will not *oppress* you with
myself. But I also will not leave you lonely."
"Bruce --"
"If nothing else..." And Bruce's smile is *wry* -- "We must train."
"You -- there are -- you'll have to leave the country. We *both* will --"
"Yes. But not yet."
Tim frowns. "You can't put your training off for four *years*, Bruce --"
Bruce squeezes Tim's hands. "No. And I will not. But, perhaps, you will be able
to attend a high school of your choosing... out of state."
Tim blushes *again* --
And Bruce smiles. "Harv explained to me -- in very small words -- that brothers
who *could* stay close *should* --"
"But you live *here*!"
"I visited him many times, for days at a time. I -- do you think... may I have
you on my lap again?"
Tim swallows. He can't, actually, blush any more deeply than he already is.
"It's only... the closeness..."
Tim nods --
And Bruce lifts him immediately -- "Oh. I should've asked --"
Tim laughs. "Yes. You should put me down now."
"On my --"
"Yes."
Bruce smiles brightly and does so, spreading Tim's legs over his thighs.
"You're so --"
"Lovely?"
"And beautiful, and brilliant, and wise --"
Tim covers Bruce's mouth with his hand -- and then notices the deep tooth-marks
on his fingers. And stares --
And Bruce smiles at him *knowingly* --
And Tim narrows his eyes --
And Bruce kisses Tim's fingers once, twice -- several times. "I'm very sorry.
It's only that your passions *surprise* you --"
"That's *amusing*?"
"Desperately so, considering how impossible it is to *escape* my passions --"
"I've *noticed* --"
"I was speaking of --"
"I *know*," Tim says, and narrows his eyes again.
Bruce hums. "Do you think, perhaps, you would ever allow me to lick the
entirety of your body after we've made love? Harv is far too ticklish for such
things --"
"Oh -- he is? I mean -- ah. Never mind. And we can try it. Ask -- at the time."
Bruce hums again and smiles, cupping Tim's hips. "Thank you. Your hips did not
bruise."
"What? Oh -- good. You'll have to be careful about that during the school -
- year," Tim says, and feels his face heating. Again. *Damn* it --
Bruce looks *confused* -- but then he nods. "You surprised yourself by making
plans."
"Stop -- being intuitive --" Tim growls and looks at a space over Bruce's left
shoulder --
And Bruce kisses Tim's cheek. "I promise to do so as soon as you do... though I
believe Harv will quickly lose patience with us."
Tim growls again -- but it turns into a helpless laugh midway through --
"Beautiful. Would you ever consider wearing --"
"Probably not. Unless it was for --"
"Our mission, Tim?"
Tim pulls back enough to meet Bruce's eyes, and -- and deals with the fact that
he's working so hard not to smile that his face is starting to feel somewhat
sore. He stops that --
And Bruce smiles back. "Brother..."
"I would -- I'm not... ruling out... makeup," Tim says, and lets himself
just... exist. Which, at the moment, involves smiling ruefully and shrugging a
little even though his mother --
But she's not here.
And Bruce is, and he's studying Tim's shoulder and throat as if he's memorizing
the flex of muscle, the length of *bone* --
"Please," Bruce says, and meets Tim's gaze again. "I would do --"
"Anything...?"
Bruce nods once, solemn and -- solemn.
Tim lets his smile get broader. "My -- parents go on vacation often. I...
wouldn't want to do it while there is any chance my mother could... catch me."
Bruce swallows. "We could -- I spoke to a realtor this morning."
"I -- what? Oh -- an apartment."
"Yes. You could -- it would, technically, only be for me, but I plan on
acquiring quite a large apartment --"
"And it would be... private."
Another solemn nod.
"I would --" Tim nods. "I would."
"Perhaps you --"
The knock on the door makes Tim *lunge* to cover himself -- until he realizes
that it's 'shave and a haircut.' He blushes -- harder.
And Bruce is looking to *him* --
Because this is his room. At the moment. Right. "Come --" Tim clears his throat
so that actual *sound* can come out -- "Come in, Harv!"
And Harvey does, smiling ruefully and *tiredly* -- until he sees precisely how
naked and *obvious* they are, at which point he *grins*. "Well, all right," he
says, and kicks the door closed behind him with his heel. "I'm feelin' kinda
overdressed, but I can live with that... if it means I get to see *this*." He
waggles his eyebrows. "Especially because the way Bruce's hands are positioned
*strongly* suggests you were a lot closer to him a minute ago, little guy."
"Oh -- *Bruce* --"
"Hm. I'm... sorry?" And Bruce smiles at him and moves his hands before standing
and closing the distance between himself and Harvey. They kiss -- briefly --
Harvey snickers. "Big guy. I can tell you washed your *hands* -- but."
"Oh... hm. I do not have a toothbrush in Tim's bathroom... yet?" And Bruce
turns to smile hopefully at Tim --
And so Tim stops trying to decide whether he wants to cover himself or dress or
-- "I imagine... that it would be a good idea for me to keep certain toiletries
in your apartment --"
"Our apartment, brother."
"Yes -- well. Ah... good morning, Harv. Are you feeling better?"
Harvey smiles gently, warmly -- tiredly. "I am, yeah. We gotta talk about all
the stuff Blood told me last night, but that can wait a *little* while. How are
you, hunh?"
"I -- very good. Actually." And Tim can feel Bruce looking at him --
*Smiling* at him --
It shouldn't make him want to *arch* --
Except for how it should. And --
Harvey raises his eyebrows... and looks Tim over. Slowly.
It's an invitation -- it has to be -- to do the *same*, but the part of Tim
which insists that Harvey shouldn't be wearing jeans and a t-shirt --
Again --
Or anything --
At all --
It's a *vocal* part, and -- Tim hasn't been doing anything especially
unpalatable -- "May I... have a kiss?" And he can just *ignore* this blush --
"May I have an invite to that *incredible*-smelling bed?"
"Always -- I mean --"
"Always...?" And Harvey's grin is sly, wet, *wide* --
And infinitely improved by the fact that he's moving closer --
And resting one knee on the bed --
And resting one hand on Tim's *thigh* --
And pushing the other into Tim's *hair* --
Tim lets his eyes slip most of the way closed and leans in, heart *pounding* --
"Did he fuck you, Tim?"
"*Hnh* -- ah. Ah. Yes." And Tim opens his eyes --
"No, no, keep 'em -- yeah, like that," Harvey says, and kisses him once
*softly* --
Tim moans --
Harvey kisses him again --
*Again* --
"Your mouth is still so -- mmmm," and Harvey kisses him *hard*, driving him
back --
But his grip on Tim's hair won't *let* Tim get far, won't --
His tongue is so *deep* --
He's gripping Tim's thigh and stroking up --
Up --
Bruce *hums*--
And Harvey rubs at the join of Tim's thigh and torso with his thumb, and it's
enough to make Tim feel --
To make Tim *feel* --
Tim moans *more* -- and it's *loud* when Harvey pulls back, obvious and *loud*
--
"Yeah. I needed that."
"Oh -- I'm happy to -- ah. Oblige --"
"No, keep your eyes closed for a little longer. Just..."
"Harv --"
"Did he fuck you hard?"
Tim moans again --
*Nods* --
"Say it. Say it out loud for me?"
Bruce *sighs* --
And Tim swallows. "He fucked me -- hard. Yes --"
"After he rimmed you out again --"
"Oh, God -- "
"You liked it," Harvey says, and licks Tim's mouth --
Licks *around* Tim's lips --
*Dips* his tongue in --
"Harv --"
"Say it, little guy."
"I liked it. I -- please --"
"'Please'?"
"I'm -- I think it's reasonable that I'm already begging --"
"*You're* reasonable. Too reasonable. Maybe I should spank you again."
Tim's penis twitches -- and starts to rise. *Quickly* --
And Harvey lets Tim feel his *smile* against his cheek -- "I missed you this
morning, little guy..."
"You. Bruce said you didn't... sleep... well --"
"I could've used another brother a lot more than I could've used Alfred's
Little Helper," and Harvey licks Tim's *ear* --
"Oh --"
"Someone. Someone to really hold me *in*."
"I --"
"Can't let me... let me get away, yeah?" And Harvey *nuzzles* Tim with his
smile.
"Certainly... I... don't want to," Tim finishes *lamely* -- "I think I'm going
to need --"
"Me?"
"*Yes* -- but."
"'But'?" And Harvey *yanks* Tim's head back and bites his *throat* --
"Oh -- oh, *wait* --"
Harvey pulls back. "Berenice brought over *high*-collared shirts for you,
little guy, so... no waiting," and Harvey waggles his eyebrows again. "Unless
you don't like it...?"
"I like it -- I just -- I shouldn't --"
"Who looks at your pretty naked skin, little guy?"
Pretty -- "Ah -- you. And Bruce --"
"No one else, yeah? No one else *ever*."
"Not -- I understand there are communal showers --"
Harvey grins. "Not at The Armoury... which is where Bruce *almost* convinced
Dad to send us after our freshman year. It's right --"
"It's -- it's just outside of Bristol --"
"Yep. And it's just as chock full of rich jerks as anywhere you'd like. And
it's a *day* school. So...?"
He wants --
God, he *wants* --
"I still have to convince --"
"Mrs. Janet Evans Drake? The *delightful* older woman who stopped by --"
"*WHAT*?"
Harvey winces and pushes at the air. "It's okay, little guy, I *promise*.
Everything's copacetic -- and you *know* I wouldn't snow you about that, yeah?
All she wanted to do was pump me for information about *Bruce*. She's gone
now."
"Oh. Oh, God," Tim says, and backs away --
"Okay, see, I've *seen* you at that dojo, so I'm *not* gonna try to pin you
without your permission --"
"*Good*!"
"But I want that permission," Harvey says. "Because I have *good* news. And you
need to calm down." And -- *he's* calm. And rueful. And wryly *amused* -- but
mostly calm.
Tim takes a deep breath -- and nods.
Harvey drops Tim immediately, and Tim distracts himself from the need to kick,
and punch, and *strike* by filling his mind with all of the things Harvey is
doing wrong from a physical standpoint --
And then he fills his mind with Harvey's kiss, which is deep and slow and easy,
so *easy* --
And that *shift* means that Bruce is sitting down on the other side of the bed
--
And Harvey's *knee* is between Tim's thighs --
And Harvey's hands *aren't* as large as Bruce's, but they're still big on his
shoulders, still firm and warm --
No. No, he needs -- Tim bites Harvey's lip *gently* --
Harvey moans and *nudges* Tim's scrotum with his knee, and the sensation of
denim there is *wonderful*, but --
Wait, *no*. Tim bites Harvey's lip *hard* --
"*Yow* -- okay, okay, what -- no, you need me to talk *faster*, yeah?"
Tim licks his lips and tries to *breathe* around panic and hunger and *lust* --
Harvey is wearing Adon again --
The scent had been mostly gone by last night --
"Or maybe you need me to do a little somethin' that'll help you think...?"
Tim *grunts*, twitching again, *needing* --
"You'll learn, little brother. You gotta steal every *moment* of being in a bed
with someone you love, someone you need --"
"I --"
"I believe he's coming to understand that, Harv," Bruce says, and that's his
huge hand on Tim's *ankle* --
"Oh, yeah? Like maybe he *admitted* that at least a part -- a *big* part -- of
him didn't wanna go *anywhere* last night?"
"Well, if you knew -- I mean -- oh, God. Forget -- forget that -- ah --"
Harvey grins again and strokes down the bridge of Tim's nose. "I was too wiped
last night to do that kinda fast talkin', Tim. You *would've* fought me, yeah?"
Tim winces.
"Uh, huh, exactly. So maybe we don't let *any* of us get that tired. Now tell
me which comes first -- you or the *news*?"
Me. Me. "The news."
Harvey *looks* at him --
Tim can *feel* Bruce doing the same --
And so Tim sits up on his elbows, using every bit of upper body strength he
*has* to push up against Harvey's hands --
"*Nice*, but --"
"I'll be -- distracted. At inopportune moments. How *sure* are you that she
left?"
Harvey looks at him with a *dumbfounded* expression -- "Are you saying you
think she's *lurking* around the Manor somewhere?"
Well, that makes her -- or possibly him -- sound insane.
Or possibly it makes *both* of them sound insane.
Or --
Harvey winces, and it's an excellent reminder to do something about his own
expressions, to *control* --
But Harvey cups his face. "Two things, okay? One, Dad is at WE today -- it's
his monthly Sunday for it, and *you* already know that, yeah?"
*Tim* winces -- "Yes. But --"
"Two? Mom is *right freakin' here*. Those two things should tell you something
about *your* mom, yeah?"
Tim takes a deep breath and *yanks* on the shadows until he can feel warm --
Smell sex that had involved *him* --
"Yeah, like *that*, little guy. It's *okay* --"
"What -- what did she want to know about Bruce?"
"Well, that's where we get the good stuff. She wanted to know if Bruce still
planned to hang out in Gotham instead of going off to school somewhere. I was
not *about* to say anything about the crazy-psycho training you people have
planned, so I just said *yes*. And said Bruce was looking for a place of his
own. Speaking of which --"
"I spoke to a realtor this morning. She said she would be available whenever I
wished her to be."
"Ah, that's the ticket. Gotta love that Wayne magic," and Harvey turns back to
Tim with a grin. "So she was fishing a little, trying to figure out what was
going *on* between you and Bruce -- nah, nah, *not* like that," and the grin
gets wider and a lot more *playful*. "See, I may not know her as well as you
do, Tim, and I may not be a super-genius-detective-type like you *and* Bruce --
"
"Harv --"
Harvey holds up a hand to Bruce --
And Bruce subsides with obvious unhappiness.
Harvey smiles ruefully and taps his temple with two long fingers. "I've picked
up just a few things about reading people over the years. Right now? She's
*stunned* by the fact that Bruce wants your company. And you've already seen a
little of that, yeah?"
Tim -- doesn't close his eyes or -- he nods.
Harvey nods back. "She'd *long* since written *me* off as being either generous
enough, or just dumb enough about social *correctness*, to risk all the careful
little lies about your freakin' *parentage* falling apart... well, it doesn't
matter. She's already *got* me in a little box," and Harvey raises his eyebrows
again.
"She -- does. Yes."
"So she figures -- maybe -- she can get what she wants from me and move on.
Maybe you're used to that a little too, little guy?"
Tim feels himself blush and *tense* --
"Oh... Harv. Perhaps we shouldn't --"
Harvey sighs. "No, I -- we definitely shouldn't. Not right now anyway, 'cause
that's not even the important thing. Okay, little guy?"
"I'm -- I'm listening."
Harvey smiles *ruefully*. "I told her how much we hated Exeter. I told her that
we'd -- finally -- gotten Dad to stop dropping cash on the place until they
shaped up -- and that's even true. *Somehow* she'd never even talked it out
with him, you know? Exeter was a different freaking place in the thirties and
forties -- but *that's* not the important part, either."
"You suggested she send me to the Armoury? Just -- like that?"
"Gimme a *little* credit here, little brother. *She* asked if I thought a local
school would be better, and went on a little spiel about how she hadn't even
*thought* about it blah, blah, *blah*. *That's* when I pointed out how much
research we'd done on The Armoury when we were trying to convince Dad to send
us to a real school... et cetera," and Harvey spreads his hands.
It could work. It --
It could *work* --
She *wants* him closer to Bruce, closer to --
("Your birthright is what it is, Tim. *Thomas* believes you'll never get it.
Between the two of us... I believe we can change his mind. Given time and
*work*.")
*Yes*, Mother, and that --
That's just what he can say he's *doing* --
All he has to do is *stay* close to his brothers, and --
Well, of course, he'll be expected to perform for Thomas Wayne more often, but
--
But.
"Tim...?"
"Hey, hey, little guy, you were happy for a minute there! What happened?"
Tim feels *queasy* --
How could they not *know* --but.
They don't have to think about this. They don't --
They don't *ever* have to --
Harvey squeezes Tim's shoulders. "C'mon, tell us --"
"Us -- I..." Tim shakes his head and looks back and forth between them. "Has it
*occurred* to the two of you that Thomas Wayne may very well have *objections*
to all of this?"
And Bruce and Harvey... share a look. It's a long look, and a *dark* look, and
a *wry* look --
"Tim..."
"Uh... little guy... he kinda doesn't call the shots. For things like this."
"How -- you'll be using *his* money to -- you already *are* using his money!"
Harvey scratches at his sideburn with one finger. "Let's just say that Mom -
- and Blood -- made it *real damned clear* who gets to make what kinds of
decisions when."
"She's not -- she's not *my* --"
"No, she isn't, little guy. But she's still claiming you -- and making Thomas
do some claiming, too --"
"What does that even *mean*?"
Harvey turns to look at Bruce -- but Bruce just looks *curious*. Harvey sighs,
nods, and turns back to Tim again. "You make Bruce happy. That means one whole
fuck of a lot in Mom's book --"
"She -- she doesn't even know --"
"She knows," Harvey says, and gives him a *level* look.
Tim frowns.
"She *knows* -- and you don't wanna think about how she knows."
Tim rears back, but -- there's only one answer to that question. "Blood."
Harvey closes his eyes for a moment -- and nods.
*Bruce* frowns. "Jason speaks to Mother about our relationship, Harv?"
"Are you really -- surprised. Heh." Harvey reaches back and cups Bruce's
shoulder. "Yeah, he *really* does. They... uh. Yeah."
Bruce nods thoughtfully. "And you're saying that Mother will intercede with our
father on Tim's behalf?"
"In terms of how *close* we all are? Hell, yeah, she will. Let's just say that
*both* she and Blood made it *real* damned clear that there wasn't *anything*
we couldn't ask for in terms of that."
Tim... frowns more.
"I know, little guy, I know. It's creepy *and* weird --"
"I... don't think 'weird' is a strong enough term."
"No, hunh? Then let's go for 'fucked-up.' Except for how I'm pretty *damned*
sure that the *three* of us have the healthiest freakin' relationship in the
whole extended family, so I refuse to get bent about anything that lets us keep
it."
That -- Tim raises an eyebrow.
Harvey squeezes Bruce's shoulder one more time, then moves both hands back to
Tim's. "Anything that doesn't hurt anybody else."
Of course. Of -- course. Tim swallows.
Fights back --
But he has the shadows --
And he has two brothers, and those two brothers have -- faith.
"You honestly believe -- you *both* honestly believe this can work."
"You'd still be getting a top-notch high-school education, little guy -
- *better* than what you could get at Exeter. Dad knows we wouldn't mess around
with *that*. He doesn't *have* to know that *you* don't plan on getting
anywhere near a college, either."
Does Thomas Wayne feel chagrin that it's his adopted son and not his natural
son -- his true and *acknowledged* son -- who is studying at Yale?
The part of him which his mother will, perhaps, *always* be able to drag into
some version of the light wants him to use that, to *manipulate* that.
He's been at the top of his classes from the very beginning -- there *won't* be
any difficulty maintaining that in high school, if the textbooks his mother had
been giving him to study for the past three years are anything to judge by. And
then he could attend some Ivy League school or another -- Thomas Wayne *always*
attends his Princeton reunions -- and then he could go to medical school and --
And it falls apart, as it always does.
While he *has* learned some things in school that he wouldn't have thought to
study on his own, school for its own sake has never appealed. As for
medicine... well, he already knows that he would never be *allowed* to devote
himself to neurosurgery. There is -- there *are* the *businesses* to be
considered --
And there is his life.
His dreams --
His -- Mission.
"Yeah, you're hearin' me now. I can *smell* it."
"I think -- I think you can smell -- ah. Other things?"
"Heh. *Good* things. Nothin' like the smell of a whole lotta come in the
morning. And *you're* gonna get to know that *real* well. Yeah?" And Harvey's
grin is winning, beautiful, bright --
So much of the right *kind* of light --
But there is another smile in his mind which is equally -- compelling. At the
moment.
"No? What are you thinkin' about now, little guy? I can tell you're not still
upset..."
Tim rubs his temple, but it's not really -- "I don't have a headache," he -
- blurts. And shakes his head. "For some reason, I can't stop thinking about
Jason Blood *smiling* at me."
Bruce blinks --
And Harvey frowns. "Well -- I was just talkin' about the guy --"
"Maybe... what about the knife? You said... it's for me?"
Harvey winces. "It -- yeah."
"Oh... is it still in our bedroom, Harv?"
"It really is. And there's a sheath for it, too. The kind -- uh." He jerks his
chin at Tim. "Do you even *own* boots? Like... not just snow boots or ski
boots, but --"
"I have boots, yes. Ah... hm. He was in your bedroom?"
"Hm. It wasn't sheathed when I left you this morning, Harv."
"Oh, that's just -- dandy. Yeah, he was there. Sometime when I was all alone
and freakin' *defenseless* --" Harvey shudders -- and then breathes. "But if
there's anything that guy wouldn't do, it's mess things up for Mom. Which means
he'd never mess things up for *Bruce*... which means he'd never mess things up
for *us*, little guy --"
"Unless, of course, we ever plotted *against* Bruce," Tim says, and raises an
eyebrow.
"Heh." Harvey wags a finger at him. "I *wouldn't* recommend that. For a couple-
few reasons."
"Of course not. I'm only saying --"
"That you don't wanna trust him as far as you can karate-throw him. That's fine
-- I don't either --"
"Both of you, he's truly been a *friend* --"
"To you, big guy, and I'd never try -- to get between you --"
"Harv. I think that was a lie," Bruce says, and frowns deeply.
Harvey winces again and *starts* to shake his head -- and then he blows out a
breath. "Okay, yeah, it was, but..." He looks to Tim again. "Pay attention,
little guy, 'cause this is *real* damned important, okay?"
"I'm listening --"
"Okay. I -- Blood's never gonna lie to Mom -- or Bruce, unless Mom tells him
to. He might lie to *us*, but, again, only if it doesn't get in Bruce's way -
- or Mom's. I think... I think Bruce should have a long damned talk with Blood
*someday*. I don't know when I think that day should be. Okay, big guy?" And
Harvey turns to almost *plead* into Bruce's eyes.
"Of course, Harv. I'll always take your advice --"
"Heh. No. You won't. Because *one* day my advice is gonna be 'don't go out in
the middle of the night and beat the hell out of strangers.' Get me?"
*Bruce* winces -- "Yes, Harv. You know I --"
"I know. I know." And Harvey turns back to Tim. "Do *you* get me?"
"You think I should be... sanguine about the fact that there's going to be a
magical weapon in my possession. And... presumably I'm supposed to start
carrying it around on a regular basis?"
"I don't know. But I think so, yeah. I mean -- I wouldn't be *real* surprised
if Berenice somehow got the idea in her head to *bring* your boots with her."
"That... is exceedingly creepy."
"So's Blood. How much... how much experience do you *have* with him, little
guy?"
"A brief conversation in his shop when I was ten --"
"You were in his *shop*?"
"It seemed -- I wanted to know more about him."
Bruce moves further up the bed and cups Tim's knee. "Many people find Jason's
shop disconcerting, Tim. Disturbing --"
"You got that right," Harvey says, and shakes his head. "Don't *do* that --"
"Harv. You want me to walk around Gotham carrying his *magical knife*. You
really can't forbid me... ah... anything, actually," and Tim *looks* at Harvey.
Harvey frowns at him -- it's almost a *glower* --
"*No*," Tim says, and considers the use of mild to moderate nerve-strikes to
make his point --
Harvey raises his hands in surrender and sits back. "All right, little guy. But
be *careful* --"
"I *will*. I -- other than that... incident --"
"Hey, what did he do?" And Harvey looks -- worried. *Prepared* to be angry on
Tim's *behalf*. And that --
That is extremely *annoying* -- but also warm.
So Tim smiles ruefully and sits up the rest of the way, making his own soothing
gesture. At least, he hopes it's soothing. "He convinced me to be less obvious
about my attempts to pump people for information -- a decision I would've come
to on my own with only a little more thought -- and... got me high?"
"*What*?"
"I'm not at all sure. One moment, I was trying very hard to *focus* on his
cigarette holder --"
"Okay, *never* do that. In fact, try not to think too hard about *anything* --"
"Harv."
"Tim, I'm trying --"
"I *know* what you're trying to do. And I appreciate it," Tim says, and grips
Harvey's wrist. "Stop now."
Harvey frowns again -- and nods. "Okay, what happened?"
"I came back to myself two blocks away with a half-eaten ice cream cone. I've
never been able to bring myself to eat chocolate ice cream again --"
"That sounds like --"
"-- *because*... I don't particularly *like* losing control. Not because I
think he touched me in my *no-no places*."
Harvey *coughs* --
"Oh, Harv, Jason *wouldn't* --"
Harvey coughs *harder*, which -- well...
But Bruce *also* has a point. "Does Harv *know* about your attempt to seduce
him?"
"Oh, God, what?"
"It was quite clumsy and somewhat abortive --"
"What -- you -- no," Harvey says, and shakes his head. "You don't have to tell
me, because you *did* tell me that he's the one who gave you the birds-and-bees
talk, and you *showed* me that it didn't go farther than talking -- all right,
fine. Just because I think he'd fuck a *kitten* if it looked at him just the
right way doesn't *necessarily* mean he would. Okay? All right? Everybody
happy?"
Bruce nods, but he's frowning.
Tim *nods* --
"Ah, hell, guys, have a little pity, hunh? I don't even know what Alfred
*dosed* me with."
"It was probably a standard barbiturate --"
"*Thank* you, Bruce, but -- ah...?"
"Hm. I take it that wasn't the most important concern."
Harvey laughs, quiet and *slightly* breathless --
His smile is so --
His smile is wonderful, and for a moment, all Tim can think about is the fact
that he isn't being *touched* -- no, that's not true. Bruce is still cupping
his knee. *Harvey* isn't touching him, though --
It's his own *fault* -- wait. He can't --
He's not going to panic about *this* --
But Bruce and Harvey turn to look at him at the same time -- too *quickly* --
They frown and *move* for him, and Tim has a moment to think of protesting, of
raising his hands to do more than stroke his way up Harvey's chest through his
t-shirt --
"Oh, yeah, little guy...?"
"I..." Tim shakes his head and deals with the fact that his other hand is on
*Bruce's* chest, that he's *mussing* Bruce's chest hair --
"Are you quite sure you don't wish to speak more, brother?"
"Ah..." And he isn't sure. At *all*.
But --
Maybe he doesn't have to be. He smiles ruefully and turns his short nails
against Bruce's chest before rolling onto his knees to kiss the left corner of
Harvey's mouth --
And the right --
"Mm. You kiss me like that and I... heh."
"Ah... yes?"
And Harvey tucks his fingers beneath Tim's chin and tilts his head up. "Little
brother. Maybe don't let Bruce ream you again until I get a chance...?"
"*Unh* --"
"Oh... brothers. I will be patient, of course," Bruce says --
"Nah, nah, if Tim *needs* that big, fat dick of yours, you *gotta* give it to
him," Harvey says, and never looks away from Tim's eyes.
Tim -- licks his lips. "Is that -- a rule?"
"Oh, yeah, little guy. It's the number one rule around here."
"'What I say, goes'?"
"Heh. When you say you gotta get *fucked* -- that goes. A long damned way."
Tim -- breathes. And -- "What if. What if I say I need to be fucked now?"
Harvey narrows his eyes and licks *his* lips. "Then I think *real* hard about
it... even though I know you don't really want it."
"I do --"
"Your heart does. Your mind does. Your -- mm. Your *dick* does, too --"
"*Yes* --"
"Your ass doesn't want anything of the *kind*, little brother," and Harvey
raises his eyebrows.
Tim shivers and -- "I want the feeling back. The -- all of the sensations --"
"Yeah. Those *good* feelings that just drive you right outta your *head* --"
"*Yes*, please --"
"*Clench*, Tim."
"Nnh --" Tim does it -- and cries out. And shudders. And *winces* -- "Oh. Ah. I
take your point," Tim says, and blushes hard. "I want -- I still want --"
"I know, Tim. *Believe* me, I know."
"As do I, brother. There were few things I desired *more* than being taken once
Harv had given that to me."
"God, yeah. But the other stuff isn't exactly chopped liver --"
"No, it isn't," Bruce says, and lifts Tim's hand to his mouth --
Sucks three of Tim's *fingers* into his mouth and *moans* --
And Harvey looks over and grins. "Is that what *you* want, big guy? You didn't
*get* a real taste last night..."
And Bruce narrows his eyes and sucks *hard* --
"*Mm* -- ah..."
"Oh... little guy." And Harvey grins and sits back, yanking off his t-shirt. "I
got an idea I think we'll *really* like."
Tim stares back and forth between Bruce and Harvey --
Tim licks his lips --
Tim gives himself *permission* -- and reaches to use his free hand to help
Harvey with the fly of his jeans with his free hand. It's incredibly
inefficient -- worse for the fact that Harvey is *stroking* Tim's hand, and
squeezing --
Petting and *touching* --
Smiling at him as --
As Tim pulls his zipper down --
Slowly --
Harvey shifts, and his erection bulges through the gap in his fly, briefs-
covered and *tempting* --
It's so hard not to stop pulling the zipper down just to *touch* -- no, he can
pull it down *faster* --
"Like that, little guy?"
"Yes -- *yes* --"
"Sounds good to me," and Harvey pulls back to toe off his trainers and shove
down his jeans and briefs --
Naked, they're all *naked* again, and it's the middle of the *morning* --
"How 'bout you get on your hands and knees, Tim?"
-- and Tim doesn't care what time it is. He --
Bruce hums and tugs Tim's fingers out of his mouth with a *wet* sound --
"Oh --"
Bruce bites the inside of Tim's *wrist* --
Sucks and hums *again* --
And Harvey turns Tim to face him --
Harvey kisses him hard, licks into his mouth and cups Tim's face with both
hands --
Bruce is biting his way up Tim's *arm* --
Harvey shoves his tongue *deep* --
Bruce moves closer, presses against Tim's side --
It's impossible not to feel *exactly* how small he is, how much *smaller* he is
--
But they're enjoying that, they --
Harvey pulls back and *moans* -- but it's only loud for a moment before it's
buried against Tim's throat as he -- kisses, not bites.
Kisses *softly*, *wetly* --
Pushes Tim's head back and out of the way -- no, that's Bruce, who's licking
Tim's *elbow* --
"*Please* -- please, I..."
"Tell us, brother..."
And Harvey moans again --
*Licks* Tim's throat --
And pulls back. "Yeah, tell us. Tell us what you *need*."
"I -- didn't you -- I'm supposed to get on my hands and knees --"
"*Only* if you want to," Harvey says, and grins -- and reaches down to
*squeeze* himself --
To *stroke* himself and *pant* --
And Bruce *sucks* at the inside of Tim's elbow before pulling back. "Harv is
always so beautiful when he masturbates himself."
Tim nods *helplessly* --
And Harvey grins more widely and laughs, bright and loud -- "You guys wanna see
me jerk off?"
"Always, brother -- hm. No, that was a terrible lie. My apologies."
Tim snorts despite himself --
Stares at Harvey's working hand and tries to *think* about what he wants --
And immediately realizes that that was a terrible plan.
That --
Bruce strokes his hair. "It's quite mesmerizing, isn't it."
"Yes -- yes..."
"He is... rough with himself."
"Almost. It seems as though he wants to -- hurt himself," Tim says, and looks
*up* --
But Harvey is still smiling with his head tilted back. He --
"You -- Harv. Are you... offering yourself?"
"Hey, the two sexiest guys who *don't* run around in tights -- yet -- wanna
take a good look. Who am I to say no?" And Harvey squeezes himself *harder* --
Bruce *grunts* -- "Harv. Harv... slow down."
"Nnh -- heh. How 'bout you, Tim? Do *you* want me to slow down?" And Harvey
rolls his head forward *slightly* --
He's still exposing his *throat* --
He's stroking himself so --
So fast -- "I -- I don't know. Ah. Bruce?"
"It's beautiful when he does, brother. Here," Bruce says, and wraps his hand
around Tim's penis --
"*Oh* --"
"Like this," and Bruce's stroke is slow and *hard*, slow and --
And --
Tim *growls* --
And Harvey is staring at him just like that, licking his *lips* -- "Is that how
you want me to do myself, little guy? Say the word --"
"Yes -- yes, please --"
"*Anything* you say," Harvey says, and slows down immediately --
Groans and strokes himself exactly --
Exactly the way Bruce is stroking *him* --
The same *rhythm* --
Tim hears himself moan *desperately*, and this is more of a *scrabble* then a
reach --
Bruce grunts -- "Yes, brother, your touch -- oh -- oh, please --"
"Heh. This is too slow for *all* of us. I *know* it is. Let's keep it up
anyway," and Harvey waggles his eyebrows and licks his *teeth* --
"Fuck -- I -- oh, God, I --" And Tim shakes his head and starts thrusting into
Bruce's fist --
He can't -- he can't *not* --
Bruce hums. "I think that might be cheating..."
"Heh. We can't have *that*," Harvey says. "Slow down *more*, big guy --"
"No -- oh -- " And Tim growls again and squeezes Bruce's penis hard -- too hard
--
"*Hnh* -- brother... so *cruel*..."
"Ooh. He's got you, big guy?"
"I... the pain is..." And Bruce licks his lips and exhales with a *shudder* --
"Oh, *yeah*..."
And Tim realizes that he's still *squeezing* -- he stops that and *strokes* --
Bruce grunts again and *stares* at him --
Into him --
"Is it -- is it wrong?"
Bruce shakes his head *slowly* -- and squeezes *him* --
"*Ahn* -- oh. Oh, fuck --" And Tim pants and shakes his head, pants and tries
to focus, to *breathe* --
"How close are you to coming, little guy?"
"I -- I -- *please*!"
"*That's* an answer. Can Bruce suck you?"
Tim whimpers and bites his fingers again --
They're going to *bruise* --
"*Please*, brother --"
Tim moans around his fingers and nods, squeezes Bruce again and *wants* --
And Bruce only shifts enough that he *can* bend his head down to Tim's groin.
He --
He lets Tim keep *stroking*, and that's so -- it's so *good*, so --
Bruce *licks* him --
Licks him and -- *slides* his tongue around and around the head of Tim's penis
--
Tim shudders and pants --
Bites his lip, and he's already having trouble stroking again, he's --
He has to do *better* than this, he --
Bruce sucks the head *hard* --
"*Please*!"
Bruce hums a *question* --
"I don't -- I don't know -- I can't --" His hands are shaking, both of them,
and he's not even touching anything with his right --
Tim grips at the rumpled coverlet -- but he's also gripping at Bruce's penis
again, *pulling* as much as stroking --
He has to *stop* --
He loosens his grip -- and retightens it immediately when Bruce moves his hand
and goes down --
And down --
And *swallows* --
Tim *shouts*, squeezing his eyes shut --
"I think," Harvey says, and there's a laugh *under* his voice, "that I'll save
this show for another time..."
"Please! I'm sorry -- I don't mean -- I want to *see* --"
"But you can't open your eyes right now, little guy," Harvey says, and the
mattress is shifting --
He's moving *closer* --
"You can't do anything but take it right now, yeah?" And Harvey is *behind* him
--
Cupping Tim's sad little pectoral muscles --
*Squeezing* --
Tim moans and tries -- tries to *say* --
"I couldn't get out a coherent *sentence* the first few -- dozen, heh -- times
Bruce put his mouth on me, little guy. I couldn't... mm. How sensitive are
these?" And Harvey rubs Tim's nipples with his thumbs --
Tim pants and shakes his head, blinks and tries --
*Tries* --
"That a no, little guy? How 'bout this..." And Harvey *pinches* Tim's nipples,
tugs them just --
A little --
Tim groans and arches, writhes -- and realizes that he's pumping his hips, that
he's --
"*Ohn* -- oh, God -- *Bruce* --"
"You're fuckin' his mouth pretty good there. You should see the way your little
ass is flexing..." And the smile in Harvey's voice is so --
So *wet* --
Tim's hand is *spasming* on Bruce's penis --
And this time when Bruce hums, Tim cries out --
Throws his head back and cries out *again* --
His rhythm --
He *has* no rhythm, but it's stuttering just the same, turning jagged and so
*rough* --
"Wanna fuck you *so* bad, little guy --"
"*Please*!"
"Shh. We can have *this*," Harvey says, and *spreads* him -- and slips his
penis *between*. "Oh -- yeah, still nice and *slick*," and he thrusts --
Tim *shoves* himself into Bruce's mouth --
Bruce *gulps* --
Tim *blushes* --
And Harvey thrusts again, and *again* --
Tim can't -- he can't stop *riding* the motion Harvey's setting, the motion
he's *demanding* --
"This is how I'd do you, little brother. This -- *nnh* -- *nnh* -- oh, yeah, I
can *feel* your tight little hole --"
"*Please* --"
"Please *yourself* -- heh. No. *All* of us," and Harvey leans into kiss Tim's
*forehead* --
It's so gentle and *soft* --
Tim whimpers -- and *grunts* when Harvey licks him there, again when Harvey
starts thrusting faster --
*Faster* --
And Tim has heard of this, heard all sorts of ridiculous *names* for it -- but
he'd never considered how it would *feel* to have a long, sleek, *hot* penis
sliding along his cleft, to feel the mushroom of the head *brushing* at his
hole, poking and *teasing* at it, and Tim is grunting for every --
Every *thrust* --
And Harvey's hands are back on his nipples --
And Bruce is -- is *fucking* himself with Tim's penis --
And Harvey is growling and *pinching*, *grinding* --
They're so close to him, they're so --
Bruce is *moaning*, moaning so much, and Tim can smell his sweat and theirs,
smell how much they're enjoying this, enjoying *him* --
He has to --
He *tries* to focus, to -- to *give*, and he's stroking, he's stroking Bruce's
penis and smiling in *relief* --
But Bruce opens his mouth around him and *pants* --
"Aw, *yeah*, *do* it, big guy --"
Bruce shudders --
Shudders all *over* --
And then he's ejaculating in Tim's *hand*, *on* Tim's hand, all *over* --
Tim's making his brother come *again*, and this time he's feeling it outside of
himself, he can --
Bruce groans and twitches so *much*, and Tim wants to say his name, say
something sexy or at least *encouraging* --
"*Please* --"
And Bruce nods and *swallows* him again --
"Oh -- *oh* --"
"That what you wanted, little guy?" And Harvey *shoves* his tongue in Tim's
ear, *twists* Tim's nipples and *bucks* --
Bucks hard enough to --
He's practically bouncing Tim on his *lap*, and Tim is crying out for it, loud
and shameless and --
"Oh -- Jesus, that's good, little guy, little *brother*, that's so good, don't
you stop, don't you stop for *anything*," and Harvey releases Tim's nipples and
wraps one arm around Tim's ribs and locks the other arm around his left
shoulder from the *back*.
The only thing Tim can do is reach up and back to clutch at Harvey's hair,
reach down to clutch at *Bruce's* --
Harvey is -- is all but *fucking* him into Bruce's *mouth* --
And he can have that someday. He can --
He can be braced against a wall with Bruce on his knees in front of him --
On his knees and taking, taking like --
This --
"*Nnh* -- fuck -- *fuck*," and Harvey tightens his *grip* --
Tim is *trapped* between --
He can't move --
And the sound that comes out of his mouth is loud and almost *angry*, but Tim
still has to make it again and *again* as he shudders and --
God, it feels more like *shooting* than spilling --
He can't *see* and everything is so *hot* --
Harvey is biting his *ear* --
And Bruce is *holding* him in his throat, *forcing* him to stay --
Right --
*There* --
And he has to *scream* when Bruce forces Tim *part* of the way out and *grips*
his scrotum --
And Tim *chokes* on the scream as he ejaculates again --
And shakes like he's *feverish* --
And *slumps* --
But Harvey is holding him, *Bruce* is kneeling up and holding him, kissing him
softly and *crushing* him between them --
So warm --
So *warm* --
And Harvey pants and clutches him even more tightly, Harvey *growls* -- "God, I
need -- need a *kiss*..."
"From *which* of --"
"*Both* of you -- *nnh* -- not the best position -- God, please, big guy, gimme
--"
And then Bruce and Harvey are kissing over Tim's shoulder, and the part of Tim
which can only wonder how much the taste of his penis and semen *can* override
the taste of his *ass* --
Possibly hasn't been fucked enough.
Though Tim *dearly* hopes that both of them were too focused to notice that -
- that *giggle* --
Except that both of them are humming, squeezing him even *tighter* even though
Harvey seems to be doing his best to move them all --
And that's Bruce's thumb on his mouth, thick and strong and salty -- Tim moans
and sucks, tries a messy slurp just to *see* --
"Ah, *fuck* -- *hnh* -- *HNH* --"
"Oh, Harv, *yes* --"
Tim does his best to *stroke* Harvey's hair despite the awkward position --
"Please -- *fuck* --"
And the feel of Harvey's semen on his back --
In his cleft --
On his *hole* --
So hot and thick and *slick* --
Tim closes his eyes and shudders for it --
And his mind *immediately* fills with an image of Bruce licking him clean. He
knows -- some of -- what that would *feel* like --
Tim moans and tries to hold his brothers tighter. Just -- tighter.
After a few minutes, Harvey makes it easier by shifting his hold on Tim to one
with his arms around Tim's *waist*--
And Tim can tilt his head back for an awkward kiss which nonetheless makes him
blush and shiver *more*. It's so passionate, so deep and *passionate* --
And he can feel Bruce watching every moment of it with... pride? Pleasure?
Hunger? Tim doesn't *know* him well enough, yet, and so he has to pull back --
"Hey, I wasn't done with that pretty little mouth --"
"I --" Tim shakes his head and just *looks* at Bruce --
And finds him studying them both the way he was studying Tim's musculature
earlier. He --
"Are you... planning sketches?"
"Yes," Bruce says *flatly* --
And Harvey laughs softly and cups Tim's hip with one hand and Bruce's waist
with the other. "I *saw* you had your sketchbook in here, big guy. "Did you
*ask* our brother before you started immortalizing him?"
"I..." Bruce blushes.
Harvey laughs harder. "Didn't think so." He kisses Tim's temple. "You *can* get
him to stop, you know. Or to draw -- or not draw -- certain things --"
"He can. He can draw... anything," Tim says, and does his own blushing. He
*doesn't* look down --
And Bruce cups his face and smiles so *happily*, so -- "Thank you."
It's tempting -- incredibly so -- to say something about it being good
practice, or how he'll have to learn how to design all sorts of things for the
Mission, or -- "You're... ah. Welcome."
"Well, all right," Harvey says, and the grin in his voice is *unmistakable* -
- he squeezes both of them. "Do I get to see what he was sketching this
morning?"
Tim blinks. "I -- they're his sketches --"
"And they're all *you*. They are, yeah, big guy?"
Bruce nods once -- he's still *gazing* into Tim's eyes --
So gratefully --
Tim shakes his head -- no, that sends the wrong message. "As far as I'm
concerned, Bruce can share any and all of his sketches of me with you --"
"Brother..."
Tim shivers and -- works a hand between his chest and Bruce's so he can stroke,
and pet. "We -- we're together. All of us."
And Tim can *feel* both of their smiles --
He knows the one on his own face is --
It *must* be inadequate --
He lets it stay on his face anyway.
*
***** May 1979: Bruce And The Realtor *****
The realtor's name is Emily Henderson. She is a petite blonde with a dazzlingly
bright smile -- it has reached her eyes approximately half the times she has
flashed it, thus far -- and her royal blue pantsuit, while oddly reminiscent of
something an airline stewardess would wear, flatters her figure and coloring
immensely.
Bruce would be surprised if it *hadn't* been tailored for her.
The four of them take Harvey's Lexedes, since it's the largest vehicle -- and
since Harvey feels guilty for not using it since their father had purchased the
Accompli. Bruce does the driving, however -- with Emily in the passenger seat -
- so that she can point out the assorted properties her firm is listing.
She does that for the *entirety* of the drive into Gotham proper, despite Bruce
telling her repeatedly that he has no interest in staying in the Bristol area.
He will, perhaps, have to be more assertive.
Still, once they *are* in Gotham, the properties are much more acceptable. The
very first -- a townhouse near St. Justin's -- has all the space Bruce could
ask for, and receives a great deal of natural light on the second and third
floors. The first floor was clearly set aside mostly for servants' quarters,
and, as such, is really rather terribly *grim*, though...
They move on.
Harvey refuses the second property out of hand -- before they even step out of
the *vehicle* -- which is terribly confusing until Bruce takes a closer look at
the men on the doorstep of the next townhouse over. He'd assumed the two were
motorcycle police officers --
They're really very *affectionate* men --
Oh.
"I... suppose this isn't the sort of image I'm supposed to present," Bruce
says, raising an eyebrow and turning back to look at his brothers --
Tim hums. "Probably not, no. Though the society pages would undoubtedly be
entertaining about it."
"Ah, Jesus, that kind of entertaining we *don't* need -- where's the next
place, Emily? Dad would -- yeah, never mind. Onward."
She colors faintly -- purposefully? -- and directs them northeast, toward the
docks --
Though hopefully not *too* close, as Bruce hadn't *needed* Harvey to tell him
how entrenched the crime problem is there. Even Gotham's notoriously
*incomplete* newspapers have *that* information.
Happily, Emily stops them near Perrineau park. The area isn't as fashionable
as, say, the neighborhoods near *Grant* park, but Bruce does not especially
*want* to attract his 'peers' to his home for champagne-soaked parties.
Though...
Would it be better to host a few of those sorts of parties for Tim's sake? It
would, perhaps, solidify his place in Bruce's life in a way Tim's mother could
-- understand.
Bruce frowns. It is abundantly clear that Tim *fears* his mother, and that is
terribly incorrect, terribly --
Bruce will not ever become their father, with his ironbound *laws* of what is
and isn't correct behavior and *thought*. Even beyond the fact that Bruce
believes that many of the laws *themselves* are incorrect, Mother, Jason,
Harvey, and now Tim have *all* taught him that there must be room -- *space* -
- for compromise, for --
For change and *learning* --
"-- Wayne? Mr. Wayne?"
"Still with us, big guy?"
Oh -- "My apologies," Bruce says, and covers Harvey's hand on his shoulder
reflexively, squeezing and it and smiling down at Emily. "I'm afraid I was
woolgathering rather terribly."
"Oh, that's quite all right, Mr. Wayne --"
"Please, you really should feel free to call me Bruce," and he offers one of
his cocktail party smiles --
And she offers back a smile which could be in a toothpaste advertisement in one
of the glossy magazines Mother sometimes peruses. It reaches her eyes --
And so Bruce inclines his head --
"Bruce, then. The property is right here," she says, and gestures almost
grandly --
At a large brownstone with a truly fascinating pattern of brickwork around the
windows. That...
Bruce finds himself moving closer --
"Oh, yes, do take a closer look, Bruce. The artisans who worked on this
building..."
He knows Emily is still speaking, but for some reason it's difficult to focus
on the words, to *parse* them. The brickwork is so --
There's an almost *ancient* quality to it, as if the artisans were trying to
bring to mind an era...
Perhaps... something Egyptian? Or -- no. Sumerian?
Something --
No, that's not --
It's nothing he's ever seen, and that means he has to get closer, and study,
yes, study --
It's important to study, to learn --
His brothers will --
But where are they? He has to share this with them, he --
Is there someone shouting? Saying his name?
Why... why is it so dark all of a sudden? It's the middle of the afternoon --
"You'll come with us now, Bruce," Emily says, only her voice is... different.
Sibilant, perhaps?
He turns to look at her, looking down --
But she's a foot taller than she *had* been, and her torso ends in the body of
some sort of *lizard*. Specifically, a royal blue one. She is naked and
bleeding from several wounds --
She is swaying on her *feet* --
"I believe I would like to go back --"
"You can't."
And Bruce moves to attack --
But even wounded she's too fast for him, too --
She slams him against a wall which shouldn't *be* there --
He doesn't know where -- oh. Oh, no -- "What have you done with my brothers?"
"They're perfectly safe -- *despite* what they did to us. We have no quarrel
with them, Bruce," she says, lifting him easily in her arms --
*Lengthening* her arms and winding them around and *around* him --
"Our quarrel is with your mother. We imagine she'll be eager to resolve it once
your brothers tell her what happened." And Emily laughs --
"You do not have to do this --"
"Shh," she says, and spits in his *mouth* --
He can't --
See --
*
***** June 2000: Tim and Cassandra -- and Janet and Thomas *****
June 2000
Cassandra is studying the action on the viewscreen intently. She has been since
she joined him, but she has definitely been paying a greater degree of
attention since the fight began.
She'd even put down her bag of chocolate-covered pretzels -- which is something
which rarely happens once the bag has been opened. She --
"Slow."
"Agreed," Tim says, and watches his younger self use Blood's knife to slash at
the groin of a... person who *had* looked entirely human -- specifically
middle-aged, paunchy, and of Mediterranean descent -- until Tim had managed to
slash one of its upper... limbs.
At present, it appears to be bipedal, significantly more *liquid* than the
average human, and iridescently scaled.
At that point, he already knew the scales could be sliced through.
At that point, he still thought he could *rescue* Bruce *before* the creatures
-- demons, he knows now -- took him away --
And Harvey lands a truly spectacular haymaker on -- and in -- the face of one
of the other demons. His expression twists with disgust, but, to his credit, he
simply yanks his hand free and keeps fighting.
Cassandra tilts her head to the side. "You knew Harv couldn't help."
"It was clear they were distracting him -- us -- more than anything else -
- there."
The two demons which *had* been hanging back converge on his younger self --
"Yes. They see the knife."
Tim smiles. "They certainly didn't see *me* as a threat."
"No."
The first demon falls -- and begins to dissolve.
His younger self snarls and *starts* to leap for the one attacking Harvey -
- and then notices 'Emily' dragging Bruce into the sudden, gaping darkness
where the door to the brownstone had been.
He catches himself before his trailing foot leaves the ground, turns, runs,
leaps, kicks --
"Good."
"Thank you," Tim says, and watches his younger self do his level best to savage
'Emily' who is, as Tim had suspected for the past twenty-one years, working
hard not to hurt him too badly.
Cassandra narrows her eyes. "She is sad."
Tim closes his eyes for a moment -- no. "I'm not surprised. Humanity hadn't
been especially kind to her people."
Cassandra nods thoughtfully. "More Harv now."
"As you wish," Tim says, and focuses -- giving Cassandra a split-screen. While
his younger self was busily slashing 'Emily' -- shallowly, unfortunately -
- everywhere he could, Harvey had picked up a rusting, partially bent pipe and
had started laying into the other creatures with it with a violence that... hm.
"He's in control."
"Yes. Why are you surprised?"
Tim shakes his head -- no. "Did you speak to Jay about what we watched last
night?"
"Yes. He said Blood --" Cassandra frowns as Harvey leaves his entire left side
vulnerable for the length of another punch -- "He said Blood fixed him."
"He did, yes. But... in my experience, such things rarely take --"
"You are crazy-more. Crazier."
Tim licks his teeth.
Cassandra looks at him. Pointedly.
"As you say," Tim says, and gestures back to the viewscreen. They turn back in
time to see 'Emily' kick Tim's younger self nearly into the street -- where no
one has stopped to even *gawk* at the altercation --
She gestures -- and the other creatures turn away from Harvey and *flow* after
her. Tim's shoulder tenses with --
There, the knife is thrown -- and, yes, it corrects its own trajectory in
flight. It passes through the neck of one of the creatures --
The *arm* of another --
And they both fall and dissolve before they can escape.
But Bruce is gone. Bruce --
Harvey is beating on the unbroken brick of the brownstone --
Yelling and cursing --
And Tim's younger self is in the process of panting his way into something of a
panic attack -- until he notices the thick, manila envelope resting in the
spreading pool of dead demon.
He picks it up along with the knife, wipes the knife on his jeans, sheaths it,
opens the envelope, and pulls out the short note --
"You let Harv hurt his hands."
"At the time, I couldn't think of a way to stop him."
"Crazy."
Tim smiles ruefully. "Yes."
"What it -- what does the note say?"
"At the moment, nothing I can translate. The characters seemed more
pictographic than anything else -- and now they're changing...
"Again...
"Again... there," and Tim prepares to recite from memory as his younger self
takes a deep, shaky breath. "'Martha Kane Wayne, for every day we live without
our Brother, you will live without your Son. Return him to where you found him,
and we will return Bruce.' That's all."
Cassandra nods thoughtfully again.
Onscreen, Harvey has turned away from the brownstone and is yanking the paper
out of Tim's hands. His own hands are bloody and bruised, his eyes are wild,
his clothes are torn, and his hair is mussed.
Two tears roll down his cheeks while they watch --
Cassandra makes a soft sound and reaches -- then shakes her head and grips at
the bed, instead. "Too real."
"It *is* real --"
"How long... when did you rescue him?"
"It didn't take long once we acquired the relevant information from Martha.
Though we did pick up something else first."
Another nod. "The Brother -- why said like that?"
"It was his title as much as his familial position," Tim says, and watches his
younger self make a conscious decision to let Harvey all but *throw* him back
into the car --
He homes the machine and considers spinning his new, hideously expensive, and
extremely comfortable computer chair. It doesn't match his old, hideously
expensive, and *very* comfortable computer chair. It doesn't match anything in
the *room*.
He doesn't care.
He still doesn't spin it, though. Cassandra is upset. He stands up and moves to
join her on the bed --
She hugs him immediately, simple black t-shirt riding up along her scarred,
golden back --
And Tim remembers not to say anything idiotic about being 'all right.'
Cassandra is more than capable of hurting him for that.
He strokes her back, instead, and leans in to kiss the top of her head. At five
feet, three inches tall and one hundred and seventeen pounds, she is the
smallest of them -- and is likely to remain so. She had refused HGH years ago,
explaining to them -- through Jay -- that she had learned to control her body
as it was, and that she would not be able to trust it with the artificial
growth hormone in her body.
Tim still has hopes of synthesizing HGH for her from her *own*... but,
ultimately, not very much.
And she doesn't actually need it. At sixteen, she is capable of sparring Tim -
- and Bruce -- to a draw eight times out of every ten. The other two spars are
split between them.
Her only true weakness is her continued relative lack of literacy -- and, since
Stephanie has joined them, Cassandra has started making true progress with
*that*, as well. He could wish that Stephanie would choose *different* texts to
teach Cassandra with, but the fact of the matter is that Cassandra finds GIRL!
magazine endlessly fascinating, and that Stephanie will surrender her lifetime
subscription to Capes Quarterly when Doctor Fate starts wearing a sparkly
purple domino.
("They get the best pictures!"
"You can *talk* to the other vigilantes now, Stephanie. *All* of the other --"
"They get. The best. Freaking. Pictures.")
Tim had resisted the urge to kiss her out-thrust jaw -- she tends to offer
violence for that sort of behavior at times like those -- and moved on.
Here, now... Cassandra is still holding on. Tim kisses the top of her head
again. "Harv's grief affected you powerfully."
She nods against his chest. "Yours, too. You pushed it down, though."
Tim smiles ruefully. "I had to --"
"Yes. Also..." She pulls back enough to search him, but not the way she usually
does. There's a certain *extra* depth to it -- similar to the way she used to
search all of them when she was thirteen and new to the family, but not
entirely --
Ah. "You're looking for my inner child."
She nods once.
Tim considers making the gesture for 'scatter,' but -- it isn't true. "I hid
parts of him in several places within me. I'm still finding him now."
"Yes. You knew Brother was dead."
Oh, Cassandra... Tim nods. "Or rather, I feared and suspected it enough that it
*felt* like knowledge."
"Harv didn't know."
"He feared and suspected it, as well... but he has always been capable of a
great deal more hope than I am, in general."
She nods again, but she's still searching him, still --
"You can -- and should -- ask *every* question."
"Wastes time --"
"With me?"
She scowls and jabs him with two fingers just to the left of his solar plexus.
"Jay says you are trying to do better now. Babs *also* says."
Tim smiles ruefully again and cups her strong and brutally scarred hand,
bringing it to his mouth and kissing it. "I need to talk about things before --
"
"You *feel* them?"
"Sometimes. Not all the time. Not with you and Barbara and Dick and Jay and
Stephanie."
She frowns at him -- and nods.
There is, as always, relief in being able to be honest when he wishes to be. He
*can't* be honest all the time -- there is the street to be considered, and the
small amount of work he does at Wayne Enterprises --
Never, *ever* Drake Industries --
And there is a pang for that, shocking and sudden, *deep* --
He's never *wanted* the reins of Drake Industries, and he still doesn't -- the
closest he wants to get to having them is giving Helena whatever minuscule
amount of assistance she needs when she finally ties the two companies together
-- but...
"Tim?"
"There's a conversation Bruce had with Thomas. I... it was well after their
*first* true confrontation, but... you brought it to mind," Tim says, and
programs in the date, the *approximate* time -- "It was just before Bruce began
going out as the Batman. I was doing my level best not to be summarily murdered
by various members of the League of Assassins in the interests of training...
he told me about it later," and Tim nods toward the viewscreen --
Cassandra turns obligingly -- and narrows her eyes in confusion at the whining
hum of --
"Primitive -- very primitive -- computers."
Another nod.
The sound of shuffling papers is familiar enough --
A cleared throat -- "Father, we must speak."
And the viewscreen fills with the image of a fifty-seven year old Thomas. He is
nearly entirely grey, but shows no signs of the 'hypertension' which will kill
him only five years after this conversation. In truth, his autopsy showed a man
who could have -- and perhaps should have -- lived twenty or even thirty more
years, but --
("Are you asking me whether I *did* it, Timothy...?")
And Blood had been smiling to himself as he dropped a disconcertingly large and
beautiful -- apparent -- beetle the color of uvarovite garnet into a gift box.
The beetle immediately tried to escape, but stopped -- everything -- after
Blood had made a pass over it with his left hand.
And Tim -- had needed to know. Even if he'd never be able to tell anyone about
it.
("Yes, I am."
"Then, no, I did not. Nor did I acquiesce to any of Martha's *dozens* of
requests over the years to give her the use of my power for that purpose. There
are, in fact, *some* rules I deign to follow. But..."
"Tell me.")
Blood had wrapped the box with gold and red ribbon, hummed to himself, and
handed it to him.
("For Zatanna, the next time you see her. She'll know *precisely* what it's
for. As for Thomas... well. Twenty-five years ago, I advised Martha to use my
power to burn Wayne Manor to the ground, as it was a magnet for *malignance*.
She refused. *Twenty* years ago, after a particularly *detailed* scrying, I had
my *one* conversation with Thomas. I gave him the same advice -- and a warning.
He informed me that I had... overstepped my place.")
Blood had spread his hands, but he hadn't *quite* shrugged.
("I bade Thomas a good day, and returned my focus to keeping Martha safe, which
I will continue to do until the end of her life. I do not know *which*
supernatural horror ended Thomas' life in a fit of pique when it could not
injure, maim, or *madden* Martha, and I almost certainly never will -- it fled
from the ire of the rest, leaving no spoor. Timothy... do not let that house
live on after Martha is dead. It *will* only get worse.")
Tim represses a shiver at the thought of what might be living -- existing? -
- in and around the spaces making up Wayne Manor at present --
Bruce hasn't *let* them raze it to the ground --
And Cassandra presses closer, matter-of-factly digging her small shoulder in
against Tim's side the way she always does when she wishes to offer Tim
comfort. For each of the others, there is a different touch --
And, onscreen, Thomas is -- still -- merely looking at Bruce from behind his
desk. His glasses are halfway down his nose and he is using them to their full
effect. Tim imagines that any number of Wayne Enterprises employees -- and
Mercy General Hospital subordinates -- had quailed, however internally, for
that look...
But it had been a long time, by then, since *Bruce* had.
Thomas nods once and sets his glasses on his desk before folding his hands
together. "I presume by the solemnity of your mien that you do not merely wish
to discuss the weather."
Bruce folds his hands behind his back and inclines his head. "I appreciate your
attempt at levity, Father --"
"Do you?"
Bruce frowns. "Yes. It could very well ease what will undoubtedly prove to be
an uncomfortable conversation."
Thomas takes a deep breath and nods, smiling wryly. "Out of curiosity... how
does your mother react when you speak to her like that?"
Bruce opens his mouth -- closes it and shakes his head once. "Much to my
regret, I'm afraid that that is none of your concern, Father."
Thomas lifts his chin -- lowers it again. "So it isn't. Tell me what you wish
to discuss, Bruce. I believe we've covered the ground taken up by our
respective... romantic exploits?"
"Exploits --" Bruce frowns more deeply. "That is --"
"A terrible and cavalier word for it, yes, Bruce, I know. You have my
apologies," Thomas says, making a pushing gesture before folding his hands
together once more. "Please, go on."
Bruce nods. "As you say, Father. I wish to speak of Tim."
Thomas raises an eyebrow. "And yet you do *not* wish to speak of --"
"He is my brother, my lover, and my partner. It is only the *first* of these
things which we must discuss."
"Do you *wish* to speak of him, or *must* we --"
"We must. I apologize, Father," Bruce says, and raises his own eyebrow. "I know
you find exactitude important."
Thomas inclines his head. "It is not the *only* thing which separates us from
the beasts of the field, Bruce, but it is one of the most *important* --"
"I am more than willing to pay for a paternity test, Father. Would that
exactitude suit?"
Thomas blinks. Slowly.
Bruce nods again. "I have your attention, then. Good --"
"You had it before, Bruce. Petty threats --"
"There is nothing petty about it, Father. There is not one single person in our
so-called 'social circle' who does not know the truth about Tim's parentage --"
"When Janet raises this topic --"
"I am not your sexual submissive, Father -- though I assure you that I have
made a study of such things in order to better understand you," Bruce says, and
takes a deep breath of his own. "I will not be a physician. I *will* do my duty
to the company when the time comes --"
"Stop for a moment, Bruce," Thomas says, and stands. For a moment, he only
looks down at his own right hand, fingers splayed on the desk --
And then he walks around to the other side, closing the distance between them
and cupping Bruce's shoulders. At fifty-seven, Thomas is still over six feet
tall and obviously muscular beneath his perfectly-tailored suit, but Bruce --
Bruce is Bruce. Somehow, he never seems more massive than when he's standing
next to people who *would* be considered large in any other circumstance.
Thomas' expression is both concerned and frustrated, but there is a mildness to
it -- no.
"Cassandra..."
"Thomas is very, very angry. Bruce doesn't know. You don't know. Why don't you
know?"
Tim shakes his head and tries to imagine explaining the entirety of his
childhood --
But he doesn't, actually, have to.
"When I look at him, I see the same frustrating mystery and frightening source
of my mother's... agitation as I've seen since I was old enough to reason."
Cassandra narrows her eyes. "Dangerous."
"Yes. But..."
"*Dangerous*. He is thinking of hurting. Violence."
Tim rears back -- no. He turns back to the viewscreen and focuses until the
view is of Thomas's upper body. Tension in his forehead and jaw, yes. Tension
in his shoulders...
No, wider focus.
His hands are perfectly still.
He isn't shifting on his feet.
His body is calm --
Back to the face. Back -- the eyes.
His eyes seem more blue in the late afternoon sunlight than they normally do,
more... bright? More full? No, that's not --
Tim focuses -- and the zoom gives him two eyes which, were they in any other
face, would cause Tim to mace first and ask questions later. They *are* bright
and full. It's just that they're full of a wildness --
An incipient loss of *control* --
"You see now."
"Yes, and I --"
"You are frightened for Bruce."
"*Yes* -- and." Tim frowns and shakes his head --
And Cassandra reaches up and matter-of-factly bends Tim's head down so that
they can meet each other's eyes. "What?"
"I'm frightened for my mother... retroactively. I have to... I think. I might
have to see..."
"Yes."
"I --"
"Yes, you have to see. First this," she says, and turns him back to face the
screen --
Where Thomas is smiling wryly and benignly, just as if no one can see his
*eyes* --
Had Martha seen them?
Had it been one of the things she *liked* about him? There had to have been
some *few* --
"I am listening, Father."
Thomas chuckles softly, shaking his head. "Bruce. Son... there are times when I
think I lost my chance to have a *true* relationship with you before you were
even *born*."
Bruce looks away, exposing his *throat* --
He and Cassandra tense *together* --
But then Bruce turns back. "Father. Mother, Jason, Harv, and Tim have all put a
great deal of time and effort into trying to help me understand how it could
come to pass that you would deny your relationship with Mother for a younger
woman. I understand much more about you and Mother -- and about that time in
general -- than once I did. I am not here to... heap scorn upon you for the way
you have negotiated your sexual and romantic life."
"But my familial life is fair game...? Tell me this, Bruce: Has Timothy wanted
for anything over the course of his childhood? Has he starved? Frozen? Gone
naked or without education? Gone without the best of *everything*?"
"He went without you, Father. And without us."
Thomas' hands jerk -- slightly -- on Bruce's shoulders.
Bruce frowns --
And Thomas moves his hands, crossing his arms over his chest. It's not a pose
he used often, in Tim's memory.
He saw it while Thomas was overseeing construction of a joint Wayne
Enterprises-Drake Industries research facility in Oudwark, another time while
Thomas was mocking his own father in front of the children in the newly built
daycare facilities at Drake Industries...
The other memories fall away at the lift of Thomas' eyebrow, the sardonic curl
of his upper lip -- just visible beneath the brush of his mustache.
Bruce lifts his own eyebrow again -- and then nods. "I believe I know what your
next comment will be about, Father. It is entirely true that you forbade
neither Mother nor me from socializing with the Drake family. It is equally
true that all failures in that respect are wholly my own --"
"I would not go that far, Bruce --"
Bruce raises a hand. "I was as cruel, as cutting, and as overall useless as the
worst of our 'peers,' Father. The fact that Tim has forgiven me for that --"
"Is, if you think about it, more than a trifle self-serving."
Bruce inhales sharply and *starts* to clench his hands into fists --
Cassandra nods approvingly --
Bruce relaxes himself with obvious effort. "I would say that you had obviously
mistaken Tim for his mother, but, if you had, you would have, perhaps, spent
more time with him over the years."
For a long moment, Thomas only looks at Bruce levelly. He --
"Cassandra, what can you tell me about the *kinds* of violence which are on
offer?"
"He wants weapons. He is thinking of --" And she mimes striking with something
like a club, or some other blunt instrument. Then she frowns and looks up to
study Thomas more, making the gesture for 'three-sixty.'
Tim focuses -- and the angles shift to a slow rotation around Thomas and Bruce.
Cassandra nods and watches, eyes narrowed.
Tim studies Thomas, forcing himself to look at him as a target, as someone -
- no, it's not a matter of force, at this point. There is enough tension in
Thomas' body now that even Bruce has noticed it -- though he almost certainly
hasn't noticed it on a conscious level. Bruce has slipped about a fifth of the
way into a -- defensive -- ready position, all without shifting more than his
feet and shoulders. He --
And Thomas is -- breathing. Calming himself down?
Tim split-screens again so that he can see Thomas' face while the other half of
the screen continues to turn --
And his eyes suggest a slow burn, and anger that is --
"Old anger."
"Yes," Tim says, and shifts to sit in his usual place against the headboard.
The sheets -- and duvet -- have been changed yet again, and Tim had spent half
his day doing his own and -- some of -- the family's laundry and the rest in
intensive training.
Every moment felt wonderful. But --
"Is the anger at Bruce?" He doesn't *think* so --
"Not... special. Spec--" She snaps her fingers impatiently at him --
"Specifically."
"Specifically, yes. It is general. He is angry at *everyone* right now."
Tim nods. "He has been for a long time, and he thinks he *will* be for even
longer than that."
"Yes," Cassandra says, and moves to join him at the headboard.
Tim had not paused the playback. Bruce and Thomas are simply *staring* at each
other, waiting --
No, they know each other well enough to know that there will not be apologies
for what has been said without -- further -- reason, or at least explanation.
And, after another long moment, Thomas nods.
"You feel -- you *believe* -- that Timothy has, somehow, come of age without
one iota of his mother's more mercenary traits. Despite the fact that she was,
by far, his primary caregiver --"
"The term is laughable when considered against who she is as a person --"
"-- and educator," Thomas says, and raises his eyebrow again. "You had your
mother, Alfred, and, yes, even that Blood... individual to introduce you to the
softer side of life, and, for all that I must disagree with what they've turned
you into, I must *also* admit that they managed to do precisely what they set
out *to* do. Timothy had no such influences... until you and Harvey."
Bruce takes a deep breath --
And another --
And slips approximately a *third* of the way into a *combative* ready position.
It's not clear whether Thomas can see it as anything but a certain conscious
*loosening* of Bruce's stance --
But Bruce, himself, is very clearly ready. "I will leave aside your pointless
attack on my character, as it has no bearing on this discussion --"
"I have no quarrel with your character, Bruce. You are -- and have always been
-- one of the single most *noble* people I have ever known. While I find myself
concerned about what will happen when you allow yourself to meet and 'bond'
with *other* intelligent and attractive young people --"
"That's *disgusting*!"
"Yes, it is," and Thomas' eyes are hard once more. "It is one of the *most*
incorrect things humans *do* to other humans... and you initiated Timothy to
sexuality when he was still *thirteen*. Or would you say that he seduced you?"
Bruce narrows his eyes. "Is that what you told yourself when Janet Evans was
nineteen?"
"It was one of the *many* thoughts in my mind at the time... but, in truth, we
seduced each other. Effortlessly. We've been over this --"
"So we have," and Bruce's expression is dark. "You have my apologies for
allowing this... detour into irrelevancy to continue."
If anything, Thomas' expression becomes *harder* --
And Bruce nods again. "Tim doesn't want an ownership stake in Wayne
Enterprises, or even an equal stake to mine in your will --"
"Is *that* what he told you --"
"You will not interrupt me again, Father."
Thomas tenses harder *visibly* -- and, when he relaxes himself, it is not
nearly as smooth as when Bruce does it. He is --
Cassandra mimes stretching a thread between her fingers -- and breaking it.
"Yes," Tim says, and wraps an arm around her lean, hard waist.
"Tell more. *Think* more."
Tim nods and -- doesn't close his eyes. He watches his brother and father stare
at each other --
He watches the family he never had and the family he didn't have until it was
*almost* too late for him to have anything of the kind --
Almost too late for him to be someone... someone Jay would consider real and
someone Cassandra would consider *whole*. Someone Dick would consider worth
loving and Barbara would consider worth the respect which often means *more* to
her than the love she feels for so many...
Someone Stephanie wouldn't feel the need to punch *daily*.
Tim laughs to himself --
"Funny?"
"Stephanie."
Cassandra smiles and digs her shoulder against his side in approval, then pats
his abdominal muscles firmly. "Tell more."
Tim nods and watches Thomas stare at Bruce for another long moment -- and then
Thomas inhales sharply and moves back to his chair, sitting down, putting his
glasses back on, folding his hands together once more, and looking only at
them. He --
"At this point in his life, Cassandra, he would've grown accustomed to...
hmm... something *like* absolute power. He was the CEO of Wayne Enterprises
and, unlike Bruce, he was *active* about it. He didn't oversee *every*
decision, but he definitely played a role in every important decision -- and
that had been the case since *his* father had retired in nineteen-sixty-three.
He was also the head of the Internal Medicine department at Mercy General
Hospital, but my own research into the matter suggests that, effectively, he
had even more power than that. The Waynes have been donating to that hospital
for generations --"
"'Money is power.'"
"Precisely," Tim says, and watches Thomas' nostrils flare --
Watches Bruce stand and wait, patient and unafraid --
Tim shakes his head. "The only person Thomas had to deal with on a regular
basis, at that point, who he could not control absolutely -- or at all -- was
his wife. And the two of them worked diligently and *well* to stay out of each
other's way, save for when it was necessary for them to appear together for a
party or gala..." Tim considers -- "No, he did have a fair amount of control
over her when they first married, and could have made her life incredibly
difficult. He chose not to do so. When Bruce was born in nineteen-sixty, Martha
gained a small amount of power of her own. When *I* was born in nineteen-sixty-
five, she gained much, much more. The passage of time and the changes in the
culture -- and in the divorce laws -- gave her even more power. She used it
against him without a single spasm of conscience --"
"He is angry at her?"
"I would be very surprised if he weren't. But... I think he also may be angry
at..." Tim frowns and fights back the part of him which only wants to perform,
to smile decorously and professionally --
Cassandra jabs him again --
"Thank you. He's angry at the world for not conforming to the expectations he
formed when he came of age. He has power, but not enough of it to suit him, I
think. He is..." Tim narrows his eyes. "He sees himself in decline."
"Don't do that."
For a moment, Tim thinks he is repressing -- or *regressing* -- again... but.
"I have every intention of leaning on the five of you -- and whoever else comes
to join us -- so that I do nothing of the kind."
Cassandra nods once.
"I need you all --"
"Yes --"
"What does Timothy want, Bruce," and Thomas' voice is toneless, but --
Tim thinks it would be a terrible mistake to assume surrender at this point. He
focuses, shifting the split-screen to show frontal views of both Bruce and
Thomas -- yes. Bruce's suspicion is only banked for the sake of politesse -
- almost certainly more for politesse than for *correctness* -- but, after a
moment, he nods. "He has no interest in the business world, Father."
Thomas tightens his grip on his own hands --
*Reddens* slightly --
And exhales. Slowly. "Then why, precisely, are we here."
"Because, as I began saying earlier, I will take my place as CEO of Wayne
Enterprises *only* if Tim --"
"Is given a seat at the proverbial table. Yes, I see," Thomas says, and
continues to stare down at his hands for a moment before looking up. He is
using the light from the windows to throw a glare over the lenses of his
glasses -- that much is clear from Bruce's deepening frown. "When you *are*
CEO, Bruce, you'll be able to do what you wish."
"After you've died, Father? That is... weak."
"Really."
Bruce firms his mouth into a hard line and nods.
"You would have me publicly acknowledge -- after all of this time --"
"I would have you formally hire Tim, as you have formally hired me. He is, if
anything, *better* prepared for a role at Wayne Enterprises than I am --"
"He is *prepared* for a role at *Drake Industries*. The fact that he chose to
antagonize his *parents* --"
"*You* are his father. No one else."
"The answer is no, Bruce."
Bruce inclines his head.
Thomas nods --
"The lawsuit will be filed by the end of business today --"
"*Lawsuit* --"
"It will be in my name, Harvey's, and Tim's --"
"*Bruce* --"
"Father. I have discussed this matter -- and others relating to it -- with Tim
several times over the years, and he has always said that he is more than
willing to remain, legally, no more than your *by-blow*. This is, however,
*incorrect*. If you will not do the *bare minimum* for your *child*... then *I*
will do the *maximum*," Bruce says, and his stare is hard, cold, *unblinking* -
-
It's just as he'd always *imagined* the conversation, only --
Only more --
And every Tim he is wants to blush, and protest, and pull Bruce *back* -
- except for the Tim who has been raised by his *true* family. Except for the
man he was, perhaps, always meant to be.
Tim smiles, letting it hurt on his face, letting his sinuses *prickle* --
Cassandra smiles at him *happily* --
Tim homes the machine. "This... is what I wanted to show you. This feeling. It
was there when I was thirteen, bruised, frightened, and repressing as
ruthlessly as I was able, as well."
"Not as strong."
"No, but... the beginnings were there. And the need for it -- for more *of* it
-- was *definitely* there. My feelings for Bruce came so *rapidly* --"
"No."
Tim blinks and turns to face her more fully.
"You fought for the Bruce you had *always* had *and* the one you had just
gotten."
Tim considers, searching his memories for *emotion*, rather than just sensation
and thought... "I remember thinking 'no,' and 'please,' and '*no*' over and
over again. There were... very few other words until I had the note in my
hand."
Cassandra nods as if this makes perfect sense --
"You're saying I was fighting, in part, as the child who used to try to become
close to Bruce."
Another nod.
"Hn. It's tempting to blame my poor performance on that child's limitations..."
She lifts her fingers to jab him --
"... but I will, instead, merely consider the matter in depth for a moment."
"Yes."
At the time, he had been... young, of course. Increasingly disinclined toward
anger. Increasingly *hopeful* -- no. That day. *That* day, after the night
before, he had been the next thing to *stoned*.
In the fifteen years he's spent as the Batman, he's been exposed to *powerful*
intoxicants which had nonetheless left him better able to reason than he had
been that Sunday afternoon in May.
The sun had been shining, the birds -- mostly starlings, but still -- had been
singing, his ass had been sore, and he'd smelled pleasantly of Jeux -- a
cologne Bruce had purchased for Harvey, but had, Tim remembers, found to be far
too serious for him, despite the name.
He'd been wandering Gotham with his brothers -- both of whom *wanted* him there
-- in order to help one of those brothers choose an apartment. An apartment in
which he'd be expected to spend a great deal of time. *Desired*.
Harvey had been smiling and winking at him periodically --
Bruce had been effortlessly -- *somehow* -- making sure Tim stayed in the
conversation instead of merely observing from the sidelines... yes, he'd been
stoned. With those sorts of emotional *tides* flowing within him, it would,
perhaps, be only reasonable for there to have been some measure of... peeking.
And Tim thinks that's the best word for it. He can practically see his four
(and five, and six, and seven -- he'd given up by the time he was eight) year
old self slipping out from the shadows to creep up to Bruce's side, as wide-
eyed and hopeful as some Dickensian waif...
He is not in the least bit sane.
Tim laughs helplessly and pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Funny?"
"Mm. The parts of me which you like are mocking the parts you dislike for
mocking the parts of me you wish to protect." And Tim looks up and smiles
ruefully at her.
Cassandra's expression is a perfect illustration of 'I already know what's
wrong with you, but I want to ask anyway. While bruising you.'
"Yes, I know. I'm working on it --"
"Faster!"
Tim strokes her always surprisingly broad cheekbones. "As you say. And as you
*said*. I loved him, and I was in the process of allowing myself room to love
him as... the child I never actually had the chance to be."
"You should be a child now."
Tim raises an eyebrow.
"*Sometimes*."
Tim opens his mouth to protest that -- closes it, and tries again. "There are
some childish things I'm afraid of. For example, there are parts of me which
still *resent* Bruce, even after all of this time, and wish to punish him. Even
if that boils down to punishing myself."
"Yes. Don't do those things."
"Hm. I --"
"You can," she says, serene and -- no. Not serene. *Confident*.
Hm. "You'll make sure of it...?"
"We all will. We agreed."
Tim thinks about it --
Tim kisses the top of Cassandra's head. It does, actually, help him think. By
putting things in perspective.
"Bruce asked for your -- all of your -- help with me."
"Yes."
"Because he -- because he knew he wouldn't be able to help me himself."
"Yes."
"There is a part of me which is only angry with him --"
"I know."
"-- for putting this *on* all of you --"
"Yes, I know."
"And you don't care."
"No," Cassandra says, and looks at him. "I care, and think you're wrong."
Tim smiles -- no. He lets himself laugh quietly. "What did Stephanie have to
say about this?"
"'We're *kids*, asshole!'" The sound of Cassandra's voice is nothing like
Stephanie's, but the tone... is perfect.
Tim raises an eyebrow.
"She was wrong, too," Cassandra says *firmly*. "We can be kids for some things,
not everything."
There is guilt for that --
There is *more* guilt for the fact that there's so *little* of the first sort
of guilt --
And then, as ever, there is the simple reality of the life he'd chosen to live.
That they had *all* chosen to live. "I want... I want to grow up, once and for
all."
Cassandra frowns at him.
"No, I... I've always thought that, in a truly successful life, there *must* be
room for things like absurdity, and uncomplicated happiness," Tim says, and
smiles again. "Fun. Helena has fun all the time, as do Harv, and Bruce, and
Clark. Diana, Zatanna... various other vigilantes I respect and care for do, as
well. I think... I think I tend to save 'fun' for sexuality and things which
can be connected -- however indirectly -- to the Mission."
Cassandra nods thoughtfully and points to the viewscreen. "You were having fun
before the attack."
"Yes."
"You... too much fun?"
"If I had been more focused --" And Tim manages to block Cassandra's jab, but
it will bruise both of them. And it was -- "That was pointless. I'm sorry -
- you're absolutely right. I could have done nothing to avert Bruce's
kidnapping. They were too fast, too strong, and too many."
Cassandra nods with a *glare* -- and then takes a breath and gestures 'begin
again.'
Tim inclines his head -- no. He breathes and *opens* himself -- *nearly* the
way he would for meditation.
Cassandra looks at him curiously --
And then smiles and pulls him close, kissing his cheeks and nose before
nuzzling his mouth. "Cuddle how?"
"Hm. You can't see it?"
"Your body says cuddle and *sleep*. Sleep is... in the way."
Tim nods thoughtfully. "I'll show you," he says, and pushes back -- before
shifting over and resting his head in her lap.
She blinks at him.
Tim smiles ruefully. "I don't do this."
She shakes her head.
"I watch Jay do it all the time --"
"He likes the smells. And he thinks of his mother," she says, and looks at him
pointedly.
Tim laughs. "I like your habit of wearing warm -- too warm for you -- black
tights with no underwear on beneath them... by which I mean that I like the
scents. And I never had a mother. But if it makes you uncomfortable -- hm. I
think I'll grow somewhat... stressed if you continue to hold my head between
your thighs in a manner so conducive to snapping my cervical spine."
Cassandra giggles and twists his head to the left --
To the right --
To the left again --
Tim hears a *creak* -- and gives up and laughs more.
She beams at him, relaxes her thighs, and 'boops' his nose -- a habit picked up
from Stephanie after they began building Stephanie's resistance sedative D-
seven.
Jay enjoyed that particular interlude so much that he wasn't careful... and
Stephanie's lack of coordination with her 'booping' had led to Jay having a
rather spectacular black eye.
Tim *sighs* a laugh --
"Stephanie," Cassandra says with conviction.
"And Jay. But... will she come to me, do you think?"
"She says you go to *her*."
Tim laughs more -- "Of course. Perhaps I'll pretend I'm Bruce and carry her in
here bodily."
"Lots of bruises."
"Not if I sedate her first," Tim says, and lets his smile be sharp.
Cassandra giggles again. "I will help. But..." Cassandra frowns at the
viewscreen, and then back at him.
"I... planned to avoid exposing her to the more actively incestuous...
memories. Or. Hm. The more... problematically incestuous? Darkly incestuous?
I'm... no longer sure what I mean."
Cassandra snorts -- and 'boops' him again. "I know. It's okay."
Tim takes a deep breath and nods. "Good. I love you."
"I know. I wish it didn't hurt you," she says, and rubs Tim's chest firmly with
her rough hand.
"It never... hurts you?"
"Like spicy food. Like good sex. First sex. Like sad movie. Good hurts. It
doesn't hurt you that way. Not all the time."
Tim closes his eyes and smiles. "Sometimes, though. Now."
Cassandra hums and pats Tim's cheeks with both hands. "Also wish you *just*
wanted more cuddle."
"I do --" But Tim doesn't need her *look* to know that that was a lie. He --
He knows what he needs.
"I think it's a wound, Cassandra."
"Yes. Infected. We drain it now," she says, and taps his right shoulder.
The controller is in his right hand. Tim programs in the date, and the
approximate time that the Wayne Enterprises Young Businesspersons Open House
had *ended* on March first, nineteen-sixty --
And then he breathes.
And waits.
The first sound is the familiar creak of desks -- students' desks -- moving
against tile, and Tim wonders where in Wayne Tower the final speeches and
question-and-answer session had taken place --
Whether it was Lucius who had decided to purchase the desks to make the college
students more comfortable --
And now the sound is hushed voices speaking -- young voices. Tim strains to
hear his mother's -- no.
No.
He strains to hear *Janet's*, because that's who she is, that's who she always
was and who she'll always *be* --
Even *Helena* would understand that change --
And the view cuts in on a thirty-two-year-old Thomas... pretending to look over
a sheaf of papers in his hand. There is no doubt about that. Whenever he
*actually* perused something, he would have a slight frown on his face, a line
visible between his eyebrows --
He is not young *enough* for that line not to be there.
He --
"You know he's lying," Cassandra says, and strokes Tim's hair.
"Yes, I do," and Tim focuses -- the sheaf of papers turns out to be a schedule
for the Open House. He may not have planned out the entire itinerary, but, at
this point in time, he wasn't *yet* the CEO of record. He was still *building*
his power base, his... wave of the future. He would've had a hand in this
program at *some* point... Tim shakes his head. "He's already thinking of her."
"Yes. Show?"
Tim focuses enough for a split-screen -- and Janet isn't quite at the
mathematical center of the room, but she certainly isn't at the front *or* the
back. Unlike the other students -- currently in the process of filing out of
the room for what will be a complimentary meal in the Wayne Enterprises
cafeteria, followed by a bus ride back to the stolidly middle-of-the-road hotel
where they've all been put up for the long weekend --
There *will* be complimentary shuttles to the airports, train stations, and bus
stations, as these students *are* the best and brightest --
Janet Drake is wearing a well-tailored suit in *nearly* her favorite shade of
burgundy. It isn't *exquisitely* tailored -- she can't afford that kind of
thing *yet* -- but it still makes her stand out among her fellow students like,
perhaps, an FBI agent among undercover Vice officers. Even given the relative
formality of most college students in the mid-twentieth century, sweaters and
button-downs and slacks *can't* compete with a well-cut jacket, tasteful
blouse, knee-length skirt, and two and a half inch heels which, taken all
together, are almost anachronistically *aggressive*.
Her makeup strongly suggests that she had, by this point, grown out of
experimenting with pastels, as well. She --
Janet looks like herself, right down to -- up to -- her perfectly-coiffed hair.
Tim's aesthetic -- and Clark-enhanced love for the environment -- is pained by
the amount of hairspray which had to have been necessary to shellac her
somewhat bouffant 'flip' into place, but he has to admit that it looks quite
good on her. The *more* bouffant styles she affected in the seventies and
eighties all made her seem to be trying too hard to be some variety of
'feminine' --
Just as the way she keeps picking up and then dropping assorted papers and pens
to give her the excuse to stay in her seat when everyone else is leaving is
making her seem to be trying too hard.
Should Tim program in an earlier time? An earlier *date*?
When, precisely, had she and Thomas first *noticed* each other?
Had they -- "Cassandra, do you have any thoughts about how long they've been
attracted to each other at this point?"
Cassandra rubs Tim's throat meditatively. "Need them to look at each other
more."
"All right."
Onscreen, Thomas has -- finally -- set down the itinerary and is looking over
the blackboard with his hands locked behind his back. His posture is as perfect
as it ever was, and the light from the windows catches the few -- very few -
- grey hairs at his temple.
His mustache is still entirely black.
The tension -- he doesn't need Cassandra to tell him that Thomas is impatient.
Tim knows that particular tension from all the times when Janet has taken too
long recovering from their sessions together, leaving Thomas with *him* --
"I was never someone he wanted to know," Tim forces himself to say.
Cassandra's finger tense on the sides of Tim's throat -- and then go back to
slow massage. "Tell more."
"I have no idea what sort of birth control methods Thomas used with Janet, but
he never had any intention of impregnating her *once* -- much less twice. There
is no doubt in my mind that he counseled abortion throughout the first
trimester of both of her pregnancies, even though Janet would've had to leave
the state to have one when she was pregnant with me, and possibly continued to
do so well into her second trimester -- despite the fact that he, personally,
only performed second trimester abortions when he felt there was a pressing
medical emergency --"
"He was *gynecologist*?"
They had all made sure she knew *those* words -- "No, but he believed in the
necessity and... rectitude of the procedure --"
"Janet doesn't?"
"Oh, she does. She always donates to pro-choice causes, and used to use Helena
in ads discussing how she had chosen to have her children, and so other women
should have the right to choose to do the same -- or not -- as they would."
"Good... public. Pub--" She snaps her fingers --
"Publicity --"
"Publicity, yes," Cassandra says, and strokes Tim's collarbone. "Better
publicity with you in ads, too?"
Tim smiles and watches Janet drop her notebook for the fourth time. "Oh, yes. I
might have done it, too -- those ads are highly effective for the pro-choice
movement -- had she informed me that the ads were being filmed ahead of time.
As it was, she didn't even tell *Helena* until she was whisking her out of St.
Julia's for the day and into a stylist's chair."
"Janet believes, but doesn't *care*."
"Precisely. You could apply that to nearly anything in --"
Thomas and Janet stiffen together at the sound of the door closing, and *stay*
tense as they very clearly wait for another sound, the proof that there *is*
someone else who might see them --
Who might, perhaps, discover what's about to happen --
There's nothing, and Thomas relaxes visibly, consciously, and *nearly* as
completely as Bruce can.
As *he* can --
*He*, at the very least, has a very good *idea* of what's about to happen.
*Janet* relaxes enough to suggest that she *thinks* she knows --
"Gather your things, Janet."
"All right --"
"Now. Silently."
Janet jerks -- and blinks. She wasn't expecting that... and Thomas is still
giving her his back.
She narrows her eyes in a calculation she'll never entirely learn to mask --
("*Let* them see that you're thinking about them, Tim. If you've been doing
your job *properly*...? It will make them *fear* you more.")
Cassandra hums. "She's wanted him for at least a day. She wants him differently
now, though."
"Yes -- no, let me guess: she wants to know how to control him."
"Yes. Or..." Cassandra digs in slightly with her fingertips -- she is thinking
deeply.
Tim raises an eyebrow. "She *thinks* that's what she wants?"
She drums her fingertips on his collarbone. "You tell. I --"
"The longer you make me wait," Thomas says, and his smile is small and
*cheerful*, "the more severe your punishment will be."
Janet blinks and purses her -- perfectly -- painted lips. "I haven't agreed --"
"Did I not make myself clear, Janet? You are *only* to speak when spoken to."
Is that a blush on her face? A flush?
Both?
There's so much Tim doesn't *know* about this aspect of Janet's life -- but.
"She controls Jack Drake utterly, and has from the beginning."
"Yes. She tried to control you. She did for a long time."
"Precisely. She's made *fewer* efforts to control Helena, but the drives are
clearly still there. She is an autocrat --"
"Explain."
"A control-freak. Across the board -- or so I thought."
"Her with Thomas confused you. Still does?"
Tm smiles ruefully. "To a certain extent. I know, all through myself, what it
can mean both to wield absolute control... and to surrender it utterly."
Cassandra frowns down at him. "She is not you."
"I know --"
Cassandra frowns more deeply --
And Tim blinks. "Hm. Perhaps I'll know that better in a little while," he says,
and turns back to the viewscreen -- where Janet is gathering her notebooks and
pens... though more neatly than quickly.
"I'm going to hurt you," Thomas says, conversationally.
Janet's hands jerk -- but she doesn't drop anything. She stands, holding her
sleek and somewhat overtly masculine briefcase at her side and waiting with her
left eyebrow raised.
Thomas chuckles, and continues to give her his back.
And continues.
And continues --
"You do that with Steph."
"It's effective," Tim says, and deals with his desire to blush -- no, he lets
himself do it --
Cassandra strokes his cheeks. "You're not him, either."
"Thank you."
"You are --"
"Set your briefcase down, bend over, and *grip* your ankles, Janet."
"What -- we --"
"Now."
"Mr. Wayne --"
"*Now*."
"I will not *humiliate* myself in front of your *business* associates," and
Janet is... trying not to glare. She's trying to sound reasonable. She --
Hm. "She hasn't even remotely given up on this... encounter."
"Yes," Cassandra says, and shifts. "She's a virgin."
Tim *chokes* --
"You are surprised?"
"Ah -- yes," Tim says, and wonders how close to his hairline his eyebrows have
migrated -- "You're sure."
"She is yelling about it. I see it... look at her hands."
Tim does, and they are tensed and not -- quite -- shaking. "Yes?"
"And her legs. Her thighs."
*They* -- have a slight tremble. Or they *had* one, before they stopped. "You
see this often --"
"On girls --" Cassandra frowns. "'Old-fashioned' girls. Some not American. When
people are... pushing. *Hitting* on."
As opposed to merely hitting on. Tim nods thoughtfully. Thomas... is definitely
hitting. And, right now, he's turning.
Slowly.
*Judiciously* --
Janet draws herself up to her full five feet, one and one-half inches of
height, lifts her chin, and waits --
"Janet."
Janet raises her eyebrow higher --
And there's a *flare* of something paradoxically *dark* in Thomas' eyes before
he uses the light from the windows to throw a glare over the lenses of his
glasses. "Do you truly think anyone -- *anyone* -- enters a room with me in it
without knocking first on my *secretary's* door...?"
"This is *not* your office."
"So it isn't," and Thomas smiles again. "It is, however, my conference room. In
my company. Which is located in my tower." And Thomas raises his own eyebrow.
Janet swallows, and a pulse beats faster in her throat --
"Yes, this is precisely what you want for your future, isn't it? Well, there's
absolutely nothing wrong with that. Those primitive little boys who were making
all of those comments about 'a woman's place' and all of that business will
*have* no place at the Wayne Enterprises table. You, however, have thus far
shown yourself to be intelligent, talented --"
"Pardon me, Mr. Wayne," Janet says, and her eyes are hard -- but that pulse is
still beating.
And her thighs are still trembling --
"I... am going to have my *own* company."
Thomas looks at her thoughtfully.
Thomas *studies* her -- then walks closer, looking her over in a manner not
dissimilar to how a chef would look over a particular cut of *meat*.
Janet holds her ground --
"I could make you a very wealthy woman... assuming, of course, that you lived
up to the deeply impressive potential you've shown over the past few days.
You're the best candidate I've seen since Lucius Fox forced my painfully-racist
father to admit him to this program four years ago..." And Thomas stops just
behind Janet's left shoulder and looms, breathing against her hair. "Lucius is
a Negro, you see. He's also one of the single most brilliant men I've ever met
outside of the field of medicine, and he *will* be my strong right hand..."
"Is that. Is that wise?"
Thomas chuckles softly. "My father is dying, and I am his heir. I will make
*every* rule, Janet... and those rules will be followed. Do you understand?"
This time, it's definitely a blush on Janet's face --
"Yes... I see that you do. But you're a young woman, still. A teenager, yes?"
"That's irrelevant --"
"Not," Thomas says, and lifts her hair enough that he can see the back of her
neck, "to me. Are you a virgin?"
"That's --"
"Yes. Or. No."
Janet winces --
*Starts* to shift on her feet --
Stops, and holds her ground. "Yes," she says, and stares straight ahead.
Thomas hums.
Tim frowns. "Discomfort or arousal?"
"Yes."
"In equal measure?"
Cassandra waves her hand back and forth. "It is... changing. All the time."
Tim nods. "He's acting as if he understands how aroused she is --"
"He knows he will please her. He is confident." She frowns.
Tim raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"
"You will take this the wrong way."
"I might not --"
"You will."
"I'll try not to --"
"He is confident like you."
Tim... frowns. More. "I -- bruise me somewhere, please --"
The pinch will bruise his neck *spectacularly*, and will hurt every time he
turns his head, wears anything with a tight collar -- like his *cowl* -- or
*swallows* vigorously.
It will also remind him of what happens every time he gets *that* kind of
morbid about familial legacies. "Thank you."
"Welcome," she says, and starts to pet his Adam's apple with the *most*
callused parts of her fingers. It's less ticklish than comforting, and Tim lets
his eyes slip... a third of the way closed.
And focuses again on the viewscreen, where Thomas is stroking the back of
Janet's neck, slowly and... possessively.
Janet is doing a creditable job of trying to control her breathing, but it's
clear that she's a talented amateur, at best. She --
"You wear entirely too much hairspray --"
"No."
"'No'?"
Janet *starts* to shift on her feet again -- stops. "You will not *dress* me."
Thomas hums again. "If you *do* come to work for me --"
"Do you want an employee or a *lover*?"
Thomas chuckles and lets Janet's hair fall --
Janet shivers --
Stills herself --
Clenches her small hands into fists -- relaxes them and breathes.
And breathes.
At this point, Tim often makes Stephanie wait -- her curses begin to gain, as
Bruce would say, an 'ecstatic quality.' With other lovers...
The kryptonite would come out with Clark. Nothing large enough to *injure* him,
of course, but definitely something which will weaken his knees enough to
*drop* him.
*Then* he would make Clark wait.
Or Jay --
Or -- Dick would already be begging. Dick...
In the eleven years Tim has known Dick, he has never been able to make him
wait. Not like this. He --
Cassandra taps his temples. "Stop panicking."
Is *that* -- hm. "I was doing a very good job of distracting myself from the
panic."
"Sex."
"Of course."
Cassandra nods. "Stop it, anyway."
"As you -- say. Ah."
Thomas has his -- very, very large -- hand wrapped around Janet's throat. He
isn't squeezing --
He squeezes.
Janet's eyes are wide and -- yes, that's worry, if not quite *fear*. Yet.
"In a simplified -- and logical -- world, you could be both. You would
negotiate contracts for me -- I suspect you will *always* get the best deals
for me with just a bit of training in businessperson's politesse -- then bring
them back between your teeth as you crawled to my desk with your delightful
posterior held high and your head hung low. And then you would wait for your...
rewards. Everyone would know of your exalted status, and would work their
*very* hardest to perform well enough to, perhaps, take your place someday.
Such is the world of business in a nutshell, yes?"
Janet nods -- with difficulty.
"Yes, you understand that sort of mindset quite well, don't you? You were
probably a mercenary little girl even when you were a toddler, weren't you?"
Another nod -- and a greater degree of confidence. She knows -- or thinks she
knows -- what's desired.
"No one, of course, would believe that the ever so *virile* young CEO could
ever be... loyal," and Thomas raises his eyebrow and loosens his grip on
Janet's throat.
Without letting go.
Janet takes a deep breath and licks her lips -- something Tim almost never saw
her do even when he was in her presence nearly every day. She absolutely has a
right to it now.
She --
"What would your wife and newborn son say about your loyalty, Mr. Wayne?"
Thomas smiles --
Grins --
And laughs *delightedly*, for all that his eyes speak of a greater degree of --
"He will lose control soon," Cassandra says.
"Yes, I see it, too --"
"My wife devotes her time to breastfeeding our newborn son -- who is growing at
a frankly astonishing speed, considering her own small stature -- and to
breastfeeding her ravenously bisexual immortal sorcerer of a lover. At least, I
assume that's why I smelled milk on his breath the last time we passed in the
hall -- and this shocks you." Thomas chuckles again. "Which part...? Or is that
irrelevant?"
"I... was ill-informed. I'm... sorry --"
"Do you do that often, Janet? Apologize, I mean."
Janet narrows her eyes. "No."
"Mm. You'll learn to do it better with me," and Thomas releases her throat and
walks toward the door. "Follow."
"I -- what --"
"You wanted *privacy*, didn't you? Pick up that briefcase and *move*," and
Thomas is out the door without another word.
Janet stares --
Pants --
And jogs, graceful and quick in her heels.
Tim focuses, and watches Thomas lead her to the executive offices, and from
there to his private elevator. Before the doors are fully closed, he yanks her
skirt up in the back and does *something* --
Tim doesn't shift his focus.
Tim doesn't shift his focus.
Tim --
His hand is working between her legs with rough -- and possessive, again -
- speed. Janet flushes deeply and spreads her legs, biting the inside of her
lip and narrowing her eyes.
"Is this the degree of vaginal lubrication I should expect, Janet?"
"I -- I --"
"Answer."
"I'm not... certain --"
Thomas makes an irritated noise and moves his hand from her panties. "Fix your
clothes."
"Yes, Mr. Wayne --"
"You're not one of those terrifically backwards women who don't masturbate, are
you?"
Janet's flush deepens as she *jerks* her skirt back into place --
"Press B3."
"Yes --"
"In brief; masturbation is entirely natural, healthy psychologically *and*
physiologically, and, among other things, allows your vagina to refresh itself
between your 'periods.' It --"
"I masturbate. I -- I just don't... *measure* my... wetness. Mr. Wayne," and
Janet stares at nothing but the elevator buttons.
Thomas blinks thoughtfully. "And you cannot make judgments about that sort of
thing by sensation alone?"
"Not... without using my hands."
"Fascinating. Very well. You're going to be thoroughly bruised when I'm
finished with you for the day, Janet."
Janet grunts -- "I --"
And the doors open on the -- then -- lowest level of the Wayne Enterprises
parking garage.
Thomas gives her a slight push. "There is another elevator approximately fifty-
eight yards to the northwest. Go."
"Yes, Mr. Wayne."
They walk in silence until they reach the small, lonely, and somewhat
incongruously-placed elevator leading to the bomb shelters Jonah Wayne had
built. And --
"Why are you surprised?" Cassandra rubs Tim's collarbone.
"I just realized those bomb shelters -- and Thomas' dungeon -- can't be more
than five years old at this point. Less, probably."
"Everything was new sometime."
"Very true, but --"
Inside *this* elevator, Thomas presses Janet against the wall with one large
hand splayed between her shoulder blades and spanks her through her clothes
with the other.
Hard.
Over and *over* --
He doesn't stop when the doors open.
He doesn't stop when they close again.
He doesn't stop when she makes a sound -- but he smiles. "As an aside, Janet,
I'm *very* fond of the noises beautiful young women make when they're being
hurt for my pleasure --"
Janet cries out --
"But I will always, *always* punish... fakery," and Thomas spanks her even
harder, all but *shoving* her against the elevator wall with his spanks --
His *strikes* --
And he is *visibly* erect now, tenting his perfectly-tailored trousers --
"Nnh -- please --"
"Yes?"
"It -- you're hurting me --"
"I did say that I would," Thomas says, and -- stops. And takes a deep breath.
"Lift your skirt to your waist."
Janet pants and flushes --
Bites her lip --
*Claws* at the wall --
"Lift your skirt to your waist... or I will make you weep like a little girl."
Janet grunts again -- and laughs somewhat hysterically, still facing the wall.
Thomas studies her curiously, seemingly unaware of the *flex* of his own hands
--
And Janet's hands are shaking as she lifts her skirt to her waist, exposing
what Barbara would call 'granny panties' and what Jason would call 'hot' -
- while blushing furiously. Her stockings are obviously silk, though, and they
sit perfectly on her legs. She's still laughing --
"Tell me what amuses you, Janet," and Thomas *grips* her left buttock --
And *this* cry is real enough --
"Tell me now."
"Your -- you *want* me to be a little girl. To -- soften my *hair*, and be
*obedient*, and -- I even *look* like your wife -- oh -- oh, *ow* --"
Thomas squeezes harder --
Grips her other buttock and squeezes *that* --
And Janet groans and shivers --
"I was, in fact, terribly disappointed in myself when I discovered that I had a
type that was so obvious to everyone who knew me, even shallowly, that I could
be ribbed and mocked every time a sufficiently petite and dark young woman
happened by... but man is made of both greatness *and* limitation, Janet. I
have accepted this. Still, I can't allow you to remain in ignorance: I have no
interest in little girls, as opposed to little -- and biddable -- women. You
need not 'bone up' on your Nabokov to learn how to entice me," and Thomas lets
go --
Janet's knees buckle -- for a moment before she stands straight, hands fisted
at her sides.
She breathes.
Thomas *waits* --
And Tim -- doesn't squeeze his eyes shut. "How much does she *want* to 'entice'
him?"
"She doesn't know. She is asking herself right now."
Tim bites the inside of her cheek -- stops. "How *frantic* is the questioning?"
"You see --"
"There's --" Tim shakes his head and drags his hand down over his face in a
mock caul.
"I will bruise you again --"
"No, thank you. No --"
"*Look*!"
Tim winces -- and sits up enough that his head is pillowed on Cassandra's small
breasts. And he looks.
Janet is shivering -- except when she's not.
Janet's breath is *hitching* -- except when it isn't.
The back of Janet's neck is flushed.
Her shoulders are tense enough that, were she anyone in Tim's *actual* family -
- save for Helena -- he would be expecting violence. And that's the answer.
Janet is far more angry than she is anything else, and -- she is herself.
She will never, ever aim anger at someone who can damage her if it can possibly
be helped. Therefore, she will not *allow* herself to be angry at Thomas.
Therefore...
She's angry at herself.
She's angry at herself for not... coping? Being prepared? Both? More?
Cassandra wraps her arms around Tim's waist and squeezes. "You know now."
"Yes. I -- I think a part of me would like to introduce her nineteen-year-old
self to all of you --"
"Would hit her."
Tim coughs a laugh --
And, while he watches, Janet stops shivering, breathes deeply, lifts her chin -
- stops --
Blinks --
Smiles *secretively* -- and lowers her head, crossing her arms behind her back.
"How *do* I entice you, Mr. Wayne?"
Thomas smiles, sharp and *wild* -- and sighs as he strokes what seems to be a
firm line down the center of her spine. "That's an excellent start, but move
your hands... hm. Yes, hold your skirt up by your sides... higher... yes, like
that. Have you viewed pornography with bondage and domination games?
Sadomasochism?"
Janet licks her lips. "One of my sorority sisters... smuggled a magazine in.
Part of a magazine, I should say --"
"Which one."
"Bound... Beauties --"
Thomas hums. "Spread your legs further... yes. I'm familiar with that
particular periodical from my days at Exeter. Pulp *schlock* is what I believe
the kids would call it these days, but really rather exceedingly helpful to the
fevered imaginations of adolescents. Your scent reminds me pleasantly of the
inside of a shell which has been freshly washed by the sea. My wife would
undoubtedly be more poetic about it, but I would prefer it if you *didn't*
sleep with her."
Janet *squeaks* -- and blushes darkly.
Thomas laughs and presses the door-open button. "She swears she's not bisexual,
that drunken escapades don't *count*... well, time -- and science -- will prove
me entirely correct. Not that it will matter. Be a good girl and walk directly
down this hall. Keep your hands *precisely* where they are."
"Yes, Mr. Wayne," and Janet does her best to walk with a sway to her hips, but
it's clear that she'd learned to do that with her arms only in certain
positions. Held somewhat as though she's attempting to imitate a *chicken*...
it's a little beyond her.
"Don't worry about finesse this early in our relationship, Janet. Learning
never ends -- and *we* have just begun."
"Yes, Mr. Wayne."
The hall is -- dim. Grim. *Relentlessly* grey -- specifically *battleship*
grey. The same battleship grey it was until Tim had talked Bruce into going
*down* there with him three years ago --
("This is... horrible."
"Yes, Bruce, it is."
"I wouldn't want... of course, we should protect our employees in case of any
emergency."
"Yes."
"We could... do... something?")
And Tim had smiled at him --
And Bruce had exhaled with relief.
("You *do* have an idea."
"Harv did. He refused to come down here *with* us, but... well. And did you
think I would bring you down here just to torture you?")
Bruce had *looked* at him --
And Tim had hummed and left it.
("Murals, Bruce. We recruit local artists -- young ones who, presumably,
haven't lost hope and faith in things like *color* -- and then we let them
wreak artistic havoc all *over* the bomb shelters."
"Oh. Inside the actual shelters, too?"
"Wouldn't you want something to look at while you were stuck in there?"
"I thought... we could add books?"
"We could add books, too. Children's books, as well.")
And Bruce had smiled *brightly*, very clearly remembering learning to read at
Martha's and Blood's knees --
Hopefully not *grimoires* --
But then his smile had slipped.
("Bruce...?"
"What about... the other room.")
They'd winced *together* --
And looked down the hall at the carefully locked, carefully unlabeled --
Thomas had left Bruce the key in his *will*, with a jaunty little note about
how he trusted Bruce would find a good *use* for it --
Neither of them had ever been inside it. *Harvey* liked to pretend it didn't
*exist*.
("Hey, it's bad enough that he put one in the *manor* -- and, no, Bruce, this
is not where you tell me to be *fair*.")
There, then --
They had stared for a long, long moment.
And then Bruce had sighed.
("I'm the oldest. I will... see about disposing of... the materials."
"Bruce --"
"We must be... enlightened about this, I believe. He engaged in consensual
relationships with adult women throughout... throughout...")
And Bruce had shuddered --
And Tim had gripped his forearm and squeezed.
("Your mother had... things to say about her relationship with our father."
"Yes.")
And Bruce's eyes had been so *dark* --
("We'll do it together. We'll bring in... those extra large, heavy-duty canvas
bags workmen use --"
"And power tools. I believe we will need those, as well, Tim."
"Yes. Yes. We'll bring everything we can think of. Including hard liquor.")
And Tim had tried a smile --
And Bruce had smiled gratefully back, kissing Tim's forehead and --
("Brother..."
"Brother."
"Harv *will* want to join us for this, for all of his protests --"
"Yes."
"I wonder... should we make it a fait accompli? Schedule it for a time when he
must be in court, perhaps?")
And Tim had sighed --
("It's tempting, Bruce, but... we don't ever want him to feel left out. Not of
things which involve this much emotion."
"As you say.")
And Bruce had stared at the locked door one more time --
("Is it wrong that I want, very badly, to beg Alfred for *his* assistance?")
And Tim had squeezed Bruce's shoulder.
("Wrong, no. Problematic..."
"Yes. He is... enjoying his retirement with the Foundation community theaters -
-"
"Far, far away from anything *remotely* related to *Thomas* Wayne.")
Bruce had taken another deep breath and inclined his head.
("Let us begin, then. Perhaps, when we are finished, this hall will feel
less... deathly."
"Perhaps.")
And it does... so long as one isn't *alone* in it. In this moment...
Does Janet feel alone? Oppressed by all the grey? The silence and *emptiness*
that surrounds her -- except for the sound of her own heels and Thomas'
*relentlessly* steady breathing.
He's remaining a full four paces behind her, and walking just *off*-pace. It's
doing an excellent job of keeping her unsteady on her feet.
Once, just once, Thomas strokes down his fly with the side of his thumb -- but
then he brings his hands back to his sides and keeps walking.
After another three paces --
"Stop four feet -- approximately -- away from the door at the end of the hall."
"Yes, Mr. Wayne."
When she gets there, Thomas sighs and lets himself speed up -- minutely. He
unlocks the large door, starts to open it -- it would bump her arm. He shakes
his head, pushes her back slightly, opens the door again --
This time, it *just* brushes the tip of her nose and compresses -- slightly -
- her small breasts. He nods in satisfaction, pulls a small grease pencil from
his pocket, and marks a straight line just in front of her toes.
"*Every* time, Janet."
"Yes... Mr. Wayne," and the question in her eyes is clear.
Thomas smiles and gestures for her to walk in. "That was very good enticement,
as well. Waiting for my pleasure in terms of explaining my motivations, that
is. Do that... often."
"Yes, Mr. Wayne."
"I enjoy the sight of noses being touched, of breasts being compressed... oh,
all sorts of things. You'll come to know these things... assuming this all
works out, of course."
Janet swallows and nods, and very clearly tries not to look around, not to
*gawk*.
There are the medieval stocks he remembers. There is the upright *board* with
restraints bolted in at the positions for wrists, ankles, and waist -- and
they're positioned perfectly for a *very* petite woman. There is the St.
Andrew's cross. There is the suspension net -- though not the same one Harvey
had taken down without a word. There is the *horse*, and Tim has never been
able to bring himself to acquire one of those for his own use, because the
thought of placing Barbara, or Cassandra, or Stephanie on something --
Something that *relentlessly* --
Tim is *aware* of any number of sexual submissives and simple masochists who
enjoy the use of horses --
And of course, they *can* be used on males, but --
Cassandra is laughing at him. Specifically, the repetitive hum that denotes a
giggle she's trying to keep in because she believes she won't be able to
control it. Which --
"Well, do you *want* one?"
"No!"
"All right, then --"
"Still funny."
"My love and appreciation for your and your sisters' clitorises is really quite
serious, Cassandra --"
"Hee hee hee!"
Tim hums and goes back to following Janet's gaze. There is the wall of paddles,
of course. Wooden ones, metal ones, leather-encased ones, furred ones, studded
ones, et cetera. They're all neatly hung, with handles which would be too broad
and unwieldy for *most* of the population -- but not for Thomas.
Next is the wall of whips, floggers, cats, scourges, canes, crops -- et cetera.
Those, Tim remembers, were *all* leather of the highest quality. The artisans'
marks were all from a firm in northern Italy -- which had refused to answer
*any* of Bruce's questions.
They'd hung *up* on him.
Next are the cages. One of them appears to be small enough for a *collie*, but
Tim knows from doing the measurements on it that a small person can crouch in
it well enough.
The next one would allow an -- again, small -- person to kneel.
The next one would allow a small person to stand, and has -- metal -
- restraints at several places for assorted poses. Janet looks at that one and
breathes the same sort of sigh of relief that Bruce had...
("Oh. It's. It's electrified. Tim..."
"I... was hoping you wouldn't... notice --"
"Would you. Have you ever --"
"With Jefferson. During that... ah. The sex nebula incident.")
And Harvey had stared at both of them like they were *crazy* --
("Wait, is this where I put my headphones on or where I *yell* at Tim for him
being nuts?")
Bruce looked thoughtful for a moment --
And Tim had sighed.
("Perhaps a little of both, Harv. But Black Lightning has full control of his
powers --"
"Wasn't he *high*? Weren't you *all* high?"
"Yes, but --")
And Harvey had thrown a scourge at him --
And then looked horrified --
("Oh, God, I *know* where that's been -- and *you* know where that's been -
- and we *all* know -- where's the booze.")
And Bruce had pointed to the cooler Alfred -- who had *somehow* known they were
doing this -- had insisted on packing for them --
And they had started drinking. Heavily.
Right *now*... Janet is studying the wires with an expression on her face which
suggests that she doesn't *fully* understand what she's seeing --
And Thomas hums again, crossing his arms over his chest. "*Half* of the bars
are electrified. It's possible to remain in the cage without being shocked...
but not for very long."
And Janet stares at him with wide, *shocked* eyes --
"I have, thus far, been forced to save that cage for the professionals whose
services I occasionally purchase. While I *have* been able to find women in
that line of work who are both intelligent and well-read..." And Thomas raises
an eyebrow.
Janet swallows, hands spasming on her bunched-up skirt --
"You're frightened."
"Yes. Mr. Wayne."
"Of... scarring, perhaps?"
Janet inhales shakily and nods --
"No, Janet. You will -- always -- answer aloud."
"Yes, Mr. Wayne. I -- am afraid --"
"Apologize."
"W-what?"
"Apologize... for your error."
Janet stares at him, and her thighs are trembling again. Her eyes...
There is a *softness* --
Cassandra taps Tim's abdomen. "You see."
"She is... aroused."
"Yes. Still frightened, though. What... you pause now?"
Tim focuses and does so, and the image on the screen... is of a teenaged girl
who is both intimidated and *excited*. She's flushed and *shocked* -- and ready
for more, even if all she's ready for is to *know* more.
Tim squeezes Cassandra's hands on his waist. "What do you want to know?"
"Her parents. Her family?"
"Her parents died in a car accident just after she graduated from high school,
leaving just enough money to -- with her scholarship supplements -- pay for an
exceedingly high-quality college education --"
"'Accident'?"
Tim blinks --
And his mind fills with the image of Lex smiling at him with his mouth and
*inviting* him with his eyes --
("We both know what you do with your nights --"
"Just as we both know what you do with every moment of every *day*, Lex...?"
"Well... not right *now*."
"Lex."
"Plausible deniability is --"
"Another term for a tissue of lies."
"You don't think you've created more of a broadcloth at this point...?")
And Tim had kept his stern expression for a beat --
Another --
And then Lex had blown him a kiss, and Tim had snorted and promised himself a
significant amount of time to make Clark deliriously happy -- as well as at
least one photograph of the 'World's Finest' doing something irritatingly -- to
Lex -- heroic.
He doesn't *quite* have a foot in both camps, and he never, ever will, but --
But.
Lex had almost certainly been busily working on taking advantage of his
parricide *while* Tim and Harvey were frantically trying to figure out how to
get Bruce back. The murder had been in December nineteen-seventy-eight and Lex
had been under -- ultimately useless -- suspicion *immediately*.
Janet's parents had died in late June of nineteen fifty-eight -- over twenty
years earlier. Had Janet been, say, a *James*, there might have been *some*
suspicion leveled at her back then... or there might not have been. It was, in
fact, a more innocent time.
Still...
"No?"
Tim shakes his head slowly. "To the best of my knowledge, Janet's mechanical
expertise is almost nil *now* -- and it would've been even worse then."
"Accident was mechanical?"
"That was what the articles I studied... suggested," Tim says, and frowns. "I
never did see the actual police reports. Does she seem, at this point in time,
to be capable --"
"Everyone is capable of murder."
Tim raises an eyebrow.
"Even Bruce."
Tim raises it *higher* --
"Would just hurt him more. Maybe *enough* more that he would do it... badly.
You know this."
Tim strokes Cassandra's forearms. "I believe, with all of myself, that he would
fail. Even if one of us would die if he did."
"Yes, you do."
"You disagree."
"He breaks himself -- he would break himself to save us. He would..." She
scratches his abdomen meditatively, *thoughtfully* -- "He is not the only one.
Don't know how else to say it."
For a moment, Tim is confused -- but then comprehension hits hard. "He's not
the only Batman... and so he feels he can afford to destroy his own psyche and
ability to act *as* the Batman --"
"Yes! Yes, that!"
Tim winces. Queasily. "That... is too easy to see."
"You protect him. So do we. *Always*."
"I have to talk to him, Cassandra. I -- he can't do that --"
"He doesn't know he will."
"If he does know --"
"Will it help?" And Cassandra looks down at him curiously.
Tim winces again --
"You don't think so."
"I -- still have to try, Cassandra."
"Yes. You do," she says, and squeezes him again. "More now."
Tim nods and focuses --
And listens to Janet pant --
And struggle to slow her breathing down --
And *pant* --
And then she straightens her posture as best as she can with her arms akimbo,
lifts her chin --
She lowers her head. "I apologize, Mr. Wayne."
"For...?"
Janet *just* touches her tongue to her upper lip --
Thomas' eyes are *glittering* --
"For... my error --"
"Be specific. Exactitude is important in *all* areas of life, Janet."
And the angle isn't the *best*... but it's still abundantly clear that she's
narrowing her eyes and preparing to resist.
Thomas can see it, too -- *that* much is clear by the way he tightens his grip
on his own biceps for just a moment. "Before you do... take a moment to
continue touring this space. I think you need to understand where you are
somewhat better than you do now. Head up."
Janet looks up immediately --
"Good girl. Explore."
Janet flushes -- and does so.
She stops by the collection of leather-covered ottomans. All of them are of
different heights and widths, and would present the submissive using them in a
variety of ways. Harvey had convinced them to simply sterilize them and donate
them to charity.
Janet moves on, and stops by the small table which had, at the time of Thomas'
death, fourteen different gags -- all of which allowed for the submissive in
question to make a great deal of noise, however incoherently. There are only
six there at this point in time, but all of them are quite complex -- and
almost certainly custom made.
Perhaps by Thomas *himself* --
Janet picks up the one which would most commonly be known now as a 'spider' gag
and stares at it with confusion --
And Thomas smiles. "The ring fits behind your teeth, forcing your mouth to
remain open -- no matter what. The straps fasten behind your neck. The 'legs,'
such as they are, are far more aesthetic than useful."
"It... looks like something one would see at a *dentist's* office, Mr. Wayne."
Thomas hums. "You don't say. Keep going."
"I -- yes, Mr. Wayne," she says, and sets the gag down.
The next small table is covered with an assortment of nipple clamps and
weights. There is no sign of the -- clip-on -- jewelry which had been there in
the eighties.
Janet swallows. "Are these... for my breasts?"
"For your nipples *only*, Janet. I've experimented extensively, but clamping
the breast itself creates an aesthetic which can only be termed sloppy. We will
not be doing so. Keep going."
"Yes, Mr. Wayne."
She pauses in what, at first, appears to be a large, empty space -- but it
doesn't take her long to look up. Bolted into the ceiling are chains -- of
adjustable length -- with simple leather cuffs at the end of them, chains with
steel *manacles* at the end of them, and several lengths of several *kinds* of
rope. The nautical-quality rope appears to be the most-used, but Tim isn't
going to try to make that sort of estimate right now.
Janet licks her lips --
*Flexes* her hands on her skirt --
And keeps walking.
The next piece she comes to is a standard -- for the year two thousand, anyway,
and no one has ever said Thomas *wasn't* ahead of his time -- adjustable
bondage chair. The submissive can be reclined at several angles while her
thighs are locked in a spread position and her arms are locked in a cruciform
position. The seat is completely split.
"Self-explanatory, I believe?"
Janet closes her eyes --
Opens them and straightens her posture --
And lowers her head again. "Yes, Mr. Wayne."
"Good girl. Keep going."
By the eighties, there was a bench *there* that would force the submissive's
knees nearly to her chest while locking her ankles to a bar above her head. The
wrists could be tied in any number of positions... and the vulva and anus would
remain exposed to anything desired.
To Janet's left -- where there is currently a small table holding a collection
of 'free' leather cuffs and steel manacles -- there will eventually be an
'impaler' bolted to the floor with a spreader bar and removable dildo.
Janet isn't looking at the cuffs.
Janet... is looking at the hospital-green curtain that stretches across the
entirety of the space.
"You may feel free to remove *one* hand from your skirt to pull the curtain
aside. But you *will* put it right back."
Janet shivers and turns to stare at Thomas, who still has his arms crossed over
his chest.
His legs are precisely shoulder-width apart, and his erection is visibly
impressive enough --
Janet stares at it for a long moment --
"Oh, Janet. You haven't earned that, yet."
Janet makes a shocked and *affronted* noise --
And then obviously tries to pull her submissive and *obedient* expression back
on. She fails --
And Thomas shakes his head. "Janet. What did I *just* say about fakery?"
"I'm not -- I was surprised --"
"That wasn't the answer to my question," Thomas says, and he's already moving,
fast and gracefully.
Janet steps back once --
"No, Janet."
Janet stops and shakes her head --
And then Thomas winds her hair around his left fist and grips her small wrists
with his right. He walks her the last two paces to the curtain, then forces her
face against it. "Bite it."
"What -- I --"
"*Now*," and Thomas *shakes* her --
"*Fuck* --"
"Profanity is, at best, a failure of imagination. At worst, it is the sign of a
*polluted* mind, fit only for the lowliest possible occupations. Often? It is
*both*. You will not curse again, Janet."
"I -- I apologize --"
"For?"
"I apologize for cursing!"
"Very good. Now *bite the curtain*."
Janet moans and does it --
"Do you have a *good* grip, Janet? In this case, you may nod or shake your
head."
Janet moans --
Shivers --
And nods.
"Excellent," and Thomas *pulls* her -- and thus the curtain -- across the room,
exposing what Tim had taken to calling 'the medical area' aloud. He's called it
other things *deep* in the privacy of his own mind --
Bruce was so *upset* --
("It's a *perversion*, Tim! Harv, please help me explain --"
"It's a perversion. It's -- I can't believe -- I'm trying to think of me using
my office to bang defendants or something --"
"To be fair, I think we can be reasonably sure that he didn't bring his
*patients* here --"
"Wasn't your *mother* his patient, little guy?")
And that...
That had been a *skip* in his mind, something like a caesura between his need
to soothe his brothers and his need to finish cleaning out his *father's*
*dungeon* --
Tim had sat down *on* the cooler --
Harvey had placed a Macallan on the rocks in his hand --
And Bruce had stroked his hair.
Here, in this moment, Cassandra is stroking Tim's navel through his worn t-
shirt and digging her chin in against the top of his head.
There, in nineteen-sixty, Janet and Thomas aren't breathing very well, at all,
as they stare at the gurney -- with stirrups just *waiting* for feet which are,
presumably, as petite as the rest of the body.
The stirrups have canvas restraints attached to them, as does the gurney
itself. It appears that, at this point in time, at least, Thomas prefers his
submissives to keep their wrists near their waists.
"Do you see, Janet?"
"Y-yes, Mr. Wayne --"
"Good," and he walks her to a collection of rolling trays which wouldn't be out
of place in an operating room.
The first one has a selection of speculums -- and Janet looks confused.
"Hmm. I see you don't know what these are. You will -- someday," and Thomas
smiles and moves to the next tray, bending her face down enough that her nose
is pressed to the first -- and smallest -- pair of forceps on the tray. "Do you
see?"
"Y-yes --"
"Good," and Thomas lifts her and moves her to the next tray --
And the next --
And the *next* --
And Janet is panting now, flushed and -- no. They're *both* sweating, and
Thomas' breathing is rough enough --
*Difficult* enough --
His hands are *shaking* on her wrists and in her hair -- and then he lets her
go. "The stockings are lovely. The panties are adequate. The shoes are
excellent. All of the above must go. *Now*."
Janet moves to unbutton her skirt --
And Thomas lifts her and throws her bodily over the side of the gurney --
She slides far enough over that her toes don't touch the *floor* --
And Thomas begins to spank her *hard* again, *fast* and hard -- "I said
*nothing* about the skirt!"
"Ow -- oh -- *ow* --"
"*Apologize*."
"I'm sorry!"
"For *what*?" And Thomas alternates buttocks --
Janet kicks and *yells* --
"*Answer*!"
"Please -- *please*, Mr. Wayne!"
"What. Are. You. Sorry. *For*?"
"Oh -- oh, God -- fuck --" And then Janet is screaming -- and trying to close
her legs against Thomas spanking her *vulva*.
"If you don't spread your legs, Janet... well. You have *some* idea now of what
will happen, don't you?"
"You -- you'll hurt me anyway!"
"Oh, yes. But the *question* is... when will I *stop*?"
Janet grunts and kicks again -- apparently involuntarily -- and one of her
heels falls off. And then she spreads her legs.
"There's a good girl. Think about your apologies," Thomas says, and begins to
spank her again through her panties, using his fingers more than his palm.
Janet whimpers and bites her lip --
Curls her toes and claws and the side of the gurney's mattress --
Pants --
And then begins to cry out for every spank, wincing and *shuddering* as Thomas
strikes again --
And again --
And again --
And Tim knows how that feels with Barbara, with Stephanie --
Once, even, with Dinah the younger, because adrenaline and shared kinks had
been enough to *combat* the incestuousness they both found -- for *once* -
- *problematic*. This --
His *mother* --
Cassandra squeezes him, and... and Tim has no mother. Tim has *never* had a
mother. Janet is the woman who *eventually* gave birth to him after allowing
the man currently -- almost certainly -- bruising her outer labia to impregnate
her.
Janet is the woman who is beginning to moan. Who --
Tim lets himself *shift* --
And Cassandra makes a small questioning sound and *scratches* Tim's abdomen.
That --
"You're not sure?"
"*You're* not sure."
Well. "That's an entirely fair assessment -- I'm not planning to spend my time
watching this... the way I spent my time watching the other... interludes," Tim
says, and twines his fingers with Cassandra's. "I think that would leave
'draining the infection' behind and head somewhere... else."
"Maybe."
"'Maybe'?"
Cassandra shrugs. "Neither of us know."
"That's... extremely frustrating."
"To you, yes," she says, and squeezes his hands.
"I suppose we should just... take this sort of thing --"
"As it comes, yes."
Tim nods thoughtfully -- stops. Blinks. "That was a pun."
Cassandra hums and wags her head back and forth.
Tim snorts quietly. "Noted," he says, and turns back to the viewscreen --
To Janet being *rocked* by every strike --
Janet *grunting* and crying out -- no, that was more of a loud *whimper* than a
cry, more --
Tim sighs and focuses... and the view swings to show her face clearly. She's
flushed, of course, but her expression is almost *contorted* with the sort of
discomfort that can make someone shudder -- all over -- every few moments. She
--
"I'm still waiting, Janet..." And Thomas sounds cheerful again, sounds --
Tim shifts the focus -- yes. The wildness is still in his eyes, but the
*volume* has been turned down. Not by *much*, but --
Enough that there's an actual skin of *serenity* over the rest of his
expression when Janet gasps --
"Oh -- oh, *God*, I --"
"Yes?"
"I'm -- *nnh* -- *ow* -- oh, *God* --"
And Thomas is spanking her faster, if no harder --
Thomas is smiling --
"If there's anything you need to *say*, Janet..."
"Ahn -- nuh -- *hnh* -- "
"Anything, at all --"
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry for -- for *cursing* -- Mr. Wayne!"
"You know, I almost *believe* you. Almost," he says, and then *does* start
spanking her harder --
Janet *wails* -- and begins to buck and kick *wildly*, screaming in staccato
*bursts* --
"Control your-- oh. Oh, I *see*," Thomas says, and smiles *brightly*. "Perhaps
we'll just..." And he begins to spank her with rapid and *sharp* motions --
Janet *chokes* on a scream and kicks again --
Gasps and screams again --
*Gurgles* -- "Mr. -- Mr. *Wayne*!"
"You still owe me another apology, of course..."
"*HNH* --"
And Janet slumps, dropping onto her elbows and groaning --
Thomas doesn't stop *spanking* -- "Anytime you're ready, Janet. We have time."
Janet moans, mouth working as she obviously -- no. Tim focuses, split-screening
until he can see both of their faces again -- and Janet's expression is more
stunned than shocked, more...
Jay would say 'blown' -- or possibly 'fucked out.'
*Tim* -- has never seen Janet this... lost. He searches his memories of all of
those times when she's walked into his bedroom in a full-coverage robe... but,
as calm and *pleased* as she was at those times, she was always in control of
herself. This...
There's *saliva* on her chin --
She's blinking in an almost *bovine* -- and then she shakes herself, pants,
focuses -- "I'm. I'm very sorry I tried to take off my skirt without -
- permission, Mr. Wayne."
Thomas sighs, and there's almost a tinge of *regret* to it -- "Very good.
You'll learn to be faster, of course."
"Yes, Mr. Wayne -- *ah*!"
"Count," Thomas says, and begins spanking her vulva as hard as he was *before*
--
"Nnh -- *nnh* --"
"*Count*!"
"One-two-three!"
"Good. Keep going."
"Four!"
"More."
"*Please* -- I mean -- *five-six*!"
"Good girl, keep going...."
"S-seven --" And Janet sobs -- shakes her head --
Thomas *growls* and *strikes* at her --
And Janet *shouts* -- "Eight-nine-ten!"
Thomas hums -- and stops, pulling back and looking Janet over thoughtfully. He
is, if anything, even more erect than he was *before* --
He kicks her shoes away from her feet. "Up, and follow the orders I gave you
before."
"Yes, Mr. Wayne!" And Janet tries to move quickly -- she nearly falls when her
knees buckle --
Thomas catches her easily and sets her on her feet. "Breathe, Janet."
"Yes -- yes, I'm sorry --"
"Shh," he says, and squeezes her biceps gently. "These feelings can be quite
intense. More intense than they are when we masturbate," and Thomas smiles down
at her -- also gently.
Janet pants and stares up at him, lips parted and eyes wide --
She's so young --
She's so *young*, but not that *much* younger than she'll be when she gives
birth to *him*. She's -- she's the same woman. Isn't she?
Shouldn't...
Shouldn't this feel --
Cassandra squeezes him. "Why scared?"
Tim laughs. "I would think she'd be frightened because the very large man she's
locked in a dungeon with --"
"She's not scared. Not much, anyway. You are."
Tim -- doesn't bite the inside of his cheek.
Nor does he bother with denials.
He focuses enough to shift the view to a large zoom of Janet's tear- and
saliva-slick features, and then he pauses it. And then he simply looks at her,
and --
And looks.
She isn't his mother. She isn't --
He's never *had* a mother -- not by any definition which would make sense to
his family, whether or not *they* had mothers -- and watching this doesn't
change the past thirty-five years of his existence. She is, however, the woman
who gave birth to him, and trained him, and taught him, and helped turn him
into the paranoid, mean-spirited, and emotionally repressed *bastard* he is
today.
She is the woman who was the single largest -- largest by *far* -- influence on
his life until he was nearly fourteen years old.
Not Thomas, not Harvey -- no matter *how* much his visits meant -- not the JSA,
and *certainly* not Jack Drake.
Her. *Her*. She was *iron*. She was -- not steel. Steel is *stronger* than
iron, and doesn't *degrade* as catastrophically. She was iron and pain and cold
and --
And the *enforcement* of every --
Every *rule*.
But right now...
Right now, she's perhaps *one* more *decent* orgasm away from a state which
would leave her...
Putty? Something even *more* malleable?
If all she *really* needed from him was a show of *dominance* --
But he'd already known that, hadn't he?
His confrontation with Janet in the summer of nineteen seventy-nine shattered
no earths but the one inside his mind, but --
But it gave him freedom. And it taught him that he was capable of standing up
to her, of doing more than mocking and being snide within the privacy of his
mind.
It taught him --
But she never *softened* during that conversation. Not even after she was
*enchanted*. She --
("Do *precisely* what you want, Tim... because we both know you will *never*
forget who you are.")
Of course, he wasn't even fourteen, yet --
Not experienced in any way, shape, or form with *taking* control --
It was the last substantive conversation they ever *had* which didn't involve
Helena --
Tim frowns and digs his fingertips in against his temples --
Cassandra squeezes his wrists immediately. She doesn't have the strength to
move his arms if he chooses to fight her -- not with the available leverage -
- but --
He doesn't have to make her fight. He relaxes his hands.
She loosens her grip.
"I want -- I want to understand --"
"No, you don't."
Oh. "Well... shit," Tim says, and laughs somewhat hysterically -- then stops.
"All right, let me fix that," he says, and focuses on himself, looking for -
- fear --
Fear of Janet -- no. Fear of his *mother*, because there are parts of him which
still believe in that fiction --
Oh, yes, and they *want* to believe in that, they *need* to --
They're young and they're holding *on* to it, because --
Because if they can, if she *is* his mother, then it doesn't matter *how* he
turns out, right?
How hateful, how small and *hateful* --
And he's within himself at once, the avatar he's built --
Of course he's in the Batsuit. Black and grey and full of shadows, *calling* on
shadows --
But so is the boy he's stalking.
The boy is reasonably well-formed for his size, quick and stealthy as he moves
on the edges of --
Where?
No, no question: He's in Wayne Manor, and the Batman knows that only some of
the shadows here belong to him, but the boy doesn't care. The boy only wants
one thing, and that's revenge, revenge against the man who hurt him --
It's all his *fault* --
He'll make him *pay*, pay *forever* --
And the Batman isn't in the least bit surprised that the boy is walking past
Thomas' suite --
That the boy is building a weapon to fill his hand that can't decide whether to
be a sword or a knife --
That the boy can't truly *see* Bruce, see the man he is, the *boy* he is --
Bruce is on his *knees* again --
The boy just sees an easier target.
The boy crouches to spring --
And the Batman doesn't hesitate, striking hard for the bundle of nerves at the
base of the boy's spine --
The feel is almost *mushy* --
The boy is *screaming* as he collapses --
And so the Batman snaps his neck. The avatar disappears, and something --
Something *lightens* in him, while something else wants to *weep* --
The Batman --
*Tim* shudders and stands, lifting Bruce to his feet and kissing his cheek
before sweeping Wayne Manor *away* --
He also isn't surprised that the manor is distinctly *sluggish* about leaving.
Still, eventually the space is blank, clear --
And Tim feels even lighter, even --
Less tethered? Less -- less *bound*?
There's something *similar* to the feeling he'd had when Jason had released him
from his/the earth's power, only it's significantly more positive, and --
Cassandra pats his cheeks firmly. "What did you do?"
Tim opens his eyes --
Blinks at Janet's soft, soft face --
Searches himself -- and smiles. "I want to understand her."
"Yes! *How*?"
"Well -- don't hit me."
"I want to hit you now."
"I know. Don't do it," Tim says, and tilts his head back to smile at her. "I
murdered one -- just one! There are still several left -- of my inner
children."
Cassandra stares at him in *horror*, which --
"All right, that reaction *is* only to be expected -- continue not to hit me --
"
"*Tim*!"
"It was... one of the parts of me which were clinging to the past.
Specifically, to the parts of the past which *hurt* the most."
"You *talk* to those parts! You *show* those parts the good -- the *better*
way!"
"And when that doesn't work --"
But Cassandra's scowl can be as effective as a nerve-strike, in some ways.
Tim laughs quietly and reaches up to caress her face. "It had spent the past
two decades -- more -- murdering Bruce, Cassandra."
She rears back -- and frowns. "Blames... him?"
"Yes."
"Even --" She frowns more deeply. "You... said."
"I did, yes. In truth, I didn't realize how deep the resentment... well, of
course *parts* of me knew *precisely* how deep the resentment went," and Tim
smiles ruefully. "I just wasn't letting the rest of me know."
"Too many *pieces*."
"Yes --"
"Don't *murder* any more!"
"I --"
"Put them *together*. Make them -- make them *learn*. "
Tim takes a deep breath and strokes her mouth. "Even if it takes years?"
"We will wait. We will *all* wait."
"Because you love... enough of me."
"*All* of you," she says, and glares again.
"You don't *know* all of me --"
"Love *anyway*. Because we -- because it works that way. You *know* that."
"I --"
"I will break your computers."
"Cassandra --"
"I will *pee* on them!"
Tim touches his tongue to his upper lip. And raises an eyebrow. "You could just
nerve-strike me."
"Not hurt enough."
Tim coughs --
And laughs --
And sits up and turns, cupping Cassandra's face with both hands and kissing her
deeply, as softly as she likes from him, more deeply than that --
She tackles and pins him --
She bites his lips hard enough to make him grunt and grunt *again* --
She *grinds* their groins together -- and her scent, which had settled into
background sensation, is loud enough to taste, heavy enough to *touch* --
He rolls them and kisses her again --
She turns her head.
Tim pauses -- and kisses her cheek before pulling back. "No?"
She sighs and reaches up to pat his cheeks. "More fixing."
"No sex until I've had my therapy?"
"Yes."
"Hm."
"No 'hm'. Fixing."
Tim inclines his head and kneels up. "As you say."
She smiles up at him. "Understand Janet now!"
Tim opens his mouth to protest -- and presses on the bruise on his neck,
instead.
"Good!"
He inclines his head again. "It shook me to see her like that, because she
suddenly seems not just soft, but *attainable*. *Comprehensible*. It was even
more difficult to take because the process of *getting* her to that point was
one which I've been on both sides of in the past. In the *recent* past."
Cassandra nods.
"However, the fact of the matter is that, while she is *not* truly my mother, I
am *enough* her son that that sort of relationship is closed to us. More to the
point, while I believe that *she* believes that she would've married Thomas had
the opportunity been presented to her..."
"You don't?"
"Oh, I believe she would have -- but it wouldn't have pleased her. To have to
live with him, breakfast with him, presumably make love with him *more* than
once a week or so -- and that was the maximum for them... no, she wouldn't have
coped well with that, at all," Tim says, and gestures a come-on.
"Lap or breasts?"
Tim considers.
Cassandra waits cheerfully.
"If I put my head in your lap again *while* watching this, I'll probably wind
up murdering more of my inner children. While ejaculating several million
unborn children *on* you."
She sticks her tongue out at him.
"Precisely. Breasts, it is."
She sits up and moves to sit against the headboard again, then opens her arms
for Tim. Her pectorals are actually more substantial than her breasts, but that
doesn't make her breasts any less wonderful.
Bruce likes to dress Cassandra in men's -- boy's -- suits before thoroughly
sodomizing her --
Bruce is marvelously predictable.
So is he.
Tim smiles and closes his eyes for a moment.
"More Janet?"
"Oh, yes," Tim says, and turns his cheek against her right breast. She only
wears bras for patrol and -- *sometimes* -- the *press* --
And he can focus.
"I'm not sure she ever realized -- or ever *will* realize -- that she wasn't
made to be Janet Evans Wayne. I *am* sure that it's a rare autocrat who doesn't
require *some* time to let their hair down, however metaphorically, and the
fact that she got to do so while a) climbing the social ladder, b) climbing the
*business* ladder, and c) thumbing her nose at all the wealthier, higher-status
women she will never, ever admit to having wanted to be when she was that
age... well," Tim says, and spreads her hands. "Thomas was useful on a number
of levels."
"Okay. Other lovers?"
"Only Jack Drake, to the best of my knowledge."
"We will watch --"
"No."
"No?"
Tim reaches up and back to wrap his left arm around the back of Cassandra's
neck. "He is a nonentity in my life. Our lives. He is... meaningless."
This particular *quality* of silence means that he's being studied, but... for
this, he's confident about his self-analysis. And, after a moment, Cassandra
nods.
Tim gestures at the viewscreen. "Shall we?"
"Let's!"
Tim smiles and focuses, dealing with the unnatural stillness of the image of
Janet's face as his bedroom fills with the sound of her ragged breaths --
Her *quiet* moans --
And Thomas' hum. "That's right, Janet. Allow yourself to feel precisely the
way... well, why don't *you* tell *me*?"
And the image cuts in on Thomas' -- openly -- paternal expression --
The smile lifting the corners of his thick mustache and -- somehow -- belying
the sweat at his temples and the tension at the corners of his *eyes* --
The hunger *in* his eyes --
Tim changes the view to a split-screen --
And Janet is getting some of her focus back, but she's still wide-eyed, still -
- "Should I... I'm not sure what I should say. Mr. Wayne."
"How you feel. Physically, emotionally, intellectually..." Thomas nods
encouragingly. "Go on."
Janet licks her lips. "Yes. Yes, I -- oh --" She drops her hands to her waist
and gathers her skirt up again -- and lowers her head.
Thomas sighs and squeezes her biceps again. "Good girl. So lovely. You know
what to do."
"Yes. Yes, Mr. Wayne. I... my... lips. Hurt."
"How much, on a scale from one to ten? Ten being the most pain, of course. A
pain which makes you weep despite yourself."
"I..." Janet licks her lips. "S-seven. I think. Or... seven and a half."
Thomas sighs again and strokes her biceps. "That's good. That's very good. You
can take a great deal of punishment, Janet. You should feel very proud."
"Th-thank you. Mr. Wayne --"
"What of your buttocks?"
Janet pants --
Blushes *deeply* --
And hangs her head further. "My... buttocks are only at... five and a half."
"Is that so."
"Yes, Mr. Wayne."
Thomas hums and lets go. "Stockings and panties off. Now. You may let your
skirt fall as it will while you're taking them off."
"Yes, Mr. W--"
"Often, a fresh, new submissive will try to impress a dominant by claiming to
be able to take more pain than they truly can..."
Janet jerks and nearly trips while removing her left stocking -- and this time
Thomas doesn't catch her.
"I've always found that the best way to teach that lesson -- to teach the
importance of *honesty* and *clarity* in all things -- is to let the submissive
learn... the hard way. Faster, Janet."
"Y-yes, Mr. Wayne."
And she moves quickly enough for Tim's tastes --
There are *parts* of him which were not ready to deal with the fact that
Janet's dark brown pubic hair has been shaved into a neat, but still quite
substantial triangle --
Possibly it's those parts which expanded the view of her undressing to full-
screen --
But, despite her compliance, Thomas still grips her biceps firmly and throws
her forward over the gurney again, exposing her *extremely* reddened ass before
opening a drawer Tim remembers being filled with assorted metal anal toys. He
pulls out --
The hook.
Specifically, an anal hook of the sort Tim *only* allows Clark to use on him,
because *only* Clark has the speed and control to keep Tim from going rather
dangerously *insane* --
Perhaps some (even more) things will turn out to be hereditary.
Thomas lifts a small metal ball from the drawer and examines it closely for...
flaws? Size?
His own kinks?
He then blows out a breath through his nose and shakes his head. "Rest your
face on your left cheek, reach back with both hands, and spread your buttocks."
"W-what -- I --"
"I have thus far restrained myself from making you bleed, Janet. I do not have
to continue on that path."
Janet jerks and flushes, pushing up on her toes before dropping down again --
"No. Stay on your toes... yes, like that. Perfect. Now spread your buttocks for
me."
The whimper is quiet -- muffled --
"And rest your *cheek* on the gurney, Janet. Don't backslide so *quickly*."
Janet pants on a moan -- it isn't muffled, at all.
And she reaches back to spread her buttocks without another word. It's awkward,
and her left hand slips twice before she can get the right grip --
And Thomas strokes down the fly of his trousers with the side of his thumb
again. Once. "Good -- no. Spread wider."
"H-how --"
"As widely as you can, of course."
"Oh, f-- God --"
"Was that going to be a curse, Janet...?"
"*No*!"
And Thomas sighs and shakes his head. "Lying is a terrible offense, Janet. And
really, don't you think you do enough of it in your day-to-day life?"
"I -- I wasn't --"
"*Compounding* the error? Well. I *had* been planning on using the smallest...
attachment --"
"What -- what?"
"And *then* I had been planning on using the *next* largest, but... I'm afraid
you've asked for just this," and Thomas pulls the third-largest steel ball from
the drawer and immediately screws it on to the end of the hook.
The sound of it makes Tim *clench* in *memory* --
Cassandra scratches his abdomen --
And Tim lifts her other hand to his mouth and plants sucking kisses along all
of her knuckles.
She hums and kisses the top of his head --
And Thomas is lubricating the ball thoroughly while staring down at Janet, who
is flushed and *squirming* -- while remaining on her toes with her buttocks
spread.
"It's abundantly clear that you *can* be a good girl -- a *wonderful* girl,
even," Thomas says, and moves close enough to loom over her. "It's equally
clear that we can both enjoy ourselves immensely when you... are," and Thomas
presses the ball against her hole --
"*Ahn* --"
"A bit chilly, I know, but it will warm quickly inside you, I assure you."
"I -- I -- it's too big --"
"Shh. Simply tell yourself that it *will* be going in no matter what... because
it will be going in. No matter what."
Janet's hands shake on her buttocks --
"*Don't* let go. Dig those lovely little claws in, if you'd like."
Janet whimpers -- and does it. "Yes. Mr. Wayne -- you're pushing --"
"Oh, yes. And I will not stop until the ball is inside you. You need not worry
-- the design of this implement is such that it's absolutely impossible for the
ball to become... lost."
"Oh, God --"
"That, at least, wasn't another curse... I knew you could learn quickly, given
the right incentive."
"Please -- please, it's too big --"
"No, it isn't. It's merely big enough to cause you... discomfort," and Thomas
smiles again, mustache almost seeming to bristle.
By a trick of the timing, Janet shivers *just* as the smile... peaks --
Shivers and *flexes* --
"There we are," and Thomas pushes *hard* --
"Please, *no* -- *HNH* -- *NNH* --"
And Thomas steps back to, perhaps, examine his handiwork. Janet is still
grunting -- *loudly* -- on every breath --
And the way she's clenching around the ball is eminently visible. She's still
holding herself *spread* --
The hook portion of the toy is curved *almost* perfectly to suit her --
And a part of Tim only wonders if Thomas had made it himself in the -- private,
of course -- workshop he'd made for himself in what had been the stables --
If he had, perhaps, made it with *Martha* in mind...
Tim licks the backs of his teeth -- and stops Cassandra from stroking down to
his groin.
"No?"
"Not yet," he says, and smiles ruefully.
"Okay."
Tim focuses, zooming in on Thomas' face -- yes, the wildness is back in full
force, the sense of control as being something which simply doesn't *happen* to
him --
"Stay right there, Janet. In *precisely* that position."
Tim shakes his head and lets the display return to a wide enough view that he
can see them both --
"P-please -- the... the ball --"
"Will remain inside you until I'm ready to remove it," Thomas says, and slaps
her vulva with the hand he *hadn't* been using to force the toy in --
Janet screams --
Clenches --
Screams *again* --
And Thomas sighs. "My advice is to accustom yourself to the sensations -- as
much as is possible -- as *quickly* as possible. Otherwise, you will simply
compound your suffering."
"*Please*!"
"Shh. Remember to stay still." And Tim lets the focus follow Thomas as he
leaves her there, washing his hands and forearms in the deep, hospital-standard
sink and drying them before moving back into the main dungeon.
He pulls what seems to be an eight-foot length of nylon rope from one of the
drawers, then spends two solid minutes perusing the collars on display. He
spends the longest amount of time studying a two-inch wide black leather one
with a metal D-ring -- but he sets that down and moves to one of the cabinets
Janet hadn't examined.
In the eighties, the cabinet hadn't contained anything but minor construction
equipment -- presumably for on-the-fly repairs. Now...
Now, Thomas is pulling out a *posture* collar -- with rings at front and back -
- which is designed to provide coverage from the base of the throat to just
beneath the *nose* -- ah, it includes an open-mouth gag. That's --
"You want one," Cassandra says.
"To a certain extent. I'd need someone who'd want to *use* it with me first,"
Tim says, and squeezes himself viciously --
"Clark."
"Clark can *make* one --"
And there's a tap on the window with the easiest-to-remove screen. Tim hums and
pauses the action.
"Do come in."
"Oh, thank you," Clark says, and settles beside them on the bed. His boots are
off and his cape is gathered neatly in his lap. "It's wonderful to see you
both," and he beams at them.
He doesn't need to see -- he knows Cassandra is beaming back.
Clark hums and turns to him. "Ah...?"
Tim lets his smile be a sharp one. "Yes...?"
"Perhaps you could... be specific? About the *size* of the collar...?"
Tim smiles more broadly.
"Oh, my." Clark adjusts the tie which isn't there. "Of course... of course, we
wouldn't want to be... hasty."
"Hasty...?"
"It... it might be... precipitous..."
"Yes, Clark...?"
And then Kal is -- quite literally, if carefully -- burning at him. <<I believe
there will be a need for more than *one* such garment, fine one.>>
Tim laughs... and lowers his head. <<This one believes that you are correct, as
ever... you-who-are-most-high.>>
Cassandra giggles and leans in to *nip* the back of Tim's neck --
Tim's penis twitches hopefully -- but. He reaches back to tap Cassandra's hip
twice --
"Okay," she says, and leans back --
<<You -- and your devices -- could be in the Fortress in moments, fine one.>>
<<This one -->> Tim shakes his head. "I'm not -- quite -- ready for that. For
all that my body is *exceedingly* ready for it."
And there is the moment -- and it's always there -- when Kal lingers slightly
too long --
When the feel of him *threatens* just enough to put Tim's back up *and* make
him sweat at the base of his spine --
But then Kal closes his eyes, and, when he opens them, he is Clark again. "It's
really quite terrible of you to put the rest of us in a position where we must
be grateful to Jason *Blood*, Tim."
Tim hums and reaches over to twine his fingers with Clark's --
"Oh --" And Clark smiles *brilliantly* and squeezes with the perfect amount of
firmness. "Thank you. But?"
"We're going to have to work harder to bring him in -- yes, that *is* what I
just said."
Clark looks *subtly* stricken, but --
Tim squeezes back. "Look at it this way, Clark: He's just going to get worse if
we continue to leave him to his own devices until such time as we need him."
"I do see what you're saying --"
"No buts."
Clark sighs, and leans -- floats -- in to kiss his cheek, and then, judging by
the sounds, to kiss Cassandra all over her face --
Cassandra giggles and makes lip-smacking noises --
And then there's a blur -- and Clark is hovering outside Tim's window making
the 'call me' gesture.
Tim inclines his head --
And Clark is gone... inasmuch as he ever is. Tim resettles himself against
Cassandra's chest, and Cassandra wraps her arms around him and squeezes
tightly. "He missed you."
"I missed... all of you. I'm not going to do that to myself again."
"No," she says, with certainty.
Tim smiles and focuses on the viewscreen. "You will, of course, not let me."
She grunts instead of bothering with pointless language --
And Thomas takes a shuddering breath as he examines the posture collar --
As he lifts it in his hand and strokes the broad 'o' of the open gag --
Janet whimpers loud enough...
Thomas bares his *teeth* -- and then straightens his shoulders and walks
*briskly* back into the medical area. Tim considers widening the view, but,
almost before he decides, there's a split-screen showing Thomas' and Janet's
profiles on one side and Janet's face on the other.
Janet is shivering and whimpering more, whimpering *quietly* as she holds her
buttocks spread --
She's sweating and there are *tears* rolling down her cheeks --
"Does the ball still feel cold, Janet...?"
"W-what? I --"
"Does the ball. Still. Feel. Cold."
"Nuh. No, Mr. Wayne. But --"
"Shh. Up on your feet," and Thomas snaps the fingers of the hand not holding
the collar.
"I -- I don't think I can --"
"Of course you can. And you will," Thomas says, and his voice is hard and low.
Janet whimpers again --
Squirms on her feet --
Cries out -- had she clenched?
"If you make me get the cane..."
Janet sobs and stands abruptly, staggering on her toes --
"Flat on your feet. *Now*."
"Nnh -- I -- yes, Mr. Wayne," she says, and settles, shivering -- no, that's
more of a full-body shudder.
Thomas examines her critically, plucking at her jacket -- and then shaking his
head. "This won't do. The aesthetic of such things -- the fully-clothed
dominant, the partially-clothed and decidedly *rumpled* submissive -- has quite
a long and noble tradition... but it doesn't suit my plans," he says, stepping
back and snapping the fingers of his free hand. "Everything off. Now."
"Yes -- yes, Mr. Wayne," she says, and shudders all over as soon as she touches
the fastenings of her skirt --
Her breasts are soft enough that even covered and clothed, there's something of
a *quiver* --
"Be quick about it, Janet."
She jumps for that, even though his voice wasn't particularly sharp; groans;
and undresses herself at speed. Her grace leaves something to be desired, but
it's clear that she feels... shaky. Full.
Tim can't say he doesn't understand.
"When you're done, simply rest your clothes on the chair in the corner. We
won't be using it just yet."
"Yes, Mr. Wayne."
She does so, and --
The chair had been replaced -- almost certainly multiple times -- by the
eighties. It had surprised Tim that it *wasn't* the wingback style of chair
that was ubiquitous in Wayne Manor and at Wayne Enterprises while Thomas was in
control. It was... more comfortable than that.
Nothing so crass as a *throne*, but definitely closer to an armchair -- albeit
one designed for a taller-than-average person -- than to anything else.
Something which encouraged the user to stay a while, and be comfortable...
while watching the struggles of whichever petite, dark-haired young woman was
up in the stirrups.
Janet winces when she bends to place the clothes in the chair -- as slowly as
someone elderly and arthritic -- and she's no faster when she stands straight
and turns back to Thomas. He points to the floor in front of him. She walks
over to him -- perhaps as quickly as she can -- shuddering and perhaps a little
chilled --
*Full* --
And she's biting her lip.
"Good girl. Grip your buttocks again."
She does so -- and blushes deeply.
Thomas narrows his eyes in pleasure. "Let's get you situated. Open wide. No,
wider --" Thomas sighs and shakes his head, then reaches between Janet's legs
with his free hand and does --
Something that makes her scream and let go of her buttocks. She pushes at his
arm --
"Hands. Behind. Your. Back."
"*Please*, Mr. Wayne --"
"*Now*!"
Janet sobs once --
Again --
And then she yanks her hands behind her back and opens her mouth -- clearly as
wide as she can. Tears are rolling freely down her face --
And, after a moment, Thomas moves his hand and swipes his fingers over her
philtrum.
She flinches -- but doesn't close her mouth.
"Perfect. See how quickly you learn?"
Janet shudders again and nods quickly, eyes wide -- and pupils blown. Hm.
"Cassandra..."
"She is confused."
"Yes? Or... she'd almost certainly never experimented with anal stimulation
before," Tim says, and steeples his fingers, resting his elbows on Cassandra's
thighs.
"Yes. And she is surprised."
"By liking the pain -- no. By how *much* she likes the pain."
"Yes. But also there is --"
"Shame. For... weakness?"
"Yes. Lots. Too much. Why?"
Tim smiles wryly and watches Thomas slip the -- impressive *and* intimidating -
- ring of the gag behind her teeth. "It could be the shuddering, the
whimpering, the tears... anything. All of them are... shameful, in their ways.
The question is --"
"She likes the shame, too. Doesn't know it, though."
Tim nods thoughtfully. Thomas is having no difficulty whatsoever with fitting
the rest of the collar in place. "I'm not at all sure when she'll pick up on
that -- assuming she ever does on fully conscious --"
"There. Say my name."
The noise Janet makes is, of course, incoherent and nearly *inhuman*. The
*flap* of her tongue -- visible through the shining *hole* of the gag -- is
obscene. She is blushing... deeply.
And Thomas is smiling. "Excellent. Almost there," he says, and moves around
behind her, looping the rope through the rings on the hook and the collar and
knotting it *tightly*.
Janet can now either face *almost* forward -- as much as the posture collar
will allow -- and *yank* on the ball in her ass; tilt her head back far enough
to ease the pull -- and thus see nothing but the ceiling; or --
"Head. Down."
Or that, and, as it happens, a whimper with that sort of gag in sounds like a
truncated keen. It's possible that it *was* a keen --
Her eyes are still so *wide* --
"I see you know what will happen. But understand this, Janet: It will happen no
matter what. The only question is when, and for how long. Do you understand?"
She *starts* to nod --
Winces and almost *dances* on her feet --
Thomas smiles almost *brightly* -- "You know how to answer."
Another keening sound --
Saliva drips down Janet's chin --
And she makes -- approximately -- the same inhuman collection of noises she'd
made before, *spraying* saliva this time.
"Such a messy girl. Well, there's nothing to be done for it *just* yet. Head
down."
That sound was almost certainly a *plea* --
"No. But feel free to make that sound... often --"
The plea is repeated *frantically* --
Saliva drips to the *floor* --
"Shh, shh. Not while you're already late to follow orders. *Down*."
A sob --
And she lowers her head slowly, shuddering --
Almost *quaking* --
Sobbing again and again as she pushes up on her toes, remembers that she's not
supposed to and drops, pushes up *again* --
Hm.
"Yes?"
Tim digs his elbows in against Cassandra's thighs --
Cassandra squeezes Tim's waist. "Ask."
"This isn't bothering you."
"No."
"Why?"
"Nothing I can do."
That's not, strictly, true -- but neither was Cassandra's answer. Tim tilts his
head back --
Cassandra smiles down at him *meanly*.
"Yes, Cassandra?"
"Why doesn't it bother you?"
Tim opens his mouth -- closes it. It *doesn't* bother him anymore. It's
*arousing* him, when, by rights, he should be thinking about walking through
the portal and, at the very least, explaining the concept of date rape to his
parents -- paradoxes be damned.
But he isn't. He --
"I'm not a very nice person."
Cassandra wrinkles her nose on a laugh she isn't voicing --
Janet *keens* again --
Tim pauses the action half-thoughtlessly -- "You, Cassandra, *are* a nice
person."
"Yes. Most of the time."
"But?"
She shrugs like -- exactly like -- Jay. "Nothing I can do --"
Tim opens his mouth --
"Nothing I can do *without you doing more bad things*!" And she glares at him.
Tim nods. "Go on."
*She* nods. "They are... not for me to save. They are not victims. They... made
Batman," she says, and very clearly searches her thoughts for more and better
ways to put it -- and then she shrugs again. "Not a job for Batgirl. Never
was."
Tim blinks --
Gives himself a moment to try to *encompass* Cassandra's thought process -
- "What else isn't a job for Batgirl?"
"*Your* jobs. Killing."
"And?"
"No 'and'. Everything else is mine, and the family's."
Tim takes a deep breath --
Cassandra strokes his throat and chest -- "It's okay. I'm not evil and neither
are you."
Tim *snorts* --
And Cassandra nuzzles his scalp.
Tim keeps breathing, settles back against her again, and focuses.
The keens are nearly constant, now, which is making Tim impatient for the image
to come back --
Thomas' breathing isn't *quite* panted --
Janet's keen hitches and she *gulps* --
And the image comes back split-screened, with Thomas' wild-eyed stare and
parted lips on the left and Janet *sweating* as she lowers her head slowly --
*Slowly* --
Thomas growls and grips her shoulder --
She pleads and *drips* saliva --
"*Faster*," he says, and begins to spank her rapidly and viciously.
She cries out immediately, throwing her head back --
"*No*."
She lowers her head and screams --
"*Lower*."
She bends and screams and *shakes*, and there's some question as to whether she
can even *parse* the sensation of the spanks apart from everything else --
But Thomas doesn't stop until her head and neck are at a sixty-degree angle, at
which point he growls again and reaches between her legs -- and sighs. "That's
better. You were practically *dry* before..."
Janet sobs again and says... something.
"Was that an apology, Janet?"
*That* was definitely an affirmative --
She drips even *more* saliva --
*Quakes* again --
And Thomas hums. "I think... that you deserve a treat for that. I'm a *firm*
believer in positive reinforcement," he says, and wipes her fluids all over her
lips. "Stand right there, but spread your legs shoulder-width apart. Yes,
like... hm. No, that's not far enough. Your thighs are too thickly-muscled to
make that work. Do you follow an exercise regimen?"
Janet answers in the affirmative... and then almost certainly apologizes again.
Thomas licks his lips and *starts* to reach for himself -- but then, perhaps,
realizes that she would see him do it. He lowers his hand to his side again.
"There's nothing wrong -- and very many things right -- with exercise, Janet.
I'll be sure to work up a program for you that will keep you both healthy and
slim," he says, and walks over to the cabinet which, by the eighties, had been
replaced with a large and somewhat primitive -- but undoubtedly highly
effective -- electrical stimulation machine with many, many attachments.
Harvey had made a morbid joke about defibrillators.
Tim hadn't brought up Jefferson again.
Now... Thomas is pulling out a large... thing. Tim frowns. It's about the
length of his forearm, is three and a half inches thick at its widest point,
has a rounded end, and can be plugged in. It looks, at first glance, more like
a *club* than a sex toy --
It's a vibrator. Well. At least it doesn't look like a medieval torture device.
Thomas plugs in the -- long -- cord, and eyes Janet critically. Even if she
*can* see the vibrator with her head in that position, there's no way she'd
know what it *was* --
Is there?
Cassandra squeezes him again. "Questions?"
"I can't decide whether Janet will have any idea what she's in for with that
vibrator."
"Is it important?"
"I -- wait."
"Yes?"
Tim pauses the action. "If the makers of the Batmen aren't a job for Batgirl,
then what about *Cain*?"
"Not a job. Fun."
Tim blinks.
Licks his teeth --
"Fair enough," he says, and restarts the action --
And the buzzing *whine* of the vibrator is immediate and sets his *teeth* on
edge --
"*That* won't do," Thomas says, and does something -- the whine changes to more
of a thrum. "There. Now spread your legs wider. Do it slowly, so that you keep
your balance. There's a good girl. More. More..."
And the image comes back to Janet working her legs apart like a child
experimenting with skis, or snow shoes. She's shaking and continuing to drool -
-
And she's making soft, helpless-sounding noises that are no more
problematically arousing than the shine of moisture on her thighs.
She is... ready.
And Thomas is going to take advantage of every moment.
"Perfect. Hold that position for me."
An affirmative *slur* --
And Thomas chuckles happily. "You're going to enjoy this a *great* deal, I
think, Janet. Most women do. If we lived in a more logical world, pubescent
girls would be able to purchase such things for themselves from their local
apothecary and learn to pleasure themselves in peace and privacy -- without one
lick of shame. But we do not live in that world. Remember to keep your feet
*flat* to the floor. And he touches the rounded head of the vibrator to her
mound --
She squeaks and jerks --
"Be still now..."
And he pushes the vibrator down and between slowly before pushing it *up*
against what must be her clitoris --
Tim will not zoom --
And Janet's screams are immediate and sharp, staccato at first --
Coming in bursts of *three* -- and that starts to make sense when Tim sees the
way Thomas is moving the vibrator. Three pushes and a long pause --
Three pushes and a short pause --
Three pushes and he *holds* it against her --
She tosses her head and *wails* --
"Head *down*."
That was almost a *bleat* -- but she lowers her head. And pants. And drools --
And screams for the press of the vibrator --
Her knees buckle --
"*Stand*."
She *gibbers* something which can only be an apology --
And he presses the vibrator against her again, holds it to her for second after
second while she shakes and screams --
And screams --
And throws her head back and howls like an *animal*, bucking and *grinding*
against the vibrator while Thomas smiles... like a different sort of animal
entirely.
And presses harder.
After several seconds, Janet's grinds lose everything resembling a rhythm and
she's simply spasming and *jerking* against the vibrator --
And then she tries to shrink *away* from it --
Thomas grabs her hip and holds her *still*, but doesn't visibly react to her
upright posture, at all --
And Janet sobs and shakes her head as much as she can, shuddering and whining
and sobbing *more* --
And then *shrieking* for what is, perhaps, the sort of 'aftershock' which can
feel -- according to nearly *every* female lover Tim has had -- like a
*painful* additional orgasm. She's completely rigid for it, toes curled in
against the tiled floor, hands balled into fists --
Sweat is *rolling* down her body --
It's impossible to be sure which moisture on her face is sweat and which is
*tears* --
She *slumps* --
Staggers --
And Thomas pulls the vibrator away and *jerks* Janet down onto her knees.
She looks up at him and -- pleads? Tries to say his name? Both at once? Her
eyes are much more eloquent than her mouth, and so it's impossible to be sure.
And --
Tim is officially far too erect for deniability. A part of him -- a part which
*may* be older than thirteen, but which absolutely isn't any quicker on the
uptake -- is asking the rest whether he might have a problem.
The rest is squeezing himself through his shorts precisely the way Cassandra
would --
No, Cassandra would already have her small, perfect hand *in* his shorts --
"Shh. Head down again. You *almost* did correctly, Janet -- in truth, you did
quite well for a beginner -- but you still need to be punished."
She sobs and drools her way through an apology --
Lowers her head and *wails* again as she lifts her reddened ass --
"There, there. Hands behind your back. Cross your wrists *above* the hook."
An affirmative -- and she does it, swaying on her knees and sniffing.
"Perfect. Now crawl into the other room."
A questioning noise -- but then Janet shakes her head and starts to --
"Hm. I suppose that's more of a *shuffle* than a crawl..."
Janet apologizes with *frantic* incoherency and very clearly tries to lift her
knees higher --
"No, no, that's not aesthetically pleasing, at all. Shuffle at will," Thomas
says, and moves out of her path.
An affirmative -- and she moves. She shakes with every 'step,' makes sounds
that Tim's mind insists on translating *as* whimpers --
She keeps *trying* to lift her ass higher --
And she doesn't stop.
"More to the left... yes, there you are. Good girl."
Janet -- was that a *thank* you?
Thomas has to be wondering the same thing -- he's stroking himself through his
pants almost *restlessly* -- "Good... very good." He licks his lips. "Don't
stop."
A *negative* -- and she's dripping drool as she goes. Has she honestly --
"Cassandra."
"Yes."
"What -- do you --"
"Yes, she is... there. Where you like your lovers to be."
"So --" But he can't really call that 'easily.' At all. He'd have to be --
All right, objectively, he probably *is* as crazy as Thomas -- or even crazier.
He just happens to be that crazy in -- mostly -- benign ways.
Thomas has taken Janet to...
Roy likes to call the state of mind 'sub-space,' and Tim has no particular
difficulty with the term. It implies the internal vastness of it, as well as
the *specificity*. It's a place *only* someone with strong submissive
tendencies *can* reach. It's a place of simple rules and great *intensity*.
You belong to your dominant.
You follow their rules -- and *only* their rules.
You rise and fall on their pleasure -- and on their disappointment.
You surrender your *independence* -- and absolutely everything *attached* to it
-- for the length of the scene, session, or *life*...
And you do it with pride.
That last...
Tim isn't sure Janet has caught *on* to that last -- any number of people who
*aren't* nineteen-year-old virgins *don't* --
And never mind the lack of a *safeword* --
Is that making it better for *him*?
Has he wanted something --
He has, of course, experimented *extensively* with rough and *explicitly* D/
s sex with Clark *and* Kal -- and they *never* use safewords. But... it's
Clark. He's a walking, talking, *flying*, safeword. He has the powers of a god
-- and not even a *minor* god. There's nothing *safer* --
Is he... using this to feed a heretofore unexamined need for 'extreme'
pornography? He usually allows Bruce to handle those cases when they come up,
since his level of offense is commensurate with his *need* to offer violence --
"Faster now, Janet. I need..." But Thomas trails off and shakes his head almost
violently.
Janet makes another questioning sound --
*Drips* --
But absolutely shuffles faster. She isn't even trying to lift her ass, anymore.
She is... accepting the discomfort.
Or is it pain?
Does he want it to be?
*Need* it?
"More, Janet. Give me. Give me everything now..."
A slurred affirmative --
She's left a *trail* of saliva --
And she's shuffling like a toddler who knows there'll be *candy* at the other
end of its journey, rapid and heedless of the contusions building on her knees
--
That tile is over *cement* --
She passes the bondage chair -- and she's *equally* heedless of the way the
wood scrapes her left biceps. She shuffles *faster* toward the 'blank' space
beneath the various hooks and hanging manacles --
"Stop," Thomas says, opening his belt and freeing it from the loops. "Kneel up,
posture straight -- no, you're leaning to the right... a little more... there.
Hold yourself there."
Another slurred affirmative --
Thomas wraps the belt around his fist. "How dry is your mouth, Janet? Nod once
for 'very dry,' twice for 'moderately dry,' and three times for 'not dry, at
all.' If you are not honest, you will bleed so badly, you will not be able to
travel for days."
Affirmative -- and Janet nods once, slowly, before lowering her head again.
"Good girl. Very... I see I didn't need to use that threat, at all..." And
Thomas laughs, then, breathless and aroused. "I believe I'm getting to be as
giddy as a schoolboy. Stay right there."
Another affirmative, and Janet simply pants and wants, whining every few
seconds and dripping randomly.
She is... still ready.
And Tim has started squeezing himself *rhythmically*. He's no longer young
enough to get *off* that way, but --
But.
"Cassandra. Why --"
"You still don't want me."
Tim blinks --
Examines himself --
"So I don't. Carry on."
She giggles and bites his earlobe. Lightly.
Tim smiles and squeezes himself *harder* -- and then deliberately moves his
hand while he watches Thomas retrieve a squeeze bottle similar to the one
boxers use. He fills it with cold water from the cooler which...
Who *delivered* that?
Had he carried it down himself? The refills, too?
No, it's irrelevant. What's *relevant* is the sight of Thomas splashing Janet's
hair and face and chest as she tries to catch the water in her mouth --
The smile on his face is almost *gentle* again --
Her pleas sound like the "eeeaaaa, eeeaaaa" of a child with a very specific
speech impediment --
"Shh, there... here," and he splashes the water into her mouth. "Tilt your head
back and hold it there for a moment before you swallow... good girl." He
splashes her nipples again while she does --
Then crouches to pinch them -- not hard. Testingly. She shudders for it --
Gargles clearly involuntarily --
"Swallow, Janet."
She does, hugely -- and then moans and arches --
"Oh, you *want* me to play with your lovely little breasts...?"
Another plea, the slur of his name --
And Thomas sighs. "I *do* have a schedule to keep, but it's very difficult to
ignore requests from good girls like you," he says -- and begins to spank her
nipples --
Janet shouts --
He spanks back and forth and back again --
Janet shakes her head and arches *more* --
"Oh... very good girl. Very..." Thomas growls and starts *striking* her
breasts. He's using his fingers rather than the flat of his hand, but the force
is loud enough that there's a *crack* for every hit --
Janet shouts and *bounces* on her knees --
Twists away --
And *yanks* herself back in range, lowering her head --
Lifting her ass --
Moaning and dripping saliva onto Thomas' *wrist* --
And there's no question that her breasts are going to bruise. The redness
spreads far beyond the areolae to the thin but strong-looking pectoral muscles
-- and is quickly moving from blush, to flush, to *brick*.
Janet keens --
Arches and *keens* --
"Head *up*, now. Show me your face, Janet."
She slurs and *babbles* her gratitude, moaning and arching, *offering*. Her
eyes are wide and -- less frantic than needy, less wild than --
("You know how it is, alternate papi -- heh, no. You know *exactly* how it is,
because Jay *told* me how you do. And so did the rest of the family. Sometimes
you just gotta give every *last* little thing up.")
And Roy had grinned down at him and waggled his eyebrows.
("Is 'sometimes' now, Roy...?")
And Roy had stepped *back* -- and further back until he was against the wall of
his temporary quarters on the Watchtower -- with his arms raised high above his
head and his hips thrust forward.
("You tell me. Papi.")
Roy had barely needed a single *push* before he all but *fell* into sub-space.
Tim hadn't even had to use the *Voice* once Roy was naked *enough* --
And perhaps, now, Thomas doesn't need to do anything but *ride* the tone he'd
already set. He's *happy* -- that much is clear -- and while he's still aroused
enough that he almost certainly hasn't *noticed* how *tightly* he's gripping
the belt in his other hand --
While he's aroused enough that he's *twitching* nearly every time she tries and
*fails* to say *please* --
He's happy, and *already* satisfied on a very deep level. He --
"He thinks he's in love," Cassandra says, and *tickles* Tim's nipples through
his t-shirt.
Tim grunts -- for more than one reason. "He isn't."
"No. He isn't like that. I don't think he is like that?"
"He isn't, no. He'll probably be able to convince himself that he's perfectly
unaffected once he has an --"
"I'm going to *keep* you, Janet..."
"Or not," Tim says, laughing a little. "I -- wow. All right..."
"You are surprised?"
"I was expecting more than one encounter to solidify --"
"I'm going to turn you into... mm. The most dangerous woman on the Eastern
seaboard," Thomas says, and spanks her breasts harder --
*Harder* --
She yells and *pleads* --
"And I'm going to hurt you every. Chance. I. *Get*," and he stops and stands,
backing away from her as she sways and moans --
As she pants and *shudders* --
He *circles* her --
He licks his lips -- his *mustache* is mussed -- "Janet... hands above your
head, clenched together. Perfect. Scream... scream all you like," and he raises
the belt --
And strikes.
And strikes --
And *strikes*, striping her back and sides over and over --
Striking for her biceps and forearms with just the *tip* of the belt --
"Kneel *up*."
She nods *while* shouting --
Obeys while *shaking* --
And Thomas moves around to whip her thighs and abdomen, her breasts and
*throat* --
"We'll *use* those high collars, Janet!"
"Eeeaaa! Ehhh!"
"Oh -- look how beautiful -- how perfect --" And Thomas growls and tosses the
belt away --
Janet pleads and shuffles up to him, rubs her face against his *thigh* --
"Oh, yes. Oh -- yes," and Thomas grips the top of Janet's head and pushes her
*back* before opening his pants with shaking hands, letting them fall to his
ankles. His briefs are tented and *stained*, and he pushes them down
unceremoniously. They get caught on his left sock garter --
And Janet immediately moves to free them --
"Good girl. Very -- mm. Head *up*!"
Janet obeys and -- tries to open her mouth wider. This act, at least, she's
heard of --
She *knows* this -- or thinks she does --
And Thomas is shuddering and stroking his long, thick, *dripping* penis --
Thomas is staring down at Janet's face as if he hadn't *seen* it before --
And then he squeezes himself viciously while squeezing his eyes shut and
gritting his teeth --
Janet moans and shakes her *head* --
And when Thomas opens his eyes again, they're wide and wild and almost *blind*.
"Listen -- listen to me carefully, Janet..."
A *shouted* affirmative --
Thomas' laugh is breathless and *needy* --
He growls *again* --
And then grips her hair in his free hand and lifts her *higher*. "*Listen*.
You're *going* to choke. You're *going* to cough. You're going to *gag*. But
you will not vomit. Do you understand?"
Another shouted affirmative --
She's still trying to open *wider* --
"Oh, Janet, Janet... I might not make you bleed, at all," he says, and starts
to push into her ringed mouth --
"Ehh! Ehhh!"
The head pops in *immediately*, and now her sounds are even more scrambled, wet
and muffled at once --
"I might... I might be gentle... at some point," and he laughs and *thrusts* --
She tries and fails to *recoil* --
She gags and swallows and gags *again* --
"Shh... shh. You can take it, Janet. You can take it... and you will." He pulls
back and allows her to pant through her nose --
Again --
Again --
And then he *shoves* deep --
Janet flails and reaches for him -- and then *locks* her hands behind her back
--
"Good. Good girl. But I'd... nnh. I would prefer it if you masturbated yourself
like the whore you are. My whore, yes?"
The sound --
She's trying to say *yes* again --
"Good... so very..." Thomas licks his lips and *grinds* in *slowly*, inch by
inch --
Janet reaches between her legs and begins -- it seems to be a *rubbing* motion
along a line parallel to her clitoris --
Tim doesn't want to *know* that --
But he knows, he knows and he wants --
Janet gags and *coughs* --
*Stops* the motion of her hand --
"*Masturbate*!"
She coughs again and makes a sound Tim can't even *begin* to translate -
- except that she's also trying to nod --
And she's working her hand again --
*Faster* this time --
And Thomas thrusts *shallowly*, never pulling out far enough to *let* Janet to
do more than gasp and choke, gasp and gag, gasp and -- gulp --
"*HNH* -- oh, you perfect -- and you're turning as red as a beet. You can't
breathe. You *won't* breathe until. Until I *let* you --" And Thomas growls and
thrusts *faster* --
And Tim growls because he has to, because he *needs* --
"Yes," Cassandra says, and hauls on him until he's sitting up against her,
until she can easily *reach* his groin --
She pushes her hand down his shorts --
And Janet cries and --
*Cries* --
She's sobbing without *air* as she works herself, as she drools and gets
*fucked* --
And Cassandra squeezes him hard enough that he *grunts* --
And Thomas growls and pulls *all* the way out --
Janet sways and leans in --
Leans against the *grip* Thomas has on her hair --
"You're not going back to school today, Janet. You're not..." And Thomas laughs
and strokes himself fast and *lightly*, pressing the head of his penis against
the tip of her nose --
Pushing her nose out of *true* --
She tries to reach him with her *tongue* --
"You're not. You're not leaving this *room*. Don't... don't worry. You'll be
fed well. Hydrated. *Exercised*..." And Thomas laughs again and *slaps* her
lips with the head of his penis --
Janet *flinches* --
Tim *arches* --
And Cassandra begins to stroke him with *ruthless* efficiency, rough and fast
and heedless of the pre-come he's been leaking --
Heedless of everything save the rhythm she's known since she was *thirteen* --
"Eeeaaa! Eeeaaa -- "
And it's cut off with another cough, another --
He's fucking her in *long* strokes now, in and in with no pause, no hesitation
to let her *catch* her breath between coughs, between helpless *flinches* --
Her right arm is *spasming* --
Is it arousal? Need? Simple loss of control?
Tim *wants* to ask, but he can't stop *groaning* for long enough to do it,
can't risk turning *away* --
Thomas shoves *in* again, *forces* himself in and holds himself there, shaking
--
*Shaking* --
Janet is sobbing soundlessly and *jerking* her hand -- but she never stops. She
never --
Janet's whole torso is *hitching*, bruising breasts quivering --
No, she's shuddering all over, all --
Tim is bucking into Cassandra's *fist* --
Thomas bends, *looms* over Janet and grips her shoulder with his free hand --
It looks like he's holding himself *up* on her -- no, he *is*, because she
suddenly *drops* down to a seated position on her heels --
Thomas *grunts* --
And begins to fuck her *raggedly*, focus entirely internal and pupils *blown*.
His mouth is open for one hungry grunt after another --
Janet is turning the color of brick again --
Thomas is *squeezing* her shoulder what must be *painfully* hard --
"*Janet*. *Now*!"
She flails with her left arm --
And then stills everywhere except for her pumping hips. Even *they* can't move
much in that position --
Thomas is holding her against the *floor* --
Janet is *coming* --
Shuddering so --
Tim bites his lip and shoves his shorts down enough that he can twine his
fingers with Cassandra's own, *make* her --
"Yes," she says, and *twists* with every stroke --
Harder --
Harder than he would've --
He opens his mouth to *say* something, but can only whine and *growl* --
And Thomas grunts again --
*Again* --
Thomas shouts and hunches further, hips pumping no faster --
No faster than Tim's own --
Oh, God --
God --
And a part of him is only begging Thomas to come, begging him to do it *before*
he does, because he knows he'll wind up pausing, and he doesn't *want* to come
back to --
"M-- *Janet* --" And Thomas throws his head back even though he's hunched --
Thomas shouts and *slams* into Janet's mouth --
*Crushes* her face to his groin --
And spasms and *shakes* his way through --
His --
"*Fuck* --"
Cassandra's tongue is in his *ear* --
Cassandra is *scratching* at his foreskin with her short pinky nail --
Cassandra is *fucking* his ear --
"Cass -- *Cassandra* --"
"Safe now," she says, and *giggles* --
And Tim gasps a laugh --
And *bucks* --
And gives up and lets the feeling ride him, *moves* for it the way he would for
--
The way he *does* *every* time he's been teased for an extended period of time
before being touched the right way --
The *best* --
She *bites* his ear *hard* --
Holds *on* even when he tosses his *head* --
"*Fuck* -- *Cass* -- *HNH* --"
And a part of Tim remains aware enough to know that Cassandra is close to
*piercing* his ear -- in multiple places --
To know that he's arched and *straining* --
The rest is falling and yelling, falling and giving it *up* --
It's so *perfect* --
Especially the moment when the fall turns into something he has to scream for,
that last twist, that last *vicious* squeeze --
He hits the bed --
Cass *pants* into his ear --
And he suspects he looks like the aftermath of the best sort of crucifixion.
Well. The best sort which *doesn't* involve whips.
Tim smiles broadly.
Cassandra hums a snatch of "We Are The Champions."
"You certainly are," Tim says, and takes a deep breath. "One moment."
"Yes."
Tim focuses on breathing --
And then on breathing while listening to Cassandra lick and suck her fingers
clean --
And then he stops that, flips over, bites the waistband of her tights, tugs it
away from her abdomen with his teeth, and raises an eyebrow.
She pushes three fingers deep into her mouth while crossing her eyes.
Tim snorts -- but keeps his grip.
She pulls her fingers out with a wet pop. "Yes."
"Excellent," he says, letting go and shifting back --
She folds herself in half and pulls her tights off immediately, leaving her
shirt *precisely* where it is -- hm.
"Fast?"
"Yes."
Tim licks his lips, inhales, licks his lips *again* -- "I can't be convincing -
-"
"No."
"You let *Jay* be convincing --"
"He is Jay," she says, pushing her hand into his hair and *gripping* --
"Your point is made," he says, and shoves into her *exceedingly* wet vagina
with two fingers before setting out to lick her clean.
Quickly.
She's due for her period in... three days. Five at the most. This explains the
relative thinness of her fluids, as well as the strong, musky, *tangy* scent.
They'd showered *together* after training, but there's no sign of the soap
she'd used other than the few ghostly hints of peach lingering further down her
thighs than he'll be allowed to... travel.
Tim smiles and licks a stripe along the left side of her clitoris --
"Nn --"
And along the right --
"Tim."
Tim laughs and crooks his fingers *precisely* the way she likes, dragging the
tips back and forth against her G-spot until she starts to shake --
"*Now*!"
And then he hums *while* turning his head enough that he can close his lips
around her clitoris --
"Un -- un -- *Tim* --"
"Mm-hmm..."
She giggles breathlessly and *yanks* his hair -- but neither to punish nor to
get him to move. She simply *is* rough, and Tim loves that about her, loves
*her*, loves the way she makes him salivate and the way she makes him *move*
with her when she starts to buck --
"*Nnuh* --"
"Mmmm..."
"M-*mn* --" And she taps his right shoulder twice with the fingers of her free
hand --
And that means exactly *one* thing: He stops rubbing at her G-spot, straightens
his fingers into *nearly* a strike position, and thrusts at a *slight* upward
angle, fast and hard --
"*More* --"
And harder than that as he hums, as he *presses* his lips against her clitoris
--
She cries out and *slaps* his shoulder --
He pauses his thrusts --
"No!" She slaps him *again* --
And he hums a chuckle and starts thrusting again, pressing harder with his lips
--
She cries out again --
Again --
She bucks hard enough that he *slips* -- but she *puts* him *exactly* where she
wants him --
And he sucks --
And he *tickles* with just the tip of his tongue --
She giggles and -- "Oh! Oh! *NNH* --"
For this -- always for this -- there is room for just a bit of improvisation:
A growling *suck* --
A *fast* nibble --
She smacks his *head* -- but since she's in the process of *driving* her vulva
against his face, Tim thinks there's a fair chance that he's doing something
right. He keeps it up --
And her moan is as throaty as one of Barbara's as she lets go of his hair in
favor of gripping the back of his neck --
Her whole body *shakes* --
And Tim takes the opportunity to kiss and lick his way to the vestibule of her
vagina. He makes a loud mess of things there between his tongue and fingers --
And she hums and pets him.
For precisely two minutes before yanking him away again. Tim raises an eyebrow.
"You could tell me what Jay *does* to make you amenable to a more leisurely --"
"You can't do it."
"I could *try* --"
"No."
Tim licks his lips slowly, smirks, and waggles his eyebrows. "I dunno, sis --"
She backhands him.
"You know... that wasn't very nice," Tim says, and works his jaw in a clockwise
motion.
She giggles and points at him.
Tim raises an eyebrow.
She giggles more and *snorts*.
And Tim tries out one of his more *dramatic* long-suffering sighs. "You could
at least allow me to flog you every now and again."
She sticks her tongue out at him.
"Paddles?"
"No."
"Nipple --"
"No."
"You didn't --"
"No."
Tim laughs quietly and wrestles her -- with some difficulty and the judicious
application of a nerve-strike which will leave her left arm paralyzed for the
better part of the next twenty minutes -- onto her back.
Tim Drake will have two *more* new bruises to brazen out in front of the Wayne
Enterprises shareholders at the meeting he has no excuse to skip now --
One of them will be on his *forehead* --
But the kiss is slow, and warm, and full of the sort of laughter he wouldn't
surrender for anything, anything, at all --
He would give up this *machine* and everything --
Tim blinks and pulls back --
"Yes?"
Tim licks his lips and leans in to *peck* her lips -- and smiles helplessly.
"Oh! Better now!"
"Yes --"
She pats his cheek with her one functioning hand and beams. "Tell?"
"It's only -- it's not only --" Tim shakes his head. "It's the present. I have
you. I have so *much* --"
"Past is dead?"
"Well..."
Cassandra smiles ruefully and wryly at once. "Never dead."
"No matter how many times I snap its cervical spine, yes. But..." He leans in
and plants a lingering kiss on her forehead. "I have so much."
"Yes. Always," she says, and pats his cheek again -- then locks her knees
around his chest and throws him --
He manages to *scoot* --
And then realizes that she'd manipulated him -- easily -- into sitting back
against the headboard in his usual space. She cuddles her useless arm against
him and pats his abdomen with her other hand. "More."
Tim takes a deep breath and wonders if he can smell the earth -- "We don't have
to."
"Yes."
"We truly don't --"
"*Afterglow*," she says, slowly and *pointedly* --
Tim coughs. "I'm frankly terrified --"
"Don't care," she says, and jabs him to the left of his solar plexus.
"As you say," and Tim looks at the viewscreen --
He'd paused the action at a point which makes a timber-like fall for Thomas
look *inevitable*, even if it involves bending Janet in a way which may not
technically be possible. He takes another deep breath and focuses --
And the groans are immediate --
The *wet* sounds of abortive thrusts -- and possibly Janet's still-moving hand?
The *image* is still -- but there are no thuds or *seriously* pained sounds, so
Tim has to assume that Thomas maintained his balance *somehow*.
Thomas pants --
Groans again --
And the image kicks in with a view of Thomas working himself into an upright
position *without* pulling out.
Janet's complexion is closer to plum than brick now, and she's hitching
*randomly* -- but she isn't trying to move. And she *is* still trying to
masturbate herself, though it's clear that at this point she lacks even *basic*
motor skills --
"Oh, Janet... can you even still hear me?"
A *spasm* that could be assent -- or anything, at all.
Thomas sighs and shakes his head. "Sadly, I must assume that you can't. As much
as I would enjoy remaining in your throat until you passed out -- I am quite
practiced at performing CPR should it become necessary -- it simply isn't
practical. Here," he says, and pulls out -- slightly.
Enough that her next hitch gives her actual oxygen --
She sways and flails again --
"Be still and breathe, Janet. Just breathe."
This time, the assent is... what has *become* clear. She pants through her nose
with her hands behind her back, eyelids fluttering --
She never tries to look *up* --
And, eventually, she stops swaying. Once she does, Thomas releases his grip on
her hair... and begins to pet her, instead. Her hair, yes -- and her salt-
streaked cheeks, and her swollen lips --
"That's right. Good girl. I didn't even have to tell you to swallow it all -
- that's quite rare for beginners like you. And your eyes are shining... ah,
you're weeping again. It's only natural. Let it out."
Another affirmative -- and she begins to sob and keen almost immediately. It's
--
The sight and sound of it --
She still has Thomas' *penis* in her mouth --
"Oh, so sweet... go on. Weep more for me."
That was almost *certainly* an affirmative, but it's hitched and broken and
*muffled* --
Her eyes *and* nose are leaking --
She's trying to *gasp* around Thomas' penis -- and he isn't softening quickly
enough to allow that to happen. It's abundantly clear when he realizes that -
- he actually *snorts* a little --
And then he pulls out, straightens his clothes, and looks her over.
She's still sobbing freely.
Weeping... like a little girl.
Thomas strokes himself through his clothes and shudders with obvious pleasure,
then bends down and lifts her into his arms like a bride. "Shh, that's right.
Let it *all* out, Janet," he says, and carries her back to the medical area.
When he gets her to the gurney, he bends her over it and quickly unties the
rope connecting the hook to the posture collar. He drops the rope in a large,
empty container which is almost certainly for laundry, then splays his left
hand against her hitching back and tugs the hook out with the right --
She howls and sobs *louder* for a moment --
And Thomas clucks his tongue against his teeth and strokes her. "It's all
right, Janet. That part is over. Do you understand?"
A breathless and *gasping* affirmative --
"Good girl." And Thomas drops the hook and ball into a container which is
almost certainly for items which require sterilization. He then moves back to
the anal toy cabinet... and pulls out an inflatable plug. He lubricates the
business end almost perfunctorily, then moves back to the gurney. "I'm not,
however, done with your rectum, Janet. But this will be much gentler on you.
Now reach back and spread yourself for me... oh, good girl. Your anus is
*somewhat* swollen, but I doubt it will take very long, at all, to heal. Try to
breathe -- well, of course you *can't* breathe deeply right now, can you? It's
all right. Everything will be all right," he says, and pushes the plug in
quickly and neatly --
"Ehh!"
"Good girl. Two pumps will do for now," and he does just that.
Janet pushes up on her toes for each --
Sobs and *shudders* --
"Well... one more," Thomas says, pumping again, then tightening the release
valve and letting the tube and pump dangle like a tail. "Release your buttocks
and stand straight for me."
A shuddering, *sobbing* affirmative --
"Turn around and face me, Janet... yes, good girl," and he begins releasing her
from the posture collar. Her throat and jaw are welted, but not deeply --
And she screams and sprays saliva when the gag comes out --
And she doesn't seem to remember *how* to close her mouth.
Thomas smiles. "Let's get you washed up."
He brings her to the sinks, and first sterilizes his own hands and arms, then
washes her face, throat, and torso with what seems to be warm water -- and a
much gentler soap than what he had used for himself.
Eventually, Janet stops crying and leaves her mouth only *partially* open.
"I rather enjoy the scent of begonias on a young woman. I never understood why
so many of you insist the scent is only for dried-up old grandmothers... well.
You'll smell like it *here*. Do you understand?"
"Ehh --"
"No, Janet. You can and will speak like a *person* now."
Janet blinks --
Blinks *rapidly* --
Narrows her eyes -- and closes her mouth. And swallows.
"Go on."
"Yes -- yes, Mr. Wayne."
Thomas chuckles -- and tickles Janet's chin. "That shocked you more than the
plug, didn't it? The 'person' comment?"
Janet inhales sharply --
Licks her lips --
And lowers her head. "Yes, Mr. Wayne."
Thomas chuckles again -- and walks to the armchair, moving Janet's clothes on
top of one of the many cabinets before sitting down and leaning back. And
patting his right thigh.
"I --"
"You know what to do, Janet."
Janet winces -- "Yes, Mr. Wayne," she says, and walks over to him... gingerly.
Her knees are already visibly bruised in places, and there is the plug to be
considered. She --
"When she wore perfume, at all, while I was growing up, it was begonia," Tim
says, and strokes Cassandra's hair.
"Mm."
Janet very clearly tries to sit down gracefully on Thomas' thigh, but jumps as
soon as her buttocks touch --
*Hovers* --
"*Down*."
She forces herself down and cries out, wincing -- and more tears roll down her
cheeks.
Thomas brushes them away -- and pulls her against him, allowing her to rest
mostly on her hip.
She pants and *whimpers* --
"Shh. Shh."
"Yes. Mr. Wayne."
"There are times when you will be my whore, Janet. A whore isn't an escort, or
a prostitute, or even a woman of ill-repute. A whore isn't a person. A whore...
is an object, and objects are meant only to be used. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Wayne. But..."
"Yes?"
"What are *people* meant for?"
Thomas laughs delightedly -- and kisses the top of her head. "Excellent
question, Janet. And, truly, I expected no less. Clench around the plug for
me."
"I -- yes, Mr. Wayne," she says -- and shudders her way through a long,
helpless-sounding moan.
"Thank you *very* much."
"I -- ah. You're welcome. Mr. Wayne."
"Am I...? Good," and Thomas kisses the top of her head again, and cups her
waist. "You're such a beautiful little woman... but you had a question.
People... people are meant to strive, and struggle, and achieve everything they
can. People are meant to work *hard* -- but they are also meant to learn, and
thrive, and love, and *live*. Part of that -- and not a small part -- is
freedom. And that freedom *must* include the freedom to choose not to be a
person, at all -- for a time."
"And the freedom to make use of such... not-people?"
"Oh, yes. So long as certain things are understood."
Janet breathes deep and closes her eyes, and they track fast behind the lids.
"Would you like to know -- forgive me. Would you like to be *sure* of what
those things are?"
Janet opens her eyes again, and the look of *heated* calculation is so familiar
--
Parts of Tim want to draw back and parts of him want to *fight* --
"No murdering," Cassandra says.
Tim coughs. "Noted."
"Yes, Mr. Wayne. I *would* like to be sure."
"Very well," he says, and tilts her chin up so that they can look into each
other's eyes. "Oh, look at you. From the very first moment I saw you, I knew a
wonderful *rush* of desire... and amusement. You would bleed me dry in a
*heartbeat* -- if it would advance your assorted agendas and you thought you
could get away with it."
Janet firms her lips into a hard line --
Winces for the obvious pain --
Shakes her head --
"Shh, no, don't try to think of a denial, Janet. For one thing, your
bloodstream is far too full of endorphins to make that work right now, and, for
another thing, it's pointless. I'm nearly fifteen years older than you, and I
have *not* led a sheltered existence -- for all that it pleases the press to
make it sound as if I wandered blissfully from nursery to ivory tower to
boardroom... but that's neither here nor there. I happen to *like* strong,
ambitious, and vastly intelligent women who aren't especially nice people when
all is said and done, and I quickly grow bored with the alternatives. I don't
want to hurt you because I think you're somehow *unworthy*, Janet. I want to
hurt you because it excites me sexually -- and because you howl like an angry
young wolf when you achieve an orgasm *through* painful means. You are
beautiful to me... and I'm going to give you what you want."
Janet raises an eyebrow. "And what do you think that is?"
"An 'in,' as the less well-bred types are wont to say. Once you have decided on
the *sort* of business you'd like to run --"
"I already have --"
"Shh. I am not finished."
Janet inhales --
Lifts her chin --
And lowers her head. "Yes, Mr. Wayne."
Another chuckle. "I'm going to make you scream for me... often. But, as I was
saying, once you've given deep and serious *thought* to the sort of business
you'd like to run -- don't grit your teeth like that. There, good girl. Once
that's done, and you've worked up a reasonable business model, and you've shown
me a reasonable plan to gather *half* of the start-up capital you need... I
will provide you with one hundred and fifty percent of that capital. You will
*still* get those independent investments, of course -- and I will *not* be
allowing you to use my name like a club -- but you will have much, much
smoother sailing than the average young businessperson... and Wayne Enterprises
will be behind you publicly *and* privately."
Janet -- pants. And stares.
Thomas smiles and raises an eyebrow --
And Janet swallows and raises an eyebrow of her own. "And in return, all I have
to do --"
"No."
"'No'?"
"You're going to be my protégé because you're brilliant and talented -- and
because I believe in taking calculated risks. You're going to be my whore -
- whenever I tell you to be -- because you *enjoy* it, Janet."
She rears back --
He raises his eyebrow *higher* --
"Has it occurred to you that your life philosophy is more than a little self-
*serving*, Mr. Wayne?"
Another delighted laugh. "It almost certainly is... but it's also based on
logic and careful observation --"
"Of your more *vigorous* erections?"
Thomas hums. "You'll note that I didn't wash your genitalia, Janet."
"What does that have to do --"
"I can smell you, Janet. And you have already taught me -- very well -- the
scent of your rising arousal."
Janet flushes *dark* --
"Now, the difference between me and the average sort of man -- the sort of man
who you will, presumably, someday marry and produce children with -- is that it
is, quite frankly, all the same to me whether it was the words 'you're going to
be my whore' which did it... or the words 'one hundred and fifty percent.'"
"*Fuck* you!"
Thomas chuckles and shakes his head. "Oh, Janet. We're going to have so much
fun together."
"We --"
And Thomas has the bulb of the inflatable plug in his hand just that quickly --
"Oh, God -- oh, no -- I'm sorry -- I mean --"
"Shh, Janet, shh. You can't get away from this now," and Thomas pumps once --
"*UNH* -- *please*, Mr. Wayne!"
"Mm. Your nipples are already wonderfully hard again..."
"Please -- God, *please*!"
And Thomas pumps *again* --
And Janet screams and kicks her *legs* --
And clutches at Thomas' shirt --
"I'm sorry, I'm so -- I'll do *anything*!"
Thomas hums and strokes between her legs -- and lifts his slick, shining
fingers between them. "I know you will, Janet. You will, in fact, do
*everything*. But first... you'll call me 'Thomas.'"
Janet gasps --
Laughs --
And laughs *harder*, shaking her head and wheezing, gasping --
Thomas looks *thrilled* --
And then he pumps the bulb again.
Tim homes the machine before he has to listen to Janet scream any more.
And then he closes his eyes.
And tilts his head back.
Cassandra squeezes him. "Questions."
Tim opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling -- "Shoot."
"They always liked each other?"
"That's... difficult to answer."
"Not hard for *all* of you."
Tim smiles ruefully. "True," he says, and "one moment." And then he builds a
moment in his mind. He's sitting at his desk, trying to be interesting and
intelligent -- but never, ever grasping. Thomas is in the wingback chair,
smiling with *polite* interest which never actually reaches the paternal. Janet
is between them, robe hiding the latest session's bruises and whatever else as
she rests one hand on the back of Tim's chair and one on the back of Thomas'.
Her smile is both satisfied and *determined*, and they are --
A family.
Who don't look at each other.
Who never --
"I'm not sure how much they laughed together, or how much they spoke, or how
much they spoke as *equals* -- as opposed to as moderately-psychotic-and-rape-
ish-mentor to voracious-and-*reflexively*-deceitful-protégé. I *can't* be sure,
because every moment when the three of us were together was carefully
*staged*."
Cassandra frowns. "All?"
Tim strokes her cheek. "All. I can't be sure. And I'm admittedly cynical. And I
have all sorts of reasons to think the worst of them as people. By rights, I
should be skewing my deductions and assumptions positively, if only as a check
on my own emotions..."
"You can't."
"I can't. Watching this tells me that they *could've* found a great deal of
common ground with each other -- with a little work and a *trifle* more
interest in *consent*... but I don't think they did, no."
Cassandra nods thoughtfully. "Were they... sad?"
Tim frowns and tries to -- he shakes his head. "I don't want to think about
that. I know --"
"Okay."
"I know it's unworthy --"
"No, it's okay."
"I -- hm." He raises an eyebrow.
She wriggles free and shakes out her -- recovered -- arm. "Training now?"
The rest of the family won't be back for at least another hour or two --
Cassandra always giggles *more* during spars --
"Absolutely," Tim says, and stands. He shuts the machine down as he goes.
*
***** May 1979: Harvey Gets Answers. Tim Gets Blooded. *****
Bruce is gone.
Bruce is *gone* --
Bruce is gone, Tim is covered in weird demon-metahuman-whatever-the-fuck *glop*
--
The knife hadn't fucking *worked* --
Except that three of the *things* that attacked them are melted all over the
damned *sidewalk* in East Gotham and --
But there were five of them. And the other two have Bruce. And --
Harvey puts a little more weight on the accelerator, trying to tell himself
he's not going the wrong direction, that he's not --
" -- listen. You have to --"
"What? What the fuck *is* it, Tim?"
Tim jerks -- Harvey can see that out of the corner of his eye -- but it isn't
really a flinch. It --
Ah, God, he can't --
He can't yell at *Tim* --
"I'm sorry, fuck, I know --"
"No, it's all right -- but you have to drive more slowly --"
"I *can't* --"
"Harvey," Tim says, and his voice is low and shaky -- "Look around at the road.
Look -- just look."
Harvey shudders once, all over --
And deals with the fact that he's weaving the Lexedes through traffic that
*isn't* bumper-to-bumper, but is damned close. They --
Fuck. *Fuck* --
He slows down.
He slows down.
He hears himself make a noise like --
And that's Tim's tough little hand on his wrist, squeezing hard --
"I'm slowing down --"
"I know. I -- I'm trying -- ah."
Harvey frowns and just -- "You're... tryin' to comfort me?" Red light. He turns
to study Tim a little, see him and know him --
His *brother* --
And right now, Harvey can see an expression *trying* to happen on his face. It
looks a little like one of those marionettes trying to stand up on its own -
- "Stop that, little guy --"
Tim blanks his expression just like *that* --
"No, no -- I mean -- I just meant you shouldn't try to make any kinda
expression you don't feel. You gotta -- let --"
Bruce is gone.
Bruce is gone.
Bruce --
Harvey yanks against Tim's grip on his arm until Tim lets go --
Bangs on the dash with his fist --
Again --
And it's so good to feel something *solid*, something --
He couldn't get one good *punch* in against those fucking -- those fucking
*things* --
They took *Bruce* --
"Green light."
"Wha--"
"Green light, Harvey."
No. No, that's not --
Harvey sucks in a breath, focuses, wraps his bleeding hand around the wheel and
drives, just drives, because the horns are blaring just like this is a normal
day, just like Bruce isn't gone -- wait. "You call me *Harv*, Tim --"
And Tim's laugh is high and freakin' *cracked* --
But Harvey can't say he doesn't understand it. He -- he smiles --
And his eyes immediately fill with tears. He --
What if they can't get Bruce back?
What if they missed their *chance*?
They were supposed to get something from Tim's *room*. They --
Harvey sucks in a deep breath and grabs Tim's wrist when he reaches to pet him,
comfort him more, God --
God, he's only *thirteen* --
"Harv, do you -- do you need to pull over --"
"*No* --"
"I can drive --"
"*What*?"
"One of the live-ins taught me the basics --"
"You're too *short* --"
"When I was twelve --"
"You were even *shorter* --"
"There were *pillows*, Harv --"
Harvey chokes on a laugh --
More tears, more --
He lets go of Tim's wrist so he can wipe them away, so he can *see* --
"Harv --"
"I'm good. I'm -- ah, Jesus, that's a lie, but I can drive," Harvey says, and
gets on the bridge that'll take them to Worth and, from there, to Bristol. The
vibration of the road surface puts his teeth on edge a little, but he can
handle it.
He can --
"Tell me -- are we going back to your place?"
Tim frowns. "What --"
Harvey growls -- "Are we going back --" But he hadn't actually *told* --
Why had he fucking *waited*?
He smacks himself in the forehead once, twice --
And Tim's holding onto him again, and this time he's out of his *seatbelt* --
"Don't *do* that, little guy --"
"Don't do *that* -- and tell me --"
"Blood. Blood said you had something in the secret compartments -- why do you
have secret -- never mind. Just -- what do you have in those things, hunh?"
"I -- nothing -- nothing *important* --"
"Don't do that, don't -- God, we're gonna be freakin' repeating ourselves --
" Harvey shoves a hand back through his hair --
Takes a *deep* breath --
Another *tear* comes out --
But he can see, and they're almost there. Ten, fifteen minutes this time of
day. They can do this. They can --
They *will* do this. And -- "Just tell me everything you got, little guy. We'll
figure out what's important together, okay?"
"All right, Harv. I have -- one of Black Canary's heels. She broke it off in a
fight with some gang members --"
"Can't believe you were watching -- or that her name is Dinah -- no, don't
listen to me, go on --"
"A vial of Hour-Man's formula --"
"*What*?"
"He uses... some sort of drug to give him superpowers --"
"What are you *talking* -- how did you even --"
"It fell out of his hand when he was fighting -- well, the press called them
ogres, but they really looked more like -- ah. That's not important. It rolled
into the sewer --"
"You went into the -- all right, we're getting that."
"Harv, it seems to be very addictive --"
"I don't care."
"It -- it *hurts* him --"
"I don't. Care. If we get another shot at those guys --"
"And -- and Blood said."
"Exactly. Christ, I can't believe what an *idiot* I am, what a -- what a
freakin' *coward* --"
"*Don't*, Harv --"
"I was so busy trying not to *think* about this stuff --"
"*No* one would want to --"
"God, what are they gonna do if we can't get what they want? Kidnapping is no
*joke*, Tim!"
Tim swallows audibly. "We -- we'll figure something out --"
"We'll get -- no. We'll get their freaking *brother* back -- what the fuck did
Martha *do* with him?"
And Tim -- isn't looking at him. Isn't --
"You know. You --"
"I don't. I don't know," Tim says, and turns to face him again.
Harvey looks away from the road -- Tim's being honest. Of course he's -
- "You're never gonna lie to me again, are you."
Tim shakes his head. "If -- it might... slip out. But I'll... fix it."
Harvey licks his lips and tries a smile --
Tim tries one *back* --
"These smiles are pretty pathetic on our faces, hunh?"
Tim bites his lip and nods -- and then nods toward the road.
Right, yeah. Yeah. Not to get into a car accident before he can *strangle*
Martha --
Not strangle her, not -- never *do* that --
He's just gonna talk to her, get the answers out, *all* the answers, and hadn't
he just been letting her slide on *everything* for all these years? Hadn't he -
-
And Tim is gripping his arm now --
Which means he was about to start beating on something again. Jesus. Harvey
tries a laugh. "You gotta let me work some of this *out*, little guy --"
"We might -- need those fists. Later."
Harvey sucks in a breath --
Fists. *Just* fists, because --
("The dimensions in which Harvey Dents gain proficiency with deadly weapons are
*not* the most cheerful places in the multiverse.")
Yeah.
Harvey nods. And breathes some more. Drives a little faster, just a little, the
roads are empty enough --
"What else -- did Blood say anything else about this?"
Harvey shakes his head. "Just us, that knife, your -- your secret compartment
stuff -- wait, what else do you have?"
"Other -- souvenirs. Two of Wildcat's whiskers. A scrap of one of Doctor Fate's
capes -- burned to unrecognizability. Pictures -- photographs. A lot of
photographs."
"Of the JSA, yeah?"
"Yes."
Harvey bites his lip and nods, tries to think, tries to think of some way --
But is it enough that Tim knows who all these people *are*? They could just go
*get* -- except that they're off doing God only knows what with freaking
*Blood*, so -- no. Not enough. Unless --
Did they all go?
Do they have time to figure that out?
Are these people in the *book*?
Harvey laughs, and he's not surprised by how freaking hysterical --
*Bruce* --
"Harv --"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm here, I'm listening -- no, I'm thinking, that's -- that's what
I'm doing --"
"I don't think," Tim says *cautiously*, "that it's enough that I know the JSA's
identities --"
"Neither do I. I was just -- yeah," Harvey says, shaking his head and pulling
off the little excuse for a highway and onto the back roads. Faster. Much
faster.
"If we could contact --"
"You already have those numbers memorized, don't you."
And -- he can see Tim blushing out of the corner of his eye. Just --
"You're adorable, little guy. Now is *not* the time to be embarrassed by the
fact that you're obsessive. You get on the horn and see if you can raise any of
these guys -- maybe they left someone *home*, we don't know -- and I'll
freakin' brace Martha."
"Ah... all right."
"No? What? C'mon, we *both* need to think --"
"Are you up to that?"
Harvey blinks and frowns -- but it's not the worst question in the world. Or
even a *bad* question. It -- he winces.
"I'll do it --"
"You don't *know* her, Tim --"
"And I don't owe her anything," Tim says, low and quiet and *even*.
Harvey licks his lips --
*Thinks* about it --
"No."
"Harv --"
"You don't know her tells, little guy. You -- I got a *real* damned problematic
relationship with her -- I'm not gonna lie about that. At all. I owe her for a
*lot* of damned things. But, right now, we want the same thing -- and that's
gonna count for more than anything else."
Tim is frowning --
"I'm sure."
"I just don't want you to -- I'm worried about you."
Harvey laughs again -- it's no better than the last one. "I'm worried about me,
too, little guy. Hey, Jesus, are you -- I don't see any blood on you, but --"
"I'm all right --"
"She kicked you ten feet *away* --"
"I'll have bruises, but --"
"Are you *sure* you're up for another fight?"
"Harv. I regularly allow my sensei to kick me that way -- and in several other
ways --"
"Your *sensei* doesn't have *scales* and *claws*. I *know*. I *met* her,"
Harvey says, and glares at Tim for a second before turning back to the road --
And Tim coughs a laugh. "All right, you have a point. But... the bruises won't
be severe. I *have* experience with that."
"But do you have *enough* --"
"Harv. I will not fail again."
Harvey shivers and *grips* the wheel -- "You didn't fail."
Tim's laugh is old and *dark* -- "Harv."
"No. *No*. We only had part of the puzzle -- thanks to *my* screw-up -- and you
*still* took out three of those guys and wounded the big one. The -- Christ,
what *was* she?"
Tim frowns. "I don't -- I don't know. I've never seen or heard of anything like
her before. I was assuming that she was some sort of demon, but only because
Blood seemed to know what was going to happen."
Harvey shakes his head. "That's no kind of -- he's magic. He was magic *before*
he had a demon inside him, you know? A *powerful* wizard, even before he was
trained to use any of that stuff. That's *why* Morgan Le Fey picked him out for
her plans --"
"What? Ah... what?"
Harvey blinks -- and remembers that not everyone actually knows *that* story.
"How much Arthurian stuff do you know?"
"Ah... the basics? A mystical sword, the uniting of England under one King-of-
Kings, as it were? Wars of succession, rumors of incest, treachery... ah." Tim
blinks and frowns -- and then blushes again, shaking his head. "What I've seen
of it has been... heavily dramatized. I'm aware that these people were real,
but beyond that... ah. He was... involved?"
"He was involved, all right. Specifically, he was banging Morgan. Apparently,
he was young enough to think it would go somewhere serious --"
Is that why he likes women like Martha?
Is that his freaking *type*? Harvey -- doesn't squeeze his eyes shut. He
drives, blows out a breath, and keeps going: "Anyway, she wanted Mordred on the
throne and Arthur -- and the rest of the knights -- dead and rotting somewhere
out of the way. So she set up this huge spell -- no, I don't know how this part
works -- with Blood as the target/sacrifice, so she could summon an unstoppable
demon. With me so far?"
"Etrigan."
"Yeah, exactly. Etrigan was supposed to feed on Blood or take over his body or
some damned thing, but Blood was too powerful and/or Etrigan was too *noble* to
do it, so instead they wound up bound together forever. And that's why Blood's
immortal. They still couldn't save Arthur, though. I think --" Harvey frowns.
"I know that messes with him. Don't ever expect him to *show* that for long
enough to keep him from acting like a creepy old bastard, though. And, anyway,
my point is that I don't *know* exactly what kind of magic Blood has -- just
that it's been enough to save a whole lot of lives over the past thousand
years. And maybe *end* a whole lot more."
Tim frowns *hard* --
"Heh, yeah, *that*. He lost count of the number of people he'd killed when he
was mortal, Tim. And that's a quote."
"I... well. *War* is... an issue, of course. But..."
"Still."
"Yes," Tim says, and turns to look out the window and at Worth slowly turning
into the money on top of money that is Bristol.
"I hear you. *Believe* me, I hear you. I -- are you gonna be okay about today?"
"The killing... I don't know. I don't know if they were sentient."
Is that what you're telling yourself, little guy? No. No, that's not what he
has to ask. At all. Ever --
And Tim covers his face with one hand. "That doesn't matter," he says, and his
voice is muffled.
"It does --"
"I didn't know, and so I shouldn't have -- I started -- I started going for
killing blows, Harv --"
"I know."
Tim winces and -- God, that was *almost* a flinch --
"They were taking our *brother*, Tim."
"I want -- I want to be a *hero* --"
"*Stop*," Harvey says, and reaches to grip Tim's shoulder, to hold it and shake
it a little. "Just stop, okay? All we knew, right then and there, is that there
were magical creatures attacking us and kidnapping our *brother* to do God only
knew *what* with him. We *still* don't know what they're doing -- fuck. Fuck,
tell me you know what I'm *saying*, little guy!"
And Tim sucks in a breath and drops his hands to his thighs, sitting up
straight and nodding, just like that -- for the panic in Harvey's voice. Just -
-
Harvey *knows* it -- "I'm okay --"
"You're not -- and neither am I," Tim says. "We're -- we'll keep each other
okay."
Harvey breathes and thinks -- of empty beaches. Beaches with no shadows.
*Shadows* with no shadows, even when he could really *use* one, something to
keep him steady and calm --
Someone to shove him down in the dark and take *over* --
Except that, somehow, there's a sound of jingling, or chimes. Like...like
jewelry banging together --
A vague sense that he should be thinking about *goats* --
And then... all he really wants to do is focus on getting this crap taken care
of so he can take a long nap. He *can* do it on his own --
Chimes --
He *won't* be on his own. He's got a brother who's *extremely* handy with
magical knives, and who does things like pick up vials of superhero juice out
of sewers, and --
Yeah. He can do this.
*They* can do --
"-- me? Harv?"
And, somehow, he's *parked*. Right in front of some random person's house --
There's a short guy with a crew-cut watering his lawn and *scowling* at them --
At the two random teenagers in the way-too-fucking-expensive car just *sitting*
--
No, that'd be *less* suspicious. *He's* been sitting here staring into space.
Tim's practically in his freaking *lap* --
"Harv? You -- you *seem* more --"
"I'm here," Harvey says, and swallows. And smiles ruefully. "Just had a little
-- skip. In there. Somewhere. Uh. That's not really reassuring."
Tim *stares* at him, intense and wide-eyed, and shakes his head *slowly*.
Harvey laughs helplessly, and this time no tears come out. This time --
Tim smiles at him *cautiously* --
And Harvey pulls him into a hug, just holds him, holds him *tight* --
"Oof --"
"Don't ever let me lose you, little guy. Not for anything."
"I -- I won't --"
"I mean -- I just mean --" Harvey laughs again and holds him *tighter* --
"Harv --"
"I don't know what I mean."
"Are you --"
"But I'm okay. I'm -- I'm pretty sure Blood did something to my brain the last
time we talked. Something -- I used to have... a lot of real dark stuff in my
brain. A lot of... shadows... I don't know how to talk about it --"
"He... took the shadows away?" And Tim's kind of wheezing --
Harvey lets up so the kid can *breathe* --
Kisses his forehead --
And crew-cut-guy hoses down their car. *Right*. Harvey flips him off --
"Oh, God, what --"
"Let's get outta here before he comes after us with a gun or something," Harvey
says, and *puts* Tim back in the passenger seat.
"You -- you have to tell me --"
"Buckle up," Harvey says, and starts the car. "And I will. I'll tell you
absolutely everything one day *soon* -- I promise."
"All right --"
"And I'll tell you --" Harvey laughs again and shakes his head. "Sometimes I
think, maybe, I had a whole separate person in my head. Or maybe not a *whole*
person, but... enough of one that the rest of me could... take breaks. Go away.
When my old man was beating on me hard enough."
"Oh. Oh. You don't -- have to --"
"I do, though, because it's part of *this*, too," Harvey says, and smiles
wryly. "I told Bruce why I had so many bruises. He begged me to, and I couldn't
-- I couldn't. This was our freshman year. It hurt him -- I could see that. I
*remember* that. Clear as anything. It hurt him, and that made me warm inside
and it made me *start* to be okay -- if only so I could make *him* okay again.
But he... well, he wrote to Martha about it. Just like he wrote to her about
every *other* important thing in his life. Hell, he'd starting writing to her
about *me* before I even *introduced* myself, you know?"
Tim smiles. "I... think I can understand you having a profound effect on
someone."
"Ah, get outta here. I'll show you *profound* once we get Bruce right back here
where he belongs. But..."
"I'm listening."
Harvey doesn't let himself slip. Not even a little. "Martha was pissed beyond
*words* that someone had made her baby boy cry. That -- heh. That's just not
how the world *works* if you're her, you know?"
Tim inhales sharply. "Your biological father -- the reports suggested that he
died of a burst blood vessel in the brain --"
"Heh. More like burst blood vessels all over his freakin' body, little guy. She
--"
"Killed him. Or -- Blood did?"
"Blood gave her his power. Or -- a little bit of it, I guess. And she used it
to do *that*."
And Tim's breathing -- fast and hard. He --
"Yeah. Just think about that for --"
"Harv -- I'm so sorry --"
"No, that's -- no. I can't take that right now, okay? But thank you."
"You're welcome. I... I won't say -- I won't say. But."
"Yeah?"
Tim licks his lips. "Do we know how often she's done... things like that?"
"How often she's offed people with Blood's help? I don't know. I really don't.
But I know that *her* father died real damned suspiciously back in 'fifty-nine
--"
"Oh -- the reports suggested spontaneous combustion -- oh. I see." Tim
swallows.
Harvey smiles wryly. "Exactly. She's not -- she's not *like* other women, Tim.
She's not like other *people*, period."
"Does -- ah. Does Bruce..."
"I haven't talked to him about it. I... I kinda want to protect him from it for
as long as humanly possible -- Christ. Would knowing have protected him?
Stopped this today?"
Tim shakes his head. "I don't know. We *can't* know -- yet. But... I tend to
think that it's... better to know."
Harvey smiles ruefully. "Always, little guy? 'cause I know some things about
what happened with my old man's body that I *sincerely* wish I could forget --"
"Even if forgetting would also make you forget how dangerous your mother is?"
"I... heh. Point to my *other* genius brother, because, yeah, I *am* gonna be
thinking about Lester Dent's *failed* autopsy when I walk into Martha's
freakin' boudoir -- or wherever she is --"
"Let me come with you --"
"You have to call --"
"No. We're going to stop by my... parents' house, pick up the vial, and then go
straight to the Manor. And then we'll meet with your mother --"
"Just call her freakin' Martha --"
"No, I don't think so. She's going to be 'Mrs. Wayne' to me, and I think she
should --"
"You think she should continue to be 'Mom' to me? Even though I'm -- no. No,
you're right," Harvey says, and pulls onto Harrison Terrace. The Drakes are
*near* the end, and then it's another mile and a half to the manor. "All the
cops I've talked to over the years are all about that. Show the perp respect
until he -- or she -- gets overconfident and sloppy."
Tim nods once, and that --
"You studied interrogation technique, little guy?"
"I... just from books."
"I didn't see *that* on your bookshelf."
"You -- looked -- ah. It would've been suspicious."
That's *confusing* for a minute -- until it isn't. Tim isn't *supposed* to be
interested in things like that.
Or in anything Janet or *Thomas* wouldn't approve of --
*Christ* --
Harvey reaches over and cups Tim's shoulder, squeezing *firmly* --
"I'm all right --"
"No, you're not, little guy --"
Tim laughs and covers Harvey's hand with his own. "I'm *relatively* all right.
With this. About this? Ah -- let's focus."
Harvey squeezes him again. "Anything you say. We'll go in soft and determined.
We don't let her get away with anything. We don't let her *distract* us."
"All right. What does she... ah.... like? In terms of conversation."
"Flirtation. Intelligence. *Naughty* humor." And Harvey can *feel* Tim's eyes
crossing -- "Heh. Yeah, I said it --"
"You're her *son* --"
"I'm her *son's* *brother*. That's not really the same thing in her book."
And Tim's got a thoughtful look on his face when they pull up in front of his
house, but it doesn't slow him down any. He's up and out of the car like *that*
--
"What are you gonna say --"
"Wrestling on the grounds. I'm going to change into something... sturdier while
I'm inside."
"Are you sure you don't want me to come in with you?"
Tim's smile is dark. "I'll be faster if I say you're waiting for me in the
car."
And -- he gets that. Harvey winces and nods, leaning back and watching Tim jog
-- not run -- up the walk.
He waits.
He runs over the fight in his head --
God, not even his *best* punches had done a damned *thing* --
And who the hell had *taught* Tim how to even *hold* a knife? Did he get that
from books, too?
And that toss at the end had *looked* wobbly as hell, but it had damned well
done the job.
Magic. He can file it under magic --
("Timothy Drakes *all* across the multiverse were all but *designed* for the
use of assorted kinds of weaponry.")
-- but maybe not all of it.
Maybe he should be making Tim drink the superhero potion? Make him faster and
stronger so he can *really* use that knife -- no. Tim said the stuff was
dangerous and addictive. No way he can risk the little guy like that.
It's bad *enough* to risk him like *this* --
Harvey will take the potion, and he'll be able to *help* kick a little ass, and
then -- well, then he'll have his brothers to talk him down from whatever
screwed-up high he gets on. And he *won't* get addicted, because no matter how
good it feels? That's *not* gonna be his life.
No matter how much it hurts.
No matter how much his body says he *needs* it. That's not --
His family -- his real family -- needs him more.
Harvey takes a deep breath and stares at his bruised and cut-up knuckles. He's
had worse from the fights he used to get into on the street before he was a
Wayne, but the pain is a surprising little reminder --
It seems like everything, lately, wants to remind him of how things used to be.
And that --
Well, that just means that he's late to be thinking this stuff through. He
can't do that, anymore.
He can protect Bruce -- maybe -- but he can't use protecting Bruce as an excuse
to *hide*.
His old man beat the shit out of him -- a lot -- from the time he was old
enough to walk, to the very last time Harvey saw him alive. The last time he
saw him period -- the casket was closed.
His mother -- his real mother -- is almost certainly dead somewhere -- thanks
to the old man in question.
He's screwed up about that -- bad. Bad enough that there were whole parts of
his mind sectioned off from the rest. *Hiding* from the rest, covered in the
kind of shadows --
The kind of shadows that don't belong in *healthy* minds, at all.
Those shadows are gone *now*, but -- there's nothing saying he can't bring them
back if he's not careful --
Chimes --
Where *are* those chimes?
But it doesn't matter, because he's not gonna bring *any* of that crap back.
He's gonna stay gold, light up *every* part of his mind *forever* --
Yeah. Yeah, that.
And that means he has to deal with the fact that he's grown into the kind of
person who loves his brothers *that* way, and who could probably use some
sisters, too --
Who could *definitely* use some sisters, because he's also grown up into the
kind of guy who can turn Martha Wayne into someone who can --
Own him a little.
Harvey shakes his head. Blood wanted him to know that about himself -- no.
Blood *needed* Harvey to know that about himself, because *some* part of the
creepy old bastard knew that Martha would have a hand in this.
Or... did he?
Or did he just suspect?
How much fucking around have the two of them *done*? What do they *do* between
the galas and balls Blood pretty much never shows his face at and all the
meetings and organizational stuff Martha does for the Foundation? Screw like
it's going out of style, sure. Make fun of all the squares, absolutely. But
what *else*?
By rights, Harvey shouldn't *have* to know this -- but he does. He *really*
does, because *one* of the things they did -- no way Martha managed this
*completely* on her own -- involved a *kidnapping*.
And maybe worse --
No, he can't think about --
But doesn't he have to think about it?
Isn't that *why* he's making Tim get the superhero juice? They might have to
*fight* Bruce out of wherever that lizard-woman took him to, because --
Because Martha isn't even a little bit afraid to commit murder.
And hasn't been for a long, long time.
Harvey winces and grips the steering wheel hard --
Wishes like *hell* they could call in the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, *and*
the freaking angelic *host* --
And why *don't* they do anything about Blood? Are the people and other things
he kills -- or helps to kill -- all that bad?
Or does God just not care?
Harvey knows -- in his *bones* -- that Blood has an answer to that question.
And he knows *just* as well that he doesn't want to *hear* that answer. But --
He's still gonna ask.
And every *other* question that comes to mind, too. Hey, if he makes Blood sick
of him, then maybe -- something.
Laughing alone never sounds as good as you think it will. Ever.
He stops.
And he waits --
And he builds a list of questions in his mind for Martha. Nice softballs to get
her ready, get her --
But she's gonna be panicked, isn't she?
Freaked right the hell out. This is her *son*, and Blood had *shown* him how
she reacts when anything serious goes down with Bruce. She might *cooperate*.
*That* would be --
No, he's not gonna hope for it. He's just gonna make himself as ready as
possible -- and he knows that his little brother is doing the *exact* same
thing.
He leans back and waits, letting his eyes slip most of the way closed and
letting his mind just -- go.
Martha dancing alone to jazz in the ballroom before it was the gymnasium.
Bruce sketching and frowning so hard he looked *angry*.
Tim smiling up at him like he's the best thing since hot dogs with extra onions
--
Thomas looking away --
And away --
And *away*, because that's apparently the *correct* thing to do when your wife
won't let you say boo about the fact that your sons are screwing each other
every night --
What did you do, Mom?
Tell me everything. Tell *us* --
And Tim is jogging out of his front door just like that. He's wearing jeans, a
t-shirt, and a leather jacket that's a little too warm for the weather, but
might keep him from getting torn up too badly if he gets kicked into any more
cars. There's something odd about the jeans Harvey can't put his finger on.
Something about the way they fit looks off, but he can damned well *move* in
them. The boots are the same --
And he's got a little satchel that looks full of random books, and undoubtedly
has that little vial *somewhere*.
Harvey leans over and pushes open the door --
And Tim slides in. "I'm set," he says, and closes the door.
"No friction?" And Harvey starts the car --
Tim's smile is cold. "My brothers are waiting for me. She's ecstatic -
- inasmuch as that's... possible."
And your not-father -- no. No editing. "And Jack Drake's not even an issue, is
he?"
"No. Not at all. She's quite fond of him -- they enjoy each other's company a
great deal, and, obviously, work well together -- but she made it clear to both
me *and* him years ago that I had one... father."
Harvey winces and drives, keeping an eye out for the Bristol cops -- who all
just *love* getting paid to baby-sit the young and the useless while their rich
parents talk to their lawyers --
No, no, and no.
Right on the speed limit.
Right --
It hasn't even been an hour.
It hasn't even been forty *minutes* --
They're good.
They make it to the manor without incident, and Harvey leaves the car on the
driveway instead of pulling into any of the garages. They might be leaving in a
hurry, after all. They --
Yeah.
Tim's right on his heels as they head into the kitchen -- Alfred *always* knows
where everyone is in the manor at any given time, and never *mind* how --
They find him stirring a big pot of gumbo -- a dish that hadn't even *happened*
in this house until Harvey had mentioned being curious about it --
A dish that Bruce loves --
They're getting him back. *Fast*.
"Ah, Master Harvey and Master Tim. What may --"
"Alfred, I'm sorry for interrupting like this, but it's important. Where's
Mom?"
Alfred blinks once --
Looks at Harvey's knuckles --
Looks at the bruise beneath Tim's left ear Harvey hadn't even noticed until
just now --
And shudders. "Is Master Bruce in danger, sir?"
Sir, not young sir. Not anymore. Not -- focus. "He is, yeah. Blood saw this
coming --" Harvey shakes his head. "The things that took him say Mom took one
of their own and that they won't give Bruce back until --"
Alfred sucks in a breath and nods. "You may find her in the library, sir and
young sir. If you require assistance, I am at your disposal."
Tim raises an eyebrow --
But Tim may not actually know what Alfred was getting up to overseas before his
father died and he came here. Not that *Harvey* does, *either* -- but. Harvey
swallows and nods. "Thanks, Al. We'll keep it in mind," and then Harvey steers
Tim up the back stairs because it's faster --
The servants' stairs which are that much darker and narrower --
Like maybe the people who built this house couldn't let *anything* just be
*normal* for the people who worked for them --
No, not that. Not now.
It only takes two minutes to get to the library this way, and -- Martha's on
her chaise with Sense and Sensibility. She's wearing something sleeveless and
flowing; the afternoon sun is making her pale, perfect skin look a little
golden; her hair is tumbled down around her shoulders, and when she turns to
look at them --
When she sees that it's just the *two* of them --
She moans and drops the book, clutching at the arms of the chaise and suddenly
looking -- her age.
She did this.
She *did* this --
Harvey reaches toward Tim --
Tim puts the note in his hand --
And Harvey hands it to her.
For a moment, she stares at it like it's another language -- one she *doesn't*
know -- hard enough that Harvey wonders if it magically changed again --
And then she *keens* --
Tears the paper and *glares* at Tim with her teeth bared -- "You were supposed
to --"
"*Don't*, Mom. He killed *three* of the *five* things they sent to take Bruce
and injured one of the others --"
"That's not *good* enough --"
"Mom. Listen. *What did you do*?"
She's staring at Tim like she's about to leap for his *throat* --
No. Just -- no.
Harvey closes the distance between them and *cups* the arms of the chaise,
leaning in close enough that she can claw his eyes out if she wants. "Focus on
me now, Mom --"
She *growls*, low and freaking *savage* --
"Focus. On. Me."
"Get *away* from me --"
"Not until you focus. We *all* want the same thing here --"
She *screams* -- but it's quiet enough not to carry, sharp and high and -
- controlled.
And he can see Tim raising an eyebrow out of the corner of his eye. Yeah, he's
seeing this. *Knowing* this. And Martha --
"I know you're hearing me, Mom. I know --"
"What do you *mean* 'what did I do?'"
"You know *exactly* what I mean. Somewhere along the way you pissed off a
lizard-woman and some weird half-liquid creatures --"
Martha's eyes -- shutter. Just a little.
Harvey nods. "You're hearing me more. Okay, let's go with this, Mom --"
"Where's *Bruce*?"
"We don't know yet, Mrs. Wayne. But we're going to find out," Tim says, calm
and low and quiet.
"And you're gonna help us."
Shuttered eyes --
Squeezed-*shut* eyes --
*Anguished* eyes --
*Terrified* eyes --
*Enraged* --
And it just keeps going, keeps *cycling*, and damn if there isn't a part of him
that's heating right up, *warming* right up --
This is familiar from the *inside*, if not the out --
*Tim* is looking more than a little freaked, but this --
Harvey nods, nice and slow and easy. "I'm right here, Mom. We're right here,
and we're gonna get Bruce back -- to you."
"Yes. Yes, you have to do that. He can't -- he's not supposed to..." And
Martha's eyes are *almost* blank, but there's something deep in them, something
like *hunger* --
She's *clawing* at the chaise and the backs of Harvey's hands --
And Harvey doesn't wince. "He's not supposed to go anywhere, yeah? You put up
with him leaving for four long years, but now he's home. *Forever*."
"The way it should be."
"Yeah. Yeah, I hear you," Harvey says, and tries a smile. "He'll never leave
after this, Mom. We'll make sure of it."
She looks at him *hotly* -- "You want him to move *out*."
Is she back? He doesn't *think* so, but -- go with it. "Just into Gotham
proper, Mom. Not far --"
"*Too* far!"
Improvise. Harvey grins conspiratorially. "Far, yeah... away from *Dad*."
She gasps a little --
Grins --
"Not far from me."
"Never far from you, Mom. We both know he *couldn't* do that, don't we?"
And she doesn't look her age, at all.
She looks like the woman who'd run into Blood's shop with a letter --
She looks like the woman who dances to jazz --
She looks like --
Like --
Like someone who can make Harvey smile *just* like this, make him waggle his
eyebrows just a little, jerk his chin. "We know what he likes, don't we, Mom?"
She giggles and *grins* --
"Yeah. Yeah, we know *exactly* what he likes. What makes him... excitable --"
"*Passionate*."
"That, too," Harvey says, licking his teeth and leaning in a little more.
"There's nothing like it when he's passionate, am I right? Nothing like
*anything*."
Martha shivers and *purrs* --
"Yeah. You gotta have that. You *need* that -- and I need it, too."
"You've *had* it," she says, and that's a *dangerous*-sounding pout --
He knows how to derail it. "When he was young, yeah. Not old enough for you. We
were *kids*."
Her nostrils flare. "You're not a child anymore."
Harvey lets his smile be lazy. "Not even a little. *He* still is... but I think
we can fix that. Can't we?"
She touches her tongue to her upper lip --
And the part of Harvey telling him to lean in and press his *advantage* -- has
been spending too goddamned much time with worthless socialites. This is -
- something else. He jerks his chin at her again, instead. "Let's get him back
here, Mom. Let's take *care* of this."
"Yes. Yes, *let's*."
"Well, all right --"
"But..."
*Fuck* -- no, no, keep cool, stay gold -- "But what, Mom? Tell me," Harvey
says, and *does* lean in a little --
"Oh --" And she darts in to kiss him softly, dryly --
Not even a *little* innocently --
Her mouth is so --
Fuck, fuck, Jesus --
And she hums and pulls back, sighing and crossing her arms under her breasts.
"I *had* to kill him."
No --
*No* --
God fucking --
And he's gotta keep this out of his eyes, gotta --
He *has* to get the whole *story* --
Tim makes a small, *small* sound and draws a line across the carpet with the
toe of his boot like some kung fu guy daring another to kick his ass. Okay.
Okay --
"Harvey...?"
Harvey manages a laugh and shakes his head. "Sorry, Mom. Just gotta change our
plans a little," he says, and sits down at the end of the chaise, resting her
perfect little feet on his lap. "Tell us what went down?"
Martha *starts* to turn to look at Tim -- no, don't distract her.
Harvey cups her chin and turns her to face *him*.
"Any *number* of men have suffered for less than that, Harvey."
"Oh, I have *no* doubts about that, Mom, but... sometimes I can't control
myself," Harvey says, and waggles his eyebrows again.
She giggles again. "You were *always* adorable. And charming in the *good*
ways," she says, removing Harvey's hand from her chin -- and twining her tiny
little fingers with his.
Harvey *raises* his eyebrows. "That's fine by you?"
She hums. "For now. But... let me tell you about Nemen."
"That's -- that *was* Brother's name?"
"That's how he introduced himself once I used Jason's power -- he'd left me a
fair amount before allowing Etrigan to take their body on an apparently
difficult mission to one of the Hells -- to free him from Harris Wellington's
awful little dungeon."
"Uh... what?"
She gives him an impatient look --
Blinks --
And laughs softly. "Oh, Harvey, I'm sorry. This was nearly twenty years ago.
I... all right, I'll give you the story in brief. Harris was one of my many
suitors when I was a girl, and he was rich enough, but even my pathetic and
*greedy* father refused to countenance selling me to him, since everyone with
*half* a mind knew what happened to women -- and young men -- in his care."
"Are you *serious*? No one *did* anything?"
"It was the forties when these rumors --- truths -- began making the rounds,
and the women and boys were, in various ways, undesirable," and Martha raises
an eyebrow. "I trust I don't need to explain that to you...?"
"Oh, I understand all right. Jesus freakin' -- no, go on."
Martha nods. "I had had Jason at my side for three months then. I was pregnant
with Bruce, and I felt happy and... almost secure. Jason had asked me several
times if there wasn't someone *else* I felt the world could do without, and I
was almost *confident*, as well. Confident enough, in any event, that I felt we
could do something about Wellington. That *I* could, with his power. And I did,
and I freed his captives, and forced Thomas to arrange for the best medical
care for those who could still *use* that sort of thing...." Martha frowns,
looking her age again and maybe...
Maybe smelling the place.
Maybe feeling it.
Harvey squeezes her hand because he *has* to --
And she gives him a warm and grateful smile that looks so motherly that he
*wants* to flinch.
He doesn't. "What about Nemen?"
"From the way the humans responded to the sight of him as they crawled and
limped out into the light, it was clear what Nemen had been used for. It was
*equally* clear that it wasn't his choice. Once the humans were gone, he gave
me the full story," Martha says, and squeezes Harvey's hand *hard* --
"I'm here --"
"I -- yes. You are," she says, and laughs painfully. "Most people -- thankfully
-- don't realize how very *easy* it is to summon a demon from one of the
alternate dimensions they live in so long as you're willing to do something...
perfectly terrible. Wellington realized it, summoned Nemen, and put him to work
-- and bound him. If he ever failed to follow an order, or failed to protect
Wellington or his 'investments', his life was forfeit. If he *did* follow every
order, he would be allowed to return to his home in ten years..."
"He couldn't wait that long."
Martha shakes her head silently.
"He was -- he was dying while you talked to him. Wasn't he."
Martha nods.
"Ah, God --" And Harvey covers his face with his free hand and breathes, just
breathes --
"He... he began to scream," Martha says, quiet and *harsh*. "And they were all
words at first. 'Tell the Sister to begin anew.' 'Tell her there is love,
always love.' 'Tell her --' And then he couldn't speak, at all." She lowers her
head. "I used the last of Jason's power to kill him quickly."
Harvey blows out a breath --
And Tim steps close and pulls the knife out of his boot. "We have our answer.
Let's go find a way to explain ourselves."
Harvey drops his hand. "*How*, little guy?"
"The knife wants me know that a few drops of Martha's blood on the paper would
expedite communications."
That -- "Not with that knife."
Tim takes a breath -- nods and sheaths it, and pulls *another* knife out of the
back of his weird jeans.
"Jesus -- where -- *why* --"
"A precaution, only. I purchased these jeans because they were easy to move in,
and had room for things like boot sheaths -- and belt sheaths. And then I
altered them --" Tim shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. Mrs. Wayne, do you
consent --"
She reaches out with the hand Harvey isn't holding --
She's not even *looking* --
And Tim reaches for the note -- and hands him a little test-tube-looking thing
with a rubber stopper.
"We're gonna talk --"
"Yes. But first we're going to get Bruce back. "Be ready -- hm. Get out of
range of a first-flush attack."
"What about --"
"As soon as Mrs. Wayne is bleeding, I'm pulling out the other knife," Tim says,
and raises an eyebrow just as *cool* --
"All right, fine," Harvey says, and turns to Martha. "Be ready to move, Mom."
And -- she smiles at him. *Wetly*. "I always am."
Shit, shit -- no, he's dealing with this. Including the part of 'this' where a
part of him is just fine with the fact that his mother is --
That *Martha* is --
Yeah.
"We're ready, Tim," Harvey says, and watches Martha's eyes --
Watches her narrow them *slightly* when Tim slashes --
How much *blood* magic does she let Blood get up to --
"Now, Harv."
"Yeah," Harvey says, lifting Martha into his arms and carrying her back to the
stacks at a jog --
"I've never regretted anything about making you ours," she says in a low and
*sultry* voice --
And Harvey deals with *that* by setting her down on her feet and getting a
*good* grip on the vial with one hand, on her *hem* with the other hand --
He tears off a strip of her pretty little dress with his teeth. "Wrap that
hand, Mom. I'm going."
He doesn't look back --
But he can still feel the *ghostly* touch of her fingers down his spine --
Still --
But maybe that's all the fog filling up the library all of a sudden, maybe --
Jesus, there's a *hole* in the floor where the paper used to be --
It's getting freaking *bigger* --
And Tim is holding both knives and working his way back and back just like he
knows what he's doing. Christ --
What the hell are they even --
No. No, they're doing this, and they're *gonna* be ready. Hour-Man's name is
real damned telling about how long his magic potion lasts, so Harvey's gonna
wait 'til the last *second* --
Shapes in the fog -- or.
One shape?
It's moving sluggishly and it's not *solid* --
It falls over --
It rises on two huge, clawed feet --
The lizard-thing. The so-called freaking *realtor* --
It falls over again, and this time it slips nearly halfway back into the hole
in the floor. Jesus. Is it --
No, he *knows* Tim had wounded it. Now he just has to make sure Tim doesn't
lower his guard too --
And Tim really is just crouching there staring into the fog, blinking
*irregularly* so he doesn't freaking *miss* anything --
Tim's fine.
Harvey grips the test tube --
No, he switches it to the hand that *isn't* sweaty and watches the lizard-thing
crawl out of the -- dissipating -- fog.
In the two minutes it takes it to stand again, Harvey can see that it's -
- withered. The royal blue color is now more of a brackish marsh-brown, the
blonde hair is falling out in clumps, and it's --
She's smaller. Older.
She falls to her knees and sighs. "The truth is in the blood," she says, in a
low, rattling whisper. "The Brother is dead."
Shit --
"Yes," Tim says, and doesn't lower either of his knives. "I'm sorry for your
loss."
"Human. Your species is a *plague*," she says, and coughs out something black
and smoking --
She falls to her elbows --
She *groans* --
"*Please*," Harvey says, and steps closer --
"Stay *back*, Harv --"
"No, we gotta -- look, we'll *help* you --"
She makes a rattling, bubbling sound -- "I'm *dying*, you fool! The sword the
boy carries is seasoned with the blood of one who is beyond... beyond
*mortality*..." And she wails --
She wails *again*, spattering the walls and shelves with more black and smoking
-- whatever it is --
It's leaking from --
From every *part* of her --
And Harvey realizes that she's calling out "Nemen," over and over, that she's -
-
God, fuck -- "*Sister*. Please let us have our *brother* back!"
"*Why*? Why shouldn't he die alone and unloved?"
"He did nothing *to* you, Sister! And Martha -- all she did was make sure Nemen
--"
"Don't say his *name*!"
"I'm *sorry*!" And Harvey steps closer to her, to the pit -- "Brother was dying
in *pain*. Martha *stopped* it!"
"Humans did this! Humans took him and slaved him and *raped* him, over and over
-- the blood tells! The blood *screams*!"
"Then take *my* blood, Sister! My blood will tell you everything you need to
*know* about Bruce, about how *good* he is, how -- he would never have *hurt* -
-"
She wails again --
She struggles up to her knees and *lunges* for Tim, and her speed is
incredible, too much, too *much*, and the stupid stopper isn't coming out of
the vial --
His hand slips --
No, no, he's not dropping it, he's not dropping it --
But Tim slashes his own fucking *arm* -- and splashes Sister's face with it.
She freezes and recoils, limp, blackened tongue slipping out to taste -- "He
hurts! Your brother hurts you!"
"That's not all he does," Tim says, calm and cool and freaking *dripping* --
Did he at least use the right freaking *knife*?
But Harvey gets the stopper open, lifts the vial --
"Don't, Harv," Tim says --
"*Jesus*, Tim --"
"*Don't*."
Fuck --
But Sister cocks her head to the side --
More *hair* falls out --
"He *hurt* you!"
"Yes. Many times."
"I will keep him in the dark with my corpse. He will rot *with* me --"
"No. I need him back. We all do," Tim says, and flicks more of his blood at her
face.
This time, she doesn't recoil. She sniffs --
Gurgles and *spits* --
A piece of her tongue falls *off* --
"Nemen loved me every day! There was love! There was always love!" It's garbled
--
It's -- it's a *mess*, but it's clear enough --
"I want that with Bruce," Tim says.
"So do I. I need it," Harvey says --
"So do I. We're not -- "
"We're not *complete*, Sister. *Please*."
She sways, hugging herself --
And Harvey -- can't. He closes the vial -- *loosely* -- and slips it in his
pocket before he steps close and holds her up. He can smell his clothes
*sizzling* --
He stays right where he is. He -- "Please, Sister. We need him."
"Badly," Tim says, and lowers his knives.
"Nemen," she says, and *shrinks* in Harvey's arms --
Harvey holds *on* --
"Nemen would never say no..." And then she's -- gone. Just freaking gone --
"No. No -- c'mon, Sister, *please* --"
"Harv," and Tim grips his arm -- and points.
Bruce is on Martha's chaise -- and dangling *off* it because it's too freaking
*small* for him -- sound asleep.
Just -- asleep.
His *clothes* aren't even too rumpled --
Harvey breathes. Just breathes --
And in the time it takes him to do it, Martha is damned well on *top* of Bruce,
hugging him and kissing him --
*Mostly* just his cheeks --
Tim's eyebrows are up near his freaking hairline --
Harvey's own eyebrows are a little too jaded for that.
Bruce wakes up the way he always does -- sudden and *complete*. He sits up
*while* arranging Martha in his arms -- on his freaking *lap* -- kissing her
temples and blinking at the mess all around him. "Mother, brothers, what's
happened -- oh. Hm. I believe I'll need a new realtor."
Harvey coughs a laugh. "Uh -- yeah. Yeah, you will. Where did you even *find*
this one?"
"In the phone book. I... can't recall *why* it seemed so important to choose
that particular advertisement, though."
Tim smiles wryly. "I have my suspicions."
"Yes, I -- oh, you're bleeding, Tim --"
"It's a shallow wound. I'll be fine --"
"We still need to get you bandaged up, little guy. And Mom, too --"
"I'll take care of myself," she says *quickly* -- and wraps her arms around
Bruce's neck.
"Mother, if you're injured --"
"I'm all *right*, Bruce --"
"It would hardly be correct --"
Martha growls at him.
Bruce blinks and frowns. "Mother, it's only that I don't want you to be hurt."
Martha sighs. Gustily. And then turns to *him*. "Harvey, would you be a dear
and have Alfred bring --"
And Alfred walks in -- *briskly* -- with a first-aid kit.
Martha sighs *again* -- and moves off Bruce's lap.
Bruce stands to give her more room on the chaise --
That *pout* is back --
But Harvey has to admit that he cares about it a *little* less than he did
before. "C'mere, big guy. Jesus, we were worried *sick*," he says, and pulls
Bruce into a hard hug.
Bruce hugs him back. "I'm quite all right, save for an odd taste in my mouth.
Emily -- assuming that was her name -- drugged me with her saliva."
"Uh. She kissed you?"
"Spat into my mouth."
Harvey blinks and pulls back --
Looks at all the still-smoking places where Sister's spit landed in *here* --
"Uh. Go wash your mouth out, big guy. Now."
"Hm. Are you suggesting that all of this ichor-like material is her spittle?"
"Yeah. Or -- I don't know. The knife did a number on her," Harvey says, and
turns to Tim. "Tim was amazing out there. And in here."
Tim blushes hard and looks like he's trying to figure out something to do with
his hands other than *bleed* --
The knives are sheathed and Harvey can't even see the *outline* of the belt
sheath he has to be wearing --
And Bruce just walks them both over to Tim, smiles, and cups his face. "Thank
you."
"I -- you're welcome. I'm sorry we couldn't -- I couldn't --"
Bruce covers Tim's mouth with his thumb. "Thank you," he says again. "Brother."
And Tim's eyes are wide for that, wide as *hell* --
What had the Sister seen in his blood *other* than the hurt? Was the love
enough?
It's enough for *him* -- no, that's not true. He wants more. He wants more for
*all* of them, and he's gonna find a way to get it. Just -- everything.
And Martha...
Well, right now Martha is chatting with Alfred about repairing and cleaning up
the library just like she *isn't* really pouting about not being on her son's
lap anymore, but Harvey knows *that's* not true, either. He'll --
They'll figure something out about *that*, too.
And they'll do it together.
*
***** May 1979: Tim Talks To His Mother And Returns Borrowed Property. *****
Filling in Bruce about what had happened *hadn't* taken especially long -- even
with Harvey exaggerating about Tim's fighting prowess and Bruce asking to be
shown *how* Tim had done certain things --
Tim has spent a lot of time blushing today. The fact that he's doing so *again*
even though he's *alone* in his *room* --
No. No, alone in his room is the *right* time for blushes. No one can *see* him
now --
No one can appreciate the blushes, either --
Bruce finds them *alluring* --
Bruce --
Bruce had taken a quick shower, then brushed his teeth, then insisted on
washing both him and Harvey... thoroughly.
Lovingly. He --
("Okay, there's no actual warning that's good enough for the Bruce-wash
experience, little guy, so I'll just say this: Enjoy it.")
He had.
A lot.
Enough that it hadn't even been *embarrassing* -- at the time -- to stroke
himself while watching Harvey --
Watching Harvey *fellate* Bruce in the incredibly *crowded* tub --
Bruce had looked almost *pained* every time Harvey swallowed --
Harvey had looked *drugged* --
And Bruce had been shaking too much to reach for Tim effectively, shaking and
begging Tim to slow down, to wait for him, wait for *them* --
("I can't -- "
"Please --"
"You look -- it's so --"
"*Please*!)
And the pained look had turned to something almost *anguished* --
Tim had *had* to stop stroking -- but then he'd also had to come closer, had to
-- to *press* himself against Bruce's *thigh* --
("Oh -- oh, *yes*, brother --")
*Work* himself against --
Bruce is so *hairy* --
And the water had sheeted down over all of them --
And Tim had gripped at Bruce's waist --
At Harvey's *hair* --
And Bruce had *crushed* Tim against himself --
And Harvey had pressed his thumb against Tim's *hole* --
And now he's doing more than just blushing, which is -- problematic.
His mother hasn't been in, yet, for her report. She --
She's going to want --
Tim evens his breathing, blanks his mind --
("Brother, so *beautiful* ---")
Blanks his *mind* --
("Oh, *yeah*, little guy, *let* me get you going again --")
*Blanks* *his* *mind* --
He still hasn't found a place to put the *knife* --
And that does the trick. His mind is now blank with something very like
*terror*. Tim shakes it off and tucks the knife in his largest secret
compartment. He winds up having to take it out of the sheath and wedge it on a
diagonal -- and stab the hardwood -- but he's reasonably sure the curse on the
blade only works on living things.
If not, the house is in trouble.
He stashes the sheath in his *second*-largest compartment, and then tries to
decide what he should look like he's doing when his mother inevitably walks in.
Working on the computer might make it seem like he's backsliding in nerdish
ways.
Going over his homework for flaws might make it seem like he *hadn't* gotten it
all done on Friday afternoon.
Reading his science-fiction -- yes. Bruce had wanted to discuss his reading
interests, which had made Harvey laugh rather more than the moment seemed
worth, but he'd just shaken his head and waved them on, stretching out between
them like a happy...
Animal. Of some sort.
'Dog' seems insulting. 'Cat' seems *unlikely* and insulting.
What is Harvey thinking about right now?
Are he and Bruce making love again?
Are they talking to Martha Wayne about what had happened? *Thomas* Wayne?
What if they don't want Bruce and Harvey associating with him anymore? He'd -
- he hadn't been able to keep Bruce from being *kidnapped* --
Tim balls his hands into fists and stares at -- absolutely nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing -- until he can regulate his breathing again. Just -- slowly. Evenly.
Slowly. Evenly --
Bruce and Harvey had driven him back here together, even though the drive is
only five minutes from Wayne Manor. Bruce had spent the drive asking him
serious, probing questions about popular music Tim felt completely unqualified
to answer, as his tastes run toward the more experimental and progressive end
of things --
And then Bruce had asked him serious and probing questions about *that*, and
Tim had -- answered. Blathered, really, and --
God, it had looked like Bruce was taking *notes* --
("You know he's gonna drag us all into the city so we can pick up albums for
*all* those bands, right, little guy?"
"Oh, I'll -- ah. Hm.")
He'd known he wouldn't have to make a list.
He'd --
They'd sat in front of the house for over ten *minutes*, and by the end of it
Tim had only wanted to be back in a bed with both of them, wanted to be held
and touched and --
Given a reason to talk this much.
Feel this much.
Tim picks a book at random off his shelf -- Dhalgren by Samuel R. Delany -- and
sits down with it. The cover is reassuringly plain -- unlike an irritatingly
high number of perfectly good, hard science fiction books which have been
saddled with covers which bear far more of a resemblance to soft-core
pornography than to anything having to do with the *stories* --
Sex sells.
He -- now knows exactly why sex sells.
Not that he hadn't known *before* --
He knows better now.
What would it be like --
Had Harvey been *serious* about finding ways to help him with women? Obviously
--
Well, there almost certainly won't be very many nineteen-year-old women who
want anything to do with *him*, but --
Younger sisters?
Double dates?
Incredibly *perverse* double dates --
("Yeah, little guy? You'd like that? The two of us and a couple of girls -- no
*way* we'd talk Bruce into it until he was *dead* sure it was a barrel of
laughs *and* educational *and* also morally improving --"
"Harv, I'm not *that* bad --"
"'course not, big guy, you're perfect just the way you are -- but... heh.
Tim.")
And Harvey had grinned and waggled his eyebrows --
("You wanna know what it's like to eat a pussy, little guy?")
And Tim had *grunted* --
("You don't think that term is disturbingly *cannibalistic*, Harv?")
And Harvey had *snorted* --
("Okay, you go over there and sketch the cute faces I'm about to make Tim make.
Go on, scoot."
"It was only a *question* --"
"Back me up here, little guy.")
And Tim had warmed inside --
*Wanted* --
They'd both been smiling at him, *willing* him to play with them -- no.
*Expecting* him to play with them, just like it was something they'd all been
doing for months. *Years*.
So Tim had leaned back on his elbows, ignoring the twinges from his bruises and
his slashed arm --
("It was a poorly-*timed* question, Bruce."
"But --")
And Tim had shaken his head.
("It may have *seemed* timely -- what with the mention, and the fact that the
question had been on your mind for quite some time...?"
"*Yes* --"
"Cannibalism should almost never be discussed -- I'm nearly certain about this
-- when sexuality is about to be discussed.")
And Bruce had hummed and raised a -- devastating -- eyebrow.
("You don't think that's rather limiting...?")
Tim had hummed *helplessly* --
("I think... that I'm willing to be limited."
"In the interest of learning cunnilingus.")
And Tim had let his smile be *sharp* --
("In the interest... of learning how. To eat. A pussy.")
And Bruce had blushed --
And Harvey had whistled and *clapped* --
("As you say.")
And Bruce had taken a sketchbook out of the bedside table -- even though they
were in *Harvey's* room --
And Harvey had rolled close, spread Tim's legs, and *gripped* the backs of
Tim's thighs.
("Right about now? You can smell her more than anything else. Half the house
could be burning down, but if you've been doin' your job with all those kisses
and touches and little bites -- and I already *know* you can do that job -
- she's wet as hell and ready to *talk* to you with her pretty little kitty.
Get me?"
"Oh -- oh. I... more?"
"Heh. You got it...")
And Harvey had leaned in and *nuzzled* him, his scrotum and the base of his
penis --
Nuzzled and kissed him, *sucked* kisses --
Tim had moaned and arched, but --
("Kisses -- for her clitoris?"
"Oh, yeah, but I like to get down 'n' dirty first. Really get my whole *face*
wet."
"Oh. Does -- do women... enjoy that?"
"Eh, some of them *say* they don't -- and some of the ones who say it even
*mean* it -- but it's easy as hell to grab a washcloth and start over for those
women, you know? Because there are a whole *lot* of women out there who just
*love* to see their juices all over their man's face."
"A... facial?")
And Harvey had grinned slowly and started stroking Tim's hardening penis --
Aimed it toward his *face* --
("Oh -- Harv --"
"Wanna give me one, little guy?"
"I want -- I want *everything* -- *nnh* --"
"And I want you, little guy, I want... mm. Think about really *nosing* up
against a puffy little clit..."
"Hnh -- I -- how -- how do they *feel*?"
"Soft. Soft over *firm*. Softer than a dick even when she's swollen and
*ready*. More tender -- especially with that little hood pulled back. You can't
suck on it *too* hard --"
"Oh. Oh, God --")
And Harvey had stroked him faster --
And Bruce had been sketching *furiously* --
("They got -- kind of a little *spring* to 'em. Again, not as much as a dick --
"
"I want -- I really --")
And Tim had laughed and shaken his head --
("I think about it all the *time*!"
"Heh. Black Canary, yeah?"
"*Yes*. Oh -- oh, *Harv* --"
"Lick her, little guy. Lick her just -- mm. Just like this... *mmm*..."
"All -- all over?"
"She'll tell you where the best spots are -- one way or another --")
And Harvey had wiggled his tongue in the *slit* --
And Tim had whimpered and *bucked* --
("Just like you're tellin' me..."
"Please --")
And Harvey had taken the head in --
Just between his *lips* --
Harvey had *hummed* --
"Please! *Please*!")
And if there were lessons after that --
If there was more to the lesson than how good it could feel to have Harvey push
*deep* with his long, slim fingers --
Tim had been sore and swollen and it hadn't *mattered* --
*Nothing* had mattered but the feel, the look in Harvey's eyes, the --
The *press* --
And he had arched --
And --
("Oh... *come* for him, brother...")
He remembers arching --
He remembers crying out --
He remembers that Bruce was still *sketching* even though he wasn't actually
*looking* at the *page* --
Of *course* he can do that --
And of course Tim *can't* recall the actual *sensations* of his orgasm, even
though it was only -- he checks his time-sense -- two hours ago. It was... it
was good, and --
He'd sweated and sobbed and clenched and hadn't been able to *unclench* for
nearly three *minutes* --
("Gonna keep me, little guy?"
"*Please*!")
It had been --
Oh -- damn, he's given himself another erection. He --
His *mother* is going to --
Tim stands up, walks into his bathroom, doesn't think about Martha Wayne,
doesn't think about Martha Wayne's relationship with her sons, doesn't --
He tucks, clenching his thighs together --
The pain gives him a *headache* --
But *both* pains fade relatively quickly.
Tim straightens his clothes, washes his hands --
Martha Wayne --
She'd *kissed* Harvey --
On the *mouth* --
Some mothers do that. Some --
Tim has seen that. In foreign films, and even on television. It --
It wasn't that kind of kiss. She hadn't -- she hadn't used her *tongue* --
She'd wanted to. It --
Tim would've had to be younger, stupider, and significantly more virginal -- in
mind, body, and *spirit* -- not to catch that.
Just like he would've had to be all of those things not to catch the fact that
Harvey --
Some *part* of Harvey --
Tim shudders, and just --
She'd kissed Bruce, too. That -- that *had* seemed more innocent. She'd kissed
him all over his face, and the passion there *could* have been ascribed to
desperate relief. Bruce is her only biological child, and he *had* been in
terrible danger. Moments before, a *demon* had been threatening to imprison him
with her rotting corpse for *eternity*.
The fact is, if Tim *hadn't* witnessed that... *that* with Harvey, he wouldn't
be thinking *anything* untoward --
Is it possible that his relationship with his mother and Jack Drake is *better*
than he'd been making it out to be in his own mind? It --
His mother had *always* suggested -- and flat-out stated -- that he was a
whiner. Various observations Tim has made over the years suggested -- and flat-
out stated -- that his mother was incorrect about such things --
At least *most* such things --
No matter how *useful* --
Certainly Bruce and *Harvey* want him to think that way --
Tim stares at himself in the mirror and -- licks his lips, which are both
swollen and somewhat more *red* than they usually are. The bruise beneath his
ear is already black and blue -- as are the bruises on his chest and back and
hip.
His mother will almost certainly never want to... French him.
Tim bites his lip --
Coughs --
*Snickers* --
*Helplessly* --
Just -- how on earth do you *live* with that? Harvey's somewhat *oblique*
speech about it -- he is *still* protecting Bruce -- suggests that he knew all
about the rather incestuous undertones to life in Wayne Manor long before now.
That he had --
Lived in denial?
Pushed it out of his head?
*How*?
Don't they have *dinner* together every day? And -- other meals?
Harvey had spoken of visiting Martha in her *bedroom* for various things --
Tim -- well, that was more of a nervous giggle --
Which is, of course, *why* *his* mother is *rapping* on the bathroom door.
Tim chokes his heart back down his throat -- "I'll be just a moment, Mother,"
Tim says, and washes his hands again, flushing the toilet for no earthly reason
whatsoever.
He dries his hands thoroughly, stares at himself in the mirror --
Well, he's blushing. There's nothing he can *do* about that -- is there?
He fills his mind with the memory of his blood splashing the Sister's face
With the memory of her *dissolution* --
He'd killed four people today -- *people*. He'd had a good reason -- he'd
honestly thought he'd *had* to, and, no, it *doesn't* matter that he hadn't
known ahead of time what the knife would do, or *how* the knife was cursed --
He killed four people today, and, perhaps, a part of *himself* --
The blush fades -- more quickly than it ever has in the past.
He feels something like *regret* --
But he doesn't have time for that.
He walks back out into his bedroom --
And finds his mother in one of her full-coverage robes, perusing his bookshelf.
"Hello --"
"It's time for you to begin studying advanced economic theory."
Tim raises an eyebrow. "Did you have recommendations as to where I should
start?"
She doesn't actually look at him before pointing -- to a typed sheet on his
desk. Undoubtedly, she'd had her secretary prepare it for him.
"Very well, Mother. I'll begin after school --"
"What do they want from you?"
Tim raises his eyebrow higher -- no, no, he doesn't need to be *combative*. He
*does* need to be... who she needs him to be. "Apparently... another brother."
*That* gets her to look at him. Her arms are folded beneath her breasts, her
chin is lifted, and her expression is a perfect illustration of skepticism --
It makes him want to --
To go back and *push* Bruce or -- something --
But there's always Harvey. He raises his eyebrow again. "We've already
established that Harvey is... sentimental, Mother."
She narrows her eyes at him --
Searches him like she can *smell* his *own* sentiment --
He stands firm, and rests his hand on the back of his chair. Sometimes, Thomas
Wayne uses this pose --
Tim stands firm anyway.
She smiles... secretively, but not especially coldly. "We've also established
that *Bruce's* feelings toward you are... well." She raises her own eyebrow.
"Harvey decided to take him to task for those feelings --"
"And it worked?"
I'm a good *person* -- no. No. That's not helpful. "Bruce... well. As it
happens, he listens to everything Harvey says."
A slight moue --
"Everything, Mother."
"You're saying that Harvey takes the dominant role between them...?"
And his mind fills with the sight of Harvey on his knees --
Harvey *smiling* on his knees --
He will not blush. "From my -- as yet limited -- observations... yes," Tim
says, and tells himself that his mother will never be able to use that against
them --
Harvey wouldn't *let* her use that against them --
Not ever -- "Bruce is, in many ways... young."
She *purses* her lips, lowering her chin and looking at him from over the pair
of reading glasses she isn't wearing. She is thirty-seven years old now. She'll
be thirty-*eight* when the child is born --
Assuming she *has* it --
No. No. She will. She will, and then Tim will be... expendable? In danger?
Free?
"Tim."
Free... would be very nice. For now -- "I'm fully aware of your thoughts about
my last statement, Mother, but... I stand by it. He has a certain innocence
that is belied by his behavior at --"
"His behavior suggested *haplessness*, not --" But she cuts herself off with a
frown, and is very clearly thinking.
Tim waits, patiently.
Freedom would be...
Of course, he couldn't just *abandon* his younger sibling. Harvey would never -
-
But he'll be fourteen years older than he or she is. He'll be --
That's a *lifetime* --
And of course his mother would want to focus on training him or her properly,
and --
She hums quietly and taps her bare foot.
"Yes, Mother?"
"Bruce was... apologetic?"
Warning bells -- but they're non-specific. "Yes, he was."
"Exceedingly so, I imagine? He has been, after all, *quite* insulting."
Tim -- doesn't narrow his eyes. "He was... notably sincere."
"'Notably'. Hmm."
"Yes, Mother?"
"How *long* have he and Harvey been fucking, Tim?"
"Ah. What?"
She looks at him -- levelly.
"Mother, they're not --"
"Tim. I am *more* than willing to take you to Thomas for a thorough physical
examination."
Tim doesn't *recoil*, but he can do nothing about his expression. Which -- is
useful. "Mother, that's disgusting --"
"Tim."
Tim draws himself up. His mother is still -- slightly -- taller than he is, but
he --
He's a good person. And he has brothers. And he --
They like him, and they want --
They want to be with him, and they hadn't wanted to let him go, and --
And he's a good person, and so he will not -- betray. He meets his mother's
gaze. "I suppose it *isn't* the sort of thing Thomas Wayne would feel moved to
confirm or deny in the midst of pillow talk --"
She inhales sharply and narrows her eyes again --
"-- but I would think that you would already know for certain, Mother. If there
were anything *to* know."
She doesn't -- quite -- show her teeth.
Tim doesn't *shiver* --
"Did they tell you all was forgiven, Tim...? That you were... one of them?"
Tim doesn't say a word. Just --
She smiles. "Did they tell you that you couldn't be blamed for... hnn. Your
mother's behavior? That they liked you for who you *were*?"
He doesn't -- he doesn't shift on his feet --
"Oh... son."
He stands *firm* --
"It *is* intoxicating, isn't it? The beautiful people -- the *correct* people -
- and, suddenly, they want *you*."
They *do* --
She moves closer, and cups Tim's shoulders with her small, strong hands. For
whatever reason, the exercise regimen Thomas Wayne had given her included the
use of hand *strengtheners* --
What kind of bruises does she have now?
What did Thomas Wayne tell *her*?
How -- how did he --
"Does it seem like all your brightest little dreams are coming true -- no, I
don't *actually* have to ask that, do I?" And she smiles wryly and shakes her
head. "I never *had* to order you to keep trying to get on Bruce's good side -
- you just kept throwing yourself at that brick wall like... well, I don't even
know. Jack is the one with a gift for metaphor."
Tim just -- stands. And looks.
"And now you're standing just as tall as you can, proud and firm and *adamant*
-- are you pretending to be one of those superheroes you used to love so much?
No, you still *do* love them, don't you. You're just smart enough not to
*blather* about them, anymore," she says, and squeezes his shoulders. "You
*are* a highly intelligent boy and you always have been. Do you know... I
believe attempting to befriend Bruce -- with your heart on your sleeve -- is
the *only* mistake you ever made more than once."
That -- "You --"
"Ordered you to get close to him, yes, Tim. But I *never* ordered you to fall
all over him. And, really, *would* I? *Ever*?"
Tim -- inhales. And shakes his head. Once.
"Exactly. Now on to this... loyalty you're showing. I can understand you
wanting to do just *anything* for *Harvey* -- he's been utterly charming from
the beginning, yes?"
Tim nods. Once.
She nods back. "I even believe you that he decided -- for reasons of his own -
- that Bruce's behavior with you was unacceptable... or had finally gone too
far? It doesn't matter. I also believe you that Harvey plays the dominant role
in that relationship, because anyone with *eyes* can see Bruce *mooning* after
the boy whenever her deigns to dance with a female of the species. So. We have
a situation where Harvey sets out to *fix* things between the two of you now
that he's home from a banner year at Yale... but."
Tim raises an eyebrow again, but he knows it's somewhat shaky on his face.
"Oh, Tim. It's only been a couple of *days*. Even if Harvey explained to Bruce
in the *smallest* possible words that he wouldn't get his *cock* sucked even
one little bit until he made *nice* with the geeky little *bastard* --"
"Mother. Not everyone... views the world in the same ways you do," Tim says,
quiet and ill and -- is he shaking? He stops that --
"You certainly don't."
"No, I do not."
She stares at him for a long moment. She --
There's a small bruise at the right corner of her mouth, almost hidden by
foundation and lip-liner.
Almost.
She stares.
Tim allows himself to blink twice, and stares back --
And then she lets him see her *anger*, which is, as ever, white-hot and
*terrifying* --
But there are things good and worthwhile parents do not do, according to Thomas
Wayne.
Just as there are things good and worthwhile corporate citizens do not do.
Just as there are things good and worthwhile members of high society --
She yanks her hands away from his shoulders, balls them into fists, and glares
at him. "How *useless* do you intend to be, Tim?"
"I'm going to do my level best to foster a close, positive relationship with my
-- with Bruce and Harvey --"
"With your *brothers*, Tim?"
Tim narrows his eyes and just -- "*Yes*, Mother, with my *brothers*. They're
not perfect and neither am I. They -- they needed someone like me --"
"Or a willing teenaged *ass*, as the case may be."
Blushing... is getting easier not to do. Flushing with *rage* on the other hand
--
No, it would be just as useless. As *counterproductive*.
He breathes. "Mother. You're a very intelligent and thoughtful -- in terms of
your ability to move beyond the first raging flushes of emotion -- person, so
I'm only going to say this once. If Thomas Wayne can't stop his sons from
living the lives they wish to live -- and he *can't* --"
"Then I can't stop *you*? *You* don't have *Martha* Wayne's protection --"
"I have something equally --"
And there -- is a sound.
Of someone clearing his *throat* --
And Jason Blood steps out of -- nothing. Or... a shadow?
There shouldn't have been a shadow *there* --
And his mother is gripping at her robe like she expects Blood to tear it off
her.
Blood, for his part, is wearing chain mail the color of *mostly* dried blood,
and something that looks like wool padding beneath it. His boots are cracked
and torn in several places -- to the point where it's impossible to be sure how
high they used to go before whatever battle he was involved in happened. When
he pulls back the cowl of his mail, his shoulder-length hair is sweaty and
matted to his head -- and there's *actual* dried blood in it that may or may
not be his own. The fact that his hands and face are clean just makes the rest
of him look *worse* --
"What are *you* doing here?"
Blood bows to Tim and his mother both before turning to focus on her.
"Tendering the thanks and appreciation of Martha Wayne to your son for all of
his help today in the conclusion of a certain... family matter, good woman --"
"Why the hell did she send *you*?"
Blood smiles. "Because she was indisposed... and because I very much wanted the
chance to discuss the matter with your son myself. In private," he says,
drawing himself up to his full height, and -- looking at Tim's mother.
For a moment, she seems about to say something else cutting -- or at the very
least demanding -- but then her pupils dilate at speed --
Blood gestures *subtly* --
"I can, of course, continue this discussion with Tim later --"
"You can, yes, but do you truly have to, Mrs. Drake?"
That -- no. Tim grips Blood's mailed forearm. "She has to."
Blood hums -- and never looks away from Tim's mother. "My mistake -- of course
you do. You have to continue this conversation with him in a calm, reasonable
manner."
"Of course I do," she says, and her voice manages to be *both* clipped and
dreamy. "He's not *pathetic*, even when he insists on pretending otherwise."
Tim -- doesn't flush.
He definitely doesn't *flinch* --
And he moves his hand from Blood's arm.
Blood nods once -- without turning. "You have to listen to him, and, in due
time, agree with him. Not *too* quickly --"
"Of course not. You must never show weakness in front of an opponent."
"As you say, good woman. But you will agree."
A frown line appears on his mother's forehead --
"You will agree... to everything."
The frown line gets *deeper* --
And Blood shows his teeth -- and bites the pad of his thumb hard enough to...
draw blood.
And then he shoves his thumb in her mouth.
She frowns *more* deeply --
"*Suck*."
She does -- and almost immediately slumps. *Sags*. She looks like she's had her
*strings* cut --
And Blood is speaking a language -- if it is a language -- that doesn't seem
*human*, much less Indo-European. The speech lasts for the better part of two
minutes, and then he pulls his -- healed -- thumb out of her mouth --
Snaps his fingers --
And his mother blinks and frowns abstractedly, looking around Tim's room and
very obviously not seeing what she's looking for. She --
"Was there anything else, Mother?"
She narrows her eyes at him.
It's an effort not to -- to *snarl* -- but he manages. He doesn't even raise
his eyebrow.
She reaches up for her temples, but doesn't actually rub them before she turns
and walks for the door. "You have your assignments," she says, and closes the
door behind her.
Tim -- takes a breath. A deep one.
And Blood sighs and rolls his head on his -- grimy -- neck. "I'm afraid I'm
going to have to wipe her memory rather more thoroughly than that before I
leave, lest there be... friction."
For a moment that's *confusing* -- but then it isn't. "Thomas Wayne has
explicitly asked you not to... interfere with his... women."
"'Asked'. That's an *interesting* way to put it," Blood says, and chuckles.
"May I sit? I promise that the assorted filth you see on me is all magical in
nature -- I'll be able to remove it easily when I stand once more."
Tim gestures to his desk chair. "Please."
"Thank you *very* much, Timothy," Blood says, sitting and resting his elbows on
his knees. He lets his hands dangle between his legs, and --
"You... would you like something to eat or drink? You look... tired."
Blood smiles sharply. "I *look* a *fright*. Unfortunately, the nature of my...
nature is such that neither food nor drink will improve me -- as opposed to
improving my disposition. The offer is *much* appreciated, however. Will you
sit with me?"
"I -- yes. But let me get --"
"The sword can wait a while longer. I can *smell* how well you blooded it."
"Oh -- I thought I'd cleaned --"
"You did. But it takes rather more than soap and water -- or metal cleanser and
a fresh chamois, as the case may be -- to erase certain scents to ones such as
me. Please."
"Ah... all right," Tim says, and moves the rolling chair he keeps by his
worktable to a position which will allow him to continue meeting Blood's eyes -
-
Not that that seems especially *safe* --
Nothing has seemed safe in the past forty-eight *hours* --
And, perhaps, that's part of what it means to not be a child. "What did you
want to speak about, Mr. --"
"Jason, please. We've shared weapons, after all," and Blood smiles *toothily*.
"You've also penetrated my mother, but I still use a honorific with Thomas
Wayne --" And Tim bites his tongue --
And shakes his head --
"I'm sorry. I'm --"
Blood is laughing. *Happily*.
Blood is *shaking* with laughter --
*Clutching* at himself --
Tim sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose -- no. No. "I don't suppose we can
pretend I didn't say that."
Blood *beams* at him. "I *like* playing pretend, Timothy --"
"Yes, well, maybe you can pretend to be one or both of Martha Wayne's children
-- I didn't say that, either. I -- I don't know why --"
"Assorted terrible things are coming out of your mouth?"
"I -- *yes* -- are you doing --"
"There is no geas on you whatsoever. None from my hands, and none from any
other magic-user's. You are, at a guess, in need of... a bit of release."
Tim rears back --
And Blood laughs again. "Not *that* sort. Although, at your age, that sort of
thing is always rather closer than it *isn't*. No. I believe you've felt a need
to get a few things off your *chest*."
"I -- I've been talking all *weekend* --"
"About *everything* in your heart, Timothy?"
"No -- of course not --"
"Then... about everything you've *seen*?"
"There's no way --"
"All right. How about everything you've *done*?"
Tim narrows his eyes at Blood -- and wonders how *much* he resembles his mother
when he does. He --
He stops that, and turns --
He looks at the floor. "Thank you for -- your help. With my mother."
"You're quite welcome, Timothy. But I must confess that I did not do it out of
altruism."
Tim frowns and looks up again, searching Blood --
And finding a gentle smile -- and rising *smoke*. He --
"Are you on *fire*?"
Blood pinches his fingers together slightly. The smoke is rising from his
*hair* --
Which is waving above his head *like* flames --
There's -- the smoke is -- "Etrigan -- my bosom companion these past thousand
years -- finds our stink offensive. He is doing something about it, in his own
inimitable way. It will only take a few moments," Blood says, and the fire is
behind his eyes --
The smoke is spilling out from between his *teeth* --
He's *screaming* -- but there is no sound. There --
He's just a *shape* in the flames that somehow don't scorch or even *singe*
anything else --
And then Blood is naked and *slumped* on the chair --
The flames seem to *shove* themselves down his throat --
He can't seem to sit *up* --
He's shaking and *groaning* --
Tim stands to --
Well, he has no idea *how* to help, but it's clear that he has to do
*something* --
But Blood is sitting up with his legs crossed and one hand resting on an odd-
looking and *gnarled* off-white walking stick. He's wearing a form-fitting
black turtleneck, black trousers, black ankle boots, and an... odd cast-iron
pendant on a chain. It's a primitive -- almost rudimentary -- female figure who
is... gripping her... labia. And spreading them. Impressively wide, considering
matters of proportion and --
She does seem very happy about it, though.
Blood smiles and taps the figure's... vagina with a smile. "Sheela-na-gig.
*Very* old magic from... my neck of the woods. Roughly. I felt a need for a
trifle more protection."
"It... seemed as though you were being hurt."
"Oh, I was. Etrigan likes to take the opportunity to do things like that when
he can."
Tim winces. "I'm sorry --"
Blood waves a hand. "I'm no innocent. If I wished to be kind to the creature,
I'd spend far less time on this plane of existence -- and far less time
exterminating his spiritual brethren. Not that *he* cares for them all that
much... well. It's complicated, and, I suspect, not to your direct interest in
this moment?"
"I owe you a great deal --"
Blood smiles more broadly. "Timothy. How much do *you* wish to converse with
people who feel they *owe* you things...?"
Tim winces and shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I don't -- I'm doing this wrong --"
"It's all *right*. You are *very* young, and you've had a *very* exciting
weekend --"
"I -- don't treat me like a child."
Blood stares at him --
Into him --
And nods, once. "Then please sit once more. We *do* have much to discuss."
Tim nods and pulls the chair closer --
*Tries* to pull the chair closer --
Every hair on his body stands up, including the ones he was reasonably sure
were too long to do that. Hm.
"Oh... dear. You *aren't* under any geas, but you *have* been exposed to enough
of my magic for *long* enough that you can feel my walking stick rather more
strongly than you should be able to."
"Ah. What does that mean?"
"It means that, should you continue to try to get closer to me while I'm
holding it, your balls will relocate themselves to your abdomen."
"Ah."
"Forgive me, Timothy. I'm feeling somewhat fragile at the moment. I won't take
your distance as insult if you won't take my paranoia as insult. All right...?"
Tim licks his lips. And pulls the chair back two feet -- four feet. His hair
settles down. He sits. And nods. "Please... start with the lack of altruism.
What do you get out of helping me with my mother?"
Blood smiles, and it seems as though it *should* be a secretive smile -- but it
isn't. It's wide, and inviting, and --
And it makes Tim feel exceedingly young.
He doesn't --
He doesn't let himself blush. Much --
"Would you agree that someone in my position would be far better served by
taking the *long* view than by any other sort of approach?"
"Ah -- of course --"
"Think about what you plan to do with your future, Timothy. What you *and*
Bruce plan to do."
Tim blinks rapidly -- "You... know."
"I do. I believe Harvey explained that to you...?"
He *had*, but -- "It's -- it's a *dream* at this point --"
"Timothy. I walk between the dimensions *daily* at times. *Hourly*. *Some*
people's dreams come *true*."
And -- Tim's eyes are wide. Just --
There's nothing he can *do* about that --
Blood had just said -- "You. But you don't know what will happen *here*."
Blood waves his free hand. "I get... hints, shall we say? Some of those hints
are *quite* broad and specific. Others... well. It is an *exceedingly* rare
dimension -- in terms of the ones which *I've* observed -- where Bruce Waynes
and Timothy Drakes *don't* wind up becoming desperately important to 'the
never-ending battle.'"
Tim can't help *gasping* --
"I'll give you a moment to take that in."
"I -- I -- but -- tell me more -- please, tell me *more*!"
Blood raises an eyebrow --
"You *had* to know I'd want to know *more*!"
"Even at the risk of... spoiling yourself?"
"Of course -- I --" Tim blinks. And -- thinks about it.
*Tries* to think about it --
No, wait -- "We live in a deterministic --"
"Oh, no, no, we truly don't."
Tim exhales. "Then --"
"But... some things are... more probable than others. I think that's the best
way to put it --"
"Tell me -- do -- do the Bruces and Tims work well together?"
"Almost without fail. Your personality types... well, you both tend to be quite
practical, at heart."
Tim frowns. "Bruce is... practical?"
Blood blinks at him -- and coughs into his fist --
"Was that a laugh?"
"Yes, Timothy, it *was*, because... well, all right, I suppose that *was* a
reasonable *enough* question..." And Blood touches his tongue to his upper lip
thoughtfully. "Let's just say that he tends to be a great deal more... well...
like *you* --"
"*What*?"
"-- in those dimensions where he grows up without a brother. Or a mother, for
that matter."
Tim -- rears back. "He. Does that happen... often?"
"Quite. It's one of the -- many, many -- reasons why I'm so protective of
Martha. There are powers -- powerful powers -- which *much* prefer it when she
and Thomas die young."
"I -- that's horrifying."
"Oh, yes. Don't tell her -- I have no idea *how* she'd take it -- but I have
personally saved her life one hundred and seventeen times since nineteen-fifty-
nine."
"I -- that's -- and -- and Thomas Wayne's, too?"
Blood looks at him -- shrewdly. "You need not be so formal -- ever -- with me,
Timothy. I can *smell* his blood in you."
"Yes, well, it wasn't his *blood* that was -- ah. I'm not finishing that
sentence."
Blood grins -- and laughs. "All right. But in answer to your question... there
are other forces protecting his life. Do you want to know more about that?"
"He's --" Tim shakes his head once. "Does it concern me? Or... people I care
about?"
"Do you not care about him...?"
Tim... holds Blood's gaze. Evenly.
And Blood inclines his head. "It concerns your mother, and the fact that she
was not supposed to be born until some fifteen to twenty years after she
*was*."
"I -- what? How? I don't understand --"
"Timothy Drakes... are *usually* Timothy *Drakes*. They may not always be
*Jack* Drake's children, but they are hardly *ever* Thomas Wayne's."
Tim -- blushes. "I'm. I'm not Bruce's brother. Or -- Harvey's."
"Usually not, no."
Tim bites his lip -- stops that. Just --
"Timothy... it's a very rare universe where you are not the son of Bruce's
heart."
"*Son* -- ah. What? I can't -- " Tim shakes his head. "I... can't. I'm sorry.
Can we leave that?"
Blood inclines his head. "Of course. To get back to the question at hand...
there was something of a hiccough in space-time. That which was supposed to
occur there and *then*.... occurred *there* and *then*. It all might have still
shaken out as it normally does, with Thomas and Martha dying squalid, ugly
little deaths in the late sixties --"
"When. When Bruce was a child."
"Oh, yes. But your mother entered Thomas' life, and that... well, even before
your birth *really* started changing things around, the entire *weave* of this
dimension was altered dramatically."
"I -- *how*? She's just -- she's just his *lover*."
"And confidante, and junior partner, and... well, all sorts of other things it
would be worth *our* peaceful existences to attempt to *discern*. Yes?"
Tim... rubs his hands against his jeans. "Certainly... they've remained...
close. Or. I don't know. I've always thought... I've wondered..."
"You've wondered if Thomas were using her?"
Tim... stares at the floor.
And Blood sighs. "He has never been *my* confidant -- in any dimension. I
cannot say for certain. I suspect, however, that *you* will find an answer
which will satisfy you someday."
Tim swallows, and nods, and looks up again. "What about -- what about Martha
Wayne's relationship with her sons?"
Blood smiles ruefully. "You're worried for them."
"I -- yes. She... she can make their lives very difficult --"
"And yours, as well."
"They're. They're my brothers."
"Oh, yes. And they always will be --"
"Can. Can you promise that?"
"Timothy. *I* don't *have* to," and Blood raises *both* of his eyebrows.
Tim knows what that *means*, but -- "I would -- let them go. If they wanted me
to."
Blood shakes his head.
"I *would* --"
Blood holds up a hand. "I do not doubt that, Timothy. You have not -- yet -
- grown into the sort of possessiveness you'll make *desperately* attractive in
your late teens and beyond --"
"I'm not -- if someone wants to *leave* me --"
"Then you -- being you -- will find a way to alter yourself so that they will
not wish to leave, at all. Yes?"
Tim -- flushes.
Blood waves a hand. "Truly, it's not important. What *is* important is that
*Bruce* is *already* *incredibly* possessive -- he gets it *honest*, as it were
-- and he will never, ever, let *either* you or Harvey go. Not cleanly."
Tim frowns. "He's not -- he's a good person --"
"Oh, yes. He's just also... possessive." A one-handed shrug. "Look at it as
insurance."
"That's -- cold."
"A part of you will *always* be cold, Timothy. The powers and tides of the
multiverse would have it *no* other way."
Will people love me anyway?
Will my mother --
Am I really a good person --
Tim swallows and -- breathes. "I... believe I need you to reassure me about
Martha Wayne."
"She will not stop Bruce and Harvey from moving out of the manor. When she
balked at the idea tonight, I reminded her of the number of times I've saved
Bruce's sanity. And life, as these things go. Mad Waynes don't last very long,
even when -- "
"*What*? What are you talking about?"
"*Things* have tried to attack -- not kill -- Bruce. To lure him into the
darkness of the spirit and... colonize him. Wayne Manor is something of a
supernatural sinkhole, Timothy. The creatures which are attracted to it..."
Blood frowns and shakes his head. "Thomas is rather too... all-of-a-piece for
*most* of the ghoulies and et cetera to make headway on *his* sanity -- such as
it is. Bruce, however, is open. *Vulnerable*. There is *one* particular
creature which tends to possess him in more universes than not --"
"Oh. Should. I don't -- I'm glad you protected him --"
"Yes, you truly are. And so will your extended family be -- in due course."
"What --"
"But. Remember the *fearsome* qualities of bats when the time comes, Timothy.
And *do* use your influence to get Bruce to raze the manor to the ground once
it's in his name, since *both* of his parents have refused to listen to reason
on the matter."
"Is. Is he safe -- I should have him sleep here, or -- or I don't --"
Blood raises a hand again. "He is safe tonight, and will be safe for at least
six days. Which is when I'll be doing the next bout of extermination. It's my
understanding that this little diversion won't stop him from searching
*aggressively* for a new home, yes?"
"Yes, but --"
"Do feel free to invite him -- and Harvey -- over *all* the time. It will be
good for Martha, too."
That. *That* -- "You've... kept her from molesting him. Them."
"I've kept her from shagging them *breathless* --"
"Oh, God --"
And Blood laughs softly and shakes his head. "I will continue doing so -- in
ways I'm *quite* sure you do not wish me to detail -- until such time as they
have *fully* come into their own power and can either refuse her once and for
all... or not."
Tim stares at Blood.
"Did you expect me to be *jealous*, Timothy?"
"I. I was hoping for more *horror* --"
"Timothy. There is a demon inside me who, should I choose to sleep, will fill
my mind with images and *scents* of everyone I've ever loved being slowly -
- *slowly* -- torn to shreds, then burnt. Once they're all gone -- and Etrigan
can make my dreams seem to last for *decades* -- he begins on *me*. And *all*
of the sensations are right there for my... delectation. 'Horror' is something
that takes a fair amount of... effort with me."
"Incest... doesn't cut it."
"When *both* of the children in question would enjoy themselves *immensely*
should the attendant trauma somehow be lessened...? No, it does not."
"Bruce -- I -- never mind. I don't know -- I don't know."
Blood inclines his head again.
"But."
"Yes, Timothy?"
Tim frowns. "Do you plan on... helping her get what she wants?"
"Always -- ah. There are always exceptions. I forced Harvey to face his
stickier feelings for Martha not because I wanted to talk him into bed with
her, but because I knew he would need to use them to get information from her -
-"
"Did you -- did you know *who* would kidnap Bruce?"
"I didn't even know it would *be* a kidnapping. But, in terms of probability...
I suspected that a danger to Bruce would have nothing to do with anything Bruce
himself -- or Harvey -- had done, and would thus be something involving either
Thomas or Martha. The fact that I was -- nearly -- absolutely sure the threat
was magical in nature precluded the cause being Thomas." Another one-handed
shrug.
"How much do you allow her to do with your powers *without* your supervision?"
"As little as possible... but Martha *will* have her freedom."
"And you'll insist on that."
"Oh, yes. But I will *not* be insisting that either Harvey or Bruce throw aside
millennia of *mostly* sensible taboo in the interest of making love with their
mother, who is, among other things, mad as a hatter."
Tim blinks.
Blood smiles. "I'm allowed to say things like that. I *habitually* make choices
which can only be termed mad. Continuing to be an auxiliary member of a team of
*theoretically* grown men and women who run about in long underwear against
people wielding deadly weapons, just as an example -- oh, such a frown. Well.
As fetching as you would look in Black Canary's ensemble, I *do* recommend
something with rather more coverage for you."
"Because you know something I don't?"
"Yes. Bullet wounds *hurt*." And Blood looks at him *waspishly*.
And Tim tries not to laugh --
Tries -- hard --
He laughs, covering his mouth so it won't be *loud* --
And his mind fills with the taste of chocolate and cool cream, sugar and the
smell of chartreuse --
And Blood had been spinning on his stool making ridiculous faces --
And even more ridiculous *voices* --
And Tim had been giggling just -- uncontrollably.
While he licked his ice cream cone.
Tim -- frowns. And glares.
Blood winks at him --
And Tim -- realizes. "You're going to take my memory of this conversation."
"Not entirely. You'll still be able to call on every last bit of information
when you need it, and you'll retain a certain degree of... ineffable confidence
--"
"I just won't be inclined toward obsessing about the warp and weft of space-
time when I should be doing other things?"
Blood grins. "One hopes."
Tim laughs and shakes his head. "All right. Fine. I -- fine. Do it."
"Are you quite sure you don't have other questions, Timothy? I'd be more than
willing to answer them."
Will I be *loved* -- "There is one."
"Please, ask."
Tim nods and bites his lip -- stops that. It's what a child would do. "Is there
anyone you can have a conversation with without wiping their memories
afterward? I -- *anyone*?"
Blood blinks as if the question had surprised him, but --
"I -- I'd like to know."
For a long moment, Blood's expression is only soft, only --
"I'm -- not a child --"
"No, Timothy, you are not. But you were a beautiful child when you were, and
you are a beautiful young man now, in body and spirit."
"I -- I don't --" Tim blushes and shakes his head --
"Many people ask me why I gravitate toward the mad for my long-term romantic
relationships, and I give them many answers. All of them are true. None of
them, however, are more true than the fact that the mad can touch the divine.
Not all of them want to. Not all of them *benefit* from such things. But all of
them -- *all* of them -- gain a certain ability to deal with people such as me.
To... 'roll' with us, as it were. We are no stranger to them than the rest of
the world is. And, if we are very, very careful, we cannot hurt them worse
simply by being ourselves. Does that answer your question?"
Tim -- breathes. And. There's something like --
A part of him wants to *cry*, and --
Tim shakes his head --
"Timothy --"
Tim laughs, instead. "I'm sorry. I've never. I've never wanted to be mad
before. I -- you shouldn't be lonely."
Blood inhales sharply and shakes *his* head --
Licks his lips --
"Timothy... *no* one should -- ah, but *that* is what you have not *asked*.
Sneaky little thing," he says, standing and tossing his walking stick into -
- nothing, at all. It's gone --
And Blood is closing the distance between them with so much grace and speed
that it's almost impossible to remember how he had looked when he'd *gotten*
here --
He cups Tim's chin --
"Bruce will teach you greed, Timothy. He will not be able to stop himself -
- even assuming he'd ever wish to -- and you will suck down the lessons more
hungrily than you suck his *cock* --"
Tim jerks --
Blood squeezes tighter -- "There are many, many children in this world who are
more like you than not, Timothy. Children no one was *ever* greedy for -- not
in positive ways. Children who will do *anything* to be given a purpose married
to love and desire --"
"I'm not -- I wouldn't --"
"You would," Blood says, and draws what feels like a *wet* line down the center
of Tim's forehead. "And you will grow accustomed to the idea starting... now."
Tim *feels* his pupils dilating -- "Blood -- Jason -- I --"
"Shh. You're going to build a *family*, Timothy. A *big* family. A *strong*
family. And you'll do it with your brothers at your side. Always and *ever* at
your side."
"Please -- please, let me -- I need *adults* --"
"You'll have them, too... but they probably will not be the ones you desire the
most right now. I *am* sorry about that... but you should start growing
accustomed to that, too."
Tim... sways. And. It's so easy to breathe. So... "Yes. Yes, I should. Pain
should never be shocking."
Blood sighs and strokes Tim's cheekbones. "Such a lovely boy... and you will
not be mine, I don't think. Not for *many* years, if then."
"You have the benefit of patience."
"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" And Blood leans in and kisses Tim's forehead.
"Remember that you will have love. Remember that, at times, it will seem to be
more love than you can comfortably *comprehend*. And remember that a *very* old
man equipped with a *very* flexible morality will always, always be at your
disposal."
Tim blinks. It feels as though it takes an extremely long time. When he's done,
Blood is smiling down at him patiently -- "Why?"
"It's quite simple, Timothy: Some of us are positively weak in the *knees* for
heroes. Now. Why don't you get ready for bed so you can wake up fresh and ready
to explain the new world order to your mother?"
"Yes, that's a very --" Tim frowns. Slowly.
"Yes, Timothy?"
"I have to give you back your --"
"Ah..." And Blood points down to his own hip, where there is a sword-belt, and
a sheathed sword. The hilt looks much older than the one which had been on the
knife Tim had used, but when he reaches out to touch it --
It feels precisely the same.
It feels *right* --
"Oh, yes. A *part* of it will always belong to you now, little killer... hm. In
*my* day it would be time for me to acquire a likely young doxy and make sure
we saw in your manhood in *style*, but...?"
"No, thank you," Tim says, blinking slowly and bending over to remove his
shoes. "That would remind me far too much of Thomas Wayne."
Blood shudders delicately. "Yes, I believe that man *could* ruin an orgasm.
Well. We'll call it a rain check until you are... thirty-five or so? Yes, I
think that's a good age. Strip yourself thoroughly, dress in your *comfiest*
'jammies' and dream of the beautiful and deliciously *sticky*. We *will* talk
again soon."
"Yes, Jason," Tim says, and continues working on his shoes. They're really very
complicated --
Was he talking to someone?
He's *tired*. He's --
Well, it's been a long weekend. And --
And he has *brothers*. And Bruce had promised to pick him up after school --
And both of them want to take him to their favorite restaurants, and have Tim
take them to *his* --
And then they'll look at apartments with, presumably, *non*-vengeance-driven
realtors. They --
He has *brothers*!
Maybe... maybe he'll dream of them tonight.
*
***** June 2000: Tim and Helena... and Tim and Clark... and Thomas and
Helena... and Tim and Jason *****
"I can't believe you built a time machine in your floating orgy house, Tim,"
Helena says. She's sitting cross-legged -- not lotus -- on the bed, and is
fully-dressed.
The way she always is in this house.
Always.
*Always* --
Tim is sitting in his new computer chair, and is also fully-dressed, because he
is a respectful big brother. "I wish you wouldn't call it that."
Helena smiles precisely like she's his sister. "Time machine...?"
Tim lets his sigh be long-suffering as he *looks* at Helena from under his
lashes.
She giggles and snorts, waggling her head like the stoner she will almost
certainly never be. She has, however, been known to give otherwise entirely
unsuitable suitors second -- and third -- dates if they've bathed themselves in
*enough* patchouli. She's been a vegetarian since she was in the eighth grade,
and he's still not allowed to tell her how much Clark wants to insert his
tongue in her various orifices.
He is a good and respectable and *responsible* big brother --
"How *many* of your kids did you screw on this bed in the past week? C'mon, be
honest."
Tim raises an eyebrow at her.
She raises one back.
"I am no one's father --"
She pushes down the bright blue granny glasses Dick had given her and *looks*
at him from over them.
Tim sighs again. "Three. I would like to point out, however, that there were no
orgies."
"At all? In the *whole house*?"
Well...
"My point."
"If you moved in with us --"
"No, Tim."
"*All* of the bedrooms are soundproofed --"
"That's terrifying, Tim."
"You don't *have* to have sex with *anyone* --"
"And I don't have to have sex with anyone *in my apartment*, either. Except,
you know, for all the nice people without *any* bullet wounds or knife scars or
shrapnel pimples or whatever the hell you call those things --"
"Are you *shallow*?"
Helena looks at him.
Tim licks his lips. "I... rescind that question. There's nothing wrong -- ah.
Never mind." Superman doesn't have *any* scars -- "You know --"
"No, Tim."
"Your building doesn't allow pets."
Helena looks at him like he's *crazy*, but --
"You could have any pet you wanted. Any. At all."
Helena glares at him. "I want a moose named Hephzibah."
"You'll have to clean up after her, but --"
"*Tim*!"
Tim laughs. "All right. All right. Can you really blame me? By the time you
were sentient, I was in training. I *couldn't* see you enough."
"So *retire*! *Help* me merge WE and DI. I've got some ideas that'll help us
punt LexCorp into the *Dark* Ages, and all we really have to do -- oh, God, are
your eyes actually glazing *over*? How the hell did you manage to grow *up*
with Janet Drake?"
"In siege positions, mostly," Tim says, and raises an eyebrow.
Helena winces. "I... knew that. Actually. Sorry --"
Tim raises a hand. "You're forgiven."
She smiles ruefully and looks up at him from under her lashes. "Yeah?"
"Always, Helena."
"Because you love me so much?"
Tim spreads his hands. "It happens."
She nods toward the homed viewscreen. "What are you going to do about Mr.
Wizard?"
"Make him part of the family, if I have to beat everyone with sticks until it
works."
A quirked look. "That's... uh. Okay? He's not exactly your *type*."
"I have more than one type, Helena."
"Well. All right, yes, you *are* a giant whore."
Tim coughs.
Helena giggles and wags her head again. When she was in high school, she'd
confessed to finding it difficult to find girls her own age who understood her
sense of humor -- or who cared to *try* to understand it. The much younger
girls liked her and the college students adopted her as her own. Her fellow
high school students... did not.
Tim knew he could give her people who would *appreciate* her -- and he *had* -
- but...
But there was always another wound in need of stitching, another bullet to be
dug out of tender flesh, another spar which turned into something more --
So much *more* --
"I've. I've never been able to make my home comfortable for you. Not for long,"
Tim says, and frowns.
"Well... no. But that's why it's *your* home and not *mine*, big brother,"
Helena says, widening her eyes and nodding slowly and encouragingly.
Tim laughs painfully and gestures to the viewscreen. "Greed."
She frowns. "What Bruce was supposedly going to teach you?"
"I'm not sure I can blame him entirely, but -- yes. I *am* a slut -- I claim
that label without hesitation -- but I'm also a *glutton*."
"Sexually?"
"Romantically."
A *deeper* frown. "You... it's *not* just about having the sort of family
neither the Waynes nor the Drakes could have stomached?"
Tim considers, staring up at the ceiling and swinging his chair back and forth.
"It's... mostly that."
"But not entirely."
"No," Tim says, and faces forward again. "I'm a lover."
"You are *not* --"
"I'm a lover... along with several other -- violent -- things," and Tim smiles
ruefully.
Helena's frown is *disputatious* --
"Yes?"
"*Who* are your lovers, then? Your -- the ones you're not 'related' to?"
"The ironic single quotes are --"
"I'm sorry -- I -- I'm sorry," she says, and raises both hands.
"It's all right --"
"Wait. Wait," she says, and squeezes her eyes shut, pressing on her temples
with her fingertips the way she's been doing since she was four or so -
- whenever there have been ideas that --
("They're -- they're *crowding* me more than they're *expressing* themselves --
"
"Take a knife to them."
"A -- what?"
"Slice them into pieces --"
"Tim --"
"-- and arrange them into manageable chunks.")
And Helena had looked -- up -- at him --
She'd still been shorter than Tim, when she was ten --
And her frown had grown more and more *serious* --
More *tremulous* --
And Harvey had picked her up, carried her into the sun room, and played with
her for two hours while Bruce had led *him* down to the gymnasium for two hours
of -- knife practice.
In the absence of his brothers, Tim presses himself against the back of the
chair so that the knife strapped to his back will make its presence felt, and
he -- wisely, he thinks -- says nothing to help his sister organize her
thoughts.
She is not ten anymore.
She --
She is beautiful, and strong, and brilliant, and he --
It's not that he *can't* have her. It's just that he can *only* have her in
healthy --
In limited --
In mainstream --
"What... what's making *you* frown," she says, and her voice is low and
*hesitant* --
Tim blinks. "I... our relationship," he temporizes --
"We're not *that* bad --"
"*No*, I -- we're not bad, at all. I'm -- greedy," Tim says, wincing and
pushing at the air --
"You -- want more of me."
"Yes," Tim says, and attempts to *will* her not to think about that --
At all --
*Please* --
She smiles ruefully and pushes a hand back through her long, thick black hair.
"I know what that means, I think."
Tim doesn't wince, or blink, or -- he raises an eyebrow.
"You've been -- really good about not showing it or..." She shakes her head.
"It's not me."
"Helena --"
"Now -- isn't the time for you to fake it, Tim. Okay?"
Tim closes his eyes -- and takes a deep breath. And then he opens them and
meets Helena's gaze.
She shivers hard -- but doesn't shrink away from him, or --
There's already several feet of space between them, and -- apparently, that's
enough. He can be --
"I'm not -- I'm not even *bi* --"
"I'm not a woman, Helena."
"Fuck -- even the way you say my name -- ah --"
"I'll stop," Tim says, and draws back for both of them --
"Oh -- no, *don't* -- I *never* want you to lie to me!"
Tim raises an eyebrow.
"All right -- no. I *don't*. I don't even want *Bruce* to lie to me, and you
*know* what he's like!"
("I'm afraid I've upset our sister, brother."
"Oh -- how?"
"I confessed my feelings."
"... oh. You. All of your feelings?"
"Yes."
"Did she -- did she ask you to *stop*?"
"I felt... it seemed more important to be honest.")
And Bruce had given him that *earnest* look --
The one that always makes him seem ten years younger than Tim is -- as opposed
to five years *older*.
("What... what did you actually *say*?"
"I told her she was beautiful."
"What else?"
"That... that I desired her --"
"Oh -- what else."
"That I imagined her dancing nude in moonlight --"
"You. She doesn't. What -- was there more?"
"Yes. I --"
"Stop. Did she hit you?"
"No. I rather wish she *had*. She... left.")
And Tim had licked his lips.
And Bruce's expression had grown *more* earnest somehow --
("I'll talk to her."
"Thank you, brother --"
"Don't -- don't talk to her until I do."
"All right --"
"In fact -- don't talk to her until *she* talks to you."
"As you say --"
"Did you. Did you bring up the naked sketches?"
"She didn't give me a chance --"
"Just. Just pretend that she's already told you that she doesn't want to hear
about them."
"Hm.")
Here, in this moment --
"He *told* you what he said to me, didn't he?"
"Ah... some of it."
"What -- oh. You stopped him."
Tim smiles and spreads his hands. "I... had the gist."
She giggles -- nervously, but doesn't use her long hair to hide her face. She -
-
"Sometimes, I think about brushing your hair," Tim says.
"As a prelude to --"
"Nothing. Or -- a hug."
Helena frowns. "You could do that --"
"I think about it. I don't --" Tim shakes his head. "I am... deceptive, Helena.
Even to myself."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that, despite what my mind is saying -- vehemently -- I would want
more."
"Oh. I... oh," she says, and blushes.
Tim -- crosses his legs.
Helena looks him over. For a civilian, the look is subtle.
For him --
"I know you caught that."
"Yes," Tim says. "I --"
"I don't -- I didn't mean --"
"I know."
"It's just -- this *conversation* --"
"We *don't* have to have it," and Tim closes his eyes for a moment, forces
himself *back* -- and opens his eyes again with a smile. "I promise."
She gasps -- "That's *creepy*!"
"I'm sorry --"
"You're still doing it!"
"I'd rather not force you to sit here dealing with me lusting for you --"
"Oh, God, and you just -- said it. Uh."
"I'm sorry --"
"*No*. No. Be yourself. Be -- I'm not a kid anymore, Tim. I'm not going to
burst into tears if you pop a stitch at the dinner table and start fountaining
blood everywhere."
Tim coughs a laugh. "I'm sorry about that, too --"
"You apologized at the *time* --"
"It was your birthday --"
"And I've had *nine* others since then. Just -- just. Let's have this
conversation? Please? Once and for all?"
Tim takes a deep breath, and exhales himself out. *All* of himself.
"There you are," she says, and her smile is quirked and brave -- "When did it
start?"
Tim shakes his head. "It's hard for me to answer that --"
"Because the answer is disturbing?"
"No, because there was a stretch of time when you were... approximately eleven
--"
"Oh, God --"
"-- when I knew that I *would* become sexually attracted to you sooner or later
--"
"Jesus --"
"-- and a stretch of time around your twelfth birthday..." Tim sighs and shakes
his head again. "Your breasts began to grow."
"Uh. Uh. Uh."
Tim laughs again. "Helena."
"*No*. I can *take* this. I can take *you* --"
"I'm your brother, and I am... not healthy --"
"Your children *love* you. They -- they *worship* you --"
"To a certain extent --"
"They don't -- you don't *scare* them!"
"*Not* true, Hel," Dick says, walking in without knocking -- as usual. "And
hey! But wait," and he walks around the work tables gracefully, beautifully --
Leans over Tim's chair --
And kisses Tim, pushing his scarred, hard-worked hands into Tim's short hair
and humming --
Licking and *humming* --
If Helena weren't here, he would grip Dick's throat and *throw* him --
But, if Helena weren't here, he probably wouldn't be quite this aroused. Tim
smiles into the kiss and settles for biting Dick's lip --
"*Mm* --" And Dick pulls back, *jogs* to the bed, and hugs Helena firmly before
sitting next to her. "We're *all* afraid of Tim at least sometimes."
"I --" Helena blushes deeply and -- probably -- painfully.
Dick frowns. "It's not time for me, is it."
"No, it's -- it's your house --"
"And it's *your* time with Uncle Brother," Dick says, leaning in to peck
Helena's cheek before standing smoothly. "I can wait."
"Oh -- don't --"
Dick smiles at her, and it is, of course, one of the *countless* smiles in his
repertoire which tend to leave the uninitiated -- and some of the initiated -
- speechless.
The fact that Helena can only nod while Dick walks backwards out of the room
again -- while waving -- is, as far as Tim is concerned, proof of her basic
personhood.
Tim re-crosses his legs while he's waiting for Helena to stop staring at the
closed door --
Considers -- "You know..."
"Don't say it," she says, and frowns tightly.
"I wasn't --"
"You were going to say something about how Dick is a wonderful person and a
wonderful lover and would never, ever, ever break a date with me to beat the
living bejeezus out of a stranger."
Tim touches his tongue to his upper lip. "Well..."
"*Tim*!"
Tim laughs. "I'm sorry. It's just that you have that reaction to him *every*
time --"
"*Everyone* has that reaction to him! I've been on lunch dates with you guys!
The last time the poor waiter set his own *tie* on fire."
"Very true. But --"
"But -- wait, I need to ask him -- augh, I *can't* ask him -- no, tell me.
You'll tell me the truth, because you're you, and you know all of this, and
you're not going to tell me any lies unless I *ask* you to. Right?"
Tim raises an eyebrow --
"*Right*?"
Tim inclines his head.
Helena blows out a breath and unfolds her legs, planting her feet on the floor
and gripping the edge of the bed with both hands. "Okay. *Why* are they all
afraid of you?"
"Because I'm a killer, and have been since before you were born."
Helena winces. "You -- there's more, right?"
"Yes. It's also... Bruce, while he shares nearly all of my kinks, perversions,
and predilections --"
"He's Bruce, and you can't -- he's *never* scary."
"Not when he's being himself. He *is* capable of playing exceedingly
intimidating roles --"
"I can't *see* it. I mean, I trust you, and obviously he's been one of the
Batman for over fifteen years, and that *must* work *somehow*..." She shakes
her head. "He wasn't even scary when he was *looming* over me and telling me
how much he *yearned* for something with my *scent*."
Tim coughs again -- "Well... yes. I've never been able to manage that sort
of... harmlessness."
"You've never *been* harmless. Or..." She frowns thoughtfully. "Were you? When
you were a kid?"
"I think so," Tim says, and smiles ruefully. "Certainly, Janet was clear quite
often about my... softness."
"Oh, but you can't listen to *her*!"
Tim spreads his hands again. "There was no one else to listen *to*."
"Not -- the nannies?"
"It was my understanding that Thomas vastly approved of seeing Janet spend time
with me, and seeing me respond to Janet as to someone tasked with my education
and care. She was... more hands-on."
"*Really*? No, I -- I knew that. And I know you're not actually talking about
*diapers* and -- " Helena frowns again. "She didn't leave you alone."
"Not until I was old enough that I could be trusted to work independently."
"You made that happen quickly."
Tim smiles again. "As quickly as I could. That was probably when I started
losing my... harmlessness."
"Whereas Martha Wayne was... no, tell me. Bruce said you've been watching a
*lot* of old family... God, you can't really call these *movies*, but -- you
know what I mean."
"She loved Bruce. More than anything or anyone else in the world. More to the
point, she was entirely capable of showing that love in ways Bruce could
comprehend. *More* to the point, Jason Blood was there to act as a check on her
behavior --"
"When she wanted to show her love in ways that might have made *Bruce* less
harmless," Helena says, and nods thoughtfully again. "I guess... I guess it
just makes more *sense* for Bruce to be all incest-y than for you to be, Tim.
Unless... do you think it *did* start with Bruce and Harv for you?"
"No. And... there's something to be said for the problematic things which can
occur when a child is... deprived."
"Yeah, but -- those kids usually wind up on the sociopathy spectrum, or with
personality disorders, or committing violent crimes, or -- uh. Hm."
Tim smiles broadly.
Helena *snorts*. "Okay, *fine*, but that still doesn't explain all the
*incest*."
"It does, actually. It's more rare than other... hmm... paths to the disorder -
-"
"But it happens that way? Kids who weren't loved enough wind up loving their
kids... wrong?"
Tim nods. "When I was studying these topics in my late teens -- there wasn't a
*great* deal of scholarly material available at the time, but there was some -
- I took a good, hard look at myself and promised myself that I would never
allow myself to come into contact with young children."
"What -- Dick happened."
"Barbara first, but -- yes."
"*Barbara* was already sixteen --"
"Not when we first met her," Tim says, and smiles ruefully again. "But, yes, we
waited, with her, until after she began going out as the Batgirl."
"You didn't want to wait."
Tim shakes his head.
"You -- forgot your promises?"
Tim closes his eyes -- no. "I don't tend to forget very much, Helena."
"Then --"
"I realized. I realized I wasn't strong enough for them. Not when the teenager
in question desired me, in turn."
Helena swallows audibly --
Blushes --
And, this time, she *does* use her hair to cover her face.
Tim takes a somewhat shaky breath, but he doesn't offer to change the subject
again. Not --
Not until she asks. Not --
"I thought... sometimes..."
Tim raises an eyebrow -- no, too combative. "Tell me. Please."
She shakes her head. "It's -- really stupid."
"I doubt that," he says, in the gentlest voice he *has* --
"Your Batman scares the hell out of children, doesn't he."
"Despite my best efforts to the contrary, yes. I -- I know I scared you --"
"Dad never did," she says, and sighs, soft and low.
Tim flares his nostrils and tries to --
The warning bells are so -- no. Part of being honest is *asking the question*.
"Did he ever --"
"What -- oh -- God, Tim, I was *nine* when he died," she says, but --
"You're still not looking at me."
"It's not -- it's not anything *bad* --"
"*Helena*."
"Okay, *please* tell me you let Bruce talk to the traumatized children?"
"Or Robin. Or Batgirl. Helena --"
"He just -- I just -- he would make me feel guilty for sitting on his *lap*,
okay?"
Tim growls --
And Helena looks up at last. "Jesus, not like -- I mean -- it was just really
obvious, even when I was *seven*, that *he* thought there was something really,
really wrong with the fact that he wanted to, you know, cuddle me."
Tim -- frowns. "I. Tell me more. Please."
"He was. He was *repressed*. You *know* that."
"Not. Not with the women in his life. Generally."
Helena blinks and stares at him. "You... looked?"
Tim nods.
"But not... not at him and me?"
"No." Not -- "Not yet."
"Oh -- you don't *have* to. He just -- he didn't know -- God, I don't know how
to *say* it."
"I'm listening. I -- please. I need to know," Tim says, uncrossing his legs and
resting his hands on his thighs.
"Did you ever think... all right, this is just... something I came up with a
few years ago when I was... obsessing. Okay?"
Tim nods.
Helena smiles ruefully and pushes *both* hands back through her hair -- "You
know a lot about obsessing."
Tim tries a smile -- he knows it fails. "Please."
"Okay. He... I wondered if, maybe, there was a point in his life -- really
*fucking* *early* in his life -- when incidental affectionate contact just...
stopped. And, you know, he had the guys he rowed with at Exeter and Princeton,
and they probably slapped and gripped at each other sometimes -- you know this
stuff. You *are* a guy."
"Not an especially manly one, but... I'm not unfamiliar with the protocol
you're describing. Additionally, Evelyn Wayne died quite young, and Jonah Wayne
was not known for his affectionate nature. Go on."
She swallows again and nods, eyes focused on something... distant. "I think,
maybe, he got used to only touching the women he had sex with. And... um. I
mean, Mom actually *told* me what kind of sex -- ah. Well, not details -- hell,
I'm asking --"
"Every time."
Helena winces. "Every...?"
"He had a dungeon in the basement of Wayne tower --"
"Oh my God. An actual -- like -- wait, do *you* have --"
"We have any number of toys and accessories we make use of in various ways at
various times. Generally, when one of us wants something more... formal, we ask
S--"
"Oh -- I'm not asking."
Sorry, Clark. Tim inclines his head.
"Wait, is the dungeon still *there*?"
"Bruce, Harvey, and I cleaned it out after he died. He'd left the key to Bruce
in his will, along with a rather insulting little note."
Helena frowns deeply. "He -- wasn't like that with me."
"I know."
"Did you -- or Bruce? Or Harv? -- tell him not to be?"
"Bruce did, yes. But, in truth, we knew it wouldn't be necessary when Thomas
visited Janet in the hospital after you were born."
"Oh -- he did?"
"Yes. Every day she was there after her Caesarian. He didn't allow for there to
be pictures taken of him holding you as an infant, but... there were many
opportunities to do just that."
Helena licks her lips and nods slowly. "He wanted a daughter, too."
"I think so, yes. And -- you were a *highly* satisfactory one."
"When I was. There was a while before I realized why the cuddling was...
weird."
Oh... Helena. "You thought the worst."
"Yes. I. There's still a little part of me which isn't sure --" She blushes
again. "I can never sit in a guy's lap, Tim. Not if I think he might have an
erection."
Tim narrows his eyes --
"Dad *didn't*. *Ever*."
"But there's a part of your mind which insists that he did?"
She squeezes her eyes shut -- but only for a moment. "It's more... it's more
that there's a part of my mind which insists that he *could* have. *Easily*."
"Because it would explain the... weirdness."
She looks at him levelly. "Like it did with you."
And Tim can't -- no. He can show her how he feels for that, show her his guilt,
his *regret* --
She shakes her head and smiles ruefully. "I still love you. You're -- well,
*Harvey* is my favorite --"
"As he should be --"
"*How* did he manage to grow up normal, anyway?"
"Intensive therapy, both psychological and magical."
"... oh."
"Also, a portion of his soul belongs to a -- thankfully friendly -- incubus --"
"*What*?"
"-- who is, for reasons of his own, inclined toward *monitoring* the dark
recesses of Harv's mind --"
"What are you *talking* about?"
Tim laughs quietly. "File it under 'things you don't want to know about the
life I live.'"
"But Harv lives a *normal* life!"
"He grew up with Bruce. Some things... sprawl."
Helena frowns... powerfully.
Tim brings his finger to his mouth. "Blood wiped Harvey's memory of the deal he
made in nineteen-seventy-nine and we haven't reminded him of it, yet --"
"I *highly* recommend that you do so relatively soon," Blood says, and steps
out of the air where the wingback chair *used* to be. "You *know* how he is
about delays of that sort." He taps his foot over the all-too-thinly disguised
sex toy compartment, bows deeply to Helena, and walks to the bed to present her
with... a charm bracelet. It has a quill, an inkwell, a peace sign, a *dollar*
sign, a field hockey stick -- and spaces for several other small charms. "For
you, with my compliments."
Helena blinks and takes it. "Oh! Thank you. But... why?"
"Because you make people I care for deeply exceedingly happy. Before you ask -
- and before Timothy clears his throat in that belligerent way he loves so much
-- it also has a small protective spell placed upon it. While you wear it on
your person -- and it will never rust, or snap, or irritate sensitive skin -
- you will be immune to most, shall we say... *aggressive* magic?"
"Ah. That's very kind of you, Mr. Blood, but --"
"*But*, you're about to move into a very *public* sphere. While it's my
understanding that Alexander Luthor is *quite* fond of Tim -- in his way -
- *you* are a rather different animal, Miss Drake. And Luthor has been an enemy
to *all* of us."
"He doesn't use *magic* --"
"Helena," Tim says, and shakes his head with a smile. "Lex, as much as I would
*dearly* enjoy riding him for an hour or two after the next joined board
meeting, is someone who will use anything and *everything* at his disposal to
get what he wants. I'm asking you, as a favor to me, to take Blood's gift.
*Jason's* gift."
Jason inhales sharply, but doesn't look at him.
Helena frowns at the bracelet in her palm for a long moment -- and then laughs
quietly and stands. At twenty, she's nearly six feet tall, and Tim does not
dress her in Kevlar and Nomex. Not even in the privacy of his own mind.
He stands, instead, and clasps the bracelet around her wrist. It flares...
chartreuse.
And Tim wonders if Blood will tell him what *else* the bracelet does --
"Oh... hunh."
Or if Blood will *have* to tell him, considering the fact that Helena is
breathing deeply and easily and *smiling*.
Smiling as openly as she was when she *arrived* --
*More* openly --
Tim shoots Blood a *look* -- but the man is making a show of studying the backs
of his hands. He -- fine.
"Helena? Are you all right?"
"Hmmm? Oh, I'm good! But... what were we talking about?"
Oh...
There's a *pang* for that, a -- no. No. He can't allow -- this. "We were
talking about Thomas. And about me. And about -- about my perversions."
Helena frowns... vaguely. And nods. And then laughs. "I guess you do have kind
of a lot," she says, and wraps her long, lean arms around him and pulls him
close --
"Helena --"
"I love you anyway, big brother, okay?"
"How do you *feel*?"
"Like I spent way too long worried about things that will never happen," she
says, and squeezes *hard* --
"Like -- tell me --"
"Bruce is never going to crawl in my bedroom at night and demand that I perform
my sisterly duties -- whatever that means," and she snorts in his ear -- "Oh,
sorry --"
"It's all right --"
"And I think Bruce did sneak into my apartment and replace my old, ratty
nightgown with a new one, but the new one got me laid almost immediately, so
that's okay."
"Oh -- God. I'll talk to him --"
"It's *okay*. And *you're* okay, too, big brother, because *you're* not going
to throw me down and tie me up and -- and *rape* me. You love me too much for
that, and -- you actually know how all of that stuff works, even if you do it
wrong for your family. You do it wrong in ways they all *like*," and she pulls
back to smile down at him... loopily.
"Helena..."
"I'm pretty sure Mr. Wizard got me stoned, *but* a) it's a pretty sweet high,
and b) I'm pretty sure it won't last, and c) I like what it's doing for my
ability to make complex intellectual and emotional connections in my brain. I
mean, I'm still speaking sensibly, right?"
"... yes. But --"
"Maybe... maybe it's insurance. Like he said back when I was a zygote --"
"More... more of an embryo --"
"*Fine*," and she -- huffs out a breath which smells strongly of the anise
candies she loves more than can possibly be healthy.
As ever, it makes Tim want to *kiss* her -- no. "Tell me about insurance,
Helena."
"Well..." She bites her lip and raises her moderately thick eyebrows, which are
as straight and un-plucked as ever. "Maybe... I mean... doesn't everyone get
scared of being lonely someday?"
Tim grips her waist -- "You will never be lonely --"
"If you can *help* it, I *know* --"
"I'll *find* someone --"
"Or -- or maybe it'll be you --"
Tim grunts and -- steps back.
"-- because I already know that no one loves me the way you do. And I always --
" She shakes her head. "I guess I just need you to know that, Tim. I need you
to know that it doesn't *just* scare me, or weird me out, or make me want to be
-- elsewhere."
Tim swallows. "Thank you."
Helena winces. "Um. Are you sure about that? You look --"
"I never learned how to... *deal* with hope, Helena. This... this is what a
certain variety of happiness looks like on me."
She searches him and frowns. "Do you *promise*?"
"I will never lie to you again," Tim says, and stares directly into her eyes.
Helena pants and licks her lips. "Okay. I -- okay. I'm... I'm going to head out
now. You could... I mean. I'm home for the summer now. Harvey and Gilda are
taking me out to dinner tomorrow, and I know your family has really been
missing you -- call me? Soon."
Tim nods once, and doesn't stare at her body, and doesn't reach out, and
doesn't pull her *close* --
"Oh -- big brother --" She bends down and kisses his forehead, quick and firm.
Tim closes his eyes. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. I'm -- and thank you. Mr. Blood."
"Jason, please, Miss Drake --"
"Ms. is -- better -- God, I'm going. *Right* now," she says, and giggles as she
*runs*, just as if she's fourteen instead of twenty --
Would she have been easier to convince then?
If...
If at some point they could have *spoken* about the 'weirdness,' about her
fears and *doubts* --
Tim shivers and grips himself through his shorts, squeezing hard and tilting
his head back to give himself something of a stretch to go along with the pain
--
"I would, of course, be *thrilled* to be of assistance..."
Tim laughs, shifts his grip to his scrotum, and *yanks* --
"*Vicious*..."
Tim tilts his head forward again. "I thought I was too sane for you, Jason."
"You were. When you were thirteen," Blood says, and raises his eyebrows.
That -- is worth another laugh. "Pardon the scent of frustrated lust and
relative lack of tasteful furniture --"
"Both of which I highly approve of. But..." And Blood gestures toward Tim's
other computer chair with a questioning look.
"Please," Tim says, and sits back down in his own chair. "Was I also too young
for you then?"
"I would say that you were too young for me that *day*. That *hour*. I have
made love to children younger than you were then, and with doddering old
grandmothers who measure their ages geologically. It is... a question of
*mood*."
"Not a question of how you prefer your heroes...?"
Blood smiles and reaches into nothingness with both hands -- and pulls out two
tumblers full of what certainly appears to be mango juice. He offers one to Tim
--
Tim takes it and inclines his head in thanks.
Blood sips and hums in pleasure. "By the time I'd met you, I had observed the
growth of teen sidekicks -- and superhero teams -- in other dimensions, of
course. But..."
"It wasn't for you?"
Another one-handed shrug. "I like being appreciated, Timothy --"
"Tim. Please."
Blood smiles with surprise and toasts him. "Thank you *very* much for that,
Tim."
Tim smiles wryly. "You're welcome. And go on, please."
"As you will -- though there's nothing profound awaiting you at the end of this
paragraph: I like being appreciated, and *modern* young people rarely have very
much time for ones such as me."
Tim wants to protest that on his and Bruce's behalf -- but, even when they
*were* young, they were anything but modern. "I take your point. I do think Jay
will come to like you, given enough time to curse you and your entire ancestry
two or three dozen times."
Blood laughs. "I'll be sure to give it to him, then," he says, and sips again.
"Though I'm not *particularly* worried about my -- future -- relationship with
Mr. Todd."
"You've... scryed?"
"I have looked into other dimensions where the two of them -- the two of *us* -
- became quite close."
Tim narrows his eyes. "How close."
Blood chuckles. "Never, *ever* so close as to interfere with his love for you -
- and the rest of his extended family. As I believe you *would* know..."
"Were it not for the reflexive jealousy built on the frustrated lust, yes. I -
- apologize," Tim says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Just for a moment.
"You are, of course, forgiven," Blood -- *Jason* -- says, and crosses his legs.
"There is... something I could give you. Show you."
And there's something in the tone of Jason's voice -- "I believe I'd like to
blush."
"I'm flattered. Unless... I *am* correct about the fact that I'm one of the few
people who bring that response out of you these days, yes?"
Tim smiles wryly. "Oh, yes. You, Clark, Harvey... Bruce at his *most*... Bruce-
ish..."
"Rarefied company, indeed. But... the question of Helena."
"There's a question?"
"Oh, yes," Jason says, and tugs one of Tim's FaeQuest coasters out of the pile
for his tumbler.
"I'll take one of those."
Jason inclines his head and gives Tim one of the Rogues -- almost certainly not
by accident.
Tim takes another long drink, sets his tumbler down, and rests his elbows on
his knees. "Tell me."
"Just as there are Tim Drakes in the multiverse who *are* the children of Jack
Drakes, and Tim Drakes who are the children of *Stephen* Drakes --"
"I'm not familiar --"
"You wouldn't be. He was, in this dimension, a penny-ante criminal who died
quite, *quite* young."
"All right. Go on."
"There are Helena Drakes. There are Helena *Bertinellis*. And... there are
Helena Waynes."
For a moment, that doesn't seem at all earth-shattering -- but. "Martha has
another child."
"Yes."
"With *Thomas*?"
"Yes. Though I should say -- *most* of the Helena Waynes who have come into
being have been the children of Bruce... and Selina Kyle."
"I... am very, very glad not to be drinking anything at the moment."
Jason chuckles. "Yes, I imagine so."
"Bruce -- it's not that he *hasn't* found himself in any number of compromising
positions --"
"I wouldn't know."
Tim looks at Jason.
Jason -- titters. And clears his throat. "Yes?"
"Selina. *Selina* agreeing to bear a child. *Bruce's* child. And -- presumably
allowing Bruce to have a hand in *rearing* it? *Her*. A *female* child?"
Jason spreads his hands. "Sometimes they even get married."
"To *each other*? No, no, I -- tell me more about Helena."
"As you wish. Some things are nearly always the same. The height, the
*glorious* hair, the *basic* physique..." Jason waves a hand and sips his
juice. "Other things... well. *Most* Helenas wind up in *your* line of work."
"*Damn* -- what did I do *wrong*?"
Jason raises *both* eyebrows.
"I -- ignore that question."
"You do *realize* that there's something to be *said* for a young woman who
does *not* wish to risk her life and the lives of others on a nightly basis
whilst wearing exciting clothing?"
"Ignore. That. Question."
Jason hums. "All right. The reason *why* I bring up the variance of Helenas in
the multiverse..." And he nods at the machine. "Your project, and the
conclusions you've come to about your collection of parents, pseudo-parents,
and parental placeholders --"
"An excellent way to put it."
"Thank you *very* much," Jason says, and pushes the controller toward Tim's
hand. "I couldn't help wondering if there might not have been Thomases better-
suited for you and your brothers. Thomases who could... offer."
"And you found one?"
"Oh, yes. And he just happened to have a Helena. If you would like to see...?"
"I..." Tim takes a somewhat shaky breath. "I've... come very close to *dealing*
with the rather profound lack of parenting I received, Jason."
"And you don't want to risk backsliding. I understand that *very* well. My
*own* father was an ale-swilling, wife-beating, child-beating, dog-beating,
*everyone*-beating illiterate who wasn't above buggering the sheep if the
squires were too nimble for him, after all. I was *still* deeply morose when he
bundled me off at age nine without so much as a *hug*. For *years*."
Tim opens his mouth -- "I'm... sorry."
Jason's eyes have a certain sparkle to them. "*Thank* you. But... I think
you'll... enjoy this."
Tim narrows his eyes. "You -- suddenly I'm quite sure I know what this Thomas
has to offer."
"You *think* you are. You see, *your* Thomas was a rather different animal than
this one. I think they started out in life *basically* the same, and trundled
along on the same path *well* into their twenties -- "
"But then -- no, both of them met and married Martha. What happened to the
other? Did Martha... love him?"
"Of *course* not --"
Tim chokes on a laugh. "Oh -- I'm going to have to apologize to Bruce for
that."
Jason grins. "Yes, you will. But *I* won't tell a soul until you do. In any
event, my -- limited and somewhat *numinous* observations and interviews --"
"Interviews -- no, go on."
Jason inclines his head. "The Thomas I wish to show you is... less angry.
Less... well, I suppose the modern children would say less 'damaged,' but, to
my eyes, he's simply less of an arsehole."
Tim hums. "And Helena is... his."
"Very much so."
"I want to blush again."
Jason grins more widely. "Is that *all* you wish to do?"
"Coordinates. Now."
Jason gives them to him without another word, along with a date in April of
nineteen-ninety-four. Hm.
"Is she --"
"The same age, yes."
"Martha would've been --"
"Forty-seven when she gave birth. The pregnancy was a surprise to *everyone*.
But then, so was the conception."
Tim raises an eyebrow and tries to not to *will* the image to come up.
All he can hear is *typing* --
The hum of a *moderately* primitive computer --
"Martha got *staggeringly* drunk when Bruce confessed to her what he'd be doing
with his life instead of going to college and following in Thomas' footsteps.
*Her* Jason wasn't around..." Jason spreads his hands.
"And, presumably, this Thomas was agreeable *enough*."
"They all love her madly, really. Some of them are just *better* at it than
others."
The sound of shuffling papers --
The screen is still *dark* --
"Do any Marthas love *him*?"
"Presumably."
"You don't know?"
Jason's smile is small and -- old. "The powers and tides of the multiverse are
not entirely known to me, nor is the breadth or *depth* of the multiverse
itself. But... it has always seemed to me that love -- *true* love -- *is* a
power of the multiverse."
"And it will find a way?"
"Or force a way -- if it must. I... don't tend to look very closely at that
particular relationship in dimensions where they die young."
And Tim feels like an *idiot* -- "I'm sorry --"
Jason waves it off. "I am a luckier me than most. She was mine -- inasmuch as
she belonged to anyone -- for over three wild, free, *beautiful* decades --"
"Daddy!" And Helena's voice is -- perfect.
Tim hadn't realized how much he'd *missed* the faintly uneven *peal* of it that
was gone by the time she was a junior in high school --
And the image kicks in with the sight of a sixty-seven year old Thomas smiling
-- brightly. He isn't showing his teeth, but his eyes are shining, and his -
- fully white -- mustache is twitching with...
Amusement?
Nervousness?
Happiness?
Tim has never *seen* that look on his face before --
"Helena, what have I *always* told you --"
"I know, I know, I'm supposed to knock, but --"
And then she's onscreen and hugging Thomas hard. At fourteen, she is a full
five feet, seven inches tall, and there is no awkwardness when Thomas hugs her
back, no looming, no --
No *awkwardness* --
He's smiling into her *hair* --
And his eyes are closed behind his wire-rimmed glasses, but it almost seems as
though there are no secrets, no --
Tim doesn't know.
He doesn't --
They're in Thomas' *home* office -- specifically, the medical office he had
begun using for his more elderly patients in the last three years of his life
*here* --
When had he begun there?
There's a *hominess* to what he can see of that office -- no. Tim focuses and
the view widens, showing framed pictures -- in crayon and marker; a scatter of
Wegos; large, brightly-colored children's books --
"Is he a *pediatrician* here?"
Jason smiles and shakes his head. "Not at all. The... other Jason informed me,
with something of an air of *exasperated* admiration, that *this* Thomas
*encourages* his patients to bring their entire families with them. 'Health is
a family matter, after all.'"
Tim... doesn't let his eyes cross. "I... see."
Thomas and Helena are still hugging. Still --
"You're saying that your... other actually had to make an *effort* to look more
attractive than Thomas."
"Well. Not with Martha. Much."
Tim laughs -- "And that's another apology to Bruce."
"You're a *horrible* person, and --"
"*Mmmm*, you always smell so *good*, Daddy!"
Tim blinks. Once.
Jason *titters* again --
And Tim leans back in his chair, crosses his legs, and steeples his fingers.
Thomas chuckles, and that's at least *familiar*, but -- "It's just the same old
cologne I've been using since before you were born, bumblebee --"
"Bzzz! And Helena giggles and leans back, ineffectually tossing her long hair
back over her shoulders. She doesn't stop hugging him. "I've *smelled* that
cologne on other guys, Daddy. It's *better* on you."
"Hmph. Well, if you say so --"
"I *do* say so," she says, and beams -- and then bites her lip.
And blushes --
And, abruptly, the look in Thomas' eyes is much, much more familiar.
Tim shakes his head *hard* --
"You need not watch, of course --"
"But I hope you -- ah," and Clark's wake spins their chairs -- "Terribly sorry.
Would you mind if I --"
Tim points to the bed.
"Oh -- thank you very much. Very, very --" Clark sits on the bed. He's dressed
in jeans, a simple white t-shirt, and workboots, and he's already
*impressively* erect --
"Helena..."
She steps back, holds up a moderately-crushed and official-looking envelope,
and then and *only* then stops biting her lip. "Four point oh again, Daddy..."
Thomas nods once.
"I want... you know what I want..."
Thomas flares his nostrils --
And Helena smiles, tossing the envelope away and beginning to undo her tie --
"Wait," Thomas says, and his voice is low and *sharp* -- but not cold. Not --
"Oh -- please, Daddy --"
"Shh. Close and lock the office door, notify the answering service that it's
time to begin taking my calls, and then... and then go into the examination
room and take all of your clothes off," Thomas says, and there is a bead of
sweat at his left temple --
Helena is staring at it with her lips parted --
"Do it now, bumblebee."
She moans --
She --
It's a moan Tim has never *heard* --
"Yes, Daddy!"
Tim bites the tips of his thumbs -- stops.
Tim watches Helena run off-screen --
Watches Thomas breathe far too roughly for a man his *age* --
He's *flushed* --
And he closes his eyes, and licks his lips, and evens his breathing with slow,
steady care.
He *isn't* visibly erect, but Tim suspects that will change... quickly.
Clark takes a shuddering breath. Which --
"There's a part of me which only wants to be... bitchy," Tim says.
"Oh -- please don't."
Jason hums and finishes his mango juice. "I have no objections whatsoever to
your bitchery, Tim."
Clark gives Jason an *annoyed* look --
Jason *winks* at Clark --
And Tim snorts. "As I was *saying*."
"Ah... yes?"
"I'm tempted. She's not *your* sister."
"Technically --" And Clark adjusts the glasses he's not wearing. "Technically,
*she's* not your sister, either."
"Genetically --"
"Also, if I may?"
Tim licks his teeth --
Watches Thomas shuffle the papers on his desk *utterly* ineffectually --
"Ah... please?"
"Go ahead, Clark."
"Well. Well. It's only..."
"Go *ahead*, Clark."
"Don't you think I'm the *most* appropriate person in this room to be harboring
romantic and sexual feelings for your younger -- much younger -- sister?"
Tim narrows his eyes.
Jason snickers and coughs --
"Not that I would ever dream of... ah... coming... between --"
"I'm going to get the kryptonite Lex gave me --"
"Oh -- Tim --"
"And I'm *not* going to use it to make our sex life more exciting."
"Really, that's -- it's not that I don't find your father very attractive,
too."
Jason -- that's really something of *guffaw*.
Tim -- suspects his expression is pained.
"I mean -- his mustache is nearly as wonderful as James Gordon's --"
"Please stop."
"And he's quite fit for a man his age --"
"Clark."
"Do you know if he continued to... ah... work out? From what I can see of his
musculature --"
"Clark, you're making my erection go away."
"Oh, Tim. You're usually a much better liar than *that*," Clark says, and his
smile is -- Lois', through and through.
Which is a reminder. "Do give your wife my regards."
"I'd like to give her other things from you --"
"And I'd like to shut you up in one of several very particular -- ways --" And
then Tim is *grunting*, because Clark is between his legs --
Clark is kneeling *on* Tim's shorts and boxer-briefs --
Clark is *swallowing* around him, again and --
"*Fuck* --"
And Jason is watching -- avidly.
Tim laughs --
Gasps and laughs *more* --
And *almost* misses the end of Thomas' shuddering breath. Almost. He turns to
see --
He's checking his watch while stroking the finish of his desk.
He's biting his *own* lip --
Clark pulls back enough to suck *hard* --
Tim growls and shoves his hand into Clark's hair, tugging him *back*.
Clark's eyes flare *bright* red -- but he allows himself to *be* tugged. "You
*do* want me to speak more, Tim...?"
Tim laughs again and glances down at his *vigorously* erect penis, abruptly and
*deeply* sure that he isn't the only one looking.
He pushes it down... and when he releases it, it bobs up and smacks -
- pleasantly ridiculously -- against his abdomen.
"I want..."
Clark hums.
"I want to be naked --"
And he is.
"I want to be on the bed --"
And he is, in his usual place.
"I want popcorn."
Clark looks at him. "No, you don't."
Tim raises an eyebrow -- and pauses the playback.
Jason clears his throat -- and, when Clark turns, tosses him an un-popped bag
of microwave popcorn.
Clark raises both of his eyebrows.
Tim folds his arms behind his head. Patiently.
"You're going to make me use my powers. *This* way."
Tim inclines his head.
"You're going to do this even though everyone in this room -- this *house* -
- knows that you'd rather be watching your father make love to your sister."
Tim inclines his head again.
"You're going to -- I could do it one kernel at a time, Tim."
Tim shows his teeth.
"Personally," Jason says, "I'm quite enjoying this from a purely aesthetic
standpoint."
Tim considers and rejects the idea of flexing his penis. He is, as Cassandra
would point out, not Jay -- who can get the sort of flexion with his cremaster
that --
"Oh, and now you're *distracted*!"
Tim blinks *slowly*. And shows more of his teeth.
Clark -- huffs.
And then there's a sound like a coughing, hollow *bang* --
And Tim is holding a bag of steaming, perfect popcorn. "Thank you kindly,
Clark. Now join me on this *very* large bed -- between my legs, please -- yes,"
Tim says, and rests the popcorn on Clark's chest.
Clark is *slouched* against him -- it's really the only way to make this
position work with someone nearly nine inches taller and a truly depressing
number of pounds heavier --
And he's warm --
And *sleekly* bare above the waist --
Impossible *not* to touch with at least his *free* hand --
Clark catches his wrist. "Tim."
Hm. "Yes...?"
"If you don't eat every kernel of that popcorn..."
"I'm listening."
"... I'm going to mention your parents' sex lives *every* time we see each
other."
*Tim* coughs -- "Noted. But..." He turns to Jason -- who isn't there, anymore.
"Oh."
"I don't know when he left, *either*. And don't you think that's rude?"
"Clark. You started *fellating* me. In *front* of him."
"That's *different* --"
Another *hollow* cough -- and the word 'enjoy' writes itself out in the air in
smoke.
Chartreuse smoke.
"Oh -- really --"
Tim laughs, shakes his head, starts the playback again, and begins eating the
popcorn, which is the 'butter' flavor Stephanie had given them all a taste for.
Perhaps he'll sedate her later this afternoon --
Or perhaps he'll just twitch for the sound of Thomas failing to even his
breathing. He *had* been doing well, but the anticipation is clearly -- hmm.
"Yes, Tim?"
"Can you tell anything about his health?"
"His lungs are clear; his heart rate is fast, but regular; his circulatory
system doesn't seem to have any major flaws or weaknesses, and the same is true
for his digestive tract. Beyond that..." Clark shakes his head. "I can only be
sure of what I hear. Did you expect his health to be poor?"
"A part of me did," Tim says, and eats another kernel of popcorn. "Despite
knowing that his death *here* was entirely supernatural."
"I was... listening."
Tim smiles and eats more popcorn. And waits.
"I don't suppose... I mean. Perhaps if you could convince Bruce to remove
everything he *wants* from the manor..."
Oh... "You could trip and accidentally set it ablaze?"
"I'd frankly be terrified to try anything which would require me to get
*closer* to it, Tim."
Tim laughs. "You are a very wise man, Clark. Fortunately, all of the keepsakes
and mementoes have been removed."
"Then --"
"*Unfortunately*, many of Bruce's happiest memories are sunk deep in the wood,
the brick, the mortar... et cetera. He was even more poetic about it."
"I was afraid you'd say that."
Tim grunts... entirely committally. And eats more popcorn. And --
The image cuts in as Thomas is walking from his office into the hall leading to
the examination rooms he'd had carved out of the old servants' quarters. Wayne
Manor once supported -- and had been supported by -- a much, much larger staff.
There isn't much in the way of *natural* light in these rooms, but the
fluorescents are as gentle as they can be made while still doing the job they
need to do. And --
And the door to exam room A is open, just a crack.
Thomas pauses outside the door and makes yet another effort to slow his
breathing. There is a visible bulge now, and --
"I want to know how this *began*," Tim says, and lets himself arch against
Clark's back.
"Are you sure?"
"*Yes*, I'm sure. I can't possibly get more fucked-up about my family than I
already am."
"I feel strongly that you shouldn't *say* things like that --"
Tim growls --
And Thomas exhales through his nose and pushes the door wide before closing it
behind him.
Slowly.
Helena is wearing one of the pale teal examination gowns Thomas apparently
favors across the multiverse. She's smiling and sitting sideways on the table,
rocking back and forth with her hair spilling down and down over her shoulders
and down her back --
And Thomas makes a quietly *pained* sound --
Helena *starts* to rise --
"No," Thomas says, and raises a hand. He looks like he *wants* to chew on his
mustache -- "No. Sit back down."
She bites her lip and does it. "Yes, Daddy."
"I thought -- I told you to take all of your clothes off."
She bites her lip again -- and looks up at Thomas through her lashes. "I
thought... that I could have a check-up, too."
Thomas flushes *hard* --
Helena *pants* -- her large nipples are, at the very least, *mostly* erect.
Tim hasn't seen them since her swimsuit slipped when she was *ten* --
He hadn't known to take *notice* -- no. No, not that.
He can wait. He can --
"Hold the popcorn," Tim says, and, once Clark has it, he proceeds to eat with
one hand and *molest* with the other --
"Have I mentioned how much I enjoy your possessiveness? Because I really do --"
"I enjoy *you*, Clark," and Tim licks 'butter' powder from his lips and thinks
about having a penis in his mouth --
A breast --
*Her* breast --
"Stay there," Thomas says, and turns toward the cabinets, washing his hands
thoroughly at the small sink before drying them and pulling on two extra-large
latex gloves.
They are, of course, snug on his hands.
He doesn't turn around right away. He pauses, simply standing there --
"I'm not sure if you can see it, Tim, but his hands are shaking continuously."
"Really."
"I wonder if yours ever would, in a similar situation."
"Hnn." Tim pinches Clark's right nipple and twists --
Clark gasps and arches --
"Are you saying you didn't watch me with Barbara in the eighties? With Dick?"
"My powers weren't quite so -- please. Please tell me --"
"I shook. I flushed. I growled. I... bruised them. I would've bruised them more
had Bruce not been there to keep me... on a leash."
<<My companion wears such things well.>>
Tim laughs and twists in the other *direction* --
"*Mm* -- I do wonder... who held *Bruce's* leash...?"
"I did. When I could remember my sanity."
"Always a --"
Thomas turns suddenly, graceful and quick as he closes the distance between
himself and Helena. He looks into her eyes, opening them wider gently, then
folding back the lids. "Good," he says, and then begins palpating her lymph
nodes, lingering on the ones beneath her jaw with an abstracted frown.
"Um -- ow --"
"Have you been taking your vitamins, Helena?"
"Yes, Daddy --"
"Every day?"
She bites her lip and shakes her head.
"Tch. Not good, bumblebee."
"Sorry, Daddy --"
"Shh," and he sets the earpieces of the stethoscope in his ears. "A little
cold," he says, and presses it to her back --
She hisses --
"There's a girl. Breathe deeply."
"Yes, Daddy," she says, and manages surprisingly deep and even breaths,
considering --
But Tim always managed that for *his* exams --
But Thomas never had an *erection* for those --
He doesn't know. He doesn't --
"Cough for me."
She turns and does it --
"Again. Harder."
She nods and does it --
And Thomas leans in and kisses her long, pale throat softly, *wetly* --
Helena moans --
And, now, it's easy to see that Thomas is shaking, that he's on the *edge* of
his control --
He *sucks* a kiss to the flesh over her carotid --
"Daddy..."
He opens the ties of the gown, leans back, folds the gown down to her waist,
and begins to listen to her heart. Her breasts are no larger than an A-cup, and
have something of a *scoop* to their shape.
Her areolae --
Her areolae are the same dusky reddish-brown his own are, and -- "You already
knew -- I."
Clark licks his lips. "I -- yes? What did I know?"
"Her -- the color -- it doesn't matter --"
"I would've told you --"
Tim growls and claws Clark's abdomen --
"Oh -- yes, Tim --"
"*Naked*."
And Clark is, and in what *seems* to be the exact same position. His penis is
hard, leaking and blood-dark and *hard* --
"I want -- I want to watch you fucking her so *badly* --"
"I would be more than happy to oblige --"
Tim laughs *painfully* -- "I'm *working* on it."
"Perhaps... perhaps if I were to bring her a nice tabouleh salad sometime -
- you know, if you make it with freekeh it's an entirely different culinary --"
Tim shoves his dusty fingers into Clark's mouth --
Clark hums and *sucks*, arches and *twitches* --
"Lie down now, bumblebee," Thomas says, taking the earpieces out and removing
the stethoscope entirely.
"You're not going to take my blood pressure?"
Thomas smiles and shakes his head. "I'm afraid I'm going to be raising it much
too soon for such a measure to be... useful."
Helena giggles and lies back, scooting to the end of the table *just* as Thomas
unfolds the stirrups. Thomas sets her feet in them gently... and strokes the
air just *above* the impressive bruises on both of her shins.
"Field hockey?"
"Yes, Daddy. Amanda Rollings is a -- not-nice person," she says, and blushes.
Thomas wags a finger at her. "Field hockey isn't a very nice *game*, bumblebee.
You have the upper body strength for rowing --"
"But it's *boring*, Daddy!"
"Nonsense! You get to get out in the world --"
"At *dawn*!"
"When all the world is waking up --"
Helena sticks her tongue out.
Thomas gives her a mock-stern look --
Helena crosses her eyes --
And Thomas chuckles and shakes his head. "Stubborn little bee. All right. But
we'll see how you feel about being the only debutante who looks like the
aftermath of a *mugging*."
Helena -- pops out a bridge.
Tim grunts and *flexes* --
"You know, Tim, your kinks are *fascinating* --"
"The *point* of kinks is to *be* fascinating --"
"And it's really quite impressive that you can spar with me linguistically when
I can *hear* you clenching --"
"God -- *God* --"
"In fact... please pause the playback."
"I --"
"Please."
Tim groans and does it -- and suddenly he's on his hands and knees and
*something* is moving in his *ass*. He doesn't feel especially full *or*
pained, and the speed is *threatening* -- "You're fingering me."
"Stretching you. At *speed*," Clark says.
"The -- muscle relaxant lubricant?"
"Of course. Look at where you paused."
Tim pants and licks his lips, pants and clenches and *grunts* --
And looks up. Onscreen, Helena is supporting her bridge with her tongue. Her
eyes are narrow and *hot* with amused lust, and her breasts point up and to the
sides. Her legs are up and *spread* --
But, for now, the gown is shadowing her vulva.
*Thomas* is shadowing *her* --
Looming as he tugs on his gloves to adjust the fit --
So --
She's so --
"I *need* her --"
"You should have her, my companion. You would give her --"
"*Everything*," Tim says, and beats at the bed with his fist -- "I would never
-- I would never try to hold her *back* --"
"She would be free, yes," Clark says, and pushes in another finger --
"*Ohn* --"
"Always free. Always -- so beautiful, such a perfect family -- oh, I've
*missed* you --"
"*Please* --"
"I'm going to *seat* you on my penis... and then we're going to watch this.
Every moment of this you desire --"
"*You* --"
"Oh, yes, because she's as beautiful as you are -- oh --"
Tim feels himself *open* --
Blushes *hard* --
"*Now*," Clark says, and there is motion --
*Speed* --
A press --
A press that doesn't *end*, and the heat is as impossible as it always is, as
*frightening* --
"Oh, shh, shh --"
"*Clark* --"
"*Take*," he says, pulls and *thrusts* --
So *deep* --
And Tim arches --
Screams and *arches* --
His penis is *spasming*, and he hasn't been this full in so long, hasn't --
"God -- God, *Clark* --"
<<Most-fine. Most-desired. I have *ached*.>> And it feels like *Clark's* spasm
should move *both* of them --
And Tim thinks it does... in a way. He smiles.
<<My companion regains a state of readiness?>>
"Hnn." Tim spreads his thighs wider around Clark's, plants his hands on them,
and focuses on the viewscreen.
The *image* doesn't change, but --
"Is the bridge still comfortable?"
A click and a slurping sound -- "Yeth -- Bleh. Yes, Daddy."
"Are you *sure*?"
"I'm sure. I know it could hurt my jaw and my other teeth to keep wearing it if
it didn't," she says, and there's something of a sing-song quality to it, a
sense of something which has been repeated *often* --
Thomas sighs --
"I *know* it's important, Daddy. I *promise* -- oh --"
Tim pants and narrows his eyes --
Clark *cups* Tim's hips --
"You must let us care for you --"
"Yes -- y-yes, Daddy --"
"You must..." Thomas sighs --
And the image returns just as Thomas rolls his -- relatively -- short stool
closer to the table. He is stroking Helena's mound with his left hand, and --
She doesn't shave, at all --
Her hair is dark, thicker than what's on her head, so curly --
Thomas sighs again, and touches Helena's furled and *swollen* inner labia
lightly with his gloved right hand --
Helena shivers and *squeaks* --
"Bumblebee..."
"Yes. Yes, Daddy?"
Thomas shakes his head. "You've been very rough with yourself. Haven't you."
Helena squirms. "I --"
"Yes or no, Helena."
She moans and curls her toes, lifts her hips --
And Thomas presses down on her mound and abdomen with the hand he isn't using
to touch her inner labia. "Stay put now, bumblebee."
"Yes, Daddy. Sorry -- and. Um. Yes. I was... rough --"
"Why?"
She whimpers -- "I -- I was... really *horny*, Daddy --"
Thomas tuts --
"'Aroused' doesn't really *cut* it," she says, and smiles ruefully. "I was
starting to clench every time I saw a *telephone* pole."
Thomas *coughs* -- and hums as he strokes the slim, small hump of her still-
hooded clitoris --
"Ohh -- oh, please --"
"Is your vibrator no longer sufficient, Helena?"
"Uh. Um. It's fine -- please --"
"Now, Helena --"
"It's *good*, Daddy, I *promise* --"
"And your phalluses?"
"Please -- please, Daddy --"
And Thomas presses *firmly* on her clitoris --
She cries out -- "Yes! Yes, please!"
"There's obviously an... insufficiency. If you require more... toys --"
"I know -- I know you'll get them, but..." She groans and shakes her head --
And Thomas moves his fingers away from her clitoris. "You *must* tell me,
bumblebee."
She whimpers --
Arches *high* --
Whimpers and *sobs* when Thomas pushes her back *down* --
"*Helena* --"
"It's not *you*, Daddy! I need -- it's not the *same*!"
And Thomas gasps and blinks rapidly, flushes dark once more -- "Bumblebee..."
"I know -- I know you don't want to do this all the time, and that I have to be
patient, and I *try*, I really *try* --"
"It's... too much for you?"
She bites her lip and --
Her sadness is *palpable* --
Tim groans and has to *fight* the urge to reach, the urge to lift himself off
Clark's penis and *dive* through the portal --
"Oh... fine one, *please*," Clark says, holding him and stroking him, petting
and kissing --
"So -- so *warm* --"
"Always for you, my companion --"
"I can't -- I --" Tim groans and squeezes his eyes shut --
And Clark sighs and pulls Tim back against him --
Tim shivers for the *heat* --
"You've paused the playback again. You -- do you mean to give me a chance to
plead my case?"
Tim laughs *painfully* --
And Clark presses a smile against Tim's ear. "Lover, you need never hide your
*strain* from me," he says, and *licks* --
Tim moans and *shudders* -- "It would be -- polite --"
Clark *bites* Tim's ear --
"*Fuck* --"
Clark *thrusts* --
"Oh -- oh, *fuck* --"
Clark *moves* him, moves everything *in* him, and Tim is small, young, human,
*fragile* --
Tim is clawing his own thighs and *panting*, twitching --
Leaking and *groaning* --
"I would watch you with her *daily*, my companion..."
"Love -- I would love --"
"I would watch you lose *control*."
Tim grunts --
Shakes his head --
"N-no, Clark --"
"Oh, yes. Look at how you strain for her now, when... no. Look at *her*," Clark
says, and tugs Tim's head up by the *hair* --
And Thomas is still touching her gently -- that much is clear --
Thomas is flushed and --
"No, Tim. Look at *Helena*."
Tim groans -- but he can't actually resist. He can't --
And there is arousal in her eyes, desperation, yes --
What he's always *wanted* to see --
But there is her sadness, too, her *anguish* at -- at not being able to please
someone she loves so *much* --
Tim *knows* that expression --
Tim had *fought* himself so that he could hide at least *most* of his
disappointment about her not wanting to become a vigilante, so that he wouldn't
*have* to see it. And it had worked. She had come into her own, *realized* that
there was nothing wrong with not wanting to live his life --
But he misses this. He misses --
Tim groans again --
*Reaches* --
<<Would you make her yours, my companion?>>
<<For... for...>>
<<For the Mission? For your vocation? For good and all...?>>
Tim whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut --
And Clark squeezes Tim's scrotum *hard*, making colors explode behind Tim's
eyes, making Tim gasp and *shout* --
And making him open his eyes again.
Making --
Making him *see* --
"Tell me what you want, Tim. Tell me everything..."
"I want -- I want *her* --"
"Be specific," he says, and *works* Tim's scrotum --
Tim groans and grips Clark's forearms --
*Working* forearms --
And then Clark *stops* thrusting. He --
"*Please* --"
"Tell me, Tim. Pretend..." And Clark laughs softly and nearly as musically as
*Dick*. "Pretend you're *not* Bruce."
That -- Tim laughs and *clenches* --
They groan *together* --
"Bounce me -- bounce me on your penis --"
"Of course," Clark says. "But you know what has to happen first --"
"I would -- nnh. I would. She's never had a massage as good as the sort I could
give her. I *know* she hasn't."
"Oh... have you chosen a particular scented oil?"
Tim *barks* a laugh --
Clenches *again* --
"I'm *not* Bruce, remember?"
And Clark laughs and starts thrusting again, starts --
"Oh, God, so *sharp* --"
"I remember. Go on."
"Please --"
"More, Tim."
"I would -- make her... pliant. Make her... *relaxed* -- Clark -- oh, *Clark* -
-"
"More."
"That -- that *bounce* --"
"Just what you like, I know. My companion, I know everything -- and not nearly
enough," Clark says, and squeezes Tim's scrotum even *harder*. "More."
"I couldn't -- not her face. Not the first time -- *please* --"
"You'd flip her over...?"
"Force -- please, just -- onto her stomach -- I don't know how she would *feel*
about being on her hands and knees --"
"Your *fantasy*, Tim."
Tim growls and clenches deliberately hard --
*Screams a *growl* --
And Clark shudders and cups Tim's throat. He --
"*Please*, Clark --"
"No."
Tim pants -- "Hands and knees. Hands -- her hands are larger than mine, more -
- "
"They weren't always..."
"Oh, *God* --"
Clark laughs again and bounces him *faster* -- "You have her on her hands and
knees. She is... oiled for you. *Slick* --"
"I -- I take her with both hands. I *fuck* her, slowly -- as slowly as I *can*
--"
"Which isn't *very*..."
"I'm *inside* her, and I can't -- nn -- *nnh* --"
"Shh, more."
"You're -- it's so -- hard --"
"You can have it even harder..."
Tim clenches and cries out --
*Sobs* --
"You know what to do, Tim..."
"I -- I give her an orgasm, I try --"
"You're good to her. Gentle?"
"I try s-so. So hard -- please --"
"You give her your penis. Do you ever remove your fingers from her rectum?
Or...?"
"No. No. I -- I have to *feel* -- I have -- *please* --"
"You have to feel yourself inside her in every possible way. Oh, yes, I see,"
Clark says, and now he has one hand on Tim's throat and one on his *hip* --
Tim's body knows what's going to *happen* --
He *can't* make himself breathe --
"Oh, Tim... sweet... sweet companion. Start the playback again. While you can
focus."
There's a part of him which wants to say *something* cutting --
But Clark knows Tim's body in moments like these, as well as anyone --
And Clark knows what he needs. Clark --
Tim focuses --
And Clark sighs immediately, even though Tim can't hear --
"His heart is pounding, Tim. He is... so close to his own edge," Clark says,
*gripping* Tim's throat --
"*Nnk* --"
Pulling Tim into his thrusts --
Over and --
"Her heart is pounding as well, and her breath... can you hear it hitch?"
Tim nods as much as he *can* with Clark's massive hand around his throat --
She whimpers --
Thomas *sighs* -- "I would never..."
She whimpers *again* --
And the image kicks in with a view of Thomas stroking the backs of her thighs
almost restlessly --
Her vulva is *shining* with her fluids --
"I would never... never *deprive* you --"
"Please, Daddy, *touch* me!"
Thomas groans and *grips* the backs of her thighs, *pushes* --
"Oh! Oh, yes!"
"Bumblebee, you're *swollen* --"
"I need you, Daddy, it's been so *long*!"
"Two... not. Not even two weeks --"
And it's obvious that her expression of desperate *grief* cuts him off, obvious
that he doesn't know quite what to *do* with Helena --
How many *steady* lovers had he had before he married Martha?
How many times had he and Martha made love *period*?
How -- "*Unh* --"
And Clark is holding him *pinioned* on his penis --
Clark is breathing roughly and *grinding* -- "You wouldn't make her wait. Would
you."
Tim shakes his head --
Black --
Tim *gasps* -- and *then* realizes that Clark had loosened his grip --
Clark *tightens* it again --
"You'd love her... every day..."
Sister, *sister* --
"You wouldn't push your other loves aside. You'd show her how to love with
them, as well."
Tim nods and strains, tries to -- to *take* more --
Clark is holding him *still* --
He needs more air, he needs --
He needs the sound of Helena whimpering over and over again, the sight of her
clawing at the paper-covered table as though she's moments away from *leaping*
on Thomas --
"Bumblebee... I... would you truly desire... more of me?"
"*Daddy*!"
Thomas flushes darker, and the *tremor* in his hands is visible even with him
gripping her thighs --
"Oh -- oh, but Daddy --" Helena growls and shakes her head. "Yes, I want more!
I want -- I want you every day --"
Thomas *grunts* --
Squeezes *hard* --
"Ow --"
"I'm -- I'm so sorry --"
"No! Just -- please touch me, please -- please *take* me, Daddy, like -- you -
- I promise I won't curse!"
And Thomas pants --
And Tim feels himself twitching and --
And needing --
And then Thomas throws his glasses across the *room* and *buries* his face
against Helena's vulva --
"Ohn! Oh my God! *Daddy*!"
Thomas moans and nuzzles her, moans and --
Tim can't *tell*, but it's vehement, passionate, *needful* --
Helena is drumming her heels against the *stirrups* --
Thomas isn't even *sitting* on the stool. He's crouching above it, hovering and
-- and *shoving* himself at her --
And Helena is moaning, moaning so --
She can't seem to close her *mouth* --
And neither can Tim once Clark starts pulling him into his thrusts again, once
--
Again --
*Again* --
And Tim is grunting in his *chest* for every thrust, grunting and --
And *howling* for it, because Clark goes so deep, so very --
There's barely any *lubricant* that deep --
And Clark's fist around his throat won't let him make a sound. He can --
He can hear *everything*, from Clark's half-*pained* whispered speed-babble, to
Helena's increasingly *sharp* cries, to Thomas' moans and grunts. His --
His mustache is going to be *dripping* --
He'll smell her all day.
All *night* --
He'll *taste* her, and Tim wants to --
Black --
And Tim is gasping again --
Needing --
"*Clark*! Please -- please *again* --"
"Another *breath*, Tim --"
Helena cries *out* --
Throws her *head* back, and there's a small, *small* red mark where Thomas had
sucked her throat --
Is he sucking her now?
Is he --
What does she *like*?
And changing the focus only gives him shadows, a *confusion* of nuzzles and
bucks --
Thomas is *grinding* his face against her --
He isn't --
"*Breathe*, Tim!"
Tim gasps --
"That -- that will have to *do*," Clark says, and grips Tim's throat *hard* --
"Hnk --"
*Hauls* Tim into every thrust, and it feels like the preparation was
meaningless, like *this* is what's opening him, like this is the only thing
which *can* --
Thomas pulls back panting, *groaning* --
There is fluid dripping from his *chin* --
His mustache is wet and *matted* --
"Helena..."
"Daddy -- God, please -- *unh*!"
And Thomas licks her again, licks her --
Licks a long stripe from her vestibule to the apex of her clitoris, licks her
and *shudders* --
She *clenches* --
Tim's penis *spasms* --
"Yes, I see," Clark says, and thrusts *faster*.
Tim squeezes his eyes shut -- no. *No*. He opens them again --
"Good. Good boy," and there's a wet sound as Clark licks his lips --
A *slurping* sound as Thomas lowers his mouth to her vestibule again --
Helena *mewls* --
"She hasn't had very many lovers," and Clark's voice is *quiet*. *Careful* --
Tim *flushes* --
"She is... mm. I imagine she's still. Quite. *Tight*," and Clark is *shoving*
in --
Tim is panting and getting nowhere, yelling *soundlessly* --
"Do you think Thomas is thinking about her tightness, Tim?"
Tim's eyes roll back -- *no* --
"Do you think he aches the way you do?"
And Helena is tossing her head --
Pulling her knees back to her chest and *sobbing* -- "Daddy, *please*!"
And Thomas growls again, *kisses* her vulva, kisses her again and --
And *staggers* to his feet --
*Fumbles* with his belt -- and pauses. *Shudders* --
"Daddy? Please, Daddy, don't *stop* --"
"Have you. Have you been taking your birth control --"
"Yes!"
"On *schedule*?"
"Yes, yes, I *promise*!"
Thomas licks his lips and shudders all over --
Tim feels himself heating --
*Needing* --
"It's. It's only that condoms sometimes --"
"*Please*, I *need* you!"
"Oh, bumblebee..." And Thomas shakes his head, but he still opens his belt,
still reaches to take one of the high-quality, lubricated condoms out of the
large jar he keeps for his patients' use --
"Oh, yes, please please please --"
"You don't know how much -- how *beautiful* you are, how perfect --"
"Hurry, please *hurry* --"
And Thomas' pants are around his ankles along with his briefs --
Thomas' upward-curving penis is not --
Not *enough* like Bruce's --
This *isn't* his father --
He's never *had* --
"And you struggle -- oh, my companion, *here*," Clark says, and releases Tim's
throat --
"Oh, *God* --"
*Strokes* him so *fast* --
"Hnh -- *hnh* --"
"Shh, *open* yourself, Tim --"
"I'm -- I'm open --"
"Not *enough*. I can *smell* it," Clark says, gripping him and *vibrating* his
*hand* --
Tim *screams* --
"*Shh*..."
Tim bites his lip and tries to buck, tries to *ride* -- and is completely
unprepared for it when Clark lets him, just --
He's screaming again, shouting --
Shouting over the sound of Thomas rolling the condom on, *speaking* --
No, he has to shut *up* --
"-- care, *always* take care of you, my little girl --"
"I know, I *know*, oh, please, *in* me --"
"This. This will *hurt* you, bumblebee --"
"I don't *care*!"
"But I do, and I always will. Please. Please hush for just a moment," and
Thomas takes himself in hand --
And Clark covers Tim's mouth --
And Tim moans in *gratitude* -- and keeps moaning as Thomas pushes in so
slowly, so *gently* --
Helena is biting her *lip* --
*Wincing* --
"Your... your poor labia minora... you must be *careful* -- no, no, don't
speak," and Thomas takes a *shuddering* breath and pushes deeper --
*Deeper* --
Clark is fucking him more *slowly*, *vibrating* more slowly --
Tim pants against his hand, licks it helplessly, *needs* --
And Thomas is panting, too, sweating and licking his lips --
*Moaning* and licking his lips as he turns to kiss Helena's ankles --
She giggles and *squeaks* again --
Shivers and pants *with* him --
"This. This will ease you," he says, and pushes her legs back to her chest
slowly and carefully. "You must -- you must tell me if you can't. Breathe..."
Helena nods and licks her own lips --
Croons and closes her eyes --
Tilts her head back and croons *more* --
"No.... no, give me your beautiful face..."
She whimpers and faces forward again, and her eyes are wide and full, as full
as she must *feel* --
"My bumblebee, my precious -- you must tell me if you're *sure* --"
And Helena nods frantically, opens her mouth --
They moan *together*, and Tim knows she's *clenched* --
He clenches, *too* --
Clark grunts and *shudders* -- in precisely the way that means he's on the edge
of his *own* control. He --
Tim can smell Clark's *sweat*, and that only happens when he starts to let
*go*. There's a part of him which wants to slow things down, which wants to
*make* Clark have more control --
But that part would want control from Helena, too. That part has never had
*any* lovers, has never *deserved* --
He can't stop licking Clark's *hand* --
He can't --
He's *gasping* more than breathing, and he's blinking only when he *has* to,
because this --
He's holding *on*, because *this* --
Thomas is rocking in so *slowly*, and he'd think that would be a *tease*, but -
-
Helena is staring as much as Tim is, mouth slack as she moans, as she --
"Is it. Is that good, bumblebee?" And Thomas' laugh is *nervous* --
But Helena is nodding, moaning *more* and nodding --
Curling her *toes* --
Her -- her long and graceful toes --
Tim clenches and *bites* Clark's hand to keep from screaming --
Clark shudders and -- babbles as he speeds himself again, as he --
"Please --" Muffled. Incoherent -- "*Please* --"
<<My companion, I *must*.>>
And Tim is on his hands and knees --
Tim is *empty* --
"Oh. So... is it all right if I --"
Helena nods *frantically* --
Thomas chuckles breathlessly, wipes sweat from his temple -- "I want -- I can
keep thrusting slowly --"
"Fast! Fast is good, too!"
Clark is *stroking* himself --
"Don't -- oh. Oh, you. You've been exercising your pelvic floor. Haven't you."
Tim grunts and clenches on *nothing* --
"What. What?"
"It." Thomas licks his lips and groans. "It isn't. It isn't important... it
won't be until you begin thinking of having... children... oh, bumblebee, I
need you so *much* --"
"I'm *yours*, Daddy -- *unh* -- *hnh* --"
"Is it. Is it too *much* --"
"No! No, don't -- *nnh* -- oh, please *don't* --"
"*Helena* --"
"Need you, *need* you -- *hnh*--- *hnh* -- *HNH* --"
And Thomas is thrusting so fast, so -- so *smoothly* --
Thomas is *filling* her, giving --
Thomas is giving her *everything*, he can't --
*This* Thomas would never dream of holding *back*. Not from her, at least,
never --
But does Tim 'Drake' exist in that world?
What is his relationship with *Bruce* like?
Could this have ever *been* for him -- no, no he can't *think* of that, and he
won't, he *won't*. "*Clark*."
"Whenever. Whenever you *call* --"
"*Please*!"
"It will not be. Gentle --"
Tim growls, reaching back with one hand to spread himself --
Clark moans and shudders hard enough to move the *bed* -- "I will. I promise to
do my best to allow you to *concentrate* --"
"In me, *in* --"
And that noise was more of a *howl* than anything else, more --
It doesn't *matter* how slick he is when he can feel Clark in his *lungs* --
Feel himself open, stretched wide and -- and *stuffed* --
Just like his sister.
Just like -- and she's crying out now, holding her breasts to keep them from
bouncing -- are they sore?
Where is she in her cycle?
Tim wants to *know*, and he wants to be there, wants to have her *scent* as
Thomas takes her, strokes her thighs and pants --
Stares myopically down at her and *pants* -- and doesn't slow down even when
she whimpers --
When she *begins* to whimper, because it isn't only once, isn't --
Oh, God, he can't stop himself from making the same *noise*, not with Clark
flexing inside him, *reaming* him --
"*Tim* --"
"*Please* -- "
"*Daddy*!"
"B-Bumblebee, it's. I promise it's all right --"
She whimpers again --
"Oh -- oh, how you *clench* around me -- I never wish to *leave* you --"
"*Don't*, oh *don't* --"
"I know -- I know this is too *much* --"
She sobs and rears up, clutching at his shoulders and pulling until he *falls*
on top of her --
"So strong, so -- my beautiful bumblebee, I can't *stop*," and that was
*almost* a sob from Thomas --
He's gasping and *groaning*, *pumping* into her even as she wraps her legs
around his chest and beats at his *shoulders* --
She's crying out so *high*, so sharp and *high* --
And Tim is with her in this moment, with her *completely*, because Clark has
him by the *penis* again, and they both know he won't let go this time, won't -
-
Won't *stop* --
He's timed his thrusts to be *opposite* to Thomas' so that Tim doesn't drown
out the sound of Helena's cries with his own --
He's -- so good, so perfect and --
"Clark -- God, *Clark* --" But he can't get the words out, can't speak in more
than shouts and -- "*Please* --"
"*Always*, my companion!"
Tim sobs again --
*Helena* sobs again --
And Thomas kisses her *softly*, so --
Thomas takes her mouth *precisely* like she's the precious daughter he loves
more than *anything*, and the part of Tim's mind which is aware of families
which *don't* work that way --
The part of Tim's mind which goes missing so *often* --
Tim laughs and shoves three fingers into his mouth, hums and sucks and fucks
himself in *Thomas'* rhythm, because he can't get --
Crazier --
Oh, God --
Oh, God, this is what it would *feel* like --
And Clark's fist is as hot and slick as -- as --
It's clenching around him, hot and *wet* around him --
And Thomas is thrusting *harder*, so he can, too, he can take himself, use
himself --
Give himself to Clark and the father he never --
The *Daddy* he never had, and he can moan and *drool* for it, be as shameless
as Helena as she tosses her head, arches out of the kiss and begs --
And begs --
And Thomas *growls* --
And Clark clenches his fist as he *thrusts* --
And Tim is faintly -- *faintly* -- aware of his own whimpers, but mostly he's
aware of heat and *light*, of the pressure of his own clenches as he comes --
And comes --
As he ejaculates hard enough to make himself *scream* around his fingers,
around Daddy's penis, what he's *needed* --
Always --
*Always* --
And Clark is there to hold him up -- *haul* him up -- as he slumps, as he --
God, he can't even clench on *purpose* right now, can't do anything but get
*reamed* while watching Thomas Wayne clutch at the examination bed with one
hand and at Helena's perfect hair with the other --
Watch him *shove* his way into her --
Listen --
Listen to the perfect, dirty *music* of it --
Tim clenches *helplessly* --
Clark groans and *clutches* at him, holds him still and *fucks* him, grunting
for every thrust --
Every incredibly *fast* thrust --
And, as always with Clark, there's a moment when the need to move outweighs
even the endorphin rush -- and Tim can use that. He *forces* his body to clench
in Thomas' rhythm --
"*Tim* --"
Again --
"Oh -- oh, *Tim* --"
*Again* --
"*Please*, my companion --"
"Come --" But he can't *finish* that thought, because Helena is screaming,
*clawing* at Thomas' shoulders through his shirt and *gripping* Thomas' chest
with her thighs --
"*Yes*, bumblebee --"
"Yes yes -- *OH*!"
And her sounds almost *warble* --
Tim has never *heard* --
And he can't clench rhythmically anymore, because he's clenching *helplessly*
again. He's -- he's *needy* again, even though he's still softening --
His sister --
His *sister* --
But Clark's clutch brings him back to his bed, brings him back to the
*inescapable* feel of his rectum being slicked with *copious* pre-ejaculate --
He can clench again, he can *give*, he can --
He leans back and pulls Clark into a kiss --
He *tries* to pull Clark into a kiss --
"No, no, Tim, you must -- you must *watch* --"
"I've seen *enough* --"
"You've needed her --"
"I need *you* now," Tim says, and deliberately tilts his head back to expose
his throat --
(<<Every time you do that, my companion... I have a need.>>)
Clark groans *and* grunts --
Flexes hard enough inside him to make Tim's *eyes* cross --
Helena is whimpering *raggedly* --
And the kiss is wet and hard and needful, needy, slick and *hungry*. Clark is
*feeding* on him as he thrusts --
But he pulls back almost immediately to shout --
And shout *again* --
Tim rears up to bite Clark's chin --
And bites hard enough to hear his jaw *creak* when Clark *slams* in and starts
to ejaculate. He moans and pants through the whole process. He shudders and
babbles *between* moans --
There's so *much* --
And all Tim can do is -- purr.
Quietly. He --
Thomas is growling under his breath almost continuously now, and turning and
focusing on a shift of angle --
His eyes are as wild as their own Thomas' had been in moments like these, but
there's still a difference. There's more panic than rage, more *hunger* than
*hate* --
And Tim knows, now, that there had been hate.
*This* Thomas *loves* his daughter, and knows that he's hurting her.
*This* Thomas is *worried* by his loss of control, and will almost certainly
feel *guilt* --
"Daddy, please!"
-- but it's not enough to keep him from freezing, from going *rigid* for that -
-
From panting against Helena's forehead as he bucks once --
Twice --
And two more times before shuddering *violently* with the force of his orgasm.
He catches himself before he can slump --
But Helena immediately forces him to give her his weight.
"H-Helena --"
"*Need* you, Daddy!"
Thomas moans and kisses her softly again, works awkwardly to wrap his arms
around her --
They nearly fall off the *table* --
And Helena giggles. "Um. Okay, this isn't going to work. Maybe... we can go
upstairs? Please?" And she bites her lip again.
This is something he's refused before, something --
Tim presses himself back against Clark --
"Thank you," he says, and strokes him all over at speed, squeezes and holds and
*rocks* him at speed --
"Slower, please. I -- I want to give us time together, if we can have it."
Clark shivers -- "Please," and it's a much more *sedate* cuddle. And very, very
warm.
Tim tilts his head up to *kiss* Clark's jaw --
"Bumblebee..."
"It's not. I know it's not proper, Daddy, but there's no one *here* but Mom and
Alfred, and they *know*."
Thomas shudders --
"Please? Please, Daddy, it only has to be for a little while. It doesn't have
to be your bedroom, at all --"
"You. You need me."
"Very. Very much, Daddy," Helena says, and smiles ruefully. "I get... lonely."
Thomas shudders again. "I. I won't let you be lonely. Not -- not when I get
lonely for you just as much --"
"Oh! You *do*?"
"There is... a pain. Such..." Thomas stands, pulling out slowly and carefully
while massaging Helena's abdomen to encourage her to push. "I have never been a
poet --"
"I don't *need* you to be!"
"-- I don't have the words, bumblebee. I only know that I am happiest when you
are near to me, when I can hear you laughing, and smell your hair... well. We'd
best neaten ourselves so we look presentable enough to *make* it upstairs,
Helena!"
She looks at him softly, and seems inclined to *coo* -- and then she retrieves
his glasses, flings herself at him for a long, firm hug. "Anything you say,
Daddy." And then she sets his glasses on his nose. Crookedly.
The glare off the lenses may or may not hide tears welling in his eyes, but he
is -- happy.
As happy as he never was with Tim --
Or with Bruce --
Tim shakes his head once and shuts the machine down for the time being, then
sets the controller down on the bedside table.
And retrieves the cooled popcorn.
"You truly don't have to eat that --"
"Hnn. Are you going to bring up parent-sex every time we see each other if I
don't?"
"Of course. But... you don't have to eat that."
Tim laughs quietly and clenches while he chews --
"Oh -- mm. I may be moved to distract you from eating again --"
Tim sucks his teeth with exaggerated disappointment. "You know how Bruce feels
about people who interrupt my or Cassandra's meals."
"You -- oh, of course you'd tell on me." Clark's sigh is wounded. "This isn't
the basis for a very healthy relationship, Tim."
"I'm a damaged, damaged man, Clark," and Tim pulls on an expression which rests
somewhere between lofty and simply dramatic. "Only... only *love* can heal me -
- ee. That was quite an impressive flex."
"Thank you kindly. Would you like me to reheat that popcorn?"
"Yes, actually --"
"No," Clark says. "You haven't earned my heat vision."
"Really."
"You've been quite the harridan -- oh, don't --"
But Tim continues the process of kneeling up off Clark's penis --
"Really, this is *why* they all like Bruce better --"
Tim grins and adds something of a *wriggle* --
Clark moans *desperately* -- and stops Tim when only the head is in. "Please?"
"Popcorn?"
"Honestly --"
Tim *pulls* against Clark's grip --
"You -- you're a *horrible* person --"
Tim snickers the way he hasn't --
It feels like he hasn't in *months* --
"I feel so *used*, Tim --"
Tim snickers *harder* --
"And -- and furthermore --"
Tim sits on Clark's penis and they groan together, pant --
"Oh, but of course -- of course, you can be quite merciful -- mm. When you put
your mind --"
Tim holds up the popcorn -- and it's steaming perfectly again before he can
blink. "Thank you kindly."
Clark sighs and pulls Tim into a hug.
Tim eats contentedly, in -- relative -- silence.
When most of the popcorn is gone, Clark hums and kisses Tim's temple.
"Mm?"
"I note that you've left yourself time, tonight, for a patrol."
"Oh, yes. It's time."
"Will you take a partner?"
"Jay, unless he needs more time to canvass the strolls. If so, then Stephanie."
<<My companion has a need for brutality...?>>
<<Always... to a certain extent.>> "But both of them have missed me in rather
specific ways."
"Stephanie has only *expressed* a feeling of lack with regard to your -
- excellent -- crepes."
"In your hearing," Tim says, and smiles. And eats more popcorn.
Clark hums again. "She *is* rather like you in some respects," Clark says, and
there is a question in his voice. An invitation.
Tim smiles more broadly. "We haven't beaten the reticence out of her, yet. Not
all of it, anyway. Not for things like this."
"You hope to convince her away from her determination to move back in with her
mother when she graduates from rehab -- again."
"Clark. Is that a *question*?"
Clark laughs quietly. "I'm terribly sorry, of course --"
And the knock on his door is rapid and *unfamiliar* -- "Brother, *please*."
Tim blinks. "Come in, Bruce --"
And Bruce is there, wide-eyed and panicked and determined all at once --
"What *happened*?"
"Jason showed me -- Jason Blood, I mean -- I have a *son*. Hello, Clark."
"Hello --"
"You have *two* --"
"I have a *biological* son, Tim!"
"Oh, congratulations!"
"Thank you --"
Tim opens his mouth -- closes it. Breathes. "Start at the beginning."
"I -- I need to go *get* him --"
"Yes, of course, but who --"
"The mother is almost certainly Talia al Ghul," Jason Blood says, leaning in
the doorway with, oddly, one of the large, shallow serving bowls they use for
pasta in his left hand. "I told Bruce a little about what you were watching,
and he was interested in alternate configurations of his family. I scryed
somewhat at random... and found a *Damian* Wayne. And a very telling resonance
with *this* dimension."
Tim opens his mouth again -- no. No. "All right, first of all, Bruce, *when*
did you --"
"Brother, I *told* you about the *one* time Talia and I made love. I never
*penetrated* her with my penis."
"Did you leave your semen somewhere she could collect it from later?"
Bruce gives him a horrified look, but --
"*Well*?"
Jason clears his throat. "While I cannot be sure about what is happening in
*this* dimension, in at least *one* dimension Damian's upbringing leaves rather
much to be desired."
Bruce shudders once, all over, and stands straight. "I must, at the very least,
speak with Talia immediately."
"And a phone call on the topic might make her run..." Tim frowns and strokes
Clark's forearm idly --
Clark squeezes his waist --
"And take the boy with her," Tim says, finishing his own sentence and frowning
more deeply before turning to Jason. "You don't know more because she's using
magic dampeners."
Jason inclines his head. "Ra's has had access to the best for most of the past
five hundred years."
Which means -- "You can't take Jay -- *or* Jason -- with you."
"No. But I must have back-up. I've already contacted Barbara, and she has
agreed to postpone her projects. I -- Dick?"
"It's entirely selfish --"
Bruce makes a cutting gesture. "You've needed him. Stephanie is too young for
this -- I'll take Cassandra if she will agree to go."
"I will, as always, be a call away, my companion," Clark says, and tightens his
*grip* on Tim's waist.
"Thank you. I... I am not sure how to *feel* --"
"Worry about that later, Bruce. Make sure that your son is *okay*."
Bruce's smile is rueful. "I -- I never meant --" He shakes his head. "You know.
You *all* know."
Tim offers his own rueful smile and reaches out --
And Bruce twines his fingers with Tim's and squeezes. "Brother. I will return
as soon as I can. I'd planned a fourteen-B patrol for tonight and a six-E for
tomorrow, but..."
"Those are dependent on *both* of us being in Gotham. I'll decide when the time
comes."
"As you say," Bruce says, and leans in to kiss Tim's forehead. "Brother. I
would have you with me always," and it's in *that* voice --
Which is reason enough to *clench* --
Which, in turn, is reason enough for Clark to moan --
And for Jason to hum --
And for Bruce to raise a *hopeful* eyebrow.
Tim laughs quietly and squeezes Bruce's hand *hard*. "Make it a *quick* trip."
"As you say," and Bruce lets go, inclines his head to Clark, and turns to walk
out the door. He squeezes Jason's shoulder as he goes, and Jason turns to
follow --
"Wait," Tim says, and crosses his arms over his chest.
Jason smiles *before* he turns fully back --
"I *am* aware that I'm less than intimidating in this position, before you say
anything --"
"Oh, no, Tim, I always find you quite formidable when you're on my penis --"
"Clark."
Clark hums and strokes down to Tim's hips --
And Jason is leaning against the jamb with his hands folded in front of his
abdomen. "What may I do for you, Tim?"
Tim raises an eyebrow. "Why did you leave?"
"I have developed a *keen* nose for when a threesome -- or a moresome -- is
desired... and when it is most assuredly *not*," he says... and smiles over
Tim's shoulder.
Clark coughs. "I... we don't know each other... well."
"No, we do *not*. More to the point, you've never desired to change that
particular state of affairs."
"Your methods... are not my own," Clark says, temporizing -- and *softening*.
Both of those things are tragic.
"We need to be closer," Tim says, in the Voice --
Clark twitches and *stops* softening --
And Jason's smile shows teeth. "I am... willing."
Clark *clutches* Tim's hips -- "I would never -- of course I would never work
*against* you, Tim. Not for something like *this* --"
"But?"
"I. I believe I need *time*," Clark says, and sounds as nonplussed -- as
*bewildered* -- by his own words as Tim feels. But.
There's such a thing as 'the right way.' Tim reaches up and back so he can cup
the back of Clark's head --
"Oh -- Tim."
He tilts his head back and kisses Clark's cheek. "Time is available. As are
many, many other things."
Clark shivers and kisses him *deeply* --
Strokes Tim everywhere he can reach at *speed* --
It's *precisely* like being molested by a warm and friendly *whirlwind* --
Tim hums and smiles into the kiss -- and holds up a finger to ask Jason to
wait.
"As you wish."
Clark shivers again and *moans* into Tim's mouth -- and then pulls back and
pants. <<My -->> "My companion. I will be as quick as I *can* be."
"I know."
"Perhaps... perhaps I'll begin by having a long talk with Zatanna," Clark says,
and smiles ruefully.
Jason chuckles. "She *is* the magic-using hero who loathes me *least*, yes. But
Superman... you may always talk to *me*."
Clark frowns in *consternation* -- but then turns that frown on Jason. "Every
time we've spoken in the past --"
"I've... deflected you, yes?"
"*Yes*."
Jason inclines his head. "I'm not going to do that anymore."
"I -- no?"
"No. I've decided --"
"Oh -- wait," Clark says, and laughs quietly. "Tim, are you really going to let
me get *away* with having a serious conversation with a third party *while I'm
inside you*?"
Tim smiles. And clenches.
"*Nnh* --"
And holds the clench --
"*Tim* -- I -- *please*!"
"It's only that you've been such a *good* superhero lately, Clark..."
Clark moans, long and *low* --
Jason coughs and almost *beams* --
And Tim knows, suddenly and sharply, that, whatever else is going into Jason's
reasoning for these moments --
Whatever other thoughts are in his *mind* --
He's been waiting for this -- for *him*.
Tim shivers and releases the clench--
Clark growls and *bites* Tim's throat --
And Tim gives Jason his hazing-over eyes, his parted lips --
Jason gestures and there is a chartreuse paper heart fluttering between them --
A paper butterfly --
Smoke and the smell of *chocolate* --
Clark inhales sharply and pulls back, nuzzles and moans -- and softens himself
suddenly and *completely*.
Tim *grunts* for the shift of fluid and -- seemingly -- every organ in his
abdomen -- "Clark."
"I -- please, Tim," Clark says, and rests his forehead against Tim's throat.
Jason has turned away --
And Tim nods and turns to kiss Clark's ear. "I'm sorry."
"It's all right --"
"I would do well to learn your patience," Tim says, and kisses Clark's ear
again. "Until later?"
<<Lover, you are my -- >>
And the whirlwind is molesting him again, though this time there's rather more
*internal* molestation --
A *dampness* --
A *mild* chafe --
And Tim knows he's as clean as he *ever* gets even before he can focus on Clark
again -- and Clark is a safe two yards away, fully suited-up and showing no
sign whatsoever of... anything.
Tim raises an eyebrow.
Clark smiles *entirely* Clarkishly. "Until later, my companion."
Tim smiles and leans back on his elbows. "Lover."
Narrowed eyes --
*Heat* --
And then Clark just *is* in front of Jason, and offering his hand.
Jason raises an eyebrow - but then he shakes his head sharply and grips Clark's
forearm.
Clark returns the gesture. "I would know you, Jason Blood," and that's very
much Kryptonian *warped* into English --
And Jason smiles. "I would be known... though I will confess that the prospect
leaves me feeling somewhat *daunted*. Well." Jason touches Clark's forehead
with the fingertips of his left hand. "May your friendships always give you
precisely what you need, fill you whether or *not* you hunger, and lead you
precisely where you must be led."
Clark grunts and *staggers* -- but regains his footing quickly enough. "A
blessing?"
Jason's smile turns crooked. "A curse."
Clark frowns. "I --"
"One such as me is allowed *no* blessings, Mr. Kent. But... I've had quite a
long time to learn how to *word* a curse *properly*," Jason says, and lets go.
Clark frowns more deeply, shaking his head --
"I believe Jason will try harder, next time, to be less disconcerting," Tim
says, and crosses his legs at the ankle.
Jason coughs again -- "Ah... yes. I will."
"I... see," Clark says, and inclines his head. "Until we meet again, Mr.
Blood."
Jason inclines his head in turn. "Until then."
And Clark is -- gone. Tim takes a deep breath and focuses on Jason. "Gifts for
me? Curses? Ice cream?"
Jason smiles at him. "You loathe chocolate, don't you."
"I haven't eaten chocolate by choice -- in any form -- since that day twenty-
five years ago, but I wouldn't say 'loathe.'"
Jason laughs and steps further into the room, pausing by the foot of the bed...
and resting his fingertips on the top of Tim's left foot. "Have I mentioned how
much I adore the rather *extreme* lack of body-shyness in this community?"
"And yet you're fully dressed."
"Not truly. Unless I'm mailed, armored, or wearing silk... my clothes are
probably pure glamour."
Tim raises an eyebrow. "You'd waste your powers that way?"
Jason smiles again. "I don't consider it to be a waste -- as opposed to an
*excellent* way to save money."
"You're a very wealthy man, Jason --"
"And I was a very *poor* man working my way through a *very* large and
magically-dampened area of the Arabian peninsula during the early seventeenth
century. Perhaps you'll trust me about the experience not being one worth
repeating."
Tim blinks. "Ra's?"
Jason inclines his head. "Though -- thankfully -- our paths never crossed. Once
I was on the coast and *could* use -- some of -- my powers again, I decided to
make *sure* that our paths wouldn't cross."
"And you came here."
"Just so. I spent the *entire* voyage eating only *just* enough that the vastly
superstitious -- and universally *evil*-smelling -- crew would not suspect what
they had aboard --"
"And vomiting as quietly as possible?"
"It's a very *unique* skill, and I sincerely hope I need never demonstrate it
for anyone again," Jason says, and smiles at him. "You make a wonderful adult."
"I'd thank you for that, but I happen to know what sorts of adults you
*prefer*."
Jason laughs. Evilly.
Tim... gestures.
"Is *that* what you'd like...?"
"I'd *like*... to know how *many* children you groom to be your future...
companions."
And Jason's smile is... quieter. "Have you never found it prudent to set a
little something aside for a rainy day...?"
And that --
How many friends has Jason buried?
How many *lovers*?
Tim winces. "I rescind the question --"
"No, Tim, don't do that. Don't -- please don't ever pity me. I live *far* too
well for that."
Tim meets Jason's eyes and *holds* his gaze --
"I *believe* in humanity -- and in all the little off-shoots and *variances*
that have been popping up more frequently over the last few generations. You -
- all of you -- will carry on in assorted marvelous ways forever and ever and
*ever* -- long after *I* am finally dust. And, before I *am* dust --"
"You'll be amused?"
"Desperately so."
"Happy?"
"As much as is possible."
"Loved?"
Jason sighs and splays his hand on Tim's foot. It's nearly as warm as Clark's,
though the heat is much dryer and more *ominous* --
"You could come closer."
Jason smiles and shakes his head -- then blinks. "Where, do you think, did your
tendency to love so *precipitously* *come* from?"
Tim tilts his head to the side and *looks* at Jason.
"Surely you're not blaming *me* --"
"No, Jason, I'm not. I'm merely wondering how *long* you're going to pretend
you haven't been close to the Wayne family for *generations*."
Jason laughs -- and touches his tongue to his teeth. "Not... all of them."
"Mm."
Jason laughs *harder*. "Very well. Waynes -- some of them -- can be a *highly*
passionate breed. I suppose you *do* 'get it honest,' as it were."
"*Thank* you."
"And you are quite, quite beautiful."
Tim smiles. "And mad...?"
"Do I *truly* need to answer that question?"
Tim laughs. "You're not allowed to make Jay *any* crazier than he already is."
"Not even a *smidge*?"
"No."
"For the *Mission*...?"
Tim narrows his eyes.
Jason shows far more teeth than is remotely polite --
And Tim -- admits certain things to himself. And sighs. "Fine. But we'll all
side with him when he *does* learn how to beat the living hell out of you."
Jason tuts. "You're making *assumptions*, Tim."
"How interested would you *be* in having him as your student if his potential
*wasn't* dangerous?"
"Nearly *every* magic-user can be *dangerous* in the right --"
"Jason."
Jason hums. "He has a great *deal* of raw power. It will avail him nothing if
he doesn't learn how to control it more viciously -- more *completely* -- than
he has ever learned how to control anything else," and Jason raises his eyebrow
in *question*.
Tim -- inhales. And nods. "He has avoided much in the way of... that."
"As I suspected, given his basic personality type and the fact that his
familiar has frankly seemed to be the dominant personality nearly half the
times I've scryed him. If *you* couldn't teach him the benefits of ruthless
control, I'm frankly not sure *I* can even come close."
"You will."
"Tim --"
"You will," Tim says, and rolls up onto his knees before sitting on his heels.
"Because you'll have help."
Jason breathes... and strokes the air where Tim's foot had been. He --
"How *much* do you miss Martha?"
"Every day sometimes. Other times... every hour. *Other* times.... there are
other people to miss," and Jason looks down into Tim's eyes. "I would like a
kiss."
"You can have more than that."
Jason grins. "Fair warning: You will never, ever need Virilgra while I am
alive."
Tim coughs a laugh --
"A kiss for now, please."
"And anticipation for later?" Tim shakes his head. "I could die tonight,
Jason."
"But you won't, because I'm using a significant portion of my power to protect
you until after we *do* fuck."
Tim snorts. "Fine. *You* could die tonight."
"Or Etrigan could finally *win*, yes, but... but. Gamble with me. Please."
That -- Tim shivers. "The child in me --"
"Never would. But you're a man now. A man... who knows how to play games," and
Jason raises an eyebrow.
Tim licks his lips and feels something like an *undertow*, something like the
heat of *pure* seduction --
It's ridiculous --
It's just a *kiss* --
But it's a game, too. It's --
It's taking a *chance* --
"Please," Jason says, and touches Tim's cheek --
Tim pants -- "Clark is immortal."
Jason blinks --
"Make friends quickly."
"Tim --"
"Kiss me. Make it -- make it something I'll beg for --"
"Shh," and Jason breathes in for much too long, much --
And when he breathes out, the exhalation is thick and black and *roped*. It
wraps itself around Tim's arms and torso several times, *forcing* Tim's arms to
his sides --
It wraps around his *throat* --
It wraps around his *penis* --
"Jason, please --"
"Yes," Jason says, and the *world* is black for a moment that leaves Tim
disoriented and *confused* --
Until Jason's hands are on his face --
And Jason's mouth is pressed to his own, pressed *softly*. Tim tries to slip
his tongue into Jason's mouth --
He can't move.
He can't --
He can't move any *part* of himself, and the ropes are tightening slowly, so
*slowly* --
Tim moans and *strains* --
"Yes," Jason says again, and licks his way into Tim's mouth, lifts Tim's still
tongue with his own, teases and *strokes* it --
Tim moans more and wants to move, wants to *give* a kiss --
But it's almost enough when Jason's kiss gets harder, when the black *fog*
dissipates enough to show Jason's closed eyes, Jason's squeezed-*shut* eyes --
He pulls back -- "*Yes*," and he kisses Tim hard enough to drive him back,
claws at Tim's scalp and *sucks* Tim's tongue --
Tim grunts and feels himself *twitch* -- inside, not out. He still can't *move*
--
No bondage has ever come *close* to --
And Jason pulls back to bite Tim's lower lip, and then the upper. And then he
pants and opens his eyes --
And then he smiles as he breathes in the ropes once more. He --
Tim's penis twitches *violently* as the ropes unwind from around it --
For a moment it doesn't seem like it will *stop* --
All he can do is stare and *grunt* -- and blush.
And then all the ropes are gone and Jason stands straight, stroking himself
through --
But he's not actually wearing pants. Tim raises an eyebrow.
Jason *squeezes* himself. "Was that sufficient?"
"It was the sort of tease I usually make people suffer for."
"Ooh. *Promising*."
"Hnn. Get out... unless it's part of the game to watch me masturbate
furiously?"
*Jason* pants --
Licks his lips --
"I'd be more than willing to help you summon in assistance --"
Tim shakes his head and smiles, taking himself in hand and squeezing hard
enough to make himself make a -- small -- sound --
Jason *growls* -- "Why *not*."
"This is how *I* play, Jason. This -- nn. I'm thinking about *you* hurting me -
-"
"Tim --"
"I'm thinking about you *touching* me --"
"There."
"I'm thinking..." And Tim bares his teeth and turns his short nails against
himself. "I'm thinking -- very, very deeply -- about all the ways *you* can
fuck me."
"Me."
"You."
Jason claws at his own abdomen and stares at Tim's throat, his mouth, his penis
-- "No one else."
"Hnn. At the moment."
"You mad, beautiful whore. I *promise* to spend every *second* I'm not fucking
you wishing *sincerely* that I wasn't such a *contrary* *bastard*."
Tim laughs and *gasps* --
The world *darkens* --
And Jason steps back into nothingness without another word. He leaves... a
lingering smell of chartreuse. Which...
"You know, Jason, it would be nice if you at least made that smell like the
*liqueur*."
No answer.
Well. He might as well make this *really* hurt. He bends himself back over his
own legs until his quadriceps and knees are screaming a little --
He arches his head back until his throat feels moments away from being
*slashed* --
He fills his mind with the *were*-creature that had *mauled* Martha on her
first wedding anniversary --
He smiles.
And begins.
*
***** May 1979: Bruce And Harvey Discuss The Family. As Do Bruce And Tim. And
Bruce And Jason. *****
Bruce wakes up more abruptly than he'd wished -- the dream is gone.
He frowns and tries to recapture it, looking for --
Were his brothers there?
There was *warmth* -- he remembers that -- though that could have very well
been the inevitable result of having Harvey sprawled on his chest and snoring
as lightly and breathily as he always does.
There's just a bit of saliva connecting his soft, slack mouth to Bruce's
sternum --
Bruce strokes Harvey's thick, mussed hair --
Bruce takes his first truly *deep* breath of the morning -- sex and sleep and
the cocoa Harvey would happily drink every night of the year, no matter *how*
hot the weather came to be. He --
("Nah, nah, the cold stuff's no *good*, big guy."
"I find it to be entirely agreeable --"
"That's because you've got the palate of a *peasant* sometimes -- and Al is
gonna *kill* me for encouraging that someday --"
"*Harv* --"
"You can hardly taste *anything* about chocolate when it's cold, big guy."
"I *disagree* --"
"You are *entirely* welcome to your wrong opinions."
"Oh -- that's very generous.")
And Harvey had inclined his head and grinned --
("I'm gracious like that. Everybody says so.")
Bruce hums helplessly, shifting enough that he can wrap his arms around --
"Whuh -- buh -- oh, Jesus, big guy, the *alarm* didn't even go off, yet,"
Harvey mutters into Bruce's chest. He --
"You say that every morning --"
"It's *true* every -- mm. God, you smell good," and Harvey licks a stripe
between Bruce's pectorals --
Bruce *grunts* --
"Oh -- yeah. Okay. Hit the clock before --"
The alarm blares --
Harvey groans and covers his *ears* --
Bruce shuts the alarm off as quickly as he *can*, but -- "Harv, we could get a
much less *offensive* --"
"I *need* that offense, big guy. A *nice* alarm would just make me want to stay
in this bed *all* night," and Harvey kisses his way along Bruce's collarbone --
Bruce shivers and doesn't -- doesn't *say* --
"Heh. We'll get our own place and we'll lay up in bed until *noon*," and Harvey
licks Bruce's suprasternal notch. "We'll teach the little guy how to really be
a *slug*."
Oh... he could sleep with *both* of his brothers --
"'course... we wouldn't let you sketch all night. You know that, right?" And
Harvey grins up at him, eyes bright and dancing in the pre-dawn gloom --
Bruce cups his face --
Harvey lets his eyes slip most of the way closed -- he wants a kiss.
Bruce *knows* he wants a kiss. But -- "Harv..."
"Tell me, big guy..."
"You... have you never felt at home *here*?"
Harvey blinks and frowns, draws back --
"I... it's only..." Bruce shakes his head and smiles ruefully. "It's...
difficult to think of moving, Harv. Sometimes. Of course I will --"
Harvey shakes his own head and grips Bruce's wrists, bringing them down between
them and then twining their fingers together.
"Brother..."
"Brother," Harvey says. "This... this is your home."
"Yes. I'm sorry --"
"No, no. I've kinda been running roughshod over that -- damn. *I'm* sorry --"
"No, you -- the idea is entirely sensible, and -- and practical --"
"You've been happy here."
"With you. And with Mother."
Harvey licks his lips and frowns, turning away slightly the way he does
*sometimes* when Bruce mentions Mother. Not *all* the time, but...
"Harv...? Is there -- there's something you need to tell me about Mother."
Harvey looks *pained* --
"It -- you can tell me anything, Harv. I'm sure if there's a problem we can
talk about it --"
"As a family, big guy?" And Harvey's voice is so *sharp*, but --
Bruce nods and frowns.
Harvey licks his lips and squeezes Bruce's hands hard, turning even *further*
away --
"Harv..."
"One. One sec, okay?"
"Of course," Bruce says, and schools himself to patience, to -- to patience.
Harvey needs time. Harvey is *upset*. Harvey has *been* upset, and that means
Bruce has been an unworthy brother to him --
He should've known --
He should've *asked* at least one of the times when Harvey turned away from him
-- wasn't that the best *possible* warning of trouble?
Bruce strokes the backs of Harvey's beautiful hands and waits, and promises --
It's just that a part of him doesn't want to *hear* what Harvey has to say
about Mother -- what. What?
Wouldn't that imply that he already knows?
That --
Certainly, he's known all along that he's considered a 'mama's boy', but
there's nothing wrong --
Nothing truly --
It's only that he can feel Mother's body in his arms, so small and perfect, and
hasn't she always welcomed his touch? It would've been --
Bruce doesn't know how he would've *survived* in the years before Harvey if he
hadn't had Mother, because there had been no one *else*.
A *handshake* from his father for a perfect report card, a pat on the shoulder
from a teacher --
He'd been so *cold*, so --
But Mother had always been there to warm him, Mother had always welcomed him -
- even when her door was closed to everyone else. She --
("Oh, I love you, I love you, I love you so *much*!")
And her mouth has always been soft on his cheek, on his forehead and on *his*
mouth --
And her arms have always been lean and strong and *inviting* --
He was never too big for her, or too awkward, or -- or too *strange* --
"Big guy?"
Bruce blinks -- and realizes that he'd tugged his hands away from Harvey's. Oh.
He shakes his head and reaches --
And Harvey holds his hands up and smiles ruefully. "First... why don't you tell
me why you had to stop touching me right then."
Mother --
He doesn't want --
Bruce blushes. "I find. I find I am... trepidatious."
Harvey bites his lip -- but only for a moment before he nods. "I think. I think
we have to talk about it, anyway, big guy."
Bruce's heart is beating faster -- "I... wasn't expecting you to say that."
"I usually don't," Harvey says, and smiles ruefully again. "But this time...
this time it's between us. I can't take that."
"Oh... brother. Nothing will ever --"
"This will. This will mess us up, Bruce. If we let it."
He can't --
He can't let anything --
"Harv. I promised. I promised her..." Bruce licks his lips and feels himself
*sweating*, feels himself starting to *panic* --
And Harvey nods slowly and *thoughtfully*. "You promised you'd never leave
her."
"Yes --"
"She made you do that."
Bruce frowns. "She didn't have to *force* me to do it, Harv --"
"But..." Harv licks his teeth and sits back a little, nodding to himself. He
scrubs the rheum out of his eyes, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand -
- "She was serious about it, though. Wasn't she?"
("Do you *promise*, boychik? *Do* you?")
"She was... she seemed almost frightened --"
"Uh, huh. And how old were you."
"Five, but --"
Harvey holds up a hand.
"Harv, you -- you shouldn't misconstrue --"
"What am I thinking, big guy? What thoughts is this putting in my head?"
Bruce frowns more deeply. "I don't know --"
"But you do. I can see it. You didn't *before*... but something made you twig."
Mother on his lap -- something she almost never does.
Mother's arms wrapped around his neck like -- like a lover --
Mother *growling* at him when he suggested a moment of physical *distance* --
Just to allow her to be *bandaged* --
Bruce... blushes.
"Yeah, you know what I'm talking -- heh. *Around*."
Bruce shakes his head --
"Bruce, don't --"
"She's never -- she's never been *inappropriate*, Harv --"
But Harvey raises his *eyebrows*, and that's terrible, that's --
Bruce moans and --
If he can just --
Move back --
The headboard is in his way. The *wall* is in his way --
And Harvey's expression is -- hurt. So --
"Brother, I never want --"
"To hurt me. I know. But -- this. *This*. You know what I had to do to get her
to tell me and Tim about Nemen? You know what I had to *say*?"
Bruce clutches at the sheets -- no. No. "Tell me."
"I had to *use* us, Bruce. I had to *flirt* --"
"*No*!"
"I had to -- *had* to -- promise that I'd never take you too far away from
*her*. I had to talk about how *young* you were -- and how you were getting
older every day. Old enough *for* her --"
"*Please* --"
"I had to -- ah, God, big guy, you *know* I don't wanna *say* this!"
"Then --" Don't. But. But there are questions.
There are questions which could be answered all too quickly and easily -- Tim
was *there* -- and there are questions which would be much more difficult.
Questions he would have to look deep into Mother's beautiful grey-blue eyes for
the answers to, and --
And sometimes she *doesn't* answer his questions.
Sometimes she simply touches his cheek, and smiles, and calls to *Jason* --
Would this be one of those times?
What...
What would it mean if she decided *to* answer his questions? What -- what would
that *signify*? There is such *darkness* now --
Because he is covering his face with his hands.
Hiding.
Like a *coward*. Bruce groans and *tears* his hands away from his face, and he
knows the only expression on his face is a desperate *plea*, but Harvey always
--
"Oh -- Bruce..."
Always --
Harvey shakes his head. "I. I can't take this away from you, Bruce. I'm sorry."
There is *pain* -- but. "I must. I must be -- a man."
Harvey *shudders*. "I want -- you know I always want to *protect* you --"
"I want. If I will lead a life of protecting... others..." But Bruce feels
himself wanting -- *needing* -- to shrink inside, to cover, to turn *away* --
To *hide* once more --
In his *home* --
And he could have a suite of his own, soundproofed and decorated to his
pleasure, and Mother could --
Could --
Bruce shudders and swallows, and doesn't allow his hands to clench into fists
*or* to cover his face. He -- he has *control* over them. He has control over
*himself*.
He will not be a *coward* --
"Sometimes --" But his voice is small and *choked*. Bruce clears his throat and
tries again. "Sometimes," he says, and makes a point of looking into Harvey's
eyes, "I would dream of being married to her."
Harvey winces, but -- "I'm not -- I think a lot of kids have fantasies like
that, somewhere along the way."
Bruce smiles, and he knows it's wry on his face. "Once or twice...?"
Harvey laughs painfully. "Yeah... uh. It doesn't usually stick after the first
or second explanation of why it wouldn't work, big guy."
"I never got that explanation."
"Did you..." Harvey trails off --
Frowns --
Turns *away* -- and growls and turns back. "Did she say you could, big guy? Did
she promise you could be together?"
"I..."
("And it will be the *two* of --"
"Martha."
"Oh, *fine*, Jason, you can come, too.")
"Yeah?"
Bruce takes a deep breath. "There were... moments. When she would come close to
saying... to saying those things. Always when Jason was there to stop her."
Harvey frowns. "I... hunh."
"That's... strange -- no. I see. You would expect her to be more open, more
*free*, when we were alone."
"Well -- yeah, big guy."
Bruce smiles ruefully. "Perhaps she wasn't... ready."
Harvey winces again. "She -- uh. She kissed me, Bruce."
Bruce blinks and searches Harvey, tries --
*Tries* --
And Harvey is simply watching him, *waiting* for him, level and *pained* --
"Brother..."
"Yeah."
"She --" Bruce swallows again. "Did you like it?"
Harvey looks at him as if he's *mad* -- and then he laughs. Hard.
Bruce smiles cautiously --
"Of course -- of course you'd ask that *first* -- ah, Jesus, big guy," and
Harvey smiles at him fondly, *warmly* --
"I love you," Bruce blurts --
"And I'm yours. Just -- I'll always love you. And yeah, I liked it. It freaked
me right the hell *out*... but I'm not actually sure which of us is more
attracted to her."
Bruce blinks and licks his lips, but he can't --
He *can't* --
"I would like... to make denials."
"Well, most people would in this situation, big guy."
Bruce nods slowly. "I haven't. I honestly believed, until this moment, that I
was a *homosexual*, Harv."
Harvey bites his lip and scratches at his right sideburn -- stops. "I'm pretty
sure this is why I didn't. Actually."
"You -- for all this time?"
"Not --" Harvey shakes his head and reaches for Bruce again. "Please?"
"Oh -- brother," and Bruce shuffles closer on his knees, pulls Harvey against
him, *holds* him --
Harvey shudders and *clings* --
He --"You were frightened."
"Of losing you. Of -- part of me still is, big guy --"
"Never! Please, *never* --"
'"Yeah, *that*, 'cause I can't -- God, I need you so *bad* --"
"Yours, I'm *yours*, Harv, and -- and we have Tim now, too --"
"God, yeah," Harvey says, pulling back and smiling. "I'm so proud of you for
that, big guy."
Bruce blushes and smiles. "You -- you knew best. You *always* know best --"
"Hey, no, I really don't --"
"You *do*, and -- please, Harv, please *guide* me," Bruce says, and cups
Harvey's face. "I'll *listen*."
But Harvey frowns. He --
"Harv...?"
"I..." Harvey frowns more deeply -- and covers Bruce's hand on his face with
his own. "I'm not sure I *can* for this, big guy."
"But... why?"
Harvey shakes his head. "It's too important. Too -- these are decisions you
have to make for *yourself*."
"Decisions...? But -- of course I *have* to leave the manor, Harv. It's -- my
mission requires it. And -- and I can't make love with our *mother*. It's -
- it's not --"
"Correct?"
"Oh -- please don't sound like our father --"
"Heh. Sorry. But... you never say that, big guy. 'Our mother,' I mean. What do
you think that's about?"
Bruce blinks. "I... hm."
Harvey smiles at him, patient and calm --
"You're happier."
"You're damned reassuring when you wanna be," Harvey says, and jerks his chin
at him. "C'mon, think."
Bruce nods and gives himself over to -- it doesn't take long. "I want... to
impose distance."
"Because?"
Bruce raises an eyebrow.
Harvey grins. "Yeah, I know, but you really do have to answer this. And *think*
about it."
"All right. I..." Bruce forces himself to go back to thinking about -- it.
"I'm... I'm afraid."
"That's natural."
"I'm afraid to look too *closely* at the matter."
"That's natural, too. But."
Bruce nods once. And -- breathes. "With distance, I don't have to think of the
woman who forced you to all but *prostitute* me, the woman who *kissed* you, as
being the same woman I love with all of myself."
Harvey nods and smiles ruefully. And raises his eyebrows.
"She... there is no difference between those women for you."
Harvey opens his mouth -- closes it and shakes his head. "I wouldn't say that.
I *couldn't* say that. Blood made me take a long, hard look at how I feel about
her. I think... I think, when it comes down to it? I'm always lying when I call
her 'Mom.'"
Bruce frowns. "Harv...?"
"She's -- she's not my mother. She's just not."
"Because... because of how you feel about your --"
"No. Or -- maybe?" Harvey pushes a hand back through his hair and smiles again.
"It could be part of it -- I don't have all this down perfectly, you know? I do
know it'd *just* be a part. *Mostly* it's because of who she is. And who she's
been to *me*."
Bruce -- blushes again. And -- "Her flirtatiousness."
"That. And the fact that --" Harvey frowns and shakes his head. "No, never
mind. I don't really have... a handle on that part of it, yet."
That wasn't true. That --
But Harvey is meeting his eyes with calm and rueful humor -- he knows that
*Bruce* knows he was lying.
"You're asking me to... leave that."
"Yeah, I am."
Bruce drops his hand -- no, he takes Harvey's hand in his own again. "For which
of our sakes, brother?"
"Both of ours. Just -- for now, okay? We've got enough to deal with here, I
promise."
Bruce breathes deeply. "All right. I... tell me. Tell me who she is to you, if
not our mother?"
Harvey squeezes his hands. "Your mother. Martha Kane Wayne. The hottest woman
I've ever seen -- sometimes. The only woman I *know* who I actually respect -
- and I'm working on that. I... more than that. Less -- she scares me pretty
often --"
"*Why*?"
"Wait. Okay?"
Bruce frowns and nods.
"She scares me because, among other things, her sense of morality doesn't look
like mine *or* yours. I think it might be a little familiar to *Tim*, but then
I just watched the little guy *kill* four people -- they might not have been
human, but they were for sure *people* -- and I gotta admit I'm a little
screwed-up about that --"
"Mother -- Mother wouldn't --"
"Wait."
"And you can't -- you *know* Tim was --"
"Tim was protecting you, and doing *exactly* what he was *born* to do,
apparently -- Blood told me about that, too, big guy. He's... you're *both*
pretty *serious* with the violence. For good things. Across the multiverse,
even."
"I... I can't... I don't know how to respond to that, brother," Bruce says, and
squeezes Harvey's hands again. "I can only say that I hope you won't let this
drive a wedge --"
"No, never. Never. But... a part of me needs to pull back a little. Just -- for
a little while --"
"Harv... he'll feel that," Bruce says, as gently as he can.
Harvey frowns and looks down between them --
Hangs his *head* --
And sighs. "Yeah. Yeah, he will. Poor. Poor little guy --"
"And we must never *pity* --"
"*Never*, yeah, but --" Harvey looks up again. "I didn't give him any time to
hurt about those killings. I didn't give him -- I was so busy freaking out that
he *had* to step up and cope. Christ, I *know* I'm being unfair to him -- ah,
big guy, help me out here."
Bruce nods and tugs on Harvey's hands until he shuffles closer, until he kneels
straddling Bruce's thighs and Bruce can hold him again, grip his hips --
Harvey sighs his pleasure, his *relief* --
"The violence... is too much for you."
"I think. I think it might be, yeah. I mean, it's all well and good when we're
watching an action movie, or when you're *talking* about what you're gonna be
doing every night..."
"Was it too much when you were watching Tim at the dojo?"
Harvey frowns, obviously thinking about it -- and then shakes his head. "Still
theoretical. He was too good to go up against the other students, but the
*sensei* could've wiped the floor with him. That was obvious."
"It made the violence in him... safe."
"God -- God, I'm not -- but I am. I really am," Harvey says, laughing painfully
and shaking his head. "You should've seen him facing up to the Sister. He
barely *blinked*. He -- *he* was moving like the reptile. Like -- some kinda
crazy knife-wielding *snake*."
And that -- "Some of that was the magic of the blade --"
"Yeah, but some of that -- Blood said Tim Drakes are *made* for knives. That
it's one of those true-across-the-multiverse *things*."
"I..." Bruce smiles ruefully. "A part of me wishes --"
"It would've turned you on."
"Very much."
Harvey nods and swallows. "Yeah. Yeah, I know that about you. It -- there are a
lot of things that turn me on about Tim, and some of those things *do* involve
him kicking ass. Just -- I'm proud of him, *too*."
"I know --"
"I need -- I need other things from him. I need the part of him that likes to
read *incredibly* nerdy things, and build even *nerdier* things, and... the
*sweet* kid -- even if he's got an edge to him -- the generous and loving and -
- ah, you know what I mean, don't you?"
"I do, brother," Bruce says, and strokes Harvey's sides. "He was beautiful to
you before you knew he was capable of violence --"
"He's *still* beautiful --"
"But now... a little frightening?"
"Yeah. I -- you're gonna scare me, too, big guy. I'm... figuring that out."
"I will always try to keep that away from you --"
"Don't -- or. Hell, I don't know. Maybe -- maybe I need to beat this outta
myself --"
"Brother. Let me -- let *both* of us give you what you need of us --"
"And *only* that? No. Hell, no. It doesn't work that way --"
"But I know Tim would never wish to frighten you --"
"I -- I don't *have* to be a coward --"
"It's not cowardice to fear something which can *only* be termed darkness, Harv
--"
"And that's --" Harvey shakes his head. "There's a black heart to this place,
Bruce. *In* this place. There's -- there's something *beating*, and living -
- or *not* living..."
"What do you mean?"
"You've never -- no, I'm not --" Harvey licks his lips. "I know you've never
felt it. You grew up here. You never really known any *other* home but freakin'
*Exeter*, and God knows there was a black freaking heart *there*, too."
"You're confusing me, Harv. We were talking about Tim --"
"Yeah. Tim and *darkness*, because *he* lives in a place with a black heart,
too, and her name is freaking *Janet*. And I -- I don't even know *why* it's so
clear to me, why it's so -- it's not like I grew up in the land of sunshine and
daffodils," and Harvey smiles ruefully again. "But... it's there. And it's
*here*. And maybe... maybe all that time I spent running around in the street
and in the parks and in the arcades and just *every-freaking-where* else I
could go that wasn't home was enough, you know?"
Bruce frowns again. "Enough to... show you a contrasting view?"
"Yeah. Yeah. Because I think if you asked *Blood* about it? He'd tell you
straight out that there was something wrong in this house."
"Brother, he *loves* Mother --"
"'Mother' again, God -- but that's not important, because I wasn't even
*talking* about her that time. I was talking about what she feeds on, or maybe
what feeds on her -- no, Blood would never let that happen -- God, I'm
confusing *myself* now," Harvey says, and squeezes his eyes shut --
Covers his face --
"Harv --"
Harvey moves his hands to Bruce's face and presses their foreheads together. He
--
He breathes *raggedly* --
Bruce strokes his back in the firm, long motions that most ease him, most
*relax* him --
And, eventually, Harvey takes a shuddering breath and licks his lips. "I won't
pull back from Tim."
"If -- if you must --"
"I'm gonna tell him just -- everything. Everything about my past. He's a smart
little guy. He'll know *exactly* how my -- my freaking *damage* works in a New
York minute, and then he'll probably make the same promises to me *you* did,
and I'll have to worry about *both* of you walking on eggshells around me."
"Neither of us would ever hurt you --"
"And you know that about him. You --" Harvey tilts his head up again and
smiles. "You feel him a little now, yeah?"
"More... more than that. I must keep reminding myself how little I still know
of him --"
"He's my brother in my heart -- just like you are. But you guys -- you share
blood --"
"It's *not* more meaningful --"
Harvey's expression is... deeply wry.
"I *realize* that it just saved my life, brother, but there's more to life than
--"
"Life?"
"*Yes*. *You* taught me that."
And Harvey's expression softens immediately, beautifully -- "I love you so
much."
"Every moment with you in my arms is joy, brother."
"Even when we're talking about painful things?"
Bruce nods once.
Harvey sighs and shivers. "Yeah. I knew that, too, didn't I." He smiles. "All
right. It doesn't mean any more. We're bigger than that --"
"*Greater* --"
"Ah, I wish he was here right *now*," Harvey says, and squeezes his eyes shut.
"He should know everything about *us* already.
"Yes. I'm so sorry I wasted so much *time*."
"Tell *him* -- well, he's probably sick of your apologies already."
"That... did seem to be the gist of his commentary on the matter."
Harvey laughs softly. "Also... you know..."
"Yes?"
"It could've been a little screwed-up if we *hadn't* waited. In *some* ways,"
and Harvey raises his eyebrows.
That's confusing -- until it isn't. Bruce blinks. "I would never wish -- hm.
When *did* he become pubescent?"
Harvey coughs. "I dunno. I'm thinking we probably shouldn't do that math with
any *great* degree of vigor or rigorousness, big guy."
"Vigor -- hmm. If you're sure."
"I'm *sure*... that sometimes things happen at just the right *time* for them
to happen."
"Harv... have you become religious?"
"Heh. I've *become*... pretty damned sure that there's a whole lot of stuff out
there that we can't see or understand not because we're too young, or even too
ignorant, but because we're too *human*." Harvey leans back enough to jab at
Bruce's sternum lightly with his index finger. "What I wanna know is how the
*hell* *you* managed not to come up with that despite Blood being right *there*
all your *life*."
"I... he can be as protective as *you*, Harv."
Harvey's expression is skeptical beyond *words* --
"I... can also be quite stubborn?"
Harvey nods slowly and -- firmly.
Bruce smiles ruefully and takes Harvey's hand in his own, bringing it to his
mouth for a kiss, and another, and another --
"Bruce..."
"There are times -- like now -- when I am only lost in the wealth, the
*privilege*, of being allowed to do this," Bruce says, and sucks a kiss to each
of Harvey's bruised and abraded knuckles.
Harvey sighs. "As much as I wanna let you get privileged all *over* me..."
"We are not done speaking of serious matters. Yes, I know, brother," and Bruce
releases Harvey's hand and moves his own hands back to Harvey's hips. "Tell me
more about your fear of -- Martha --"
"No --"
"Brother --"
"No, don't -- she'll always be *your* mother. You -- call her that, okay? It
wouldn't be right for you not to --"
"Your comfort --"
"Is wrapped up tight with *yours* for some things," Harvey says, and smiles
again. "Most things, actually."
Bruce shivers -- "There are times when I wish only --" He shakes his head. "In
these moments, I think -- I believe with everything I *am* -- that if I could
merely touch you in every way I was moved to, then I could make you understand
--"
"I *do* understand --"
"I *ache*, brother."
Harvey narrows his eyes and nods. "It's like -- every day before we started
making love --"
"*Pain* --"
"But there was sweetness, too, all those hours just *talking* --"
"Imagining the pain of *rejection* --"
"Yeah -- God, and I was just -- I was a *kid* --"
"I knew *nothing* --"
"You knew a lot more about gay sex than *I* did --"
"Brother, I was *ignorant*. Every -- every moment with you was my *true*
education --"
"God, you taught me everything about *love* --"
"*Brotherhood* --"
"And I would --" Harvey licks his lips. "I would squeeze my eyes shut in my
narrow little bed, try -- try to squeeze my *ears* shut so all I could see and
hear would be my memories of you *showering*, or *humming*, or *running*, or -
- Jesus, bending *over* --"
"I want -- I want Tim to know *this*!"
"*God*, yeah, and he could -- he could tell us more about his fantasies --"
"His *dreams*. I think -- he *must* dream --"
"Everyone --"
"I think his dreams must be beautiful, dark and sweet --"
"Yeah, hell, he's been alone for so *long*. Like you, but *worse* --"
"And we could -- we could *ease* --"
"And *teach* --"
"He..." Bruce *grips* Harvey's hips.
"Yeah?"
"I believe his school day doesn't start for another three hours --"
Harvey coughs. "Big guy."
"You believe it would be... too much to go to him now."
Harvey smiles wryly and ruefully at once. And nods. Slowly.
"Hm. It could -- we could say he forgot something --"
"And then drag him out of his house in his pajamas and bone him in the car?"
Bruce licks his lips again. "I was also imagining some degree of conversation -
-"
"*After* school."
"I --"
"And before school *every* time he sleeps over," Harvey says, and pats his
cheek.
"There are few things more maddening than your *sanity*, brother."
"I'll be honest, big guy -- I'm still thinking about Martha."
"And that... is allowing you to have a lesser degree of arousal?"
Harvey coughs again -- and then laughs truly for a moment. "I *want* to say
something about how that *shouldn't* be a surprise..."
"But you've actually been paying attention to the conversation we've been
having...?" And Bruce raises an eyebrow.
"Heh. *Mean* bastards like you don't get any -- Jesus, I'm gonna have to stop
using that word so much, aren't I."
"It's a terribly insulting and coarse --"
"And you *love* it when I'm 'coarse,' because it's just the kind of 'incorrect'
that puts distance between us and *Dad*."
"Very true. But... *is* he your father?"
"I -- no. But sometimes I think he's more my father than Martha is my mother."
Bruce nods thoughtfully. "*Because* he's more correct."
"I... don't know if I'd put it that way? But then, I *mostly* don't want to put
it that way because I know how much *you* hate it, so... yeah," Harvey says,
and smiles ruefully again. "He's actually *acted* like a father to me
sometimes. A *cold* and *distant* father, but I can't actually get on him for
that, because a) it's not like he treated *you* any better, and b) we're
screwing around like animals in his house every night instead of doing anything
*like* our Wayne-ly duties."
"I... confess I've never quite known what those *are*, brother. And... he's
been terrible with Tim."
"I think *your* Wayne-ly duties are somewhere over in Princeton learning things
you already know about business and biochemistry while auditioning *smart* co-
eds to mother the next generation of crazy people --"
"Harv."
"You think I'm wrong? *Ask* him. See what he says about what you should be
doing when you *force* him to answer a direct question. But..." Harvey shakes
his head. "I thought he was better with Tim. I -- I guess I just assumed that
the fact that he was *still* banging Tim's mother meant... something.
*Anything*."
"It should have."
"Yeah. Really -- yeah," Harvey says, and smiles sadly. "I'll tell you
something, big guy."
"Please," and Bruce squeezes Harvey's hips again.
"I think -- I think I'm not gonna have any kids of my own."
"Oh, but -- you'd be a *wonderful* father!"
"You think so, hunh?"
"*Yes*!"
"Well, I think *you* would be a wonderful father," Harvey says, and *looks* at
him.
Bruce... recoils. Slightly.
"Yeah. *That*."
"It's only... there are so many ways it could go *wrong*, brother --"
"Uh, huh."
"*Terribly* wrong --"
"Exactly."
"To be -- to be responsible for the life of a *child*, for the *emotional* life
of a child --" Bruce shivers. "I don't understand how *anyone* can make that
choice after giving the matter any thought *whatsoever* -- oh."
"Yeah. And most people? Don't think about it. At all. I mean, I'll never know,
but I'd be *stunned* if my biological parents ever *really* sat down to work it
out between them. Now, *your* parents had the benefit of a ton of education and
everything else --"
"No, I -- it was a purely mercenary decision to have me."
"Oh. Uh. What?"
Bruce nods and strokes Harvey's hips with -- just his thumbs. "Mother told me
it was a matter of what their fathers would surrender in terms of control over
the Wayne and Kane fortunes --"
"Wait, wait, they didn't even want to have you for the sake of -- I don't know,
their *own* immortalities?"
Bruce smiles ruefully. "I'm forced to admit... Mother has tried to explain to
me more than once what *you* have, Harv. She... once, when I was nine, she
explained to me -- using very simple words -- that she and our father only
married because it was arranged for them --"
"Jesus, she *told* you --"
"-- and that they were both opposed to having children. Mother told me that she
didn't think our father would be any sort of father, at all, and that she knew
she wasn't ready to *be* a mother..." Bruce shakes his head. "She didn't tell
me what our father's objections were, assuming she knew them."
Harvey looks horrified... but, after a moment, unsurprised. He nods --
Bruce nods back --
"She softened it for you."
"Yes. She immediately began telling me about her love for me, and how much she
knew she wanted me nearly from the time she first knew she was pregnant." Bruce
frowns. "There is... she's told me that Jason was the one who informed her of
her pregnancy, but then, she's also told me that the two of them didn't become
close until after our father began seeing Tim's mother."
"You're not sure which one to go with?"
Bruce shakes his head somewhat dumbly. "Though... I suppose Jason didn't need
to be *close* to Mother to know she was pregnant."
Harvey raises his eyebrows -- but then he shrugs. "Powers like his... hard to
be sure."
That... "You're being gentle with me again."
"I --"
"Harv."
"Maybe I am. Or maybe I'm just owning up to the *fact* that *neither* of us can
be sure when that relationship started -- or what 'close' *means* to Martha
when it comes to that kind of relationship -- without asking her or Blood or
*both* of them some real damned personal questions."
Bruce blushes again, but -- "Perhaps we should."
"I don't want --"
"Perhaps *I* should."
Harvey frowns. "You don't have to, big guy. Not -- all that stuff is off to the
*side* of the real issues."
Oh... his hands are shaking. Bruce squeezes Harvey firmly until they *stop* --
"Big guy...?"
"I... I was about to start being... avoidant."
"I... oh. Don't do that."
Bruce laughs softly and rests his forehead against Harvey's again. "She's so
beautiful, and brilliant, and wise... and all of that is -- nearly -
- meaningless."
Harvey shivers. "Is it? Wait -- no. She was kindness, love, *acceptance* --"
"*Warmth*, brother. And -- and she's continued to be that. She accepted *us* --
" But he can't finish that thought. He can't --
He remembers the *interest* in her eyes whenever he came close -- perhaps
*perilously* close -- to talking about Harvey's kisses, Harvey's *touch* --
The interest and *avidity* --
The --
On any other person, he would define those expressions as *lustful* --
Bruce moans and *clutches* Harvey --
"I'm here, big guy --"
"Brother, oh -- she *desires* me!" And Bruce looks up, *searches* Harvey,
searches for *denial* --
And doesn't find it.
"Brother... brother, I don't know what to *do*."
Harvey swallows and nods. "It's a lot -- you don't have to come up with all the
answers right now --"
"It's only -- my own desire for her is already too *much*!"
"It wouldn't even *be* there if she hadn't --"
"You don't *know* that, Harv!"
"I *do*. It's how these things *work* --"
"I told her that I would always... that I would always *work* to give her what
she needed, what she *wanted* --"
"Some promises *have* to be broken --"
"I *know* that, brother, but I don't --" Bruce squeezes his eyes shut and
shudders all over --
All *over* --
And Harvey holds him, squeezes and *rocks* him --
Harvey is so warm, so strong --
"Brother, I *need* you --"
"You're always have me. *Always*. No matter *what*."
And Bruce wants to deny that -- no. Bruce *wants* to want to deny that, to help
*Harvey* to deny it --
To give Harvey room and -- and *freedom* --
He can't. He --
He buries his face against Harvey's throat and lets himself shudder again, lets
himself --
Oh, but that's a *tear* --
"Ah, big guy, I wish I could just protect you from this *forever* --"
"You *can't*. You -- you *mustn't* --"
"I *love* you --"
"Brother, you are my love, my light --"
Harvey holds him more *tightly* --
*Gives* Bruce his *strength* -- and he must take it, must be *worthy* of it,
must --
He must face *everything*, and the easiest *and* most thorough way to do that
is... logically.
Mother desires him -- and has for some unknown length of time. Exactitude in
this is desirable in and of itself, but not vital. It is enough to know that
the desire is *old* enough that it has adjusted and *defined* her behavior with
regards to *both* him and Harvey. Mother has a *prurient* interest in their
relationship. She may or may not wish their happiness -- no.
She has always --
He begins again:
Mother loves him romantically and physically as well as filially. Mother's
motives -- for everything -- can thus never be considered entirely pure. Not
without knowledge Bruce does not -- yet -- have access to --
"You're thinking over there, big guy?"
"Yes. I -- I need --"
"I'll be quiet and just hold you," Harvey says, and kisses Bruce's cheek.
"Don't -- don't hurt yourself or anything."
"I will not," and Bruce closes his eyes and fills his mind with the image of
Mother dancing in the ballroom before it was the gymnasium --
Before Harvey came to them --
Dancing and *inviting* --
("Come *on*, boychik, I'll *show* you the steps!"
"I -- I'm very clumsy with modern dances, Mother --"
"Shows what you know. *This* dance hasn't been popular since before you were
*born*.")
And she had smiled at him, hair tumbling about her shoulders as she shimmied
and beckoned, twisted and smiled --
And all Bruce had wanted to do was watch. All -- no.
He'd wanted to sketch, as well, but he'd known that his skills at the time were
not even *remotely* up to the task. He'd known that she'd be stiff and lifeless
on the page, *cold* --
He'd wanted her heat.
He -- frowns. "Has she danced for you, brother?"
"What? Uh... yeah, actually. Back before the gymnasium -- you know."
Bruce takes a deep breath and looks up again, meeting Harvey's eyes --
"Ah, big guy..." Harvey wipes Bruce's tears away with two quick motions. "Tell
me."
"Did you know what she wanted then?"
"I... that's a big 'sort of.' I mostly had some big, thick walls between me and
all the things I wasn't thinking about. I knew the walls were there, and I knew
enough about what was behind them that I didn't peek by accident... but. She
danced for you."
"Many times," Bruce says, and lets himself sink back into thought. *Pushes*
himself until --
He desires Mother.
He desires her touch, her taste, her kisses, her cries and moans of pleasure -
- everything.
When Jason was teaching him of heterosexual lovemaking --
"I wanted... I wanted to ask Jason about Mother. About -- what they did
together. *How* they made love."
Harvey strokes him and nods.
"You... I feel strongly that I should be *judged* --"
"No, brother."
"Harv --"
"I want her, *too*, remember?"
"She isn't -- you don't *think* of her as your mother," Bruce says, and grips
Harvey's hips again --
"And you always will. I just -- she built this in you --"
"I don't think --"
"If she didn't do it alone? She *helped*. Because *you* couldn't do this alone,
big guy --"
"I learned to desire *you* entirely without help --"
"*Think* about it," Harvey says, and squeezes Bruce's shoulders. "Think, okay?
Because --"
"Because... my own desires toward correctness would have stopped me... without
her willing and eager assistance," and Bruce frowns and swallows.
"Yeah. That."
"I still... love her."
"You always will."
"I -- oh. You. You still love... your parents."
Harvey smiles ruefully. "Both of 'em, even though I barely remember anything
about my Mom, and my Dad... well. You know all of that. It's who we are. How
we're built. It's -- it's *human*."
Bruce closes his eyes. For -- a moment.
Harvey strokes his face, with and against the grain of Bruce's stubble --
Bruce nuzzles Harvey's hand. He must -- he *must* -- "I've never considered
love a weakness before --"
"And you shouldn't start now. Love is -- love is love, big guy. You can't get
away from it if you're anything like human --"
"You also can't get away from the *rhinovirus* --"
Harvey raises his eyebrows. "Is what we have a virus?"
"*No* -- but -- surely, we can't consider our love and what I feel -- what *we*
feel -- for Mother in the same *terms*?"
"Why not?"
"Because one is -- is *sick*."
"A lot of people would say *both* of them are --"
"And they are *ignorant*, brother. I -- no. There must be... there *must* be a
segregation of terms."
Harvey nods, but he's frowning --
"Harv --"
"I just think it's dangerous, big guy. You start separating things --"
"And, perhaps, I'll begin forgetting that the woman I'm in love with is also
*Mother*, is also the woman who *twisted* me, is also the woman who -- who
*molested* you -- oh, brother, are you all *right*?"
Harvey's smile is quirked. "Yeah. I am. Are you?"
"I am well in your arms, brother. But... I remain unsure of what must be done
about Mother, beyond being certain that we must move as quickly as possible.
I... there is a weight on me now."
"I'm so freakin' sorry about that --"
"No, Harv. *Brother*. I -- I know, now, that it is a weight you've carried for
five long years."
Harvey blows out a breath and shivers -- and nods. "We can. We can share the
weight."
"Every -- *every* weight --"
"Always, big guy. I'll do anything for you, and -- God, I'll stick by you,
okay? No matter what."
"Harv --"
"No. Matter. *What*," Harvey says, and he's *gripping* Bruce's face and almost
*glaring* into Bruce's eyes --
And Bruce knows what that means. Knows --
("These are decisions you have to make for *yourself*.")
Bruce inhales sharply. "Brother... do you believe I *will* make love with
Mother?"
Harvey winces --
"Oh --"
"I don't know. I don't know. I just know how seductive she can be --"
"I'm not a *naïf* anymore, Harv --"
"I don't trust *myself* around her, big guy. Not -- not a hundred percent."
Bruce blinks. "Oh."
Harvey strokes Bruce's stubble more and smiles ruefully. "Yeah."
"Do you -- you don't normally *appreciate* women that much older --"
"Nothing normal about her. Not -- not the good *or* the bad. She's special,
full stop."
Bruce shivers again. "Yes, she is. I -- I'll stand with *you*, Harv --"
"Good. Let's -- let's hit the papers early, hunh? Maybe we can skip the realtor
and just go visiting places."
"A realtor might allow us to see *more* places quickly, Harv. I -- assuming he
or she isn't a demon bent on terrible vengeance."
"Assuming that, yeah." And Harvey snorts --
And snickers --
And kisses Bruce *while* he's still laughing. It's messy, breathy --
It's wonderful, and soon enough they're laughing *together*, holding each other
and swaying on their knees --
"I love you --"
"Always. *Always* --"
"*Anything* --"
And Harvey pulls back. "Yeah? Shower with me."
"I -- you wouldn't prefer to --"
"If we stay in this bed *any* longer? We're gonna stay in this bed all day."
"I -- do remember why we don't wish to do so. A shower with you would be
wonderful."
Harvey leans in and *pecks* his mouth. "Westward ho, brother!"
"The bathroom is actually to the northeast --"
And Harvey starts pushing him. There is a temptation to resist --
But only enough that he may see Harvey strain, and struggle, and smile
*hungrily* for Bruce's strength --
He always *enjoys* it so much --
And so, perhaps, it's necessary to *wrestle* Harvey into the tub --
"*Jesus*, big guy, we still have *clothes* on --"
To force him against the tile with one hand and turn the water on with the
other --
He's *laughing* again, shaking out his hair and trying to get water in Bruce's
eyes --
And so Bruce presses him against the wall more firmly, forces out some of his
air --
"*Bruce* --"
-- and shows him the tube of lubricant he had tucked into the waistband of his
boxers during their wrestling match.
"Christ, you got fast hands. And I -- am not saying no," Harvey says, grinning
and waggling his eyebrows. "Gonna put me where you want me?"
And Bruce's mind is flooded with images and memories. Harvey's cheek against
the tile, Harvey ejaculating into the spray, Harvey bent over the side of the
tub, Harvey on his *belly* --
"Oh, look at you flushing. Look -- you're heatin' up all over, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"You got -- you want everything right now, yeah?"
Bruce presses *harder* against Harvey's sternum --
Harvey grunts, eyes slipping most of the way closed. "You can have it, big guy.
You *know* you can --"
"*Yes* --" And Bruce growls and grips Harvey's shoulder, spinning him *before*
he can help --
"Oh, *yeah* --"
"Press. Press your *cheek*..."
Harvey pants and immediately presses the whole of his body against the tile,
*nuzzling* the tile and shivering until he settles his left cheek there -
- "Like this?"
Bruce growls again --
*Squeezes* Harvey's shoulder --
Harvey *winces* --
No -- Bruce lets go --
"No -- hey, no, *hurt* me."
Bruce *grunts* -- and squeezes again --
"God. God, so *strong*, you just keep getting *stronger* --"
"For you --"
"For your *mission*, for -- God, *do* me --"
"Harv --"
"*Please*," Harvey says, and scratches at the tile, tenses and *flexes* -- and
cries out when Bruce bites the back of his neck --
And cries out *again* when Bruce yanks down his briefs --
Bruce bites *harder* --
"Fuck, Bruce, *yes* -- no --"
Bruce pulls back and shoves his tongue in Harvey's ear --
"Nnh --"
"How. How much should I hurt you."
Harvey groans and shudders -- "I. Please. Please."
"Tell me. You must --"
"*Fuck* -- I." And Harvey drags his face against the tile --
He's flushed so *deeply* --
It's showing even beneath his summer-dark *skin* --
Bruce pants and squeezes his shoulder again --
"God -- *God* --"
Reaches between and squeezes his *scrotum* --
"*Hnh* -- oh -- *please*!"
"Brother..."
Harvey's eyes are squeezed shut --
Harvey's hands are balled into *fists* --
He gasps and opens his mouth, gasps and *moans* --
"*Tell* me!"
He opens his *eyes* -- but there is no focus, no --
He is already *powerfully* aroused --
Bruce *licks* his ear --
And Harvey *bucks*, wet skin squeaking against the tile --
He whimpers and *pants* again --
And Bruce squeezes harder. To -- to see --
"*Yes*! Ah -- ah, *God* --"
"Harv --"
"You're just so -- I'm not *weak* --"
"You're *strong*, Harv --"
"Not like you, God, not like *you*, big guy, and I need --" And Harvey shakes
his head and spreads his legs wider, *scrubs* his cheek against the tile,
blinks rapidly -- "Can't -- can't *see* straight --"
"Tell me what you --"
"You *know* what I need, you always -- please, *please*, God, I'll -- I'll
*crawl* for it --"
"*Harv* --"
"You know I will, big guy, you know -- you know I'd *love* it -- *nnh* --"
And Bruce hadn't *meant* to grip Harvey's penis, but once he has it in his hand
--
So long and *slim*, and Bruce is aching for it the way he *always* is at the
touch, the sight --
But he's also aching for just this, this *vicious* squeeze --
Harvey *sobs* --
"My love. My -- I. I'll give you what you need --"
"Yeah, yeah -- please -- can't stop thinkin' of you puttin' it to the little
guy --"
"He wanted me to take him *hard* --"
Harvey groans and *beats* at the tile -- "I want it -- I can *take* it harder -
-"
"Yes. Yes, you --"
"I *will* take it for you, take anything, absolutely -- fuck me, just fuck me -
-"
"*Yes* --"
"*Please*, Bruce, I'm already -- already clenching up for you --"
Bruce feels himself twitch *hard* -
He's groaning and *stroking* Harvey's penis --
Harvey whines the way he *always* does when the only 'lubricant' for his penis
is water, when the rhythm *judders* --
"I've got you --"
"Yeah, I'm yours, all yours --" He pushes up on his toes --
"*Down*, Harv --"
"*HNH* --"
And Harvey is twitching in his hand, shuddering and flushing even darker --
"Empty, so *empty* --"
Bruce growls --
He'd meant for that to be a *word*, but -- but it's enough to move quickly, to
let go of Harvey for only *just* long enough to retrieve the lubricant, slick
his fingers --
"*Spread* yourself --"
"God, *yes*," and Harvey's body is perfect, so --
His shoulders are so much broader than they were when he was fourteen, the
musculature of his back so much more *complete* as he reaches --
As he *opens* himself* for --
For Bruce's *touch* --
But he wants to hurt. He --
Bruce grips the back of Harvey's neck with one hand and pushes in with two
fingers immediately --
"*AH*!"
Bruce shudders and moans --
Moans *more* for the feel of Harvey clenching again and *again* --
And thrusts.
And thrusts --
Harvey sobs and *shakes* --
Bruce thrusts *harder* --
Harvey lifts his right foot -- and brings it down *hard*, splashing --
"Harv --"
"Don't -- God, don't stop --"
Bruce thinks the pressure he's using on Harvey's neck must be *bruising* --
But Harvey only shudders and starts to rock, to *move* for him, move into every
thrust --
"Beautiful..."
"Yours --"
"You. You sound so *strained*, Harv --"
Harvey's laugh is an explosion of breath -- "You're doin' me, you're -- God,
big guy, you're makin' me *take* it --"
Bruce pants and squeezes *harder* for a moment --
"God, *yeah* --"
"*Harv* --"
"*Anything* -- *everything* -- God, fill me up, work me over, freaking -
- freaking *use* me --"
"Never --"
"Please --"
"*Harv* --"
"*Please* --*UNH* -- oh, fuck -- *fuck* me --"
"Like this."
"Like -- oh, God, you're gonna make me *come* --"
"*Always*, Harv," and Bruce keeps working his prostate, crooking his fingers
*cruelly* --
Harvey *kicks* the side of the tub --
"Be *careful*."
Harvey sobs -- "Can't -- can't fucking --"
"Then. Then be *still*."
Harvey cries out, throwing his head back -- but he doesn't ejaculate. He --
"You're close."
"Yeah -- yeah --"
"You want. You want my penis."
"So *bad*, God, I -- do you want me on my knees? I'll do it, I *want* it --"
"I want you right where you *are*, Harv!"
"Then -- oh, God -- oh, God, that's *three* --"
"For *you*," Bruce says, and he's frowning, shuddering and --
His heart is pounding and he *aches* --
And Harvey is sobbing on every breath, sobbing and nodding and *shoving*
himself back onto Bruce's fingers --
"Harv. *Harv*."
"Such -- so -- *please* --"
"Are you *ready*."
Harvey cries out again --
Sobs and *shudders* --
"*Answer* --"
"Fuck me, *fuck* me, *fuck* --" And Harvey *shouts* when Bruce pulls out --
That was too *fast*, too --
But he wants to be hurt, wants --
Bruce's own boxers slip down his legs easily enough, but he has to turn away
from the stream to slick his penis, his *aching* --
"Please. Please. God, please, big guy, please, I need it so bad, so freaking
*bad* --"
"*Harv* --"
Harvey *sobs* again and *yanks* his cheeks wide, bends his head then *shoves*
his cheek back against the tile -- "*Please* -- *hnh* -- oh -- oh, yeah, please
*hold* me --"
"Your. Your hip."
"You can *bruise* me, bruise me right -- ah, *fuck*, you're not waiting, you're
not *waiting* --"
Bruce *freezes* with the head of his penis inside --
"*Don't* wait!"
"Oh -- *Harv*," but he's *shoving* in as he's speaking --
He's pushing --
So *deep* --
Harvey's mouth drops open but no *sound* comes out --
"Harv. *Harv*."
Harvey nods and squeezes his eyes shut --
Clenches around him and they groan together --
Clenches again --
*Again*, and Bruce *can't*. He grips Harvey's hips and holds him still
unnecessarily, he *grinds* in --
"*Bruce*!"
"My. My *love* --"
"Had your -- your hands on my hips all *morning*," and Harvey laughs
desperately, *breathlessly* --
"You wanted *this*."
"More. More, do me, please -- you *know*."
He does. He --
He knows Harvey always moans just like *this* for the feel of Bruce pulling
most of the way out *slowly* --
He knows Harvey *shudders* for Bruce's pauses --
Which usually last much longer than *this*, much --
Oh, but he won't stop, he won't --
He'll give Harvey this rhythm, give them both this -- this *pleasure* --
"*Bruce*!"
This *ride*, Harvey would call it a *ride*, perhaps because it's just this
smooth --
Because Bruce is *forcing* it to be this smooth, forcing --
He feels so perfect, always so perfect --
"*Brother*."
Harvey is *straining* against Bruce's grip, but Bruce *can* bruise Harvey's
hips. No one will see but Tim, no one will *question* the finger marks --
Bruce digs *in* --
Harvey moans and *shudders* --
Bruce feels himself break out in new sweat, sweat he wants to rub all over
Harvey's *skin* --
It's *wasteful* to have it washed away --
He needs so much *more* -- and perhaps that's why he's shortening his thrusts
again, *speeding* them as he presses closer --
"Bruce --"
Closer --
"Crushing -- ah, God, so *big* -- *AH*!"
More dangerous to bite Harvey's ear like this, less *deniable* -- but it feels
so right to hold Harvey with his hands *and* his teeth, to grip harder and
*harder* --
To smell *his* sweat and tears under the sweet and mineral scents of the water
--
To hear his grunts and *cries* as they become higher, more desperate, more
pained and more *desperate* --
Everything within Bruce is *climbing* --
No, rushing --
No, *tumbling*, because this is *disorienting*, wild, heavy and *dizzying* --
Always --
*Always* --
Bruce *tickles* the soft flesh between his teeth with his tongue and Harvey
bucks --
*Screams* ---
Shudders and clenches over and --
Oh, it's random, so --
So *hard* --
Bruce bites down *harder* --
More tears roll down Harvey's cheek --
Harvey is shaking so much, so *violently* --
It seems almost *cruel* to release his ear, to lift Harvey onto his toes just
enough that every thrust --
Every thrust makes Harvey *howl* and beat at the tile --
He is --
He is wordless and *lost*, and for a moment Bruce can't think, can't --
The moment *lasts*, because Harvey is so vocal in this moment, so --
There's no control, at *all*, there --
Bruce *must* be hurting him --
It's what he *wants*, but he's wild, so *wild*, and Bruce only wants to hold
him down, force him to *perfect* stillness until he --
No, *not* until he calms again, not --
Bruce snarls and releases Harvey's right hip --
"Nuh -- *no* --"
"*Take*," Bruce says, tugging Harvey back from the wall and gripping his penis
again.
"*Ah* -- *please*!"
"You're. You're much. More slick..."
And Harvey is nodding *frantically*, already working himself between Bruce's
fist and his penis, already making Bruce feel like a machine, a mechanism gone
free, a -- some sort of fleshly *prison*, something that can move and do and
*force* even as it sweats and flexes and *aches*.
He is the instrument of Harvey's pleasurable *torture* --
And he knows precisely how to make it worse. He --
He licks the back of Harvey's neck --
"Unh --"
He squeezes Harvey's left hip hard enough to hurt *both* of them --
"*Yeah*!"
And he strokes Harvey's penis *slower* than his thrusts, forcing enough of
himself away from the pleasure, the need, the --
He builds *control* in himself until he can work Harvey's penis in precisely
the same way he'd done it the *first* time --
("Oh -- oh, big guy, that's -- that's *real* good...")
And Harvey sobs for him again --
("Jesus, that's -- I can't think -- please don't stop!")
Harvey shudders and doesn't *stop* --
("Please!")
Harvey screams and clenches hard enough to *make* Bruce squeeze, make Bruce
growl loudly --
Too loudly -- he misses Harvey's first *whimpers* as he begins to ejaculate, as
he --
Oh, but he's sobbing again, now, shaking and *sniffing* even as he pumps into
Bruce's fist, spatters the wall, slicks Bruce's *hand* --
"*Beautiful*," Bruce says, but it's truly a groan, truly --
His body is *ahead* of him, insisting that there is no need for anything but
the very *thinnest* veils of control --
He's pushing his slick hand into Harvey's *mouth* --
He's muffling Harvey's -- Harvey's *screams* --
He can't stop --
He can't *slow*, because this is what his body had been waiting for, this
*permission* as Harvey loosens as much as he *ever* does --
Harvey sucks Bruce's fingers and Bruce hears himself *bellow*, sound echoing
ludicrously --
Oh --
But every shudder --
Every *buck* as Harvey tries to match a rhythm which doesn't *exist* --
So --
"*Brother*," Bruce blurts, and Harvey sucks harder, clenches and makes Bruce
shout again, bellow and shove, drive, *slam* --
Too much, too *much*, but it all feels so wonderful, so --
And Harvey is *nodding*, *humming* --
His brother is so *strong*, so --
And one day, Tim will be just this strong. He could have both of them, one
after the other, wear himself out to *nothing* but a limp rag of joy and
satiation --
So much warmth --
So much *warmth* -- and heat, raw and *painfully* shocking when Harvey *bites*
Bruce's fingers --
"*Yes*, Harv --"
When Harvey *growls*, Bruce *spasms* -- and it doesn't stop. It doesn't ---
He bites harder and Bruce can't thrust properly, can't -- can't *angle* himself
--
He's spasming again and *again* --
And then Harvey reaches back and *rakes* Bruce's buttocks with his short nails,
and there is a moment of *fire*, a shuddering *wave* that leaves him rigid,
sweating and *rigid* as he ejaculates --
As Harvey growls *triumphantly* and *sucks* his fingers once more, licks him --
Bruce can't --
There's so *much*, and he can't feel anything of himself save those parts which
are touching Harvey, buried *inside* Harvey --
So --
So much *fire* --
He's always wanted to *burn* --
And motion comes back to him with a snap which leaves him feeling untethered,
loose, graceless and moments from a fall, *loose* -- needy. He wraps his arms
around Harvey's chest and thrusts once --
"*Big* guy --"
Again --
*Again * --
"God -- God, yeah, I *feel* you --"
"Harv. *Harv* --"
"I got you, big guy, just -- just keep going --"
"I need. It *hurts*."
And Harvey coughs a laugh, shivers -- "Is it a *good* hurt?"
"I -- I don't *know*."
"Oh, brother, I -- yeah," Harvey says, and strokes Bruce's arms, his sides, his
working hips -- "How much do you wanna experiment?"
"I want -- I *need* to give you what you want --"
"You did. You *really* did," Harvey says, shuddering again --
Wincing and dragging his face against the *tile* again --
"I don't -- you can stop now."
"But do you --"
"I do," and Harvey turns enough to show Bruce a rueful smile. "I'm gonna wanna
sit down in front of people today and tomorrow, after all."
The image of Harvey fully-dressed -- perhaps in one of the beautiful deep brown
suits Mother has always agreed made Harvey look even more attractive --
He is not *thinking* about Mother --
But he is thinking of Harvey's expression *tightening* just so as he sits down
on one of the chairs in the dining room --
Or perhaps in his Lexedes once they pick Tim up?
Would Tim notice the expression on Harvey's -- no. How *quickly* would he
notice it, and when would he deduce the *reasons* for it? How --
Harvey sighs, long and *relieved*. "Okay, that's better, but where did you just
*go*?"
Bruce blinks -- and blushes. He kisses Harvey's bruising ear. "To Harrison
Terrace."
Harvey snorts. "*Horndog*. It'll be a *while* before you can do *Tim* like
this. Or -- won't it?"
"He had stretched himself, but not that much. I was thinking. I was imagining
testing his deductive abilities."
Harvey raises his eyebrows.
Bruce smiles ruefully. "Yes, I suspected that was a strange thing to do with
the afterglow."
"I..." Harvey snickers and shakes his head before reaching up and back to smack
the back of Bruce's head. "Let's work on that a little, hunh?"
"As you say," Bruce says, and kisses the -- thankfully small -- bruises on
Harvey's neck --
"Mm -- oh -- God, I love -- wait, how bad?"
"Minor only. Though the one from my index finger will be above your collar."
"Damn. Well, I asked for it."
"Not." Bruce licks *around* the bruise in question. "Not in so many words --"
"Heh. But we *both* knew --"
"Your throat. Your. I always want to touch you here," Bruce says, and breathes
*hot* where he's licked --
Harvey moans -- "God -- always want you to --"
"My love," and Bruce *sucks* at the bruise --
Harvey moans more --
Clenches and *jerks* --
"Okay, Jesus, wait."
Bruce stops sucking and hums interrogatively --
And Harvey snickers. "I *know* what you're trying to do, you horndog, but we
have *things to do*."
Bruce smiles against Harvey's throat --
Harvey *shivers* -- "Bast-- *asshole* --"
Bruce laughs softly and pulls back. "I'll behave. But you truly are quite
desperately tempting, Harv."
"Oh, yeah, I know it. You men are all the same. Always takin' advantage of
poor, defenseless --" And Harvey throws an elbow --
Bruce dodges -- and pulls out much too fast --
"*Jesus*, I didn't think that through," Harvey says, groaning and laughing at
once --
"Oh -- are you all *right*?"
Harvey laughs *harder* -- but his knees buckle.
Bruce catches him and holds him close, kissing him and stroking him with his
free hand --
Harvey is *wheezing* --
"Harv --"
"Oh, God, I can't believe I *did* that to myself --" And Harvey *snorts* -
- "No, no, I gotta breathe. Hee."
"Yes, I think breathing would be --"
"Also -- please don't grow any bigger, big guy."
"I... hm."
"Okay, you can get bigger through the chest, maybe a little taller -- if you
*must* --"
"Harv, I'm reasonably sure we're *both* still growing --"
"Big guy. Your dick? Is big enough."
"Is it -- "
"Oh -- damn. It's not too big."
"Will it --"
"It'll still be perfect if it gets bigger. I -- you know what, forget I just
said the thing about you not growing."
"But --"
Harvey laughs painfully and turns in Bruce's arms, cupping Bruce's face and
kissing him hard and -- much too briefly --
"Harv --"
"People as gorgeous as you are not allowed to be self-conscious. It's a
*rule*."
Bruce frowns.
"Ah, big guy, you *know* all the Wayne-seeking missiles want you for other
reasons --"
"I only want to be beautiful for you -- and for Tim. And... Mother." Bruce
winces. "I would like to change that --"
Harvey covers Bruce's mouth with his fingers. "Nothin' wrong with wanting to be
beautiful for the people you love, yeah?"
Bruce frowns more deeply --
"*Trust* me. You can be beautiful and not do a damned thing about it with
*anyone*. I *promise* that's how it works."
Bruce nods --
And Harvey *pets* Bruce's mouth before moving his fingers. "You'd be perfect
for me even if you were *twice* as big as you are now. It's just that my ass
would be a little *frightened*."
"I don't want -- to hurt you."
Harvey raises his eyebrows. Pointedly.
"Hm. I suppose that was less than convincing."
Harvey grins and nods. Pointedly.
"It's only -- "
"They made fun of you for being so big. I know it. Kids are dumb and screwed-up
little *monsters* sometimes. *Most* of the time. It's part of what made me fall
for you so *fast*, so... God you were just so good, so kind and warm --" Harvey
moans and kisses him again --
Again --
Bruce wraps his arms around him and makes it a better kiss, long and deep, soft
and *warm*, the way he wants, the way they *both* want --
Harvey pulls back --
Harvey moans and kisses him again, pressing closer and touching him, almost
seeming to *measure* him with his roving fingers --
To squeeze him and mark him out and *love* him, always --
Bruce moans and pushes Harvey back against the tile --
Harvey turns his head and *groans* --
"Oh, Harv --"
"Wait, wait --"
"I don't *want* to --"
"You gotta --" Harvey licks his lips and smiles crookedly at him. "You're
perfect."
Bruce shakes his head --
"You're *perfect*, and you're always gonna *be* perfect, because it's not *in*
you to be anything *else*. And -- you have to listen to me about this. Have
to."
"Harv --"
"*Brother*."
Bruce moans. "*Always*. We -- there are times when it seems hopelessly
*bizarre* that I have no memories of you from before Exeter --"
"*Ditto*. And -- and all those kids were jealous and scared, big guy."
"I don't want to scare -- the wrong people --"
"Sometimes you can't help that. Sometimes people are gonna be scared no matter
what. And -- I think the little guy knows that pretty well, actually," Harvey
says, expression turning thoughtful.
"You believe he understands the vagaries of the human fear response?"
"Maybe... maybe not like Dr. Feelgood or anything, but..." Harvey shakes his
head. "He's spent a lot of time scared of a lot of things --"
"So have *I*, Harv --"
"Not like that. Not --" Harvey pulls back enough to stroke Bruce's chest --
Bruce deliberately takes *deep* breaths --
"*God*, yeah, do *that*."
"I'm not -- I'm not entirely unaware --"
"You *know* you work for me. Go with that," Harvey says, and grins crookedly
again. "I want you more every *day*, big guy."
"Oh... brother, *yes* --"
"It's that feeling, isn't it? That sense that you can't really *express* how
you feel about me because --"
"It keeps changing, and growing, and -- and *deepening* --"
"*Yeah*. And -- God, all your *hair* -- I -- I was saying something. Heh."
Harvey leans in again and bites Bruce's lower lip. "I love you."
"I love *you* --"
"You'll never be anything but right for me --"
"*Brother* --"
"*Your* brother --"
"Tell me more about Tim's fear?"
Harvey blinks. "Uh. Okay." He frowns -- and then laughs. "Big guy -- I like
this."
"This?"
"Us. The three of us. Even with the little guy still sleepin' the sleep of the
innocent."
"You don't think he wakes up as early as we do?"
"I don't *know*. But we'll find out. And *he'll* find out how much he's with us
-- anyway. He's scared of you, he's scared of me --"
"Oh -- no --"
"He's scared of *Janet* -- " And Harvey frowns again. "I don't know if he's
scared of Thomas. I *know* he's scared of all the ways Thomas could screw up
Tim's life just by saying the wrong word *to* Janet."
"And -- and Jack Drake?"
Harvey shakes his head. "No clue. Or -- no. *Most* of the time there's nothing
in Tim's eyes, at all, when I bring up his 'father'. Other times... there's a
whole lot of contempt."
Bruce winces. "I feel strongly as though I've been whining too much about
Mother."
"Heh. Well, that's the funny thing, big guy -- I'm willing to bet all *kinds*
of money *and* at least one date between my throat and your dick that Tim feels
the *exact same way*, only in reverse."
Bruce opens his mouth -- closes it. "Hm."
"Yeah."
"But --"
"Think about it."
Bruce does, frowning and pushing Harvey gently into the spray. He washes Harvey
tenderly and thoroughly, letting the back of his mind *fill* with Harvey's soft
moans and sighs --
He --
He *considers* it --
He crouches and kisses the bruises on Harvey's hips --
Sucks them --
"Big guy."
"Hm. Of course. You're saying that we both have a tendency to minimize the pain
we feel."
"Uh, huh."
"And, perhaps, to focus on the pain of those we care for?"
"Nothin' wrong with that -- as far as it goes," and Harvey pushes a hand into
Bruce's hair and tugs.
"I don't feel... I don't *believe* I will ignore my own pain, brother. Not for
this."
"Good. And we won't let Tim ignore his, yeah?"
Bruce nods solemnly. "He must understand -- he has every reason to hurt, and to
-- are you quite sure --"
"We can't go get him, yet."
"I --"
"No."
"Perhaps... for lunch?"
Harvey wags his head from side to side and tugs harder --
Bruce stands --
"He's not in high school, yet, so -- no."
"Hm. It -- hm."
Harvey raises his eyebrows and starts washing him. "What's up?"
"I was about to mention the number of times Mother picked me up for lunch when
I was in middle school. And then I... reconsidered."
Harvey bites his lip, nods --
"Your eyes are so bright when you laugh, brother --"
"I'm not laughing!"
"Brother."
Harvey snickers and leans in, kissing Bruce again before going back to washing
him. "I have no *idea* how the hell she let you get as far away from her as
*Exeter* -- but I'm glad."
"She told me that Jason had told her that my destiny was there, and that my
life and sanity would be vastly endangered if I didn't go."
Harvey blinks. "Oh. Uh. Hunh."
Bruce smiles. "It made perfect sense to me the first time we kissed, brother."
Harvey colors -- "I can't *believe* you can still make me blush."
"I'm very happy I can --"
"Let's shower *faster*."
"As you say," Bruce says, and *helps* wash himself -- though it doesn't seem to
make the process go any faster once Harvey begins moving Bruce's soapy hands
where he wants them --
It's a wonderful shower in every way, and Bruce feels entirely renewed when
they do, finally, turn the water off. They dry themselves thoroughly, dress in
the kind of clothes Harvey calls 'rich boys on the make' and Bruce has always
thought of as simply 'casual' -- though neither of them are wearing denim -
- and head down to the dining room for a light breakfast and the newspapers -
- and the telephone directory.
Harvey makes note of several likely properties in downtown Gotham while he eats
his poached eggs, smoked salmon, and bagels, and Bruce makes note of the more
prosperous-seeming realtors -- specifically the ones which give him no strange
feelings of eagerness whatsoever.
Harvey finishes his breakfast with a large mug of the Kona coffee Bruce had
introduced him to years ago -- always with a fair amount of cream and two
sugars -- and Bruce has another cup of Lady Grey --
And regrets it, because the taste seems to *call* Mother --
No. No, he's being --
She always wakes up at this time --
She's coming closer --
And Harvey hooks his foot around Bruce's, tugging and pressing --
Offering support.
Bruce closes his eyes for a moment, and then nods to him.
Harvey smiles ruefully -- and then gives Mother a *wry* smile. "Morning, Mom.
How are you?"
"I'm *very* well, thank you, Harvey," and she narrows her eyes at *both* of
them --
She *studies* them, and she seems so --
So self-*contained* in her mauve-and-grey pantsuit with her long, white-
streaked hair parted in the middle and flowing down over her shoulders.
She --
"Mother, you look beautiful this morning," Bruce blurts -- and blushes.
She inhales sharply -- and takes the last few steps closer to him, cupping
Bruce's face -- and tapping Bruce's cheekbone. "Thank you, boychik," she says,
and *searches* his eyes *avidly* --
*Darkly* --
Bruce doesn't *flinch* --
Harvey clears his throat. "Got a meeting for the Foundation this morning, Mom?"
Mother smiles, exposing small and even white teeth --
Bruce *shivers* --
Mother *strokes* his cheek -- "As a matter of fact, I do, Harvey," she says,
and never looks away from Bruce's eyes. "You know those *ladies* *always*
prefer me to look... harmless."
Harvey coughs a laugh. "Ah... you got a little ways to go there, Mom. Just
to... let you know."
She blinks --
Narrows her eyes again --
And turns to Harvey at last -- and presses her hip against Bruce's shoulder.
Bruce breathes deep and -- doesn't moan, doesn't --
Chanel no. 22 and woman, sweetness, *Mother* --
"You don't think this color softens me, Harvey...?"
Harvey tilts his chair back and grins, raising his eyebrows. "Oh, you look soft
all right, Mom. Soft enough to cuddle, even --"
"Really."
"Oh, yeah. You just *also* look like you're thinkin' about eatin' somebody
alive," and Harvey tilts his chin down to look at her from under his lashes.
Mother -- colors.
*Harvey* narrows his eyes -- but only for a moment before he shakes himself
like a dog. "Now if you want some tips on how to *really* look harmless --"
"You can help me, Harvey...?"
"Abso*lute*ly. Nobody's scared of me. Right, big guy?"
Tim is -- no. Now isn't the time for that. "Yes, Harv. You're quite soothing to
be around --"
"And I'm *not*, boychik...?"
Bruce takes another deep breath, this time forcing himself to focus on the
powerful scents of coffee and salmon -- "Mother, I often find myself *inflamed*
when you're near."
She colors more deeply, lips parting --
"Now," Harvey says, and *rocks* his chair, "if that's the kind of effect you
*wanna* have on all the ladies-who-lunch --"
Mother *snorts*. "Harvey."
Harvey winks at her and tips his chair back down onto four legs before raising
his hands. "Hey, I don't judge. Eleanor Barrington-Smythe's looking good since
she finally healed up from all that plastic surgery."
Mother... makes a moue. "*How* good."
Harvey shows his teeth... and cups at the air in front of his chest. Unevenly.
"*Harv* --"
"Hey, I think it makes 'em look more *natural*," and he waggles his eyebrows at
Mother --
And Mother snorts and *giggles* --
Oh...
Oh, he's always loved --
And Harvey nudges Bruce's foot with his own. He --
Yes, they have roles to play. It doesn't matter that they had never so much as
*discussed* this --
It doesn't matter that they are *both* aching and hungry in this moment --
Nothing matters but the strength they're building between them. The -- armor.
And so Bruce allows himself a smile only, and -- "*That* sound is harmless,
Mother."
"Oh, is it...?"
"Oh, yeah. Makes you sound like a schoolgirl," and Harvey waggles his eyebrows
again.
Mother hums and crosses her arms beneath her breasts. "Is *that* what you like,
Harvey...?"
"Well... not too young. You get 'em too young and maybe you do more harm than
good, no matter what you *intend*," he says, and meets her eyes steadily.
She lifts her chin slightly, and then turns back to him. "And how do you feel
about young... girls, boychik?"
"I remain entirely unsure about how intimate I wish to become with any female,
Mother, but... I believe with youth in *general* we must show great care."
"Have I..." She trails off and frowns. It's only a *slight* frown... but she's
digging her carefully manicured nails into her own arms and wrinkling her suit.
She --
Harvey nudges Bruce's toe again --
Bruce waits.
And waits --
Bruce sips his *tea* --
"I..." The frown on Mother's face becomes slightly deeper, but only slightly.
"I'm not deaf to the messages you're both *very* gently sending me," she says.
"I'd say it was more of a plea than a message, Mom."
Mother laughs -- a brief explosion of breath followed by a hum. She... glitters
at Harvey. "Have I been so terrible?"
Harvey shakes his head. "I can't actually answer that question, Mom. And -- you
know that."
She frowns again, but this time the frown is vague, absent or distant as if
there's a voice she can't quite hear, or --
Bruce doesn't know.
He --
"Mother --"
She holds up one small hand, stopping him easily, then curls her fingers in
slowly, so --
Bruce wants to kiss them, to -- to squeeze them gently and bite them and feel
them and push them away, *shove* them *away* --
Bruce shivers and *wants* --
She is *Mother*, and that --
Surely that must --
She turns and walks away, leaving --
"Mother..."
She pauses in the archway leading to the hall --
Harvey *shudders* in Bruce's peripheral vision --
She turns, smiling sweetly, brightly, and so beautifully -- "Have a *good* day,
boys!"
And then -- she's gone.
Bruce frowns and -- his hands are shaking again. He sets his teacup down in the
saucer, wincing for the clatter --
And Harvey blows out a breath that seems to *catch* itself on a whine before he
covers his face with his hands. "Jesus, I'm covered in cold sweat over here."
"I. Harv..."
"I'm listening. And sweating. But listening."
"Harv, is she... troubled?"
Harvey -- freezes. And then drops his hands and *looks* at him.
Bruce licks his lips. "I... see."
Harvey nods slowly and covers his face again.
Bruce breathes until he can do so without smelling Chanel no. 22 anywhere save
for within his memory --
Her hip had been so *soft* --
Her mouth --
Bruce's breathing is... unacceptably ragged --
"Big guy --"
"I believe. I believe I would like to leave this place. Now."
"We can make a few phone calls --"
Bruce stands. "We'll use pay phones on the street if necessary, but -- I've
memorized the addresses of four likely realtors --"
"And I've got these townhouses right here," Harvey says, and shoves his small
notebook in his back pocket as he stands. "Let's hit it."
They do, taking Harvey's Lexedes again -- they *will* be picking Tim up.
At noon, they're sitting in the office of Maribel Jenkins, a rotund and
pleasant woman of middle years with a moderately conservative 'afro' and a
complexion which works quite well with her very daring -- and tight -- bright
orange pantsuit.
She is, apparently, the top seller for Pasquale Realty -- the second real
estate agency Bruce had memorized, and the one which had listings for the
highest number of properties on Harvey's list -- and nearly eighty percent of
her smiles have reached her eyes.
Bruce is tentatively certain she is not a demon bent on vengeance, and she has
a very charming gap between her front teeth.
Mother had told him, once, never to comment on such things unless the person
was already your lover. He had been seven. He --
He is not thinking about Mother.
He is thinking about lunch at the pizza and 'sub' restaurant Harvey had first
taken them to when they were fifteen, because it's only eight blocks from
Pasquale, and they can leave the car parked where it is -- at least for the
time being.
Harvey always prefers to stay parked for as long as humanly possible when
forced to use the expensive private garages in downtown Gotham --
And, right now, Harvey is talking to Maribel about the need for their new home
to be customizable. He is using words and phrases like 'home gymnasium' and
'modernization,' and 'immediate move-in' and is generally doing everything
Bruce should be doing *himself* --
How long has Mother *been* troubled?
How had he never *seen* it?
Does she... does she need them? Would it be wrong to --
But Harvey claps his shoulder just then. "The big guy sleeps like the *dead*,
but he's still gonna need a place that can be partitioned off *while* the work
is being done, you know?" And he laughs easily, falsely --
Bruce chuckles on cue. "Yes, quite."
Maribel smiles at them. "Well, boys, I can show you some places which already
*have* home gyms --"
"Not gonna work, Maribel, I'll be honest. We're both fitness *freaks*, and I'll
guarantee that no one person's gonna have all the equipment -- or space *for*
the equipment -- we'll need."
Maribel hums and flutters. "*Well*. If it's like *that*, we'll just have to
find you one of the big old places built before the zoning laws kicked in," and
she -- hoots. Conspiratorially.
Mother would never make that sound --
Harvey squeezes his shoulder very, very firmly -- and Bruce remembers that he's
not thinking about her. That --
That he's *here*, and he's doing something for his *future*, and that he has
brothers, wonderful brothers who wish to love and care for him and for each
other --
("Some promises *have* to be broken.")
Bruce breathes, and forces his shudder to be only internal. He will --
He will talk to Jason about Mother. There is no one who knows her better, no
one who has spent more time with her, with the woman she truly *is* --
Does he know about how troubled she is --
No. No. He will save his questions -- *all* of his questions -- for that
conversation.
For now... he will practice compartmentalization.
He will --
He will smile openly at Maribel, and nod when her monologue on Victorian and
Edwardian urban architecture calls for it --
Would Tim wear a pantsuit? The orange would be terrible for his complexion, but
something in a grey, or even a deep, jewel-toned green...
Surely it would be less offensive than other traditionally feminine clothes?
Many men wear such things -- though they're called 'leisure' suits for men, and
are often quite tasteless, to Bruce's eyes --
Maribel's telephone rings --
"One moment, boys!"
"Sure thing, Maribel," and Harvey turns to give him a searching look --
Bruce smiles ruefully and nods, wishing for a sign for 'I'm all right now' --
But Harvey nods just as if he's seen it. He --
Harvey always sees to the heart of him. Bruce smiles more broadly --
Harvey shakes his head *minutely* --
And Bruce reminds himself to keep his desire to make love to Harvey on every
possible occasion off his face --
"Oh. Ah.... Bruce? It's for you."
For a moment, Bruce's mouth is filled with the dark and *thick* taste of the
Sister's saliva --
"It's your father," Maribel says, and attempts to smile encouragingly. It's not
a very good attempt.
Bruce reaches for the receiver while sharing a look with Harvey --
And Harvey shakes his head and shrugs. This is precisely as odd as it seems.
Bruce brings the receiver to his ear. "Father, what seems to be the
difficulty?"
"'The difficulty'." His father sighs. "Son, we must speak."
"Of course. I'm somewhat tied-up today --"
"I must ask you to meet me for lunch in my office at Wayne Enterprises today,
son."
Bruce frowns. "This... is unlike you, Father."
"Yes, I imagine it must seem that way to you. Still and all, I expect to see
you in no more than an hour. The conversation will hopefully be brief enough
that Harvey can wait for you in the outer office."
Bruce lets his frown grow deeper. "Father, if the conversation is serious
enough that it must happen immediately, then surely we should be having it as a
*family*," Bruce says, and looks to Harvey --
Harvey is frowning, as well --
Maribel is *studiously* pretending not to listen --
"Bruce. I already spent half an hour of my day tracking you down. Please don't
force me to waste any more of my time on irrelevancies."
"*Father* --"
"The conversation we must have is meant for the two of *us*. Who you choose to
share it with *after* that is on your own head. One hour."
Father, Bruce does not say, it did not take me very long to understand why
Mother does not love you. Bruce clears his throat, instead. "As you say,
Father. Goodbye," Bruce says, and hands the receiver back to Maribel, who
stares at it with an avidity which bears far too many reminders before hanging
it up. "I'm afraid I'll have to leave for... an unknown length of time," and
Bruce pulls the frown from his face by main force, smiling at Maribel and
inclining his head. "Perhaps we can continue this tomorrow...?"
"Oh, of *course*, Bruce --"
"Hey, now, let's not get crazy over here," Harvey says, standing and cupping
Bruce's shoulders. "I *know* what we need to look for in a place, yeah?"
"Of course --"
"And Dad *just* wants you -- for the time being."
Bruce narrows his eyes -- and nods.
Harvey smiles wryly. "I'm hearing you, big guy. *Loud and clear*. Take the car.
I'll ride along with Maribel, get some more possibles on the list, and we'll
meet up at Vincenzo's at... two?"
Bruce doesn't think he'll have much of an appetite by then, but -- yes. "All
right. And... perhaps we'll pick up something for Tim to try, as well."
"Now you're talkin'. Get goin', brother. Maribel and I will hold down the
fort," he says, and grins at her. "Right?"
"Sounds good to me, Harvey! I *like* it when my buyers are eager."
"I just bet you do," and he winks at her --
And she hums *speculatively* -- and then turns back to her papers.
Bruce wants to ask Harvey if he's quite all right with being alone with
*another* amorous older woman, but he's laughing quietly and easily --
He is... all right.
And so Bruce will be, too.
The walk to the parking garage takes seven minutes. The drive -- in the precise
opposite direction -- to Wayne Enterprises takes nearly another twenty-two,
thanks to lunch hour traffic. A bicycle messenger leaves what *sounds* like a
terrible scratch on the finish near the trunk, but seeing as how the young
woman was working to avoid being hit by a taxi driver at the time, Bruce can't
truly be upset about it.
He will, hopefully, be able to have it fixed before Harvey notices. He --
There is a very predictable moment when he pulls into the executive parking
garage beneath Wayne tower --
When he parks Harvey's car and steps out into air that smells like car exhaust,
fresh paint, and that indefinable *something* which has always meant Wayne
tower to him --
("Your father's place of business, much like this manor, is at the confluence
of many -- for lack of a better term -- lines of *power*. You are a very open
and sensitive young man, Bruce. I would be *vastly* surprised if you *didn't*
feel something.")
And Jason's smile had a wry *sadness* to it --
A sense of something unsaid, or, perhaps, not *quite* said --
Bruce frowns. He is nearly half an hour early for his appointment with his
father, but he doesn't want to wait. Or, rather, he'd like to wait for a long
time -- possibly *forever* --
He will not. He *cannot*.
He... is underdressed.
The rich blue -- Harvey has always liked him in this color -- button-down;
simple tan chinos; and boat shoes were perfectly acceptable for searching for a
new home. For walking into Wayne Enterprises...
Bruce shakes his head. It will have to do. His father -- never Harvey's, never
*truly*, and Bruce will not allow himself to forget that -- had not left him
enough time to stop back at the manor, and he must have had some idea of how
Bruce would be dressed. Or... had he?
Bruce wears a suit more often than not when Harvey isn't present. His father
wears a suit nearly every day, including during family vacations. His father...
undoubtedly wishes Bruce would pick up the same habit. The same *obsession*
with *correctness* -- no.
No, he will not go to his father angry -- more angry.
He will listen to what the man has to say. He will --
He will listen.
Bruce bends and looks himself over in the driver's side mirror as much as he
can. In this, at least, he is presentable. He's still smooth *enough* from his
shave five and a half hours ago, though he suspects that, in the future, the
hints of shadowing on his cheeks and chin at this time of day will be much more
severe.
They aren't for his father, but Bruce is already significantly more hirsute
than he is --
He'll have to shave before going out at night, unless heavy beards become the
fashion for men again, which frankly seems --
Like something his mind would use to distract him from what must be done. He
takes a deep breath, readjusts the mirror, straightens his clothes minutely,
and begins the walk to his father's suite of offices.
When Jonah Wayne was alive, Bruce's father kept offices on the first floor -
- the CEO's suite built and decorated by Bruce's *great*-grandfather nearly a
century ago. Those offices are empty now, as Bruce's father had chosen the
heights of the tower...
For appearances?
Out of a desire to look down on his employees? To stand on their backs? His
father has always had a keen sense of what was proper for the world, as well as
a sense of what was proper for *him*. The fact that the two things were not
always *quite* the same is one of the reasons why Bruce had *rejected* his
father so early in his childhood.
There is...
Of course, when one is wealthy and powerful, one must work harder to ease the
way for others who are not -- *that* makes perfect sense. But the idea that his
name, his *blood*, marks him out as something inherently greater, inherently
special... or. Not that.
Not quite that. His father has nothing but disdain for the bigoted, and even
for the hopelessly classist. It's only...
It's only that, beyond the 'legacy' -- a legacy, as near as Bruce can tell, of
corporate rapine and ill-advised manipulation of the powers living *under*
Gotham -- which Bruce is expected to uphold, there is something in his father
which demands *submission* from all who come to him, from all who come *before*
him.
When Bruce was a child, he had felt no great need to stand *against* his
father, and so their relationship had been... smooth enough, if never precisely
as warm as Bruce would've liked. Now...
Bruce frowns -- and realizes that he was already frowning, that he was walking
through the halls of Wayne Enterprises all but *scowling* --
He *fixes* that, but he's already on the eighty-eighth floor, and in the domain
of the executive secretaries. All is hushed here -- even the sounds of typing
and telephones ringing -- and, in truth, his milder, friendlier expression can
impress no one but the artwork.
He doesn't even know who he should apologize *to* --
He'll have to do better. He can't simply run *over* people when he's feeling
emotionally troubled. That would be --
That would be the same behavior -- or. Would it? *Has* his father been troubled
in those ways?
How would anyone *know*? And --
It certainly wouldn't excuse his behavior in the past *or* present. He had
*cheated* on Mother, and then made a child with the other woman when he had
told Mother that he didn't want to make a child with *her*, and *then* refused
to treat that child with even the... the *scraps* of emotional solicitude that
he and Harvey had been given. It's *unacceptable*.
It can't possible be correct by *any* worthy definition --
And he's frowning again. The difference is that he's frowning *at* Elspeth, who
has been his father's primary secretary for fifteen years. She --
"Bruce...? Are you all right?"
She is a kind, efficient woman in her *early* forties.
She has long, dark hair; large, light eyes; and a distinctly petite frame. She
looks like *neither* Mother nor Janet to *him* -- Elspeth's features have, in
general, despite her Scottish name, far more in common with the southern
Mediterranean than with anywhere else, but...
"Oh, you don't have a *cold*, do you, Bruce? Those summer colds are the
*worst*," she says, and opens her top left drawer to reveal the truly
impressive collection of vitamins and other, less scientifically *useful*
nostrums that not even his father had been able to turn her against.
Bruce smiles ruefully -- and quickly. "No, Elspeth, I'm all right, truly,"
Bruce says, and pushes at the air in what he hopes is a soothing gesture.
She frowns suspiciously --
"I was... thinking of lunch. And how much of it I have not yet eaten," and
Bruce pats his stomach and lets his smile be somewhat crooked.
"Oh! Oh, you can't do *that*," she says, and opens her top *right* drawer and
pulls out half of a *sandwich*.
"Elspeth --"
"Now, Bruce, you're still a growing boy! I *know*! My *own* boys are still
growing and they're twenty-three and twenty-one!"
Elspeth's 'boys' are six feet, eight inches tall and six feet, ten inches tall
respectively. Elspeth's husband is a former professional basketball player who
has always been, according to Elspeth herself, somewhat nonplussed by Elspeth's
decision to continue working for Thomas Wayne...
("But honestly, Bruce, your father *needs* me!")
Bruce has wondered, more than once, if Elspeth believes *all* men are
helpless... but not more often than he has *felt* helpless around her. The
sandwich seems to have turkey, onions, tomatoes, romaine, mayonnaise, pepper,
and, curiously, mushrooms. It smells wonderful.
She is -- brandishing it. "Take it!"
"I --"
"*I* know your father's a *grumpus* today, Bruce. You shouldn't face that on an
empty stomach!" And her whisper would carry to any *number* of people... if his
father *allowed* that many people to work up here. As it is, it's merely a
mother's stage whisper, and --
"Perhaps a bite."
She beams at him glowingly. "Make sure it's a big bite, now!"
"I can't take your food, Elspeth --"
"Nonsense! I forgot that today is roast beef day in the cafeteria, and I
*always* like to fill up on that."
He has, personally, seen her eat eight slices of it at a time -- he nods, takes
the sandwich, and bites generously. It's just as delicious as he thought it
would be -- the turkey was clearly roasted recently, and with a combination of
herbs he'd like to ask her about at a time when he isn't --
"*There* you are," his father says, backlit and looming in the doorway of his
office. "Bruce, if you're done stealing food from my employees, will you kindly
*join* me?"
Bruce, with his mouth full, cannot point out that he is *still* twenty minutes
early for their appointment.
Nor can he point out that his father is being unconscionably *rude* --
He chews evenly and steadily -- the way his father had *taught* him -- but the
sandwich is tasteless in his mouth now. It --
He hands the uneaten portion back to Elspeth, who is blushing and giving him a
*worried* look --
He nods at her, uses his handkerchief to dab at the corners of his mouth,
refolds it --
His father makes an impatient *sound* --
Bruce does not narrow his eyes. He tucks the handkerchief away, nods to Elspeth
once more, and walks into his father's office.
The light is almost blinding, at first -- his father believes in the health
benefits of working by natural light as much as is possible -- and so Bruce
gives himself a moment to adjust --
His father closes the door behind him. "Your mother spoke to me this morning."
In other families, Bruce thinks, those words would not be so strange, so
*ominous* -- "Yes, Father?"
His father narrows his eyes at him. "I have no great objections to you making a
home in Gotham proper," he says.
"Your expression and tone belie that, Father," Bruce says, and straightens his
posture minutely.
"My expression --" His father turns toward the windows and breathes almost
raggedly for a moment -- "Perhaps I should begin with those things which I *do*
object to."
Bruce narrows his own eyes -- no. "Perhaps you should."
His father shudders -- stops and looks at him *darkly*. "Did you ever plan to
inform me about your adventures outside this *dimension*, Bruce?"
That -- Bruce blinks. He truly hadn't --
"I believe I will take that as a 'no'. Perhaps you'd care to tell me *why*?"
"I..."
"Any reason at *all* would, at the very least, give me something to *work*
with, Bruce."
Bruce inhales -- but does not allow himself to rear back. "You never wish to
know anything -- at all -- about that which intersects with Mother's
relationship with Jason Blood."
His father's expression darkens *dramatically* --
"Father, if your blood pressure --"
"My *blood* pressure -- is only somewhat elevated, and that is wholly due to
emotion."
"We both know that such sensations can be deceptive --"
"I. *Checked*, Bruce."
"As you say --"
"*How* did your being kidnapped by a *demon* --" His father inhales sharply,
exhales *slowly*, and then begins evening his breathing with a somewhat
ruthless efficiency.
Tim can do that more skillfully --
Bruce *waits* -- no. No. "Mother used Jason's power --"
His father holds up a hand. Imperiously.
It --
It should not make Bruce so *angry*. His father was clearly worried about him,
and that is his right *as* a father. The fact that this is entirely unfamiliar
--
The fact that this feels *wrong* --
Surely it has more to do with the fact that Bruce spent far less time in
physical danger than other, less bookish children than it does with anything
else? That must --
"Bruce."
"I am listening, Father."
"What you are telling me is that you were kidnapped because of some sort of
*game* your mother had played with her lover --"
"No, Father. It wasn't like that."
His father raises an eyebrow. "Bruce. I understand your -- natural, as far as
it goes -- inclination to defend your mother --"
"Forgive me for interrupting, Father, but I believe you are about to come to a
grave misunderstanding."
There is --
There is something so *dark* in his eyes --
But it's only there for a moment, and so Bruce can only wonder if he is
imagining things. He shakes his head. "Father, I do not claim to know all -- or
even most -- of what Mother and Jason do to amuse themselves --"
"I *strongly* suspect you know more than could *ever* be *correct*."
Bruce frowns and --
("You can ask me *anything*, boychik..."
"Oh, Mother, thank you! I --"
"*But*... I might direct *some* of your questions to Jason."
"Because it would be more correct?")
And she had laughed *cruelly*, flashing her even white teeth and rolling over
onto her stomach on the bed. She had reached down to tap the bridge of his nose
--
("Because some things are too *tempting*, boychik.")
And -- he hadn't asked.
He hadn't --
He had been *thirteen*, and he'd wanted to *know* -- he remembers this so
*clearly* --
But he also hadn't wanted to know anything of the kind. He never --
Always --
Bruce *frowns* --
"Well, Bruce? What *misunderstanding* --"
"Father... Mother's motives are not always --"
"Low? Dark? Sexual?"
Bruce shudders and --
And he doesn't *hug* himself, but --
"I wonder. I wonder *very* much what *prompted* her to call me this morning,
Bruce," his father says, and begins to -- not pace. *Stalk*. He pauses by his
desk, and the smile on his face --
It's not a *smile*, at all. It's a baring of *teeth*. It's --
"It's a fascinating question -- to me, anyway. What could *possibly* make
Martha -- *your* mother -- breach the wall she had so carefully and
*thoroughly* built between us? It could, of course, simply be her... oh, I
suppose we *could* just call it *capriciousness* --"
"Father --"
"-- but we know better than that, don't we, Bruce? You're not a child anymore.
Surely, you must have *noticed* --"
"Don't -- don't."
His father raises an eyebrow -- and *then* looks at him. Looks *down* on him
for all that Bruce is a full two inches taller than he is now -- "Bruce."
"That -- it isn't relevant."
"Really? Then you're saying something *else* caused her to *betray* your
secrets, son? Because let's be frank -- that's *precisely* what she did."
"She --"
"A *vigilante*, Bruce? *That's* why you aren't attending Princeton right now?
Or *Yale*. Where you could *be* with your -- brother," and his father's
expression darkens again --
And Bruce feels something *settle* within himself, something -- "Did you have
something you wished to say about *that*, Father?"
"About your choosing to devote your life to becoming a costumed *criminal* --"
"No," Bruce says, and -- does not clench his fists. "Not that."
His father blinks and stares at him in consternation -- and then his mustache
twitches -- and then he laughs. "Oh, Bruce. Did you plan to make a stand for
incest today?" He waves a dismissive hand. "I imagine you *would* like to make
this conversation about your entirely positive relationship with your brother,
as it speaks *reasonably* well for both of you, despite the fact that it would
*ruin* this family if you were any less discreet than you are --"
"He is my love --"
"And you, undoubtedly, are his. Yes, yes. It will surprise you not at *all* to
know that I *sincerely* hope that Harvey will hurry up and fall in love with a
*woman* -- it *will* happen, Bruce, so begin preparing yourself now -- so that
you can *both* begin acting like the people you *should* be --"
"There is a *nobility* in love which rises *above* --"
"Petty concerns like publicity and stock options? Perhaps. Certainly, the
*poets* your mother enjoys so much would have it so. But you're *presumably*
going to want to have the *money* to pay for the home you'll be sharing with
your brother --"
"Brothers, Father. Plural."
The darkness takes his father's gaze again --
He is *tense* --
And Bruce is unsurprised by that. He nods. "You were correct, Father. We do
have much to speak about."
"Timothy Drake --"
"He much prefers 'Tim.'"
"*Timothy* Drake is *not* your brother, Bruce."
Bruce raises an eyebrow. And waits.
His father holds his gaze steadily, evenly --
*Shamelessly* --
Bruce takes a deep breath and nods again. "You have been incorrect, Father --"
His father raises a hand. "We were speaking of your mother."
"We've been speaking of any number of things --"
"What did you do that made her decide to betray you, Bruce. Tell me."
Bruce frowns. Slightly. "Was that an *order*, Father?"
His father... looks at him.
Bruce shakes his head. "I am fully aware that nineteen years must seem almost
painfully young to you, Father, but I will not be treated like a child."
His father breathes deeply --
*Flushes* again --
"Tell me about your mother. *Please*."
Bruce raises an eyebrow -- but that had satisfied the *letter* of his request.
He nods. "You remember the Harris Wellington... incident?"
His father blinks. "How... no, go on. I remember very well what happened."
"There was a demon involved named Nemen -- or the Brother. Because he didn't
stop Mother from freeing Wellington's captives, the curse Wellington placed on
him was causing him to die slowly and in great pain. Mother killed him
quickly."
His father's jaw... works.
"Are you looking for another way to blame her, Father?"
"One of the things your taxes will pay for -- when you have an income of your
own, that is -- is the Gotham City police force, Bruce --"
"*Father*, they had done *nothing*! For *years*!"
His father turns away. "She might have alerted the media --"
"Did you care for any of the victims yourself, Father --"
"*Yes*," he says -- and that was almost a snarl.
"Then you *know*. There was no more time to be *wasted*!"
His father covers his face for a moment -- then laughs and drags his hand down
again. "It is the prerogative of the teenager to have no conception of his
mortality. Certainly, *I* didn't."
"You -- were worried about me."
"*Bruce*. There was a battle to the death in my *house* with a *demon* over the
life of my only -- "
"*Father*."
He inhales sharply. "Forgive me. I... misspoke."
Bruce nods once, but -- "I'm afraid I don't believe that, Father."
"Then we must add it to the *list* of things -- why did she betray you?"
"No, Father."
"'No'?"
Bruce nods. "That is a matter between Mother, Harv and myself --"
"*Harvey* is involved?"
Bruce doesn't *frown*, but -- "He is a part of this family."
"And I am not?"
Bruce... doesn't speak.
His father's jaw works once more -- and he turns to walk to his chair. He
doesn't sit, though. He stands facing the window with his left hand resting -
- no. He is *squeezing* the back of the chair with his left hand, and he is
facing the windows.
He is... tense, once more. In truth, he had never relaxed -- and.
And Bruce must endeavor to be fair, at the very least. "I would never have
chosen to worry you --"
"I wonder, then, just what sort of *vigilante* you will choose to *be*, son,"
but he doesn't turn around. He --
"A *trained* one," Bruce says, and -- he manages to keep *most* of the growl
out of his voice --
"Ah, so you *will* be furthering your education...?"
"Yes, as a matter of --"
"What schools, Bruce? *Where* will you choose to study? Who will you pay to
teach you the 'skills' you must learn for this... endeavor?"
"You need not be so dismissive --"
"Answer. The question."
"And I will not respond to your orders."
His father squeezes the chair *harder* --
Bruce raises an eyebrow -- no. No.
"Please answer the question, Bruce."
"As you say. I've chosen dojos where I can learn the beginnings of what I must
learn about karate and aikido. Additionally, Tim has given me the name of a
gymnasium where I am quite confident that I will be able to learn a great deal
about more Western styles of fighting."
"Timothy -- how does he -- no. Go on. *Please*."
"That was more of a *demand* -- but all right. I have been conditioning my body
extensively to prepare for this, as well as for the other things I must learn.
I have given a large amount of thought to places I can go to learn what I need
to know about acrobatics --"
"Acro--" And he finally turns around to glare at him, gripping the chair with
*both* hands. "Bruce, you're larger than *I* am!"
"Very true, Father, but, time and again, it has become clear that the most
successful vigilantes are the ones with wide and varied skill-sets. And...
there is more."
He... gestures Bruce to continue. Peremptorily, but still.
"I have been studying methods of detection, criminal psychology, photography --
"
His father -- growls.
"Father."
"Why. Tell me -- *kindly* tell me *why*, Bruce."
("Uh... you want to... seriously?"
"More... more than anything -- no, that isn't true."
"Okay? You want something else more than that, big guy?")
And Bruce had smiled ruefully and reached for Harvey's strong and beautiful
hand. They had only begun making love two weeks before, and every moment like
that one was one of fear and *wonder* --
Just as every moment when Harvey smiled and *clasped* Bruce's hand --
("Go on, you can tell me. I *want* you to tell me.")
-- had been a greater wonder. Something --
Something beyond --
("There is nothing, Harv. There is -- I want nothing else."
"I -- oh. I mean -- at all?"
"Yes."
"Not -- I mean, I wanna be a lawyer more than *anything*, but there's still a
little part of me that wants to walk on the moon like every *other* kid wanted
to five years ago, you know?"
"I... you wanted to be an astronaut?"
"Uh. Yeah? You *didn't*?"
"No, Harv. Only... only a vigilante. A hero."
"Well... wow. Okay. Why?")
And -- his father is staring at him with nothing resembling patience, nothing
resembling the welcome and acceptance he had always received from Harvey, from
Mother --
From Jason --
From *Tim* -- if he had been wise enough to accept it. But that...
The world is not always a welcoming place. The world is not always kind, or
loving, or accepting. The world --
"You don't *have* a reason, do you."
Bruce closes his eyes -- for a moment -- and smiles. "That isn't it, Father."
"Then what is it?"
"The simple realization that you will dislike my reasoning. I have never wanted
to make you unhappy."
"That's very kind of you, son, but, ultimately, irrelevant."
Bruce inclines his head. "Yes, a little thought would have allowed me to
realize that you would say something like that --"
"We must always strive to --"
"'Use the intellect with which we were provided.' Yes, Father, I know. You have
my apologies for allowing my emotions to get the better of me for a moment,
though I'm quite sure you'll find them as -- ultimately -- irrelevant as
everything else."
His father rears back -- slightly. The dark thing seems to *flutter* behind his
eyes, and there's a part of Bruce which only wants to respond *physically* --
No. That can't possibly be --
Bruce shakes his head once. "It's rather simple, Father: One, there are any
number of criminals -- human and otherwise -- who the legal system, as it
stands now, is ill-equipped to handle without the extra-legal help of
vigilantes --"
"Of which there are already --"
"Please allow me to finish, Father."
Narrowed eyes --
A *long* pause --
A moment -- stretched and somewhat *impossible* -- in which Bruce is helplessly
aware of the *physical* distance between them. Five paces seems simultaneously
ludicrously far for two people who are *related* to each other and far too
*close*. Seems --
Bruce can't imagine getting any *closer* --
*Ever* --
And the breath his father takes is almost *ragged* -- "Continue. Please."
"Very well. One, the vigilantes are necessary already. Two, there are more
superpowered -- or simply powerfully armed and armored -- criminals every day -
-"
"Bruce -- no. Please. Continue."
"Three, the Justice Society -- and the few unaffiliated vigilantes like Jason
Blood -- while powerful and effective, are, to some extent, limited. Vigilantes
like Hour-Man, Wildcat, and Black Canary -- and possibly others, I have not
studied them in as much depth or with as much *success* as Tim has -- are
growing older. There will come a time when they are *too* old for the
lifestyle... assuming it does not simply kill them."
His father narrows his eyes again -- but gestures for Bruce to continue.
"Four, the earliest lesson I remember you teaching me -- one of my earliest
memories full *stop* -- was that each of us must struggle and strive to achieve
everything we *can* achieve -- *wait*, Father. Please."
His father *grips* the chair -- but his head is tilted in just the right way
that the sunlight throws a glare over the lenses of his glasses. "Go on."
Bruce nods. "I have the physical, intellectual, emotional, and, thanks to you
and Mother, the *economic* resources to be a truly effective vigilante, and
thus live up to the spirit of that lesson -- which is something I have wanted
to do since I was two years old."
"Are you blaming me for this, Bruce?"
"No, Father. I am thanking you. But I am also not yet finished."
"Then by all means, continue."
"As you say. Five is the reason you will dislike the most, but I'm afraid that
it is the reason which is closest to my heart --"
"Your mother approves of it."
Bruce blinks. "That has nothing to do with it, Father. We have, in fact, never
discussed it."
His father frowns in confusion --
And Bruce realizes that his father doesn't know -- has never known -- how
*much* information Mother is privy to -- or how. "Father --"
"*Blood* told her."
"That was my assumption --"
"Has that... *individual* encouraged you?"
This time, Bruce can't stop himself from raising an eyebrow. "You sound as if
you're asking if he's *molested* me, Father --"
"*Has* he?"
"No. And I would think that, if you truly considered that a possibility, you
would have spent more *time* with me."
"Is *that* the reason, Bruce? Revenge? Post-adolescent rebellion? You were
always a bit slow in terms of childhood phases --"
"No, Father. If you give me a chance, I will *tell* you the reason."
His father breathes raggedly again, *rapidly* --
His knuckles are *white* on the chair --
And then they are not, and his breathing is *close* to normal once more. "You
have my apologies for that loss of control. Perhaps you can understand why I
would be less than sanguine about my son choosing an *illegal* and *life-
threatening* vocation."
"Father... I have come to believe that those are not your reasons for
objecting. Or, if they are, that they are not your *primary* reasons."
His father smiles -- coldly. "I imagine you don't. But go on, Bruce. We can
touch on all of that... later."
They hold each other's gazes for a long, painful moment that leaves Bruce
feeling as though he has laid himself out over broken *glass* -- no. He will
not be excessively dramatic. "I want it, Father. It is the only thing I have
ever wanted for my adulthood. As a child, I would tell myself that such things
were for larger-than-life fictional characters and physical paragons I would
never be able to approach. As I grew older and the Justice Society gained more
members -- and the number of independently-operating vigilantes grew larger -
- it became more difficult to scoff at myself. I assure you that I did try,
however.
"Additionally, I threw myself into my studies -- everything I was asked to
learn for school and everything that seemed even remotely interesting. Sooner
or later -- often later, because, yes, I *can* be quite slow about some things,
Father -- everything I found interesting proved to have some connection to
vigilantism. Every attempt to guide myself away from my dreams -- dreams which
grew tantalizingly closer with every further inch of height, or milestone of
strength or speed -- wound up guiding me closer, instead. Eventually, I
surrendered to the inevitable. I..." Bruce laughs quietly and shakes his head.
"You have never done anything so crass as to *sneer* at someone else, Father,
but... you've never had to. 'Presence is not everything, but it can be *many*
things.' Yes?"
His father only nods.
Bruce laughs again. "I used to wonder -- extensively -- how I would feel about
vigilantism had I had anyone to speak with about it -- and no, I am still not
blaming you. I might have spoken to Mother, after all. I told Harvey about it
not long after we began making love, having realized that there was nothing I
did not wish to trust him with. This was not long before --"
His father holds up a hand. "I do not need... those details."
"As you say, Father. I told Harvey. I knew, by then, that his practicality, his
earthy *sanity*, was rock which could be built upon. I knew that he would try -
- with all of himself -- to talk me out of it."
"But you were wrong."
Bruce frowns. "Do you truly know him so ill, Father? Of course he tried to talk
me out of it. He tried for our entire high school career -- and somewhat
beyond. The only thing which stopped him was the beginning of my focused
conditioning."
His father is... silent for that.
Bruce nods again. "I didn't think this would need to be said, but... I have
every intention of doing my duty to both the company and the Foundation. I will
need to travel outside the country for a time, but I will be returning
regularly, and my calculations suggest that the length of time required will
not be especially different from that which would be required by university and
graduate school. I have, as you know, already educated myself extensively about
the day-to-day requirements of running --"
"I forbid you to do this."
"Father --"
"I -- I have forbidden you nothing over the years, Bruce. Not association with
your clinically mad mother and her shameless perverse -- and *possessed* -
- lover, not your highly catholic studies, and not your *devotion* to *incest*
--"
"But you would forbid me this," Bruce says, and nods thoughtfully. "Shall I say
what we both know I'm thinking, Father?"
His father's knuckles are white again. They --
"Shall I speak about the size of the Kane fortune... and the amount of it which
is *already* in my name?"
"Your mother could take it away in a fit of *pique*! *All* you need do is upset
her as much as you did this *morning*!"
"Father. I need only say that *you* wish me not to do this."
His father does not growl again, but it seems as though he *wishes* to --
"Father, I do not wish to engage in -- in *gamesmanship* with you. We've never
*had* a substantive emotional conversation before. We can -- please, let us
take this opportunity to --"
"Bruce. Please take a moment to look at this from my perspective."
"Your perspective has always been... cold."
"There are uses for such things. Even for -- vigilantes."
Bruce swallows and nods, but -- "There is a fundamental problem with this
thought exercise, Father."
His father pinches the bridge of his nose, turning away -- "Please tell me what
it is, son."
"I do not know you. I do not..." Bruce shakes his head. "I remember every
lesson you ever taught me, every -- every *aphorism*. I know precisely what you
believe to be correct in terms of the behavior of both physicians and upper-
tier executives. I know what foods you enjoy, what fashions you prefer, and I
even have a *faint* idea of what sort of music you approve of, because I
remember you playing Mozart while teaching me the rudiments of mathematics when
I was two. Was I more agreeable then, Father? I *enjoyed* our times together --
"
"Your mother... had not claimed you."
"I... what?"
His father shakes his head. Once. "You're saying that you do not know me well
enough to look at this matter from my perspective."
"Yes. But --"
"Your mother," he says, turning around again and *sitting* in the chair,
"allowed me far more time with you before you were... personable." He waves a
hand. "Before your personality began to develop in notable ways. She would keep
you with her for your feeding times, of course -- and far beyond -- but she
allowed me to teach you when she had her meetings, or when she wished to be
alone with Blood."
Bruce frowns. "And then she... stopped?"
His father smiles -- at his desk blotter. "Do you not remember telling me you
preferred spending time with her?"
"I -- but. Father, I was *three*. I *also* preferred eating cake for
breakfast."
His father's smile -- slips.
And Bruce feels something inside him move, something shift and turn and *yaw* -
-
Something --
Something he doesn't quite *understand*, but. It *towers* within him. It has
its own gravitational *pull*.
And it stinks of regret. "Father..."
His father -- shudders. And continues to -- no. His hands are shaking. His --
He folds them together. He --
There's a vein *throbbing* in his forehead --
"Father.... I think... I think we've done this badly *wrong*."
His father inhales sharply and *clutches* his hands together. "You. You don't
know me."
"Please. I... perhaps we could *fix* that --"
"What. Would you like to know," he says, and -- he's still staring at his
blotter.
Bruce would like, very much, for his father to *look* at him, for his father to
meet his eyes so they can --
Perhaps... it would be too much to ask in this moment.
Bruce takes his own deep breath. He -- "There is something... there is a
question I have always... no. It would be a lie to say that I have always
wanted to ask this question. The truth is that the question has... *lurked* in
the back of my mind for years. Perhaps... perhaps I mean that it has 'festered'
there --"
"Janet."
Bruce swallows. "Yes."
His father nods and -- continues to stare at his blotter. "I... must ask you to
be more specific. Because I do not know *you*, either."
"As you say, Father. She is entirely aesthetically pleasing, of course -- if
not quite so beautiful as Mother. She is intelligent, and driven, and
successful. However, she is also habitually unkind, *obviously* mercenary in
terms of every relationship of hers that I have observed, dishonest, and, as I
have recently learned, a source of near-constant fear and approbation to her
only child. *Your* --"
"Timothy Drake is *Jackson* Drake's son --"
"*Father*. What do you gain by this dishonesty? This -- this *charade*? If ever
I *doubted* Tim's parentage, that doubt was *erased* by the fact that the demon
who *kidnapped* me *tasted* our relationship in Tim's spilled blood!"
Another pause --
His father's hands are *clamped* together --
"*Please*, Father!"
"I will not discuss this with you, Bruce."
This -- he can't keep his hands from clenching into fists --
He can't keep himself from glaring *incredulously* --
"What," his father says, *calmly*, "would you like to know about Janet?"
For a moment, Bruce can understand -- *clearly* -- the concept of 'seeing red.'
But --
The moment passes, leaving only guilty exhaustion in its wake, when Bruce
remembers his own behavior toward Tim over the years. His own *failures*. It --
"We have both been incorrect, Father," Bruce says *quietly* --
And he knows it's the tone more than the words which makes his father shudder
again, makes him look almost *panicked* --
"Yes, please talk to me about --"
"Ask. About. Janet."
"Father--"
"Or let us end this conversation."
Bruce rears back, shaking his head --
But his father is looking at him steadily now, or -- no. He's using the light
from the windows to throw glare on his lenses --
His knuckles are still *white* --
"I. I would like to *understand* you, Father."
"Then you must ask questions --"
"But only those you approve of?"
His father takes a slow, deep breath -- and then smiles gently. "The rules of
proper conversation still apply, Bruce. Whether or not we wish them to."
Bruce -- shakes his head --
"Bruce --"
"Why." Bruce swallows *bile* -- "Why did you choose her over Mother." He knows
-- better than he's *ever* known -- that it isn't the correct question.
And his *father* knows that it isn't the correct question --
That it's *irrelevant* --
But he only smiles more gently and shakes his head. "It wasn't a question of
that, Bruce. It was *never* a question of that. I met Janet just after you were
born, and the attraction was... well. You have found many ways to tell me,
today, that you are old enough to understand such things."
"It was a question of lust."
"Not purely so. While I am a human male, and, twenty years ago, was far more
subject to hormonal *tides* than I am now, I was still a responsible *enough*
adult. My relationship with Janet Drake -- Janet Evans, then -- would not have
begun were she not brilliant, amusing, and entirely fascinating on emotional
levels, as well."
Bruce -- swallows again. "You... fell for her."
His father narrows his eyes, tilting his head *slightly*...
"You would not put the matter that way."
"I... say, instead, that I knew from very early on in our acquaintance that I
wished to have her in my life for an extended period of time. She is *not* the
perfect human being... but surely you are *also* old enough to know that such a
creature does not exist...?" And his father's mustache twitches slightly with a
smile he is not allowing fully onto his face.
"Yes, Father. I am aware. Just the same --"
"Just the same, you find her flaws more... problematic than your mother's.
Yes?"
("Oh, boychik, promise me! *Promise me*!")
Bruce frowns and turns aside --
And his father inhales sharply. "Or do you? Son, if you were to tell me what
happened --"
"You would have a weapon to use against her," Bruce says, to the carpet -- no.
He looks up and meets his father's gaze. It's possible now that he has leaned
in enough that the glare is no longer shielding his eyes. "You -- the prospect
of that makes you honestly eager."
His father frowns and leans back slightly. "I would not say --"
"No, I imagine you would not," Bruce says, straightening his posture.
"Bruce."
"Father. Will you advise Janet to abort her current pregnancy?"
A darkness -- and his father leans back and uses the glare once more. "She is
not as young as she once was, and, now that abortion is legal throughout the
country, she can have the procedure without leaving the state. I believe it
would be, by far, the most reasonable solution."
"Even though the child... is not yours."
"I have one biological child, Bruce, and he is you."
Bruce -- does not grind his teeth. "You... don't feel that it would be
overstepping your place?"
His father sighs. "It isn't the most appropriate arrangement, but I have been
Janet's physician of choice since nineteen-sixty, Bruce. It is, in fact, my
place."
Bruce shakes his head. "How..."
"Yes?"
Bruce frowns and shakes his head more *firmly* -- he stops. He considers. "Is
it..."
"I'm listening, Bruce," his father says, and his *tone* is entirely reasonable
--
But Bruce knows him -- somewhat -- better now. "I cannot help but wonder if
it's a question of control, Father."
His father raises an eyebrow. "Control has always been very important to me,
son. Leslie has told me, more than once, that she considers it to be my
greatest weakness," he says, and -- laughs.
Bruce nods slowly. "Would you choose the *appearance* of control over... over
something more honest?"
His father *flexes* his fingers. "It would depend on the subject in question,
Bruce. There are times when appearances trump -- *must* trump -- everything
else... and I see that this displeases you," he says, and laughs softly again.
"You may find that your idealism, while commendable --"
"Will prove dangerous. Yes, Father, I am... aware of this."
"Are you?"
Bruce pulls his hands behind his back to hide their clenching, to hide the
physical realities of the new knowledge he's building, the new *feeling* -
- "Yes, Father. There will not always be room for high ideals on the street.
However... I find myself unsure about something."
"If I can help, I will. Though my objections remain."
Bruce inclines his head, and shutters his expression the way he's seen Mother
do so many times --
The way Harvey does in *front* of Mother --
The way *he* does at the parties --
Bruce believes he can *feel* his father narrowing his eyes, but --
But. "Father... I believe you have grown accustomed to the trappings of
control."
Another laugh. "These things *happen*, Bruce."
"I believe that this is true even beyond Wayne Enterprises and your practice --
"
"It's certainly not true for my *family*."
"This angers you."
His father raises an eyebrow. "I am only human, Bruce."
"I wonder... I cannot help but wonder where your anger is directed, Father."
His father *lowers* his eyebrow, and for a moment there is no expression on his
face whatsoever.
So be it. "I cannot help but wonder if your need for control expresses itself
in ways --"
"Which could be construed as 'inappropriate', Bruce...?"
("And let's just say your father's *tastes* weren't always to my liking,
boychik...")
"Perhaps, Father. But such things, I have learned, can have their place --"
"So they can --"
"-- when offered with love and respect."
This time, it isn't a smile which causes his father's mustache to twitch. It -
- Bruce knows that.
He clenches his hands into fists behind his back. "I also cannot help but
wonder if your attraction to Janet isn't based on the idea that it is... meet
to take your... frustrations --"
"Stop. Right there."
Bruce does. And raises an eyebrow.
His father laughs, but it --
It's so *dark --
"Bruce. She had some of the same questions. Once."
"Only once?"
His father narrows his eyes -- but only for a moment. "Are you questioning my
sexuality or my capacity for care?"
"I believe you know the answer to that question, Father."
"I see," his father says, and nothing else. The silence stretches between them,
broken only by the tick of the clock and the sounds of their breathing.
They are both working very, very hard to breathe evenly.
They are both failing, to a certain extent.
And, after a long moment, his father sighs. "Which would you prefer, Bruce?
That I would care honestly and deeply for a woman you -- clearly -- loathe? Or
that I would use such a woman in ways that pleasured us both for the sake of my
emotional equilibrium?"
"The former, Father. It is, by far, the more correct choice."
His father spreads his hands. "Then you are in luck --"
"I'm afraid I can't believe that."
His father blinks. Once.
Bruce continues meeting his eyes.
"Bruce... are you asking me to *prove* my feelings for her? How on earth would
I do that?"
"It would be a fair beginning --"
"Timothy Drake. Is not. My son."
Bruce -- closes his eyes. He knows how the next conversational gambit will end,
given what has come before.
He knows how it *must* end.
He -- he must see it through. "And the current pregnancy is no responsibility
of yours."
"Correct."
"Mother knows about Jackson Drake's vasectomy, Father."
"And she told --" He cuts himself off and shakes his head once. "As you should
know, that procedure is notorious for its tendency to reverse itself."
"I am aware of this, Father," Bruce says, and thinks of Harvey's rueful smile -
-
Harvey's care --
Harvey's *protection* of him... "*Mother* is aware of the fact that Janet
forces Jackson Drake to have the status of his vasectomy checked every three
months, Father."
And his father... folds his hands together again. Uses the *glare* again. He --
A part of Bruce is only begging, *pleading* with his father not to say --
"My relationship with Janet is what a certain sub-section of the youth of today
would call an 'open' one, Bruce. Are you familiar with that term?"
Oh, Father... "Yes, I am."
"Certainly, you have never seemed to grow desperately morose when Harvey has
chosen to spend his time with a woman."
"No, Father. Are you..." He can't. He --
"Yes, Bruce?"
Bruce clenches his own hands together. "Are you saying you are not sure who
Tim's father is. And -- who the father of the current embryo is."
His father looks at him. Only -- only *looks* at him --
Bruce *knows* the plea is in his *eyes* --
"We live in the *twentieth* century, Bruce. If a woman wishes to make a family
with someone with whom she is not otherwise involved? That is *her*
prerogative."
"You are incorrect, Father."
"Come now, Bruce, now is not the time for hidebound --"
"Not -- your politics, Father," Bruce says, wincing and -- no. No. "Was there
anything else you wished to discuss with me?"
For a moment -- *just* a moment -- the panic returns to Thomas' expression, and
Bruce feels something like hope, something --
Something like a *chance* that he will try to reach out to him, to -- to bridge
the *gap* between them --
But then his father's expression closes, and there is nothing -- "Do you have
any intention of listening to reason about your... choices?"
"Not to the sort of reason you could approve of, I'm afraid."
"You are aware that, should your identity become compromised, *all* of your
loved ones will be endangered?"
"Yes, Father, I am. It will not be compromised."
"You are a public figure, Bruce --"
"And I will be more of one as time passes. I am aware of this, Father. I have
already begun researching steps which can be taken to separate my future
vigilante identity from my civilian identity."
His father takes a shuddering breath. A *pained* breath.
There is a part of Bruce which only wants to *ease*, to -- to somehow *erase* -
-
"It is a strange and terrible thing to have no control whatsoever over one's
family, even when one's family insists upon embarking on paths which can only
be considered wildly dangerous and actively mad," his father says, quiet and
low.
"Every family is made up of individual people, Father, with individual needs
and --"
"Drives, Bruce...? Yes, I am aware of that," his father says, unclenching his
hands and waving the left dismissively. "I was raised to believe that the
worthiest individuals in a given family yoked themselves to the family's
purpose for the greater good *of* the family."
"I have already stated --"
"That you will 'do your duty,' yes. I do wonder what that will mean when you're
too obviously bruised to chair a board meeting --"
"Even executives occasionally have ski accidents and the like, Father."
His father laughs somewhat painfully. "Bruce. One of your better qualities has
*always* been the fact that you're a remarkably *poor* liar --"
Bruce raises a hand.
His father blinks. "Yes?"
Bruce looks down for a moment, gathers himself, looks up, and smiles gently.
Openly. "I do not respect you less after this conversation, Father," he says,
and smiles more broadly.
His father flushes hard -- and shudders. "I see. I believe this conversation is
over."
"Yes, I believe you are correct, Father," Bruce says, dropping the smile and
turning to go. He pauses before opening the door. "But I will be spending more
time with *both* of my brothers, Father --"
"I am aware of the activities you enjoy with your... brothers. Your continued
discretion is -- vastly -- appreciated."
Bruce... feels no need to flush for that. Or for this: "I will also be a part
of my new sibling's life, Father."
"I will have no part in your delusions, Bruce."
"No... I suppose you will not. Good day," Bruce says, and walks out the door,
closing it firmly behind him and turning to look for Elspeth --
She has left her 'out to lunch' sign decorated with the two moderately
demented-looking and bohemian tabby cats on her desk. She is, undoubtedly,
enjoying her roast beef. He leaves her a quick note thanking her for the
sandwich, and then he leaves, greeting everyone who meets his gaze and doing
his level best to chase away the cold, the bile, the --
The *wrongness* --
He will lead as right a life as possible. He will --
He will work to show care to all of his loved ones, and to everyone else he
*can*. He will *touch* the world -- he will not simply seal himself *above* it
--
And he will do it all because *he* needs to, because it's part of who *he* is,
part of what makes him who he is. He will not -- not *lord* it over others if
he can at all help it --
He will not set impossible rules for others to follow, and, if he sets any
rules, at all, he will not *break* them. Not unless the rules change for
*everyone*.
He will be *better* than his father -- and not just because it's the correct
thing to do. He will do it because it's who he was *made* to be by the people
who *truly* love him -- including Mother.
She is angry with him *now*, but --
But he thinks he knows how he can improve that. And that is precisely what he
will do.
His time sense tells him that it's nearly two-fifteen when his brief
conversation with Karen Chen in Research and Development begins to wind down,
and so he borrows her telephone book and calls Vincenzo's from the laboratory's
reception area.
It takes five minutes and the promise of a sizable order to get the woman who
answers the telephone to *give* the telephone to Harvey, but --
"Big guy, everything okay?"
"Not... entirely."
"I'm wincing over here. I -- what do you need?"
Bruce smiles ruefully, and breathes deeply as he feels tension he wasn't even
aware of *holding* flow away. "You. Always."
"Well, that's something we can *work* with. Where are we meeting up?"
"I... perhaps I can pick Tim up and bring him there? If you don't mind
continuing to wait."
"Not even a little. I'm gonna get me a big plate of manicotti so the waitress
stops givin' me the stink-eye and then I'm gonna read the funny pages.
*Slowly*. You can tell me -- *us* -- all about the fallout when you get here.
Sounds good?"
"Excellent, truly --"
"Well, all right. Do you know how to *get* to Tim's school?"
"I was planning to look it up and call."
"*From* WE?"
"Hm. There's a temptation to answer that question with a certain -- and, one
hopes, charming -- innocent dimness..."
"But maybe you and Dad were talking about that, too?"
"Oh, yes."
Harvey snorts and coughs. "Ah, Jesus. No wonder you were shut up with him for
all this time. All right, look. The school is on Eighty-Eighth and Park -
- practically on top of Grant. You can't miss it, and? It's the only middle
school there."
"All right. Thank you, Harv --"
"You're *welcome*," Harvey says, and laughs a little more. "God, big guy..."
"Yes?"
"Ah, no, I'll say it later."
I need you -- "I... have my own things which need to be said at another time."
"I'll just bet. School day ends *promptly* at two-forty-five, big guy. Get
going."
"As you say. We'll meet you soon."
"Uh, huh. Over and out," Harvey says, and Bruce can hear him thanking the woman
behind the counter for the use of her telephone in the moments before she hangs
up.
Bruce says his goodbyes to Karen Chen and her team members -- they're working
on military-grade body armor which many, many parts of Bruce find frankly
fascinating --
Perhaps Tim would enjoy touring these laboratories, himself.
Perhaps he would come up with further *ideas* --
And 'mentoring' has a long and noble tradition -- though one which has fallen
off dramatically within Bruce's so-called peer group. It need not be
suspicious, or even *uncomfortable* for -- the father who, truthfully, belongs
to none of them, at all.
Bruce feels some of the happiness he'd slowly been rebuilding within himself
fade rather -- dramatically. He's frowning again, and the only thing which can
be said in his defense is that he's in the garage again, and no one can *see*
him making this awful face. It --
Surely his family can make a better *showing* for itself -- no. His brothers
can, and do, and *will*. His brothers will rise above, and will teach him how
to *help* them do that, and how to do it in turn.
Bruce nods decisively as he slips into the driver's seat of the Lexedes, and
feels -- better. More focused.
Even a numinous goal is a goal, and --
("Ah, big guy, there is *nothing* numinous about love. Not this kind."
"You... find it tangible?"
"You *don't*?")
And Harvey's expression had been incredulously amused, but there had still been
doubt *beneath* it, and perhaps a little *fear*.
They had still been *fourteen*, and Bruce --
("Oh... Harv. I've wondered. I've wondered if, perhaps, I were imagining
things."
"'Things'?"
"The feeling -- the warmth you bring me. The sense of being held, even when
you're not near --"
"The feeling. The feeling like everything's gonna be just fine, big guy?"
"Oh -- no matter *what*!"
"That -- I think that's what love *is*, big guy, and --")
And Bruce had kissed him, of course, because he'd *had* to --
Because they hadn't *been* brothers, yet -- not officially -- and Bruce hadn't
had the *words* for it --
Hadn't been *brave* enough --
He will show this to Tim, tell him --
He will *teach* this to Tim, and have Tim teach *him* the brotherhood Bruce had
disdained before --
Or something else *entirely* --
They will -- they will find a way to love, and to share love, and to be
*honest*, and *open* with each other *always*. They --
They are more than what they were made.
Mountainview Day School bustles with *quiet* activity at two-forty-five, but
there's a gradual increase in noise and something Bruce wishes to call
'normalcy' as the seconds and minutes pass.
Boys call out to each other raucously and toss balls and other small,
presumably harmless missiles. Girls laugh -- somewhat -- more decorously and
point and gather in groups. Bookish children move toward the edges of groups.
Persecuted children move *further* toward the edges of things -- they are as
obvious to Bruce now as they were during his own school years, as they are the
only ones who work so assiduously not to be noticed --
No, that's not true. There is Tim, and his silent and *swift* progress toward a
group -- a *pack*-- of the larger boys who are moving away from campus and in
on a smaller boy with thick glasses and an ill-fitting uniform --
Bruce steps out of the car --
But Tim has already forced himself into the center of the pack. For a moment,
Bruce can see nothing, at all --
He moves toward them as quickly as he *can*, ignoring the indignant honks and
yells of the parents who wish to take his parking spot --
And then one of the boys cries out and falls --
And another jerks and seems almost to *flail* to his knees --
And another punches out wildly in the moment before he seems to *fly* backwards
--
And the other two boys stop and merely look at Tim, who appears simultaneously
innocent and unruffled and utterly dangerous. Bruce knows, now, that he *must*
be *close* to a 'ready position' --
Bruce can't see it. He can't --
He can see nothing but the fact that Tim doesn't need *his* help -- and that
the nameless, persecuted boy is staring back at Tim in wonder... from a full
and *safe* block and a half away.
The other two boys in the pack raise their hands and back away.
Two of the boys who had fallen do the same -- but the one who had cried out
makes a threatening gesture.
Tim shows his teeth... and makes a *come-on* gesture. It --
Bruce adds it to the list of things he will be sketching. For now... he clears
his throat.
The boy who'd threatened Tim is at least six inches taller than Tim is and some
forty pounds heavier... and very clearly distressed by Bruce's appearance.
Overall, Bruce trusts Tim to handle such things far more than he trusts
*himself*, but --
But there is amusement in Tim's eyes as he makes an 'after you' gesture.
Bruce frowns as thunderously as he can at the boy. "Did you have something you
wished to say to my brother."
"Your. Uh. Tim doesn't... have..."
"Yes. He. Does," Bruce says, in his deepest, most commanding voice --
And the boy mutters something about needing to go before running off in the
same general direction as his pack.
Bruce hums --
And Tim sighs a laugh. "That was... a fantasy," he says in a voice which barely
rises above a breath.
Bruce blinks and turns back to Tim. "I --"
Tim shakes his head. "The green Lexedes, yes?"
"Yes, but --"
"Later. Or -- at least *in* the car?"
Bruce closes his mouth and nods, and they make it to the inconveniently -
- though not strictly illegally -- parked car just as an irate gentleman Bruce
vaguely recognizes from the less-fashionable groupings at one of Mother's galas
begins pounding his fist on the hood.
He stops as soon as he sees Bruce's face, blushes the precise color of the
pepperoni Bruce sincerely hopes to be eating *soon*, and begins babbling
apologies. Bruce waves him off with a nod -- the bicycle messenger had done
more damage -- and slips into the driver's seat as Tim takes the passenger
seat.
Tim sighs again and smiles, small and *bright* --
"Brother..."
And he looks at Bruce from under his long, straight eyelashes. "You should
probably... pull out."
"I feel strongly that that shouldn't have been so arousing to hear."
"Hnn. Well... I'm sorry?" And Tim buckles his seatbelt.
Bruce buckles his own and starts the car, weaving it through the terribly
disorganized -- and actively dangerous, considering the number of young people
running out between the cars -- traffic. "I like -- I would like to see you
this happy every day."
"Well, simply give me several annoying and/or actively terrible people to be
violent with --"
"Do you... do that often?"
"Hnn... no. Today was the first time. I -- I probably shouldn't. But they were
harassing Gunther far more viciously than usual..." Tim shakes his head. "It
was obvious that they were going to do *something* better suited to the pages
of Lord of the Flies than to a day school as determinedly *genteel* as
Mountainview. Something had to be done."
Bruce nods. "And you were wise enough to wait until you were off school
property. I often failed at that when I was your age and younger," Bruce says,
and --
He can feel Tim looking at him. Studying him.
"Please ask."
"I've thought... I knew about the fights you used to get into."
Bruce nods once -- no, he can offer information. "It seemed... I believe I have
always been... violent."
"I -- yes. I think so, too. I mean -- for myself," and Tim is blushing --
"You -- I wanted to see you this morning."
Tim laughs. "I was talking to my *mother* this morning, Bruce."
"Oh... are you all right?"
"I am, yes. Blood was... helpful."
Bruce blinks. "He... enchanted your mother?"
"Is that strange? He did it without... *seemingly* without a second thought.
And I'll be attending high school here in Gotham, and I'll have... a fair
amount of freedom. More freedom. I have to admit, I *was* disturbed by Blood's
rather *cavalier* attitude about it, but it was better than continuing to be
interrogated and insulted about my -- and your, and Harv's -- sex life, and -
- well. I'm not complaining."
"Perhaps... you should," Bruce says, and pulls onto Grand Row, where the
traffic is no less *intensely* crowded, but where there are, at least, fewer
young children.
"About Blood? Because I don't think I *can* complain about *my* mother anymore
-- ah. Not that I want to say anything against --"
"Mother attempted to seduce Harvey and me this morning."
"Oh -- ah."
"Our father summoned me -- and *not* Harv -- into his office this afternoon
to... 'call me on the carpet' about the kidnapping, my plans for the future, my
overall failures --"
"Wait. What. Ah."
"Mother was, apparently, upset enough by our rejection of her advances that she
felt the need to... inform our father about my plans for the future. All of my
plans."
"That's... extremely problematic. I -- Bruce, I'm so sorry --"
"No, I --" Bruce shakes his head. "We both have... have *difficulties*. I
wish... I wish for you to tell me about the problems you've had with your
mother, and -- and with Jackson Drake and our father, as well --"
"They don't *compare* --"
Bruce takes his right hand off the steering wheel and rests it on Tim's lean
thigh. "They do. They... those pains have shaped you, and changed you, and
changed the way you view the world."
"Of course, but --"
"But there is no... hierarchy of suffering. Or..." Bruce frowns thoughtfully.
"Perhaps there is, for such things as the difference between being shot and
being punched, but I believe that, metaphorically, we have both been shot
*repeatedly*, brother."
"No, I --"
"Brother... you need never minimize the hurts you've been caused. You...
please, share them with me."
Tim frowns and stares down at his own thighs, or -- at Bruce's hand?
"Do... should I move it?"
"A part of me only wants to... to *bleat* about how this would allow you to
*glide* past all of the pain *you've* caused me."
Bruce lifts his hand --
But Tim covers it with his own and *squeezes* it against his thigh. "It's not.
I know it's not that," he says, and his voice is low, strained --
"Brother... I would hear everything, including --"
"Including the pains of mine with your name on it. I know."
Bruce frowns again. "Do you?"
Tim laughs painfully. "Yes. And no."
Oh... "May I apologize --"
"No."
"Then --"
"You -- you may do... other things? Yes, I think that's the best way to put
it," Tim says, tilting his head back and breathing raggedly --
"Please tell me --"
"Coming to my rescue whether or not I need it. That was -- mm," and Tim smiles
*brightly* despite the pain still *audible* in his breathing --
"Oh... truly?"
"You shouldn't do that all the time. Or... often."
"No. I -- only when you signal me in some way, of course --"
"Harv... does he let you...?"
"Very rarely. And... his signal is nearly identical to yours. He knows. He
knows how much I crave --"
"The chance to be protective?"
"*Yes* --"
"I... ah." And Tim blushes. "It was your turn."
Bruce shivers. "Brother..."
"I -- anyway. I'm not going to *have* any more problems with my mother,
assuming Blood's spell holds...?"
"His spells always do, but --"
"*But* -- but I don't think he'll feel the same drive to enchant... your
mother."
Bruce squeezes the steering wheel too hard --
He's also squeezing Tim's *thigh* -- he stops that --
"Oh -- Bruce. I'm sorry --"
"No. You have nothing to apologize for, Tim. It's only... I was thinking, for a
moment, that it would be pleasant to have... a guarantee."
"Of... your mother's good behavior?"
Bruce nods.
Tim strokes Bruce's hand. "Perhaps. Perhaps I should be inviting you and Harv
to *my* house more often...?"
"I would join you anywhere, brother."
Tim shivers. "I am. I'm not. I -- spent all day thinking about you. Both of
you. My exam performance is going to be exceedingly poor if this keeps up."
"Will it?"
"Ah... well. Probably not, no."
Bruce nods.
"The point remains --"
"Harv wouldn't let us come get you for lunch."
"Ah."
"Do you think --"
"Yes. I mean -- it would've been... questionable. I'll have more freedom in
high school. That is -- I'll almost be *expected* to *take* more freedom."
Bruce nods.
"I... what were you... thinking about?"
"Holding you. Speaking with you. Showing you..." Bruce shakes his head. "The
words seem inadequate. I wanted to continue building our brotherhood. We *both*
wanted that. To *teach* you of ourselves, and to have you teach *us*."
"... oh."
"Is that... wrong?"
Tim laughs and turns toward his window. "Ah... no? But it makes me feel
*extremely* shallow about how much time I spent thinking about... making love."
Bruce means to exhale -- but it comes out growled. It --
"Oh -- Bruce?"
"Harv... Harv and I made love this morning, Tim."
And Tim licks his lips. "You... you do that more mornings than you don't. Yes?"
Bruce nods. "He wanted me to be... rough with him --"
"Nnh -- ah. Where are we going? Now, I mean."
Bruce blinks. "To Vincenzo's. An Italian restaurant with very good pizza and
'sub' sandwiches, though Harv prefers --"
"All you really had to say was 'not somewhere we can make love, Tim,'" Tim
says, and laughs painfully again. "God, I -- ah. Possibly... we can change the
subject?"
"I want you very badly --"
"I want *you* -- and Harv -- and -- ah. Still. Please."
Bruce nods slowly. "Did you have a pleasant day --"
Tim snorts. "Okay, not that. *How* rough?"
"Tim --"
"Please. Please," and Tim pushes his fingers between Bruce's, squeezes Bruce's
hand and makes it seem too large, too hirsute, too --
"You're beautiful, and I -- perhaps we could postpone our meal? And... I'm not
sure how much searching for suitable apartments Harv was able to do while --"
"Please -- or. Do you not... want to tell me?"
Bruce grunts -- "I want you to know *everything*. I -- he wanted me to *hurt*
him, Tim --"
"Oh. God --"
"To -- I gripped the back of his neck with my left hand while I was taking him
with my right --"
"H-hard."
"Yes. On both counts. He has. He is bruised."
Tim moans and grips himself through his pants with his free hand, moans and
bites his lip and turns *away* --
"Tim..."
"Did you -- no. Did you ever *stop* hurting him?"
Bruce licks his lips. "I'd like to know which answer would arouse you more."
Tim shakes his head. "It -- it depends. Please."
"I stroked him... relatively gently."
"Oh..."
"But I was taking him roughly at the time, Tim. With my penis --"
A high, *sharp* noise --
"Tim --"
"I -- I hurt too much. For you to fuck me again."
Bruce sighs and strokes Tim's thigh, dragging Tim's hand with his own --
"Today. Just -- oh. Bruce, I want -- I want it."
Bruce growls again. "I want to please you --"
"Would you. Hurt me?"
"Tim. I. I feel. Please let me give you an orgasm."
"What? I -- *now*?"
Bruce nods. "You could... cover your lap with your jacket."
Tim *bucks* -- "God -- we -- you're *driving*."
"I'm quite good at... doing more than one thing at a time..."
Tim moans, and seems to be trying to look in every direction at *once* --
"You don't find -- I believe that's somewhat *more* suspicious --"
"Oh -- God, you're right," Tim says, and nearly *throws* himself back against
the seat --
And then leans forward, unbuckles his seatbelt, and shrugs off his jacket --
"Thank you, Tim --"
Tim laughs, high-pitched and *incredulous* -- it's almost a *giggle* -- but --
"How would you feel about the opportunity to give Harv an orgasm if he were
powerfully aroused by the things you'd said?"
"I -- oh. But --" He shakes his head.
"Tell me --"
"It -- or you. It could be -- I would be.... equally thankful -- please," Tim
says, covering his lap with his jacket and -- judging by the sound -- unzipping
his uniform trousers.
It -- "*Thank* you," Bruce says, tugging his handkerchief out of his pocket and
reaching beneath --
Tim groans for the barest *touch* -- "Please --"
"How should I --"
"Show me -- please show me!"
Bruce squeezes Tim firmly -- but not roughly --
"Oh --"
And he starts to stroke, slowly and *appreciatively* --
"Oh, *fuck*. *Bruce*!"
"This is how I stroked him, Tim," Bruce says, and swerves around a very full
bag of trash which has been left in the middle of the road. There's nowhere to
park for long enough to retrieve --
"Please! I mean -- I mean --" Tim moans and arches --
"Tell me."
"You -- you were *fucking* him at the time!"
"Very hard. Very... he was holding himself spread for me --"
"*Nnh* -- oh, *God* --"
"Would you do that for me --"
"*Yes*!"
"Would you..." Bruce licks his lips and squeezes *gently* --
"*Please*!"
"We were in the shower at the time, Tim..."
"We -- we already made love in -- I've seen -- "
Bruce squeezes again --
Tim sobs and *slams* his head against the seat -- "Bruce. *Bruce* --"
"Even in glimpses, even solely in my peripheral vision, you are beautiful.
Would you let me wash you again?"
"Yes!"
"Would you let me take you with my tongue --"
"*Yes* --"
"-- tonight?"
Tim groans and bucks --
Thrusts into Bruce's fist in no rhythm, at all -- until he finds one that is
rough and perfect, *needful* --
"Tim..."
"Yes. Yes. Please, Bruce..."
Bruce stops the car at a red light -- and pedestrians are crossing in front of
them. Tim is flushed and dazed --
He is not focusing on anything, at all.
He -- "Slow down, Tim."
Tim *whimpers* --
Shudders and *tosses* his head --
"We are being... obvious."
Tim gasps -- and stops thrusting, stops *moving* -- no. He is shuddering,
shaking all over --
"Good -- very good, Tim --"
Tim whimpers and nods. His eyes are still not focusing on anything in
particular, but he can *hear* Bruce --
And feel him.
Bruce begins stroking faster, squeezing gently on every *other* upstroke --
"*Bruce*!"
"I want your pleasure, Tim..."
"You --" Tim laughs breathlessly, *brightly* --
A *tear* rolls down his left cheek --
"Oh, *God*, Bruce, it's so -- it's so *good* --"
"I would have my every touch be this good for you, Tim --"
Tim *sobs* --
"*Brother*..."
"Please. Please -- or -- faster? I don't know, I don't know --"
"It's all right," Bruce says, and increases the speed of his stroke as the
light turns green --
As he accelerates and *aches* --
"I *want* you, Tim."
"You. You can have --" And Tim moans and tosses his head, licks his lips and
begins to buck again, to *arch* --
"You can't control yourself."
Tim *sobs* and slams himself back against the seat --
"It wasn't a criticism --"
"I can. I can --"
"I don't *want* you to --"
Tim cries out and sniffs, shudders and *writhes* --
"Yes, give me this, Tim. Give me your *pleasure*."
"Yours, it's -- oh, *God*, Bruce --"
"This? A tease for your meatus?"
Tim whimpers and nods *frantically* --
And so Bruce shifts his grip so that he can use his thumb, so that he can
*torment* with his thumb --
"Ah -- ah -- *ahn*!"
"*More*, Tim!"
"I can't -- I --" And then Tim *shouts*, arching off the seat --
Bruce shifts the handkerchief and squeezes *hard* --
And Tim screams as he ejaculates, pumping into Bruce's fist over and over again
--
*Giving* himself --
And Bruce has to remind himself not to pull over --
Not to drive into the nearest alley and *bury* his face against Tim's groin --
Not to do anything more suspicious than *this* -- but.
"Tim..."
Tim whimpers and collapses against the seat. He --
Another tear rolls down his cheek and Bruce -- must. He folds the handkerchief
one-handed, tucks it in his right hip pocket, then swipes the tear from Tim's
chin with his fingertips --
"Oh -- Bruce..."
He sucks his fingers and moans for the salt, for the sense that there's so much
more he can *have* --
And Tim moans, too, blushing and shaking his head as he straightens his
clothes. "That was. Ah. Thank you. Very much."
Bruce withdraws his fingertips out of his mouth and comes to a stop at the next
red light. "You may have that of me --"
"Not -- *not* any time."
Bruce frowns, but nods. "There will be training, and school for you --"
"And -- Harv."
"I want... if we could all be together --"
"Not -- every time. It -- ah. I mean. It would be... very pleasant. To say the
least," Tim says, and laughs -- though perhaps more at himself than at any
joke. "Logistics works against it. As it did today."
"True. But --" He shakes his head. "We would've picked you up together had our
father not been so..." Bruce brings both hands to the steering wheel so he can
squeeze it as hard as he wishes to.
"Bruce...?"
"I'm --" No. "I'm not all right," Bruce says, and drives when the light turns
green.
Tim *starts* to reach for him -- and stops himself. He --
"Please."
"I -- I. I don't really know... how. Ah. How to offer comfort. I mean... in
serious ways. I don't..." Tim laughs painfully again. "I've asked Harv to talk
to me about his childhood, but I have no idea what -- what I'd *do*..."
Bruce nods. That makes perfect sense. "I assure you that any efforts you made
would be appreciated. By both of us."
"You don't -- I'm not -- I'm not *nice*, Bruce --"
"Your heart. Your heart is filled with love."
"I -- of course it is --"
"Please," Bruce says, and reaches for Tim with his right hand again. "Let me
see it. Let me have it."
Tim pants. "Oh. Just -- like that?"
Bruce nods dumbly -- no. "It's -- it's the best thing. I promise you."
Tim moans again and *grips* Bruce's hand, lets go and strokes it, grips it
again, lets go again and strokes Bruce's *forearm* -- "You -- you could tell me
-- something --"
"There is a pleasure in knowing you want to touch me --"
"And in knowing I don't know *how*?"
"In feeling you teach yourself, brother. There is..." Bruce shakes his head.
"All of those touches are welcome."
"*Equally*?"
"Mother's touches often made me feel like a favored... pet. Jason's touches
were always *warmly* distant. Harv's touches..."
"Please tell me," Tim says, and seems to settle on stroking Bruce's wrist and
forearm -- *with* the grain of Bruce's hair, despite the fact that he cannot
*see* it.
"I like that."
"Oh -- good. But --"
"Harv's touches make me feel loved. Desired. Welcomed. Accepted. As though...
as though there could be more than one home for me."
Tim shivers. "Yes. Yes. He -- yes."
Bruce nods. "Sometimes..." He shakes his head again. "Lately, I've begun to
think that the home he offers is far, far better than the one I grew up in."
Tim's smile quirks. "I can't imagine why."
Bruce laughs quietly. "Indeed. We'll be at the parking garage soon, and then we
can walk to Vincenzo's. Have you ever been?"
"No, but I look forward to trying it. Even though I'm somewhat worried about
the fat content."
"Your metabolism must be quite fast..."
Tim sighs. "And I'm trying to gain more weight. I... I'm somewhat neurotic
about my diet. My sensei is a nutritionist, and has crafted a very *exact* diet
for me that I tend to stick to."
"Oh -- if you don't want to --"
"No -- ah. No. I've been explicitly ordered to cheat on that diet sometimes,"
Tim says, blushing and turning away -- "She's noticed the neurosis and...
worries."
"You're beautiful, and you've proven yourself to be *amazingly* fit --"
"And I'll be even more fit tomorrow, and the day after that, and -- so on. And
maybe this meal will help me reach one hundred and twenty pounds before I turn
fourteen."
"Is that your goal?"
"Ah... sort of?" And Tim turns back to him and smiles ruefully in Bruce's
peripheral vision. He never stops stroking, and -- "I try not to make... hard
and fast goals of that sort. The disappointment is... painful."
Bruce nods thoughtfully. "Thank you for telling me."
"You... we can stop talking -- will you tell me what... he said?"
The tone, the hesitation -- Tim is asking about their father. He... Bruce
frowns.
"You -- obviously don't have to --"
"I would like. I would like to wait until the three of us are together. I would
like for us to be a family, even though our parents seem determined to do
everything in their power to keep that from happening."
"Oh... all right."
"Thank you."
"It's only..."
Bruce waits for Tim to finish as he takes the ticket from the parking
attendant, but... he doesn't.
Bruce parks on the third level, in the shadows of two pillars --
And Tim sighs. "I would very much like to fellate you."
Bruce *grunts* -- but. "That... that was less --" He shakes his head. "I can't
tell whether or not that was honest."
Tim pinches the bridge of his nose -- but only for a moment. "It was. Entirely
so."
"Tim..."
"It's just that the desire, in that moment, was far more intellectual than
emotional or physical," he says, and smiles at Bruce ruefully.
"Is that... possible?"
"Yes...? Ah. It is for me? Does it seem very strange?"
"Yes, but... everyone has always told me that *I'm* very strange, so I cannot
say with any certainty whether *you're* being strange in this moment."
Tim bites his lip and nods, turning away --
Bruce cups Tim's chin and turns him back to face him. "Please."
"Bruce?"
"You started to say something before, brother."
"I... often do..."
"I believe this was important to you. That makes it very important to me."
Tim closes his eyes -- squeezes them shut.
"Oh... brother..."
"It sounds... it sounds like." He opens his eyes again. "Did you talk with him
about me?"
"Yes."
Tim winces. "I -- see."
"I wish --"
"I can guess -- what you wish," Tim says, and smiles ruefully. "Let's... go be
a family?"
Bruce cups Tim's face with both hands and leans in to kiss his forehead, and
his chin, and his soft mouth. "You will always be my brother."
"Certainly, we'll always share DNA --"
"Brother."
"I -- right. I was going to be... open. With you. Wasn't I."
Bruce pulls back enough to meet Tim's eyes. "Please."
"You... are not our father."
"I will never be him."
"I was... I was supposed to grow into his... clone, I suppose. That's what my
mother wanted for me."
Bruce frowns... but it makes sense, given what little he knows of Janet. It's
just that it makes their father's refusal to offer Tim *anything* of himself
even worse.
"You... could respond... to that?"
"I have come to believe that our father has little to offer us in terms of
setting an example to follow, brother."
"Because of the things he said. About me."
"And because of other things, as well."
"Let's -- go," Tim says, but he doesn't pull away, or stiffen --
Bruce leans in again and kisses him softly, as warmly as he *can*. He opens
Tim's mouth with his own and breathes his breath. He licks into Tim's mouth and
tastes what *must* be the earliest stages of tears. He moans, and pulls back
*slightly* -- "Brother."
Tim whimpers. "I -- yes. Yes?"
"Let us be your home."
Tim *moans* --
"Please --"
"Bruce, you -- this is. You have to realize how *sudden* --"
"I fell in love with Harvey in moments. You... you gave me years of chances,
Tim. I'm catching *up* --"
"Yes, well, *I* need to catch up, *too*!" And Tim pulls back and gets out of
the car, throwing his jacket on gracefully and walking toward the exit --
Bruce locks the car and follows him. "I've pushed too hard."
"No --"
"Yes."
"Stop *arguing* with me," Tim says, and walks faster.
Bruce matches his stride --
Tim *growls* and *runs* down the stairs --
"You -- the restaurant is --"
"To the *right* once we get to street level, yes, I *saw* it."
"Tim... should I let you and Harv eat alone?"
Tim makes a sound like he's been *hit* -- and crouches on the landing, covering
his face with his hands.
"I... I don't want to *force* myself on you --"
Tim *sobs* --
"Oh, Tim --"
"I know what he said! I know exactly what he fucking *said*!"
Bruce swallows -- and crouches, as well. "He was. He was unworthy --"
Tim laughs *derisively* -- and uncovers his face. "But he's still *your*
father, isn't he? He's still -- he'll *always* be --"
"Tim... today was the first emotionally substantive conversation we've ever
had."
Tim rears back. "I -- what?"
Bruce smiles ruefully. "He told me, today, that Mother 'claimed' me when I was
three years old. That a remark I made *when* I was three -- specifically, that
I preferred spending time *with* Mother -- was enough to make him... turn away
from me."
"But... that's *ridiculous*! And -- and *pathetic*!"
"I believe there's a certain degree of bathos to it, as well. He was, at that
time, fully adult, a physician with the respect of his peers, *and* the
president of the largest company on the Eastern seaboard. And the fact that a
three year old punctured his -- his *ego* --"
"Was enough to make him... is that *why* he got my mother pregnant?"
Bruce shakes his head. "I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that question --"
"No. No, I know it, and it's not --" Tim sobs again --
*Growls* again --
And stands, dusting himself off unnecessarily. "I'm sorry."
"It's all right," Bruce says, standing as well --
"It isn't --"
"It truly --"
"Stop *arguing* --" And Tim growls again --
Pinches the bridge of his nose and *paces* the small landing --
Bruce backs up onto the steps --
"Where are you *going*?"
"I... away?"
Tim glares at him again. He looks incredulous, young, sad, amused, exasperated
--
"Guide me, Tim. Please tell me how I may make this easier for you."
In an instant, everything is gone from his expression save for the *youth* --
Bruce wants to *hold* him --
And Tim raises his hands to his face again --
Lets them drop like a marionette's --
Three more tears fall --
"Bruce..."
"I'm listening."
"Bruce, I'm. I've been. Ah. Very. Lonely."
Bruce swallows. "Brother..."
"I don't think I know how... not to be. Lonely."
"I. I would like to teach you."
Tim nods, but it doesn't seem connected to what Bruce had just said, or to
Bruce's presence, at all. He is other-focused, and there is something worn
within him --
Something young and *ancient* at once --
And Bruce can't not think of Harvey, of the bruises on his face and body, of
the rage and pain and *fear* in his eyes that first day back from Christmas
vacation --
The hate and *hurt* --
("Just *leave* it, Bruce!"
"I... I can't --"
"Yes, you fucking *can* because I'm fucking *telling* you to!"
"Harv... Harv, please, you can be angry with me, you can... you can *curse* me,
but please, please just tell me what *happened* --"
"No! Get -- get the hell outta here! I don't wanna see you! I don't -- get
*out*!")
And a *part* of Bruce had flinched and run --
A part of Bruce *could* only flinch and run -- but. Jason had spoken of
destiny, and *Harvey* had spoken of love -- before the two of them had
separated for that awful vacation.
Harvey had *taught* him love --
And Bruce could only drop to his knees --
("What -- what are you -- get *out*!"
"Harv, I... I'm begging you."
"Don't you -- don't you fucking -- I don't want you, I don't need you, I don't
-- don't -- *please* --")
And Harvey had begun to cry; hoarse, wracking sobs that shook his whole *body*
as Bruce shuffled closer and *clutched* him --
As Harvey all but *fell* on him --
And told him everything.
In *this* moment --
As Tim begins to *shake* once more --
Bruce goes to him, pulls him into his arms, limp and uncomplaining --
Not warm enough, not *ready* enough --
But Bruce can hold him, and stroke him, and kiss his temples -- "Brother. I
love you."
The keening sound Tim makes is so *soft*, so --
Even in this -- this *echo* chamber --
Bruce holds him more tightly -- no. Bruce lifts him --
"Nuh --"
Holds him with one arm under his buttocks and urges him to wrap his lean,
strong legs around Bruce's waist --
"Bruce --"
"*Please*."
"God -- I --" And Tim makes the keening sound again, but does it, and wraps his
arms around Bruce's neck as well, presses his face to Bruce's *shoulder* --
"Oh, yes, brother --"
"Don't -- oh, God -- oh, *God* --" And the hold becomes a *clutch*, arms and
legs and *teeth*, and Tim -- weeps.
Every sob that came before was just a lead-in to this, to --
Oh, it's just as hoarse as *Harvey's* tears, but Bruce is ready for them, Bruce
can hold on, and whisper his love, his acceptance, his welcome, his -- his
*promises* --
Bruce can hold *on* --
And, for a time, the keens grow frighteningly *loud*, forceful and *hopeless* -
-
"Brother, I will not let you *go* --"
"I want -- I want --" But the rest is another keen, and another --
And Bruce knows what Tim wants, knows...
He'd thought, when he was fourteen, that there was no one he could hate more
than Lester Dent. Now...
Now, he knows that true hatred requires the intimacy of knowledge, a *moment*
to meet the object of your hatred's eyes and see everything you would never -
- if you had the *choice* -- *be* --
"I will never leave you, brother," Bruce says, and continues to hold Tim, to
*keep* him and wish, with all of himself, that there was no stain on *his*
love, that he had never *been* his father. But...
Perhaps it can be enough that he will work hard for all of his *life* to never
sink so low again, to make *amends* --
How had he ever thought he was *worthy* enough to be a hero *before* -- no, no,
he must ask those questions later.
For now, he will hold his brother, and love him --
He will kiss his tear-stained cheek and *love* him --
And listen to him struggle to even his breathing once more. He --
"Brother, you need not --"
"I need. I need this."
Bruce strokes Tim's back. "Every moment you weep in my arms is a gift."
Tim makes a choked noise --
A more *desperate* choked noise because of all the phlegm --
Oh, dear. His handkerchief is... stained. But Tim is *coughing* --
"Brother, do you have a handkerchief of your own?"
Another choked noise --
"Oh... are you laughing?"
This sound is more of a *honk* --
"Hm. Perhaps you wouldn't *mind* using my handkerchief?"
And Tim pulls back enough to show him red-rimmed eyes which nonetheless...
sparkle.
"Oh... beautiful," Bruce says, and kisses Tim *while* pulling the folded
handkerchief from his pocket ---
Tim kisses him back *softly* -- and then leaps nimbly out of Bruce's arms --
"Brother --"
He takes the handkerchief and turns away, wiping his face and blowing his nose
-- and snickering. Extensively.
Considering the *strength* of Tim's sadness, Bruce can't help but wonder if the
laughter is somewhat hysterical, but --
("Ah, big guy, sometimes *all* of it has to come out. Tears, laughter, curses -
- everything.")
And Harvey had smiled ruefully --
("I think maybe I proved *that*?")
You've proved everything, always, but -- "My arms already miss you, Tim."
A *wet* snort -- "Oh, God. Ah." Tim blows his nose again. "Your *arms* were
starting to shake with *fatigue*, Bruce."
Bruce frowns. "They truly weren't --"
Tim waves a hand without turning to face him. "Exaggeration for effect."
"As you say. But... I would hold you --"
"I can't. I can't be held any longer right now."
"Not... by me?"
Tim stiffens, and then turns to smile at him ruefully. "By anyone. I don't
suppose you have a back-up handkerchief?"
"I'm afraid not. Perhaps... we could get napkins?"
"The worst of the mucus is dealt with. I'm just going to wipe tears all over
the lining of my jacket," Tim says, and does just that. "I -- I really am sorry
for --"
"Please don't ever apologize for your emotions, Tim."
Tim frowns in obvious irritation.
"A gift," Bruce says, again.
The frown becomes more serious.
"Perhaps... you could imagine --"
"Holding Harvey in my arms? I -- yes. I could. Are you going to tell me *he*
never wanted to apologize for *his* emotions?"
"He did, yes. But he allowed me to convince him otherwise, and, in truth, it
was a lesson he already knew."
Tim frowns again, but this time the worry is more clear than anything else.
"Tim...?"
"Is it... you're going to tell me that this is... one of those things people
with at least one loving parent just know, aren't you? That... that it's
*normal*."
Bruce smiles ruefully. "And healthy, brother."
"Oh -- but how would you *know* what was *healthy* -- oh, I didn't say that. I
didn't *say* that --" and Tim refolds the handkerchief and shakes his head,
turns away -- "Maybe. Maybe I should just get my backpack and take the train
home."
"Please don't."
"Bruce, I'm just -- I think I'm just going to keep saying ridiculous, terrible
things -- I'm *sorry* --"
"I would like to hug you again --"
"*Why*?"
"Because I love you, and because you see clearly --"
"I do *not*! I don't -- I don't understand *any* of this --"
"That's a lie, Tim," Bruce says, closing the distance between them and moving
in front of Tim --
Tim looks down at the *ground* and *pants* --
Bruce tilts his head up. "Tim. You understand so much of this that it's tearing
you apart. It's *hurting* you *badly*."
"It -- I -- please."
"Share it, brother. Share it with us. It's *better* when pain is shared, I
*promise* you."
"I don't. I don't want to cry any more right now."
"Brother --"
"Please. Let me. Let's -- let's walk? To the restaurant. And then... we can eat
incredibly unhealthy food. And then, once I've shocked my emotions into
submission with pork, milkfat and carbohydrates, we can speak more. All right?"
Bruce frowns -
And Tim shivers and turns his mouth against Bruce's palm. It's more pressure
than a kiss, but it feels wonderful, just the same. "I promise. I -- I promise.
Please."
"As you say --"
"And -- you won't let me -- *antagonize* you and Harvey. Right?" And Tim looks
up at him with a plea in his eyes.
"I don't think you --"
"I could. I really --"
"Tim... some of the things Harvey said in the depths of his hurt were truly
hurtful. Even... hateful."
Tim frowns in *confusion*. "*Harv*?"
Bruce nods. "It was, in truth, another lesson. We both understand much about
how emotional pain can twist one away from one's natural inclinations --"
"And if one is *naturally* mean and -- and otherwise --" Tim frowns deeply and
looks down -- but doesn't pull away from Bruce's hand.
Bruce strokes him. "I've felt your passion, brother. Your love and *compassion*
--"
"It's not -- it's not enough --"
"It *is*. Let us show you."
Tim pants again --
Another tear falls -- and Tim wipes it away before Bruce can.
He nods and looks up. "You -- promise me you won't let me -- ruin this?"
"Do you truly fear --"
"Yes."
Bruce frowns and nods. "We will hold you in our hearts, brother --"
"*Please* --"
"And if -- if we *need* to, we will ask you to give us... privacy," Bruce says,
and feels *sick* --
But Tim sighs in *relief* -- and smiles. "Thank you."
Bruce swallows. "You're welcome," he says -- and promises himself that he will
never let Tim feel unloved, unneeded --
"I -- shall we?"
Bruce nods, and they walk -- briskly -- to the restaurant. Tim blinks and
narrows his eyes once they're in the sun, so Bruce moves to shade him --
And Tim smiles up at him gratefully. Beautifully --
"Sometimes I'm grateful for my size."
"You should be grateful *all* the time."
"So Harvey says. I still feel -- painfully -- the awkwardness of my early
adolescence."
Tim frowns and pauses to let a woman with a stroller pass --
Bruce pauses, as well --
"I never saw that."
"I drilled myself mercilessly before every party, Tim. Alfred was a great help
-- and his reflexes saved many objets d'art from my hopeless clumsiness.
Mostly, I forced myself to move slowly."
"Decorously."
"*Carefully*," Bruce says, and smiles at Tim. "Have you always been graceful?"
"I... haven't had any particularly serious growth spurts yet. There are some
advantages to that."
Bruce nods thoughtfully. "Do you have any idea how tall you *will* grow?"
Tim smiles wryly. "Not very. Our father was quite clear about the fact that he
doubted I'd reach the average height for American males."
"Hm. Which is?"
"Approximately five feet, eleven inches, as of nineteen-seventy-five. Our
father believes that that number will be over six feet *well* within our
lifetimes... and that, judging by the length of my femurs, I will grow at least
another seven inches, but possibly not more than that."
[Note: No, this wasn't the actual average American height, but I've always
thought that people are much taller in the DCU than they are elsewhere.]
Bruce... shivers.
Tim frowns and stares at him as they walk -- "You find that *arousing*," he
says in an accusing whisper.
"I'm... sorry. But yes, I do."
"I'm still not *female* --"
"No, you are not. I... Harv has taken me to see many martial arts films. The
most skilled practitioners are often rather... compact."
Tim's expression is *suspicious* --
And Bruce smiles ruefully. "I've also enjoyed... moving you."
Tim colors immediately, which Bruce can't help but see as a hopeful sign --
"Tim..."
"I... have enjoyed that, too," Tim says, and he seems both flustered and
*annoyed* --
"Tim?"
And then he laughs. "You -- have too much power over me."
"I... what?"
"It's not -- I... ah. I never really considered how much a relationship -- no,
that's not true," Tim says, and stops at a busy intersection.
Bruce doesn't say anything as other pedestrians surround them and seem to
*strain* to cross despite the fact that there are any number of cars passing
*quickly* through the intersection --
Tim smiles at him *wryly* --
But Bruce can only give him his hunger, his desire, his curiosity --
Tim blinks and blushes more deeply --
And then the light changes and they can walk again, put space between
themselves and the other pedestrians --
"It's -- it was one thing to imagine being wholly in Black *Canary's* power...
but."
Bruce nods. "And the question of mutuality?"
"It's not -- oh. Ah... hm." And Tim laughs and shakes his head. "Let's just say
it's difficult to believe in and leave it at that --"
"What must I do?"
"I don't *know*, Bruce. I -- I'll tell you. If I come up with anything."
Bruce nods. "I love you."
"And I... I... feel so much. It scares me -- ah. Wow, that's really *weak* --"
Bruce cups Tim's shoulder and squeezes it --
"Don't -- don't *reassure* me --"
"I'm afraid I must. While Harv has given you nothing but the best of himself, I
have failed you time and again in the worst ways possible --"
"You're my *brother*."
"Oh... Tim. Hearing you say that makes me..." Bruce laughs at himself and at
the highly public nature of their location. "Perhaps you can guess?"
Tim snorts and blushes. "I -- yes. I feel. I feel I should work faster."
"Every moment with you --"
"Is a gift? *Bruce* -- but you're just going to say something *extremely*
logical about Harv that will make me face things about how I feel about *you* -
- faster is better."
"*Better* is better, brother," Bruce says, and squeezes again.
Tim growls. "I never -- I've never wanted... to make anyone wait for me."
Bruce sighs. "I don't feel especially... neglected, brother."
"I. No?" And Tim looks at him from under his lashes --
There is so much *worry* in his eyes --
Worry and *hope* --
Bruce smiles. "No. I promise."
Tim inhales shakily. "Then... I'll hold you to that. And you'll tell me --"
"Yes," Bruce says, and sets a part of his mind to the question of how to say
such things as gently as possible, as carefully and *softly* --
Tim nods. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. We're here."
"Oh -- oh. Right." And Tim smiles at him ruefully, conspiratorially, *happily*
--
"Brother..."
"Ah... your brother. And Harv's."
Bruce smiles helplessly and follows Tim into Vincenzo's, which is, as usual,
significantly more dimly-lit than Bruce expects it to be. The stonework is
beautiful, though, and the murals on the ceiling are cheerful enough to excuse
both the lack of light and the relative lack of artistic skill.
Bruce greets the -- unfamiliar -- woman behind the counter and orders his and
Harvey's usual pepperoni, sausage, mushroom, extra cheese, and onion pie --
"Oh -- my."
"I assure you, Tim, your sensei will be quite proud of how well you've managed
to cheat on your diet," Bruce says, and turns his attention back to the counter
woman. "Please make that an extra large."
She continues to eye him darkly -- she undoubtedly remembers his promise of a
*large* order -- so Bruce clears his throat, scans the menu at speed --
Harvey has already *had* his manicotti --
"Is there anything in particular you would like, Tim?"
"Ah... all of this is... just order your favorites?"
"As you say. We'll also take a large order of the garlic bread -- with cheese,
please -- "
Tim makes a small *distressed* sound --
"-- and a large sausage and pepper 'sub' with grilled onions -- and cheese --"
Tim *coughs* --
"-- and an order of the fried cheese."
The counter woman gives him a *grudging* nod.
Tim is staring at him incredulously --
"It's all quite good, Tim, I assure you."
"I -- all right? All right --"
"Hey, there you are," Harvey says, and waves at them from their usual booth in
the dimmest, darkest corner of the restaurant. "Get over here, will ya? I'm
down to the *Classifieds*."
Bruce hums and smiles --
And the brightness of Tim's expression is enough to make something loosen
within Bruce, make something *ease*. They join Harvey --
"C'mere and sit next to me, little guy. You gotta give Bruce room to *expand*,
considering how much he's about to eat."
"Ah -- all right. It did seem... do the two of you always... order... that
much?"
Harvey grins. "From this place? Absolutely. We're growing boys," and he pokes
Tim's biceps. "And so are you. You didn't eat a big lunch, did you?"
"I -- no --"
"*Good*. This place is the *best*. If they delivered out to Bristol, you'd have
to roll us outta the manor every day."
Tim hums. "If you say so."
"What? You don't like Italian?"
"I believe our brother prefers to eat more traditionally healthy foods, Harv."
"Aw, that's all well and good -- and you have no *idea* how badly we both
craved fruits and veggies and *fresh* fish after eating that slop up at Exeter
every day for months -- but you *gotta* get some of this in you sometimes."
Tim smiles up at Harvey through his lashes -- "I... plan to indulge myself."
"Well, all right. Also, what took you guys so long, hunh? You both look a
little -- ah, Jeez, *without* me?"
Tim blushes --
And Bruce hums again. "It was... something of an imperative."
"*Horndog*. I should kick you both outta my booth. My *lonely*, *empty*,
*untouched* booth," and Harvey mock-glares at both of them.
Bruce laughs quietly -- but Tim is looking down at the table. Tim is --
"Hey, hey, what's that about, little guy?" And Harvey cups the back of Tim's
neck. "You okay?" And Harvey looks to *him* --
Bruce reaches across the table to cover Tim's hand with his own. "Brother... if
you would like to speak now --"
"I -- really wouldn't," Tim says, and laughs. "I want -- I just want... to have
fun."
Harvey looks back and forth between them -- and then blinks. "Maybe... maybe
the two of you started talking about what went down with Dad?"
Bruce nods, and Tim does, too, but -- "Brother... I believe I would like for
you to refer to him the way you think about him."
Harvey winces. "*That* bad?"
"Yes."
"Then -- I can do that, yeah, but first we gotta make sure --"
Tim shudders and glares at the table. "It seems. It seems wasteful to be upset
*now*."
"Oh, c'mon, little guy --"
"I understand, brother. I've always wanted my time with Harv to be happy. I've
never wanted to... cast a gloom."
"*Yes*," Tim says, and looks up, looks between them --
Lingers on Harvey's concerned look --
"I -- I want -- and. You're smiling at me ruefully now," Tim says, and frowns
at Harvey. "Are you about to say something about my emotions being a gift,
*too*?"
Harvey snickers and coughs -- and nods.
"*Damn* it -- but. I did... know that was going to happen," Tim says, and looks
down at the table again.
"Look at it this way, little guy: either you can get out all the crap that's
upsetting you now and let us help you move *past* it, or --"
"I can let it fester in me and *help* me cast a pall. A gloomy pall."
Harvey tilts his head to the side and grins. "Are there other kinds?"
Tim's expression is *painfully* sour for a moment --
And then Harvey's hand is beneath the table, and Tim closes his eyes and -
- relaxes.
"Oh -- what?"
"Harv is... petting me."
"I believe I'd like to know where, for future reference," Bruce says --
And Tim laughs and blushes. "It's just -- my leg. My thigh. His hand is... it's
very firm petting. And he knows. I suppose he knows he's welcome."
"I could just be a pushy asshole," and Harvey grins and waggles his eyebrows.
Tim laughs again -- and looks up. "Are you *ever*?"
Harvey wags his head back and forth. "Sometimes. And sometimes it just depends
on who you ask. Mostly... I needed to make sure you could feel me right then.
Right *now*."
"I -- always want to."
Harvey grins. "My little brother."
"And -- Bruce's," Tim says, smiling ruefully... and touching the toe of Bruce's
shoe with his own.
Bruce smiles and strokes Tim's hard, well-worked knuckles --
"So whaddaya say? Get all the poison out while we wait for the victuals?"
"Victuals -- ah."
"So maybe I watched too many Westerns when I was a kid. Horses always seemed
*extremely* cool."
"They -- have you ever... ah?"
Harvey smiles ruefully and nods at *him*. "We went riding one day. The horses
smelled funny, kept dancing away every time I tried to get *on* one, and,
whenever I turned around? Tried to eat my hair."
"I believe it was the pomade you used --"
"Bruce. We're not doin' it again."
"As you say, brother." And --
Tim is laughing -- quietly, but still.
"It's like that, hunh? Fine. Just for that?" And Harvey turns to Bruce. "Draw
him in a full riding habit. *With* jodhpurs."
Tim coughs -- "Oh -- wait --"
Bruce hums. "I believe I know just the colors to use. Thank you, brother."
"*No* one looks good in those --"
"And *you* will be immortalized in them, little guy," and Harvey grins. "Better
start gettin' used to it now."
Tim narrows his eyes -- "Fine," he says, and turns to Bruce. "Sketch Harvey as
a centaur."
Bruce blinks --
Harvey *chokes* --
"As anatomically *correct* a centaur as possible."
"I -- hm. I suppose he is as wise as Chiron..."
"*Big* guy --"
Tim hums and smiles. "In fact, an entire series of Harv as figures from Greek
mythology --"
"Hey, now --"
"You'll have to age him down for Ganymede --"
"Ah, Jesus, Tim, he's thinkin' about it now!"
"I can tell," Tim says, and shows his teeth in a smile which is actually
somewhat *evil*, but --
"Big guy, c'mon now, *work* with me --"
"It's only... I believe it could help me immensely with my figure work, as well
as with fabrics. You know I've had difficulty with draping."
Harvey stares at him somewhat woundedly -- and then turns to Tim. "You know you
*have* to give up the goods *now*, don't you?"
Tim blinks -- and blushes again --
And laughs.
"All right, yes. I can -- I can do that. But I think... Bruce should talk about
what... he said. First."
Bruce can see that Harvey is moving his hand under the table --
"And... you can pet me like that... whenever you'd like."
"Good to know, good to know... but you *are* gonna talk to us, right?"
Tim smiles ruefully. "Yes. There's something -- Bruce said something -- yes. I
have something I need to say to both of you about... him. But... not quite
yet."
Harvey nods. "Okay. You get the floor, big guy. What *did* he want?"
"Mother was upset enough about our... rejection of her --"
Harvey winces. "You gave the little guy background on that?"
"Ah -- yes, he did. But I didn't need... much."
Harvey winces more deeply. "I guess not. Considering. Okay, keep going -- wait.
She told on us. She *told* on us? To *Thomas*?"
Bruce nods. "She told him about the kidnapping -- though not about the exact
circumstances of it --"
Harvey laughs somewhat derisively -- "Keep going."
"She told him about our plan to move out -- which he said he had no problem
with, but I'm no longer sure whether I believe him about that -- and she told
him about... my plans for the future."
"What the --" Harvey shakes his head and blows out a breath. "So... damage
control? What's the *upshot* here?"
"As of now, he is fully aware that he has no ability to control my -- our -
- lives, and... we seem to have come to something of an agreement to... not
speak. At all."
Harvey winces again. "Because somewhere in there you were talking about the
little guy."
Bruce nods and turns to Tim -- but Tim is looking at the table again with a
hard smile on his face. He hasn't moved his hand away from Bruce's, though, and
that is, Bruce thinks, the best possible sign. "He refused to admit he was
Tim's father."
"Christ. I -- you gave it to him in so many words and everything?"
"Yes. Repeatedly. He also refused to take responsibility for Tim's mother's
current pregnancy, despite having *told* me..." Bruce shakes his head. "It
was... he was... terrible."
Harvey looks wounded again. "What kind of -- what did he *say*? How did he
explain -- did he even try? We *know* that Jack Drake had the vasectomy."
Bruce turns to Tim again --
And this time Tim looks up. The hard smile is still on his face, and now Bruce
can see that it's an *old* smile, as well -- "He said... something about how
his relationship with my mother wasn't exclusive. Yes?"
Bruce shudders -- and nods.
"Oh. Oh, for Christ's sake --" And Harvey moves his hand from under the table
and wraps his arm around Tim's shoulders. "I'm so *sorry* --"
"I'm all right --"
"You're *not*."
Tim laughs -- "All right, I'm not. But I'm also not surprised," he says, and
pushes until Harvey lets go of him.
"Tim --"
"I just -- I have every intention of letting both of you hold me at some point
-- soon -- when we're in a private place. But if I let you do it now, I'll
almost certainly... I'll break down again."
Harvey frowns. "That's -- that's why your eyes are a little red?"
Tim smiles ruefully. "Yes. And why Bruce's shoulder is damp. And why his
handkerchief needs to be *burned*."
Harvey slips his hand under the table again. "I'll wait. I'll -- maybe tell us
some about not being surprised? Because *I'm* kinda surprised over here, and
I'm willing to freakin' bet Bruce was."
"Yes. Though, eventually, I came to guess what he would say."
Tim nods. "I --"
"Wait one second," Harvey says, and the counter-woman -- who is scowling once
more -- brings them their bread and fried cheese.
They thank her for it --
She glares at them indiscriminately --
She leaves.
"Okay, *now* talk. And eat. Seriously, talk with your mouth full," Harvey says,
and tears off a hunk of the bread.
"I'm... reasonably sure I can't do that," Tim says, and stares at the food with
wide, intimidated eyes.
Harvey pushes the bowl of marinara sauce closer. "Dip everything in this. Trust
me."
"I... do... all right, I'm just going to -- I'm going to eat for a moment," Tim
says, and also takes a piece of the bread, dipping it dutifully in the sauce
and taking a *cautious* bite.
He blinks --
Chews rapidly --
Swallows -- "Oh. That's... ah. That's frighteningly delicious. Actually."
Harvey grins. "It sure as hell is. Some of it's the fact that they bake the
bread fresh every day, some of it's the fresh basil I've *seen* them pulling in
from their kitchen garden... the rest of it's just a great freakin' mystery.
Eat more. And try the cheese, too, because otherwise Bruce'll eat it all."
Bruce frowns. "I did plan to save some for Tim, brother --"
"I know, I know, I'm *playing*."
Bruce nods and dips his -- third -- cheese stick in the marinara. As usual,
they have a rich and *thick* creaminess to them which meshes well with the
thin, crumbly breading and the -- somewhat -- heavy spices --
Tim has already finished his piece of bread.
Bruce pushes the cheese closer --
Tim looks *pained* --
"*Mangia*, little guy."
"Does that mean 'eat' in Italian?"
"Yep, and that's about all the Italian I know that isn't food or a curse, so
consider your education over for the day," Harvey says, and *puts* a stick in
Tim's hand.
Tim sighs, dips it, takes a bite, looks even *more* pained --
"Oh, you don't like it --"
Harvey snickers. "Yeah, he does. He's just *upset* about that. Go on, double-
dip. We'll all be sharing -- more -- germs later, anyway."
Tim dips again --
And for several moments Bruce can only watch Tim eat. With thought, it *is*
clear that his responses -- the frown of concentration; the quick, neat bites;
and the *faint* glare -- *are* all signs of pleasure, and that's too wonderful
*not* to pay attention to, too *right* --
Harvey snickers and nudges Bruce's shin with his toe. "You eat, *too*, big
guy!"
He can do that. And he does.
It takes bare minutes before they've finished the bread and cheese, and then
Tim takes a deep breath and dabs at his mouth with a paper napkin, shaking his
head.
"What's up, little guy?"
"I see a heart attack in my future if we come here more than once a month...
but I'd like to come here at least once a month," he says, and smiles ruefully.
Bruce smiles --
And Harvey grins. "Well, all right. Victory? Is ours. Now back to the --"
"Right. He spends time with me every time he... visits my mother. Between
fifteen and forty-five minutes every time. And... that's fairly often. It
occurs to me that that means that I've probably spent more time speaking with
him in the past several years than *either* of you have," and Tim raises an
eyebrow.
Harvey opens his mouth -- and looks to him.
Bruce shakes his head. "He says nothing of any consequence during family
meals... and sometimes he says hardly anything, at all."
"*Often* he says pretty much nothing. Martha runs the show during meals.
*Always*. But -- what do you get from him when he... visits?"
Tim smiles wryly. "Small talk. Polite discussion of my schoolwork and the
handful of... ah... *approved* interests that my mother has drilled me into
knowing enough about *to* discuss. The... casual, polite, and *correct*
affection of one well-bred executive for the well-bred child of another well-
bred executive."
Bruce and Harvey wince *together* --
"Jesus, little guy. That -- and he never... breaks character?"
"Not once," Tim says, focusing on the much-denuded bowl of marinara and tracing
his index finger around the rim -- and then he shakes his head and looks up.
"Before today, I always had hope that he would -- someday. Not *much* hope, as
these things go, but *some*. I don't anymore." He sucks his finger.
"Brother, I'm so sorry --"
Tim holds up a hand. "I -- let's please save that for later? There is... more I
have to say."
Bruce frowns and nods --
And Harvey nods, too. "Just remember that we're here, little guy."
"I -- no. I was going to say that I couldn't forget that, but that's not true.
My mind could make me forget that very easily, I think..." And Tim frowns
*thoughtfully* -- and shakes his head again. "I'm going to try very hard to
keep that from happening. And. And you're both going to help me."
"Damned right."
Tim nods once and looks up to meet Bruce's eyes. "What made me lose hope before
all of this was the fact that I realized, years ago, that *whatever* went on
between him and my mother behind closed doors wasn't... enough. Not enough to
change the way he related to me even when anyone that brilliant would surely be
able to see how much I *wanted* there to be change, and not enough to change
the way he related to *her* whenever there were witnesses -- *any* witnesses.
He was never rude or *cold* to her, of course -- that wouldn't be correct, at
all -- but he was also never anything but an *associate*. Even when surrounded
by people who knew the truth about them. Even at times when my mother was
*upset* about something...
"Anyway. I knew, on a deeper level, that he would choose correctness -- his
version of it -- over anything else. I knew he always *would*, that there would
be -- *could* be -- nothing that could shake him from that. A part of me still
imagined warm conversations and... and *hugs*, and other kinds of openly
affectionate filial touching happening between the two of *you* and him -- it
helped feed my jealousy and resentment *and* my hope for the future -- but it
was just a part."
Harvey frowns. "The rest of you knew better."
Tim nods. "I... I've spent a long time observing people. My mother taught me
the rudiments of it -- and beyond -- when I was still a toddler. Our -- *he*
taught me even more, when I phrased it as a question a younger executive would
ask an older one. I taught *myself* more, because. Because I was *lonely*, and
watching people can be a lot like. Like having --" Tim growls and shakes his
head --
"Brother --"
"Little guy --"
"Wait. Just -- keep waiting. Okay?"
Bruce swallows and nods.
"You -- you'll always have me, little guy. Just -- hold on to that for now."
Tim smiles ruefully at Harvey. "I -- yes. All right. I will. And... and I'll
just say this: I understand it. I understand *him*. I know -- I *think* I know
what makes him... the way he is," and Tim turns to frown at the table again.
Bruce covers Tim's hand again. "I'd like to know."
"Ditto."
Tim takes a shaky breath --
Another --
"Control. It's -- I try to control everything I can about myself, because
that's -- it's what -- it's *comfortable*. And I tell myself that it will be
useful in the future, and that's even true, but the real truth is that I can't
actually stop it, anymore. I control the way I walk, and what I eat, and how I
breathe, and how I present myself to others, and what I wear, and how I -
- everything. Just... just *everything*. I have *rules* for all of those
things, and some of those rules..." Tim swallows. "I don't even remember making
them up. I -- they're still important. To me. They're the most important --" He
shakes his head again and tugs his hand away from Bruce's --
"Brother --"
"It's too much. Right now --"
"Is it a rule, little guy?"
"Yes. Yes. And I've broken it -- so much --"
"It's a *good* rule to break --"
"I *trust* you," Tim says, and he's almost *pleading* with Harvey -- "Oh, Harv,
I trust you more than anyone in the *world*, but I, it hurts, and I'm afraid,
and I. Let me break it *later*."
Harvey frowns and searches Tim. "You won't run from me?"
"I *can't* -- I can't. Please."
Harvey nods slowly. "All right. I'll hold you to that."
Tim smiles, and it seems so *fragile* on his face -- he nods. And then Tim
turns to *him*. "I trust you, too, Bruce. More -- so much more than I want to.
And that -- it breaks more rules. So *many* more --" Tim laughs painfully. "I
just -- I want to -- part of me *admires* him for being so *good* at this. I
mean, his rules, his -- his *devotion* to his rules -- it's just another way of
*being* obsessed with control. Right?"
He and Harvey nod together --
And Tim nods, too. "And -- and once you understand that, the rest comes really
easily. At some point, in late October or early November of nineteen-sixty-
four, he *lost* control with my mother. And -- and whatever else happened that
day -- this would all be *different* if it had been an accident -- he failed to
use a condom. My mother would have, of course, eschewed birth control entirely
in a blatant and *predictable* attempt to have more of an attachment to -- to
*him*. He knew that, but he still failed. He still broke a *rule*. And there
were consequences. He --"
"Real men *deal* with the consequences of their actions, little guy," Harvey
says, frowning hard. "They *own* it, they -- look, if it somehow turns out that
me sixty-nining with the realtor today was enough to get her pregnant? I'm for
*damned* sure taking care of *my* kid."
Bruce blinks.
Tim blinks --
Bruce opens his mouth --
And Harvey blushes. "I -- uh. I kinda needed an older woman today. A *nice*
older woman. And she has -- she has that gap between her teeth. I like that."
"I... see?" And Tim stares at Harvey.
Bruce licks his lips. "Was she... enjoyable?"
"God, yeah, big guy. And I'm pretty sure she's gonna think *real* damned
positively about us now. But that's neither here nor there," Harvey says, and
turns back to Tim. "He did wrong by you. You can understand him all you *want*,
but we *both* thought he was a better man than this, and the fact that he
*isn't* is screwing us up a little."
Tim crosses his arms over his lean chest --
*Hugs* himself --
"*Brother* --"
Tim immediately sets both hands down flat on the table. "I... I'm his failure."
"Ah, Jesus, little guy, *no* --"
"To *him*. I mean -- I mean to him."
Harvey searches Tim. "*Not* to you? Not even a little? Because I *know* how
thoughts like that can run."
"I don't hate myself. I don't -- I'm going to be a hero one day, and I. I think
I'll do well, and people will... will respect me, and want to... be with me --"
"We want you *now*, brother," Bruce says, and reaches to cover Tim's right hand
--
Tim pulls it back --
Bruce winces. "I'm sorry --"
"No -- no. I'm. It's never been difficult to imagine being sexually attractive,
but not... otherwise attractive. And I don't actually have to look at either of
you to know what expressions are on your faces -- I really wish I hadn't just
said that," Tim says, and his laugh is *close* to a sob --"I'm so sorry --"
"Bruce, tell Lila that we want the rest of our food to go."
"As you say," Bruce says, and stands.
"No, no, I'm fine -- I mean. Unless you want --"
"We need to be alone with you now, brother," and Bruce tries to *will* the
knowledge of that, the *feel* of that into Tim --
"Someplace warm and quiet and maybe a little dark."
"Somewhere... at least somewhat ours."
And Harvey nods --
And Tim *swallows* and nods --
Bruce goes to the counter. Lila seems no happier about their leaving than she
was about their presence, but she does thank Bruce for the tip. Bruce carries
the food in his right hand and cups Tim's right shoulder with his left --
Harvey cups Tim's *left* shoulder --
They walk down the street *quickly* --
"Ah... you don't think..." But Tim shakes his head again.
"Please tell us, brother."
"We'll listen to *anything*."
"It's not --"
"*Anything*."
And Tim laughs. "All right. I feel like I'm in the process of being... ah...
perp-walked."
Bruce blinks --
And Harvey coughs and snorts. "You *are*. For the crime of... uh... help me out
here, big guy."
"He's been horrifically attractive."
"Oh, God, yeah. And also -- also really huggable."
"Egregiously so."
"Never seen a case this bad in my life, really. And I've been living with
*Bruce* for five years -- heh. That got a smile."
"And a blush. I'm very fond of the blushes."
Harvey sighs. "We should probably -- probably -- be less fond of the blushes,
big guy."
"Do you think so?"
"It's kinda pervy. Back me up here, Tim."
"I'm not entirely sure how much blushing Lolita *did*... but."
Bruce nods. "I see. I don't believe I'm fetishizing your youth, brother, but I
must admit that it's possible."
"Exactly, so we should probably quit it."
"Ah... can you? Either of you?" And Tim looks back and forth between them --
Bruce shares a look with Harvey --
And Harvey snickers and grins. "Not even a little. But I think I'm gonna run
screaming every time someone who even *looks* younger than me blushes in front
of me from now on. Just in case."
"Oh, but Harv --"
"No way, no talking me out of this one, big guy. I've got all the thirteen-
year-old lovers I *need*," Harvey says, whispering --
"It's not that I want more --"
"Hnn. You're both tempting me to parade my more exciting classmates in front of
you."
"Ah, Jesus, *why*?"
"For the sake of science, of course."
Bruce blinks. "That's quite cruel, brother."
*Tim* blinks. "I -- it's too much --"
"It is *not* too much," Harvey says, and *shakes* Tim by the shoulder. "Tell
him, Bruce."
"Oh, I was merely surprised. And aroused. I think I'm going to sketch you into
a lab coat."
"And spike heels."
"I --"
"That's not very practical for a laboratory environment, Harv."
"Yes, *exactly* --"
"*But* you weren't thinking practical thoughts, big guy."
"That doesn't --"
"Very true. I imagine the right sort of goggles could be quite fetching, too."
"You're losing me now, big guy."
And *both* Harvey and Tim are staring at him --
Bruce frowns. "I've always thought Doctor Mid-Nite's goggles were very
attractive and stylish."
Harvey shakes his head.
"I think... ah. Well, they're more practical than anything else, Bruce."
"Many practical things are --"
"Not those, big guy."
"Hm. Perhaps you'll see my point when I've finished my sketch."
Tim blinks -- "You've already started a sketch with me in goggles?"
Harvey snickers. "Bruce, how many sketches of Tim have you started full stop."
"Forty-nine."
"You -- when do you have *time*?"
"He doesn't sleep as much as normal humans do, little guy. It isn't just
special occasions for him. Six hours is where he maxes *out*."
Tim's expression seems *wracked* with consternation --
And Harvey ruffles Tim's hair before moving his hand back to his shoulder.
"We'll wear 'im out together," he stage-whispers.
And -- Tim blushes again.
Bruce smiles and squeezes his shoulder gently.
They walk the last two blocks in silence, and Harvey solves the 'problem' of
the stairwell being too narrow for three men abreast by throwing Tim over his
shoulder --
"What -- *Harv*!"
-- and jogging him up the stairs.
Bruce hums and follows them --
"I'm not -- I'm not *meat*!"
"Definitely not, little guy. I never buy this much meat at once."
"You didn't buy *me*!"
"I would, though. I'd spend *all* of Thomas Wayne's money for a brother like
you."
Tim blushes *deeply*, biting his lip and seeming utterly *derailed* --
And so it seems like a better time than most to tuck a lock of Tim's shoulder-
length hair behind his ear --
"Oh -- Bruce --"
"Do you prefer your hair this length?"
"No! I hate it! I only keep it this length to look innocuously fashionable."
"It's quite beautiful --"
"Yeah, but it doesn't suit him. He should have hair like a Fed."
"I'm not -- I'm not a *Fed*!"
Harvey pats Tim's posterior and stops on the third-floor landing --
"Northwest, Harv --"
"Got it," he says, and starts jogging again. "Anyway, you're *not* a Fed, but
you'd look dangerous and sexy and *older* if you wore your *hair* like one."
"I -- oh."
"Sketch it for him, big guy."
"As you say --"
"And -- heh." Harvey stops by the car. "Which of us gets little brother?"
And Bruce's arms -- ache. But -- "Brother..."
"Ah. Ah. I... presume you're talking about which of you will ride in the back
seat with me and, presumably, cuddle me until the blushing causes me to have a
stroke?"
"Got it in one, little guy," and Harvey sets Tim on his feet --
Tim straightens his clothes in a series of quick, economical motions -- "I just
don't think -- I mean. I'm going to get *used* to this."
"Uh, huh."
Tim frowns at Harvey. "I -- and then it will *stop*. That's -- that's how --"
"It'll be harder during the school year, and when Bruce has to go to train God
knows where -- but once we get your mother situated --"
"She -- ah. Blood enchanted her into... listening to me. She wasn't precisely
agreeable, but she did... agree. To everything."
Harvey blinks and looks to Bruce --- but then shakes his head. "No, no way
he'll ever enchant Martha, unless it's to keep her from walking off a damned
cliff. But... maybe Thomas?"
"We could... ask?" But Bruce can't truly -- "It would, for my tastes, be...
wrong. If it were not something which could unlock emotions which we frankly
cannot be sure *exist*."
Harvey winces. "And there's that." He blows out a breath and turns back to Tim.
"My point is this -- it'll be trickier and *rarer*, little guy, but it won't
*end*."
Tim takes a shuddering breath. "I. I. I think..."
"Please tell us, brother."
Tim squeezes his eyes shut.
"It's okay, little guy. *Whatever* you want --"
"Please -- let me comfort one of you soon. Or both of you. I promise I've been
paying attention to all of this, all of the *techniques* -- ah. Please. I would
like. I would like to... sit with Harv. For. For now."
Bruce nods once. "Then I will drive --"
"I'm sorry, Bruce --"
Bruce presses his fingers to Tim's soft mouth. "You've given me much today,
brother. I am more than capable of waiting for more."
"I." Tim shivers again and kisses Bruce's fingertips. The look he gives Bruce
from under his lashes is a *full* thing, deep and --
And *promising* --
He kisses Bruce's fingertips a second time before stepping back -- and allowing
himself to be pulled in Harvey's arms.
Bruce opens the door, unlocks the rest of the doors, and slips into the
driver's seat, giving himself a moment to only listen to the soft sounds of Tim
and Harvey getting comfortable in the back seat --
"Oh... yeah. Right there. Mm. How's that?"
"Ah... problematically wonderful, considering the fact that you're *cradling*
me --"
"I'd let Bruce do this for me every *day* if I could, little guy. And I'm
pretty sure Bruce wishes *I* were bigger at least sometimes --"
"I more often wish that I were smaller, brothers," Bruce says, and starts the
car. "There is nothing quite like being... encompassed."
"I suppose there is something *womb*-like about it --"
Harvey snickers. "Yeah, okay, we'll find you a nice girl sometime."
"Ah... how much older was the realtor?"
"Maribel Corinna Jenkins... is fifty-six years young --"
"Oh my God. What -- *what*?"
"She hardly seemed a day over forty-five," Bruce says, and pays the attendant
before pulling out into traffic.
"Are you -- I -- all right, there are *rumors* about you with older women --"
"But not that old?" Harvey snickers more. "I *usually* don't go much over
thirty-five or so, but... ah... well..."
"*What*? She was that beautiful? She wore Egyptian musk? She --"
"Brother, do you like Egyptian musk?"
"Yes, I find it incredibly arousing, which makes me wish *fervently* that Jack
Drake would stop buying it for his favorites just before dumping them."
Bruce winces. "I'm sorry --"
"No -- no. I'm sorry. I didn't meant to -- ruin the mood --"
"You didn't, little guy. We can go back to mocking my sex life *any* time now,"
Harvey says, and Bruce can see him squeezing Tim closer in the rearview mirror.
"I -- " Tim's laugh is pitched somewhat high --
He colors --
"It's just -- she's almost old enough to be your *grandmother*!"
"Oh, yeah. And her tits -- Jesus, they had to be an F-cup."
Bruce blinks. "Truly, brother? They didn't seem --"
"Minimizer bra. Real underwear architecture there, especially combined with
that panty-girdle thing. It took twenty minutes just to get her *naked*."
Tim giggles again. "But you were determined."
"You're damned right I was. She looked good, she smelled good -- normal perfume
only, though -- she *smiled* good -- better smiles than the ones she had when
we were *just* talking business, big guy."
"Oh, that's a relief."
"Uh, huh. Anyway, we rolled around on her office floor for a little while, I
convinced her to skip her post-screw smoke in favor of some post-screw screwing
--"
Bruce coughs. "Harv."
"Did I mention needing a nice older lady today? Because I think that should be
stressed. And underlined. And circled. And freakin' *italicized*."
Tim hums. "Did *she* cradle you to her bosom?"
"Damned straight. I had a *moment* when I wondered if she was, you know, a
titty demon sent to smother me --"
"Harv."
"-- *but*. It worked out fine. *And* she showed me *three* great townhouses
which we will absolutely check out as a family *tomorrow*, but I'll be shocked
if you don't pick one of 'em, big guy."
Bruce smiles helplessly. "I trust you, Harv."
"And that? Is just one of the many things in this car that's the best thing
ever."
"Ah. That... that's terrible math."
"*True*, but some things are better than math. Back me up here, Bruce."
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Harv," Bruce says in his most bland and artificial
voice --
And Harv *and* Tim snicker for it.
Bruce hums in satisfaction. "You enjoyed 2001, as well, Tim?"
"Yes! Oh -- though. The book is better."
"So everybody says," Harv says, and that sound -- he has kissed Tim somewhere.
Perhaps the top of his head. "Maybe this summer we'll get around to reading
it."
"I have a copy -- but of course you'll just buy two of your own. Ah -- never
mind."
"Hey --"
"Perhaps... I vastly enjoy borrowing other people's books, Tim."
"Oh. You do?"
Bruce nods. "Especially... do you ever... take notes?"
"Yes, I -- ah. Not *in* the books. I keep... notebooks."
Bruce hums. "Perhaps you'd loan us those, as well?"
"They're not -- the notes aren't especially --"
"The notes are your *reactions* to the story, yeah?"
"Well -- yes, Harv, but --"
"And maybe some questions, too? Things smart, thoughtful guys like us could
start conversations about?"
Tim is silent for a moment -- "I... suppose they are. At that."
"All right, then. And I love that smile."
"I certainly hope so -- oof --"
"You know we're gonna beat the shy outta you, right?"
"With your *penises*?"
Bruce considers as he turns onto Gotham River Drive, which will take them to a
hopefully un-congested Sprang bridge -- no. "Would that work?"
"I -- Bruce."
"Serious question, little guy. We gotta be efficient about these things, after
all."
"Do you?"
"Oh, yeah. Because *you* like things that way. And so do we, when it gets right
down to it," Harvey says, and Bruce looks up into the rearview mirror -- yes,
the smile on his face is as bright and wonderful as the one in his voice. He
can't quite see Tim's expression --
And Tim's sigh is both long-suffering and somewhat disgusted. "You probably
*could* make me entirely shameless just by continuing to make love with me the
way you have been."
Harvey snorts. "And that's a bad thing?"
"Some of us would like to believe --"
"It is not strength to hold yourself against love, brother."
A pause --
"Judging by the *pinched* expression on Tim's face... I'd say we just tripped
over another rule, big guy."
Bruce nods. "That is... logical."
"I don't -- want. To be pinched."
"Breathe it out then, little guy. Try to relax a little. Remember how much you
*like* this position --"
"I -- really do. I like. I love. You're my brothers."
Bruce breathes, and tries to scent his brothers on the air --
"We really are, Tim. Always."
"Yes, brother."
"I'm not -- I'm going to try. To be -- to be happy," Tim says, and shifts --
Bruce can't quite tell *how* --
"Like this, little guy?"
"Ah -- yes, please."
"Okay," Harvey says, and there's the sound of him kissing Tim again. "You can
be other things, too. Everything you feel is okay."
"Whenever you *do* feel it, brother."
"I think -- I mean -- you've both been very clear about that."
"So go with it, hunh?"
Tim hums. "I -- I'll try. All right?"
Bruce frowns -- and does his best to keep it internal. He knows --
He believes he knows what Tim needs, right now.
"Anything you say, little guy," Harvey says, and Bruce knows that Harvey knows,
as well.
Bruce drives, and they speak of inconsequential things. It turns out that Tim
has already done most of his homework for the day, and that Harvey has some few
photocopies of the listings of the more promising properties he'd viewed.
Harvey opens the pizza and insists that Bruce start picking off the slices of
pepperoni --
"He *loves* those, little guy. Here, you try --"
"I can see the *fat*!"
"That's the best *part*."
Tim likes the pepperoni, as well. There's hardly any traffic, at all, once they
make it to Worth, and they make tentative plans to see an action film the next
weekend. To him, the film sounds wildly unrealistic and somewhat ecstatically
violent in *problematic* ways --
"Ah, that's what's *good* about it, big guy! Nothing could ever *happen* like
that."
"Hnn. I think you might be 'jinxing' the world, Harv," Tim says --
"Oh, Jesus, don't even *start* that, Tim. Not until the JSA is *good* and
rested up."
"*Blood* seemed... or. No, I can't say whether he seemed rested or not. I know
Etrigan hurt him --"
"Then he was quite weak, brother. Usually, they can't hurt each other, at all,"
Bruce says, and takes the back streets into Bristol.
"Oh... I. Hm. Do you know how much... energy? It would've taken for him to
enchant my mother?"
"No clue, little guy. Bruce?"
Bruce frowns and shakes his head. "All I can be sure of is that, at his most
powerful, he can enchant with his will. Beyond that, he needs a gesture -- or
more than one. Beyond *that*, he needs his voice. And, beyond that, he needs
his... effluvia."
"He... used his blood."
"Then, yes, he was at the end of his abilities, I believe."
"Then -- I wish he would've *waited* --"
"He probably thought there was no time to lose, little guy. She was really
going after you, yeah?"
"I -- yes. But I'd rather he'd focus his attentions on saving the *world*."
"I think we *all* would, but -- I dunno. He's also gotta do what he *wants* to
do sometimes. I mean, everyone has to or they go crazy. Crazier. Craziest," and
Harvey snorts. "You know what I'm saying."
"I'm... not sure how I feel about being on his to-do list," Tim says, and
*sounds* unsure, but... not about that.
"Brother...?"
"I... there's something... else. There. I'm not sure."
The sound of another kiss. "We'll figure it out. For now... go with the fact
that he's probably resting up -- or charging up, or whatever the hell he does -
- *now*."
Bruce... smiles ruefully. "I find I hope he's devoting at least some of his
energies to... calming Mother."
Harvey snorts and coughs -- "Oh -- Jesus. Strike that moment of hysteria from
the record."
"As you say --"
"I... ah. How much do the two of you *know* about your mother's relationship
with Blood?"
"Uh... wanna field that one, Bruce?"
"It's quite possible you know more than *I* do, brother --"
"See, I don't think so. She flirts more *openly* with me, and so does Blood,
but not more *often*."
"Oh -- God. Could we forget I asked that question?"
"No, brother, it's a perfectly valid question. I... I know that Jason loves
Mother very much. Perhaps more than anyone else currently living. I know that
they *make* love quite often, and that they don't stint on the use of
intoxicants -- both natural and supernatural in variety. I know that they've
walked between dimensions, though I can't be sure what in particular that has
done for their romantic relationship. I know that they've occasionally invited
others to share their bed, people of many different genders and species --"
"Oh, God. Ah. They... told you? All of that?"
"And probably a lot *more* than that, little guy. And -- mostly Martha, yeah?"
"Yes. And, of course, I had many questions when I was younger."
"But not now?"
Bruce shakes his head. "I find... I find that there is much I wish I did *not*
know, now, brother."
"Ah, big guy..."
"It's all right, Harv --"
"It's *not* --"
"It truly is," Bruce says, and pulls onto the drive leading to the manor's main
garage. "There are, after all, many parts of myself which remain grateful to
have such a caring mother. A *sharing* mother."
"I... Bruce..." And there is hesitation in Tim's voice.
Bruce never wants that. "Please tell me, brother."
"It's... that wasn't... convincing."
Bruce frowns and parks the Lexedes next to the Accompli. He considers. He -- "I
sounded... dishonest?"
"More sarcastic, big guy."
"A little... cruel," Tim says, and sits up. "I... wouldn't have said anything -
-"
"It was familiar," Bruce says, and winces. "I'm sorry --"
"No, it -- it wasn't aimed at me --"
"And it *was* aimed at someone who richly *deserves* it, big guy."
For once. Bruce winces harder and shakes his head. "It happened -- I wasn't
*thinking* about it."
"It's *understandable* --"
"It's unacceptable," Bruce says, unbuckling his seatbelt and turning to face
his brothers, who are still close, but not -- quite -- cuddled together. "Thank
you, Tim."
Tim smiles ruefully. "You're welcome? I... that wasn't supposed to be a
question," he says, and reaches to touch Bruce's shoulder. "What do *you*
need?"
Bruce shivers -- "You. Both of you. Your guidance, your knowledge... your
affection and desire. Everything about yourselves you *can* give me. I am... I
am greedy."
Tim licks his lips -- and reaches to stroke Bruce's mouth, instead, to *press*
against Bruce's lips --
Bruce lets his eyes slip most of the way closed and kisses Tim's fingertips
once, again --
Again and again --
"I -- I'd like -- to comfort... you..."
"You are," Bruce says, and cups Tim's hand in both of his own, presses it to
his *cheek* --
"You... but of course you'd make this look simple, too," Tim says, and laughs
quietly, *ruefully* --
"He does that, little guy. You just gotta get used to it," and Harvey strokes
Tim's back --
"I suppose I do," Tim says, and leans in *nearly* smoothly -- there's a slight
hesitation at forty degrees -- to kiss the left corner of Bruce's mouth.
"Brother... another?"
Tim smiles and does it --
Bruce pushes a hand into Tim's hair --
"Oh -- wait," and Tim pulls back. "Ah... upstairs? In... one of your bedrooms?"
"As you say --"
"*Absolutely*," Harvey says, and opens the back passenger door. "We'll bring
the food with us and just hope Al doesn't catch us."
"He -- would get angry?"
"Alfred never becomes angry," Bruce says, and kisses Tim's hand one more time
before gathering the food and stepping out of the car --
Tim steps out, as well --
"What he *gets* is *snippy*," Harvey says, and leads them toward the service
entrance.
"I would say... more *concerned* about our eating habits, brother."
Harvey snickers. "I'd say something about him liking Tim better than us, but -
- heh. He cooks *French* food, little guy."
"Oh -- God. Ah."
"Yeah, you're screwed. *Deliciously*," and Harvey opens the door and holds it
for them --
"Brother, if we *tell* Alfred about Tim's eating preferences --"
"I will be *well* pleased," Alfred says, from an exact three paces away from
the door. He's dressed impeccably -- as always -- has his hands folded in front
of him, and is ignoring the food so studiously that he may as well be sneering.
"Ah. Good afternoon, Mr. Pennyworth," Tim says, and offers his hand.
"And to you, Master Timothy," Alfred says, and shakes Tim's hand briskly and
correctly. "I must insist, however, that you call me Alfred."
"I -- all right, Alfred. Please call me Tim."
"Indeed, young sir? As you say," and Alfred inclines his head. "I believe you
were discussing your dietary choices?"
"It -- I would be more than willing to eat anything you chose to prepare for --
"
Alfred raises an eyebrow.
"That is to say... my nutritionist and sensei has prepared a diet for me with a
great deal of whole grains, fresh fruits and vegetables, fresh fish, lean
meats, and dairy products. That... ah. That's what I usually prepare for myself
at home."
Alfred's hum is pleased. "Very good, Master Tim. I believe I will be able to
prepare dishes you will find suitable."
"Oh -- please don't go to any trouble --"
Alfred raises an eyebrow again.
Tim swallows. "I... would appreciate that. Thank you, Alfred."
"You are quite welcome, young sir," Alfred says, and continues not to look at
the food Bruce is carrying.
Bruce doesn't *cringe* --
Much --
And Alfred hums. "Dinner will be served at *seven* this evening, sirs, with
respect to how you've spent your afternoon."
Harvey winces. "Uh -- that's. That's good, Al. Thanks."
Alfred inclines his head and turns to Bruce. "Master Jason and I had a brief
but... instructive discussion this afternoon, sir."
"Oh... yes?"
"Yes. While he did not ask me to *detain* you... I believe he wishes to speak
with you at your earliest convenience."
Hm. "I wish to speak with him, as well. Do you know if he is... with Mother?"
Alfred's expression turns sharp --
*Hard* --
And then he almost seems to *fold* his emotions beyond a bland and helpful air
of *service*. "I cannot say with any great degree of certainty, Master Bruce,
but I believe that it would not be *untoward* for you to seek him there."
"As you say --"
"Al." And Harvey is -- staring at the floor. *His* expression is hard --
Hard enough that Tim reaches out to rest his hand on Harvey's arm *tentatively*
--
Harvey *shudders* --
"How may I be of assistance, Master Harvey?"
"You -- how much do you and Blood... chat." Harvey doesn't look up --
Alfred doesn't change *expression* -- but. His gloved hands twitch. Once.
Bruce frowns. "Alfred?"
Tim looks back and forth between them with *sharp* curiosity --
And Alfred closes his eyes, and doesn't open them again before saying: "I
consider Master Jason to be... an ally. He has been a great help with...
certain projects I have undertaken with all of myself --"
"I think." Harvey frowns more deeply, shakes his head, and looks up at Alfred.
"I need you to be more specific, Al. You -- you know everything that goes on in
this house. *Everything*."
Alfred shudders once -- and opens his eyes. "As you say, sir. You have... you
have all passed through a crucible. Perhaps more than one," he says, and takes
a deep, slow breath. "I must beg your pardon for what I am about to say, sirs."
"You have it."
"Yes, Alfred, please go on."
And Alfred turns to Tim --
Tim shakes his head -- and stops. "I -- all right. You -- please say everything
which needs to be said."
Alfred's nod is nearly *militaristic*. "Mister Blood and I first discussed the
nature of what we felt to be our duties -- our *vocations* -- some weeks after
my father's death, when I realized that your father expected me to simply pick
up where *my* father left off... despite the fact that your father was filially
*useless*, married to a woman who habitually *flirted* with her young and
*troubled* child, and that they *both* chose to live in a manor house which was
positively infested with supernatural creatures which could only be described
as actively *malignant*. Mister Blood could not tell me whether my father's
death was *due* to those creatures, but he *did* tell me that my father had
refused his protection.
"He asked me not to do the same. He asked me to stay, and to help him do what
he could to ameliorate the almost ludicrously *Gothic* situation for young
Master Bruce, because there was only so much *he* could do as the lover of the
young sir's mother. I informed him that he had a moral duty to do far more than
he *had* been doing. He informed me in turn that his only moral duties were to
his own heart. We argued -- at length," and Alfred clenches his hands together
not unlike their father had --
But then Alfred relaxes himself with deliberate care and looks at each of them
in turn before nodding.
"We argued over the course of a night. Mister Blood did not then -- and does
not now -- have any compunctions about using the morality of others against
them. When I pointed out the *depths* of manipulation to which he had sunk, he
merely smiled sadly at me, congratulated me on being an honorable young *man*,
and continued to *work* on me."
Harvey shudders. "And you gave in."
"Just so," Alfred says, and looks at each of them in turn again before smiling
wryly. "I will not say I have *never* regretted it -- I am a man of honor, but
I am still a *man* -- but I have *not* regretted the opportunity to watch you
all grow, and grow strong, and bold, and honorable, in turn," and he turns to
Tim once more. "I look forward to being able to see you without the veil of
distance between us, Master Tim."
"You -- watched me? *Why*?"
"It would be tempting to say something else insulting about your father at this
time, but I have already allowed myself far too much latitude in that respect;
and, additionally, it would not be honest. No, Master Tim, the simple fact of
the matter is that Mister Blood brought you to my attention some years ago with
a request that I do what I could to heal the breach between you and Master
Bruce." Alfred frowns then, and turns to *him*. "I confess that I remained at a
loss as to how to do such a thing, when it seemed that even Master *Harvey*
could not."
"I didn't *try*. I should've --"
"*I* should have, sir --"
"Both of you -- neither of you should take responsibility for my *failures*,"
Bruce says. "*Please*."
"Maybe not, but --"
"Master Bruce. I have built my *life* on 'taking responsibility' for you,"
Alfred says. "The fact that I have not *succeeded* in the task..." He shakes
his head. "You are all doing *quite* well now without my help. There is a
strange and *frightening* freedom on my horizon... but that is neither here nor
there." He turns back to Harvey. "Was that a sufficient answer to your
question?"
Harvey winces. "I'm... thinking of all those times when you've just kind of
appeared before Martha could do... anything."
Alfred's smile quirks. "How curious. *I* am thinking of all of the times I have
*failed* to do so."
"Al --"
Alfred raises one hand. "Please, sir. I neither require nor desire your
reassurances in this matter. It is enough to see you all growing closer, and
righting the innumerable mistakes which have been made in your rearing. Now.
Was it a sufficient answer?"
"I -- yeah --"
"Ah. I have a question," Tim says, and frowns thoughtfully.
"Yes, Master Tim?"
"What... what's the difference between 'Master Jason' and 'Mister Blood'?"
Alfred's smile is... secretive. *Private* -- until it isn't. He hums a laugh.
"There are several answers to that question, young sir. One: 'Master Jason' is
a part of this household, with the rights and responsibilities thereof. 'Mister
Blood' is an occasionally welcome outsider. Two: 'Master Jason' is one of my
charges, however... ironically. 'Mister Blood' is my sometime ally and the
object of my most *sharp* resentment. Three: 'Master Jason' is someone of whom
I've grown quite fond. 'Mister Blood' is someone who I will never, ever fully
trust. Four: 'Master Jason' is a terrible joke between two old men with very
little affection for your father. 'Mister Blood' --"
"Is a *worse* joke between two old men who rather enjoy playing games with
*formality*," Jason says, and smiles at Alfred from the doorway leading into
the hall.
Alfred sniffs. "It is *not* a game, Mister Blood."
Jason raises an eyebrow --
Alfred purses his lips --
And Jason laughs and bows with a flourish. "As you say, of *course*, Alfred. I
haven't the *faintest* clue what I was thinking," and he turns to look at Bruce
and his brothers -- "Young men. *Capital* to see you all again... but."
"You'd like to speak with me alone," Bruce says, and hands Harvey the pizza and
the bag with the rest of their food. "I'm at your disposal."
Jason's smile is wry and gentle. "I'd rather be at *yours*, Bruce. Well. I
promise to be brief."
"I... don't."
Jason raises an eyebrow at him -- and then nods. "As you will. If you will all
excuse us?"
Alfred inclines his head --
Tim steps closer to Harvey --
And Harvey jerks his chin at him. "We'll be right next door in my room, big
guy."
And that... "Perhaps... you could go to Tim's room, instead?"
"My -- but --"
"Oh, it's *absolutely* your room now, little guy. And it *will* be until we
move out."
"I --"
"And, perhaps, for some time after that," Alfred says, and gives them all a
*stern* look. "*Seven* o'clock."
They nod their agreement -- and go their separate ways. And it feels like an
*exceedingly* separate way once Jason gestures and the hall in front of them
seems smudged and unreal.
"Jason...?"
"Follow me *precisely*, Bruce. Do *not* turn left or right, and do *not* look
back."
"I -- as you say," Bruce says, and steps into... shadow. At least, that's how
it seems. The darkness is both visually complete and tangibly insubstantial. It
seems *desperately* unreal, though Bruce could not say, with any degree of
certainty, what would make it seem *more* real.
Still, it only lasts for five paces before he and Jason are in a large,
rectangular room lit by wall sconces which seem to have been only *slightly*
altered from the days when they would've held torches. There are, in fact,
smoke stains on the walls and ceiling which aren't completely covered by the
many tapestries and -- full seemingly to *groaning* -- bookshelves.
The floor is covered with a rather riotous profusion of rugs. All of them are
quite tasteful and beautiful, but there are at least a dozen different artistic
styles on the top layer alone, and some of the rugs seem older than the
*manor*.
Bruce tries to walk carefully as he looks around --
"No need for *that*, Bruce -- though I would appreciate it if you were to take
off your shoes." *Jason* is barefoot -- there is no sign of the boots he was
wearing -- and wiggling his long toes on the fraying edge of a Persian.
Bruce nods and crouches to remove his boat shoes and socks, setting them near
the door. Barefoot, the older rugs feel even older than *that*, gaining a
texture not unlike suede in some places, and not unlike hemp cord in still
others.
Of course, some of the rugs could *be* backed with hemp --
"You know... I do believe you're the first person I've brought in here to
*ever* spend this much time focused on the rugs."
"They're quite fascinatingly *old*, Jason."
"And?"
Hm. Bruce smiles and looks up to meet Jason's dark eyes. He's taken one of the
two comfortably-battered-looking armchairs near the unlit stone fireplace; his
legs are crossed at the knee, and there is an unlit clove cigarette between the
fingers of his left hand.
"Do tell..."
"I'm rather terrified by the prospect of looking more closely at anything else
in this room, Jason."
Jason makes a moue... but there is a soft and *welcoming* amusement in his
eyes...
Bruce sighs and moves to join him. "May I?"
"Please do. It wasn't especially easy to find chairs of this sort which were
designed with taller people in mind, but I did my diligence for a *reason*."
Bruce sits down. "Are many of the Justice Society members quite tall?"
Jason raises an eyebrow. "Green Lantern and the Flash are. The rest... average.
The chair was for *you*, Bruce."
"I... but. You must have purchased this chair --"
"Fifteen years ago. Sometimes I am... precipitous," Jason says, and steeples
his fingers. "Eager, too."
"How did you know I *would* grow so tall?"
"Well, for one thing, dimensions with yous in them tend to be filled with
irritatingly tall people just in general --"
"I... what?"
Jason laughs. "In *many* dimensions *my* height is average, Bruce. Or even
taller than average."
"*Truly*?"
"You need not seem *that* shocked."
"I -- oh. I'm very sorry --"
Another laugh -- and Jason waves a hand. "You're forgiven. And you're a tall,
vast *bear* of a man in *every* dimension I've peered in on -- whatever else
you are."
"I... don't suppose there are taller, vaster --"
"Bearier?"
"Hm. Yes, please ignore that question for being ridiculous."
But Jason's smile is soft again. "There's a young man growing up in Kansas -
- he's sixteen at the moment -- who will, assuming all goes well, eventually be
*somewhat* larger than you are... as well as being a great friend to you and
your brothers."
Bruce brightens helplessly. "Would you tell me more of him?"
"I'll tell you the important things: He is an alien who looks entirely human,
save for the rather daunting *perfection* of his form. Many Bruces find this
desperately suspicious, but, truly, it's through no fault of his own --"
"You find him to be beautiful?"
"Oh, yes. *Very* many people do. He has a certain... hmm... cheerful innocence?
Homey friendliness? Gentle kindness?"
Bruce frowns. "But... *you* find him to be beautiful."
Jason laughs softly and drags the tip of his tongue over the edges of his
teeth. "He's also, as I've said, quite perfect physically. Breathtaking.
*Every* time I see him in his adult form, I wind up wanting to plaster armor
all over him and shove a great, big sword into his hand. Not that he'd need
*either*."
"He is powerful."
"Mm-hmm. Strength, speed, stamina... and all sorts of other things. Eventually,
if things move in this dimension as they have moved in many others, various
people will in *turn* be moved to worship him as a god."
Bruce -- blinks. "I... don't like that."
"Neither will he -- if all the lessons his adoptive human parents are currently
teaching him take. But... he is being raised by *very* American people of a
particular stripe you *would* like: he believes in freedom, and he would never
interfere."
"He is... your ally in other dimensions?"
Jason inclines his head. "But *mostly* yours. In some... I daresay he becomes
another brother."
Bruce blushes. "That would be... I find that I would like a large family."
Jason smiles sharply. "I *think* that could be arranged... if, perhaps, not in
the ways you're imagining."
"How do you mean?"
"The JSA will not know quite what to make of you and Timothy once the two of
you make your debut. While you will -- undoubtedly -- model yourselves after
them for the *most* part..."
"There will be... changes. Yes, that is true. I've begun to wonder if their
attempts to carefully regulate the amount of violence they offer to *all* of
the criminals they face is the correct approach."
Jason raises an eyebrow. "Do tell."
"I have not thought this through to the extent I wish to, Jason, but..." Bruce
frowns and shakes his head. "The problem of recidivism is quite great,
especially with their more powerful enemies. I... have you ever been tempted --
"
"To murder them with malice aforethought? Of course," and Jason lights his
cigarette... somehow.
Bruce doesn't catch it. "They refused to allow it."
"Mm-hmm," and Jason takes a long drag, then very deliberately blows large rings
which seem to *bind* him -- for a moment. "They've made it quite clear that I
would be listed among their enemies if I did anything of the kind."
Bruce shakes his head again. "Some of those people have, in their turn, been
responsible for *dozens* of deaths."
"And they likely will be responsible for far more by the time all is said and
done," and Jason smiles wryly again. *Fondly*. "The JSA may very well recoil
from you, Bruce."
"Oh -- no --"
"Yes. And *part* of it -- in their minds, anyway -- will be your youth. What
they *perceive* as your youth."
"I -- hm. I am not sure of their ages, though I believe Tim is."
"Black Canary is the youngest... at thirty-eight. The rest of them have a full
generation -- or more -- on you and your brothers."
"And that... will make a difference."
"Just so."
"I must... Tim and I *must* try not to *antagonize* them --"
"To be sure, I would not recommend that. But... more than that, the two of you
must remain true to your *own* visions and beliefs."
"Have you... scryed?"
"On that topic in particular? Not recently. But... I don't have to. You and
Timothy -- and Harvey, in other ways -- move and *shape* the dimensions you
inhabit. You must not chain yourselves down."
"But... I would think --"
"That you should chain yourselves more?" Jason looks thoughtful and wags his
head as he takes another drag, holding the smoke within himself for a time
before exhaling slowly and somewhat dramatically -- oh. The smoke forms a
complex dragon -- faintly Chinese in appearance -- in the air as the world
fills with the scent of cloves and other spices.
Bruce smiles and hums. "I remember you doing that when I was a child. I could
never quite convince myself that I couldn't *hold* your creations if I simply
tried harder."
Jason laughs. "And you tried very, very hard," he says, and smiles. "You were
adorable. And *odd*."
"Was I very different from other children?"
Jason waves a hand. "The concept of 'childhood' -- as you know it -- is quite,
quite new, Bruce. It's only *very* recently that people have begun treating
their children as anything but oft-conveniently smaller and weaker adults. I
would be vastly surprised if your father wasn't raised that way. Your mother
certainly was... to the extent that she was raised, at all."
Bruce... winces --
"But we do not have to discuss them yet," Jason says, and takes another drag.
He holds this one only briefly before exhaling in a roughly horizontal line --
And the smoke forms into small figures trudging -- that cannot truly be called
a 'walk' -- into what seems to be a *mine*.
"I... child labor."
"For a very, very, *very* long time it was simply called *labor*, you know."
Bruce nods. "Yes, I... my perspective must be hopelessly modern."
"I quite like it. But... from *my* perspective, this vast and *mostly* Western
experiment with allowing children most of a generation to learn and *play* and
grow and *play* and *play* before sending them out to earn a living is
*bizarre*. And it has led to some marvelously bizarre *things*."
"The student movement?"
"Yes, that, but, in my experience, people given *enough* freedom will almost
always start to agitate for more no matter how old they are."
Bruce blinks. "I... believe I need to study that."
Jason smiles. "Feel free," and he takes another, longer drag. He --
"Where is the ash?"
Jason chuckles -- and the smoke forms the monsters from Where the Wild Things
Are --
"Oh -- very good --"
He inclines his head -- and points with his free hand to a large, shallow bowl
on the desk which is some six paces away... with a neat pile of ash in the
center.
The answer, as ever, is 'magic,' but. "You will use the ash for a ritual?"
"I haven't decided, yet. But -- 'waste not, want not.'"
"Very true --"
"Children love different things than adults do, for different reasons. The same
is true for their hates. A child's faith can create -- and has created -- new
*deities*. The loss of a child's faith can bring worlds crashing *down* -- and
it can happen in an *instant*. A child can be *innocent* -- and while *some*
adults can manage that feat, *they* have to work for it. A child's sexuality
can be singular and pure -- assuming it exists in any way which can be measured
-- and, while adults *can* corrupt it for their own use, there is a certain
spark, a certain physical-spiritual *power*, that remains until the child is
*pubescent*... and sometimes even beyond. A child can be made to weep with
ludicrous ease, and made to laugh even more easily than that. A child... well,
there's more, but I think you take my point?"
"Children are... fundamentally different from adults. In ways you never
expected?"
"Oh, yes. Despite my *long* life and *years* of observation. It took mass -
- relative -- wealth and *leisure* to create the sort of freedom in which
'childhood' could thrive." Jason takes two quick drags, then exhales a spiced
*mist* which extinguishes the 'cherry' on the end of the two-thirds denuded
cigarette. A twist of his fingers -- it's gone. "While there had always been
the occasional pampered son or favored daughter, one couldn't really *count*
those, as they were most often raised without equals of any kind."
"True childhood requires companionship?"
"If not *that*, then the promise of same... I *think*. *You*... were odd."
Bruce smiles ruefully. "I'd had my suspicions."
"Oh, Bruce. If you *hadn't* grown up terrifically odd -- with the influences
and *pressures* surrounding you -- I would've been forced to assume you were a
changeling."
Bruce would like to laugh at that -- he believes his brothers would -- but...
he stares at the dry and undoubtedly well-seasoned wood in the fireplace,
instead.
And Jason sighs. "She regrets what she did today, you know."
Mother... Bruce swallows and nods.
"She... well. I couldn't convince her *not* to make the call to your father,
but it did not take long to impress upon her the *meaning* of what she had
done."
"What... what, precisely, did she say. To him."
"That doesn't bear repeating... save for one sentence: 'Do you know what *your*
son is doing?'"
Bruce -- inhales sharply.
"I see I don't have to --"
"She denied me."
"For a moment, only."
"She -- she said she would never..." Bruce frowns and *grips* the arms of the
chair so that his hands will not shake.
"There is... a hollow space within her heart --"
"You have never been able to fill it."
"No," Jason says, and there is a *gentle* smile in his voice --
Bruce can't make himself look up to see it --
"You have, though. For extended stretches of time."
Bruce shivers. "I don't... I don't want this."
"Then you never have to take it," Jason says, and his voice is calm and sure,
*steady*.
Bruce takes a shuddering breath --
Another --
*Another* --
"Never, Bruce."
He -- he looks at Jason, and meets his eyes. He --
He forces himself to *think* --
And a blush takes his face immediately. "This... is why you chose not to make
love with me when I was thirteen."
Jason raises an eyebrow -- and laughs softly. "Let's say it was *one* of the
reasons why."
Bruce shakes his head. "You knew she would... want to see it."
"I knew she would *demand* to *share* it."
"And you... do not deny her."
"No, I do not."
"Because you love her."
Jason inclines his head.
"Even though --" But Bruce does not need to ask that question. Even if his
brothers didn't care for him, at all, he would still need to do what they
wanted him to do, so long as it didn't hurt someone innocent --
He loves *them* -- and --
And. "I desire her."
"I did not think you would survive your adolescence without that... popping up,
as it were," and Jason smiles ruefully. "You're moving out, though."
"Yes."
"You need never --"
"Jason." And Bruce frowns. He can't -- he frowns --
"I am listening, Bruce."
"Would you. Would you prefer it if I were to shut her out of my life."
"No."
Bruce takes a shuddering breath -- "Please tell me why."
"Because neither of you would be happy with that solution."
"Why. Why do you think that I..." But Bruce can't finish that sentence. He
can't --
He can only *stare* at Jason --
His hands are shaking *anyway* --
"Oh, Bruce... does it help, at all, to know that she is just as helpless to
*you*?"
"She -- she isn't."
"She is. She could not..." Jason shakes his head. "It is, of course, wildly
inappropriate to say the *least*. She is your *mother*, and, as such, should
never have put you in the positions she has put you in. Hold to that. *Hold* to
that."
"I... am trying. But tell me more."
Jason nods. "I will. I will answer all of your questions -- well. She was never
truly happy when you were unhappy, and, thus, she has never been *happier* than
she's been for the last five years --"
"When I have had Harvey."
"Just so --"
"Her interest -- her interest is prurient, Jason."
"Her interest is prurient as *well* as being other things entirely. It... I can
show you --"
"I don't --" Want to see. Bruce frowns and turns back to the fireplace. He --
He has always wanted Mother's happiness, and her happiness in *him*.
She's so beautiful, and her smiles are radiant, bright and sharp and wise, as
avid as a bird's -- but.
"How long has she been troubled, Jason."
Jason sighs softly. "I cannot answer that question with *exactitude*, Bruce --"
"Longer... longer than you've known her."
"Yes."
"Longer than her marriage to my father."
"I believe so, yes."
Bruce nods and wishes for a fire to watch, patterns to study, to *desire* to
grasp --
But he'd learned that lesson when he was two, and Mother had wept over his
reddened fingers --
Her tears had stung in so many *ways* --
But then Jason had given Mother something small and blue to eat --
Jason had whispered something in a language that made Bruce's *mind* feel blue
--
And Mother had stopped weeping and immediately started singing the feeding
song, even though it wouldn't be time for that for hours. Bruce was hungry
instantly anyway --
And her milk had *tasted* blue in the minutes before Bruce had fallen asleep.
He'd woken up in his crib completely healed, though with a strange and
fascinating and *thick* layer of dead skin on both hands.
He --
She'd spent time with him every *day* -- for *hours*, even when she had work to
do for the Foundation.
She'd smiled for his earliest sketches, and suggested things to help him
practice.
She'd hugged him when he was lonely and promised to never *leave* him.
She'd danced for him --
Bruce shudders and turns back to Jason. "What do you want for -- what would you
advise I do about Mother."
Jason smiles wryly. "Those are two very different questions... with very
different answers."
Bruce takes a deep breath and nods. "Please answer both."
"As you will. My *advice*... is that you get out of Wayne Manor as quickly as
possible and never come back, that you cut off *all* ties to your parents -
- you have more than enough money to make your own way, and there will be even
more when you're twenty-five, no matter *what* Martha and Thomas choose to do -
- and that you join your brothers in seeking *intensive* therapy. Tell *all*
the secrets to some wise and brilliant young alienist with a lot of patience
and a strong stomach, and do your best to lead long, healthy lives in the
daylight. As much as is possible. I have my doubts about Timothy, but I think
you and Harvey could do quite well, and perhaps even acquire wives and
children."
Bruce... stares at Jason.
Jason spreads his hands. "You did ask."
"So I did. What of your desires?"
"I want you to move out of the manor as soon as humanly possible... *after* you
allow your mother to apologize to you for breaking faith. I want you to use
every last *dime* you can get out of your parents to build -- with Timothy -- a
vigilante *nation* --"
"What?"
"There *will* be others, Bruce. Most of them will be younger than you are -
- and some of them will be *significantly* younger -- but you *will* have the
emotional, intellectual, physical, and *fiscal* resources to train them and
*raise* them --"
"But --"
"Bruce. There will *be* a need."
Bruce draws back. "You -- know this."
Jason nods once.
Bruce shivers. "I -- please go on."
Another nod. "I want you to visit your mother... fairly often. We could, if
you'd like, arrange it so that there would always be a third party present...
but you are not the same young man you were last week -- or this morning, for
that matter. She has less power over you, and *you* have more control. With
those facts in mind, I believe you could continue your relationship with a
great deal of pleasure for both of you --"
"Do you." Bruce frowns and forces himself to continue to meet Jason's eyes.
Jason smiles gently again. "A part of me is afraid that, were you to ever make
love with her, she would never welcome *me* to her bed again. That part would
like for you to have even *more* control, and would *happily* cloak itself in
the trappings of mainstream morality if it helped the medicine go down any more
*efficiently*."
"Jason, I would certainly never *take* her from you! I didn't want that even
when I was -- when I was more ignorant."
"Innocent."
"Perhaps. I --" Bruce shakes his head. "I would never --"
"You would not be the only one in the relationship, Bruce," Jason says, and
smiles again, steepling his fingers.
"She... she is so faithless?"
Jason closes his eyes and takes a deep breath -- and then opens them again.
"She has made me no promises, Bruce. And I sincerely doubt that she ever will."
Bruce frowns. "She made my father promises --"
"And she bore him a son; remains married to him; presents herself at his side
*every* time society demands such a thing; and never, ever lets the world know
one single thought in her head about how she truly feels about him. She will
live with him until the day he dies. She will carry *his* name until the day
*she* dies. The rest..." He waves a hand. "Dross."
"I wish... I wish better for you."
"And I for you, Bruce. But... we can have something *quite* good *enough* -- I
think."
Bruce nods thoughtfully, leaning back in the chair and crossing his own legs.
He --
He lets himself think, and imagine a world -- a life -- where Mother is a
presence for tea and cakes, for decorating advice, for hugs and *casual*
flirtation that they'll *both* know will never go anywhere. A life where Mother
is... his mother?
Could that happen? Ever?
He doubts it, but he could *live* that way. It wouldn't be a *terrible* lie. It
might, in fact, be a *helpful* lie, a lie that sets ground rules and
*boundaries*. When he was a boy -- a lonely and *odd* boy -- boundaries were
just another refusal, another way to be *cold*. Now...
Oh, but...
Is he being ungrateful?
Is he... could it be a matter of him being *spoiled* by what he has with his
brothers?
Mother was there for him when *no* one else was --
Jason hums. "About that rather *thunderous* frown on your face..."
"I... there is... guilt."
"About...? No, let me guess: You feel that you owe your mother more than you
wish to give her."
"I *do* --"
"You do not. You have spent your *life* living, in *large* part, for her. The
fact that you found such things enjoyable does not make them less than what
they *are*, Bruce."
"And does not make the end of such things less *painful* --"
"For both of you," Jason says, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward with his
hands hanging between his knees. "You must live *your* life now, Bruce. By all
means keep her *in* it... but do not let her *own* it."
Bruce frowns again --
"Bruce --"
"How. How, Jason? *How* do I let her *go*?"
Jason smiles wryly. "I *could* be wrong, but I believe you have *two* brothers
--"
"I mustn't bury myself in *them*!"
Jason coughs *falsely* --
"Oh -- *Jason*!"
"I'm *very* sorry. It's just that that was a *lovely* straight line -- well. To
be *serious*... trust in Timothy to set boundaries for the two of you, and
learn from him."
"And... not Harv?"
"Harvey would give his life and soul for you a thousand times over if he could.
I daresay Timothy would *like* to feel that way about someone, but my
observations of the assorted Timothys in the multiverse suggest that such
things are beyond him."
"He's hardly cold! And -- he's very loving --"
"Oh, yes. You'll get no argument from me *there*. As a matter of fact, the time
may come when your younger brother will find himself madly in love with
*several* people -- it's happened many times, after all -- but... not the way
Harvey loves. And *not* the way *you* love."
"It... seems wrong to talk about him this way."
Jason shows his teeth. "Because the way you love is the *best* way, Bruce...?"
Bruce -- blushes. "I... hm. I didn't -- hm. I suppose I did imply that. I
believe I'm going to have to... think about that."
"Yes, *do*. In the *meantime*... love the people who would never, ever hurt you
-- even if you rejected *their* love for a time."
Bruce nods, uncrossing his own legs and resting his hands on his thighs. "I
want her to be happy, even without me."
"I promise to do my best. I *also* promise that she has, over the past twenty
years, learned any number of ways to make *herself* happy."
"She... didn't know how before then?"
"From what she has told me -- and from what I have scryed -- she seemed to have
*mostly* known ways to forget her *un*happiness."
"How much do you know about her childhood?"
Jason shrugs. "A fair amount. Judith Kane was loving, but died young -- almost
certainly thanks in *some* way to Edward Kane. Edward Kane decided that he
wouldn't make another heir -- that he would, instead, marry Martha to the most
suitable male to come along -- and so spent Martha's childhood grooming her to
be... bait. He chose her companions with that in mind, and her schooling, and
her tailors... everything. When he couldn't find anyone he liked better by the
time she graduated from high school, he settled on your father. Jonah Wayne,
however, demanded a college graduate for a daughter-in-law. Martha was duly
packed off to Radcliffe, and there she began fine-tuning the lessons she had
already learned about easing her pain.
"She was not told that her marriage had already been arranged. She..." Jason
shakes his head and lifts his hand to tick off points. "Alcohol; recreational
drugs; equally recreational lesbianism; long, late nights at jazz clubs --"
"Is -- *is* Mother bisexual?"
"Oh, quite... but you must understand that she is of a generation which...
well. I doubt she'll ever *admit* it. Or even allow herself to fully
*understand* it."
Bruce frowns again. "That... is difficult to understand."
"Yes, I imagine it is for a boy from *your* generation." Jason laughs and
shakes his head again. "Do you know... I've scryed futures when there are
openly homosexual heads of *state*."
"Oh -- but that's wonderful!"
"Mm-hmm. And *powerfully* odd to the squire in me who rather likes taking it up
the fundament from that one *gentle* knight with the seemingly endless supply
of sheep grease, and who knows -- *knows* -- that *homosexuals* are the
*devil's agents on earth*."
"I... hm."
Jason laughs brightly. "And? There was *nothing* odd about *either* aspect of
my point of view at the time. Nor for hundreds of years before and after."
"I believe I take your point."
Jason hums and leans back, crossing his legs again. "I thought you would. In
any event, your mother --"
"Wait -- please. I have a question."
"Go on."
"I've always wondered if I should be calling you... Iásōn."
"Bruce."
"No?"
"I am ancient. I am *not* Greek."
"Then -- Guthlac?"
He sighs. "As pleasing to the ears as your *excellent* pronunciation of that
*is*... my *name* is Jason Blood. It has been for *quite* a long time, and I
expect that it *will* be for a long time yet to come."
"As you say. But..."
"Yes, Bruce?"
"What does it mean to you?"
Jason turns toward the fireplace -- which blazes suddenly, and shows a trireme
full of happy companions --
A compactly muscled man lifting what can *only* be a fleece high --
That same man falling to his knees in grief and guilt and horror --
And then the fire is gone and Jason is smiling at him wryly. "I chose the name
Jason because it suited the prima donna in me to be known as a *flawed* hero,
and it was a much more *subtle* name than Hercules or Gilgamesh..."
"And the surname Blood?"
Jason smiles with teeth. "Because I believe in truth in advertising."
Bruce hums. "As you say --"
"But -- it *is* my name now, which means that both aspects of it mean both more
and *less* than their original components. It has always, *always* pleased me
to be Jason to you."
Bruce smiles. "You always will be."
Jason tilts his head to the side. "What a wonderful son you would've been to
parents who could *be* parents."
"Even with all of my oddness?"
"*Good* parents cope with such things *without* running away to their
mistresses *or* needing to have their milk enchanted away from them."
"I... feel strongly that I shouldn't ask the question that is coming to mind."
Jason laughs softly and folds his hands on his knee. "Probably not, no."
"She breastfed me until I was four."
"She did, yes."
"That... is strange?"
"Oh, yes. In this day and age."
"Hm."
"Though..."
Bruce laughs and rubs at his temples for a moment. "I believe I would like to
hear something... positive... about that."
"Being as how lactating women are something of a *kink* of mine -- shagging
wetnurses at a young, impressionable age will *do* that -- I follow the news
about such things."
"I... yes?"
"Your rather phenomenal health and *size* may be, at least in part, *due* to
the lengthy breastfeeding."
Bruce raises an eyebrow.
Jason shrugs again. "The studies are ongoing."
"Hm."
"Yes?"
"I wish... that I were not thinking of Mother's breasts."
"Would you like me to help with that?"
Bruce blinks. "You... could?"
"I cannot change the way you feel about her -- at all -- but I can build
something of a detour within your mind. It wouldn't redirect *all* of your
thoughts. You would need a spirit-mage for that, and none of the ones *I* know
are powerful enough -- or not-*evil* enough -- to make it *work*. But... your
most *focused* sexual thoughts about her could be... turned aside."
"I... don't understand why you didn't do this *before*, Jason."
"You were doing it for *yourself* quite handily, Bruce. And... I do *try* not
to do this sort of thing to people I like."
"It's dangerous?"
"It's... the wrong sort of meddlesome?" Jason laughs again and shakes his head.
"It is an odd and often pointless morality, considering how *very* often I
dabble my fingers in the business -- and the *minds* -- of others, but it is
mine."
"What... where is the difference for you, Jason? What *makes* one wrong and one
not?"
And Jason's smile is old --
*Hurt* --
"Or... we need not speak of --"
"We do, Bruce. We *truly* do," Jason says, breathing deep and *gripping* his
knee for a moment -- and then relaxing his hands. "I have watched people I
loved fall into *pits* of their own devising, Bruce. Pits of pain, of
suffering, of fear and *trauma*. If they had faced their fears and pains -- if
it had been *possible* for them to face those things without further pain -- or
without months and years and *decades* of the sort of slow healing and growth
which is never *guaranteed*..." Jason frowns into the distance and closes his
eyes -- no. He *seems* to close his eyes, but, when he turns, it becomes clear
that they are still open *enough* to catch the light. "I can make such things
easier, sometimes, and I often choose to do just that. I can... I can *speed*
things, so that the people I care about can *leave* the pits within their souls
*faster*. Do you... well. The way I phrased that *demands* that you understand
it. That you *agree*," and Jason laughs somewhat derisively at himself.
"Jason..."
He waves one long-fingered hand. "A moment, Bruce. When I was involved with
Morgan, I spent a great deal of time hiding truths from myself. Truths about
her, truths about Mordred, truths about the Round Table, truths about myself
and what I was *becoming*... et cetera. In the end, all of that hiding led to a
very large number of good people dying terrible deaths -- and to me sharing my
soul with a demon who loathes me *just* as much as I loathe him... for all that
we respect one another well enough. Do I need to continue?"
Bruce shakes his head. "Because denying the truth cost you so much, you refuse
to do it anymore. And... it would feel like hurting a friend to help that
friend hide the truth from himself."
"Precisely. Which is not to say that I *don't* do it. I am not *consistent*. I
have taken traumatic memories from Harvey and *inconvenient* memories from
Timothy --"
"'Inconvenient'?"
"Oh, yes. I can tell *you* all sorts of things about the future without you
losing your focus on the *present*. Timothy... has been waiting for the future
for a very long time."
Bruce frowns. "But... why would a focus on the future *hurt* Tim?"
Jason's smile is -- quiet, not private. Still *old* -- "Let us say... that
Timothy's priorities could be shifted away from his desire to be a hero *now*
to his desire to learn as much as humanly possible about the multiverse and the
space-time continuum so as to manipulate it -- and bring him closer to a place
where *he* can have a large, loving family."
Bruce frowns again, but -- "Even... even Harv had a loving mother for a time."
"And Timothy did not."
"Jason, I don't want to keep him from *love*."
"You won't. You will merely keep him in his *own* time, and on his *own*
path... which will, if I have anything to do with it -- and I plan to -
- involve a great deal of both happiness and love."
"It... is not wrong to have to wait for things to happen at their proper
times."
"Just so."
Bruce nods. "I will keep that duly in mind."
Jason smiles at him fondly, *warmly* -- "I know you will."
"And -- I will keep my thoughts as they are."
"You *don't* have to --"
Bruce raises a hand. "I will not ask a friend to go against his own morality,
or his own heart."
"Oh -- Bruce. Promise me you'll let me dress you up in plate armor *someday*."
Bruce blinks. "If... you'd like?"
"I *truly* would. And I promise to use the *softest* wool for the padding, and
then we can find you a truly *magnificent* destrier to ride --"
"Do... people still *breed* warhorses?"
*Jason* blinks. "*Don't* they? Why would they *stop*?"
"I... would think the march of military progress --"
"Which *your* family has paddled their filthy little hands in --" And Jason is
frowning... thunderously.
"I'm sure that... specialty breeders..."
"Horses are *wonderful* animals, you know."
"Yes, they can be quite intelligent --"
"And *loyal*. And *wise*. And -- they smell so much *better* than most humans -
- do you know what we used to *do* to people who abused horses?"
"I... imagine it wasn't pleasant --"
"No, it was *not*," and Jason crosses his arms over his chest and scowls.
"Mother... Mother said you owned horse farms --"
"I *do*. *Several*."
"You could... breed destriers of your own? Perhaps from... hm. I... actually
know nothing about the breeding of horses."
Jason gives him a withering look.
"I'm sorry."
Jason's scowl grows dark enough to shadow the *room* -- no, those are actual
shadows creeping toward them from places Bruce can't quite *see*.
"I -- Jason." Bruce gestures.
Jason blinks again. "Oh -- Hecate's jiggly tits. One moment," Jason says,
closing his eyes and inhaling --
And inhaling --
And inhaling all of the shadows.
They shiver *together* --
And then Jason opens his eyes and smiles ruefully. "Terribly sorry. Horses
are... important to me."
"It's quite all right. I've often wondered what it would be like to have a
companion animal --"
"*Get* one."
"Harv is terribly allergic --"
"Get one which will not *cause* allergic reactions. A Sphynx cat, as an
example."
"Hm. Is their fur --"
"Nonexistent."
"Is... I... hm."
"Some people find them hideous. I find them rather beautiful, in a faintly
alien way. They're rather rare and somewhat expensive, but you *are*
staggeringly wealthy."
"I'll have to ask my brothers --"
"Of course. But I think *both* of your brothers would appreciate someone small,
intelligent, and inclined towards purring and being petted."
"As you say. Why don't you -- but. You have your horses."
"All forty-three of them. Forty-four when Gemma foals sometime next week,"
Jason says, and smiles proudly.
"I would like to visit with them sometime."
"Then we'll do just that."
"Do you... ride them?"
"The ones who enjoy that sort of thing. Mostly I overfeed them, curry them
until my arms are numb, and make sure that they're happy and comfortable."
Bruce nods and frowns. "That last is the most frightening aspect of the whole
thought exercise."
Another fond smile. "The animal in question *will* tell you what she or he
needs, Bruce. You simply have to be open to it."
"And you're speaking of a non-magical openness."
"Oh, yes."
"Hm. I suppose we'll see," Bruce says, and smiles back -- and realizes that he
feels... better.
*Cleaner*.
"I -- thank you, Jason."
Jason raises an eyebrow -- but inclines his head with another smile. "You're
quite welcome."
"You have been..." Bruce stands and offers Jason his hand. "I don't know what
my life would have looked like without you."
Jason hums and stands as well, gripping Bruce's forearm. "I have some ideas
about that... and you *usually* manage to do all right for yourself, sooner or
later."
Bruce returns the gesture, shivering internally for the dry and *ominous* heat
he can feel even through Jason's clothes. "I find I doubt that."
"*I* find that you don't have *nearly* enough faith in yourself. Perhaps your
brothers will change that."
"I... Jason."
"Yes?"
"Were you ever attracted to me? Sexually, I mean."
Jason's expression is *sour*.
"Or -- I could rescind that question --"
"*Yes*, Bruce, I was attracted to you then and I am attracted to you now. I
also *quite* enjoy breathing oxygen, having orgasms, and saying mean things
about your father."
Bruce coughs into his free fist. "I... see."
Jason laughs and pulls him into a hug. "Come here, you vast mountain of a boy.
I love you very much --"
"Oh -- you've never -- I mean --"
"Shh," Jason says, and kisses Bruce's cheek. "Some words are dangerous to
say... sometimes."
Bruce squeezes Jason -- tightly. "I love you, too, Jason. Thank you for
everything."
Jason grunts -- "You're welcome, as I've said --"
"I want -- to keep saying it."
Jason hums... with some degree of strain. "*I* want to *breathe*."
Bruce winces and relaxes his grip. Somewhat. "I'm sorry --"
Jason pulls back and cups Bruce's face with both hands. "When your mother
wishes to summon me, she pricks her finger and bleeds into a bowl of wine. I've
told her countless times that that's not *necessary*... well. *Call* me. Day or
night. I do not sleep."
Bruce shivers again and nods. "I will. And... visits?"
A grin. "I'd love to... though your brothers may prefer you visiting *me*."
"I --"
"Shh," and Jason presses two hot fingers to Bruce's mouth. "You may come to be
glad of the privacy of this place, Bruce. And... what happens here -
- everything that happens here -- *stays* here."
Bruce inhales sharply -- and knows Jason can see everything in his eyes by the
way his grin widens.
"Yes. Think of *that*," he says, and moves his fingers.
"I will."
"And *do* continue to make phrases like that sound like the most *dire* of
threats."
Bruce winces --
"It's *arousing*. Ask your brothers."
"I trust you."
"You... probably shouldn't," and Jason's smile turns wry. "But I'm glad that
you do. Let's get you home."
"I --" Bruce shakes his head and leans in to kiss Jason softly, *wetly*. He
uses what Harvey has taught him of kisses meant to promise love -- *more* love
-- for later --
He shivers *hard* when Jason slips his tongue into his mouth --
He *cups* Jason's waist, not grips -- and then grips it anyway when he finds
himself kissing a sharp, wet smile. He -- "Jason..."
"Bruce. Words cannot express... well. They never truly can, can they?" And
Jason touches just the *tips* of his fingers to Bruce's forehead --
"What --"
And then something happens which feels similar to what Bruce has always
imagined being the clapper of a bell would be like: stunning, vibratory, and
all-encompassing. There is no *sound*, but his knees are buckling --
His mind is --
His *spirit* is shaking --
"*Jason* --"
"Shh, it's over..."
And -- it is. Bruce licks his lips and stands straight again. "Would you...
tell me?"
"*Now* you can, if necessary, summon me with blood and wine. Or any other
spirit, truly -- but I'll be cross if you try to use *any* sort of ale."
"All... right?"
"It was the *only* option save for water which *would* give you the dribbly
shits if it wouldn't simply kill you. For *generations*."
"That... is... vivid."
"And I believe I'm somewhat giddy," Jason says, and laughs... for a while.
Bruce raises an eyebrow.
"It's only... I *told* your great-great-grandfather that the fact that his line
was cursed to *functional* madness of one sort or another --"
"I -- what --"
"It's why the California Waynes refuse to have anything to do with you. I'll
tell you the rest another time," Jason says, gesturing -- and putting a smudge
on the air. "In any event. I told him that it didn't mean that *all* the future
Waynes would be terrible. *He* was skeptical -- he already rather hated your
great-grandfather *and* your grandfather, and I must admit that he had a point
-- but I had *faith* --" Jason *giggles* --
Coughs --
And sobers himself. "Well. Now there's you. Never change, beautiful boy. Never
change, and I will *always* be at your side -- and at the sides of your
doubtless marvelously psychotic children."
"I -- don't plan to --"
"Shh. Remember, follow me *precisely*."
"Yes, Jason," Bruce does -- and finds himself in the hall outside of Tim's
bedroom. "Oh... not Mother's?"
"She's not quite ready to offer apologies without other sorts of offers
entirely. She will be, though -- and she will then find *you*."
Bruce breathes deeply and nods. "As you say."
Jason smiles at him fondly again. "Do give my regards to your brothers...?"
"I will."
"*Very* good. Now I believe I'll go remind your mother of... other sorts of
things," he says, and blows Bruce a kiss. "Until later."
Bruce inclines his head, and turns to knock.
*
***** May 1979: Harvey And Tim In The Manor *****
The first thing Tim does when they get up to his room is look around -- and
around -- the place like maybe the Secret Service or G. Gordon Liddy had been
wandering around planting bugs.
Harvey *wants* to tell him to relax a little, but it's not like Martha doesn't
have a magic mirror, and it's not like being in this house isn't making *him*
feel a little paranoid, too.
So. He looks under a few lampshades.
He lifts the mattress.
He checks the doorframe --
"Oh -- God, I'm being ridiculous --"
"Yeah, but you're doin' it in *company*, so everything's copacetic, little
guy," and Harvey winks at him from behind the shower curtain --
"I'm not even sure if it's *possible* to make listening devices that
waterproof. Or -- no, I believe it is, but they would lose a great *deal* of
pick-up, and then you'd need first-class audio-filtering technology to edit out
the sounds of water, squeaking tile -- everything."
Harvey blinks at Tim. "Okay?"
Tim blushes. "I've... thought about this. Some."
"Bugging crooks you can't just beat confessions out of?"
"And -- for long-term operations. For the crime *families* and more entrenched
gangs."
"I hear ya, little guy. The Feds don't pony up *half* enough cash for that kind
of thing."
"Oh -- but. One hears about --"
"The ones they *do* pay for," Harvey says, stepping out of the shower and
lifting the cover of the toilet tank. "And anyway, you knew that they weren't
taking care of the problem."
"I did, but..." Tim shakes his head and crouches to check the under-sink
cabinets. "I suppose I just thought that they weren't doing the job *well*."
"Nah. When the Feds go in for something like this? They usually go hard," and
Harvey checks the gauzy little curtains, the windowsills --
"Yes?"
"Uh, huh. Manpower, tech, tangible *and* intangible support. Say what you want
about Hoover -- and *everyone* knows the guy was a real asshole -- but he
turned the FBI into a real powerhouse. They get things *done*... when they
actually come in to do what *needs* to be done."
Tim frowns and stands, obviously thinking hard.
"Yeah, little guy?"
"I would think... perhaps we, as a country, need to fund the FBI more? Give
them the *resources* to help cities like Gotham?"
Well... Harvey waggles his head a little.
"No?"
"I'm a little leery of that, little guy, and here's why: You start pushing more
and more power and responsibilities onto the Feds as opposed to making it
possible for the *locals* to do the necessary -- and that's exactly what you're
talking about, make no mistake -- and they start *taking* more. And then the
locals lose even *more* funding, and the ability to make *any* kind of
difference on their own. Now you're maybe thinking 'well, hell, they lost their
chance,' and I hear that, I do, but there are things locals can do that Feds
*can't*."
"Intangible things?"
"And tangible things, too," Harvey says, cupping Tim's shoulders. "You relaxing
a little?"
"Ah -- always with you."
Harvey grins. "I love you."
"You -- you and Bruce find that so easy to *say* --"
"Nah. We find it easy to *mean*. It took a lot of *work* for me to be able to
say it the right way."
"There are... wrong ways?"
Harvey looks at Tim from under his lashes --
And Tim blushes. "Of course there are. I -- yes. A lack of sincerity would be
terrible -- ah. Please go back to what you were saying before?"
"Absolutely. But cuddle up with me some?"
A *deeper* blush --
Harvey grins and *massages* Tim's shoulders --
"Oh -- of course you can do that," Tim says, laughing softly and shaking his
head. "God, Harv, I --"
"I know, I know, I'm perfect in every way --"
"You *are*!"
"Little guy. I lie, I omit things --"
"To *protect* the people you love!"
"I'm kind of a whore --"
"There's nothing wrong with sharing physical affection!"
Harvey blinks. "No, hunh?"
"*No*!"
"So maybe you're gonna have a couple-few boyfriends and girlfriends when it's
all said and done?"
Tim blinks. And swallows. "I've -- thought about it."
"Yeah?" And Harvey starts walking Tim out of the bathroom and toward the bed.
"I mean -- of course it's strange."
"I've heard of all kinds of people making it work, though."
"Yes. In *porn* magazines --"
"Nah, in real life, too. One thing about balling college girls -- and older
women in a college *town* -- is that you get to hear about some seriously
*liberal* arrangements."
Tim frowns and sits on the side of the bed, working off his shoes and socks --
Harvey gets his own shoes and socks off, thinks about it, then strips down to
his briefs --
And watches Tim get a little... hung up. It makes Harvey feel like the hottest
thing on two legs -- in good ways. *Great* ways, because he knows how much Tim
likes who he *is* --
"I like -- I love the way you look at me, little guy," Harvey says, and his
voice is a little hoarse to his own ears --
"You. You must be used to it," Tim says, and *drags* his gaze back up to
Harvey's eyes from his belly.
Harvey grins and *scratches* his belly. "I'm not close to *anyone* up in New
Haven, little guy. The way they all look at me up there... it doesn't matter.
Maybe it *should* -- *probably* it should, and I'm actually gonna *try* to
start having conversations with the women I ball -- but for now it doesn't.
This is better."
Tim swallows and kind of *plucks* at his button-down. "I'm glad."
"I'm glad for you," Harvey says, and strokes Tim's cheek --
Tim's nostrils flare -- just a little.
"You uh... you gonna strip off for me?"
"Would you -- you'd like that."
Harvey grins wider and nods *slowly*.
"I. I'd still like to talk... more."
"Fine by me."
"I mean -- I mean... before," and Tim frowns *hard*, really --
"Hey, are you beating yourself up -- no, what am I saying, of course you are,"
and Harvey sits down next to Tim and wraps his arms around him. "I'm older, but
I'm still a teenager, little guy. I get *ahead* of myself, and -- yeah. We
*both* wanna prove to you that we want you for more than just your body, okay?"
"It's -- I'm being ridiculous --"
"No."
"I'm not even --"
"You're hot. *Trust* me on this, okay?" And Harvey pulls back enough to cup
Tim's chin and tilt his face up a little. "You're *pretty*, just in general,
but you've also got that lean little body that's *all* muscle -- heh. You're
hot enough *personality*-wise that I can *distract* myself from how hot I think
you are *physically*... which is pretty much one of the few things keeping me
sane right now," and Harvey smiles ruefully. "Okay?"
Tim blinks at him --
*Searches* him --
"You -- don't want to be attracted to... people my age."
"Would *you* if you were my age?"
"I --" And Tim blinks like a *revelation* has just hit him, which is pretty
much the cutest --
Harvey kisses his forehead. "Yeah, think about *that*. 'cause you *are* gonna
be my age, and who knows *what* the thirteen-year-olds are gonna be like then."
"Ah... far away. Hopefully."
Harvey snorts and squeezes Tim. "There ya go. You can keep everything on as far
as I'm concerned --"
"No -- no. I'll be more comfortable --"
"Will you?"
Tim gives him a wry and *knowing* smile -- "I will. Because I'm not going to
let myself freak out around you any more today."
"It's allowed --"
"Good to know. Let go."
"Heh. You're the boss," Harvey says, letting go and scooting further back onto
the bed. He folds his hands behind his head and looks up at the ceiling -- oh.
"I was saying -- what was I saying?"
"Any number of intelligent -- ah. Start with what the local police departments
can do that the FBI can't," and Tim goes back to stripping off.
"Okay, sure. First off? They can *know* you. Joe Fed might have a dossier on
you a mile thick, but Johnny Beat-Cop *knows* you. He knows what you *get* at
your favorite sandwich place -- not just which one it is. He knows *why* you
cheat on your girlfriend -- not just that you do it. He knows you cheat on your
taxes and occasionally knock over parking meters -- and he'd *dearly* love to
beat you over the head for that a little, and he absolutely will if he ever
catches you at it -- but he knows in his *bones* that you would never, ever
pull a gun on anyone, or beat on someone who didn't start beating on you first,
or even rob a convenience store. And *that* means that he's not gonna waste
your time or the taxpayers' money bracing you for any crimes like that."
"Oh -- yes, I see."
"Figured you would. Anyway, Johnny Beat-Cop knows pretty much all the bad-
actors in the neighborhood -- and the good-actors, and a lot of the people in
between. *That* means that he's not only able to save time and money on the
things that *need* to be investigated and brought to the D.A.'s office, but
also that he's able to clear *some* things up without *needing* to get official
about it --"
"I --"
"I hear you, little guy. This is Gotham, and the thing about Johnny Beat-Cop is
that he's probably more bent than a damned paperclip, which..." Harvey sighs
and shakes his head a little, thinking about all the *different* protection
rackets in the neighborhoods he hung around in as a kid.
The Greeks here, the Italians there, the blacks there, the Polish there... and
the cops *everywhere*. Just -- everywhere.
Gotham needs so damned *much*, and sometimes --
"Harv...?"
Harvey reaches for Tim before he can think about it -- and Tim is right there,
pushing up close against his side and holding on, holding tight --
"I'd like it... if you told me."
"I like *this*," Harvey says, squeezing Tim hard, stroking his side to his lean
little hip --
"So do I. But --"
"But it's your turn to do some comforting. I hear you, little guy. I just -
- it's this: sometimes I think about all the time I'm *not* spending on getting
my law degree and I just. I feel like part of the problem," and Harvey smiles
ruefully. "I know that's freakin' ridiculous. I know I'm just a guy --"
"You're more --"
"I want it, Tim. I want the D.A.'s office more than I want *anything* else.
Sometimes I think I'd give *up* just about anything to *have* it, to have the
*chance* to turn this city *around*," and Harvey frowns and just --
He shakes his head --
He holds Tim *tighter* --
"I'm here," Tim says, stroking Harvey's chest and *focusing* on him.
Harvey can *feel* it -- but. "I don't know what I'm talkin' about, little guy.
I don't know -- I'm terrified to really say 'I'd do anything for this,' because
this is a world full of *dark* freakin' magic, and maybe... maybe I'd have to
prove it. And that fear --"
"It's human --"
"It makes me feel -- even *more* -- like I'm part of the problem. Because I
can't make a stand --"
"Harv..."
Harvey swallows and -- stares at the ceiling a little more. Blinks back the
things he's not thinking about --
The things that make him --
"So maybe. Maybe I wanna be good enough to be a hero, too."
Tim squeezes him *hard*. "You are."
Harvey smiles ruefully. "I should be able to be like the two of you. I should
be able -- Bruce is gonna leave the *country* for God only knows how long,
leave *us*. And you will, too."
Tim raises an eyebrow. "He's not exactly going *tomorrow*, Harv."
"No, but --"
"He is, in fact, making a point of doing everything he *can* do -- learning
everything he can *learn* -- here, first."
"I'm hearing you, but --"
"And -- are you saying you wouldn't go to the other side of the world if it was
the only way for you to learn what you needed to learn in order to become the
District Attorney?"
"Of course I would --"
"But it's 'easier' for you to do what needs to be done, so it means less?"
Harvey opens his mouth -- closes it and turns to look at Tim.
Tim looks right back -- and then smiles ruefully. "How am I doing so far? I
feel... belligerent."
Harvey laughs a little helplessly, lifts his free hand, and pinches two fingers
together. "Beating me over the head with logic *works*, though."
"I'd rather... gently massage the logic into you."
"I hear you, I do, but sometimes that just doesn't *take*."
Tim hums, pleased and *obviously* amused, and strokes Harvey's cheek. "I
suppose I'll just have to keep being brutal, then."
"It suits you, little guy."
And Tim narrows his eyes a little and looks *predatory*, looks --
"Is that the face you're gonna wear when you're beating the crap out of bad
guys?"
"I --" The blush is *serious* just that quickly, and Tim looks away -- but
looks right back before Harvey can *turn* him back.
"There ya go --"
"I... ah. I learned that expression from Black Canary."
Harvey grins. "Man, I gotta say, I've always liked my women taller and darker,
but you're makin' me change my mind a little, here."
"Hnn. Touch her and feel my wrath."
Harvey *coughs*. "So maybe you're a *little* possessive?"
"Of... a woman three times my age who only knows me as the diminutive middle
school student who buys yellow roses for his 'girlfriend' once a week, yes."
Harvey snickers. "I'm sure she recognized the burning passion in your eyes."
"Oh, yes. Especially since I never did *anything* to hide it. At all."
"Heh, yeah, that kinda thing just isn't your *style*. But -- wait. She's a
*florist*?"
"She owns Serenity Flowers, on the East side. Her scent is... incredible. All
the time."
"Jesus, I'll bet," and Harvey tugs on Tim a little --
"You -- I can't actually *get* closer to you, Harv."
"What -- oh, damn. I was actually trying to get you to climb on top of me. Heh.
Sorry about that."
"Oh -- no, it's all right --"
"I mean, I was just gonna keep talking --"
"Yes, and -- wait, do you have *Bruce* climb on top of you?"
"All the time. Air is for when I'm *alone*."
Tim -- giggles for him. That's just --
Harvey grins because he *has* to, waggles his eyebrows and tugs a little more -
-
"I'm -- going to pretend I didn't make that sound, and -- " And Tim climbs on
just like that, straddling Harvey's hips and setting his palms down flat on
Harvey's chest. "Like this?"
"God, yeah. Though I'll take your hands anywhere, little guy."
"You -- wanted another brother."
"I *had* one. I just wasn't taking nearly enough *advantage* of that fact," and
Harvey waggles his eyebrows again.
Tim *tries* to give him a sour expression, but it's just not working even a
little --
"I love that, too."
"Me not being able to control myself around you?"
"Hell, yeah. Control is for when we're old and grey and *boring*."
Tim gives him the eyebrow.
"Yeah? What's that for?"
"You had sex with a woman in her *fifties* today, Harv."
"So?"
"I suspect she had more than a *few* grey hairs."
"Well... yeah --"
"*And* she was probably *menopausal* --"
"Didn't slow her *down* any --"
"Do you really think *you'll* slow down?"
"Heh. *Yes*. Because my dick will stop *working* the way it does now. Women are
*different*."
Tim gives him the eyebrow *again*.
"What? I *swear* they are --"
"I would like to make a wager with you, Harv."
"Uh oh. You know gambling's illegal in this part of the state, little guy. I
don't wanna have to do this, but I *will* turn you in."
Tim *coughs* a laugh -- "Harv."
Harvey grins and bounces Tim a little. "Go on, what kinda bet are we talkin'
about here? And remind me to cry a few *bitter* tears on you about what my old
man used to get up to at the race track with the utility money."
That makes Tim blink and *blanch* a little --
"No, no, it's okay. So long as you don't expect me to walk into a casino or a
race track with you? We're good. The casual stuff is *fine*. Just like how I
can have a glass of wine or a shot of rum here and there."
Tim searches him *hard* --
So Harvey takes Tim's hands in his own and squeezes them, brings them to his
mouth and kisses them -- "I promise."
"You -- recovered quickly. Before."
"I did, yeah. Mostly what I did is push the bad thoughts aside for another
day."
"Oh -- *Harv* --"
"Easy, little guy, easy. *Every* time you or Bruce talk me off that cliff? It
gets a little harder to climb back on."
"I want to *help* you --"
"What do you think you're doing right now?"
"Bringing up bad memories!"
Harvey smiles and shakes his head.
"*How* --"
"Easy: *You're* not blowing money we need or even *joking* about doing that.
You were just making a *reference* to betting -- and making a bet between us
that's all about love and fun and all the *good* things between us, yeah?"
"Yes, but -- hm."
Harvey raises his eyebrows.
Tim frowns -- but it's the *thoughtful* kind of distant and hard. "Is it... I'm
thinking of the use of dead virii to vaccinate people against the live versions
of same."
"Uh... yeah? I used Bruce *mercilessly* to help me through the science stuff at
Exeter, little guy."
"You were his *co-valedictorian*!"
"And *everything* I learned about science was all about Bruce and *nothing*
about the professors, who were terrible. I'm telling you, I would be glad to
get you out of going there *just* for the sake of getting you a decent
education. But -- no, go on. Dead viruses. Vaccinations."
"I'm -- I'm using something harmless --"
"To make me safe from something *harmful*. Okay, okay, I hear you. I thought
you were about to start on immunology or something, little guy, and I gotta be
honest -- it wouldn't have been pretty over here."
"Well -- it's a kind of *emotional* immunology, isn't it?" And Tim squeezes
Harvey's hands. "If we can... can *surround* your bad memories with the good
*versions* of things -- you're shaking your head. No?"
"It's... I think it might work for *some* people? The world's full of all
kinds, after all, but..."
"Not for you."
Harvey smiles ruefully. "I got a *real* bad habit of building walls between
myself and the things I need to face down and deal with. I would just use all
the good stuff to *hide* from the bad. And that's no good."
"How... how do you *fix* an... issue? How do you make yourself... better?"
And that's a *damned* serious question, so -- Harvey nods. "Okay, in a lot of
ways, I'm the wrong person to ask, because I know just enough about myself to
know I've been doing it *wrong* --"
"I -- I'll take that, too --"
Harvey smiles. "My little brother. Okay, first off? One thing I know you *have*
to do is actually talk about all this stuff with someone you trust -- and not
just because it takes weight off *your* back, but because...?"
"It helps the people you love feel better. Feel -- useful."
Harvey can *feel* his smile quirking on his face --
"I... didn't say that correctly --"
"No, you said it correctly for *you*, and that's who we're talking about now,
yeah?"
"I'm... very strange. Aren't I."
Harvey twists his hands free of Tim's and cups Tim's thighs, instead. "You're
less weird than Bruce."
"*Dadaists* are less weird than Bruce, Harv."
Harvey -- bites his lip. "I like weird? That's not a question. At all. I mean,
if you *wanna* go and normal yourself up --"
"Is that even *possible*?"
"Politicians do it every damned day, little guy."
"They *pretend* to --"
"If you tell a lie every day, to every person you meet -- including yourself --
"
"It becomes real? If *that* were true, I'd have Jack Drake's *DNA*."
"I'm willing to bet that *most* of the time, in Thomas' mind, you *do*. Or at
least someone's DNA who isn't *him*."
That gets him a *bleak* look --
"Aw, little guy --"
"No -- no. I don't actually have more to say about that. Not -- right now."
Harvey frowns. "You sure about that?"
"Yes. Tell me -- more about lies?"
Harvey searches Tim a little --
Strokes him a little *more* --
"I promise -- I promise to talk more. When I can," and Tim's giving him a
*soulful* look, giving him --
God, giving him *everything* --
Harvey nods and squeezes Tim's waist. "Okay. Just remember that I *always*
wanna hear from you, okay?"
Tim smiles ruefully. "All right."
"All right. Lies -- you tell a lie often enough and you really do start to
*believe* it. No matter *how* far-fetched it is. And you don't even have to
look at politicians to see it happening. Look at those poor people down in
Guyana last year. Look at abused kids. Hell, look at people who are just
*dating* the wrong people. All of 'em -- *all* -- are telling themselves at
least one big, fat *whopper* of a lie, and some of them have been doing it for
so long that they can't even see the edges of it, anymore.
"Me... well, I was telling myself a lot of damned things about how I relate to
women and how I relate to Martha in particular. I *could* still see the edges
of those lies -- see them clearly enough that when Blood started peeling them
back, I could go with him without *too* much in the way of kicking and
screaming -- but that has nothing to do with me being better than anyone else
and *everything* to do with me just not having had the *time* to make the lies
really *solid*. Get me?"
Tim frowns at him. "Isn't it... you mentioned the Jonestown mass murder/
suicide, and I suppose you were thinking about other cults, too?"
"Oh, yeah. *Nothing* like a cult to fill a kid's -- or an *adult's* -- head
with lies. Sometimes freedom of religion is a *problem*."
"But... if we were to try to legislate how people negotiate their faiths --"
"I know, I know -- it can't be done. But we can damned well keep people like
Jim Jones from taking in kids who'd be better off in a group home -- even a
*bad* group home -- and we can build *more* group homes and make the existing
ones *better*. We can also tighten up custody laws, pump more money into the
Family Court system so that each and every at-risk kid gets *actual* attention
from a social worker who is a) paid enough, and b) has time to learn everything
going on in that kid's life -- how did I get to talking about *this*?"
Tim smiles at him -- warmly. Just --
Harvey sighs. "Right. It kills me a little, you know?"
"Tell me?" And Tim covers Harvey's hands on his thighs, strokes them a
little...
"Even if I do everything right, even if I pass *all* the tests with flying
colors and ride my name and everything else into the D.A.'s office... there'll
still be a whole hell of a lot of things I won't be able to do a *damned* thing
about."
"I... think that's true about everyone, Harv. Everyone who tries to improve the
world, I mean --"
"Yeah, yeah, it is. But it still makes me wonder about *my* dreams. Like maybe
I should be aiming higher, should be thinking about getting into the D.A.'s
office... and then *using* it to climb the ladder. *Thomas's* grandfather --"
"Was governor, yes." And Tim raises an eyebrow at him. "And it's entirely
possible that the New Jersey political climate twenty or so years from now will
be much more accepting of politicians having... culturally outré lovers than it
was in the late nineteenth century."
Harvey snorts and -- "Ah, Jesus. I saw those old papers in on microfiche. They
actually used the word *Negress* --"
"So they did."
"I -- you gotta wonder if there are any brown Waynes running around these days.
Considering."
Tim smirks. "I would be... less than shocked. Considering."
"Heh. Yeah. Old Sorrel Wayne *absolutely* paid his mistress to disappear after
all that controversy."
"We hope."
Harvey blinks. "Uh -- Tim."
Tim raises an eyebrow at him.
"Hey, we don't *know* the guy was an asshole. Maybe he was *enlightened* about
cheating on his wife and fathering his hypothetical mixed-race bastards."
"Hnn. It's *possible* that I have a limited amount of faith in... Waynes."
"Gee, I wonder why," Harvey says, and reaches up to chuck Tim's chin. "All *I*
can say is that the Waynes *I* know best are pretty damned great... so maybe I
got a little more faith than you."
Tim blushes for him again --
Just a *little* --
And Harvey can't help but grin for it, *need* for it, reach up and stroke it
and *appreciate* it --
"Should I call you Bruce?"
"Not until I grow another two inches... and another two inches."
Tim snorts and coughs --
"Heh. And *you* had a bet for me," Harvey says, and strokes Tim's cheekbones.
"What? Oh -- yes. Assuming we live to reach our fifties --"
"Hey, hey, don't talk like that --"
"Harv. We're *both* going to lead *dangerous* lives --"
"And we're *both* gonna lead those dangerous lives as safely as *possible*,"
and Harvey works up a little glare. "I don't care *how* much Bruce begs for it,
little guy -- no fighting crime in corsets and heels."
Tim snorts again --
"I mean it, now --"
"Harv."
"*Sometimes*, if you promise to be *really* careful, you can go out in a nice,
conservative pantsuit --"
"Harv, I can break two of your ribs with one blow."
"Maybe -- *maybe* -- an ankle-length skirt and a nice silk blouse --"
And Tim strikes, but he does it to *miss* -- whereas Harvey's roll is
*absolutely* meant.
"Gotcha, little guy."
"Hmm. So you do. What are you planning to do with me?"
Harvey pulls on an exaggeratedly thoughtful face --
Watches Tim's eyes just *sparkle* --
And he can't help but grin for it. "I think I'll probably just have to keep
you, little guy."
"Prisoner?"
"Oh, yeah. I made sure all the places Maribel showed me had *roomy* basements.
We'll give you plenty of milk for vitamin D. You don't need sunlight."
"*Very* generous."
"I know, I'm perfect like that," and Harvey strokes Tim's lean arms until he
can grip his wrists --
"Oh -- ah."
Damn -- "Too much?"
"Not... not a bad too much --"
"But a 'too soon' too much?"
Tim's frown is *dark* --
So Harvey kisses his forehead and moves his hands to Tim's shoulders, kneeling
up. "My dick can wait for you, little guy."
"It seems -- I don't want you to wait. To have to wait."
"Because it seems -- no, you tell me. Why?"
Tim shakes his head, frowning even harder --
"C'mon, little guy, just spit it out for me. Anything. I need -- I need it all,
you know?" Harvey smiles ruefully and squeezes Tim's shoulders. "*All* of us
spent the first fourteen years of our lives lonely and fucked-up."
That makes Tim inhale sharply --
Give him the *wide* eyes --
Harvey keeps the smile on his face and nods. "Yeah. That."
"I just -- I promised."
"What did you promise? *Who* did --"
"I promised myself. That I would. That I would always make the most of my time
with you. Because -- it was so limited."
Harvey winces. "No more. No more, okay?"
"I'm -- looking forward to believing that --"
"My bed's gonna smell like you, little guy --"
"And -- Adon?"
Harvey blinks -- and laughs. "You and Bruce. That crap always makes me feel
like the gayest thing since Lex discovered paisley."
"Oh -- what -- Lex *Luthor*?"
Harvey raises his eyebrows. "You saying your mother *doesn't* have a dossier on
him?"
"She -- she's working on one --"
"Yeah, I guess no one really *expected* him to already be running LuthorCorp -
- and you can't *tell* me Lionel Luthor's death wasn't shady --"
"You -- think he killed his *father*?"
Harvey smiles wryly. "Yeah. And I think he'd been *planning* it for years. He's
a cold, scheming, *smart* *asshole* -- don't even think about letting Bruce
tell you different --"
"Bruce likes him?"
"*Bruce* wants in his tight leather pants --"
"He wears leather *pants*?"
That -- Harvey frowns and pokes Tim's nose a little. "Don't get hot for him."
"I -- I barely know what he *looks* like --"
"Skinny, weird, and bald all over."
And now Tim is blinking and looking *thoughtful* --
"Hey, stop thinking about it!"
"Okay! I'm sorry! I'm sure he's horrible and has a micropenis!"
And Harvey *wants* to keep scowling -- but mostly he wants to giggle and snort.
So that's what he does.
"Yes? No?"
"He's actually pretty hung," Harvey says, and grins.
"Did -- I always thought people *didn't* look at each other in communal bathing
environments."
"Oh, that's what people *say*. But -- and remember this, because it's a life
lesson for the *ages* -- people are lying *assholes*."
Tim hums. "You can say 'bastard' just as often as you want to."
"I --" Okay, so he's blushing a little. "I *thought* I was covering pretty well
--"
"Oh, you were. But I *sensed* a powerful desire to use it --"
"So maybe you're a Jedi now?"
Tim waves a hand. "This is not the painfully issue-laden teen you're looking
for."
Harvey snickers and smacks Tim --
Gets blocked --
Smacks at him again --
Gets *blocked* again --
Goes for a tickle --
Gets --
"Okay, why is my *hand* numb?"
"Because I didn't want to be tickled," Tim says, and *looks* at him.
"Uh."
Tim keeps looking --
"Okay, am I gonna have to explain the concept of *rough-housing*?"
Tim blinks. "Is that -- you -- oh."
*Harvey* does some looking while attempting to shake out his poor buzzy,
needle-y *hand* --
And Tim blushes. "Um. I'm sorry. I was... ah..." And those are the *big* eyes,
the ones that can't really be faked, at all, because Tim's also tense as hell
and *worried* --
"You're forgiven."
"But --"
"Tim. I *know who your parents are*. You're forgiven."
Sour look -- "I don't want to blame them for *everything* --"
"So don't," Harvey says and tries massaging his hand instead. "Just blame 'em
for the stuff that's *definitely* their fault. Like how they fucked you up so
bad by the time you were *five* that you couldn't even figure out how to make
*shallow* friends. Because -- let's see if I can guess this one --"
"Harv --"
"You were supposed to practice being a businessman on them. Playing Doctor
could get you into trouble these days -- it sure as hell got *Thomas* in
trouble -- "
"Oh, God, that's -- *Harv* --"
"*You* were supposed to watch and analyze and figure out what made all your
classmates *tick*. Yeah?"
"I..." Tim smiles ruefully. "You're assuming I wasn't supposed to do the same
thing with the teachers and administrators?"
"Ah, little guy --"
"Lex Luthor is *gay*?"
Harvey stops massaging his hand and stares at Tim.
"He's the president of a Fortune 500 company! This is *news*!"
Harvey *glares* --
"Please? Please tell me? I *promise* I won't have sex with him, and if I do, I
won't enjoy it." And Tim actually gives him a *winsome* look --
"That's impressive."
"Thank you," Tim *simpers* --
"*That's* freakin' *horrible*."
"Yes, I imagine it was," Tim says, and hums smugly. "Answer the question?"
"And if I don't wanna?"
"Then I assume -- rightly -- that you only love me for my body --"
"*Hey* --"
"And that you'll be done with me as soon as I *displease* you --"
"You --"
"And -- ah -- that you'll toss me aside like... dirty underwear."
Harvey raises his eyebrows, crosses his arms over his chest -- it feels
*exactly* as weird with a numb hand as he thought it would -- and *looks* at
Tim.
Tim sighs and folds his hands on his chest. "Yes, it was a weak finish. I
haven't had enough time to study our brother's innate gift for the dramatic."
That -- Harvey coughs. And wags one of the fingers he can feel. "Some of us
*like* that drama, little guy."
"Oh, I find it incredibly tempting and -- and *breathtaking*. It's just also
*alien*. I think Bruce is capable of more tonal shifts when he's feeling
pleasure than my mother is capable of expressions, full stop."
Harvey snickers. "She -- damn, little guy."
Tim smiles ruefully. "I'm... working on having a few more than that."
"You *do*."
"*When*?"
"All *day*, little guy. And -- heh. *Really* when we're all making love."
"I -- oh," Tim says, and looks thoughtful instead of blushing.
There's *something* about that that seems more ominous than adorable, but
Harvey can't think of what it might be --
"I wonder if *that's* the appeal for -- our father. I wonder if there's,
somehow, an entire *range* of emotional responses which only come out when --"
"Whoa. Whoa there."
Tim blinks. "Oh. That -- hm. Yes, all right, I'm leaving that question alone.
For -- forever."
"*Thank* you," Harvey says, and blows out a breath. "And -- no one -- and I do
mean *no* one -- ever saw Lex hook *up* with a guy at Exeter. He flirted, he
teased, he blew kisses, he got up way too close, he put up sexy posters of
David Bowie, he wore makeup, he wore platform *boots*, he pretended he was
Oscar freakin' *Wilde* --"
"Ah."
"-- and he got more pussy than *anyone*... other than me. Heh."
Tim blinks rapidly, and Harvey thinks he likes this thoughtful look a *lot*
better than the other one. It just feels *safer*, somehow.
Even with him thinking about freaking *Lex* --
Harvey keeps his sigh internal and starts working on his poor hand again. He
thinks it's getting better, and he's got some ideas about how to get the little
guy back -- when he's least expecting it --
"You're saying his homosexuality was an act?"
Harvey raises his eyebrows. "I don't know him well enough to know that, little
guy."
"But --"
"Heh. Okay. You want my educated guess. I hear you. I... think *he* thinks it
was an act. And I think it came too naturally to him for it to be *completely*
an act."
"But you can't say how much... or." Tim frowns again. "Do you think he was...
pretending with women?"
Hunh. "How much of this is you questioning yourself?"
"Ah... a lot? Apparently, I'm a lot more homosexual than I thought I was," Tim
says, and smiles ruefully.
Harvey blinks. "Oh... hey. Hey. We can talk about that --"
"And we are! And -- we'll talk more. From... oblique angles?"
"Or head-on --"
Tim makes a pushing motion. "It's -- it's a little intimidating. To think
about."
"But if it's messing with you --"
"Only... ah... theoretically?" Tim smiles again. "I don't feel any conflict
whatsoever about being attracted to you, and wanting to do everything possible
*with* you, and, in terms of Bruce..." He shakes his head. "My conflict there
is wholly emotional, crumbling rapidly, and has nothing to do with his
*gender*."
"It's... other guys? *Theoretical* other guys."
"Yes. Though... ah. I probably wouldn't feel conflicted about Wildcat, either."
"Even with the *whiskers* -- what am I saying, you *have* a couple of those in
your bedroom," Harvey says, and stops massaging long enough to poke Tim's nose
a little. "Just tell me they're not part of the kink?"
Tim gives him a *sour* look --
"Okay, I'll take that as an answer --"
"*Thank* you --"
"And the other stuff --" He shakes his head. "Just talk to us however you can,
okay?"
"How... how did you... know? About your bisexuality?"
"Heh, me? It was always right there. I don't even *remember* not bein' hot for
guys and girls."
"But -- Bruce is the only -- I mean. Except for me. Right?"
Harvey grins a little. "Bruce gets a little jealous."
"Oh -- you. You limit yourself to women for him?"
Harvey pinches the fingers of his working hand together. "But it's not a big
deal. I didn't really think I *needed* another guy before you looked at me -
- heh. Like that."
"I -- oh. But --"
"It was enough to look at 'em, appreciate 'em, point 'em out for Bruce to
sketch into weird clothes and positions..." Harvey shrugs. "I always kinda
thought... I don't know. That I'd be a one-guy, one-girl kinda guy."
"I'm not wearing makeup for you."
Harvey snickers. "Bruce's birthday --"
"No."
"*Mean* little brothers don't ge--"
"Would you like to know how to make your hand stop tingling?"
Harvey opens his mouth and closes it right back up again. "I'll... be good?"
"Hnn." Tim sits up and -- jabs him. Right in the *shoulder* --
"*Hey* -- oh. Hunh."
"You're probably going to bruise. I'm not perfect at that, yet."
"Fine. Just fine." And Harvey jerks his chin at Tim. "What about you, hunh?
When did you figure out you wanted guys, too?"
"It wasn't... I've been fascinated with the JSA all my life, Harv. Puberty...
didn't really change anything."
"But -- no other guys, at all? Regular guys, I mean?"
Tim smiles wryly. "Do you count as a 'regular guy,' Harv? Because *Bruce*
doesn't."
"Heh. Okay. You need *older* guys."
"Yes, I think so --"
"Be *careful* with that, little guy," and Harvey wags a finger at him. "A lot
of older guys --"
"Are -- terrible. In a lot of different ways," and Tim smiles ruefully. "I
know. It's... another reason why I didn't look very closely at that... aspect
of my sexuality."
Harvey bites his lip. "You *are* pretty careful just in general, aren't you."
"Yes. I -- well, I try. It can be... difficult. Around the two of you."
"I never want you to be careful with me," Harvey says, and takes Tim's hands --
"Oh -- then I *won't* --"
"No, not that, little guy. I *need* you to be *just* as careful as you need to
be. No matter *what* *I* want. Get me?"
"Harv -- you're being perfect again."
Harvey shakes his head. "I'm just being your brother, little guy. I need you to
be okay, and okay with *us* -- and I know exactly how easy it is to *stop*
being okay when you *start* trying to push all your fears and doubts aside --"
"Instead of... working through them."
"Exactly," and Harvey squeezes Tim's hands. "Let's eat some pizza, yeah?"
"Oh -- it's *cold*!"
"It's *incredible* that way. Trust me."
And Tim gives a *suspicious* face.
"Hey, would I lead you astray? For anything *but* lots of sticky gay sex?"
"I --" Tim snickers and sits up. "Pizza, then. But if I'm deconditioned for my
next spar --"
Harvey kisses him. Not hard, not *pressuring* --
Just a kiss, nice and easy and maybe a *little* sleazy, because his dick is
talking to him --
And he *knows* Tim's dick is talking to *him* --
Tim hums into the kiss and gives it right back, and when Harvey opens his eyes,
he can see that Tim is smiling a little, really warming up for it --
But not trying to feel him up, yet --
And not even trying to move his hands a *little*.
Harvey can keep waiting. Pizza. Fresh basil is *probably* an aphrodisiac,
right? Considering what *Bruce* is like every time they eat it --
Tim pulls back and nips Harvey's lower lip.
"Yeah, little guy?"
"I... ah. Do you think we could..." And the blush on Tim's face looks just this
side of freakin' *deadly* --
"I'm thinking we *can*, little guy. Just tell me --"
"It's... ah. I liked... I liked it when you were... touching me while we were
eating."
Harvey blinks -- and then thinks about all the time Tim *didn't* spend on his
mother's lap, or in a pile of kids working their way through a pile of cheap
cheese pizzas -- he bites his lip and nods --
"Oh -- God, don't pity me!"
"No, just sympathy, I swear. I missed cuddle-time for eating like crazy when I
lost my mom, you know?"
"I. Are you sure --"
"And you're not bringing up bad memories. Just tell me how you wanna be
positioned, okay? Bruce and I do this all the time, and I *always* love it."
Tim bites his lip and smiles at him with his eyes --
*Shines* at him --
"Maybe... if you would sit against the headboard and I could... sit between
your legs?"
"Perfect -- though I'll get crumbs on you --"
"I... ah. I think I can handle that. Especially since I have faith in your
ability to... take care of them later."
Harvey grins and gets in position, snagging the pizza box closer. "Yeah, hunh?"
"I'm... feeling much better."
"*I*... am glad to hear that."
Tim hums and snuggles right up, shifting so that Harvey's hard-on is pressed to
the small of his back. "You feel... very good."
Harvey kisses Tim's temple and pulls out a couple of slices. "You feel
fantastic, little --"
And *that* --
"Is that Bruce's knock?"
Harvey grins. "Uh, huh. Do the honors, little guy?"
Tim hums and presses just a little closer to him -- "Come in!"
And Bruce is right there, looking them over and smiling eagerly, *happily* --
And a part of Harvey can only be *stunned* that it's working this well --
And a part of Harvey can only be *grateful*, grateful for everything, but
especially for having two brothers who *can* put aside enough of what's come
before to smile *honestly* at each other --
Bruce is stripping, *too* --
They can have this.
They're in the *process* of having this --
And they're damned well gonna keep it.
Harvey wraps his free arm around Tim's chest and squeezes, taking a bite of his
*perfectly* room-temperature pizza, and letting his jaw ache for the spices and
for the smile that won't freakin' *quit* --
This is the good stuff.
*
***** June 2000: Tim and Dick, Tim and Steph, The Advent Of Damian, And
Reuniting The Brothers. *****
Tim pauses the playback on the image of himself stroking Harvey's thigh
somewhat *sneakily*. Bruce wouldn't have been able to see him doing it, but he
would've absolutely seen Tim's shoulder working, would've known by the look on
Tim's face --
By the quality of the *smile* on Tim's face --
"Aw, we were just getting to the good parts!" And the expression on Dick's face
-- pleading, sly, knowing, thrilled, *game* -- is not so different than the
sorts of expressions he had worn as a thirteen-year-old -- once the grief had
begun to pass.
"Not really. All we did the rest of that day was talk and eat. Though the night
was rather more exciting."
"*Well*?"
Tim smiles one of his more annoying smiles --
And Dick sticks his tongue out at him.
In *this* moment, Dick is beautifully, casually, and *easily* naked on Tim's
bed. He is already nearly as dark as he ever gets, despite it only being June
and despite the family's generally nocturnal existence. Dick and Cassandra
*both* have a habit of waking themselves mid-morning and going to sleep on the
roof --
Dick's dozens of scars are pale and shocking against his darkly-olive skin,
save for the gunshot wound high on his left biceps, which remains faintly
purple despite the fact that it's five years old now. The bullet had nicked -
- and cracked -- his humerus ---
Dick had spent the seven weeks he'd needed to heal all but *vibrating* --
Right now, Dick is stretched out on his stomach beside Tim, idly kicking at the
headboard with his bare feet and braced on his elbows with his hands folded
together. Dick is --
Dick has been in this position for nearly forty minutes, and sometimes Tim is
positive that this -- more than size, more than skill, more than *anything*
else -- is the true difference between thirteen and twenty-four. It's as much
of a gift as everything else has been about Dick, and so Tim gives himself over
to stroking Dick's back, and buttocks, and the backs of his thighs --
Dick sighs. "I feel like I should be purring."
Tim smiles and strokes the crease between Dick's left buttock and thigh. "I
have no objections."
"Bruce *said* you guys had a cat way back when. Did he really get one after
Blood told him to?"
"He adopted a seven-year-old Sphynx whose previous owner had died suddenly,
named him Hercules, and they proceeded to give each other any number of
neuroses."
Dick snorts. "You guys should've *helped* him!"
"Believe me when I say we did our best. Hercules was a very kind and
affectionate cat when not being stared at or studied from not-quite-afar-
enough, and Harv and I often tried to cuddle him in an instructional manner."
"But Bruce didn't *get* it?"
Tim hums and traces a firm spiral at the small of Dick's back --
"Oh -- do that again --"
Tim obliges Dick --
And Dick sighs again, dropping onto his face and stretching his shoulders in
ways *only* Dick can. But --
"Be careful --"
"Of the slash on my trapezius, I know. I don't want stitches. I especially
don't want *your* stitches, Uncle Brother."
Tim shows his teeth. "It's important to make sure the wound is completely
closed... and neat."
"It's *important* not to be jabbed with a needle forty zillion *times*."
Tim's *scratches* the small of Dick's back. "You've been spending more time
with Stephanie."
Dick stops stretching and rests on his elbows again before wagging his head
back and forth in a somewhat truncated dance. "I got her to admit she *likes*
it here. *Better* than she's liked any other place she's lived."
Tim hums. "Did you."
"Uh, huh. And I think that makes me the winner and cham-peen, Uncle Brother."
"I think you must be correct... but."
Dick sighs. "She's not *here*. I know. *Did* you guys have a good patrol?"
Tim spares a moment to fill his mind with memories of Stephanie in flight,
using tricks learned from Barbara -- and none of the ones learned from Tim.
Of Stephanie's deep green trunks riding up *slightly* as she unleashed kicks
learned from Dick and Cassandra -- and none of the ones learned from Tim.
Of Stephanie's savage smiles as she used Bruce's and Jay's punches -- and none
--
Tim sighs. "She is... still very angry with me."
Dick winces. "She -- can hold a grudge, all right."
Tim smiles ruefully. "So can I. I'm considering seeing if the things which tend
to work on me do anything for her."
Dick raises his eyebrows.
"Abject begging, shameless manipulation, *exposure* --"
Dick *leers* --
"*Not* that kind, Dick."
And Dick sighs. "Yeah, okay, I don't actually think it would work on her,
anyway. I mean, she *likes* me most of the time and she still always makes me
wear clothes unless we're practically in the *middle* of making love."
Tim frowns.
"I think... I think Cass knows the answer to that question you're thinking,
Uncle Brother."
Tim winces and nods, scratching at his -- always -- light stubble. Cassandra
will keep that secret until such time as *she* feels it's time for Stephanie to
share it. And then she'll *make* Stephanie share it. But -- "Perhaps I
shouldn't pressure her, at all."
"I don't know about *that*. I mean, she *likes* it when I'm, you know, myself."
"You're also -- technically -- one of the children."
Dick sticks his tongue out at him. And wiggles his ass.
"Case in point."
"Okay, yeah, I'm hearing you," Dick says, rolling closer -- and onto his back.
He's only partially erect, and so the scar one of Ivy's Feraks had left on his
pubis when he was fifteen is merely pale, as opposed to livid.
Ivy -- and it's impossible to think of the being she's become as Isley at this
point, and Tim isn't sure if that's a failing or *not* -- had very nearly died
that night --
And she has, generally, stuck to grand theft and the sort of ecoterrorism she
knows full well that Tim's family can *sympathize* with since then. She --
How *will* she react to Jay's powers? Will she... feel them in some way? She is
*of* the earth at least as much as she's human, now --
Or. Is she?
Tim frowns and rests his hand on Dick's chest --
Dick covers it with his own. "Are you anywhere I can follow...?"
"I... am thinking about Jay's powers. And Ivy."
Dick blinks. "Okay? Oh... hunh. I guess she *might* stop wanting to kill him
really hard?"
"Or... he might have some degree of power *over* her."
"*That* would be useful," Dick says, and wriggles, twists -- he's sideways on
the bed with his head on Tim's lap. "Though we probably shouldn't get *too*
into mind control, Uncle Brother."
Tim sighs --
Dick snorts and jabs him just above the bruise he'd acquired over his lower
left ribs. "No being tempted for that."
"It is, in fact, my job to think of every possible use for all of your skills
and abilities, Dick."
He blows a raspberry.
Tim raises an eyebrow --
Dick wiggles his tongue while doing the same with his eyebrows and *ears* --
Tim grips Dick's throat --
"Bleh -- mm. Um. Mm. Hi," and Dick smiles at him *hotly*. "Have I mentioned
that I missed you? Because -- I missed you."
"You were the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen," Tim says -- blurts, really --
Dick's smile gets hotter. "I know. I remember your eyes -- and Bruce's."
They had gone to the circus together with the explicit plan to watch the Flying
Graysons perform, and, if they were truly as incredible as their press
suggested, to go to them with the offer of a large amount of money. There was
*always* more to be learned -- even though, by then, they had been on the
street for years.
They --
They'd caught sight of Dick before the show and *followed* him like the
perverted stalkers they *were* --
Dick had *caught* them -- and had stolen Tim's watch and Bruce's wallet before
they could catch him in turn --
He'd juggled them along with red, gold, and green balls --
He'd laughed --
("I don't *do* threesomes, guys.")
And they had stammered and stared, *tried* to deny --
Dick had *giggled* --
("Then why *are* you following me?")
And Bruce had hummed and looked to *him* --
And Tim had tried *exceedingly* hard to think of a *lie*. He'd had one on the
tip of his tongue -- something weak but *partially* true about seeing Dick's
triple back-flip for the children gathered by the cotton candy stand and
wanting more --
But Bruce had smiled at Dick *warmly* --
("Because you are a staggeringly beautiful young man. I'd like to sketch you --
"
"Naked?"
"Hm. Yes, but I don't think that would be appropriate.")
And Tim had pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think of ways to
control the *damage* from this --
Dick had still been *juggling*as he giggled --
("If you... would tell us your name --"
"*He* doesn't want to know my name.")
And Dick had nodded to him --
And --
"There was... a moment."
"Yeah, Uncle Brother?" And Dick... rubs his throat against Tim's hand
helpfully. Hopefully.
Tim shifts his grip to one which pinches off the arteries --
"Oh... that's dirty. And *mean*. What moment?"
"There was a moment when I thought we could get away from you with merely some
embarrassment and... problematic ambiguity."
"You mean if my parents hadn't been killed?"
Tim nods once.
Dick frowns thoughtfully, breathing -- somewhat -- uselessly... "I... maybe? At
*first* you were just as I-want-to-eat-you-alive as Bruce was, but then you
*weren't*. And it was even believable enough that I thought I'd just misread
you. But when I *said* something like that --"
"I asked you how old you were."
Dick snickers. "In the most obvious way *imaginable*. I went back to thinking
you guys were just *attractive* pervs."
"I couldn't... there was no part of me, in that moment, which could accept you
believing yourself undesired."
"Even though you knew that my self-esteem wasn't exactly in trouble...?"
Tim smiles ruefully. "I was already --"
"Comparing me to your own inner child. I -- you were the same age I am now."
Tim nods again.
"That's -- wow. That's actually a little *scary*, Uncle Brother." And Dick is
starting to flush slightly, pupils dilating...
"Tell me why."
"Well... maybe I should already be as hardcore --"
"You are. And if you roll your eyes for that I will not give you an orgasm."
"*Yee* -- okay, fine. At the very least, I should be better at looking at kids
and figuring out what they're good for. What they can *do*."
"Many of us never manage that, at all."
"Like *most* of the JSA, I know. I... um. Mm. God, I. I can't really...
think..."
"Then don't."
And Dick's penis twitches for that, Dick arches and moans --
"Good boy."
"Your -- nnh. It's just -- I *never* thought that -- that Impulse kid would
work *out*."
"Hnn. Neither did the vast majority of the community."
"*You*. *You* knew --"
"I may have simply been lusting for him," Tim says, smiling and stroking down
to Dick's small, gold nipple rings with his free hand.
Dick gurgles -- "Oh -- God. I don't actually. Have to do that. Oh. I feel so...
nnh..."
"Yes?"
"I think -- uh. How long before I pass out?"
Tim smiles more broadly. "Perhaps we should find out."
Dick *moans* -- "I want. I want to be *here* when you fuck me --"
"Oh, you will be," Tim says, and *tugs* on the rings --
"*Please* -- oh..." Dick goes somewhat *limp* --
Tim releases the pressure, and tugs hard on the rings until Dick is gasping,
oxygenating himself at speed --
"Oh -- *God* --"
"Shh, keep breathing..."
"Brother... Uncle Brother --"
"*Breathe*."
Dick whimpers and arches again --
And breathes.
And breathes.
And takes *shuddering* breaths when Tim twists the rings back and forth and
back again.
"Good boy. Beautiful... mm. I remember when you came home with these."
Dick gasps -- and giggles. "I thought. I thought you guys were going to *beat*
me."
"Perhaps we should have," Tim says, and scratches down to Dick's groin, splits
his fingers with Dick's penis -- "It's so strange that you've finished
growing," Tim *blurts* --
Dick *snorts*. "*Thanks* --"
"You know what I mean."
"I *do*. And it's not *better*, Uncle Brother --"
"Tell me how the needle felt," and Tim *grips* Dick's penis --
"*Unh* -- uh. It felt -- dirty. Hot -- literally hot, I mean --"
"Roy heated it?"
"No, I --" Dick licks his lips and pushes into Tim's fist. "Please. Please."
Tim starts to squeeze rhythmically. "Tell me."
"It -- an illusion. I just -- I thought I was -- burning --"
"Did you wince...?"
A breathy laugh -- "Yeah. When my *dick* twitched so hard I thought I was
*twelve* again."
"What did you say to make Bruce touch the rings properly?"
Dick shivers and opens his eyes -- his pupils are still blown. "Please --"
"Shh. Answer."
"He -- I -- I begged. I -- begged and backed him up against a *wall* --"
"Did you."
"I -- rubbed up against him. My chest --"
"And you kept begging."
"So -- much -- please, Tim --"
"What do you want."
"*Something*. Or -- God, no, just -- oh, fuck, *fuck*, I love your hands --"
"As an aside, there is no one in my life with hands more arousing than yours."
"*Oh* -- then let me *touch* you --"
"Mm. Perhaps I will. But tell me what you want."
"You, you, just -- let me *give* you --"
Tim squeezes Dick's penis *hard* --
Dick cries out and tosses his head on Tim's lap --
"You want to please me."
"*Yes*!"
"You want to... mm... join the parade of family members dragging me back out
into the light...?"
Dick laughs and pumps, twists and cups Tim's hands, strokes and molests using
*all* of his calluses --
"Yes...?"
"Uncle Brother... it's my *turn*," and Dick is smiling, still, but it's hard on
his face, almost --
No, none of Dick's smiles are truly *dark*, but this one --
This is perhaps the smile which made Clark start speaking about Kryptonian
myths with Dick --
Made Clark --
("I just... there's Jay now, and he's different and great at *once*, and... I
*feel* more like a Nightwing than a Robin now, guys.")
And Dick had been smiling ruefully, openly, warmly --
Dick had almost certainly been ready, willing, and *able* to keep him and Bruce
from *murdering* Clark --
("It's --I have a few designs for the uniform --"
"Do you."
"Oh -- Bruce --")
And Tim had held up a hand and somehow, somehow managed to keep himself from
snarling *or* begging --
("You told us... you told us that being Robin would keep you close to your
mother."
"It did! It -- I think. I think, maybe, Nightwing will let me be closer to my
*father*.")
And that had made *both* him and Bruce shudder --
And Dick had winced --
("Okay, I get that that's -- a bad word for you guys...")
He'd shaken his head and come close, *pulled* them close to him until Bruce
couldn't keep himself from clutching at Dick's hip and Tim couldn't keep
himself from winding Dick's hair around his *fist* --
("Please, Dick."
"Oh, boss, I'll never -- you know I'll never leave, right? You *both* have to
*know* that!")
And Tim had *searched* Dick, studied and -- *yanked* on his hair --
("Not *ever*, Tim!"
"It... perhaps... if you. It might be *best* --"
"*Shut* up, Bruce --"
"Tim, we mustn't -- we mustn't hold Dick *back* --")
And Tim had pulled Dick down into a kiss --
Tim had *slapped* Bruce's hand and forced it to stay curved around Dick's hip -
-
("I want... of course I want -- oh. Dick...")
And Tim hadn't needed to look to know that Dick was using his hands *somewhere*
on Bruce, that he was being *convincing* --
And here, in this moment, Dick is dragging his trapeze calluses up Tim's
forearm in a hard line --
Dick is smiling at him *sharply* --
"Dick --"
"Who was it this time?"
"You. And your promise to never leave."
"*Which* promise --"
"Hnn. When Bruce and I were making asses of ourselves about your choice to
become Nightwing."
Dick sighs and twines his fingers with Tim's, forcing Tim to squeeze him
*viciously* -- "Oh -- ow -- mm. I miss that ridiculously long hair I had
sometimes."
"So do I."
"You *never* missed an opportunity to use it against me in spars --"
"I still loved it. Especially when you were wearing nothing *but* your hair and
whatever jewelry Bruce talked you into."
Dick snickers. "I'm still not your *harem* boy, Uncle Brother."
"I'll be sure to keep that in mind," Tim says, twisting his hand free --
"Oh, no --"
"Hands and knees."
"Oh, *yeah*," and Dick *flips* himself onto his hands and knees with the kind
of exuberance which *shouldn't* be matched with perfect grace, but, with Dick,
always is. He bounces *while* flipping his shoulder-length hair out of his face
--
He grins and wiggles his ass --
And Tim spares a moment to wonder why *he* wasn't already naked before he
stands on the bed and strips --
"Yes yes yes --"
"Shh."
"Oh, God, I know, Tim, I know, but I haven't had your dick in *weeks*!"
"And if I was planning on just giving you my fingers...?"
"Only Roy gets to do that, and only because he *beats* me first."
Tim shivers and kneels naked behind Dick. "Should I do that more often,
Dick...?"
"Um. Uh."
"Think about it," Tim says, and spreads Dick *wide* --
Dick groans -- "Oh -- oh, Uncle *Brother* --"
"You feel me looking at you."
"*Seeing* me."
"Knowing you."
"What. What I've been *doing*."
Tim smiles and spreads Dick's buttocks as wide as he can --
"Oh fuck --"
"Does it hurt...?"
"Stings --"
"You've been letting other men hurt you."
"Nn -- I need -- and Babs, too --"
"Bad boy. Maybe I *should* make you wait..."
"Please don't! Please, Tim --"
"Shh," and Tim licks around Dick's hole *slowly* --
Dick whines and *shudders* --
Tim licks again --
Again even *more* slowly --
And the whine becomes hungrier, comes with a full-body *shudder*...
And Tim knows what he wants. What he needs in *this* moment. "Stay right
there."
"Yeah -- yes, Uncle --"
"Shh."
Dick grunts and shakes his hair down over his face as Tim stands off the bed --
Shakes it back over his shoulders --
Whimpers and shifts on his knees --
"Be still."
"*Unh* -- okay. Okay, I can do that --"
"And quiet."
"God -- *mm*." And that's the sound of agreement from behind bitten lips, the
sound of *acquiescence* --
Dick has given so much and has only ever wanted to give *more* --
("You *know* how it is, alternate papi."
"Do I...?")
And Roy had leaned back against his big, powerful bike, spreading his legs just
so and tilting his head back to show that he *wasn't* wearing Kal's collar -
- or, rather, that Kal had hidden it under Roy's skin for reasons of his own,
leaving Roy free to... advertise.
("Hungry is better than casual. Needy is better than hungry --"
"And 'desperate' is better than anything...?")
Roy had grinned and cupped his groin --
Roy had squeezed himself and *started* to bend his neck just for *that* --
For his *own* touch --
Roy... had known exactly what Tim wanted.
("Stop."
"Nnh -- yes, papi.")
Dick has never been casual with him, but *desperation* is something --
Something that doesn't quite *happen* when all of that hunger and need is right
there for the asking --
*Always* right there for the asking --
From the time he was *thirteen* --
("I *hate* being alone!")
And --
("Please? I know you guys both want to and so do *I*!")
And --
("Please please it's so much better than *crying*!"
"You *must* cry, beautiful boy --"
"Oh, Bruce! After! I promise! Just touch me and I promise I'll do *anything*!")
They had not lasted. They --
They had not lasted and they had not *pushed* Dick -- not in this way.
Not until Roy had begun doing it as a matter of *course*.
("He's right *there*, papi.")
And the smile on Tim's face is more than a little savage as he pulls the
restraints, the plug, and the -- simple, leather -- cock ring out of his now-
unprotected-by-problematic-parent-related-neurosis toy compartment. Perhaps
he'll replace the wingback chair with one of Gilda's sculptures.
He *is* right there --
He is willing and *ready* --
("*Always* for you, Uncle Brother!")
And sometimes it seems as though he *forgets* that he'd named Tim that as a
joke --
("Okay, if Bruce is supposed to be my *father* --"
"Only -- only if it's what you *desire*, Dick --"
"You *adopted* me!"
"I -- but -- I would never --")
And Dick's glance had been *withering* --
And Bruce had been wise enough to quiet himself, wise enough to sit back and
let Dick pace between them --
*On* the table --
("*You're* Bruce's brother."
"I am."
"But you're only eleven years older than me!"
"Very true."
"I don't think that makes you 'Uncle' material.")
Bruce had wanted -- badly -- to point out that he was only *sixteen* years
older than Dick. That much was obvious in the tension in his shoulders, the
wideness of his eyes --
Tim had rested his hand on Bruce's forearm --
Bruce had gritted his teeth and nodded --
And Dick had been --
Dick had been beautiful as he stared down at both of them from on high, as he
planted his fists on his hips and lifted his chin --
("You're Uncle *Brother*.")
And Dick had held his straight face --
And held it --
Until Tim and Bruce had raised their eyebrows, at which point he had seemed to
explode in snickers and giggles and cackles, folding in on himself --
Jumping --
Falling to the table and *rolling* --
It was the first time he had *truly* laughed since the night they had met.
Neither of them would have *dreamed* of stopping him, of -- leashing him.
Perhaps that's another reason why it had taken them so long to do things like
this?
It's certainly a more *flattering* reason than 'crippling failure of
imagination.'
Tim smiles to himself and makes sure that Dick is restrained *firmly*. By the
time he's cuffing Dick's left ankle to the bedpost, Dick is shaking. Not
heavily, but steadily.
The order to be still?
The order not to speak? Both?
Tim leans in and bites the back of Dick's right thigh hard enough to leave a
*very* good impression of his teeth -- and a lasting bruise --
"*Mm*!"
-- and then he catches Dick's penis mid-twitch and rings it tightly. Dick
immediately pumps into his fist four times, but --
"It's curious, Dick. You know that won't get you anywhere in particular..."
Dick squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip *harder* --
"You know that I will, in fact, make you suffer for it..."
Dick nods *vigorously*.
"So that *is* what you want from me...?"
Another nod -- a headshake. And a pleading look.
"Stop biting your lip."
Dick pants and moans, *stretching* toward him --
"You are... indescribably beautiful. It drives me up a wall that Bruce can
consistently find ways *to* describe your beauty --"
Dick shakes his head *vehemently* --
And Tim raises an eyebrow. "And perhaps I should only worry about what's
natural for me to say?"
An equally vehement nod --
Tim strokes Dick's swollen lower lip. "You may speak again -- but only to
answer questions. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Tim."
"Why the confusion before?"
"I want -- " Dick licks his lips. "I want to suffer *for* you. Not just from
you." And Dick's smile is rueful enough --
"You know exactly how I want to respond to that. Don't you."
"Well... it's not *quite* martyrdom? Ish?" And Dick's smile is winsome and
soft, loving, hopeful -- "I know what you *like*."
He does.
They *all* do --
But Dick was the first one who forced Tim to admit that 'pubescent' was another
way of saying 'old *enough*.'
Dick was the first one --
Dick is the one here *now*, and he's already pulling at the restraints. Already
--
Fighting.
Tim hums and pulls back out of view --
"Oh, don't -- *ahn* -- oh fuck -- *fuck*!"
*Just* three slaps for his scrotum, which, now that Tim is paying attention...
hm. "What did you do for Barbara."
"I -- I -- I stripped!"
"Slowly?" And Tim caresses Dick's scrotum with his left hand and tries to judge
the swelling beyond 'mild.'
"Yes -- too slowly --"
"Was there music?"
"Um -- ah -- I'm pretty sure it was from a Bollywood musical she would never
actually admit to watching."
Tim laughs and hums. "What else did you do for her."
"Naked dancing -- also slow -- please --"
"Shh," and Tim squeezes Dick's scrotum *firmly* --
"Oh, *God*, I want -- *ow* -- ahn -- oh, *yes* --"
"Shh."
"Mm-hm, mm-hm!"
Tim laughs softly. "She filmed you."
Dick nods and tries to push back into Tim's hand --
"Did she let you watch yourself...?"
Dick shakes his head -- "Nn -- I don't -- I don't like --"
"Oh... very true. You've never enjoyed that."
"No, Tim," Dick says, hanging his head --
"You don't want to disappoint me."
"Never -- please --"
"Shh. What else. After the dancing."
"She -- she has... um. Stocks."
For a moment, there is confusion. But the moment passes. "Did she let you see
her."
"No, Tim. I --"
"Shh." And Tim *scratches* Dick's scrotum --
"*Hnh* --"
"Did she hurt you badly?"
"Just. Just my sac, Tim --"
"Did you want more."
Dick moans and strains -- he's struggling to press close to Tim far more than
he's struggling for more contact for his genitals.
He is --
Tim growls under his breath --
Dick moans again and *shivers*, *yanks* against the arm restraints --
"*Answer*."
"God -- I wanted -- we decided to save me for you."
Tim feels himself flush --
Feels himself bend and need and -- not bite. Dick isn't Jay.
He scrapes his teeth down the center of Dick's spine --
Dick shivers and pants --
Tim *licks* his way *up* Dick's spine --
"Yes -- yes yes --"
"Did you. Want. More."
"*Yes*! And *no* -- *oh* --"
Tim kisses the back of Dick's neck *almost* the way Bruce would. Bruce would
make the kiss slower, and more gentle --
More *wet* --
Bruce wouldn't suck quite this hard --
Bruce wouldn't mark so *soon* --
And Dick is already writhing under him, already moving and *enticing* --
Tim pulls back --
"Please!"
"Seduction..."
"Mm?"
Tim laughs -- but, in truth, the close-mouthed sounds had been agreed to years
before, in moments no less heated than this one. "I wonder where you learned
it."
"Mm --"
"Answer," and Tim kisses Dick's shoulder blades, and his deltoids, and the
numerous scars over his obliques --
"Um -- um. I don't know?"
"Surely you have some ideas," and Tim moves to the small of Dick's back. Dick
isn't nearly as sensitive there as Tim is, but --
"Oh -- oh, Tim --"
"Answer."
"Mm -- I -- please --"
Tim *grips* Dick's scrotum --
Dick *wails* --
And Tim shudders and closes his eyes, breathes and --
And holds --
And *holds* --
"Please please PLEASE!"
"You know what to do."
"Oh -- *God*, Tim, I just -- I just -- I need it so much, I need to be touched,
I'll do anything -- you know I'll do anything --"
"And you learned what people wanted?"
"It was --" Dick groans and pants, shudders --
"Keep. Talking."
"It was in their *eyes*! It was always -- you always *melted* for me --"
"When."
"When I was *silly* or -- or extra needy, extra -- oh, God, you like the same
things *Roy* likes --"
"He's a man of excellent taste..."
And Dick giggles and pants, snickers and *whimpers* -- "Oh, Tim, Tim,
*please*!"
"You're sweating for me..."
"Yes!"
"You're hurting for me."
"*Always*, I'll do it -- it's *yours* --"
"Would you grow your hair again...?"
"*Yes*!"
Tim shivers and releases Dick's scrotum --
"*Fuck* --"
"Don't do it."
"You -- you *want* --"
"I want everything of you. But especially your continued healthy existence,"
Tim says, sitting back on his heels and checking the battery in the vibrator
that fits in the plug --
"I'm *better* than I was at nineteen --"
"And you'll be better than that... if you live. Only grow your hair if you
desperately need to."
"I --"
"*Dick*."
"*Fuck* -- I mean yes -- yes, Tim."
"Good boy."
Dick moans and arches his back, lifts his ass --
"You want me to fuck you."
"Please. Please, hard --"
"I'll think about it," Tim says, slicking the plug perfunctorily and shoving it
in --
"*UNH* --"
-- and turning on the vibration.
"Oh -- oh -- *oh*!"
"So you *didn't* peek while I was collecting the toys."
"Not -- enough -- oh, Tim..." And Dick licks his lips and grinds his hips at
nothing, flexes and tugs at the sheets...
Tim takes a deep breath and moves to sit back against the headboard again,
putting enough pressure on the restraint on Dick's right wrist that he has to
lift that hand slightly.
Dick gives him a *pleading* look --
"Tell me more about 'melting.'"
"I don't -- what?" And Dick licks his lips and tries to push closer --
Tim shakes his head and smiles. "When else do I melt for you, little brother.
When do you *see* it."
"When I'm -- sad --"
"Mm. Very true. And?"
Dick shudders and frowns -- "I. I can't concentrate --"
"Do it anyway."
Dick groans and licks his lips again, penis twitching once --
Again --
"You. You..."
"Yes, Dick...?"
Another pleading look. "I want. I want to *suck* you --"
"You can't."
Dick *grunts* --
"Answer the question," Tim says, raising an eyebrow and crossing his legs at
the ankle.
An *anguished* look -- and a laugh, breathless and *hungry*. "*This*, Uncle
Brother. When. When I'm *losing* it."
"You'd say I'm melting...?"
"Not *enough* -- but. It's starting."
Tim... licks the backs of his teeth and meets Dick's gaze. "It's in my eyes."
"It's -- a burn."
"But not a melt...?"
Dick fights the restraints with a sudden -- desperate -- violence, yanking at
them and growling, shouting --
Banging the headboard against the *wall* --
And getting absolutely nowhere. These cuffs don't tighten when one fights them
-- that sort of thing is dangerous in this family -- but only Bruce is strong
enough to break the cords, and he *wouldn't*. Dick *could* use his flexibility
to get out of the cuffs... but only if he were *indifferently* tied.
Tim would never, ever do that.
Just as he would never, ever dream of *blinking* while Dick struggles like
this. It must be a burn, it --
He *feels* hot, *dry* and hot, despite the sweat on his throat and chest and
back --
Dick is growling and *whimpering* --
And there are times when Tim has wondered if it would be better for his lovers
if he were to be *more* cold, more...
More distant or *unaffected*...
Kal has been known to eat grapes while being fellated.
Diana has been known to conduct diplomatic negotiations -- over the phone -
- while having the soles of her feet licked clean. Not by *him*, but it was
entirely fascinating to watch.
It --
He could... eat?
Or... smirk?
Some would say the smile currently on Tim's face -- he can *feel* it -- is
perfectly terrible. Covetous and -- and *evil* --
Dick kneels up as much as he can, straining hard, tendons showing in his arms
and shoulders and neck --
He throws his head back and *shouts* --
He shudders and shouts *again* --
His *eyes* are squeezed shut --
He's not getting the *effect* of Tim's burning -- or is he? Dick has always
been so *intuitive*. For a long time Tim had wondered if *he* had magical
powers. He didn't -- he *doesn't*.
He was a staggeringly incredible boy, and he is a staggeringly incredible
*man*.
And the vibrator has only one -- vicious -- speed.
Tim licks his lips and -- "*Down*."
Dick jerks and *whines* --
"*Now*."
Dick drops onto his *elbows*, hair hiding his face --
Tim can't take that. He gathers Dick's hair and pushes it back behind his ear,
giving himself the sight of Dick's flush --
The way Dick *winces* every time a shudder *wracks* him --
"Beautiful."
Dick turns his head to beg with his eyes, to plead so *eloquently*...
And Tim knows this smile is no better than the other when Dick moans and moves
to nuzzle Tim's hand, to kiss and plead *that* way.
The shudders keep *coming* --
"Will you scream if I touch your penis, little brother...?"
"Yes, Tim."
"Then do so," Tim says, shoving three fingers of his right hand into Dick's
mouth and *gripping* Dick's penis with his left --
Dick's scream is wetly *incoherent* --
And the next one is worse --
And the next one is *worse*, because Dick is licking Tim's fingers, trying and
*failing* to suck as Tim strokes --
And strokes --
And shifts to give Dick the stroke he'd *taught* them when he was a boy --
A beautiful and *needy* boy --
And Tim doesn't feel dry, anymore. He feels like he's sweating more for every
scream, like he's leaking more pre-ejaculate every time Dick's penis twitches
in his hand --
He feels tight and slick and his *own* kind of needy, and there is only *one*
thing he'll be able to do... soon.
Perhaps when the *muffled* buzz of the vibrator finally drives him --
Drives him --
He's growling again, fucking Dick's mouth with his fingers --
Dick is trying to *swallow* them between screams --
And there are tears --
There are --
("I'm *pretty* sure you're not supposed to make thirteen-year-old boys cry when
you fuck them, Daddy.")
And Barbara had been stripped down to her -- armored -- bra, panties, and socks
--
Barbara had smelled of sweat and leather and other people's *blood* --
("Hm. What about sixteen-year-old girls...?"
"*Those* only cry tears of... exertion, of course."
"If you're quite sure.")
And Barbara had showed her *teeth* --
Perhaps just the way she had when she'd had Dick in her *stocks*. Perhaps --
And Tim wants to ask what else she'd done, wants to *know* --
But Dick is leaking all over his hand, Dick is shaking and *sobbing* as he
screams --
And there are things Tim wants more. Things Tim --
"I *need* you."
Dick nods and arches, offering himself perfectly, *completely* --
Going *down* on Tim's fingers --
Sobbing and *lunging* when Tim takes them away --
"Shh. Soon."
Dick bites his lip and nods, spreads wide enough to overbalance *anyone* else -
-
But he is Dick, and his body is perfection, grace, beauty --
Tim spanks him *hard* --
Dick throws his head back and *gasps* --
Tim spanks him again and Dick whimpers --
Again and Dick gasps again, sobs and *rolls* his hips into the rhythm of Tim's
strikes before Tim knows what it *is*. His mouth is open and he's flushed
*dark*. He's --
He's *ready*, and Tim is, too, and the only excuse for this --
The only *possible* excuse --
"You always want *more*," and it's an accusation --
But Dick *smiles* as he cries out, as more tears roll down his cheeks --
Tim spanks him harder, *faster*, and Dick meets him for every strike, meets him
and cries and *shouts* --
Struggles with his upper body and *gives* with the rest of himself --
Struggles *harder* --
"*Dick*."
"*NNH* --"
And he drops again onto his elbows --
Drops further onto his *face* --
And moves for him --
And *moves* for him --
And Tim is expecting to growl again, but he can't say he's especially *shocked*
by the fact that there's something of a groan to it, too, something -- "Now,"
he says, and grabs the flared base of the plug. He can't make himself give any
more warning than that, and he can't manage *slowly*, but he can manage a
steady pull, something that allows *room* for the way Dick is still grinding --
Still *clenching* --
Tim will *have* that --
And Dick screams when the plug is out --
Whimpers just as Tim turns the vibrator off --
And Tim pours the STARslide directly onto his penis, stroking himself and
hissing, growling like an animal and wanting now, wanting more, wanting *now* -
-
He *won't* untie Dick -- not even so he can spread himself -- and the
frustration of that is making him brutal with himself, lubricant or no --
He will not wait. He --
There *are* differences between thirteen and twenty-four, and one of those
differences is *experience*. The question of *ease*.
*Bruce* couldn't do this --
Couldn't line himself up with no further preparation and push --
"Yes!"
And push --
"God, *yes*!"
Bruce *wouldn't* --
"*AHN* --"
But he has to, *has* to, because Dick is the only little brother he has, Dick
taught him so much, gave him --
Gave him *this*, because Tim is already riding him, already making -- making a
*space* --
Feeling everywhere Dick *wasn't* stretched --
"Nnh -- nnh -- *Tim*!"
"No. *Words*," Tim says, and grips Dick by the hair --
Yanks his head back while he screams in *shock* --
But isn't there a laugh in there, too? A sense of --
Of *knowing* --
("Of *course* Bruce wouldn't ever say anything like that! He's the *nice* one!"
"... and I am?"
"The *mean* one.")
And Dick had giggled and pointed at him --
Perhaps at the frown on his face --
And then he had flipped backwards onto his hands and *run* down the length of
the hall, weaving easily between the pieces of Gilda's early statuary they'd
purchased and giggling *more* --
But perhaps, in this moment, the laugh is only in Tim's imagination. Perhaps he
is --
Fooling himself --
Growling and *shoving* himself in --
And *in* --
"*MM*!"
"That's. That's just right, Dick --"
"Mm! Mm-mm-- *HNH* --"
"You're. Mm. You're right. I should torture you this way, too. I should...
*nnh*. Be *still*."
Dick gasps --
*Yanks* against the restraints --
Tim *grips* Dick's hair and turns his hand so that he can dig his knuckles in
against the back of Dick's neck --
And then he *shoves* Dick down --
"*MM*!"
"Just... take it," Tim says, thrusting faster, *harder* --
Dick grunts and *shudders* --
Grunts again and *clenches* --
And possibly that *shouldn't* make Tim growl again as he forces Dick's *face*
against the bed --
Shouldn't make him do everything in his power to *punish* Dick's prostate --
His screams are *muffled* --
Like --
Like his --
Tim feels *himself* shudder and yanks Dick's head back up, needs -- "I changed
my mind. Work. Your. *Ass*."
"Mm! Mm! MM!" And it takes Dick a moment --
It feels --
Every *missed* cue feels --
Tim is snarling and *pulling* on Dick's left nipple ring --
He switches hands so he can get to the right without letting go of Dick's hair
for more than a moment, without losing --
Losing himself --
And they *both* start grunting when Dick catches his rhythm, when Dick works
himself so perfectly, so *brutally* --
For *him* --
They're shaking --
"Mm!"
-- the bed --
"MM!"
Shaking all over, shaking him, and he needs, he's so close, he's so hungry, so
hot and needy, he's always *been* needy --
Dick *knows* --
They *all* know --
They're his *family* --
And it feels like instinct to rip the cock ring free --
To *slap* Dick's penis when he calls Tim's name --
To do it again when he *apologizes* --
And then Dick is screaming again, clenching hard enough to make Tim bite his
own *tongue* as he comes, ejaculating before Tim can move his *hand* --
So he keeps it right there, stroking and *jerking* Dick through it,
deliberately off-rhythm until Dick loses his grace, his perfection --
Until Dick *falls* onto his stomach and groans --
And gives Tim an excuse he didn't actually need to fuck him into the mattress.
Just --
This push --
This --
This *force*, and working his arms under Dick's shaking shoulders is better,
*holding* him by his shoulders is better, comforting, needful --
He won't stop --
He won't *stop*, because Dick is still *trying* to work his ass for him, still
--
Even though he's whimpering and *crooning* --
Even though Tim had taken his *words* --
"Good -- *good*," but the rest of that is a snarl Tim can't do anything with
but bury in Dick's throat --
Bite and hold --
Bite and *rut*, because Dick's clenches are making his vision blank, making his
mind *stop* --
His body *won't* --
He needs --
"*You*," and that's more of a snarl than a word, more --
Tim bites again and shifts his angle just enough --
Just --
"*Mmmm*..."
Just enough that every clench grips him like a hand, like -- like a perfect --
So perfect --
He's thrusting even *harder* --
Dick turns his head to show a *smile*, lazy and -- and full --
And Tim isn't ready for the clench that makes him all but *bark* --
Isn't ready for the way it *lasts* --
He -- he has to be causing so much *pain* --
But Dick is only smiling, only --
Dick is taking him --
The way he always --
"Mmm...?"
Always --
"*Dick*," and there's blood in his mouth from this bite --
And Dick is *wiggling* his ass --
And there's a moment when Tim's eyes are *about* to roll back in his head when
he promises himself at least one night when they're *both* ringed --
A moment when he's *smiling* as he *bites* --
And then there's the real burn, the fire that takes everything he is --
Everything --
He's shouting and *clutching* at Dick --
He's fucking Dick *brutally* --
And it seems that the light answers everything, answers *for* everything --
It seems that the heat *must* be shared, given, always given --
He *loves* --
So *much* --
Black --
*Black* --
And Tim gasps himself back *to* himself for the metal-shear taste of blood in
his mouth --
And the sound of Dick humming "La donna è mobile."
Tim licks his lips. And considers.
Dick continues to hum.
"Do you... miss Bruce?"
"Mmm?"
Oh... right. Tim laughs at himself and licks a trickle of blood from Dick's
throat. "Speak."
"Mmmm... about?"
Tim feels his face heating with the *force* of his smile -- no, the need behind
it, the *emotion* -- "I love you."
Dick wags his head back and forth --
And bounces -- despite Tim still being *inside* him --
And hums something Tim suspects is from a cartoon about mutated salamanders --
"Dick."
"Hee hee. I love you, too, Uncle Brother. That was -- wow," and Dick turns his
head in a somewhat owl-like fashion to grin at him. "Feel better?"
"Immensely."
"*Good*. That means you'll untie me, right? Right? Right?"
Tim growls and *flexes* his softening penis --
"*Ee* -- or. Or? Something?"
But Tim feels himself -- overfull. In need --
In need of something more than *this*.
He kisses the back of Dick's neck and lets himself shiver, lets himself *feel*
--
There's so much --
"Tim?"
Tim shakes his head and kisses Dick again, and again --
He keeps doing it until he feels something like whole again, or -- not that. He
never felt *shattered* -- not with Dick. But...
"I'd *really* like to hold you right now -- *oof* -- but I can go with you
holding me! Especially like that." Dick sighs and relaxes into Tim's *clutch*.
"But -- are you okay?"
"I love you."
"Is that what's messing you up right now? Or... is it... bad?" And Dick tries
to turn his head even more, but some things are impossible even for him.
Some things --
He's so --
Tim is so *full* inside, and it's not passing, not *leaving* him --
He doesn't want it to leave.
He --
"Tim --"
"It's not bad."
"O... kay? You're kinda worrying me, Uncle Brother."
"I'm... repressed."
"Yes...?"
"I think I need to."
"Yes?"
"I think I'm going to stop that. To a certain extent."
Dick blinks. "You -- really?"
"I think... I think my emotions aren't really giving me a choice about the
matter."
"Are you... um. I think if you're going to have a breakdown, you have to untie
me."
Tim laughs, and it doesn't sound like one of *his* laughs, at all. It's -- it's
thick, and low --
Oh, he's crying. He's... crying?
Is he sad? No.
Is he... upset? No.
Is he --
"Oh, *Tim*!"
"I'm all right."
"You are not!"
"I'm happy, Dick."
"You're -- what?"
Tim squeezes Dick --
"Oh, do that all the time, but *what*?"
Tim eases his grip. "I'm going to pull out. And untie you."
"Okay, bad with the good, but what --"
"I'm happy. And I realize... I realize that that hasn't been true... that I've
been keeping it from myself, even in the moments when it would've been most..."
Tim shakes his head. "Breathe."
Dick does so immediately, even and practiced and perfect.
Tim doesn't try his usual trick of breathing in time -- the tears won't let him
-- but he can pull out slowly, and carefully --
"Oh -- mm. God, you should be fucking me all the *time*."
"I love you," Tim says, and opens the restraints as quickly as possible --
"Oh, I love you I love you --"
And Tim lets Dick tackle him, lets him roll and push and *move* them until Tim
is more or less on his side of the bed and Dick is more or less on top of him.
And their legs are... braided. "Dick."
"Tell me -- tell me about the happiness?"
Tim strokes Dick's swollen mouth, beautiful mouth --
Dick wipes Tim's tears away --
They *smile* at each other, *into* each other --
And then Dick blinks. "You -- you're feeling it more. Everything?"
Tim shivers. "I think so, yes. I... don't know how long it will last --"
"Let's go for *forever*!"
"I..." But why protest that? Why fight *anything* that feels this -- this
*human* and *alive*? Tim takes a deep breath and uses all of his strength to
pull Dick against him --
"Oh, *God*, yes!" And --
It's possible that he'd need a diagram to figure out how to detach himself from
Dick at this point.
Perhaps he'll have Stephanie make one... later.
Sometime when Dick isn't kissing Tim everywhere he can reach --
"-- and it's good, it's always so *good* to feel things, even when it hurts --"
"Dick --"
"-- connects you to everyone and every*thing* --"
"I --"
"-- always *wanted* that for you, worried about you, so cold and alone --"
"Never with --"
"-- *live* like you --"
"Stay with me tonight," Tim tries, and raises an eyebrow.
Dick arches close and licks the skin beneath Tim's eyes. "I am never leaving
you. Ever."
"Dick."
"If it takes you teasing me *bloody* and *reaming* me to get you to really feel
things -- I'm. Um. Willing to make the sacrifice?" And Dick beams, bopping his
head back and forth.
Tim raises his eyebrow higher.
Dick waggles *his* eyebrows --
And Tim remembers the first time he'd seen Dick do that *after* they'd all made
love --
Remembers the *relief* he'd felt that Dick could still tease -- still feel that
*confident* -- even with bruises on his hips and the inescapable knowledge of
the taste of semen. Somehow -- it was all right.
"Tim...?"
"I believe I'd like to try to sleep... like this."
"Oh, God, it's my birthday --"
Tim kisses Dick gently, cupping his face with one hand and reaching to turn off
the bedside lamp with the other.
The controller for the machine is rather more difficult to grasp while making
love to Dick's mouth, but Tim manages it, shutting the machine down and tossing
the controller in the half-open drawer before rolling Dick onto his back --
Dick struggles --
Tim pulls back --
"The *other* position, Uncle Brother!"
Tim laughs and shivers, *needs* -- "Of course," he says, and rolls back over
immediately --
And Dick takes his place half on top of Tim with joy and speed.
The *other* lamp is still on...
But Tim doesn't care.
He puts himself to sleep to the feel of Dick's steadily softening kisses, the
sound of Dick's increasingly random murmurs --
He tries to hold on to something about socks and glitter --
He lets it go.
He sleeps --
He dreams of warmth and the sense of things moving beneath surfaces, heartbeats
and tides and beings of darkness and emotion --
Beings that reach and *demand* --
He dreams of taking them all, *breathing* them all *in* like Jason Blood until
he's filled, until he's moving, too --
He's always wanted to move --
He'd *known* that when he was --
Motion --
The catch is instinctive, as is the force he uses on the wrist in his grip --
"*Yow* --"
Stephanie. Tim opens his eyes and *then* loosens his grip --
Stephanie winces -- and covers it with a glare. She's going to be fifteen in
three months, and she is a very impressive five feet, five inches tall and one
hundred forty-five pounds. She *doesn't* gain new muscle at the same speed Jay
had at her age, but it seems that way.
Feels that way.
Her dark blonde hair is pulled into a ponytail Bruce would describe as 'cruel'
and Tim thinks of as 'tempting.'
She's dressed in a loose -- eggplant -- t-shirt and faded sweatpants that were
once, he believes, indigo.
She is -- still glaring.
"Stephanie."
"*Well*? Are you gonna talk to me or *not*?"
Tim opens his mouth --
"Mnuh -- oh, hey, no, cuddles!"
Tim strokes Dick's hair with his free hand. "I have to speak with Stephanie
now, Dick."
"Mmm. Naked? Because --"
Stephanie tries for a kick to Dick's thigh --
Dick catches her ankle and frowns tragically --
"Let me go!"
"Steph --"
"*Now*!"
"No kicking when I'm getting my cuddles!"
Stephanie growls -- "Fine!"
Dick frowns more worriedly and lets her go --
She shifts on her feet --
And Tim takes the opportunity to check her pulse, which is fast and -- somewhat
-- unsteady. "Stephanie --"
"You -- you let go, too!"
Tim does so immediately, sitting up *as* Dick rolls away from him --
"And put some clothes on!"
"That can absolutely be arranged," Tim says, standing and moving to the
bathroom door, where his robe is hanging. He can feel Stephanie staring at
everything and nothing --
"Steph --"
"I don't wanna talk to you right now, Dick."
"But --"
"I'm not mad at you!"
"That's good, but --"
"Leave me alone! And stop frowning like that! And -- oh, hurry *up*, Tim!"
"I'm going to wash my hands. You're going to tell me *where* you would like to
speak."
Stephanie crosses her arms over her chest -- and *then* remembers that her
breasts are much larger than they were whenever she had first began making that
gesture. She crosses her arms under her breasts and taps her foot like Barbara.
"I don't know where."
"That's fine," Tim says, and steps into the bathroom. He washes his hands -
- and arms, and face -- quickly and thoroughly --
"You can brush your damned teeth, too."
Tim smiles at her. "Thank you very much."
She nods instead of snarling, which is a *very* good sign. Still, Tim brushes
quickly, as well, and eschews mouthwash for the time being.
She lets him rest a hand on her -- tensed -- shoulder --
But then she shakes her head and pulls away. "Let's go to the kitchen," she
mutters, and walks out.
Tim's time sense tells him that it's eleven-thirty in the morning on a
Saturday. He usually prefers to sleep until at least one on Saturdays, but...
Dick smiles at him ruefully. "Cuddle time over, Uncle Brother?"
"For now."
Dick sighs and nods. "It was good, though. Better -- just better."
Tim feels that *fullness* again -- "For me, as well."
The rueful smile *becomes* a beam -- and Dick is in motion --
Dick is wrapped around him --
Dick is kissing him and squeezing the *breath* out of him, smiling down at him
-- "Forever?"
"Every moment."
Dick purrs and wriggles against him, rubbing his -- thicker -- stubble against
Tim's. "I love you!"
"And I you. Wish me luck?"
Dick pulls back and salutes him, instead.
Tim smiles and shakes his head, ignoring the flush --
Letting it be on his face, letting it --
If he can *have* it --
He lets Dick stroke his face and takes the wonder on Dick's for his own, as
well.
And then he joins Stephanie in the kitchen.
She's pulled out the flour, sugar, salt, eggs, milk, butter, and hazelnut oil -
- and she has an *exceedingly* mean look on her face.
Tim smiles helplessly. "Of course," he says, and pulls down the metal mixing
bowls, and begins to work.
"I don't know why you didn't go to a magic-user in the *first* place," she
grumbles, and throws herself down into one of the -- sturdy -- kitchen chairs.
The *first* chairs they'd purchased for themselves in the late seventies were
lovely things, if somewhat fragile in design. Bruce had loved them, Harvey
enjoyed their tastefulness, and Tim had been thrilled to have the chance to
help *pick* them. They had reupholstered them twice over the years, and the
chairs had seemed perfectly suited to stand the test of time.
And then Dick had come to live with them in nineteen-eighty-nine.
By nineteen-ninety, the chairs were firewood.
These are much more --
"*Well*?"
Tim hums as he sifts the flour. "I was frightened."
"Of --"
"Of facing you. All of you."
Stephanie growls.
"I'll elaborate," Tim says, and checks the flour belatedly -- no, it isn't
stale. "Well before Star Sapphire threw me into that wall, a part of my mind
had begun, for lack of a better term, *picking* at the rest. Picking at my
*past*."
"And -- what? Your freaking adolescent *angst*?"
"In a word? Yes. A part of me knew that I was in no emotional condition to deal
with any of you without breaking down --"
"Everyone needs to do that sometimes!
"Agreed," Tim says, and adds a pinch of salt and the teaspoon of sugar. "But I
was too much of a coward --"
"To do what you make us do all the *time*?"
"Yes --"
"*Fuck* you!"
Tim smiles and prepares to sift the dry ingredients together. "I'm better now."
"You -- you made us *wait* for you!"
"Yes --"
"You said you'd always *be* there!" And her voice --
There's a *quaver* --
"Stephanie --"
"Don't you freaking *dare* stop cooking!"
Tim takes a deep breath and resifts the dry ingredients --
And keeps resifting them --
It's --
He thinks he can *feel* her --
"And don't mess my crepes up!"
"No," he says, and sets the dry ingredients aside. He cracks the eggs in the
other bowl the way Alfred had taught him, and uses the Batman to keep the
tremor out of his hands. He --
He sniffs the milk -- it's perfect. He measures it, pours it in with the eggs,
and begins to beat them together.
Stephanie isn't saying anything.
Stephanie is breathing *roughly* --
She *hurts*, *more* than the others --
His *family* --
"Stephanie --"
"It's not the same."
"No? What isn't?"
"It's not -- everyone *else* was fine, and they were all right there, and it's
not like -- it's not like I was *lonely*."
Tim closes his eyes. "I'm glad."
Stephanie doesn't say anything. For -- too long.
Tim --
The egg and milk mixture is correct. Tim begins working in the flour mixture,
slowly and carefully and steadily. He turns --
Stephanie is staring at the -- mostly -- clean kitchen floor with her arms
around her waist --
"Are you -- does your stomach --"
"My stomach doesn't hurt," she says *dully*.
"Stephanie..."
"You could..." She bites her lip and looks up with the beginnings of a brave
smile. "Why are your crepes good when everyone else's suck?"
Tim smiles ruefully and holds up the bowl. "This. You can't use an electric
mixer. You can't mix too slowly. You can't mix too quickly. You can't --"
"You have to be anal."
"Yes --"
"*Really* freaking anal."
Tim smiles a little wider and raises an eyebrow. "I memorized Alfred's exact
speed, arm angle, and wrist angle."
Stephanie stares at him.
"You could --"
"Shut up."
Tim hums and keeps mixing. In another thirty-five seconds, he'll add the
second-to-last portion of the dry ingredients. For now, he keeps stirring,
adjusting the angle of his elbow to catch a bit of flour which had stuck to the
side, then bringing the angle back to the correct forty-eight degrees --
"I trusted you."
Tim -- breathes. "I know. And I'm sorry."
"I trusted -- I let you *fuck* me, Tim!"
Tim looks up into her eyes. "Every chance you've given us to make love --"
"Shut *up*!"
Tim closes his eyes, nods, and goes back to stirring -- no. He adds the portion
of salted, sugared flour; *then* goes back to stirring --
"God, I can *tell* you're not changing the angle -- you're so *weird*!"
"Always," Tim says. "I've always been --"
"You can't -- you *left* us. You left *me*!"
Does it mean that he's a better person that no part of him wants to protest
that? He hopes so. "Yes."
Stephanie bites her lip and nods, staring at the floor again. "Everyone -
- everyone treated it like it was just you being *hurt*. Being -- being
*cranky* because you were hurt. Like cranky people desert everyone they love
for *weeks*!"
"Would you tell me what you thought --"
"I didn't *know* what to think! I knew you weren't -- weren't *using*, but I
still..." Stephanie frowns at the floor and shakes her head. "I still...
thought about it. Dreamed about it."
"Your mother... deserted you --"
"All the freaking *time*!"
Tim winces and nods. "I --"
"You're not my freaking *father*!" And Stephanie stands up and *jabs* a finger
at him. "Get that through your head *now*!"
"I'm not your father. I'm --" No one's father. But.
He can't --
He can't tell that lie, anymore. He shakes his head and turns back to the crepe
mixture --
No, it's time to add the last of the dry ingredients. He does that --
"*What*?"
"One --" Moment. But he doesn't actually need to gather himself for anything
but lies he doesn't want to *tell*. He breathes and smiles at her as he stirs.
"I was going to say something about being no one's father --"
"You're a lying *bastard* --"
"Yes. But -- not to you. Not to my family. Not anymore."
She frowns at him suspiciously, but --
"I will never be Dick's father -- as opposed to his brother and uncle. I will
never be Barbara's father -- as opposed to *her* brother and occasional Daddy.
I am Jay's -- other -- father when he allows it, and the same is true for
Cassandra --"
"*Not* for me!"
Tim inclines his head.
"Not -- not *ever*!"
"All right."
"I don't *screw* relatives!"
"That's definitely the healthier --"
"Shut *up*!"
Tim hums and sets the bowl down on the counter, then pulls out the thick-
bottomed melting pan they use for both butter and chocolate. And *then*
discovers that the only butter in the house is salted. Hm. He hasn't helped
with the shopping in much too long.
Well, he can add extra fruit or chocolate sauce to Stephanie's crepes. She
tends to prefer a large amount of whatever topping she chooses just in general
--
"Is the butter wrong? I made sure we got the brand you always get!"
Oh -- "I usually use unsalted --"
"*Damn* it --"
"It won't hurt the crepes," Tim says, and cuts a pat of the butter into the
pan. "You *may* want to use more sauce."
"Oh. Are you sure?"
Tim smiles at her. "I'm sure."
She nods, then sits down and shifts on the chair. "I'll remember for next
time," she says, gruffly.
"All right --"
"Would you."
"Yes?"
She growls, low and menacingly.
Tim blinks -- and watches the butter.
"Would."
"Yes?"
Another growl, and she kicks the table hard enough -- "Ow."
"You probably shouldn't --"
"I want you. To teach me how to do those," she says, and sounds like she's
asking him to teach her how to flay herself. With a dull knife that's been
dipped in a sewer.
He doesn't say that. "I'd be happy to."
"You -- you have to eat 'em even if I mess up."
"That's fair," Tim says, and stirs the melted butter into the batter.
"Even -- even if they're *rocks*."
"Lingonberry preserves can make anything --"
"You have to eat 'em *plain*."
Tim raises an eyebrow at her.
She scowls at him *blackly*. It makes her look approximately ten years old. It
makes --
"I love you, Stephanie."
She recoils dramatically. She --
Tim hums a laugh and plugs in the electric griddle which Stephanie had *also*
taken out. He pours on the oil and waits for it to heat. He -- "As an aside --"
"Fuck you!"
"Or I can stop talking."
"You can't just -- just *say* that!"
Tim turns around and cups the edge of the counter. "The next time I leave you
without word or explanation will be when I'm *suddenly* killed, Stephanie. You
are..." He shakes his head. "You were so beautiful in your home-made uniform
and military-grade body armor. You filled me with -- so much emotion. Fear for
your life. Hunger for your body. Joy for the violence you didn't even try to
bank. *Belonging*. I *knew* you would be a member of my family --"
"I'm not your freaking --"
"*Wait*," Tim says, and raises an eyebrow again.
Stephanie inhales sharply and rears back -- then nods.
"Thank you. I repressed all of that emotion, of course. I did my level best
to... shear it off, leaving only the basics. The *foundations* of what I felt -
- and what I needed from you. I did that with all of you, and it allowed me to
move through my own life like a ghost, like..." Tim shakes his head again. "I
can tell you why I did that to myself. Why I grew up like that *despite* having
the two best brothers *anyone* could have --"
"I *know* why. Bruce screwed you over for your whole *life* before Harvey made
him deal, and your parents sucked, and everyone else sucked, too. It's not -
- it's not freaking *rare*."
Tim smiles ruefully. "Perhaps not. And perhaps I overreacted."
"You --"
"Wait."
Stephanie growls and crosses her arms under her breasts again.
"I'm almost done. I promise," Tim says, and inhales... yes, the oil is hot
enough. "I was going to say -- never try to make these without either a much
higher-quality stove than we actually have --"
"The stove is *great*!"
"It's better than most. But it still doesn't heat with perfect evenness -
- unlike this griddle," Tim says, and spoons on the batter.
"So buy a better stove!"
"If you'd like."
"I don't. I mean. I can't cook *anything*, *anyway* -- go back to what you were
saying before!"
Tim turns back to face her. "Essentially, I shoved all of my pain and
*resentment* into a box and shoved the box into a dark corner. And then I
called myself healed, and told myself that the fact that I could provide
affection when desired was proof of that healing, and that the *cold* that ran
through me all the time was just... necessary. I -- no, there's more to that,"
Tim says, and narrows his eyes slightly in thought. "I told myself that there
was no difference between the Batman's need to be cold and my own. I told
myself that in order *for* the Batman to be cold *enough* --"
"You had to freeze?"
"Precisely," and Tim smiles ruefully. "All of my lovers have found ways to tell
me, over the years, that my ability to be cold to *them* was appreciated. It's
just that all of them have *also* found ways to tell me that my tendency to be
cold to *myself*... was not. Until now, I believed that this conflict was proof
of the world's tendency to be unfit to the tasks which needed to be done --"
Stephanie snorts. Loudly.
Twice.
"Oh -- uh. Tim."
Tim smiles sharply. "Yes, I believe you get the gist. One moment," he says, and
turns the crepes. It will only take a minute for the other side to get to the
shade of golden-brown Stephanie likes best. He turns back around. "I've spent
the past twenty-two years marveling at my brother's capacity for drama and
self-delusion... and ignoring my own."
"So... you're fixing that now, right?"
"Oh, yes. In part because it's the right thing to... but mostly because I have
no choice in the matter."
She frowns. "What does that mean?"
"I can't hide from my own feelings anymore, Stephanie. I believe I'm going to
have to teach myself how not to blush again. I... I am full. And it hurts. And
it's the best pain I've ever felt."
She bites her lip. "For -- your children."
"All of you."
"Stop freaking --"
"Stephanie. Even if you never have a single filial emotion towards or about me,
you will be able to do nothing about the feelings I have for you."
She sneers at him.
Tim feels the flush rising -- and smiles. "Get your plate."
In the end, Stephanie eats six crepes to his two, smothering hers in the
strawberry jam she never allows them to run out of. It's tempting to simply
*watch* her pretend not to be overfull, but, by then, Dick, Jay, and Dog have
joined them in the kitchen, and Tim decides to make another, larger batch.
After that...
After that, Dick forces Jay and Stephanie to stretch for a full forty minutes
before moving into their more serious training, and Tim makes a concentrated
attempt to commune with Dog.
It goes well right up until Dick and Jay begin sparring, and Dog begins
*herding* Tim over to the mats despite Tim's best efforts to avoid it.
Eventually, Jay looks up -- and winces. "Uh. Sorry, man. He wants you to stop
the fighting."
Tim looks at Jay.
"He... he doesn't... uh. Well, I kinda promised him I'd take it easy after last
night --"
Dog barks and paws at Tim's legs. Emphatically.
Jay smiles sheepishly. "It's just, you know, I pulled that muscle in my back
again --"
"Did you."
"It feels *better* now. I took a bath and everything."
Dick blinks. "You *hate* baths when Bruce isn't there."
"Yes, I fucking *do*, but Dog got in with me, so, you know, we had fun."
Dog paws at Tim more. There's a distinctly ominous noise when his -- impressive
-- claws impact on Tim's -- thankfully -- armored jock.
Jay sighs. "Aw, Dog, c'mon --"
Dog looks at Jay with -- yes, that's reproach in his large, liquid eyes.
Dick snickers and blows Jay a kiss before jogging over to the uneven bars.
"*Damn* it --"
"You have a choice today, Jay."
"Low-impact conditioning or hit the world's creepiest magic shop, yeah, I hear
you. Lemme go put on another three layers of clothes." Jay says, and glares at
Dog. "You're gonna hate this *just* as much as I will, you know."
Dog licks Tim's thigh -- and begins herding Jason toward the elevator.
Tim resists the urge to shower and moves to spot Stephanie on the weights,
since he can *see* her increasing the amount of weight she's supposed to be
lifting. But --
But.
She can do it, if not with complete ease.
Her upper body strength *will* outstrip Barbara's within the next six to eight
months, if her increases in strength continue at the same pace. Cassandra's...
Cassandra's are frankly immeasurable, because *Cassandra* is capable of fakir-
level physical feats if given *enough* seconds -- *seconds* -- to meditate
first.
Tim lets himself drift on a fantasy of Stephanie outstripping his *own* upper-
body strength --
Stephanie's punches and strikes becoming as devastating as --
"Where -- where'd you freaking *go*?"
Tim smiles down at her and strokes her knuckles on the barbell. "Violent
places."
She snorts --
Pants --
"Bar down; even your breathing."
She sticks her tongue out at him, but does it.
Tim nods and looks her over. Her forehead is clear -- no tension from pain.
No tremor in her arms or hands from fatigue.
Hm. "Why do you think your breathing slipped?"
She inhales on a five-count, then exhales on the same. "Um. I. I kind of... had
breakfast."
Tim raises an eyebrow.
"Before breakfast, I mean."
Tim blinks. "You mean --"
"I couldn't *sleep*, okay?"
"What..."
"Cereal."
"Well, that's not --"
"A whole box."
Tim blinks again.
She scowls at him again.
Tim licks his lips. "Was it --"
"It was the Honey Oat Almond Berry Cluster Granola Puffs, all right?"
Tim had eaten a bowl of that, just to see why it was worth approximately five
dollars a box, and why they went through eight boxes a *month*. It was
delicious, and it left him feeling as though he would never be hungry again. If
he's remembering correctly, he'd taken a three hour *nap* that day --
"Shut *up*!"
"Stephanie --"
"SHUT --"
"*Stephanie*."
She glares at him *while* pouting, but --
"How close are you to projectile vomiting?"
She breaks out in a *hard* sweat -- and winces.
Tim pinches the bridge of his nose.
"I -- I didn't know you *would* make me the crepes --"
"And you couldn't sleep."
"You were -- I was stressed. Out," she says quietly. And with a far more
*chastened* air than she should ever have. She --
"Up," Tim says, stepping back --
"Yes, Tim," and she stands immediately, hanging her head and peering up at him
through her thin and curling lashes.
Tim pulls her in for a hug. Carefully. He kisses her temple, and he strokes her
back --
He doesn't squeeze her.
He doesn't squeeze her.
He --
She burps... dramatically. *Ringingly*.
He pats her back --
"I'm not *five* -- gih -- urk. Um. I'm not. Gonna yell. Anymore."
"Perhaps for the best," he says, and squeezes her *gently*. "Hit the mats."
"Tiiim --"
"It is very, very odd to hear that in a *quiet* voice -- hit the mats, anyway."
She nods somewhat dejectedly and goes.
He watches for a few minutes to make sure she doesn't try any *dynamic*
stretching --
And then he moves into his own routine. He runs around the gymnasium until his
body tells him he's hit four miles, and then he deliberately runs another two
laps, because four weeks of inactivity had deconditioned him *just* enough that
his body has become a liar.
Thankfully not much of one.
He hits the weights then, unsurprised to see that he'd lost about ten to
fifteen pounds across the board. He'd been at his own maximum -- and beyond -
- before the Star Sapphire incident --
What *is* he going to do to her?
He hadn't allowed himself to *think* about it before now, but...
But.
She's in prison now. Specifically, in the *Slab*. There aren't many places
where Tim has *fewer* friends.
But.
Ophelia Marcus has made any number of objectively terrible choices -- including
responding to a loss of grant money and university support by testing the
mutagens she'd developed to help the disabled on *herself* even though they
hadn't even made it through *animal* testing, and responding to her new
metahuman abilities by taking up crime as the Cheetah.
Still, she had *never* wanted the money she stole for anything but further
experimentation -- and she had never once forced anyone *else* onto her
assorted... slabs.
Tim smiles.
Marcus has been in Slabside for the better part of two years now. He *might* be
able to use the judicial *pull* of the League to get her out... or get her into
the Slabside infirmary, which is something she might appreciate even more.
And, in return... well.
It's entirely possible that he shouldn't be thinking about siccing a
supervillain on Hal Jordan's ex, but --
It's equally possible that Jordan should have better taste in women.
And if he can make Marcus into the sort of *quiet* ally Quinzel is whenever
she's med-compliant and invested in keeping Ivy from making *fatal* mistakes --
Tim hums and keeps working, letting himself sink into something like *half* of
a meditative state, and stays there, even when Dick comes to spot him. He
focuses on planning the night's patrol around a Jay who will be, at the very
least, deeply annoyed; a Dick who will want to stay close; and a Stephanie who
will almost certainly grow queasy even when the food-scents are pleasant.
He's had far, far worse prospects --
The elevator alarm chimes to warn them that someone is accessing it from
upstairs --
"Do you think Jay is back already, Uncle Brother?"
"Jason won't let him go until sunset," Tim says, setting the barbell down
before stroking Dick's thigh and standing --
And the monitor shows the elevator in its entirety. Barbara has her left arm in
a sling and a new and rather unflattering short hairstyle that speaks -
- eloquently -- of fire. Cassandra has a black eye and a *dented* cheekbone
which will need the help of Clark's nanites. Bruce appears unharmed, but is
staring worriedly down between the women at --
A small, amber-skinned girl with brown eyes, a buzz-cut, a stud in the right
side of her nose, *two* black eyes, and the sort of scowl even Stephanie would
have to work for.
The bruises make it *somewhat* difficult to be sure --
"Um. Wasn't Bruce supposed to be bringing home a *son*?"
-- but the eyes, skin, mouth, and cheekbones mark the girl as Talia's child.
The jaw, already-broad shoulders, and ineffable *presence* -- "Jason did say
there were magic-dampeners in use," and Tim gestures Dick to follow him.
"Enough to make him make *that* big a mistake?"
"Apparently. Though it's possible that they missed a fraternal twin. I --"
"*Tim* --"
"I'm sorry. I'm --" Tim laughs softly and smiles at Dick ruefully. "I have a
*niece*."
Dick's expression softens -- and that is all the warning Tim gets before Dick
is wrapped around him and coming close to overbalancing them *both*. "You're
still happy!"
"Very much so --"
Dick kisses him firmly --
*Deeply* --
*Rewardingly* --
And Tim is aware of the girl being introduced to Stephanie, though he doesn't
quite catch her name. The tone of her voice is quite gruff and low, though
that's clearly at least a little artificial. Her accent is, like Talia's,
British Received Pronunciation with a certain overlay of the Arabian peninsula
in timbre. She --
Dick snickers into his mouth and bites his lip, tugging it between his teeth as
he pulls back.
Tim offers another rueful -- and, by necessity, crooked -- smile.
Dick *releases* his lip. "I still get you for patrol tonight, Uncle Brother."
"Hmm. I think that can be arranged," Tim says, and rubs circles into the bowls
of Dick's hips --
"I am *not* a *girl*!"
That... was his new niece. Tim shares a look with Dick, who manages to keep his
shrug behind his eyes before stepping back. Tim *pats* his hips and turns to
face... his niece, who is glaring up at a confused-looking Stephanie with her
small-fists clenched and her nostrils flared.
Cassandra is using *every* gesture they have -- and some she had made up
herself -- for 'calm down,' but is aiming them at Stephanie --
Who looks even more confused.
"You will apologize this *instant*, Brown!"
"Uh... why?"
"I have *informed* you of your error! Your insistence on playing ignorant is
most -- most unbecoming!"
At its -- most? -- passionate, his niece's voice is high and almost fluting,
though she -- ? -- is still obviously trying to lower and roughen it. Tim
considers trying to guess his niece's age, but --
No. *Talia* is, at five feet, seven inches tall and approximately one hundred
forty-five pounds, an 'average' size for a woman, but his niece's shoulders...
She -- if she is --
No, Tim isn't going to do this to himself anymore. He steps close and squeezes
Stephanie's shoulder. "Excuse me. I didn't hear your name."
"I require an apology from Brown!"
Tim raises an eyebrow. "Because she referred to you as female?"
"*Yes*!"
Well. That answers -- some of -- that question. And Barbara, Cassandra, and
Bruce, are looking more worried from behind the... boy -- and very much like --
No, Bruce is signing --
'-- not have this conversation now. DO NOT.'
Tim blinks -- and inclines his head before turning to Stephanie. "Go on."
"Uh. Sure?" She turns to -- Tim's nephew. "I'm sorry, Damian. I'm... not used
to... um. Anyway. I won't make the mistake again."
"See that you do not!" And -- Damian is actually trembling with an emotion
which *could* be rage, but could also be something much more difficult for a
young boy to stand.
It's time for distraction. Tim gestures Stephanie to go back to stretching and
offers the boy his hand. "I'm --"
"You are Timothy Drake. You are the illegitimate son of Thomas Wayne and Janet
Evans-Drake. You are... the *other* Batman," Damian says, with an expression
which does not miss a sneer by very much. "You will tell me why you continue to
use Jackson Drake's last name even though you have claimed your birthright,"
and Damian crosses his arms over his chest -- are his breasts bound? Have they
not developed yet? -- and lifts his square chin.
Tim raises an eyebrow. "You won't shake my hand?"
"It is a gesture of respect, Drake, and you have not yet earned mine."
Tim -- hums. "As you say... though, as my nephew --"
"I do not believe in affording people respect solely due to accidents of
birth!"
And what of *your* 'accident of birth', Damian...?
"I request that you answer my question immediately!"
"Was it a source of curiosity for your mother?"
"You will not speak of her!"
And -- Barbara, Cassandra, *and* Bruce are making pleading gestures.
Considering the fact that Damian is nearly *vibrating* at this point --
Tim inclines his head again. "Very well. I keep Jackson Drake's name because it
would be an act of spite against a dead man to take the Wayne name. Thomas
never wished to accept me as his son while he lived --"
"Because you were unacceptable?"
Tim smiles. "Because my *existence* was unacceptable. As a person, Thomas often
found my company rather more agreeable than that of his other sons."
Damian rears back --
Frowns --
And turns to Bruce. "Is this true, Father?"
Bruce reaches out to touch Damian's face --
Damian stiffens immediately --
Bruce drops his hand. "My apologies, son --"
"You have nothing to apologize for, Father! You may, of course, touch me
whenever you wish to do so!"
Tim... can't actually raise his eyebrow any higher. He looks to Cassandra --
She nods once, grimly.
He looks to Barbara --
She slips her arm free of the sling and makes a complicated gesture which would
make little sense to anyone who had not crafted their own noose, looped it
around someone's throat, and then yanked until that person was dangling above a
drop.
Damian frowns at her. "Who do you wish to hang, Gordon?"
At a guess... the other side of Damian's family. The fact that Barbara winces
rather dramatically confirms it well enough --
And Damian's frown grows... vicious.
Tim pulls Barbara close. "Fill me in later. Call... Prime about your and
Cassandra's injuries."
"Anything you say," she says, with a rueful sort of *relief* in her voice, and
then she and Cassandra leave Tim with Bruce and Damian.
Damian's expression as he watches the women go...
Bruce cups Damian's shoulder and squeezes, very clearly forcing himself to
ignore the rigid tension. "Little one. Please do not look at your family that
way."
"They are not my --"
"If you cannot make them into your family..." Bruce shudders, once. "If you
cannot do that, then I am not sure I can make you into *my* family."
Damian freezes even harder and glares at the space over Bruce's right shoulder
--
Tim blinks rapidly and tries to *will* Bruce to look at him --
It doesn't happen. It --
But. "Bruce. How many of Barbara's and Cassandra's injuries are due to Damian?"
Bruce's smile has a *pained* ruefulness -- but it is still aimed at Damian. "By
some definitions... all of them. By the definition I suspect you mean... too
many."
Tim frowns at the boy --
His *nephew* --
He doesn't *appreciate* people who injure his *family* --
He -- "Damian... tell me how old you are. Please."
Damian grinds his *teeth* --
And Bruce tightens his grip on his shoulder.
"I am twelve years old, Drake. Father, will you answer --"
"I will not say that Tim never lies, little one. Such things are often
necessary for the Mission. However, he has told you no lies today."
"Nor will I tell any lies to *any* member of my family unless *strictly*
necessary," Tim says --
And that makes Bruce look at him --
*Search* him --
Tim smiles ruefully. "I've had something of a... revelation, brother."
Bruce breathes -- and stares at him unblinkingly. "I'd like for you to tell me
about it."
"I will," Tim says, and turns back to Damian. "Was there a reason why you set
out to maim the women who came to help you?"
Damian's mouth is a hard, unwelcoming line as he stares over *Tim's* right
shoulder. "It was necessary that they be tested, Drake."
Bruce squeezes Damian's shoulder again --
Damian shudders, expression crumpling for a hallucinatorily *fast* moment
before settling into a *blank* mask -- "Yes, Father?"
"*Why* was it necessary that they be tested, little one?" And Bruce meets *his*
eyes again --
Yes, Tim will pay attention to this answer --
"I have already --"
"Answer. Again."
Damian shudders *again* -- stiffens and straightens his posture, lowering his
hands to his sides and lifting his chin even higher. "Yes, Father. The
intelligence I have received over the years has suggested strongly that your
chosen allies are unacceptably weak. They have not been trained as I have been
--"
"By whom were you trained."
A twitch of a frown -- and the mask returns. "Primarily by the League of
Assassins, as you know --"
"Continue to answer the earlier question."
"Yes. Yes, Father. I have been... it is important to observe the strengths and
weaknesses of potential enemies from as close a distance as possible, and that
is what I set out to do."
And that... is almost certainly *precisely* as ominous as it should be. "By
what methods, Damian?"
Damian doesn't glance toward Bruce's face... but it very much seems as though
he wishes to. And then he swallows. "While Father engaged Grandfather in
battle, I allowed Gordon and Cain to believe that I wished to be... rescued by
them. Once they had been... lulled, I pretended to be taken by one of
Grandfather's slaves. I urged the man to take me to where their numbers were
greatest --"
"Forcing Barbara and Cassandra to fight a war of attrition to get you back,
yes, I see," Tim says, and turns back to Bruce. He doesn't *have* to ask Bruce
if he's sure about this aloud -- he knows that Bruce *isn't*.
But...
Twelve years old.
Raised and trained by Ra's, Talia, and the League of Assassins.
Twelve.
Obviously inclined toward *pleasing* Bruce -- and, perhaps, him... though only
due to his blood.
*Twelve* --
Vicious, conniving, disrespectful --
Frightened, issue-laden, bristling with rage --
Barbara is vicious and conniving.
Dick's issues include a tendency to lose the thread entirely when left *alone*
too long.
Jay was a twelve-year-old hustler with a history of slashing his johns with a
hunting knife he'd stolen from *another* hustler.
Cassandra *murdered* people with her *bare hands*.
And Stephanie...
Stephanie is Stephanie.
And he is *himself*, for that matter.
Tim meets Bruce's eyes again and gestures for 'intimidation.'
Bruce immediately moves to brace Damian, removing his hand from his shoulder
and loosening his stance belligerently.
Tim loosens his own stance --
And Damian nods once before slipping into a -- Krav Maga -- ready position. "I
am ready to be tested --"
"When did you first identify as transgender?"
Damian stiffens dangerously --
And Bruce strokes firmly down the bridge of Damian's nose. "Broken."
"I --"
"Answer the question," Tim says.
"I am *not* a freak! I am a boy, and that -- that is all that matters!"
Tim doesn't bother to raise his eyebrow -- especially since Damian attacks with
speed and grace --
And surprising power, considering his small size. He attempts to break Tim's
ulna with a kick --
Tim blocks and spins --
He attempts to strike for the place near Bruce's left nipple which is scarred
*most* deeply --
Bruce blocks and drops him carefully, though not especially gently --
Damian rolls --
And Tim pulls his stomp only at the last moment. "Stop. At least two of your
ribs are broken."
"I can and have fought through such injuries," Damian insists.
"Good to know," Tim says. "Whose decision was it to raise you as a boy."
Damian snarls and lunges --
And Bruce pulls his kick only once his toes impact with Damian's chin. "Your
jaw is broken. Answer the question."
Damian looks back and forth between them -- and favors his 'injured' left side
as he scrambles back and gets to his feet again. "I *am* a boy --"
Tim throws a flurry -- and Damian is exactly fast enough to block a solid third
of the hits, and exactly *trained* enough to block them *well*, but -- "I've
hit your broken jaw and nose, and opened cuts over both eyes --"
Damian spits at him --
Tim dodges -- and smiles. "Perfect, considering how much blood would be in that
spittle. But..."
Damian looks -- and notices Bruce's fist sitting just beyond his peripheral
vision. "I --"
"Several of the small bones in your ear are broken. You're effectively deafened
and stunned. Answer the question, or be forced to listen to us draw our own
conclusions."
Damian frowns *woundedly* for a moment -
Bruce opens his fist. "Little one --"
"You know *nothing*! You -- you are both ignorant and overconfident, and if you
do not learn the -- the errors of your ways, then you will -- will --" And then
Damian growls and stands at attention. The way his simple t-shirt is twisted
over his torso --
His breasts, however large they may be, are bound.
Bruce nods once. "Your mother hid your biological gender from your grandfather
from the beginning. Ra's has been obsessed with the production of a 'suitable'
heir for hundreds of years, and, while he is fond of your mother, her gender
has always marked her as a failure."
Damian says nothing.
Bruce looks to *him* --
And Tim nods. "While most people who desire *that* form of immortality
generally set out to find all sorts of people with whom to share their genetic
material, Ra's is something of a... stickler, when it comes to romantic
relationships. He has *had* no romantic relationships since the one with your
grandmother ended before he could father a son. He spent a century doing his
version of grieving -- and I would never think to judge such a thing harshly,
considering how *I* go about grieving. Bruce?"
"After that, he focused on finding a suitable mate for your mother. He decided
on me --"
"You -- you are by far the superior specimen --"
Bruce raises an eyebrow. "By your grandfather's reckoning, yes. However, I find
the way he judges such things to be actively loathsome when not simply
depressing and dull."
Damian rears back and flushes --
Glares --
And pulls his mask back on seemingly by sheer force of will. He focuses his
gaze between Tim's and Bruce's shoulders. "Continue, Father. If you wish to do
so."
"I do," Bruce says, and crosses his arms over his chest. "Because I gave your
grandfather no encouragement in his numerous schemes, he resorted to other
means to gain my alliance. He had meant to save your mother's charms as a
reward for my good behavior, but instead he chose to use her as bait."
A briefly sickened expression -- gone.
"She became attracted to me both physically and emotionally --"
"She loves you!"
Bruce shakes his head once. "She loves your grandfather very much, and admires
and respects him even more than that. When it comes to me... she is in love
with the man your grandfather wishes me to be."
"Your potential is *limitless*, Father!"
"My potential is with the family I love, Damian. The family I have chosen. The
family which has given me joy, and love, and warmth, and safety, and the
perfect beauty of physical love --"
"Mother would give you all of those things! More!" And there is no mask on
Damian's face at all, anymore. His eyes are wide and pleading and he is
*straining* toward Bruce without moving more than his upper body -- and then
only by a few inches.
He's acting as though he's chained to the *floor* --
It makes Tim's *arms* ache --
And Bruce is already reaching for Damian, already cupping his face -- "I would
not hurt you, little one, but I believe I must be honest with you --"
"I *never* want you to lie to me, Father!"
"Were there many lies, little one?"
Damian inhales sharply and tries to pull away --
"Stay with me. And answer the question."
"Some -- you *know* that lies are sometimes -- necessary --"
"I do, yes. But not in this moment: I find your mother to be very beautiful,
and, more than that, very attractive --"
"Then --"
"However. Her moral code is the same as your grandfather's, and I could never
stand with such a lover at my side."
Damian's expression crumples --
He flattens his affect --
It crumples again --
He *flattens* it again --
Bruce begins to pull Damian into a hug --
"No! No, you will not -- I do not require -- you are not -- I would like to be
allowed to be free of this touch, Father."
Bruce frowns and looks to *him* --
And Tim remembers... many, many things about being an adolescent. He nods.
Bruce steps back.
"Thank you, Father. I apologize for -- for not being able to respond... in the
ways you wish me to respond," Damian says, staring at the floor and
straightening his clothes.
"It's all right, little one. It is, however, my hope that you will allow us to
share physical affection soon. I feel... cheated of you."
Damian stiffens and freezes once more -- and then looks up to stare at Bruce.
"I do not understand, Father."
"Your mother told me nothing of your existence, Damian."
"I -- I was not ready, before. I was not fully trained, Father. I'm *still* not
fully trained --"
"You were my son, and I would have wished to be there for your birth, your
growth, your education, and, yes, your training. I... Tim."
Tim nods. "Our father was present for practically none of Bruce's childhood,
Damian. It is a wound."
Damian lifts his chin. "Children must learn to live independently, Drake. They
must not *harass* their parents unnecessarily, lest they grow weak and their
parents grow resentful --"
"No," Bruce says.
"I... Father?"
Bruce smiles ruefully and lifts his hand -- he doesn't touch Damian's cheek.
"There is nothing correct about that statement. Not from a psychological
standpoint, and not from a personal one."
"I have studied psychology --"
"Not enough. It is... where you will begin your training with me," Bruce says,
and his voice grows more steady and sure as he speaks. "You will learn
everything."
Damian blinks rapidly and flushes darkly. "Yes, Father. Of course. Thank you
for giving me the opportunity --"
"You will obey *every* order you receive from me, Tim, Barbara, Dick, or
Cassandra -- or you will *immediately* explain to the person giving you the
order why you *cannot*. You will *respect* the wishes of Jay and Stephanie, and
you will treat them as *you* wish to be treated."
The flush grows *darker* --
"Do you *understand*."
"Yes, Father! I do!"
"You will begin your training by confirming the following: Talia hid your
anatomical gender from Ra's."
Damian -- shudders. "I -- you. I'm not --"
Bruce growls --
And Damian *snaps* to attention. "Yes, Father. She thought it. She thought
it... best."
Bruce looks to *him* --
Tim takes a deep breath. "Ra's punished you both when he discovered the ruse."
Damian shudders, shadows *filling* his eyes -- "Yes, Drake."
Tim thinks about what he knows about the *blend* of cultures Ra's has taken for
his own... "He forced you to pierce your nose."
Damian reaches for his face -- then *yanks* his hand back down to his side.
"Yes, Drake."
Bruce looks like he's ready to *beat* Ra's to death -- he takes a shuddering
breath. "You need not continue to wear --"
"Grandfather wishes me to wear this and so I will! Father."
Bruce winces and nods. "You were allowed to wear neutral clothing and keep your
hair short because of your training."
"Yes, Father. He. Grandfather knows you approve of strong... females."
Where to even *begin* -- no. *Bruce* is going to begin with psychology. It's
not the sixties, seventies, eighties, *or* nineties anymore -- teaching Damian
psychology and forcing him to internalize the lessons *will* allow for some
degree of progress --
*Is* he transgender? What do questions like that even *mean* when you've been
actively *punished* for being born with the 'wrong' body?
When you've been told that you're a *failure* because you were born 'wrong'?
It is, perhaps, *past* time for *his* Batman to do something permanent about
Ra's *and* Talia.
For now...
For now, Bruce is explaining to Damian that he can wear whatever he wishes to
for training, so long as it's practical; that he will not be joining them on
the street for the foreseeable future; and that he will be sleeping in the
bedroom next to Jay's.
Tim...
Tim had saved that one for Helena, as it's large and gets a great deal of light
--
Helena is never going to live with them, and it's time to air the bedroom out.
Tim taps Bruce's shoulder, gestures 'up' and goes -- after first checking on
the children --
Dick is leading Stephanie in guided meditation on the mats --
And Clark -- who had managed to get in without triggering *any* alarms, *again*
-- is injecting something pink and glowing into Cassandra's neck. Nanites.
Barbara is already rubbing *her* neck, and her face and hands have a faintly
silvery glow --
They'll be fine.
Clark smiles and waves at him.
Tim hums and waves back, and takes the stairs for the sheer joy of having two
functioning knees.
He's really going to have to be *very* nice to Jason... whenever the man
decides that the tease should end.
For now, he opens the windows in their -- last -- guest room --
Spares a moment to wonder how they would even go *about* convincing their
neighbors to move, should it become necessary for the 'floating orgy house' to
expand --
Changes the linens to fresh ones --
Dusts --
Sneezes for most of a *minute* --
They really need to dust more often.
The front door alarm chimes while Tim is blowing his nose, and he pushes the
Georgia O'Keefe print -- it's possibly one of the reasons *why* Helena won't
move in with him -- aside to reveal the monitor --
And Harvey, using his key to get in. He's dressed for court -- according to
*Tim's* schedule he should be in the middle of presenting his *deeply* damning
case against the Ironbound Slasher, but --
Harvey closes the door behind him and looks straight into one of the cameras.
"Okay, which one of you is gonna stop bein' creepy *first*?"
Tim hums and hits the intercom. "I'm straightening the guest room, Harv. Come
up?"
"You got it, little guy," Harvey says, hanging his light trenchcoat on the rack
and setting his fedora above it.
Tim tosses the dirty tissues and considers pulling out the vacuum. The carpet
*looks* clean -- the only family member who ever came in here on a regular
basis was Hercules, and he mostly hid under the bed to get away from *Bruce* --
He crouches and pats at it, trying to gauge how *much* dust puffs up versus how
much he really doesn't want to vacuum --
"If you killed anybody in here, I *don't* wanna know," Harvey says, grabbing
Tim by the collar of his t-shirt and tugging until Tim stands and turns into
the hug --
"Hnn. Noted. Don't look in the closet."
"*Which* closet?"
"Yes," Tim says, and kisses Harvey lightly, warmly --
Remembers how long it's *been* --
And makes it a better kiss, a *deeper* kiss, because Harvey is the brother who
always tried to make it better for him, always tried to make Tim's world
happier, more loving, *brighter* --
Harvey hums in surprise -- and kisses him right back, cupping the back of Tim's
head with one hand and *gripping* Tim's hip with the other.
God --
*God* --
Tim smiles because he has to, because it feels like something within him is
straining, pushing and swelling and *feeling* --
And Harvey grins and gives him six --
Ten smaller kisses, soft and affectionate. Tim gives every last one of them
back. He --
"Harv..."
"Yeah, little guy?"
"Thank you," Tim says, and lets himself flush as much as he wants, as much as
he needs --
Harvey raises his eyebrows.
"For everything. Absolutely --" Tim shakes his head. "*Starting* with being
yourself and... never ending."
"Hey, now, what's got you sounding like our brother?"
"Oh... the time machine I built when you told me to get a hobby --"
"You --"
"-- I used it to look in our pasts -- all of our pasts --"
"What --"
"-- and I -- finally -- faced several salient facts about myself and my...
deeply horrible issues --"
"Uh."
Tim smiles ruefully. "Suffice it to say... I'm feeling a lot better. A lot
stronger and... I suppose a certain sort of person would say that he felt more
in touch with himself."
Harvey frowns and bites his lip. He is... very clearly thinking about where to
begin.
Tim leans in and kisses him again. "I'll tell you everything --"
"Little guy -- okay. Okay. Important questions. Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"Did Blood scramble you?"
"His healing hurt enough to make me scream... but no."
Harvey frowns more deeply -- "Am I leaving that?"
Tim nods.
Harvey sighs and nods, as well. "All right. Did the *time* machine scramble
you?"
"Only emotionally, and only in positive ways."
And -- he strokes Tim's face, and his mouth -- "I was worried sick about you,
little guy. I couldn't -- you know I was all wrapped up with this case --"
"I know. And speaking of --"
"The Slasher -- even the *Herald* reporters are having trouble using his given
name these days -- got hold of the bailiff's billy club and beat his attorney
unconscious about an hour ago. I'm hoping like *hell* we don't have to deal
with a mistrial."
Tim winces. "Gotham can't afford that --"
"In so *many* damned ways --" Harvey shakes his head. "We're all off until
further notice. Bruce told me you were comin' out of your world-class funk
before he left for -- where the hell did he *go*?"
"To pick up his son. His biological son, that is."
"His. What?"
"Ah... that's another long story --"
"Give me -- *what*?"
"We just found out about Damian's existence a few days ago. He's the result -
- somehow -- of *safe* sex Bruce had with Ra's al Ghul's daughter... hm. That
was actually *fourteen* years ago. She saved the semen for at least a year."
Harvey looks... pained.
Tim laughs. "You're off. I'm not patrolling for another six hours. Drinks?"
Harvey stares at him for another long moment.
Tim reaches up to cup Harvey's shoulders. "Bruce will be in the gymnasium with
Damian --"
"*Why* -- who the hell names their child *Damian*?"
"Supervillains. The others will be --"
"Busy. For a while. I hear you. I --" Harvey squeezes his eyes shut and seems
to be counting --
Praying? It's difficult to be sure. "Harv..."
He opens his eyes and gives Tim a *stern* look. "You're gonna get me tipsy
*right* now, little guy."
"Excellent choice. Let's go," Tim says, and leads Harvey out of the guest -
- out of *Damian's* room and back down the stairs.
The study is the least-used room in the house, save when Harvey and Gilda
visit. It's the room for the adults to be together, to drink and laugh about
things which happened when everyone else in the house was either a toddler or
nonexistent. The children respect that -- for all that neither he nor Bruce had
made it an order *or* a request --
It's another reason to be full, to *hurt* with the need to touch all of them,
love --
What will he do when he falls for Damian? *How* will that *work*? What --
"You, my diminutive brother-friend --"
Tim snorts. "Harv."
"*You* look like you want to float away *while* interrogating someone. With a
*knife* to their throat," and Harvey throws himself back on the extra-long,
extra-broad dark leather couch and smiles at him.
"That... sounds like a fascinating expression," Tim says, and fixes them both -
- stiff -- drinks. Rum and Cain-a cola -- always kept cold in the small
refrigerator under the bar just in *case* Harvey visits -- for Harvey, straight
gin for him.
"Oh, it is, it is. You look a little like a religious fanatic, actually."
"Ah... that sounds less fascinating than *upsetting*."
"Heh. Nah, you're still you and I'm still me, little guy. The happier you are,
the happier I am. C'mere."
Tim does just that, sitting down and pushing himself back against Harvey's
chest before knocking back half of his drink.
"Hey --"
"Damian is anatomically female."
"What."
"Talia -- Ra's daughter -- raised him -- he thinks of himself as male -- as a
boy, and *told* everyone, including Ra's, that he was a boy."
"Jesus freaking --"
"Because Ra's... believes women are fundamentally inferior."
"Oh, well that's just peachy," Harvey says, and takes a long drink. "How *is*
the kid?"
"A mess, frankly," Tim says, and smiles ruefully. "And trained exceedingly well
by the League of Assassins."
"So... you're saying my nephew is a killer?"
"Almost -- no, I won't dance around the matter," Tim says, and cups Harvey's
raised knee. "If a person has been trained by the League of Assassins, they've
either committed murder at *least* once... or they're dead, themselves."
Harvey shudders. "Too young. Too damned -- but. You turned Cass right around."
"She did much of the turning herself. I'm not so sure Damian will do the same."
"Damn. Are you *sure* about this?"
Tim smiles ruefully and tilts his head back. "I'm sure we have to try."
"Yeah, you couldn't exactly leave -- him --"
"Learn not to hesitate on that."
"Right, right. You couldn't leave him."
"No. And... we're going to give him options. No matter what, he *will* learn
that he does not *have* to grow up to be a supervillain -- or even a killer."
"*Even* a -- heh." Harvey kisses the top of his head. "I love you, you scary
little bastard."
"And I love you for every time you didn't turn away from me, even when you
wanted to."
"Yeah, well, you're my *only* little brother, little guy. It took me a while to
figure that *out*, but I'm not always an idiot --"
"You're never --"
"Hey."
Tim smiles and brings Harvey's free hand to his mouth. He kisses knuckles with
scars so faded they're nearly invisible -- "Yes...?"
"Tell me how you feel. Tell me -- no. You *weren't* this happy when we were
kids, were you. Not even once me and Bruce learned how to talk to you."
"No, Harv, I wasn't. I didn't know how to be."
"Ah, God, I'm so sorry we couldn't --"
"It *wasn't* your fault *or* Bruce's, Harv. And -- it wasn't even mine. Not
really. I just needed to have certain things *beaten* into me, and..." Tim
shakes his head. "I didn't know how to *ask* for the beating, or even how to
let myself look like I *did* need it."
"*Let* yourself -- damn. I can see it," Harvey says, and nuzzles the top of
Tim's head. "You needed the Brat Pack?"
"I needed *their* confusion, and *their* pain, and *their* questions. Not just
because it feels wonderful to *answer* all of that, but because --"
"It highlights all the same stuff in your head. And -- where does the time
machine come in?"
"Hnn. Figuring out our parents. *All* of them."
Harvey sighs and takes another drink. "I *wanna* say something about good
riddance to bad rubbish... but I can't say *I* didn't get a whole hell of a lot
out of figuring out *my* stack of parents."
"Exactly. Though... I did it in an extremely problematic way."
"More problematic than the time machine in -- it's in your bedroom, isn't it."
"Yes. And yes."
"Do I wanna know?"
Tim smiles and *sips* his gin, wondering if Jason will find the taste of it in
his mouth reminiscent of Martha...
"And *that* smile gives me all the answer I need. Are you *sure* Bruce and I
didn't screw up with you?"
Tim laughs and rubs the back of his head against Harvey's shoulder. "Positive."
"Because --"
"Harv."
"I'm *willing* to go back to 'seventy-nine and start over --"
Tim snorts and turns enough to *look* at Harvey. "*Are* you?"
"Ah, Christ, no. Do you have any idea how *close* Bruce and I came to balling
Martha?"
"Well... yes, actually, I do."
"... oh."
Tim hums and pats Harvey's knee. "I was very proud of and impressed with you
both for how you did handle her."
"Uh. Okay? And... this is *why* Bruce knew all the details of that conversation
I had with Blood before the kidnapping, isn't it. Including the stuff *I*
didn't know, anymore."
"Yes. Though, to be fair, I believe some of the information came from private
conversations he'd had with Jason over the years."
"Jason. *Jason*. You -- Tim. Are you -- no."
"Yes."
"*Jesus*, little guy, just because he healed you doesn't mean he gets to take
it out in *trade* --"
"That's *not* why. Mostly."
"*Tim* --"
Tim laughs again and turns enough to kiss Harvey's jawline. "I'm kidding.
And... I learned a lot more about him via the use of the time machine. I am...
deeply intrigued. And fond."
"And that's *enough* -- ah, who am I kidding, of course it's enough for you. I
*swear* I thought I'd always be the whore of the family."
Tim grins. "I like to think of it as... picking up the baton. And stroking it.
Firmly."
Harvey snickers. "Asshole. C'mere and kiss me again, will ya?"
"With pleasure," Tim says, and does just that, humming for the heat of high-
quality alcohol in their mouths and the heat of brotherhood, love --
And *Bruce* hums from... perhaps five paces away. "Brothers. I will never grow
weary of this sight."
Harvey breaks the kiss and waggles his eyebrows. "Personally? *I* will never
get tired of all your kids bein' *downstairs*, big guy. Get *over* here."
"As you say," Bruce says, and moves with speed and easy grace to the floor in
front of the couch, where he kneels. "I left Damian studying with Stephanie,
who needs the background in psychology herself, Tim. Did you tell Harv --"
"The basics," Tim says, and strokes Bruce's stubbled cheek with his thumb.
"Just enough to spin my head around, big guy. *You* tell me the rest."
"Of course --"
"But -- heh. Later," and Harvey cups Bruce's other cheek --
"Mm. As you say," and Bruce turns his head to the left to kiss Tim's thumb, and
to the right to kiss Harvey's palm.
And then he leans back and strips off his shirt --
And Tim and Harvey set their drinks down.
There will be time -- and, undoubtedly, *need* -- for them later.
end.
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