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Acceptable Risk

by Te

Acceptable Risk
by Te
January 24, 2004

Disclaimers: Not even close to mine. My heart belongs to DC.

Spoilers: None, really.

Summary: Tim's a fun-loving lad.

Ratings Note: NC-17.

Author's Note: Well, you know, this is what Jack asked for, but I'm sorely tempted to dedicate it to Benway. And it occurs to me that that sentence could easily serve as a warning.

Inspiration here:

Acknowledgments: To Jack, Branwyn, and Livia for audiencing.

Feedback: Yes, please!


It's not really a dangerous game, even though it probably should be.

He's an underaged kid on the small side; Bruce is a gigantic adult man who is fully capable of snapping bones like dry twigs, should he choose to do so. And he has.

They're so far underground that, even if Tim did feel the need to scream, no one would hear.

They are, of course, alone.

They usually are. Bruce doesn't do the group thing unless he absolutely has to, or unless it would be more efficient than the alternative. It rarely is. The two of them get a lot done, all by their lonesome.

It isn't dangerous so much as frustrating, though. No matter what he does. Or... okay, that's not true.

There's a lot he hasn't done. Like making this... thing anything but deniable. If it can be denied, it can be ignored. And even though Bruce doesn't actually miss anything -- ever -- ignoring things is perfectly within the rules.

So, you know, it doesn't have to be a double entendre when he talks about Catwoman's whip, or a hint when he mentions that the living manacles Ivy had managed to slap on him last time around had been surprisingly comfortable. These are just facts, things that happen on a day-to-day basis.

It's his job -- and Dick had been adorably serious when he'd said this -- to crack wise about the supervillains, because it's not like Bruce can.

Even assuming he wants to. Dick had been serious about that, too, but what Dick believes about Bruce and what's actually the truth can be, in his experience, rather unrelated. Sometimes, when Dick talks about his days in the Robin suit, Tim's struck by the image of sepia-toned photographs of grim, mustached men in weird clothes.

Most of the time, it's the image of The Case.

There's a Bruce before Jason, and there's a Bruce after, and never the twain shall meet.

Now, during Jason... he gets the feeling there are some interesting stories there, and he gets the feeling that he's never actually going to hear them -- unless he shoots Alfred full of truth serum or something.

Alfred's probably immune, though.


Nothing is going to happen if he waits for Bruce to finish changing out of his Bruce-clothes, if he stares, because, shit, he's a teenaged boy and Bruce's body is the most perfect thing he's ever seen.

That he's ever likely to see, because he sincerely doubts that he's ever going to see Superman naked.

So, nothing happens there. And nothing is going to happen... here. He shifts on the bench and keeps watching. He is listening to what Bruce is saying, because it's not like the man says anything if he doesn't feel there's a purpose to it, and this is actually about freaking Two-Face, and yeah, that's important.

But he also said that Robin is supposed to stay out of it, and sometimes Tim actually listens when he says that. Sometimes.

Especially if it gives him more brain-room to pay attention to the other important things.

Bruce is ripped. Bruce has thighs he can (and has, and is) readily imagine wrapping his legs around and riding for the gold.

Bruce is down to his jockeys, and this is the kind of thing gay pornography is made on.

Waiting finished. Tim uncrosses his legs and leans back, slouching on the bench and spreading.

If it was anyone else...well, he wouldn't be wearing thin chinos and no jacket, first of all. But mostly there'd be a reason to be embarrassed about the fact that he's hard as a rock and pitching a pretty respectable tent.

But it's Bruce.

"... understood?"

"Yes," Tim says, and thinks about spreading a little more.

And then he just does it, because Bruce is apparently done talking. Time to get into the Batsuit. Tim's never actually come up with a good reason for why this is just as hot as Bruce stripping, but he's decided to go with it.

He's sure other capes have similar issues. It's only time to worry when his issues are Batfamily specific. He doesn't have anything like the time to be neurotic about the other stuff.

And hey, it's the Batsuit.

Maybe it's the belt, maybe it's the boots. Maybe it's the pointy little ears. It doesn't actually matter, because Tim?

Is not alone in finding it hot.

Batman gives him a look while he straightens the cowl. It's as blank as any Batman-look from the nose up, and even more blank from the nose down. Which would be an answer in itself if Tim wasn't used to this sort of thing. There's no way Bruce is looking anywhere but his eyes.

There's no way Bruce can miss the message he's sending, but plausible deniability is not just for shady government agents anymore.

If it ever was.

If Bruce hadn't actually created it, which Tim thinks is entirely possible.

This is where he's supposed to say "what?" or maybe just ask if Bruce has any further instructions. This is where he could, if he felt like amping things up... amp things up.

He's hard. And he can already feel the ghost of his own hand around his dick.

He licks his lips.

Bruce turns and heads for the car.

Right. And the thing about this, the reason why he keeps doing this... it's not about being frustrated. He's not, actually, a masochist, even though he thinks his lifestyle would support it nicely. What could be more efficient than a non-meta vigilante who gets a happy every time he takes a punch?

It's just not his thing, though, and wishing won't change that. No, this is all about the fact that it is a game. A gamble. A risk. Because even now, with the car peeling out and -- yes -- his pants open and his shorts shoved out of the way, even like this, he doesn't really know what's going to happen.

What could happen if Bruce drives right back in and gets out of the car and...

He's not thinking about it. It's not allowed.

The more he thinks about it (his hand, fuck, just his hand), the more real it becomes.

The more real it becomes, the easier it is to deal with it, to take it out of the realm of "holy shit" and put it into the realm of "I want" or even "I don't want."

And that... would be a lot less fun.

Because then it would be frustrating-in-a-bad-way to be here on a cold, hard bench with his own hand on his dick and his own fist in his mouth to keep down the yelling. (he could make me scream, he could just, and then his dick in my --) But it's not.

It's just his teeth digging into his fingers and his dick sweat-slick against his palm and his own need, solitary and comprehensible and, in its way, just as comforting as the smell of his own come.

He takes his fist out of his mouth and breathes, and wipes his hand on his handkerchief. Makes a face.

Folds it up and shoves it back in his pocket.

He'll do laundry at home. In the meantime... he tucks himself away and does up his pants again.

And opens his history book.

He has a test tomorrow, after all.


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