So pure, so rare
May 30, 2004
Disclaimers: Not even close to mine.
Spoilers: Batman #425, Gotham Knights #43.
Summary: All day, all night.
Ratings Note/Warnings: NC-17. Content some readers may find disturbing.
Author's Note: I kind of tripped myself into this story. Jack asked for a porny Jason image, which I provided. And then the image demanded a story. And then the image didn't actually make it in. This is me, eyeing my brain warily.
Acknowledgments: To Jack and Livia for audiencing. To Mary for validating the ever-loving heck out of my obsessiveness.
He hasn't slept since yesterday afternoon -- his usual after-school nap. It's not bad yet -- it's barely after one -- but the setting really isn't helping much.
Part of being Robin is being Jason Todd, adopted son of Bruce Wayne. Part of being Bruce Wayne is, as far as Jason can tell, wandering around the kind of restaurant that's too chi-chi to even smell like the food that's supposedly being prepared somewhere (out of the way, natch) and pressing flesh with a bunch of deeply useless people with soft hands and softer eyes.
Well... that's not really fair. He's been doing this for almost two years now, and he might not be a super-genius, but he can see there's a real...
It's almost an art.
Nothing about Bruce Wayne is what Jason knows. Bruce Wayne isn't Batman, and he sure as hell isn't Bruce. From the way he's apparently capable of holding a long conversation about Porsches that barely even mention engine capabilities -- Jason had been there for that one, sipping ginger ale and getting his hand shaken by men with better manicures than his mom had ever had -- to the way he's just... working the room.
Jason Todd, adopted son, is allowed to pretty much wander around and do whatever he can to not be completely brain-dead and bored, but he can always find Bruce when he needs to. Wants to. A burst of semi-fake giggles from all the semi-fake debutantes at these things is a good bet. Like the one from... he lets his eyes slip closed and thinks about it.
North-northwest, thirty feet or so, which would put him by the champagne tower.
When he turns, he's only off by about a yard. Not bad. Bruce's slicked-back-and-perfect hair is visible above a crowd of equally perfect chick-dos. One or more them will be Bruce Wayne's date to some other charity function, something less squeaky-clean than this little luncheon to benefit Gotham's Wayward Youth.
He'll come home smelling like expensive perfume, wiping a 'forgotten' lipstick mark off his cheek as he heads down into the Cave and into the Batsuit, and he won't say anything, but the look in his eyes will be all about sharing the joke.
Jason grins to himself and starts his own lazy circuit of the room. One of the waiters caught Jason's eyes earlier, rolling his own like maybe he recognized Jason as a kindred spirit despite his perfectly tailored and horrifyingly expensive tux. When Jason finds the guy again, he's carrying a tray of wine glasses, and tips Jason a conspiratorial wink when Jason slips one away casually and keeps walking.
These things aren't all bad, really, but the good stuff is kind of depressing. His history teacher talks about class issues like they only meant anything in, like, medieval Europe or whatever, but that's as big a lie as Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy.
He doesn't belong here. And it doesn't have anything to do with his dead and criminal-then-dead parents, or the fact that, in another life, the only way he would've gotten into a 'party' like this one is if his tux was cheap like the waiter's.
Because Bruce doesn't belong here, either, and that's part of why Jason needs him a little more than... than he wants to deal with, really. Bruce is too fucking good at being Bruce Wayne, and Jason knows himself. He's got about twenty minutes before he has to -- has to -- find a way to slip back into whatever circle Bruce Wayne is occupying and... look.
The moment when everyone else will be paying attention to something else, and Bruce can look into his eyes and almost kind of shift. All that soft society-boy vagueness falling away until his eyes are right again, sharp and so cold they burn, like when Jason's trying to fight his way through some group of skels in the middle of a snowstorm.
Those moments before his legs are numb enough to make the fight easier, when
everything still hurts just right.
Jason shivers to himself and downs the wine in a swallow, belatedly remembering to taste it. Vaguely bland and sweet and... man. It's a good thing he's not actually allowed to drink at these things, because otherwise Alfred would be quizzing him later.
The adopted son has to know all sorts of shit.
For now, it's enough that he's tired and twitchy and faintly sore somewhere in the back of his mind, somewhere he's not really thinking about right now, because... so not the time. Because even when he was on the street he didn't drink that much -- money was for food, and liquor stores always had the best security -- and it's not like Bruce or Alfred is all that thrilled about a drunk fifteen year old. So... yeah.
It hits him fast and hard, making him a little sleepier and a lot more... something.
Something he doesn't have words for.
He keeps to his circuit, forcing himself to not just the hug the edges of the room, because that would look weird. Sometimes it seems like it would be worth it, though, because... fuck, he hates these people.
These rich bitches and their so-called men, who don't even give enough of a shit to look close enough to see how fake Jason's smile is. Who don't...
Like, okay, this fat bastard. He's not even that old, just slow and soft and mealy like the kind of apple that the produce vendors don't really care if you steal. He's talking some shit about the schools, and how it had all gone to hell when the government cut funding for, like, the art and music programs.
And he's going on and on about the poor, deprived kids when he's wearing enough of his rich-man cologne to drown something, enough to make Jason's eyes water. The guy isn't talking to Jason, and Jason isn't sure he's even talking to Jason Todd. He's just talking to hear himself talk, and Jason's been to enough of these things to know that the talkers write the lousiest checks, when it's all said and done.
And here comes his friend and... okay, Jason feels a little guilty. Because he has seen this guy before. He recognizes the mustache, and the shiny bald head, and the eyes that make him think of fish for no understandable reason.
If the guy had held up a liquor store, like, eight years ago, Jason would probably be able to give (Bruce) anyone who asked his name, his age, his girlfriend's two most-used aliases, and his last-known address. He should know, especially since the guy obviously feels like he knows Jason well enough to ruffle his fucking hair.
And call him 'Dick.'
Jason plasters the smile on his face a little tighter and gently, oh-so-fucking-gently corrects him. Whether or not the guy registers the correction is another story, because now him and the fat bastard are talking about the opera. Which would be bad enough, but they aren't even talking about the music or anything. They're gossiping like the most useless kind of women. Who wore what, and lots of thinly-veiled innuendo about who was fucking who.
Jason swipes a ginger ale from one of the waiters who haven't looked him in the eye and looks blandly attentive. Some of this might be useful. All the things Bruce has to do to wheel and deal so that Batman can have a free rein.
And this is... he really, really fucking hates this. Because he knows one of the reasons that Bruce has to be here is that sometimes the criminals -- usually the big name freaks -- crash these so-called parties and take hostages or whatever, and he knows that everybody deserves a chance to get their nuts pulled out of the fire by Batman and Robin, but...
He looks at the bald one. The old one with the mustache with a name like Whitefield or Smythe-White or whatever, and... he can see it. How fucking easy it would be. He's old, and he's shoving back the desserts like they're... well, candy. Jason's willing to bet that most of those pretty white teeth are fake, and one good punch would send them flying.
If he aims it just right.
If he doesn't, they'll scatter like... like pearls or something, all over the floor.
Jason grits his teeth behind his smile and keeps walking, letting himself drift over by the big windows looking out over Gotham. The city is different in daylight. The parts he knows best get uglier, but this part of town...
He looks at the shiny glass of the skyscrapers, the streets that don't have more litter than the occasional half-crumpled financial section of the Gazette, the people... and there aren't even all that many. It's after lunchtime for everyone but the super-rich fucks he's spending time with right now. Everyone in this neighborhood has a job.
The curtains are pulled back, tied with rope too thick to do much of anything but be decorative. He's willing to bet the curtains are really held back some other way, or... he squints, but the sunlight's too strong to see whatever kind of rod is holding them up. It's probably a kind of track. No hooks or anything.
Fake. Everything's fake here, and he knows it's necessary, and it's not like he'd give up this life for anything -- anything he could have -- and it's not like he doesn't know that there's no such thing as a free lunch, and as paying goes... hors d'oeuvres and champagne towers is really pretty easy.
He knows he shouldn't bitch, even in his own head. Because this is what they have to do so that Batman can be out on the streets tonight.
For the people who deserve him.
Another burst of giggles, this one only a few feet away and behind him. He's almost there. But when he looks around, all of the women are still hanging off Bruce, still watching him, and so when Bruce looks at him, Jason only gets a bland smile and a stupid little wave.
If he took it at a run, he could grab this curtain and swing almost to the other side of the room. Legs out and braced for the impact into the belly of... maybe the Mayor. Maybe someone better.
He catches himself judging the distance, the path he'd have to take to avoid dodging or running over people, and he really has to bail. Now.
Maybe he can find his way to the roof, and the waiter will turn out to have a name and a pack of smokes.
He moves, trying to keep himself to a walk and only half-managing.
"Easy there, tiger!" gets shouted after him in a stupid, hearty, fake voice and he tries to look like he has to take a piss or something. Tries to keep himself moving across the floor proper, tries to keep up fucking appearances, and then he just doesn't.
It's faster up against the walls, and it's either move or do something really stupid.
He gets out, or mostly out. It's one of those places with a corridor as big as another room. Not really a lobby -- no chairs -- just enough space for all the not-so-beautiful-or-rich people who don't have reservations to wait and look pathetic and -- Jason shakes it off as best he can and tries to decide his next move.
The coat-check is empty -- the whole thing is -- and the place kind of looks like it's... waiting. For something. Night, probably.
Just like he is.
The hell of it is that they're not going to get out of here until at least three, and the nap he'll get to take when they get home... it won't be enough. Not quite. So he's going to be out there on patrol and it won't be quite right. He knows he probably won't screw up too badly, and it's not as if Bruce needs more than a few hours of sleep every couple of days, but it's still...
It won't feel as good as it could. He'll be holding back yawns when he could be breathing in the real Gotham, and it's all the fault of this stupid fucking luncheon and sometimes Jason feels something building. Something inside him, stretching and growing and pushing.
Like the anger that he's been breathing around since he watched his mother die in that shitty little room they had that didn't stink enough of other people's cooking to cover the smell of her sickness. But more, somehow.
Sometimes he thinks there's something bigger and scarier that he's supposed to be watching out for, that he's supposed to be searching for in the eyes of people like Barbara when Bruce randomly decides to fucking put her on his ass. Or.
He knows it's not random. He knows Bruce is thinking about Garzonas, and, yeah, he fucked up there. He could have... he should have done something. More. His reflexes are almost as good as Dick's for the easy stuff.
Like shooting his line and swinging down and...
Bruce was too late to catch the bastard. Jason could have done it. And Bruce knows it. He has to know it, or else he wouldn't...
That part's harder. Because part of him has been waiting to get fired, or at least benched like Bruce had done when Jason had skipped school that one time. And part of him thinks it has to happen, because Bruce actually believes in that shit about how no one should be killed, even when they deserve it.
Jason is pretty sure that Bruce is just as upset about Garzonas' dad and all those other dead drug dealers as he is about the Commissioner getting shot -- or thinks he should be. And for a person like Bruce, the difference between those two things is really fucking small.
But whatever Batgirl had told him, he's still out there. Still here, now, when Bruce could've easily told people that Jason was grounded or something. He's not grounded. In any way. And Bruce isn't...
Part of him has been wondering from the get-go. From the second he knew Batman was real, and had to do everything he could to keep from pissing his pants because Batman was real and walking around Jason's squat like he fucking owned the place. Because there's a difference between Batman being a real guy and Batman being the kind of real guy that he was supposed to be. The Dark Knight, the avenger, the righter of fucking wrongs.
Jason moves a little deeper into the empty cloak room, past where the light from the not-lobby reaches. It's pitch-black and smells like carpet cleaner and potpourri and the ghosts of old perfume, and it's quiet and dark enough that he could be almost anywhere. Dark and quiet enough that he can take a breath. Because...
Because if Batman really was that person, if Bruce was that person, then Jason shouldn't be here, for any of it. He shouldn't be Robin and he shouldn't be --
"I wondered where you'd gone."
There are things you get used to, like the feeling of your heart trying to jump into your throat because Bruce has done a Batman and appeared out of fucking nowhere. Again.
Only 'appeared' is the wrong word. He can't see a damned thing. But Bruce's voice is coming from his right. Close.
Jason shivers, a little. Bruce is the only one who calls him 'Jay.' His father had, when he was little, but then his father was in jail and --
And Bruce is cupping his face, not fumbling even for a moment. If he says something about Bruce's ridiculously powerful night vision, Alfred will be feeding him carrots for the next three weeks. "What is it?" Bruce says, and strokes along Jason's cheekbone.
I don't know why I'm here. Jason swallows and leans into Bruce's touch a little. "I just had to get out of there for a while."
Bruce's laugh is exactly right. Short and low and honest. "I know you hate these things."
"But they're necessary. I know that, too. When are we getting out of here?"
Silence, and darkness, and Jason knows that even if he could see Bruce's face, he probably wouldn't be able to read whatever expression is there. Somehow that means more than it usually does, feeding the nameless growing thing and making him shift.
"I mean. I just need a few --"
"Another hour and a half. Perhaps a bit longer. But..." Bruce slides his hand into Jason's hair.
It's Saturday, and most of the time Saturdays mean passing out after patrol and sleeping in. But he didn't get any sleep last night, and maybe... maybe he can be allowed to think about why, and why he's sore, and -- "Now?"
"We shouldn't," Bruce says, and it's always so strange to hear the hesitation in his voice, in his real voice. Like Jason knows any better than he does about... this.
Like his heart isn't pounding hard enough that he can barely hear himself think: No, of fucking course we shouldn't, but. "Do it anyway."
"Jay," and it's quiet as the breath over his face before Bruce pulls Jason's head back by the hair and kisses him. Hard and wet and slow. Licking him and -- fuck.
"Did you like the wine?" There's a laugh in Bruce's voice, and Jason thinks about answering him seriously and he thinks about defending the waiter and he thinks about how he likes it on his back when he's in Bruce's bed, and how softly Bruce had kissed his throat in the shower afterward, how he'd tilted Jason's head back just like this, how he'd kissed him there over and over, just like this.
If he concentrates, he can feel the tension behind the determined gentleness of Bruce's mouth and -- "You want to bite me."
"All over," Bruce growls, and licks his way up to Jason's ear and bites him there, where his hair is still long enough to fall over any marks.
"Oh God, closer. Come --"
Fast and blind and the only sound is the quiet thump of Jason's back hitting the wall. Bruce is pressed to him, lifting him and holding him against the wall with his body.
"Fuck, Bruce --"
"Shh." There's nothing calm or soothing about Bruce's voice, no matter how quiet and steady it is. There's a shudder just behind it, or maybe beneath, and Bruce's hand is working between them before Jason can even make himself stop crushing the fabric of Bruce's jacket in his fists. Bruce is opening their pants, shoving everything aside, and Jason remembers just in time to lean in and bite Bruce's lapel before Bruce touches his dick.
Still chafed. A little. Just enough to make this uncomfortable, the way it should be in a cloakroom with Gotham's fucking best and brightest a few hundred yards to the east. So right. So --
"Reckless," Bruce says. "Impossible,
Jason shoves into Bruce's fist and thinks about coming all over Bruce's tux. About Bruce coming all over his. Holding him down and getting him dusty and wrinkled and sweaty and dirty. "Don't stop, Bruce, don't --"
Bruce makes a small, hurt sound and spins them down to the floor. Another thump, the scraping brush of Bruce's zipper on Jason's thigh, and Bruce's hands are on his shirt. Gripping it the way Jason had gripped Bruce's jacket. Only...
Bruce's hands are shaking, tightening into fists, and Jason can feel the faint pressure of Bruce's knuckles.
And he knows Bruce wants to rip it off, maybe everything Jason is wearing.
"You could do it. Leave me in here. Tell them I went home sick. Rip my clothes off and fuck me right here and then go back and I -- I can take a fucking nap," and Bruce's laugh is choked, shaky and just a little too loud.
"I want you to. Use me. Fucking --"
Need me, he doesn't say, because Bruce is kissing him again, stroking his way up to Jason's shoulders and pressing them down against the floor, fucking Jason's mouth with his tongue, with every quiet sound.
Like there's something he's trying to say but can't make into words, and this is the other thing that's not supposed to happen, only it's so much less clear in his head than it used to be, before Bruce starting doing things like this, before Jason had a semi-permanent line of bite-marks down the center of his spine, because everything he wears covers that and because Bruce wants to do it all over.
Bruce squeezes his shoulders again and kisses his way down his chest, gentle and through the shirt. He smoothes it down with his hands and folds up the tails and, before Jason can laugh, Bruce sucks him in.
Swallows him and strokes Jason's spread thighs, pulling his shorts down a little further and squeezing him, petting him, touching him and Jason can't breathe in anything more than gasps, can't keep the frantic little whines from coming out on every exhale and doesn't try.
Bruce's fingers move like he's charting territory, like he's making plans. Taking notes with his body, because he doesn't trust his mind. And that --
It should be ice water in his veins, it should be horrible and wrong, or at least feel that way, but it just makes Jason buck up hard into Bruce's mouth, right down his throat, over and over. He wants this, he needs this, and he doesn't know which of them he's thinking of and he wishes he could care.
He wishes he could say that and he wonders when Bruce is going to just do it. Jerk him off under the table at some charity dinner, bend him over the railing of the Wayne box at the opera house, show everything, everything --
It almost hurts to come like this, or maybe it's the way Bruce is groaning, the way he pulls back and sucks harder, like maybe Jason didn't come enough.
Jason whimpers and bangs his head against the floor, balling his hands into fists to keep from grabbing at Bruce's head and pushing him off.
He needs this, too.
When Bruce finally does pull off, he's breathing hard. Not gasping, but... Jason unfolds one fist and scrubs his damp palm on the carpet before reaching out to grope for Bruce's face. Heat. He has to be flushed. He has to be -- "I want to see you."
"Jay." There's something like a plea in Bruce's voice, low and harsh. Jason thinks about the time by the side of the pool, nothing but a wet towel to keep his back from being scraped on the concrete, and the sun so bright in his eyes that he'd had to squeeze them shut much too soon. He wants so much he can't breathe, and sometimes he's sure there's nothing more important than Bruce's hands and mouth on him, on whatever new bruises he's picked up being Robin.
Night and day, day and night, and the only reason anyone else exists is to give Jason people to hurt, something to balance the crushing, grinding pleasure of Bruce.
He sits up and kisses the taste of himself out of Bruce's mouth, reaching down to take him in hand. Hard and hot and slick, jumping a little in his fist, and he doesn't really want to just jerk Bruce off, but it's almost as hard to stop as it is to stop kissing him. He can feel Bruce looking at him, and he doesn't need light for this.
He knows that look, with all the hunger and faint shockiness like Jason is something Bruce can't quite wrap his mind around. It always makes Jason need the same thing, always makes him desperate for more, and Jason shifts and bends and takes Bruce into his mouth.
Because maybe one of these times when Bruce is balls-deep in him one or both of them will figure it out. How to be people they don't have to struggle to understand, how to kill that crawling, growing thing inside Jason that doesn't let him sleep at night, even if Bruce does.
And Bruce hasn't hesitated since the first time. Not for this. His hands are thrust deep into Jason's hair, cupping his scalp and guiding him, urging him on. Jason forces himself to keep control long enough to hear Bruce's deep, gasping sigh when Jason swallows around him and then gives up.
Maybe he has his own words he doesn't know how to say, or maybe it just feels good to hear and feel his moans get choked off by Bruce's dick, by the thickness and solidity of Bruce in his mouth, slicking his tongue with pre-come and making him wonder if he could do this enough to make his throat raw, to lose his voice so that one day he'll be smiling earnestly at some useless little rich girl, telling her lies in a rough, low voice and tasting Bruce on the back of his tongue.
Bruce tightens his fingers in Jason's hair and rocks up into his mouth. Graceful and fluid right up until it's just implacable and sexy. Right up until he comes, tense and groaning soft and raw.
He doesn't push Jason off right away, either, and Jason's dick twitches painfully, helplessly.
They dress in the shadows, and get presentable out of them. Bruce still has one lock of hair hanging over his forehead when he's done, and the look in his eyes says he knows it. If Jason leans in close, he can see the faint and fading impression of his teeth in Bruce's lapel.
He feels like he looks obvious, fucked and obvious, and while a part of his mind is sure that Bruce would say something if he was, another part is wondering if maybe one day Bruce wouldn't.
It's the part that never really gave any thought to Bruce starting the adoption process, and the part that just seems really pathetic when it balks now. Now, with Bruce making his own bowtie about one millimeter more even than it was a second ago, with Bruce smiling at him with his deadly blue eyes and the corner of his mouth.
"No more wine," he says.
Jason rolls his eyes. "Anything you say, Mr. Wayne, sir."
There's a flare of something impossible to read and a little scary in Bruce's eyes, and then he strokes the underside of Jason's chin with the side of his index finger, tilting Jason's head up. "Robin," and only Batman could make a whisper sound like that much of an order.
Only Bruce could make it sound like that much of a promise. Jason keeps himself from shivering with an effort and holds Bruce's eyes.
He believes in promises about as much as he believes he'll get eight hours of sleep anytime soon. But then...
He doesn't really care about sleep.
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Title: So pure, so rare
Author: Te [email] [website]
Details: Standalone | NC-17 | *slash* | 25k | 05/30/04
Characters: Bruce, Jason
Summary: All night, all day.
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