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! leytelj@gmail.com

*

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.

Still.

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.

end.