Disclaimers: DC, Warner Brothers, many others who
aren't even close to being me.

Spoilers: None, really. Before Out of the Past, at least
in my own mind.

Summary: Terry isn't entirely altruistic.

Ratings Note: NC-17.

Author's Note: Cold weather comfort fic with porn.
Jack started it and kindly handed it off. And equally
kindly reminded me that I had to *finish* it...

Title quote from Thoreau.

Acknowledgments: To Jack, Livia, and the Spike for
audiencing.

Feedback: Yes, please! leytelj@gmail.com

*

Gotham is in the grip of a cold snap that has the
temperature dropping to record lows even for January.
The cold doesn't bother Terry much, at least at night;
the suit has fantastic insulation, and crime tends to
drop when it's this bad. Still.

He heads back to the Cave early after another
uneventful patrol.

Bruce is sitting at the computer, probably planning to
stay there until after Terry's gone home. It hasn't
escaped his notice that the old guy's been stiffer than
usual with the bitter weather, even though the only
*real* sign is that he moves a little slower. The chill
creeps even into the usually climate-constant Cave,
and it's worse up in the house.

He can feel Bruce's eyes on him while he changes back
into Terry. "Brr," he says, shrugging his shirt on and
tucking it into his jeans. "Man, it's freezing down here."

Bruce barely grunts.

"You can quit the made-of-stone act, Bruce. I know the
cold's been getting to you."

He gets the Eyebrow.

And he tosses an easy grin back at Bruce, slinging his
jacket over his shoulder. "C'mon upstairs. You're just
going to go up there as soon as I'm gone anyway, and
if you go *now*, I'll give you a rub-down."

Bruce blinks at him. Once.

"What? I've been giving my mom backrubs and neckrubs
for years. I'm not actually *trained* or anything, but I
know what I'm doing." He waggles his fingers
demonstratively.

"That... isn't the problem."

And, okay, weird, but a) it's Bruce, and b) he's got *that*
look on his face. The one that would be a smile if Terry
didn't know the man was thinking fondly of violence
past.

It isn't that he doesn't understand the feeling --
sometimes he thinks he was *born* to understand that
feeling -- it's that it doesn't seem right to classify the
result as a 'smile.' Smiles are for daytime, and the
people who live there.

Bruce blinks again, and it's clear that whatever the
memory was; it's gone now. "Go home, Terry."

But... no. Bit in his teeth. "This used to be a thing,
right? A Batman thing."

And that's one of his favorite looks. Surprised and
pleased and predatory. It's the I-made-the-right-choice
look that tends to make Terry want to hit things
harder. Because he *can*.

Bruce sits back a little in the chair, not so much
straightening as reminding himself that he can't get
those shoulders all the way back anymore. "Are you
surprised?"

"In retrospect... no. It makes sense. Though I do
feel cheated. Where are *my* backrubs?"

"Hm." The Bruce-laugh. He flexes one hand.

It's supposed to be a demonstration, and Terry
*knows* what the demo is for, but still. He *also*
knows what those hands can do. Even now. "Hey,
I'll settle for a neck-rub. I work *hard* for my
money."

And Bruce looks at him for a long moment, a *serious*
moment. He's remembering something else. Terry can
*feel* the suits at his back. Staring at him with
mannequin eyes. No way.

"But I'll let you owe me." He plants himself in front of
Bruce and puts a hand out. "C'mon, upstairs. If I get
home this early my mom will start asking embarrassing
questions about my love life again."

Bruce just looks at his hand for another long moment,
long enough that Terry thinks he's gonna get blown
off or maybe insulted -- he's due -- but in the end
there's a little twist of one of those not-smiles, and
Bruce takes it.

Terry actually has to pull a little, which means that
Bruce really *is* hurting, but when he's up there's
not so much as a tremor.

Old man.

He swallows past the way-too-familiar-at-this-point
lump of *feeling* as Bruce slips his hand out of Terry's
own and follows the man upstairs, staying behind him
and watching.

*That* knee, and his back had to be killing him. And
his neck. Broad and muscular and under way too much
pressure, considering his posture. And...

"Hey, what *did* happen to that leg?"

Bruce stops.

Terry could've guessed it was something Bad, as
opposed to just bad. He probably should have.

Bruce starts walking again, without answering his
question.

"You should put up little signs. 'Ask about this and
you get blank silence.' 'Ask about *this* and you get
yelled at.'"

"I thought I already had." There's a smile in his
voice.

"Yeah, but that's *everything* and... right."

The thing about Bruce is that you can always tell
when he's amused. He sends waves of it off, like
maybe it isn't just a conscious illusion that he's larger
than life. Auras and force of personality and all that
crap.

He's Bruce, and he is Amused. All must acknowledge.
He snickers to himself and Bruce pauses just long
enough to give him the Eyebrow again.

And he means to say something sharp about that, or
at least something silly to keep up the mood, but...
he's just a little caught.

Because Bruce is really going to let him do this, and
that's great, because he's *Bruce*, so it's a chance to
do a nice thing without putting on a mask first, while
also being a chance to prove himself an apprentice of
many talents.

But, you know, Bruce isn't his Mom, and Terry's not
*that* fucked up.

All those thoughts and imaginings and excuses-to-wank
*had* been safely tucked in the land of
not-even-remotely, and now they... aren't.

Bruce is going to let Terry touch him. All over.

And Bruce is looking at him.

"Uh."

"Tell me you didn't forget to power down the missiles
again."

"No! And hey, that was only once."

"I'm sure the people in the surrounding countryside
would have found that comforting when they woke up
in a crater."

Scowling, at least, makes it easier to hide what he's
thinking.

"Well?"

Okay, a little easier. "Nothing important, I promise."

The Look.

"I *swear*."

Bruce snorts at him and continues out into the manor
proper and...

"Jesus, you're a gazillionaire, Bruce. You can't afford a
little central heating?"

"Is your breath steaming?"

"Well, no, but --"

"Then it *is* on."

The kids-today head-shake, and Bruce leads them toward
the bedrooms. Toward *his* bedroom, and Terry is
beginning to have serious doubts about his skills. He's
never tried to give anyone a backrub when he was hard.

*Front* rubs, now...

But... it's actually warm in here. Terry blinks.

"Better insulation, fewer drafts. Still, feel free to light the
fireplace if you feel yourself in danger of hypothermia."

Terry glares at him.

And lights the damned fire.

It's not hard. It isn't exactly listed in his official duties,
but it was one he picked up *damned* fast. The only
time his fingernails are supposed to be blue is... well,
they're just not. He gets it going nicely, adding a few
extra logs, and brushes his hands off on his knees.

And when he stands up, Bruce already has the shirt off,
jabot hanging like an afterthought. And it's... there's a
disconnect, or maybe a conflict. Or maybe it's just that
he never expected the man to lie *down*, much less to
strip.

Bruce has even more scars than Terry had imagined.

And it's the kind of stupid, *mindless* lust he thought
he'd gotten over when he was fourteen and finally
capable again of whipping his dick out to pee without
needing to... detour.

And he has to start coping *now*. "Don't do that?"

A milder eyebrow, uncapitalized and more bemused
than anything else. "What, exactly, shouldn't I do?"

"I'll take care of that. The folding, you know. Just let
me wash my hands."

Bruce eyes the shirt in his hands with one of those
memory looks for a moment, and then nods at him.

In the bathroom, all Terry can do is stare at his hands.
Calluses would be one thing, but his hands are
*shredded*. Dry cold. It'll be like getting a rubdown with,
like, tree bark.

Fuck.

He washes them in hot water, using the liquid soap in the
hope that it has some kind of moisturizer, and then...
there. Thank God. Hand lotion.

He rubs himself until his hands are too slick for the
doorknob, and tucks the bottle under his arm.

And Bruce is... on his stomach. And it takes about a year
for Terry to take it in. He's stripped down to his
jockeys -- plain cotton, who knew? -- and he's on his
stomach and this *must* have been normal at some
point, because Bruce doesn't even look *amused*.

And his jokes are generally a lot more fucked up than
simple, random, partial nudity.

Bruce turns his head on the pillow. "Is something
wrong?"

Other than the fact that I'm popping wood, Bruce? Not
a thing. "No. I just... my hands are rough." He moves
the lotion to one hand and nearly manages to squirt the
bottle across the room.

"Your hands are rough."

"I... yeah. I didn't want --"

Bruce looks at him like he's insane. "My skin is not,
actually, made of parchment, Terry."

"I know that! I mean. Do you have anything better...?"

"I don't think I've ever met a massage-tease..." An
entirely different Eyebrow.

It breaks through the panic, if nothing else. "You're
such a bastard," Terry says, and toes off his shoes
again, crawling onto the bed to straddle him.

Bruce is still, patient as the stone he's so clearly not.

He thinks about asking about 'problem areas,' but really,
that's just stupid. So he braces his thumbs over Bruce's
nape, pushes in, and slides *up*. Okay, this is easy.
He'll *find* the more-of-a-problem than usual areas and
go from there.

Easy.

He tests the muscles of the man's neck with his
fingertips and it makes him sincerely wish he *was*
trained. At this point, he's just glad that Bruce made him
spend all that time with hand strengtheners.

His shifts his thumbs down again, and then out to the
sides, where the muscles are knotted like hot stone
beneath the skin. But when Terry digs in, Bruce... sighs.

And he thinks... no, he knows he needs to hear that
again. Digs in harder and starts making small circles.
Bruce groans, short and low, and gooseflesh prickles
its way up his arms and over the back of his neck.

Right. Bruce is being all casual about this, so Terry
*should* be casual, but casual would mean letting his
crotch rest against Bruce's skin, and really just no. It's
bad -- *good* -- enough with the insides of his thighs
being tickled by the hair on the outside of Bruce's and
he can focus. Really.

But Bruce has the kind of neck that probably won't get
soft and loose even if he pumps the man full of
narcotics, and he's making those *sounds*...

Jesus.

Bruce has been training his memory. Training him to
*have* one, and if his teachers had any idea they'd
probably kiss the man, but right now having a memory
just means that Terry knows full well what he's going
to be thinking about the next time he jerks off. What
he's going to be *hearing*. So... move.

The shoulders.

"I'll... uh. Come back to that," he says, and feels a little
more like an idiot, but shoulders are better.

He doesn't know how many times Bruce has had *his*
shoulders dislocated, shot, or otherwise just mangled --
too many scars to count -- but it has to be a lot more
than Terry. The difference between too much and
*ridiculous*.

There are spots that are... uneven. Like the muscle never
quite grew back the way it was supposed to, so Terry
*has* to focus.

Too much pressure would just make things worse. Not
enough is annoying, but, well, he *isn't* trained. The
last thing he wants to do is *injure* Bruce. So he takes
it easy, and there isn't much he *can* do.

"Hey, you got any connections who could actually teach
me this stuff?"

"I'll give it some thought."

"Schway."

Another one of those little 'hm' noises. It should
probably feel weirder than it does to be on top of a
laughing, half-naked Bruce Wayne. It just feels... He shakes
it off and moves back to Bruce's neck. Mostly just checking
on things, making sure the tension hasn't crept back
beyond where he'd left it. Mostly.

There are a million inappropriate and downright *idiotic*
things he wants to say in response to those groans, and
what he wants to *do* isn't much better.

He pulls off and pours some more lotion on his hands,
warming it up as much as he can with friction.

"This is going to be cold on your back."

"Noted."

What say I slick up my dick and -- no. Bruce's back is
more scar tissue than skin, with a handful of those weird
little dips that mean chunks of meat have been forcibly
removed from the man's body and never entirely replaced.
"So... who stitched you up in the old days?"

"My butler. Mostly."

And it's tempting to make a snide comment about the
guy's tailoring skills, but then he thinks about it. About
what Bruce would probably look like if he *hadn't* been
good. "He was gone when you got that scar on your face,
hunh?"

"Sadly, yes. Though it did finally get me out of the
society pages."

Terry snorts. "They found someone prettier?"

"They always do."

Terry digs his thumbs in on either side of Bruce's spine,
and gets a hiss. "Too much?"

"No."

"You'd actually tell me, right?"

"... maybe."

"Bastard."

But he takes him at his word and works his way down,
only slackening when he gets to one of the dips, and
Bruce shifts and stretches beneath him. Terry's
sweating under his clothes and it has *nothing* to do
with his sad little fire.

Everything to do with the "hmm" sound Bruce makes
when he gets to just above the waistband of his
jockeys. Terry splays his hands and thinks about it and
thinks about and works his way back up.

If his obliques have lost anything over the years, *he*
can't tell. The skin is thin, but the muscle is *hard*.

"Too light."

"Yeah, okay." And also, I *want* you. Terry pushes
and prods and tries to move everything into vaguely
the right place and thinks about his next move. Back
to the neck, and the weirdly soft hair. Too long to be
called stubble. "Time for a haircut?"

"Soon."

This time he curls his fingers under and pushes his
thumbs up behind Bruce's ears. More about relaxing
him than working with the muscle -- and he has to be
careful around those pressure points.

And making Bruce trust him to be careful is probably
not the most relaxing thing *he* can do, but he knows
how good this felt whenever Dana would do it for him.
Bruce doesn't actually make any more good noises,
though, so... arms.

He works down the left, starting from the shoulder.
More scars, more muscle. Bruce must've been able to
bench press small farm animals back in the day.
*Before* the powered-up suit.

Now he's just warm and solid and male and Terry
wants to *bite* him there and his hands are moving
pretty much without his orders. Good that he's
working on an *arm*.

"How much pressure can your hands take?"

"I'm not entirely sure."

"'kay. Let me know."

He tests with his fingertips first, cataloguing the scars,
the broken knuckles -- of course -- the swollen knuckles.
Then he flattens it against the mattress and twines his
fingers between Bruce's own, pushing at his palm with
the tips and just trying to *will* some of his body heat
into Bruce.

"Good so far?"

"Yes."

*Please* do let me make it better. Terry grits his teeth
and shifts to Bruce's side. Better positioning, or rather,
better positioning unless Bruce decides to check on his
personal assistant. Terry's jeans are already
uncomfortable. They'll be *painful* if this lasts much
longer.

But. He's *doing* something, here.

He lifts Bruce's hand and chafes it between both of his
own for long moments, warming it, before he starts on
his fingers. "Do I want to know how many times you've
broken these?"

"The gauntlets weren't *always* armored."

"Yeah, yeah, and you walked to school ten miles
uphill."

"Both ways."

"Through the snow?"

"Mostly flaming hailstones. The occasional bombing
raid."

Terry gives serious thought to warming those fingers
in his mouth, but smiling is a better bet. He plays with
each finger in turn, and there's no real *reason* to
stroke the back of Bruce's hand when he's done, but
he's also rapidly losing the ability to care. Other arm,
same process.

Bruce's right ring finger is actually a little crooked, so
he doesn't do any excessive bending, just rubs between
the knuckles and tries to get it warm. Thinks seriously
about licking the back of Bruce's neck. Thinks about it
for long enough that he can taste the salt and the lotion
and contents himself with loosening things up a little
more.

"You're starting to tense up again."

Non-committal grunt and Terry looks at Bruce's legs
and... decides to start on the feet. Fewer obvious breaks,
but then he'd bet Bruce had also probably been more
careful with his lower body. Or maybe he'd just been
more of a puncher than a kicker. Or maybe he'd just
been lucky.

Impossible to tell.

He can *do* more, though, and that's enough. Until
he gets to Bruce's knees. "Uh. I have to admit I'm
kind of worried about these."

"Just... the backs will be sufficient."

"Got it."

He presses just hard enough to avoid tickling and then
starts thinking about theoretical physics. Jars full of
dead animal fetuses. Radiation. Thighs. Really *hard*
thighs. Grey hair, and yeah, that's kind of weird, but it
also...

Feels really *good* against his palms. He wipes the
back of his wrist over his forehead and rubs the sweat
off on his shirt.

And starts on the other leg. Pretty soon, he's going to
have to decide whether or not he's going to ask Bruce
to turn over. No, he's going to have to decide *how*.
No, he's going to have to start working on controlling
his voice, or come up with some way to either laugh
off his erection or stoically ignore it.

Which would be more in character?

Which would get him more of *this*?

But, in the end, Bruce turns over as soon as Terry can
force himself to stop cupping the back of Bruce's thigh in
his hands.

And Bruce is...

"You have *got* to let me take care of that."

The Eyebrow.

"Normal physical reaction. The importance of relieving
tension. Come on, Bruce, *work* with me."

And Bruce... laughs. Chuckles, really, and sits up on
one elbow.

"I've been good. I've been *so* good, and how long
*have* you been hard? No, don't answer that, just let
me..."

He straddles Bruce's thighs and cups his shoulders.
Slides one hand around the back of Bruce's neck and
Bruce just... smiles at him.

Hard and sharp and bright.

"One might think you had ulterior motives."

"I didn't, actually. More like something to leaven the
altruism and just... Jesus, yes." Snugged up tight and
just... fucking himself against Bruce's dick. Yeah.
Yeah, that's... he lets his head fall back and groans,
trying to remember not to squeeze hard enough to
undo all his work.

And when he looks back down again, Bruce is... it's
a different smile. A hungry and really kind of *pleased*
smile.

Likes what he sees.

Terry can work with that.

"You know how long I've wanted this, right? You know
I haven't even *tried* to repress it."

"You did give that impression."

"I didn't want to. I *like* wanting you, Bruce. It feels
good. *You* feel good."

And Bruce rakes his gaze over his face and down. Pausing
at his mouth and the scar on his collarbone before he
slips his free arm around Terry's waist. And cups his ass.
"Do I."

It's not a question, so Terry doesn't bother to answer with
words. Noises, though... noises definitely work when
Bruce pushes at the seam of his jeans with his thumb. He
digs his knees into Bruce's sides a little more and... mm.
Back and forth.

"Terry."

"Absolutely."

Another laugh against his chest, and a sucking bite that
moves to his nipple and settles there.

"Jesus. Jesus *fuck*, Bruce."

He manages not to whimper when Bruce takes his mouth
away, but the gratification is burned away like tissue
paper when Bruce gives his ass a squeeze and slides his
hand around between them. Another squeeze, really
kind of friendly, and Bruce is doing a *really* good job
of getting his jeans open one-handed.

A better job than his boxers are doing at keeping his
dick restrained. Terry pushes them down and shifts. "Let
me just --"

"Stay."

"Gonna put a collar on me? Kinky."

Bruce just hands him the bottle of lotion and sits up,
presenting his own hand.

And there might not be nerve endings in the brain, but
he just *felt* those cells die. Die hard and die *happy*,
because oh *fuck* yeah.

Terry squeezes some out and yanks Bruce's hand back
behind him and hisses at the cold and holds his ass
open. And Bruce doesn't even blink, just pushes one
finger in slow and *watches* him.

"Two. Give me... oh, God. Oh, God, you're killing me..."

"Really."

Bruce's tone is so fucking *dry* and Terry can't *think*.
Thrusts against Bruce's stomach and back onto his fingers
and "*fuck* me."

Bruce twists his fingers and crooks and Terry watches
his dick spit pre-come on Bruce's chest, watches a thread
of it connect them, and then Bruce pulls out and *thrusts*
and he can't keep his eyes open.

"Bruce. *Bruce* --"

"Tell me."

"You're making me... I'm gonna come soon --"

"And?"

"It's good. Oh *fuck*, it's good."

"Mm. Terry."

"Yeah. Don't stop --"

*Hard* thrust and Bruce cups his hip with his free hand
and *bites* his nipple, holding it between his teeth and
urging Terry to work his hips faster. Wants him to work
for it. Take it. Wants --

He comes groaning and flexing, all over both of them,
and has to lock his thighs to keep from falling over. It's
a near thing, anyway, even though Bruce has got him.
He blinks his eyes open and leans in for a kiss and has a
completely bizarre moment of 'hey, that's weird' when
Bruce slips his tongue between his lips until he
remembers that they haven't, actually, done this before.

Of *course* kissing comes later.

He laughs into Bruce's mouth, and cups his face, trying
for another kiss and laughing too hard to manage it.

"Yes, Terry?"

"Sorry, just... I'm wondering if we have to break out
the sex toys and flavored lube before we can neck."

"Hm."

"Actually, no, I'm wondering if I care."

And Bruce wraps his arms around him and pulls him
close and it stops feeling awkward when Terry shifts
just enough to drag his balls over Bruce's erection.
And then it's just hot.

"Mm, yeah. Lie down again."

"Why?"

"Because you're feeling generous."

"I am?"

"You are."

Bruce grins at him and leans close enough for a kiss,
but when Terry opens his mouth he gets his lip bitten.
And *then* he lies down, folding one hand behind his
head and grinning that sharp little grin, and for a
moment...

It's like a localized time warp. Terry can see *exactly*
how he must have looked twenty years ago. Thirty.
And he wonders who got to see him like this back then,
and if they had any idea...

He shakes it off. It doesn't matter. They're all gone,
and he *isn't*.

And he's not going anywhere.

He thinks about just staying where he is, but... no. He
slides in next to Bruce, pulling his free arm over his
own body and resting it helpfully against his hip. And
moves in just enough to kiss him again, sliding his hand
down that broad, scarred chest and stomach and into
Bruce's jockeys.

Hot, thick, hard and *perfect* in his hand, and he hums
into the kiss, urging Bruce's tongue into his mouth and
sucking in rhythm. Bruce strokes his hip and Terry gives
up on restraint and throws his leg over Bruce's own,
and this is just...

It's warm and it's good, and it's *real*. The scent of
sex and hand lotion and the feel of those calluses
against his skin and the twitch of Bruce's dick in his
hand.

"Tell me what you like."

"Faster."

"Like this?"

Bruce's breath hitches once and he moves the hand
from behind his head to pull Terry in for another kiss.
Hard this time, *devouring*, and Terry groans and
clutches Bruce with his thigh and it's too soon for
much, but it still feels *good* to rub up against all
that muscle and skin, better when Bruce flexes *his*
thigh and starts to pump into his fist.

Terry slips his tongue into Bruce's mouth and tries to
say everything. Why this is good, why he *needs* it,
and how stopping or stepping back is *not* an option
and when Bruce comes in his fist it's all he can do to
*stop* stroking.

He can't let go, though.

Not just now.

Bruce leans back, not quite out of the kiss. It's a
suggestion, and Terry goes with it, rolling on top of
Bruce and keeping it going.

He tastes like coffee.

Terry licks his way out of Bruce's mouth and licks his
sticky hand, watching Bruce watch him in that calculating
way. And drags his hand down Bruce's chest before
giving him a squeeze.

He thinks about moving, but... Bruce is still holding him.

And he *did* end patrol early, so... he relaxes. "I'm
starting to really appreciate winter."

"It has its charms."

"You know I'm not going to let this be a one-off, right?"

"I'll call the jeweler tomorrow."

Terry bites him on the collarbone. It's enough. He's
made his point.

Bruce caresses his hip. "I'll wake you in an hour."

"Mm. Okay. Night, Bruce."

"Good night, Terry."

And Terry lets the smile in Bruce's voice ease him into sleep.

end.