Disclaimers: Not mine.

Spoilers: None, really.

Summary: How Tim spent his summer vacation.

Ratings Note/Warnings: NC-17. Content some
readers may find disturbing.

Author's Note: Originally intended to be a part of a
five things for toon!Tim, but it just didn't work out
that way. Still animated-verse, though.

Acknowledgments: To LC, Livia, jamjar, and Jack
for audiencing and suggestions.

*

He likes Bruce's office in the afternoons. It slows
down a little, enough that Sarah stops looking like
she's being hunted by invisible predators and
starts smiling again, and the footsteps even out
in the hallways (the doors are too thick and the
carpets are too good for him to be able to hear
them unless he's got his ear pressed to the floor,
which always makes Sarah give him these
hilariously *concerned* looks, which is so. Very.
Worth it).

If it was anyone *else's* business, Tim would
pretty much be convinced that everyone went off
and had some seriously mood-altering lunches,
but, well, it's *not* anyone else's business, and
no matter how much of a ditz Bruce Wayne is
supposed to be...

Tim flips up into a handstand, braces himself on
his right hand, and checks his watch. It's not
quite three, so Bruce is still doing his little office
tour *thing*. The kind where Bruce shakes hands
and smiles at people and generally convinces
everyone that he's watching.

It doesn't matter how ditzy Bruce *acts*, because
he's the *boss*.

And when the boss has a habit of showing up at
your cubicle and looking at you, like, *every day*,
you're probably not going to get hammered on
your lunch hour, no matter how many times said
boss 'accidentally' trips and knocks over your
coffee. Unless you're insane, and Tim's pretty
sure Bruce has gotten Lucius to fire all the crazy
people.

Well, except for Wesker.

Wesker's actually the one who Bruce *doesn't*
check on -- not as much as Tim knows he *wants*
to -- because he doesn't want to make him
paranoid and accidentally cause him to, like, carve
a new Scarface out of his chair. Babs was never
big on Bruce hiring the guy, and even Alfred had
raised an eyebrow over it, but Tim's pretty sure
he gets it.

All of them -- the freaks -- blame Batman for
making them who they are, and even though none
of the *sane* people do -- and least not the ones
who have functioning brains and, like, *live* in
Gotham -- it's still something that kind of drives
Bruce up a wall.

In the bad way, as opposed to all the ways *he*
can drive Bruce up a wall.

So... yeah. Batman couldn't help Wesker, but maybe
Bruce Wayne can. And it's not like Tim's all that
*optimistic* about the whole thing -- the guy talks
to *wood* -- but he can't help but be on board with
anything that has the *remotest* chance of making
Bruce chill out.

"Er... Tim? You've been upside down for... um."

Oops. Tim Drake is an *athletic* kid, but... yeah.
"Goin'... for... world record," he says, in a voice as
strained as he can make it.

He peeks and gets a look at Sarah, who looks
curious, but not *too* curious.

Good.

"Um... what *is* the world record?"

Excellent question. "Uh, I... I think it's..." He does
a controlled fall out of his stand, and makes himself
hesitate before flipping back up to his feet and
smiling ruefully at Sarah. "Heh. Longer than that."

Sarah blinks at him from behind her glasses. "Oh,
I'm sorry, I didn't mean --"

"Hey, it's okay." He beams at her, because the
*last* thing he needs from her is the 'oh my God
it's the boss' *son* routine,' because it had taken
*forever* to train her out of that in the first place.
"You'll get used to it."

"I'm sorry?"

"Yeah. I'll visit more often, maybe do a handstand
on your desk --"

" -- maybe lose your *allowance*..."

Tim blinks, and scowls up at Bruce, who's giving
him the Bruce-Wayne-is-stern look and sort of...

If it was Dick, Tim would say his eyes were grinning
at him, and they are, Bruce *absolutely* is, but
when Bruce never *just* smiles. It's always a lot
more than that.

"Aww, come on," he says, and puts his hands on
his hips.

"Oh! Mr. Wayne! I didn't hear you come in," Sarah
says, and Tim narrows his eyes at Bruce and does
his best to beam this-is-why-you-shouldn't-sneak-
*up*-on-me-like-that-all-the-time at him.

Bruce gives him that more-than-a-grin *look* for
another second before giving Sarah his blandest
smile. "Sorry, Sarah, don't know *where* my
head was. Any calls?"

Sarah hands Bruce a stack of messages, and starts
making apologetic noises at him, so Tim just goes
ahead and slips into Bruce's *actual* office.

Which is just as big and insanely *rich* as
everything else in Bruce's life, but, well... it was
easier to get used to the office than it was to the
manor, for some reason. Probably because it was
*okay* for offices to look like this, and because it
took a while to register that, yeah, Bruce owns
absolutely everything in this building -- and the
building itself -- *too*.

And he *is* used to the manor now (mostly), but
he still likes coming here. For a lot of reasons. Not
least of which is the fact that ever since he stayed
late enough to talk to Mira, she never cleans
Bruce's office as much as she *could*.

She's straightened up the stack of comic books he
keeps under Bruce's desk, and his bag of M&Ms
has a little plastic clip-thingy on it, but otherwise?
It's just like he left it. He's definitely using *some*
of his allowance to buy her something.

Maybe he could find out what kind of music she
likes to listen to on her headphones and get her a
CD.

Bruce probably knows exactly what she listens to,
and he could totally just ask, but it's more fun to
find out for himself. He settles in and pulls the
penlight out of his pocket. It's a *Bat* penlight,
but even though Bruce always gives him a *look*
when he takes it out of his belt, it's also just a
light.

It's not like he's carrying the tazer around, or
anything. And he really, really *likes* the tazer.

He's well into Mutant Madness #6 by the time Bruce
gets into the office, and... yes. The rock he'd
shoved between one of the wheels and the well of
Bruce's  chair is working perfectly. It's not that he
*needs* the warning, but the squeak works for him
in ways he can't really explain.

"Hm," Bruce says, and starts shuffling papers.

Tim reads and listens. It's not that he finds Bruce's
work all that interesting, but... there are some
aspects to it that are kind of cool. Like the fact that
whoever's on the other end of the first phone call
gets pure Bruce-is-braindead voice, while the next
three occasionally get a few hints of Bat.

He's hacked into the phone company's servers
enough times that he'll be able to pull the records
fairly easily, but he's already pretty sure what he'll
find. The only people that get the Bat-voice *here*
are people who need to be persuaded with more
than money and charm -- *other* people's
lawyers.

After the phone goes down for the last time, there's
still a lot of paper-shuffling, and it's as lulling as it
always is, so it kind of takes a moment to realize
that Bruce is talking to *him* again, even though
his voice is right.

"... going to a baseball game this afternoon."

"I remembered that baseball is *boring*."

"Hm," Bruce says, and there's the sound of pen
scratching. Not much, because between Sarah and
Lucius there *isn't* much that crosses Bruce's
desk that needs more than a signature.

If Tim hadn't installed Cataclysm 5 on Bruce's
computer it would probably die of loneliness.

He eats a handful of M&Ms and reaches up between
Bruce's knees with another. Bruce takes one.
*Maybe* two. Tim eats the rest and moves on to
MM #7. He doesn't really have time to read this
stuff during the school year, since suddenly he's
going to a school where there are too few students
and too many students for a kid to get away with
anything without *serious* effort, and because Alfred
is pretty much the most evil stalker in the world
about getting him to do his homework when he
*is* home.

And the training is pretty much never going to stop,
and... well.

He has *so* many better things to do with his
nights.

More papers, and the sound of something or other
going into a file, and then nothing whatsoever. Tim
pauses.

"You... you know I spend as little time here as I
can," Bruce says, and somewhere in there is a
question, but Tim isn't entirely sure where.

"Yeah...?"

"I know this is your first summer. Here."

Bruce sounds like maybe there's a vein throbbing in
his forehead, which pretty much means that he's
trying to get something *personal* out. Tim frowns
and pushes up between Bruce's knees, resting his
elbows on Bruce's thighs and raising an eyebrow.

Bruce smiles down at him ruefully. "I know I'm not
the best company."

And... *oh*. Tim snickers. "Bruce. I can entertain
myself. I *am* entertaining myself. If I wanted to
go hang out, I'd go hang out. You *know* that."

And Bruce blinks at him, and Tim knows that blink
*really* well. It's the you're-nothing-like-Dick blink,
and it still gives him that weird mix of stomach-
dropping terror and pure *thrill*.

Only Bruce could turn a blink into a roller coaster.
Tim shifts a little, mentally checking to make sure
he isn't about to send M&Ms flying everywhere and
*looks* at Bruce. "I come see you here because I like
it, and because I don't distract you when I do."
Unless you *want* me to.

And it's exactly the kind of look that he's pretty sure
is designed to *make* Bruce hear everything he
isn't saying -- on the off chance that he's only
listening with his ears -- and... yeah.

Bruce strokes his face. Just once.

Tim lets his eyes fall halfway closed.

"Tim."

He digs in with his elbows.

Most of the time, this is when Bruce says something
so incredibly boring about his work that Tim's mind,
like, shuts down completely in self-defense, and
he's forced to nod and crawl back under the desk.

But *this* time, Bruce doesn't say anything.

"You should really *know* by now that I like
coming here," he says, and leans in. He can't see
Bruce's face like this, but he can feel him looking,
watching. Being *Bruce* while Tim rubs his face
against the crotch of Bruce's pants.

Bruce is silent, and his breathing is steady, and
this is really why he doesn't tease all that much,
beyond whatever it is about him that's a tease for
Bruce even when he *isn't* about to suck him
off.

He has a few suspicions about what that stuff
might be, but he isn't sure.

Yet.

*Actual* teasing, though.... it's a little much. It's
more than a *little* much, because he can *smell*
Bruce, and he can hear the artificial squeak the
chair will make when Bruce finally moves. Which
he hasn't.

Also yet. More imminent yet.

He turns his head to the side and presses in with
his cheek, nuzzling and rubbing. The afternoon
sun is just a hint, like this. He can't really *see*
anything but the dark material of Bruce's pants,
and everything's just a little promising.

Darkness and heat and Bruce.

He's wanted this for so long that not even *getting*
it is enough. It can't be. Even when it's right, when
it's absolutely *perfect*, like everything he used
to dream about with his batarang in his left hand
and his dick in his right, or when they're making
the car smell like something other than leather
and machinery, or when Bruce's gauntlet is cold
and *hard* on his skin and Bruce's mouth is hot
and soft...

Even then, it can't ever be enough. Because it's
too good and too *right* and he can't really
believe it. He had an easier time believing that
he got to *fly*, almost every *night*, and that
he got to play with *explosive* batarangs, than
he does believing that Batman wants *him*.

Wants him for *everything*.

So just here, just this in Bruce's office where
everything is soft and quiet, and he's not even
wearing his mask, can't ever be *enough*.

But it can be *good*.

Bruce hand ghosts over his hair. Not even really
*in* it, and one great reason to keep his hair
spiked as much as possible is that it's harder
for Bruce to do those not-touches. Still, it's a
*message*. He turns back and bites, gently, and
he can't even wait for the next ghosting touch.
He *can't*.

He growls to himself and fumbles until he can
get Bruce's fly open -- and why do his Bruce
Wayne pants have to be so *complicated*? -- and
he's wearing actual boxers under them. Silk, and
annoying.

Tim prefers the briefs for a *lot* of reasons, but
he can work with these. He reaches, elbowing
Bruce's thighs further apart and stretching the
boxers as tight over Bruce's dick as he can get
them. And then he leans in and sucks through
them. The shaft, because even though it's really
*just* the feeling, he really *likes* the feeling.

He hums and nuzzles and sucks, and feels Bruce
getting harder. *Bigger*. One day he's going to
*make* Bruce fuck him over this desk, gonna
come all over Bruce's important paperwork and
maybe the neglected keyboard, too.

He hums again and drags his teeth along the
shaft to the head, and sucks again and -- better.
*So* much better.

Bruce has so much control it's not even human,
and then he decides he doesn't *want* to have
control and his hands are in your hair, just like
this, and not even the annoyingly smooth silk
can distract Tim from the taste of his pre-come.

He moans and sucks harder, and Bruce *pulls*
him in a little more and he moans again, louder.

He looks up, but there's nothing on Bruce's face
that says 'stop,' or even 'quiet.' And it doesn't
have a thing to do with the fact that every office
in this building, almost, is soundproofed, because
sometimes Bruce *does* want him to be quiet.

Not now.

He pulls back, enjoying the way he has to *push*
against Bruce's hands to do it. He pulls back just
to say "Bruce," and then he pulls Bruce's dick out
of the boxers and goes down.

He likes to listen to himself do it. He likes to hear
all the wet sounds, the *sucking* sounds, because
it's like the kind of porn that he'd have to actually
make an *effort* to find on the internet -- just
that perfect and real and *here*, even more than
the pressure on his tongue and the hands in his
hair.

Every muffled moan, every choked little yell,
every thing he does, because he has to, because
it's Bruce, and he's *in* him, because Bruce
finally pushes the chair in just a little.

Just enough to make the chair squeak and make
Tim take more or move -- no decision to be
*made*. And they're enough under the desk that
there's an *echo* -- for him at least. A weird
kind of *resonance* to the slick smack his lips
make around Bruce's dick, like the universe is
repeating itself to make sure he gets the point.

If Bruce takes his hands out of his hair, and Tim
makes himself be quiet, then anyone in the
world could walk in and talk whatever stupid
rich-guy *business* they have with Bruce while
he kneels here with Bruce's *dick* in his mouth.
While he waits and just... just...

He groans around Bruce's dick and starts to fuck
his own mouth, and he almost can't hear Bruce's
breath start to go ragged, but he didn't need
Bruce to teach him that 'almost' doesn't count for
anything. Bruce likes it, and it's so hard to not
just immediately go for the rhythm Tim *knows*
he likes, but it's so much better to make Bruce
guide him into it.

The tug and push on his head, and those first few
thrusts when the chair only squeaks about a
third of the time.

*Yes*, he says in his mind and with his full, full
throat, and digs his nails into Bruce's thighs.

"Tim," Bruce says, and his voice is low and dark
and desperate, and Tim moans with he every
breath he can *get*. "Oh, Tim..."

And Tim squeezes his eyes shut and lets himself
get buried in his own hot, humid little cave. The
desk and Bruce's thighs and all the air he wants,
so long as it tastes like Bruce and makes him
dizzy with sex. His jeans are hurting him and
Bruce never, never could.

And Bruce gasps and comes, hands tightening in
his hair enough to make Tim's eyes water,
tightening and *holding* until Tim's heart is
pounding and he's not sure he can feel any part
of himself but his mouth and his dick. And then
Bruce lets go, and pulls off, and strokes his hair.

"Bruce," he says, because he loves the way he
sounds hoarse. The way he *will* for a little
while after this.

He sits back on his heels and the chair squeaks
again, and there's sunlight again, and Bruce's
eyes on him so hot and perfect. Tim presses
his tongue to his upper lip, just to feel the
swelling.

And then Bruce takes the handkerchief out of
his pocket and hands it to him.

"Mmph. I wish you'd finger me, Bruce."

Bruce's eyes are sharp with the smile that
doesn't make it to his mouth. "Without the
gauntlet?"

"Oh..." He'll wait. For a little while. Tim rips open
his jeans and shoves his briefs out of the way
just enough so he can wrap the handkerchief
mostly around himself. It's cool and soft right up
until he tightens his hand, and then it's like he can
feel every fiber just as much as he can feel Bruce's
*eyes*.

He gasps before he's ready to, and then he groans
because he *can*, and the only trick to *this* is
keeping his eyes open. No matter how good it is,
no matter how much the handkerchief and
*Bruce's* eyes make it seem like it's not even his
hand anymore, just something *else* Bruce is
controlling.

*Making* him get himself off.

"Bruce -- *Bruce* --"

"Harder."

"I -- *oh* --"

"*Harder*."

And he whimpers and does it, and he thinks -- 'I
make the rules' -- and it hurts and it's -- "Bruce --"

More a gasp than a word, more *sex* than
language, and he can't stop, he has to come, he
has to --

He has to *never* close his eyes, because Bruce
reaches down and runs his thumb over his own
spit-slick dick and then *licks* it, slow.

Licks off the taste of Tim's *mouth*, and Tim
whimpers and comes into the handkerchief,
shaking until he can make himself stop.

And then he stares at the floor until he can
*breathe* again. And then he folds up the
handkerchief and hands it back. And grins when
Bruce tucks it in his pocket. *Before* doing up
his pants again.

He could do the same, and he probably *should*,
but he kind of likes slumping around with his dick
out for a little while afterward. At least, when
they're *not* in uniform. And, well, when he's
under the desk.

Tim sighs and stretches and crawls back into the
dimness, hitching his jeans up just enough to be
comfortable and eating a mouthful of M&Ms
before retrieving his penlight and his comics.

Bruce just watches him for a really long moment
before saying, "hm," and pushing his chair back
in again.

Squeak, squeak.

Tim grins and thinks about bringing in his .mp3
player tomorrow.

Maybe some flowers for Sarah.

end