Disclaimers: Not even close to mine.

Spoilers: Nope.

Summary: "If *I* have to wear make-up, *you* have to
show me your tits."

Ratings Note: Sexual content which dovetails neatly with
the content some readers may find disturbing.

Author's Note: ... yeah, I got nothin'.

Acknowledgments: To Petra and Jane for audiencing.

*

She's more than a little embarrassed that the bathrooms in
the manor still *get* her like this -- it's been *years* -- but
they do.

It's like that one vacation she remembers with her parents,
and there'd been a mix-up at the hotel, and for *one* day
and night, none of them had really wanted to leave the
hotel at all, even to go to the pool.

Marble and thick, soft towels and thicker, softer robes.

Only it's the manor -- the *manor* -- so it's even more so.
Bruce had said something once about how his mother had
insisted on being allowed to choose the style for these
rooms, and Babs is pretty sure they all owe the women a
very great lap-of-luxury-to-make-a-monk-die-a-little-inside
debt.

Still, it's easier with Tim around, because the kid's eyes
are -- still -- just as wide as Babs has gotten used to making
hers *not* be after the first step into the not-quite-master-
bath.

She smacks him on the back of the head. "Like yours isn't
just this sweet. Show some class."

Tim flips her off. "Mine is *mine*, now. This one's still all
set-up to make guests cream their friggin' jeans."

He's got a point. *God*, she would maim somebody to
have a picture of Alfred face when Tim had put up the
Mighty Meta Mutant shower curtain.

"And is there a *reason* why we're in here?"

Yes. No. Kinda. It'll be *better*. "Shut up and get on the
counter, kid."

Tim's response to *that* is to look up at her through his --
annoyingly -- thick lashes with big, big eyes. "Is it time for
me to be changed, Mommy? I don't *feel* dirty."

She snickers despite herself -- not *much* despite herself,
but still -- and jabs him in the ribs. "And see, I'm gonna
remember this the next time you catch the flu or
something, jerk." He's actually really cute when he's sick.
All pissed-off and red-nosed and fussy. Babs makes a note
to tell him that in a really loud voice next time he's trying to
be cool.

"You totally look evil right now. Like, time-to-take-you-
down-for-justice evil."

"You *wish*," she says, and lifts him up onto the big, thick
slab of more-money-than-God herself.

"Show-off."

"Uh, huh," she says, and swings the purse off her shoulder,
letting it fall beside Tim so she can rummage easier. Man,
she needs to organize.

"*Are* you gonna tell me what we're doing?"

Heh. Found it. Babs whips out the plain-but-really-nice
makeup case her Dad had given her for her seventeenth
birthday and grins. "We're *playing*."

"Dress-up?"

"Okay, *I'm* playing. Now, hold still --"

The thing is, Tim's pretty quick. It's what gets him through
out there more than anything else, considering his size.
Right now, he's got her wrists.

Babs raises an eyebrow.

"If *I* have to wear make-up, *you* have to show me your
tits."

Which, well... probably not appropriate for Batgirl-and-
Robin, as opposed to Babs-and-somebody-else-she-can't-
really-figure-out-right-now, and also the whole 'show me
your tits' thing is why she's never letting Bruce take Tim to
New Orleans *again*, no matter *what* case comes up,
but...

Tim raises his *own* eyebrow.

"You're a pervert. You know that, right?"

"You're the one who wants to paint an underaged boy up
like a --"

"You'll look *nice*, I *swear*."

When Tim scowls, he looks about six. "Tits." But not for
long.

Babs rolls her eyes and breaks Tim's grip. And strips off
her shirt.

"C'mon, I see your *bra* all the *time*."

"It's not *my* fault you're too slow doing your work-outs
to catch me in the shower."

Little Tim glare #4: 'stalemate, Mr. Bond.'

Babs crosses her arms under her breasts. And taps her
foot. She's got this. She's totally got this.

Tim... leans back, spreading his legs just a little too wide
for a normal-boy-who-isn't-Robin before bringing one foot
up. He's gonna scuff the hell out of the -- well, marble
doesn't scuff. Still. The principle.

"What?"

"You know," Tim says, and when he smiles he looks about
five years older -- and ten million years dirtier -- than
Bruce, "I bet I'd be *pretty* in make-up."

"This is my *point* --"

"Too bad you're not gonna find out anytime soon, Babs."

She... doesn't got this. Dammit. "C'mon --"

"I mean, *your* shade of lipstick probably wouldn't work
for me -- not the Batgirl shade, anyway -- but..."

"I have others."

"Which you won't use."

"Tim! I never ask you for *anything*!"

The shrug would be totally and annoyingly cool-and-casual
if Tim had managed to keep from licking his lips. As it is...

Well, it's a little *chilly* in this part of the manor, is all, and
it's not like Tim would be any *less* stare-y if she was any
less... nipply. Well, she thinks he wouldn't be, and that's
good enough.

Still, she's ridiculously aware of the way her breasts are
*moving* when she leans in again, of the way they
*swing*. She totally remembers the days when she only
wore a bra when she wanted to have the right *look*, or
when she was going to spend a *lot* of time around her
Dad -- it's not *that* long ago -- but...

Well, after Dick left, it was bat-sports-bras every night,
and they were comfortable, and... yeah. It's weird to feel
them swing like this in the air *without* already having
her hand on a *fresh* bra.

She frowns and spins the eyebrow pencil she totally doesn't
need to use -- little bastard already *has* perfectly-shaped
eyebrows -- over her fingers and... looks at him.

It takes Tim a moment to actually look *up*, and that...
that actually helps. It's just as freaky for him, though
probably not in the same --

"Jesus, it's just... they look so *soft*." And he's blinking at
himself like he knows exactly how stupid that sounds, so...

She doesn't have to say it. She smirks, instead, and makes
a point of kind of doing a *push-up* to stand up straight,
dragging her nipples over the thighs of his jeans --

"Fucking *fuck*, Babs --"

-- and *then* standing. "Gonna behave?"

"Really, *yeah*, Mommy."

Babs snorts and tosses the pencil back in her purse, where
it can go back to being lost until the next time she
remembers that *she* doesn't have perfect eyebrows and
grabs for the only-when-it's-a-really-*dark*-club lipstick.

It's *not* her color, but if she goes all out and it's dark, she
can fake it. Make herself look all dramatic and pale and
*vulnerable* for whoever is stupid enough to buy it for
*long* enough to make the dance -- or whatever --
interesting.

On Tim... well, it looks *red*. A nice, deep, dark (Robin)
red that's perfect for the not-quite-olive in his skin, *and*
looks... wet. Nice and wet, really.

She slows down for the upper lip. Not because she has to --
she's been able to do this blindfolded and tipsy since the
days of slumber parties and girls she could actually *be*
friends with who weren't Kara -- but because she can.

And because...

Well, it's Tim, and the weird thing about being half-naked
with him in a bathroom isn't that they *are*, but that this is
the first time. He's kind of like a brother, in exactly the
opposite way that Dick is, now.

"I really, really want to get lipstick on your nipples."

Really, really opposite. "You're gonna mess me up, slut-boy."

"That's Boy *Slut*, and you're totally just putting on
*extra* layers, now."

"Oh, fuck off."

Tim smirks at her with his eyebrows. "I just wanna know if
you're as wet as I'm *hard*."

And the thing is -- she could totally check. She already
*has* one hand on his thigh -- when, exactly, had that
happened? -- and she doesn't even have to look down.
All she has to do...

"Okay, that's a lie --I *also* wanna know what I get if I let
you shave my legs or something."

"Jesus, Tim," she says, and it's only because she's totally
*clenching* down there, and yeah, wet.

"Yeah. Really..." There's a little skin-on-marble sound, and
this time Babs *does* look down. He's just as hard as she
would've figured, but more than that... more than that,
he's kinda clutching at the countertop. "Babs --"

"You totally jerk off thinking about fucking my tits, don't
you?"

"Daily."

Babs snorts and Tim *grins* at her, and Babs leans in a
little, and maybe this is totally not *on* for Batgirl-and-
Robin, but it's not like --

"Patrol in one hour."

"Eep." Babs freezes.

"*Gah*." Tim spins on the counter to face the door. "Bruce,
you --"

But the door is already closed again.

"I -- *Jesus*, I fucking *hate* when he -- oh. Oh, damn.
Babs. I completely fucking love when you grab my dick. I
just... you should totally -- oh fuck -- know that."

"Uh, huh," she says, and rubs her hot face -- she can feel
the flush all the way to her *scalp* -- against Tim's cheek.
And squeezes.

"I -- oh God, fuck --"

And gets *squeezed*, because those hands are totally on
her breasts, now. "Nn, Tim -- I --"

"You're totally right, he *did* say one hour, and also --"

Babs kisses him, shuts him up, kisses him and licks sugar
out of his mouth until he tastes like more than the world's
dirtiest pixy stick.

"Yeah -- ohh, yeah --"

Shuts him *up*, and --

"Best. Mommy. *Ever*."

*