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.

*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.

For Bruce.

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.

"Jay?"

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.

*Tasting* him.

"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,
unacceptable --"

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.

"Jay --"

"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* --

"*Bruce* --"

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.

end.