"Tom...?"

"I'm sorry. I just -- I'm sorry. I don't know what I would do without you --"

"I never want you to learn."

"The feeling is mutual," he says, and looks up again. "Lex is --"

But whatever Tom was going to say gets lost in a blast of wind and -- soundless sound? Something Bruce can't be sure of, at all, but there's light --

And Dr. Fate steps out of a hole in the world.

Bruce's first thought is that he isn't as tall as he would've expected, but he doesn't have time for a second thought, because --

"Tom Wayne. You are not what I was led to believe," he says, and his voice is echoing and faintly metallic. Is it the helmet?

Tom steps away from Bruce and closer to Dr. Fate. "Ah... there are reasons for that. Are you here to --"

"Everything that will be has already been. All knowledge is available to those who will seek."

Tom frowns. "Ah... all right. Are you here to help me get home?"

"*No*, Tom --"

Tom looks back over his shoulder, and his expression is terrible, bleak and hurt and determined at once --

"My intention was, indeed, to return you to the place from which you've come, but that is not possible."

The *fear* on Tom's face -- he shouldn't be happy, he shouldn't --

(Only I --)

*No*. "Tom, does that --"

"Dr. Fate," Tom says, and turns back to face him. "Please. Tell me -- what that means."

"The fabric of space-time is powerful, but not invulnerable. Your presence has altered it irrevocably. You have always been where you belonged. And now you are *when* you belong, as well."

"Oh. Oh, God. No, I can't have, I didn't --"

"I am sorry, 'Tom Wayne.' We will not speak of this again," and Dr. Fate turns and walks back through the hole he'd left. He *leaves*, and there's nothing left behind but a dry warmth --

And Tom --

"Oh, God. Oh, God."

"Tom..." Bruce moves to him, resting a hand on his shoulder --

Tom twists away and covers his face. He's taking deep, gulping breaths, and -- what had that meant? How could he have always been where he belonged when Bruce had never *known* him, before? Was it just mystical... filler of some sort?

But -- Tom won't leave.

Tom --

He *can't* leave. He's where he belongs, because something in the multiverse had changed with his presence -- "Tom, it's -- it will be all right --"

Tom *sobs*, loud and almost -- almost *broken*. Bruce can't --

He grabs Tom as best he can, struggling against him until he stops fighting, until he lets Bruce hold *on*. And when Tom's knees buckle, Bruce eases them to the floor, tucking his face in until he can kiss the top of Tom's head over and over --

"Oh, *God* --"

"I promise it will be all right, Tom. I promise -- I'll give you everything, Tom, I'll make sure it's all *okay* --"

And when Tom starts to cry, he holds on tighter.

*

For the most part, Tom doesn't think of it. It was difficult at first -- to the point where he'd had to invent a dead friend in San Francisco to explain to Lex and Harvey just *why* he'd been so... stricken. *That* hadn't been difficult -- he'd lost the entirety of his *world*, and death is an excellent metaphor. In the end, he is who he is -- and who he *was* could never be again.

Tom Wayne has a brother who loves him, two very -- very -- good friends, and more money than imagination. He and Bruce had handed Alfred their diplomas, sat him down, and explained their plans. It's not a conversation he ever wants to repeat, but in the end they were both eighteen years old and in charge of their own lives.

Bruce formally adopted Tom into the family -- making Tom, for all legal intents and purposes, his brother -- and Tommy Wayne agreeably disappeared into the jungles of Brazil. At last word, he had a wife there and children who will -- if he has his way -- never learn a word of English.

At Alfred's insistence, he and Bruce had sat for the portrait which is currently displayed over the main fireplace. Tom thinks it makes him look diabolical -- he really can't say, for sure, what impulse had led him to *steepled fingers* -- but Bruce looks handsome and happy with his hand on the back of Tom's chair, and Tom has to admit that it makes a statement.

The past is done.

As such, he'd thrown himself into training with a will, and everything he'd already known... well, he knows it *better*, now. Bruce learns as terrifyingly quickly as he should, and there have been countless nights when he's patiently worked Tom through the lessons he needed to learn. They tend to each other's hurts and they are never, never alone.

Bruce writes long letters to Harvey and Betty from all over the world, and never seems to worry about them getting lost on their way back to America. Tom writes shorter letters to Harvey and Lex -- and always makes sure he and Bruce do enough obnoxiously wealthy tourist things wherever they are to have things to speak about.

By their twentieth birthday --

(Sometimes, in July, Tom is wistful. And he will never show it to anyone.)

By their twentieth birthday, it was past time for them to return to America for at least a little while, and they weren't home for long before --

Before.

John Grayson is a gregarious and often effusive man with a beautiful wife and the world's most active toddler. There's already a picture of Tom with Dickie in his lap, and if Tom isn't very careful with himself, he'll smile a bit too wide when he looks at it. It's safely tucked away in an album right now, and right now John is turning Bruce into a red-faced, frustrated pretzel.

It will be Tom's turn as soon as Mary has tracked Dickie down and convince him not to try climbing over any of the barriers in the Cave, but for now...

Well.

John had been rather non-plussed by their offer to take him away from Haly's for a season, but judicious arguments, an offer to subsidize both John *and* Haly's -- for their loss -- and a long, hazy night with too much ouzo and an interlude perhaps best *left* in the haze...

Well, he might not know *why* the two rich idiots want to learn to be acrobats, but, in the end, he's game -- and there's no time like the present, as Harvey can't spend this summer with them because he's pushing hard to finish his B.A. in three years.

"Ah! How do you expect to *move* if you can't bend, Bruce?"

"I'm *bending* --"

"Not *enough*. Here, where is your brother?"

Reprieve over. Tom sets down his Zesti-Ade -- Mary *always* frowns when she sees him drinking it, and has been known to hand Tom plates of fruit no matter how recently they've all eaten Alfred's food together -- and jogs to join them.

John proceeds to put him through his flexibility paces, and Tom is grateful for *every* day he's woken up early just to make sure he *remembers* all the stretches he -- used to know. He is, still, a lot more flexible than Bruce, but the stretches John wants them to know are things Bruce had let him leave to Dick --

It's difficult, sometimes, but it's easier when there are no memories to be rewritten --

"Yes, *yes*, you're nowhere near where you need to be, but *you* I can work with," John says, and proceeds to push Tom into a stretch that makes Tom want to pass out.

"Perhaps you *should* only work with Tom," and Bruce sounds dejected --

"*No*. We've made a bargain, you and I, and I *never* back out of a bargain. You will watch Tom and take yourself farther than you've ever tried to go. This, you will do for our bargain."

"The pain means it's *working*, Bruce," Tom gasps --

And Bruce laughs, rueful and perhaps a little sunny. They stretch together for what feels like hours, with Dickie occasionally climbing on one of them and once -- and this is a memory Tom will keep forever -- deciding Bruce's real name should be Zitka and riding him around the mats while Bruce attempted elephant noises.

After, they've pleased John enough that he allows Bruce time on the rings and Tom time on the pommel horse. His body remembers, but --

"Ah, if I'd gotten you when you were a boy, Tom, your name would be in *lights*!"

There'd been rather enough of that since the adoption -- though nowhere near as much as there'd been when Tim had been adopted as Bruce's son -- but the compliment is well-taken.

Alfred pointedly serves lunch on the east lawn, and, if anything, Dickie is even more unstoppable. It's John's turn to keep pace, and Tom gives himself leave to keep Mary's glass of juice filled and to make sure she has everything she needs.

It always makes Bruce smile when Tom's the slightest bit flirtatious with a woman, as Bruce had finally ascertained during their travels that he actually was bisexual. He has hopes -- involving the two of them and just the right woman -- Tom doesn't think he'll ever be able to fulfill, but every moment of happiness is... well.

And Dickie has discovered butterfly-chasing.

"I don't know how the two of you manage to keep up with him, Mary."

She laughs. "John says Dickie's exactly like he was when he was a child and that the only solution is to get him up on the trapeze..." She shakes her head. "The tumbling is all right, for now... I just want him to be a *little* bit older, you know?"

How much older would be *too* much -- no, that isn't a Tom thought. Tom smiles and toasts her. "I'm sure the two of you will figure it out. He's a wonderful child."

Mary's smile becomes soft and she glances Dickie's way. "I thought he would miss the circus *terribly*, but he seems to have adopted the two of you as his own."

"The manor," Bruce says, "was never meant for only three people."

"I'll say! I don't think I've explored half of it, yet."

"Then," Tom says, "the next time you've worn us out we'll have to give you the extended tour."

She smiles at both of them. "You're both far too generous. John and I are happy to help in any way we can. Though... why *do* you want to learn?"

Tom can feel Bruce looking at him, and he smiles a little wider. "The truth? It's a wide, wild word, and Bruce and I want to taste as much of it as we can."

"The prerogative of the super-rich, I suppose -- but it will be a shame not to present you to the world when we're done. You're both naturals at some of these things."

"Tell that to my quadriceps," Bruce says, and they laugh together.

In the end, they're well into the Graysons' off-season before John declares that he's taught them everything they could reasonably learn -- while Tom and Bruce are hanging upside down and swinging.

He presents them with a case of ouzo, of which they are -- mercifully -- only supposed to make a dent on one bottle. They sit around the simple black table -- with room for eight -- Tom had insisted on, and talk about everything but goodbyes while Dickie crawls from person to person for hugs.

He eventually settles on Bruce's lap, and his snore is only very slightly like the one --

Tim remembers.

John leans in with his elbows on the table, deftly spinning his glass between his fingers. "Both of you will see us when we come back to Gotham?"

"Every night," Bruce promises and strokes Dickie's hair.

Tom nods. "I've come to believe that the circus is a necessary part of life."

"The circus," Mary says, raising an eyebrow, "*is* life."

That makes John grin widely enough that he seems much younger than his twenty-eight years, and -- yes. They love each other precisely the way they should, and it has never escaped Tom that Mary never speaks of her life before the circus, at all.

"My wife -- she speaks with wisdom and beauty, no?"

"Always," Bruce says.

"Ah, the two of you... such *good* brothers, and good men, as well," John says, and waggles a blunt, scarred finger. "Don't think I don't know what the two of you have been doing with your Foundation when Mary and I haven't been making you work. More people should be like you."

That makes both of them blush and look down --

"*Adorable* -- but sometimes you make us feel *old*," Mary says, and reaches out to ruffle their hair.

"Old, pah! We will *never* be old. We will live forever as we are now, a life in -- in a *moment*," John says, and jabs the table with his finger. "We will *fly*."

"Forever, my love," Mary says, soft and low.

"Forever," and John leans back and downs the ouzo in a shot before urging them all to do the same.

They make it through the night without incident -- though Tom thinks luck played more of a role than design, there -- and in the morning they see the Graysons off in their trailer -- and new Chrysolet Monaco. The Graysons hadn't let them purchase it for them, but Tom has to admit that they'd paid them enough that they could afford it easily.

The trailer is brightly painted enough to make the autumn that surrounds it seem wrong, but in a few days the Graysons will be with their Haly's family in Florida.

Dickie cries at leaving them, but none of them are particularly stoic about it. They promise and they hug, and the promise of usually forbidden roadside food eventually allows Mary to coax Dickie from around Tom's leg.

He and Bruce watch the Graysons go, and wave until they're out of sight.

"I'll miss them," Bruce says.

"We'll write."

Bruce nods. "It's almost time for us to leave again. Will you be going to Metropolis before we do?"

Lionel Luthor's body had been found washed up on the banks of the Delaware a month ago, victim of an apparent kidnapping gone wrong. They'd been learning the uneven bars. Bruce hadn't said a word when Tom had sent his condolences, and hadn't asked why Tom didn't go to the funeral. Tom closes his eyes. "No, I don't think so."

Bruce rests his hand on Tom's shoulder. "Are you sure."

"I'm sure."

"I'm sorry, Tom. I -- I don't know what else to say."

"Thailand," Tom says, "will be beautiful this time of year," and Tom pulls on something like a game face.

Bruce cups his cheek. And nods.

*

The three of them celebrate Harvey's making Law Review with a quiet dinner at home and drinks in the west library, which is Harvey's favorite room in the manor. Bruce was more than willing to take Harvey out on the town -- both Tom and Harvey have been assiduous about his learning exactly what that means -- but when Harvey arrived with his overnight bag *and* overstuffed backpack, he'd been obviously exhausted.

Even now, there are dark circles beneath his eyes that take away some of the power of his smile, and he's stretched on his chaise like he could sleep at any moment.

Tom has been mixing the drinks weakly, and...

There's never any reason to hold back. Not here, and not with these people. Bruce sits on the edge of Harvey's chaise and brushes his cheek with the backs of his fingers. "You *are* going to sleep here, aren't you?"

Harvey raises an eyebrow, and his smile is crooked and sharp. "Is sleep all you're thinking about, big guy?"

Tom hums quietly and comes to join them, sitting on Harvey's other side. "You look like you could use it, Harv."

Harvey waves a hand. "Mother hens, the both of you. I'm *fine* -- I just don't always sleep that well."

Tom frowns. "Nightmares?"

Harvey's expression is briefly haunted, but when he smiles the darkness is only in his eyes. "I guess you two know a lot about those, hunh?"

They nod together, and Bruce edges closer. "Harv, if you ever want to talk --"

"You're here, I know. Some things a guy has to sort through for himself, though, and hey, isn't this supposed to be a party?"

And so they talk about inconsequential things for a time, and about significantly more important things, like a woman named Gilda who works as a secretary at Harvey's school, and who had *just* agreed to let him take her out for a date.

"She says law students are all the same, always looking for the main chance like maybe they've already passed the bar and girls like her are fair game for anything, which -- well, I *do* go to school with a lot of assholes, thank you very much, but I am *not* one of them."

Bruce frowns. "But you don't mind her categorizing you with the rest?"

Harvey grins. "Somehow, the way she says it just makes me want to try *harder*. I swear, I haven't worked this hard to get a date in... ever," and he laughs. "I like her. She can talk about everything from art to politics to history and everything in between, and her looks..." Harvey sketches an hourglass in the air. "She's *short*, but she's got this... I don't know, it's almost an *ethereal* look, like maybe not all of her is in the same place the rest of us have to live."

Tom smiles. "She sounds wonderful."

"Yeah, I -- you know what? She's the first girl I've ever wanted to bring back to meet *you* guys, and I can't help but think that means something." Harvey pushes a hand back through his hair and uncrosses his long legs, and --

Bruce can't stop himself from resting a hand on his thigh.

"Horndog, now and forever -- and I'm not complaining. I got a little too used to playing with you guys all the time in high school. This crap with us only seeing each other on vacations is for the birds."

"I agree," Bruce says, and leans in to kiss Harvey, to relearn the feel of those soft lips against his own, and the particular heat of rum -- Harvey's favorite -- and Harvey, himself.

Tom sighs and covers the hand Bruce has on Harvey's thigh with his own, and pushes until Bruce starts sliding it up.

Harvey hums and reaches up to cup the back of Bruce's head, pulling Bruce in for a deeper kiss --

He breaks it and turns to Tom, smiling. "What about you? Got a little sugar for me?"

Tom raises an eyebrow. "Extra sweet, one hopes," and --

It's the same as the first time he'd watched them kiss. It's the same *every* time, because there's always a moment of hesitation that Bruce knows in his bones is when they think of him --

And they're kissing each other's smiles, slowly and thoroughly, turning just enough that Bruce can see every moment of it, see the pink flashes of their tongues and the gleam of teeth which won't bite -- yet.

Harvey laughs. "Jesus, Tom, you really never play fair at *all*, and Bruce hadn't seen anything particular about that kiss, but --

Tom's hand isn't on his own, anymore. He's cupping Harvey's groin, squeezing and *working* his hand --

"Fairness," Tom says, "is highly overrated," and he leans in to kiss Harvey again, and Bruce can tell that he's thrusting into Harvey's mouth with his tongue, that he's *pushing* in a way he almost never does with Harvey *or* with him --

Does he miss Lex? They've never spoken about it, but there are times when Tom throws himself into his training with a vengeance, times when his determination and passion become something very like rage, and there are only so many things that could be *about*.

When he misses the universe he'd grown up in, it shows up as a deeper sadness, a hollow behind his smiles and laughs. Bruce can never predict when that will happen -- save for in July, and one day he'll ask why -- but... it's a different thing from this.

Tom moves until he's straddling one of Harvey's legs -- knee on the chaise and other foot on the floor -- all without breaking the kiss. He lets go of Harvey's groin --

Harvey pulls back and gasps -- "Fuck, Tom --"

"All right?" And Tom's question is sincere, but still almost perfunctory.

"Tom, are *you* all right?" And Bruce reaches to touch his shoulder with the hand he doesn't have on Harvey's thigh --

"I don't..." Tom shakes his head. "Harv isn't sharing as much as he should, Bruce."

"Hey, what's that about?"

"We're *friends*," Tom says resting his hands on Harvey's shoulders and pushing him back against the chaise. "If there's trouble, we work through it together."

"And what? You're gonna fuck it outta me?"

Tom grins. "It's worth a try," and he opens Harvey's pants with one hand, quick and neat --

"Fucking *A* --"

He pulls Harvey's penis out through the slit and starts to stroke fast and hard --

"*Hn* -- Tom. God, where'd you get all those calluses?"

Bruce winces internally, but -- "Tom likes to sail whenever possible. The ropes do rather terrible things to our hands," he says, and Tom's nod is slight but there, which lets Bruce know that Harvey's eyes will be closed when he looks -- yes. "Harv... you have to tell us."

Harvey laughs and grips the edge of the chaise, pumping up into Tom's fist. "Too long. Jesus, always too fucking long --"

"Do you want Bruce's mouth, Harv?" And Tom's voice is low and quiet, almost cruel --

"*Yes*. I need -- fuck, I jerk off thinking about it. Big, hard mouth. *Hot* mouth --"

"Tell us," Tom says, and *stops* stroking --

"*Dammit*, Tom --"

Bruce gasps in a breath. "Tom --"

"Sometimes I think we can underestimate the importance of the little things. I won't do that now," and he pushes a hand into Harvey's hair and tilts his head back --

Harvey's eyes are burning slits, narrow and, perhaps, they'd make oak seem soft.

Bruce swallows and -- he's rubbing Harvey's thigh through his pants. He doesn't think it feels soothing, at all. "Tom, it's just -- Harv has just been having nightmares --"

"For at least a week, judging by his eyes and overall lassitude. You had nightmares at Exeter sometimes, too --"

"Shit, you *told* him, Bruce? No, what am I saying, of course you did." Harvey brushes Tom's hand away from his penis. "Look, maybe I should just take my raging erection to a hotel for the night --"

"No," Bruce says, and perhaps it means more that it's into Harvey's mouth. It could mean less, but it would hurt too much to imagine that, and --

Harvey moans and pulls until Bruce is half over him, gripping the material of Bruce's shirt and sucking Bruce's tongue almost feverishly, hard enough that there's a slight sting, and --

Harvey.

It's what he wants -- what he finds himself missing like a limb, sometimes, when he and Tom are overseas, but he can't escape from the fact that Harvey *is* different. There's a desperation to his kisses that doesn't match his level of arousal, or even the frustration Bruce *knows* he's feeling. Bruce strokes Harvey's hair as soothingly as he can and eases back the force of his own kiss until Harvey pulls back with a snarl.

"God, *both* of you. You'd think you never saw a stressed-out law student, before!"

Tom reaches and taps Harvey's cheek with two fingers. "We *all* know it's not the work that's giving you trouble, Harv."

And Harvey closes his eyes and grits his *teeth*, hands curled into fists and anger rising off him like a scent -- until it doesn't, and he only looks exhausted again, worn and perhaps a little thin.

Bruce moves back enough that he can sit comfortably and...

Most of the time, when the question of how he needs Tom arises, there's nothing resembling thought to attend it. He simply *does* need Tom, in more ways than he'd feel comfortable counting: What if he forgot one of the ways and thus couldn't have it anymore? But this...

Tom has always been so much better at understanding the people in their lives than Bruce has been. They've both studied psychology extensively, but for Bruce there has always been a difference between applying that knowledge to strangers and applying it to the people he cares about.

It had been Tom who read between the lines of Betty's letter last March and told Bruce that she was depressed, and Tom had been the one to suggest they visit her at her school. That had been a wonderful week -- they'd taken Betty to the best restaurants and wildest nightclubs they could find, and she had introduced them to her friends. Many of them hadn't seemed to care for men, at all, but it had been immensely educational.

It was also always Tom who knew when it was time to urge Alfred to take a vacation, and when it was time for them to help out Leslie in the clinic -- and to get her the funding to expand.

And now...

He wouldn't have looked *closely* enough at Harvey to know that there was this much pain in him, and that would've been...

He wouldn't have been a very good friend, at all. "Please, Harv. You have to tell us."

And when Harvey opens his eyes, even the deep, rich brown of them isn't enough to take away the bleakness, the *chill* that seems to go right through him. He sighs and sits up, and pulls off his shirt, exposing the same lean and rangy muscle and faintly golden skin that Bruce has dreamed of, in one way or another, since they were both fourteen -- and the necklace Bruce had given him, but.

There's something --

Bruce reaches out and touches the black side of the pendant, finding it rough, scarred and scored, almost. He frowns. "I can have a new one made --"

"The same thing would happen to it, Bruce. I think -- I think I did it. Only, I don't remember doing it, at all. Except in my dreams. Except -- sometimes there's more than one of me in there, in my head, and I can't get either of them to shut *up*."

Tom makes a low sound and wraps his hand around the pendant. "Harvey. Harv... don't you think it's time to talk about your father?"

"That old bastard -- I haven't even *seen* the sonofabitch since I started spending my summers at school or with you guys --"

"We know..." Tom looks at Bruce and then back at Harvey. "Bruce never told me anything, but he didn't have to. He abused you for a long, long time --"

Harvey growls and brushes their hands away, wrapping his *own* around the pendant and standing, tucking himself away and starting to pace --

A part of Bruce only ever wants to watch him move. Not like *this*, not with so much anger and hurt inside him, but he's half-dressed and in Bruce's home, and that brings a kind of satisfaction Bruce has no name for. "You're so beautiful, Harv."

And that -- makes both of them laugh at him, but Bruce can't help but feel that's improvement. He gets up and joins Harvey near one of the shelves they've filled with books about biology and biochemistry. He rests his hands on Harvey's shoulders. "You never wanted to talk about it, but I -- I never wanted to talk about how I felt about my parents' death, either. Not until Tom came. The silence *hurt* me, Harv, and sometimes I think the damage will never fade --"

"That's the *point*, Bruce. It *doesn't* ever fade, and there's nothing anyone can do about it --"

"It can be eased, Harv," Tom says. "It can be... there's no percentage in shouldering a burden alone. Not when that burden is crushing you down to nothing."

"Nothing? Really?" Harvey turns to smile at Tom, rueful and sad. "I look that bad?"

Bruce and Tom nod together, and Bruce -- he pulls Harvey into a hug. "If you don't want to talk to us... there are other people. *Good* people. Our friend Leslie knows therapists who specialize in working with people who were abused as children --"

"I'm not -- I'm not some *victim*. I've got a four-oh average and I've already got a paper going into a *law* journal. I don't break down into tears and I don't get drunk and beat people up --"

"And you have missing time, nightmares, and a destructive rage you don't know what to do with," Tom says, quiet and firm. "And it's getting worse, isn't it?"

"Every day," Harvey says. "Every fucking --" Harvey growls again and knocks his forehead against Bruce's shoulder before pushing off and covering his face with his hands.

Bruce looks to Tom, and Tom gives him the signal they've come up with for 'wait.' It's hard, but Bruce does it, and after a while Harvey uncovers his face again.

"Part of me thinks -- this is why I came here, you know?"

They nod, again.

"The rest of me thinks I should tell you both to fuck off and get my ass back to *school* --"

"You won't get what you need there, Harv," Tom says, standing up and moving close enough to Harvey that he has to look up to meet his eyes. "And *we* need you to have that. I can't -- I don't think I can express how much."

"You guys have each other, traveling all over the world and doing God knows what with God *only* knows who --"

"We need you, Harv," Bruce says, and he isn't sure when he'd moved, but they're bracing Harvey now, cornering him -- maybe they shouldn't? He moves back again --

"Don't do that. Don't -- ah, Bruce, sometimes I think deciding to try to be friends with you is the only truly *right* thing I've ever done," and Harvey pulls him close with an arm around his waist. "And you, Tom -- you're still a little bastard, but -- I'm listening. If there was maybe someone up in New Haven I could see on the sly... I'm making good money with the tutoring. I can pay."

Tom shakes his head. "Doing this would be a gift for *us*, Harv --"

"No, stop right there. I already mooch off you guys enough. It's my damned head, *I* have to figure out what's wrong with it, and *I* will cover it. God, what'll Gilda think?"

Tom smiles wryly. "That you're a modern guy with a proactive attitude toward your issues. *Way* ahead of the curve."

Harvey snorts. "Yeah, well, we don't even know if this will *do* anything, but --" He shakes his head. "There's... there's a lot I've never said. To anyone. And I don't *want* to say it to anyone, because -- heh. A part of me thinks it'll just make it more real."

"I don't think..." Bruce rests a hand on his chest. "It can't get any more real than it already is."

"Let's talk about something else, hey? I've only got a couple of days before I have to buckle down and write something for the Review, and I can't stay -- I can't stay in this part of my head."

Bruce nods. "We could... have another drink?"

"One more and the two of you can do what you like with my unconscious damned body, big guy."

"Ooh. Finally, a chance to bring my evil plans to fruition," Tom says, and waggles his eyebrows.

Harvey laughs perhaps a little too much for Tom's joke, but it sounds good from him, and the tension -- Bruce realizes -- he's been reading in Tom for quite some time eases.

Had he been thinking of Lex and the way he's not in Tom's life, anymore? Bruce doesn't know, and it's something of wound between them. Perhaps this will make him speak about it more.

When Harvey finishes laughing, he wipes the tears from his face in two quick, neat motions and looks at both of them. "Upstairs?"

"An excellent idea, I think," Tom says, and gestures at them to the lead the way.

They leave their clothes on the chair in his and Tom's room -- Tom keeps the vast majority of his things next door for the sake of propriety, but this room has been theirs in Bruce's mind almost from the beginning -- and Bruce takes a moment to enjoy the way it's overfull, the way it can only be when he and Tom share someone.

On the bed, Harvey and Tom are kissing as though they're apologizing, arguing, and discovering, at once. Bruce knows that there are still times when their attraction for each other makes them uncomfortable, and when they are touching *solely* because they both love him, but --

There are still moments like this:

Tom kisses Harvey as though it will be his only chance to do anything of the kind for many years, clutching Harvey's shoulders and pushing, slightly. Harvey's hands are restless on Tom's body, clutching and stroking, petting and scratching until he finally grasps Tom's penis and scrotum --

Until Tom pulls out of the kiss and throws his head back --

Until Harvey muscles Tom onto his back and starts to stroke and squeeze at once, and Tom pulls his knees back and plants his feet arching and gasping, eyes closed and body on display --

And Bruce has to squeeze himself --

And Harvey laughs, calling Tom dirty names he never uses when the two of them are alone. He's wild like this, and Tom becomes wilder, agreeing with the worst of the imprecations and cursing back in turn, eventually hooking one leg around the back of Harvey's neck and *pulling* until Harvey takes him into his mouth, and --

Bruce gets the lubricant and joins them, and they move together with a kind of rough, muscular ease which makes Bruce think of Whitman, of sunshine and uncomplicated pleasure.

It slows when Bruce enters Harvey with two fingers while Tom tells Harvey that he's dirty, needy and desperate and theirs.

Harvey loses his words and grabs for Tom's hand, which he bites and licks, sucks and mouths as Bruce takes him faster, opens and prepares him, because he knows what Harvey wants from him in his bones, and all of his muscles sing to give it to him.

They take Harvey together, Tom holding Harvey's head in his lap while Bruce struggles not to move too fast, not to lose himself until Harvey begins to shake and punch the bed.

And then --

Then there is only necessary friction, bodies and sweat and heat, the thick scent of male sexuality and Harvey's muffled cries for more --

More --

Oh, please and always *more*.

When they finish, Harvey falls asleep almost immediately, lying quiet and still between them and dreaming, as far as Bruce can see, nothing at all.

Tom sits with his back to the headboard, eyes heavy-lidded and a sated smile on his face.

Bruce kisses his way down Harvey's side to his hip, and vows, silently, to be a better friend.

*

The Batman doesn't spend very much time outside of Gotham, but there are times when travel is necessary -- such as when the remaining members of the Cortino family start importing hitters from Metropolis.

The League is technically a resource, but Clark --

*Superman* isn't a *member* of the League (yet), and they have no way to contact him. The Wayne brothers make a splashy mess of their rooms in the Metropolis Chilton, but don't snub the young entrepreneur who has single-handedly pulled LuthorCorp out of the chaos it had been left in by Lionel Luthor's demise. They attend the ball Lex Luthor throws in their honor, and dance the night away in a companionable fashion.

Outside of the tabloids and society pages, Lex all but *pelts* Bruce with starlets and models, and insists that Tom follow him to the balcony. And there --

The kiss is -- molten, desperate and hungry, and there are no points awarded for not moaning when you find yourself shoving your erstwhile lover against the balcony railing and working your thigh between his own.

Lex breaks the kiss and his smile is wide and pleased -- and more than half a snarl. It gets worse when Tom pulls back. And...

Tom's letters are brief and formal things, Tom's status in Lex's life a *lack* -- save for those times when Tom... can't.

A rare phone call that had led to a weekend in New York and had ended with a question in Bruce's eyes Tom hadn't been able to answer. A shared board meeting to discuss a cross-company project designed to drag both companies' R&D divisions firmly into the eighties -- and to produce several things the Batman will use in secret. That had ended with a quick and needy fuck in Tom Wayne's office, and *another* question in Bruce's eyes.

There have been other times, blessedly and cursedly fewer since he and Bruce formally took both oath and cowl.

Here, now --

"You have to get back to your party, Lex."

"When are you going to forgive me, Tom?"

Tom frowns and shakes his head -- "If you want plausible deniability to stay anything *like* intact --"

"I had my father --"

"*Don't*," Tom says, and the sound of his voice in his own ears -- he takes another step back and straightens his clothes. "There are people waiting for both of us --"

"Tom," Lex says, shaking his head and stalking the distance between them as if it's much wider than it is. He's not much taller than he was at school, but he's a little broader, and Tom knows from experience he doesn't want to *think* about that his muscles are more defined, as well.

He takes his fitness seriously -- especially since Metropolis and the wider world had been introduced to Superman. And Tom needs to end this. He needed to end this a long, long time ago, and -- God, he thought he *had* -- "Lex, we're not going to do this."

"Aren't we? You play it cool with me *right* up until we're close enough to touch," he says, and --

Yes, Tom really *had* backed himself against a wall. "Lex --"

"You *want* me. You've never stopped, even for a moment, and now..." Lex smiles and shakes his head. "I'm your dirty little secret. Even from yourself."

"If that's how you want to see it --"

"You screamed my name last time, Tom. And the time before that. And --"

Tom pushes Lex. It -- it's not hard, and it's nowhere close to any of the things *both* of them can do with their bodies, but it still makes Lex's eyes -- and nostrils -- flare. He reaches up and touches his own chest where Tom's hands had been.

He licks his lips. "It's been a long, long while since we had *that*... but I know you've been keeping yourself in shape. The gymnasium is just a brief elevator ride down, Tom," and his voice is low, insinuating --

Tom shakes his head and wonders where his *words* are. There's -- there's an entire laughable *impotence* to this he can do nothing about. There's memory and feeling, and want that was never supposed to be this strong, never supposed to feel this much like --

"I need you, Tom. I need your mind -- and your body. I need your *touch*, when you can remember how much you need *me*. Forgive me."

"I can't," he says, and there's something reassuringly flat in his voice, something he can hold *on* to --

"Then *forget*," and Lex takes Tom's hands in his own, twines their fingers together and presses them palm to palm --

And it's warm, and Lex's hands are dry. He has more than enough control over himself to handle *that*, but a part of Tom thinks there should be wetness, *sweat* for this --

And then there's only sense memory, and the way Lex's lack of body hair makes him so *sleek* when they've been having -- when they've been making love. Just --

Slick to the touch, slippery under Tom's tongue --

"You're thinking about it. Good. Now think about my fingers inside you. My *tongue*."

The last time -- oh, God --

Lex smiles, sharp and so *honest* -- "Think about the feel of my desk under your cheek. My bed. *Your* bed --"

"We've never --"

"No. And don't think the thought hasn't come to mind. You *hide* me from Bruce when you do everything else with him, when you give *him* everything --" Lex growls. "I've known you were fucking him for years, you know. I don't need pictures or proof. I see the way he *looks* at you when you're trying not to look at me. I see the way your shoulder brushes his arm and his smile gets *that* much wider --"

"What -- this is ridiculous, Lex. I've had any number of lovers since *high* school and so have you. Or am I not supposed to mention that 'personal assistant' of yours? Was she the one who pulled the trigger --" Tom winces and cuts himself off, doesn't think about what he knows or how he *knows* it --

"*Be* jealous of her, Tom. Think about me fucking her the way I'm not fucking *you* --"

Tom twists his hands free, having to briefly dislocate one of his knuckles to make it work --

Lex grunts and grabs that hand again, bringing it to his mouth and sucking the knuckle in question, mouthing it and moaning, perhaps for the salt on Tom's skin, perhaps just for the feel, and --

That's no one's hand but his own on Lex's smooth cheek, stroking and holding --

And when Lex looks up again, his eyes are wide and almost dazed with hunger, with *want* --

And Tom knows how to make it better, how to *fix* --

This kiss is much too slow for either of them to have a right to it. With speed and force there is, at least, some degree of apology -- if not excuse. With this, with his free hand still on Lex's cheek and Lex's free hand on his own, sliding down to his throat, his shoulder and back up to his throat --

Lex *shudders* and pushes Tom back against the wall, breaking the kiss to yank at Tom's bow tie and collar --

"Plate glass, my *ass*," Lex mutters and bites the scar on Tom's throat, licks it --

"Lex. Please. For --"

"Don't *beg* me, Tom. Not -- yet," he says, and reaches down to cup Tom through his pants, to squeeze and *work* --

Tom groans and tries -- Lex's hands have always been so good, so careful and *ruthless*. This *thing* between them hasn't been a *question* for Lex since the very beginning. Since *before* the first time they'd kissed, and isn't he supposed to be the one who thinks that cautiously?

The one who holds himself in reserve until everything is *sure*?

Tom shakes his head and pushes *weakly*, tries --

He's still caressing Lex's *face*, and maybe if he finally gave in to the urge to lick Lex's scalp he could put an end to this? He certainly hasn't *tried* boring the man. Tom laughs helplessly, and does it more when Lex looks a question at him.

The question becomes a frown -- "What."

Tom closes his eyes and licks his lips --

"*What* --"

"You don't think this is a little ridiculous, Lex? We're -- technically -- grown men, but..."

And Lex looks at him like he knows *exactly* how much that *wasn't* what Tom was thinking, but -- "We wouldn't *have* to act like horny teenagers if you would just --"

"Give in? Ignore what I know about you?"

"You have no *idea* what that man did to --" Lex cuts himself off and shakes his head. "No. No. I don't want your pity --"

"You've never *had* it --"

"I want *you*, Tom. You *know* we're good together. My God, Wayne Enterprises and LuthorCorp -- *Lex*Corp soon enough. We're young, we're fabulously wealthy, and we wield more power than *presidents*. We employ thousands, and keep dozens of secondary businesses in the black. I -- I want us to be *public*, Tom. Fuck the world and the government and every ignorant backwoods asshole who would keep us apart --"

"Lex, you." Tom shakes his head and pushes Lex's hand away from his groin, holding back the wince he *knows* Lex is looking for -- "You want us to come *out*? As lovers?"

*Lex* laughs, and -- moves back, pushing a hand back over his scalp the way Tom has almost never seen him do and staring up at the stars. "It's a beautiful night. And a brand new day."

Tom takes a deep breath and straightens his clothes, stepping away from the wall and... carefully resting a hand on Lex's shoulder. "The scrutiny would be --"

"Magnificently over the top, yes. More free publicity than we'd know what to do with, really. There'd be boycotts and protests -- and maybe even the occasional assassination attempt."

"Ah... yay?"

Lex smirks and looks back at Tom from over his shoulder. The darkness takes his eyes save for a gleam that may or may not be irrational fantasy. "It's true that you were always... interestingly private. The secrets you chose to hide and who you chose to hide them *from*... tell me, did fucking Bruce ever make you feel like a pedophile?"

Yes. But the face he makes is automatic, wreathed in distaste --

"Yes, sometimes my mouth gets away from me. He never punched or slapped me when that happened. He had other ways --" Lex takes a breath through his teeth. "Bruce gave you the keys to the kingdom. Everyone knows you make the day to day decisions and control the purse strings... I can't give you that, and I *wouldn't* --"

"I don't *want* that from you --"

"Then what do you want, Tom? You know me. You know my *will*. You have to know that I'll give it to you *whatever* it is --"

"Until it's more expedient for you to stop --"

"*Fuck* you, Tom, I --" Lex twists away from Tom's hand and paces the small space, eyes dark and --

On someone else, Tom would call that look 'murderous.' For Lex... what *had* he looked like when he'd given that order? Had he planned it, himself, or just left it to his 'independent contractor?'

And... what might have happened if he'd tried with Lex? If he'd pushed, the way he had teamed up with Bruce to push Harvey? He'd known when the murder was due to take place, and he'd done nothing more than be Lex's peripatetic... friend.

"You don't have to -- we don't have to *be* this way with each other, Tom. Everything else -- every*one* else is out for themselves and what they can get from us, what they could make us *do*. There's no one else in our little sphere, and *that's* what you feel when you look at me --"

"It isn't --"

"*Bullshit*," Lex says, and comes back, jabbing a finger at Tom's chest and glaring. "You *know* we're different. You've known from the beginning, and that's why you came to me, why you pushed and flirted and fucking *teased* --"

"We're all the *same*, Lex. Everyone. Some people just have a better chance than others, a better hope of getting what they need from the world. And it's up to people like us --"

"To *make* things better for the rest, yes, I haven't forgotten. Or..." Lex stops and stands straight, staring *into* Tom. "Is that what it is? You thought I'd forgotten? *Christ*, Tom, did you think I'd done it just for me?"

"Don't, Lex, I know you --"

"Refusing to lay out the money to *test* the genetically modified species of rice we were exporting to India and much of Africa. Throwing money at a fly-by-night lab called Cadmus because they accidentally stumbled on something that could be used as a next generation nerve toxin. Closer to home? Bribing half the union leaders and blackmailing the rest. Funneling money to politicians so they'd vote to *gut* environmental protections. I could go on, but I shouldn't have to. He was a *stain*, Tom. He was -- fuck, he was *worse* than that --"

"You could've tried a takeover --"

"The nineteen year old liberal *freak*?"

"You could've tried to get the man *investigated*, Lex. Metropolis isn't some backwater country where everyone's on the same payroll --"

"You don't think so...?" Lex smiles and spreads his hands. "My hometown. The City of Tomorrow. You live in *Gotham*, for fuck's sake. You *know* how corrupt a city can be. *How* many times has good ol' Harv nearly been shot for what he's doing?"

Five, but -- Tom crosses his arms. "Are you seriously telling me that, after years of trying, you came up with exactly *one* solution?"

"I'm telling you that, after years of trying, I came up with the *best* solution. And I have no regrets, Tom. No..." And Lex's smile is rueful and young, *honest*, and all of a sudden Tom doesn't want to hear what Lex has to say.

"Don't say it, Lex. Don't --"

"The only thing that makes it hard for me to sleep at night is knowing you're with someone else. With -- all right, he's no pituitary freak, but *really*, Tom. *Bruce*? If he gave you everything you needed, you wouldn't still *be* here."

Tom -- doesn't close his eyes. He turns around --

"Don't you fucking *leave* me," Lex says, and Tom ducks and spins to avoid the hand on his shoulder, dances back to avoid the grab, and --

They're in the entirely empty library, now, and the only way to do this is *not* to look at Lex's eyes, not to see everything in them and not to --

Except that all that leads to is a sweep that nearly takes him off his feet and *does* make him stumble --

"*Look* at me, damn you --"

All right, fine. Maybe -- maybe.

Lex is very, very good -- the best amateur Tom has ever seen -- but the fact of the matter is that he's better, and more than good enough to only use a few different schools of -- of.

Desperation in Lex's eyes, and he'd never wanted that, never --

Lex was his *friend*, and very much part of the reason that he *survived* after Dr. Fate's pronouncement. He'd lost everything, and Lex had been there for him, even knowing that he'd lied about *why* he was so broken. A joke, a smile, a --

A fucking *hug* for those times when Bruce's embraces felt too much like the reason *why* he was stuck here -- Tom stops, stands down and walks into Lex's range, knowing --

Lex *grabs* Tom's face and pulls him in, panting and glaring and *needing* at him -- but not kissing. Tom closes his eyes and Lex moves his hands to Tom's shoulders, his arms, his chest and his back. Possessive touches, all, but also touches of reassurance, of --

"I'm -- I'm here, Lex. I'm here."

And Lex brings one hand back to Tom's cheek and tilts his head forward enough that their foreheads touch, brush and slide against each other while Lex *forces* his breathing to normalize. "You. You *remember* what he was like, what he tried to do to you, to *us* --"

"I remember," Tom says, because there's no forgetting that one particular visit to Metropolis, if only because he'd vowed never to go again unless Lex agreed to come to him in his hotel --

"But I don't need you to understand. Not -- not really," Lex says, and pulls back enough to look Tom in the eye. "*Forgive* me. You know it will never happen again, that *nothing* like that -- I'm not a *monster*, Tom."

("Afterglow. Which one of us gets awkward and uncomfortable first? Is there a protocol? Because I... I think I could stay here for a good, long while...")

"I..."

("Well, which do we cure first? Cancer or this *GRID* thing? Where does world peace come in?)

"Do you need me to beg? I'll go to my knees for you. I'll fucking *stay* there while you lay down broken glass for me to crawl over."

("I can't do anything to make this better for you. But I can make you forget...")

"Tom, please."

Wonder Woman. Green Arrow. *Himself* -- for all that he was drugged and out of control. Jason Todd. Tom closes his eyes and presses close, close enough to feel Lex's gasp before it becomes a sound, to feel the way Lex is still hard for him -- and tensed all over.

"Tom..."

"We can't be together. Not -- not the way you want. I'll never leave Gotham for good --"

"Long distance relationships work a lot more *smoothly* when both parties own private jets --"

Tom kisses Lex, soft and brief. He does it again to get used to the feel of allowing himself this without being out of his mind with lust and need. He does it again because he can, and again because Lex groans and clutches him --

"Here, then. *Now* --"

"Now," Tom agrees, and cups Lex's ass through his pants, squeezes and spreads him a little --

"Is that." Lex *blushes* -- "Is that what you want? Your... price?"

"Not while you think of it that way," Tom says, and smiles helplessly. "But you already know I prefer it the other way."

Lex pets his hair and frowns, lips pressed together for a long moment. "I'd give that to you. I'd -- I don't always have to be in control --"

"You're hardly *in* control when you're fucking me so hard that all you can do is grunt and growl at me."

"Mm, I -- very primitive, I know, but... you bring out the caveman in me?"

Tom smiles a little wider. "I'd appreciate your *not* knocking me over the head and dragging me back to your... penthouse."

Lex's smile is rueful and still a little tense. "I assure you, that was only my backup plan."

And what would you have done -- to whom -- if I had kept saying no? "This -- this isn't a recipe for anything resembling a healthy relationship."

"So *teach* me. When I was a teenager I always appreciated you letting me do things my way, letting me run from you and pretend I didn't want --" Lex cuts himself off... and laughs, stroking Tom's shoulders and leaning in again. "You may have noticed that I have problems with intimacy."

"I'm shocked and disappointed, Lex. I'll just go back to my brother right now --"

"*Don't* -- joke like that. Fuck. I threw this party *for* you, so you'd have to come or snub me altogether. All these people I can't fucking stand, drinking my champagne and eating my food -- I *promise* I only used the GMOs that were properly tested --"

Tom laughs helplessly. "I *was* reasonably sure you wouldn't try to poison anyone, Lex --"

"You're here. Kiss me. *Show* me. Fuck, *talk* to me --"

"You... miss it. The time we spent together *not* fucking like animals."

"I'd *hit* you if you -- fucking *let* me -- and I *know* that's not healthy, either. Yes, Tom, I *miss* it. I could go out and *buy* someone who looked like you, teach him how to talk, how to dress, how to *look* at me --"

"Lex," Tom says, and pulls him closer by the ass. "I have to confess to sometimes wanting to lick your scalp."

Lex snorts incredulously -- hard enough that it sounded like it probably hurt a little.

Tom smiles. "I can continue restraining myself... if you can continue doing the same in your various endeavors."

"*Done*. I -- go tell your *brother* not to worry about you and to have fun. Spend the night with me --"

"I -- we have other plans tonight. I can't break them off that easily."

Lex frowns. "It's after *midnight*. He can't go a *night* without you sucking his cock?"

The proper response to that... probably involves a blush. It's just that he can't quite manage one. As opposed to a flush --

"Fine. *Make* me picture that for the forty-seven thousandth time, see if I care," Lex says, and pulls back again, twisting free and taking Tom's hand. "At least let me show you something?"

Tom nods and lets himself be led, noting with the kind of satisfaction he can't possibly ignore when Lex shifts his touch to a friendly, casual arm around Tom's shoulders -- just before they re-enter the crush of the party.

He lets Lex lead him through, shaking hands and greeting various strangers and acquaintances, hangers-on and social climbers. Bruce does a creditable job of watching them while appearing to do nothing more than flirt with two different supermodels, and --

Bruce has given him a *lot* of room for this. Not really enough rope to hang himself -- Bruce just doesn't *think* that way, whether or not he should -- but still... it's long past time for Tom to try to explain himself, to ask for his own forgiveness --

"He'll be *fine*," Lex mutters through a dazzling smile for a photographer.

Tom smiles, as well. "You sent the sharks after him."

"They've all been instructed to play nice -- or else risk losing promotional contracts."

The picture gets taken -- and Tom spares a moment's thought for what, if anything, it will do to their companies, and which of them will be 'known' to be *after* the other's company -- and they move on.

Still more people are arriving via the elevators when they get to them, but none of them are people Lex feels obligated to do more than wave and smile at -- the magnanimous host, welcoming all to share in his largesse.

The *truth* is that the Wayne brothers really ought to be throwing more parties like this one -- as opposed to simply attending most of the ones they're invited to. They're young, wealthy, and -- perhaps -- a little too quiet.

Once they're in the elevator, Lex pulls a key out of his pocket and unlocks the mechanism that will allow them up to the actual penthouse. Tom waits, noting that some of the tension is back in Lex's shoulders, that he's not -- quite -- still within himself.

He doesn't speak, though, not even when he leads them through an empty office space filled with state of the art equipment that only makes the part of himself Tom isn't supposed to think about a little homesick. At the end of a short corridor, there's a large mahogany door that Lex pushes open before gesturing Tom inside. And...

More computers, sleek as they can be in this era. Two broad desks facing each other, a *very* large table between them with scale models of the LuthorCorp holdings... and the Wayne Enterprises holdings, too.

"Oh."

"That's it? Oh?"

"Ah... Lex --"

"I know you single-handedly networked WE. It wouldn't take all that much to get you connected here. You'd never miss a single event, however minor. If one of your secretaries caught a cold in Gotham, you could hear her sneeze from here."

Tom stares at the model helplessly, looking for... there. Cadmus. He'd known when Lionel Luthor had acquired it, but hadn't thought to see what they were doing. Does he *want* to know what Lex is doing with it now?

"What... ah, Cadmus, yes. After rather a lot of effort, I turned their twisted but highly-trained minds to pharmaceutical research. I've expanded them a great deal, but rest assured that they're on a *very* short leash," Lex says, and starts to pace --

Neither desk has much in the way of personalization, but Lex stops by the one with none, stroking the blotter and adjusting the plastic over the computer.

His computer. *His* desk.

"Lex..." I already *have* an office with Bruce. It's very nice, and we only have sex in it *sometimes*, and then only because you fucked me in it, first. Remember that office, Lex? In *Gotham*?

"I know you have no intention of leaving Gotham for good. But -- businessmen travel, Tom. Our companies are already working together on a couple of projects -- small things, to be sure, but there *will* be others. Or... there can be," Lex says, and sits on -- Tom's desk.

Tom closes the distance between them and just... rests his hand on the desk. Lets himself *think* about it, and all the things Lex can do for the world if he just keeps some of his bitingly, paradoxically cynical idealism.

Humanity may be all one, but there still isn't anyone *like* Lex, and -- Tom really should've predicted a gesture like this one. It's --

It's more than a gesture.

"You'd have access to every last one of my files -- whether or not you wanted to give *me* access to all of yours. I know you need your secrets, whether or not I think it's worth your keeping them. We'd be a model of modern business, cooperative without being collective --"

"We could take over the world," Tom says, quietly. "One little piece at a time."

"Well, maybe when we're old enough to run for office," Lex says, and covers Tom's hand with his own. "I already work out of here a lot of the time. My assistant tells me there's something of rollicking interoffice pool about who -- or what -- the other desk is for. A surprising number of people actually believe I keep it out of sentiment for my father."

Tom winces --

"All right, you're not ready to laugh about that. That's fine -- it won't come up until you want it to. I just... needed you to know that this was *here* for you, Tom. Whenever you want it, whenever you need it. You can bring in your own secretaries and underlings -- I know you're grooming Lucius Fox, Jr. for bigger and brighter things --"

"Lex, just -- stop. For a moment, all right?"

Lex frowns and nods, and -- he *doesn't* squeeze Tom's hand, but the potential is there. Lex has always been all *about* potential.

Tom gestures with his other hand, taking in the whole office -- and the truly spectacular view. How many times has Lex watched Superman fly by from here? How many truly *problematic* plans and ideas could Tom nip in the bud just by staying close? "I -- I won't shut you out again."

Lex nods again and very deliberately forces the frown from his features. "This is too much for you."

Tom nods, and sits next to Lex on the desk. It's not tall enough that his feet dangle, but he still feels much too young for -- all of it. Everything. His *life* -- "I have commitments, Lex. And -- they take precedent."

"I should've chased you harder when we were still in high school. I should've followed you around the world --" 

"*Lex* --"

"No, I know. You needed that time with your *brother*. But Harvey was still in your lives. Summers in the manor and all of that..." Lex sighs and stands -- and immediately braces Tom, leaning in close and yanking Tom's hips to the edge of the desk.

It's the easiest thing in the world to spread his thighs and welcome Lex *in* --

Lex sighs and licks Tom's mouth, presses closer and touches the scar on Tom's neck. "There's probably a really good picture of this, now. You're usually more careful about staying covered up in the public eye."

... Dammit. "Most people will think it's a shadow."

"Most people," Lex says, nodding and opening a few more buttons, "are very, very stupid and reckless. But you aren't, and that means I've rattled your cage in a number of ways, tonight."

"Are you honestly surprised?"

"Relieved. And -- somewhat -- satisfied," and Lex leans in to lick Tom's throat, to suck and kiss --

"Lex..."

"Once for Gotham, once for Metropolis. It's only fair," Lex says and strokes Tom's chest with his hands, pressing hard enough that it's necessary to push *back* to keep from winding up flat on his back on the desk.

And -- why is he trying to avoid that, right now? Tom smiles. "Fairness is important."

"Mm," and Lex twists Tom's nipples hard, harder than Bruce ever does the *first* time --

"Lex, I -- God, you always feel too good --"

"You're still the only man I've ever wanted. Do you have any *idea* how irritating that is?"

"You should probably punish me for it. I mean, if it's that irritating to you."

Lex growls, low and rough -- "Bruce isn't faithful to you. I *know* he isn't --"

"I was never faithful to *him*, Lex -- *oh* --"

Teeth on one nipple, and short, hard nails on the other, and the heat possibly *should* be liquid, but it isn't. It's jagged and harsh, needful to the point of a very particular madness --

"I -- don't suppose you have lube in your pocket...?"

Lex doesn't stop biting when he pulls it out and slaps it down on the desk. It's one of the single-use packets which have gotten popular in certain parts of certain cities, and yes, Tom really is spreading his legs that wide.

"I never stopped needing you, Lex. You -- you know that."

Lex pulls back and licks the nipple he'd been biting, pinches the other harder --

Tom groans and gives up, letting himself fall back on his elbows. His jacket is spread wide and his shirt is half-untucked -- the last few buttons are still closed. "Lex... don't wait."

Lex shakes his head and stares down at Tom as if his body is a project with elements both vitally important and infuriating -- he blinks and stares into Tom's eyes. "We've never spoken of love."

Tom shudders and -- keeps his eyes on Lex's own. "No." 

And -- there's something wild in Lex's eyes, something Tom wants to either soothe or just rub himself against until they're both raw enough to say *completely* true things --

Lex closes his eyes for a moment and finishes opening Tom's clothes by feel, alone. And when he opens his eyes again, the wildness has been replaced with the same ruthless and faintly metallic focus that Tom has been several different varieties of helpless to for -- years.

Lex.

*Lex* -- and the way he uses his mouth and hands almost brutally, not shying to mark because he knows that right now Tom will let him have anything -- except for the things he wants even more than the rest.

The office is too well-insulated for Tom's sounds to echo -- his office in Gotham has much higher ceilings -- but that just means the whole thing is more intimate, more like something that would happen in a bedroom than on a desk Tom thinks he'll never actually use --

No, he doesn't want to think about that, and he won't. It's enough that Lex is using his fingers to open Tom, systematically searching out points of resistance and easing them, destroying them --

*Lex*, and when he's like this, he doesn't *want* Tom's touch. He wants stillness and absolute acceptance, and that has always been something Tom could give.

He tells Lex that it's good, that he wants it, wants *him* --

Lex tells him that he knows, that he's *always* known, and that he wants Tom louder, *more* --

And when Tom's pants and -- exclusive, at the moment -- boxer briefs are down around his ankles, Lex steps over and slides in, one long stroke that makes Tom claw at the desk and close his eyes, knowing that Lex will demand them open soon enough, that he will curse and *growl* for it --

Tom opens his eyes and tells Lex yes, yes over and over until he can only say it into Lex's mouth, until he's crushed between Lex's hard and moving body and the desk, until there's nothing in Tom's mind but the want, the pressure and need, the pleasure and *power*, because Lex belongs to him, and nothing could ever be more true.

Nothing about 'Tom Wayne,' anyway, and hasn't that always been the problem Lex solved?

Lex comes biting Tom's throat, harder and *harder* until Tom is gasping and twitching, needing --

Begging for Lex's hand, Lex's mouth --

Shouting when Lex pulls out and drops to his knees, *gripping* Tom's hips and sucking him in, sucking hard and *harder*, and it's exactly like being ordered to come, like being *forced*, and the sounds he's making are loud and terrible things, so far from the Bat that it might as well be another life --

Another lie --

*Tim* comes shouting, curled in on himself with one hand cupping Lex's bare, smooth scalp, mourning for all the things they won't be doing tonight because the Bat has a Metropolis crime family to break before dawn --

Tim comes needing, whimpering for more than he can ever say to anyone, a ghost in his own body, lost and sobbing until Lex kisses him, until Lex holds him close and promises impossible things like friendship, companionship, the world at their feet and all the secrets Tim has never wanted to keep -- no.

Tom pulls himself together one kiss after another, one moan after --

Tom *breathes*, and tastes himself in Lex's mouth, and promises compromise, hope, a *chance* to be something more and someone *less*. And when Lex pulls back and strokes Tom's face, Tom can smile, dazed and rueful and sated.

Lex kisses his fingers, and then they straighten their clothes, Tom feeling as though he's tucking yet another lie under his collar --

Tom feels like himself, and they go back to the party, separating with a brush of Lex's knuckles against Tom's palm.

Bruce is ready to leave.

They go.

And Metropolis doesn't belong to the Bat, but they've done their research well enough to slip through their hotel without being seen, to take the city in separate directions until they find their targets. Radios work just as well here as they do in Gotham, but they keep things quiet save for numerical codes that mean nothing to anyone but them.

They've done enough damage and made enough noise that --

"Twenty-four," Bruce says in his ear, which means that Clark --

Superman is there. And -- they have a script for this. Superman either recognizes Bruce or he doesn't, Bruce explains why he's there, offers the collar to him and asks -- *asks* -- that Superman keep a closer eye on his local mobsters. Friendship is made, and a piece of the larger puzzle of this universe is set *firmly* in place.

Along with a Bat tracer on Superman's cape.

Tom would've honestly preferred it if Superman had come to *him*, but he'd known it could go this way, and he can't let himself *worry* about it. After all, Bruce had managed to become Clark's closest friend *without* a script to follow -- several times, judging by what Tom had learned about the multiverse in his other life --

It has to work.

And he has to wait.

And *keep* waiting, and keep trying not to think about Bruce's suspicion about Superman, the way he'd instantly disliked both the name and the man's claimed alien heritage. The only thing Tom had been reasonably able to offer was optimism, and the fact that -- given what they *knew* about Superman's powers -- they had to do everything in *their* power to *make* him an ally.

"Forty," Bruce says, in his ear, which means -- partial success. Something had gone wrong. Something --

"Oh," Superman says, and lands softly in front of Tom on his rooftop. "There are *two* of you."

Well... hell. He's not supposed to know that until -- "For all intents and purposes, Superman," Tom says in the Voice, "there is *one*."

Superman nods slowly and comes closer, breathing deep and staring, studying -- doing it a lot more obviously and slowly than Tom is *used* to.

He looks... incredibly young. He *is* incredibly young -- "Superman --"

"I'm -- sorry to interrupt. It's just that your... partner? I could see that there was something he wasn't telling me, and I could *hear*..." Superman smiles and offers his hand. "I'm something of a fan of your work, Batman. You're inspiring. Both of you -- um. I won't tell anyone."

Very, very young. Good... Lord. Tom nods and shakes Superman's hand for the first time, the second time, the only time -- he shakes it off internally. "We've been watching you, as well."

Superman -- blushes. "Well, I. I seem to have made a splash, yes. Not like the two of you. I honestly thought -- well, I knew that you *weren't* only a rumor when I flew over Gotham one night... but I'd only seen your partner. And. Forgive me, but both of you look *very* familiar."

How to handle this, exactly?

"Almost like someone I've seen on the news? Somewhere? Ah... what *is* the protocol for this sort of thing? I can't really *not* look under a mask when there's one in front of me, even though I know it isn't really polite -- I mean, I really will keep your secret --"

"One," Bruce says in Tom's ear, which means he's moving closer to Tom's position --

"Oh, I should've asked if your partner wanted to come with me. Should I bring him?"

*Very*, very -- "You're welcome to ask, Superman."

Clark -- and it really is Clark in every *possible* way -- beams at him and goes. And returns in a moment with Bruce in his arms. He sets Bruce down next to Tom and backs away again, and their capes flutter blue and red in the night.

"So... what can I *call* the two of you?"

"Batman," Bruce says, and his Voice is rough and a bit shaken, perhaps from the flight?

Tom rests his hand on Bruce's shoulder and squeezes. "It all depends on what we can call *you*," Tom says, and uses his own voice.

Bruce turns to stare at him and Tom squeezes harder.

"Oh. Um. That's..." Clark blushes again. "I think I should probably... I mean, I don't *know* you. Except that I'd recognize you both if I ever saw you on the street and -- hm. I can see how that must not seem especially fair."

Tom raises an eyebrow behind his cowl --

"Now you look *very* familiar. And -- you also *smell* familiar, but not in a. Oh. *Oh*. You... you. Um. You know Lex Luthor? Very well?"

Bruce stiffens *hard* -- and walks to the edge of the roof, crouching with his back to both of them.

Hell. "Yes, Lex and I are friends," Tom says. "But he doesn't know about this."

"No, of course not. He -- he's said some very *mean* things about vigilantes, you know."

Bruce lets his cape snap in the wind, and yes, that was very much a comment, if one made with a lot of pain and confusion. It's time for them to go.

"Superman... we can continue this conversation another time, perhaps?"

Clark blinks. "Did I... I said something wrong. I'm very sorry, Batman. I really would like for the two -- three of us to be friends. If you think that's possible, I mean," he says, and looks back and forth between them. There's a slight worry line marring the perfect, golden expanse of his forehead, and --

("*Really*, Tim. You know you're supposed to call me Clark.")

Tom smiles helplessly. "I think it's certainly a possibility."

Clark *grins* back. "Well -- good. Could I fly you somewhere? I can carry both of you at once --"

"We'll be fine on our own," Bruce says, still using the Voice while he stands -- and completely fails to turn around.

"All right. Then... I'll just go. Then. Ah... it was a pleasure meeting both of you, and I'll be sure to take a closer look at the crime families you mentioned."

"Thank you," Tom says, and offers his hand for another shake.

Clark takes it, and glances once more at Bruce, smile slipping as he rises into the air --

And is gone.

Bruce still isn't looking at him. Tom takes a deep breath --

"One of us should go to the car. And follow," Bruce says, *still* using the Voice --

"B --"

"Batman. I'm not angry with you," he says, and drops off the edge of the roof.

*Hell*.

But -- the Mission is the Mission, and they *will* be alone again later. They'll talk.

Tom goes back to the hotel and slips in, tucking away the suit for Alfred to care for when they get back to Gotham and showering off the night. All of the night. He keeps his comm in, and is dozing when Bruce checks in with --

"I found him."

"Where."

"A small apartment building. He doesn't appear to be paying attention to me. He didn't -- I was able to work without interruption."

Because of *course* Bruce would patrol. "A name on the apartment?"

"Clark Kent. I don't know it."

And neither should Tom. "We will, in time," Tom says. "Come back. I don't think he'll be pleased when he finds the tracer."

Bruce hums. "He's too powerful."

"All the more reason to learn as much as we can -- and keep him on our side. Come back."

"He's a killer."

And he's... really not talking about Clark, anymore. "Not on this channel."

Silence, for a long time. If Tom strains, he can just pick up the sound of Bruce's breathing, careful and slow -- "I'm coming. Out."

Tom leaves his comm in just in case and wishes they were back in Gotham. This room is too airy and modern, this city too full of difficult questions -- and things that should maybe never be questions, at all.

He doesn't doze again, and Bruce comes in through the balcony, taking in his surroundings the way they've learned how to do -- and then immediately stripping off until he's down to his boxer-briefs and a frown.

It makes Tom feel like he's wearing too many clothes, even though he's just wearing a robe over his own briefs. The truth is that he's wearing too many *people*, and saying that has to stop doesn't make it any closer to happening. Still... he shrugs off the robe and walks close --

And Bruce opens his arms and pulls Tom in.

"Do you love him?"

("We've never spoken of --") "I care about him. He. There's a part of me that belongs to him." Because that part could never belong to anyone else in this time, in this world --

"And that's why you keep going back to him? Even though we both know --"

"Some things," Tom says, and reaches up to cup Bruce's shoulders from behind, "should only be talked *around* in this city."

"Because of -- Clark Kent."

"Precisely. But in answer to your question... I discovered that I couldn't hate him for it, or even really fear. I... I know this doesn't mean anything, that it *can't*, but I can't help wondering what would've happened if I'd been there for him more, the way. The way we were there for Harvey."

Bruce pulls back. "Harvey would *never* --"

"I know. I know. But what if he would? What if, one day while we were off traveling the world, he got fed up and hit *back*? And -- kept hitting. It wouldn't take much -- Harvey is very strong."

Bruce -- looks sick. "I can't -- he *wouldn't*, Tom. He wouldn't ever --"

"You *remember* how angry he used to get. How much control he *didn't* have -- I. No. I don't need you to think about Harvey that way, and I don't need you to forgive Lex -- since I never will --"

"But how -- how could you *be* with him if you don't --" Bruce shakes his head. "I don't understand."

My name is Tim Drake, and I wrecked my own timeline. Right now, the man who would've been my father is a rising star in the WE marketing department -- thanks, perhaps, to that 'new blood' recruitment drive I suggested we start so we could modernize the company -- instead of starting his own company while wooing the woman who would've been my mother. She's currently engaged to one of the more *useless* boys we went to school with and... I am so lonely, sometimes.

"I don't -- I'm *not* angry with you, Tom, and I understand that you find him very attractive --"

"I need. I need you to keep understanding. Because I need Lex. I tried to stop. I tried very hard --"

"He has a *hold* on you, Tom, and I -- I don't like it. I *can't* like it --"

"You don't have to, Bruce. Look, I... I could say something about how I refused his offer to come out publicly as his lover --"

"*Tom* --"

"And his offer to bring our companies closer together, to work with them in --" Tom laughs, and knows it sounds terrible. "An office built for *two*... but you know I wouldn't do either of those things, don't you? You know that *most* of me is here, with you. With you *wherever* we go, and focused on the Mission --"

"You're never *happy* when you come back from being with him, Tom. Is it the guilt you feel, or... something else? I *know* that he hurts you, and I can see where you've let him mark you --"

"I'm happy *when* I'm with him, Bruce. He gives me... a lot of pleasure," Tom says, and winces for the look on Bruce's face, for the knowledge that Bruce *would* go back in time and make Tom room with someone else if he possibly could -- and he's not going to laugh, again.

That's the kind of thing *Tim* laughs about, after all, and --

Tom shoves it *down*. "It doesn't have to touch us. It will be better, I think, now that I've decided to just live with it, to *let* myself have what Lex can give me -- "

Bruce clutches Tom's shoulders, squeezes and *shakes* a little -- "If you could just *tell* me what Lex gives you, or show me the part of you he helps -- Tom, you get depressed every summer, and I've waited years for you to tell me why --"

"*Bruce*, I --" Tom swallows and shakes his head. "No, I. Not that --"

"Tom. You have to -- is that when Steph died? You've gone to Lex the past *two* Julys, and I think you would've done the same the other years if we hadn't been traveling. Have you told *him* about it?"

"*No*, Bruce, I haven't. I can't --" Tell anyone. Talk about that. Make it a larger issue than it already *is* -- Tom growls and reaches up to move Bruce's hands off his shoulders -- movement.

And when they turn, Superman is standing on their balcony with the tracer held between his fingers. And -- it really is Superman. He's drawn himself up to his full height, and he's wearing the uniform like the world's most terrifyingly powerful statement of intent.

Bruce turns and crosses his arms over his chest, Bat in *every* possible way --

And Superman looks even more pissed off.

Tom steps between them. "Superman --"

"You said you wanted to work with me, not *spy* on me."

"We *don't* work with strangers," Bruce says, using the Voice --

"We were going to *talk* about it. That's what -- you implied," and Superman sounds rather more like *Clark*, which is something positive. Now if Bruce can just --

"We're talking now."

Right, *that's* not helpful --

"Now, you listen to me, Batman. I don't come to *your* city and wreck property and beat citizens senseless --"

"And if you do," Bruce says, "we'll have a problem."

"*Stop* that," Tom says. "Right there. Superman? We had to discover your identity. That's what we *do*, and we try to do it as discreetly as possible. Your secret is safe with us, and we don't intend any harm to your loved ones. *Bruce*? Remember the word *ally*."

"We *don't* know him, Tom --"

"Bruce? Bruce and Tom *Wayne*? The *socialites*?"

Bruce actually *snarls* slightly --

Tom rests a hand on Bruce's chest and holds his other one up to Clark. "Bruce. Listen to me for a moment --"

"Kent. You *haven't* been invited. I would suggest you leave."

"Oh, for the love of -- *Bruce* --"

"We were having a conversation, Tom," Bruce says, and never takes his eyes off Clark. "And the alien isn't a party to it."

And when Tom turns... Clark is managing to look both pissed and *hurt*.

"I didn't invite *you* to spy on me. We're supposed to treat each other with *respect* --"

"Respect," Bruce says, and shifts his stance just enough that it's on the edge of being *combative* -- "Must be earned."

Clark's eyes flare -- and *flare*, bright red and hot for a moment that makes Bruce snarl again and makes Tom wonder just how much control the man *has* at this point -- "Clark," Tom says, and makes a 'stand down' gesture he may or may not understand. "This isn't the best time."

Clark closes his eyes for a long moment, clenching one fist -- and when he opens them, they're blue and focused on him. "You've been very polite, Tom, and I appreciate that. But your partner --"

"Is my partner," Tom says, and presses his hand against Bruce's chest. "And right now he's far more interested in continuing to speak with me privately than he is in making new friends. We'll be leaving Metropolis tomorrow morning, and after that... well, perhaps when things are a little less raw we can try to hash this out," and he *looks* at Bruce. "Like *adults*."

Bruce's expression is a wall of blank contempt, untouched by anything resembling regard for anything Tom had just said. Well. Fine. Something *else* they can talk about -- and wouldn't the distraction be *extremely* helpful right about now?

Hadn't it already been? Tom smiles and shakes his head, patting Bruce's chest. "Good night, Clark. It really has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, and I look forward to working with you in the future," he says -- *not* only to make Bruce shift in his stance a little uncomfortably, but that's certainly *a* reason.

"I -- all right," Clark says, and frowns at Bruce, again. "I'll... be in touch."

Bruce doesn't actually *say* 'don't hurry,' but it's very much there in the waves of pure alpha male *ridiculousness* he's putting out, and --

Clark is gone.

"Were you trying to make me *jealous*," Bruce says -- in a whisper.

"I was trying to knock you off that high horse you decided to ride through our *suite*, Bruce. He -- seems like a perfectly nice young man."

"He's an *alien* --"

"And so is the Martian Manhunter. Do you have a problem with what *he* does? He's helped save the world countless times -- and he can make himself look like anyone at all. You haven't suggested that we investigate *him*." And shouldn't he have?

Bruce frowns harder, but he slips out of the fight-stance. "We should. He could be as dangerous as the ubermensch."

"Bruce."

"*Why* would he pick a name like that if he didn't plan to use his powers for domination and control?"

"As I recall, Bruce, the name was foisted upon him by... some newspaper reporter or another, and it caught on. *And* you... have never sounded more like Lex than you did right then. It's more than a little disconcerting --"

"Are you attracted to him, too?"

"To *Clark*? Jesus, Bruce, he's -- really very young." And he's never going to invite Tim Drake's sixteen year old self back to Metropolis for... whatever it is Tim had never allowed himself to discover.

"I don't trust him, Tom --"

"We don't know him, yet. We'll investigate him thoroughly, and we'll keep an eye on him, all right? I *agree* with you that someone that powerful needs constant attention, which is one of the reasons why I think he ought to be on the League."

"With you."

"With me -- but only because *you* refused."

Bruce frowns again. "We couldn't both be on it."

Tom crosses his arms. "You refused to even entertain the *idea*, Bruce --"

"Yes, I know. I know," Bruce says, walking over to the sofa and sitting down in the world's most annoyed-looking sprawl. "I feel like I'm losing you."

"We're just in the wrong city, Bruce --"

"Why won't you tell me what hurts you, Tom," Bruce says, and... it's too tired to be a question. Too -- "I've waited for you to trust me enough, to love me enough --"

"I couldn't love you more than I *do*, Bruce --"

Bruce looks up, and his smile is bleak and -- old. "That's what I'm afraid of."

And that... he can't. He *never* can, and it doesn't matter that that's probably why he got stuck here in the first place, why he's a founding member of the Justice League instead of Robin --

Tom moves to the couch and kneels next to Bruce, sitting on his heels and cupping Bruce's face, stroking against the grain of his stubble until Bruce's eyes are heavy-lidded.

They stay that way for a long moment, seeing each other, and Tom knows, now, that he could never have hidden from Bruce. Not everything. "I miss my home. I miss -- there are people I knew there who don't exist... here. I've... I've looked for them, and found connections that never happened, births that haven't --" Tom swallows. "I didn't love them enough when I had them, Bruce. I was focused on training, on... on my Bruce, and."

And he lets himself open, lets himself call Dick up by his smile, the sound of his voice --

Barbara in his ear, grating and artificial and still so focused, still so affectionate --

Kon's laughter and warmth, always so much --

Cassandra, always cautious with him, always so forgiving of his fears and stupid fucking *issues* --

Bart, brash and clever, slowly growing a sense of internal *quiet* he could have lived in --

Helena urging him toward a different life even as she *played* with him --

Ives and Dana, and --

And he's not crying, but it feels like something he could do, if he could let himself. The part of him which is always, always watching thinks he should, if only because it's exactly what Bruce needs to see from him in order to feel as if he's getting the whole story --

"Oh. Tom..."

Except that Bruce doesn't need to see actual moisture to know that a part of 'Tom' has, perhaps, been crying since that day in Bruce's and Harvey's room --

And Bruce pulls Tom into his arms and over his lap in a straddle that Tom has always wanted to hurt, or at least ache. Flexibility shouldn't take away necessary pain.

Bruce kisses Tom's eyelids and his cheeks before tucking Tom's face against his neck and starting to stroke his back. "You... I wish you would tell me about them. The people you lost."

"I wish I could, Bruce. The words..." Get stuck on the fact that I can't risk you finding it strange when we *meet* the people I talk about. "The words don't come."

"And Lex... reminds you of the people you lost? Some of the people?"

He could say yes, but -- "You know, it's funny, but... sometimes I think Lex reminds me of the person *I* was when I was with those people. As opposed to the person I am with you."

"You can be *anyone* with me, Tom --"

"No, I can't," and Tom pulls back and smiles. "Because I love you. Because I need you and because... everything you are pulls a certain person out of me. And I like being that person. I just can't be him all the time."

Bruce frowns, but he nods. "It's only... there's the Bruce I am at parties, and there's Batman, and there's Matches Malone... but none of those people are *real*. It sounds like you have a whole separate real person inside of you, and that can't be healthy."

Tom smiles ruefully and cups Bruce's face. "It probably isn't. But the sadness you see in me when I come back from Lex, the *hurt* in me in July, when I used to spend the most time with -- some of the people I miss... it has more to do with me trying to bury that other person than with anything else. I just -- can't do that, anymore."

Bruce nods again -- and turns to kiss Tom's right palm, and the left.

And... "Is the Bat... has it been bad, lately?"

Bruce smiles ruefully. "Sometimes I'm not sure if I'm hearing it or remembering it. But no, it hasn't been. I... I think part of me misses Harvey more than I want to admit."

And that has nothing to do with how much they see him socially, and everything to do with the fact that *when* they see him, they also see his *wife*. "Are you lonely, Bruce?"

"I shouldn't be."

"That's not what I asked," Tom says, and settles back on Bruce's knees. "We haven't made love in days."

"We were preparing for this trip --"

"Successfully -- for the most part. Do you want me?"

"*Always*, Tom -- but. I can't help but feel *watched*, here."

Tom smiles ruefully. "And not in that fun way, like all those times Harvey has looked at us like..."

"... he couldn't quite believe we were doing what we were doing. Or that we were doing it in front of him," Bruce says, and his smile is fond and more than a little dirty. "I know I shouldn't want him to want to cheat on his wife, but I think I would still feel a little better if he wasn't so obviously... satisfied."

Of course he would. Tom smiles and shakes his head. "It's better that he's happy, yes, but... I do have to admit to missing our times together."

Bruce sighs. "He looked so beautiful in his tuxedo."

"The one he was *married* in? Yes, Bruce, yes, he really did," Tom says, and shoves against Bruce's shoulders, a little. "But you did a very good job at not drooling on him when you gave him his ring."

"I did make an effort."

"And we *all* appreciated it. But... you don't want to make love here, and I'd rather not scandalize the pilot --"

"Miranda always did seem rather conservative to me," Bruce says, hitching Tom closer.

"Mm. Mixed signals, Bruce."

"I'm sorry. But... it's enough, right now, to be close to you. And to know we'll be together when we get home."

Tom nods. "All right." And he rests his head on Bruce's shoulder, again, shifting until he can be as close as he can with as much as himself as possible. It's impossible to be sure which of them started the controlled breathing first, but they move into a meditative state together, hearts beating at something close to the exact opposite rhythm until it's just a steady boom leading Tom to a sense of warmth and rightness, and Bruce to the same.

He's never asked what Bruce thinks about when they're doing this, but he really doesn't have to. His name is in the beat of Bruce's heart, as Bruce's is in his.

*

On the night Dick Grayson turned thirteen, the Batman tracked down Tony Zucco and convinced him, over the course of an hour, to turn himself in to the police. He was preceded by the rest of his gang -- who were much easier to find, on the whole.

Bruce doesn't know why it was so important to Tom that they focus on Zucco's operation -- especially on a night when they usually try to be home for at least a little while so that they can call the Graysons -- but Tom had been almost adamant about it, and Bruce has learned to trust Tom's instincts. He doesn't like to think about what Gotham would look like if Tom hadn't suggested they spend time -- and money -- making sure that both Arkham and the various state prisons were as modernized and secure as they could be, considering how many times the Joker has escaped anyway.

The rest of his patrol is quiet, and, judging by the silence on his comm -- a much better model than what they used to use, thanks to the men and women of the Wayne Enterprises R&D division -- a quiet night for Tom, as well.

In the early days, the silence would worry him, sometimes, but experience has taught him that Tom *will* call for assistance if he needs it. Experience has also taught him not to wish overmuch for those calls to come -- or for situations where *he* needs to make the call -- no matter how good it is when he and Tom actually work together.

For all that they do it rarely, years of training together -- *being* together -- has taught them to move as one body, to think with one mind and *be* the Batman... if not, ever, the Bat. There have been rumors since the very beginning that there is more than one person acting as the Batman, but as the most detailed stories tend to come from individuals recovering from carefully applied head injuries, their secret has been as safe as it can be.

Certainly, Tom has never mentioned any suspicions from the League, and Bruce has to admit that Clark has done very well at keeping his silence over the last couple of years. It has to help that Gotham, for all that he loves her, is something like an embarrassment to the rest of the country. Too large, too dirty, too dangerous, too corrupt, and too poor. Every possible urban ill is true about at least *one* of Gotham's neighborhoods, and Gotham has come up with a few all its own. No one, in Bruce's experience, likes to think about Gotham -- or the Batman -- very deeply.

And a part of him is just fine with that. Let Tom travel the galaxy with the League, and get flown back home by people like Wonder Woman and Superman and the Green Lantern -- or *run* home by the Flash. So long as he *does* come home, Bruce is satisfied, and satisfied to move through Gotham's streets and alleys and half-forgotten horse paths on his own --

"Two," Tom says in his ear, and that means he's heading home for the night.

"Two," Bruce agrees, but first --

A drug dealer and two underlings in precisely the wrong neighborhood tonight. It's over in seconds, and while they have nothing useful to tell him, there is the immense satisfaction of leaving them and their merchandise for the police to find. Jim has done a great deal to clean up the department, the work greying his hair and making him smoke and drink far too much. He looks twenty years older than he had when they'd all met, Tom hunkering in a shadow while Jim pretended not to see him.

And pretended not to notice when the men who threw regular charity galas for the department and its athletic league had similar builds and ways of moving. It's time for another one of those, he thinks -- if only because it's been too long since he's had the opportunity to look at Jim without lenses in the way, and he and Tom are both as fond of the man's adopted daughter Barbara as they are of Jim himself.

Bruce retrieves the car and heads home, moving fairly slowly -- as he always does on quiet nights -- to let the growl of the car's engine announce his presence in the neighborhoods he *hadn't* visited tonight. Sometimes, faces appear in windows, peer out from the shadows of alleys and over the edge of rooftops. There are no cheers or shouts like Bruce knows the other heroes sometimes get in their primary cities, but that's not the important thing.

It's the fact that they feel safe enough *to* look, and that, for a moment, the streets belong to the everyday citizens and no one else. When he is tired, when he doubts and fears and loathes the Bat which never stops driving him for long -- this is what he remembers.

This, and the man waiting for him at home.

When he arrives, Tom is waiting for him at the overlarge conference table with a carafe of Alfred's excellent coffee, a covered tray with their light meal, and the telephone.

"Dial," Bruce says, and smiles.

"Done," and it's late, but Haly's is still out in California for the beginning of their seasonal tour, and circus people don't keep hours very different from their own. For Dick's birthday, the Graysons always stay for a night in a nice hotel -- more to give them a number to call than for anything else, though they've been assured that Mary always appreciates the chance for a day in a spa, and that Dick loves to swim for hours at a time.

The desk clerk connects them to the Graysons' room, and they spend the better part of an hour catching up -- mostly with Dick himself, who tells them excitedly about new additions to the Graysons' routines, about the alligators he'd seen in Florida, about seemingly everything he can think of.

Tom tells Dick that he's allowed to breathe as well as speak -- and Dick switches to a thickly Cuban-accented Spanish to assure Tom that he can breathe perfectly well, and that the circus is thinking of throwing a few performances just over the border in Mexico.

Bruce asks him in Romany if he's made many new friends, and Dick responds in French that there are always new friends, that he can't imagine any life but this one, and that his father wants to speak to them both.

John sticks to English as he admonishes them not to go to too many of those parties he's been hearing so much about, as the young women there are 'no good' for men like them. He explains to them -- again -- that they need strong-minded, practical women to help them settle down so that they can raise a large family. They assure him that they won't get caught in the snares of any of the wrong sorts of women, and that they also won't work so hard that they don't appreciate the good things.

He asks about their training, and they can tell him honestly that they've never stopped, that they keep the equipment in good repair and use it nearly every day. John promises that they'll all get together when they come to Gotham, and that there'll be ouzo running in the streets when they do.

Mary asks them what they're doing with the Wayne Foundation, and is particularly pleased to hear about the athletic clubs they've built and refurbished all over Gotham, though she also approves of the early education centers they've established for young children from poor families. *She* promises to tour some of them with them when they arrive, and then she gives the phone back to Dick, who wants to hear all about their travels, and whether they've ever seen Superman -- who he believes is the 'coolest' of all the superheroes.

Talking to Dick always makes Tom as happy as Bruce ever sees him, his eyes staying narrow with pleasure throughout the entire conversation. It makes Bruce wonder if Tom *does* want children, even though he always brushes the conversation aside whenever Bruce brings it up.

Bruce thinks it would be good to have children someday, even though he's not altogether sure how to go about raising one, beyond having a fair idea -- at this point -- of how to do it *badly*. Still, if Tom didn't want a child, he couldn't imagine bringing one into their home.

And when Dick starts yawning, Mary takes the phone again and bids them goodnight.

They're both still suited up with the cowls pushed back over their faces, and Tom's smile is wry and a little distant.

"You miss them."

"Terribly," Tom says, and looks around. "We can't ever have them down here again, though."

Bruce looks... the supercomputers, the weapons they've taken off of people like Freeze, the lab, the medical equipment... "No, we can't. But -- we can have them over for dinner or something when they're back in town?"

Tom frowns. "It could be dangerous, but... yes, we can always say that the Cave had gotten flooded out or something. It would be good to have them here, again."

Bruce nods. They throw parties in the manor fairly often, these days -- often enough that Alfred sometimes allow them to use caterers and cleaners for them. Alfred loathes it, but he has to admit that it's necessary. *Bruce* doesn't like it very much, either, but *he* has to admit it leads to them having an excellent cover. No one would ever suspect that the same Waynes who throw champagne-soaked parties -- sometimes on the yacht -- were the people who regularly batter and terrorize Gotham's criminals.

It's --

"We have a good life, Tom."

Tom's smile is warm and a little surprised. "Yes, we do," he says, and reaches across the table to take Bruce's hand for a long moment.

They strip down and eat, and are kissing before they make it to the showers, warm and slow and -- it always feels a little decadent to be this way down in the Cave, a little like they're chasing away everything practical and cold.

As such, a part of him is always surprised when Tom allows it, as there are times -- especially when he's been working with the League for a few days -- when he almost seems to be wearing the cowl even when he's nude, as if one day he'll have trouble removing it, at all. When they touch, though...

When they touch, he is only ever Tom, *his* Tom, his brother and the better half of his existence, the reason for nearly everything right in his world, and the only one who could ever understand why Bruce shivers, sometimes --

(Your path will be a lonely one.)

And why he laughs when Tom pushes up on his toes to whisper "shh" directly into Bruce's ear as Bruce backs Tom against the tile, as he uses his greater power to *lift* him enough that they can work and grind and rub against each other, water sluicing down over them both, light gleaming on scars and the more spectacular bruises.

Tonight Tom has one shaped like a large foot on the outside of his left thigh --

"The Kings -- and a fair number of them," Tom says when Bruce starts to massage it to keep the blood from pooling.

Bruce nods. "They're moving?"

"Mm. More trying to take back some territory I pacified last week. I did my best to discourage."

"I'm sure," Bruce says, kissing Tom again and thinking about their different styles on the street, thinking about the sometimes brutal ways Tom uses his shuriken and batarangs where Bruce would use his fists...

Sometimes Tom comes home with other people's blood spattered and drying on his cheeks, and sometimes Bruce has to spend time picking shattered teeth out of his boots.

Sometimes Tom's fingers are stiff and hard from one strike after another, and sometimes Bruce's fists want to *stay* clenched. But now --

Now it's only the two of them, and the slow rock of their bodies, the echoes of their moans and gasps.

Tom, and the ease of him, the perfection of intimacy, the calm he brings with every smile and firm, unhesitating touch.

The way he calls Bruce's name, still, as if Bruce wouldn't hear if it weren't so loud, as if he doesn't *know* --

"Brother," Bruce says, and it still makes them both shiver and tense, though it could be the way he's holding Tom up with one hand and taking both their penises in the other --

It could be the uncomplicated pleasure of this moment, surrounded by everything they've built, crushed and panting under everything they are --

"*Brother* --"

"*Yes* --"

And the motions are almost too easy, but he promises himself that he'll never take them for granted, not any moment of this, not --

Oh --

Tom comes on him, jerking and spasming, clawing at Bruce's shoulders with his eyes wide and dazed, lost --

*His* brother, and Bruce can never let go right away, not when he's so close, not when the sound of Tom's pain drives him as much as it always does -- "Don't stop, Bruce, don't *stop* --"

"I love you so -- so much --"

And he comes shuddering, losing his stance and a bit of his grip --

Tom lands easily, dropping to his knees to lick Bruce clean, his fingers and his penis --

This, he thinks as he's thought thousands of times, only *this*, and it's still the same lie as it's always been. He wants *everything*, and Tom makes sure that he has it.

Tom.

The next couple of months are quiet, but not -- not *easy*. Tom had taken to attending court when Harvey was trying a case some months back -- allowing Bruce to handle the day to day affairs at Wayne Enterprises -- which --

He'd been there, on *that* day.

Another mobster, one the Batman had helped bring to justice, and he'd somehow smuggled a bottle of acid in with him, somehow --

Tom had *been* there, but too far away to do more than shout a warning. The court officer had shot the man, but the bottle had shattered, and Harvey --

Harvey laughs about the roughly teardrop-shaped scar on his cheek, the circular burn on his hand, but his face moves differently now, and Bruce knows there's a great deal of pain --

("*Balance*, big guy. It's *okay*. Take a look...")

Yin for the horrible darkness of the scar when Harvey smiles, yang for the regular flesh against the coin-shaped spot on the back of his hand when Harvey lifts it to his unblemished cheek. And --

("Maybe I was too pretty for just a little too long, eh? Don't look so down -- I've seen worse than this when I tour the *jails*.")

He has his sketches, and -- he'd been working on something of a portrait for Harvey and Gilda to celebrate their anniversary. It's wrong now, and that hurts a part of him he can't quite touch. But -- Harvey's happiness is the important thing, even though he'd refused to let them pay for plastic surgery. He calls it a 'badge of honor' for the war he's been fighting nearly since the day he'd graduated from law school, and *that* --

Bruce thinks of his own scars, of Tom's...

Maybe that's enough. *Tom* has certainly dealt with it more easily than Bruce had done, pointing out that it could've been much worse... what if Harvey had been *blinded*? He won't think about that, but perhaps Tom can help him with the portrait.

The sense of him Bruce always has leads him toward the study -- it *is* almost time for them to start training for the day --

"No. No, you don't understand -- yes, I *heard* you, but you don't understand --"

Bruce frowns and walks into the study, and Tom is pacing in short arcs with the phone to his ear --

"We took *care* of -- *no*. Haly, you listen -- you have to listen to me, this isn't *possible* --"

"Tom...?"

Tom glances up at him, and his eyes are wild, full of rage and *fear* --

"What is it --"

"They're not *dead*. They can't be *dead* -- why didn't you tell us you were being *threatened*, damn you? We could've *helped* --"

Dead. Haly -- Bruce feels his stomach drop and sits down on one of the chairs. *They* -- all of them? "*Tom* --"

Tom squeezes his eyes shut and punches down, breaking the small end table and catching the phone before it hits the floor. "No, this sort of thing is not *fucking* normal for you -- for *anyone* to deal with, you. God, you should've *told* us -- all right. All right. Where is Dick, now? Who has him?" Tom nods and flexes his fist once, twice -- "We'll be there in a few hours. Bruce, call the pilot and tell him the jet needs to be ready *now*."

Bruce gets up and goes, but when he gets to the other phone, Alfred is already making the arrangements. *Dick* is all right, Dick is alive, but --

And Tom tells him what happened on their way to the airport. A standard show in Central City, only Haly's Circus had been threatened by a protection racket. After Mr. Haly had thrown the goons out, at least one of them had come back and sabotaged --

Dick's parents are dead. John and Mary are dead.

They're --

Tom puts in his JLA communicator and *orders* Flash onto the case. He'd been on watch when it happened, and --

John and Mary are dead.

Bruce closes his eyes. "We'll -- we have to take care of Dick, somehow, Tom --"

"Yes. Yes, we'll --" And Tom's face twists, *crumples* -- "Oh, God, it wasn't supposed to happen like this. It wasn't -- they were *safe*, Bruce --"

Bruce reaches for Tom's shoulder and grips hard. "We'll take care of Dick."

"We shouldn't -- oh, God, I can't -- I *failed* --"

"Tom, no, no, you couldn't have known --"

And Tom makes a terrible sound, loud and hurt enough that Alfred actually swerves the car -- "Master *Tom* --"

But Tom is only rocking and crying out, covering his face with his hands and --

John and Mary are dead. Dick's *parents*, both of them at once and he'd had to *see* --

"We'll give him a *good* home, Tom, until he needs to leave us --"

"*No*," Tom says, and when he turns to Bruce his face is terrible, a *rictus* -- "We'll give him everything he *needs*."

"Yes, Tom, of course --"

"We -- we'll keep him safe. And close -- oh, *God* --"

And at first, he doesn't let Bruce pull him into his arms, but he's calm again by the time they get to the airport, cool enough to climb into the plane without a word. It's a silence Bruce can't touch, but he tries, taking Tom's hand in his own on the flight even though Alfred is right there with them.

When they arrive at the circus, the big tent is marked off with police tape, and there's no *sound*.

There are the animals, and all the circus people are *there*, some of them talking, but the overall quiet is like an extension of Tom's, heavy and thick and difficult to breathe. They find Dick with the strongmen, staring dully at a glass of juice, but --

He smiles when he sees them, and gets up -- and sits down again, crying silently. Tom drops into a crouch immediately and pulls Dick into his arms, holding on tight and whispering things Bruce can't hear into his ear. Bruce knows he's offering promises and comfort, the sort of thing people had offered him when his parents had been murdered.

He knows it's all empty noise. What matters is the touch, and when Tom shifts enough, Bruce crouches down, as well.

They spend nearly a month in Central City, with Tom taking the Batman out every night to help Flash track down the people who had done this. Bruce doesn't ask what Flash thinks about being taken from his regular work for this, and Tom doesn't offer any thoughts on the matter. The quiet is still surrounding him, cold and hard as any armor.

Bruce spends as much of his days as he's allowed visiting the group home where the authorities had placed Dick despite multiple requests, demands, and pleas from both them and the people of Haly's.

Eventually, the circus has to leave to continue on their tour, and the loss seems to age Dick ten years overnight, leaving him polite and barely responsive. He asks about Tom, and Bruce can only tell him that he's working.

Bruce rents a house on the outskirts of the city for safety, and sometimes Tom returns well after dawn, gauntlets torn at the knuckles and blood spattered on his cape, his boots and his face --

But eventually the paperwork goes through, and they officially become Dick's guardians, Tom hollow-eyed and silent through their court date. They take Dick to the rented house and Tom goes upstairs to sleep immediately, leaving Bruce with Dick --

"Is he angry?"

Bruce rests his hands on Dick's shoulders and crouches down in front of him. "At the people who did this to you."

"Oh. I wish." And his face crumples like Tom's had, and he balls his hands into fists. "I don't want to cry anymore. The other kids were... they were mean. If I cried too loud."

"It's all right to cry here," Bruce says, and squeezes Dick's shoulders lightly. "We lost our parents, too."

"I know. My mom -- she said. Are we going to go to Gotham?"

Bruce nods. "As soon as we can."

"I don't want to stay here anymore, Bruce. I don't --" And he hugs Bruce hard, and Bruce strokes his hair and tries to come up with a way to get Tom to leave this, for now --

But Tom goes out again, and again, until one night Bruce wakes up because Flash is carrying Tom into the rented house, and Tom is --

He's bleeding and unconscious. He's --

It's a bullet wound, the first Tom has ever taken, and Bruce *knows* it was exhaustion more than anything else. They remove the bullet from Tom's shoulder with Alfred's help, but there are no secrets from Flash, anymore.

He introduces himself as Barry Allen while Tom is sleeping, drugged and weak, and Bruce pretends not to have already known --

"You have to get him home, Bruce. There's nothing more he can do here, and I *know* that Gotham's going to hell without him. Both of you. Cripes, this explains a lot," he says, smiling ruefully and running a hand back over his hair.

"I know. It's -- this is important to him. To both of us."

"Yeah, I picked that up. You know, I was going to take my girl to that circus? I heard the Graysons really put on a great show -- oh, hell."

Bruce turns, and Dick is standing in the door to the kitchen, eyes wide and focused on... absolutely everything. "Dick --"

"You -- Tom's *Batman*? And he -- he was looking for the people who killed my *parents*?"

Barry slips the cowl back over his face -- "You should really go back to bed, youngster."

"Flash, I -- why weren't you there? You *always* help people here --"

"Aw, kid --"

Bruce crouches between Dick and one of the larger blood stains. "Dick, he was with the League that night. If he could have, he would've helped."

Dick's eyes are bright with tears. "You're all *heroes*. You were supposed to --"

Tom groans in his sleep and Dick seems to notice all the blood for the first time --

"Oh. I. Is Tom going to be all right?"

"He's going to be fine, Dick," Barry says. "And I'm about six hours late for -- well. Keep in touch," he says, and walks carefully out of the kitchen before disappearing into the night.

"Why. Why are my parents *dead*, Bruce?"

"I --"

"Because there are evil people in this world, Dick," Tom says, slurring and sitting up with obvious discomfort --

"Tom, stay down --"

"Not. Not yet," Tom says, and reaches out with his good arm. "Dick."

Dick walks toward him, and takes a moment to stare at the drying blood on Tom's hand before taking it.

Tom squeezes hard enough to make Dick wince. "Dick," he says again. "There are people in this world who only live to hurt others. Men and women who feed on the pain and fear of others, on the *hurt* of others. Do you understand?"

Dick frowns hard. "That's -- that's why you do this. Why you're a hero."

"And Bruce, as well," Tom says. "Though I haven't been leaning on him as much as I should have." Tom coughs and groans -- stops and grits his teeth. "Tonight I nearly died, because I was angry for you, angry at myself for not protecting your family better. We do this because we need to, because it's important for *someone* to, but we can't ever let our emotions lead us. Do you understand?"

Dick nods, and his eyes are wide again, solemn and bright.

Tom nods as well, and when he smiles his expression is sharp enough that he may as well not have any painkillers in his system, at all. "I know you do. You know a secret now, Dick. Something people will kill for. That means you're in more danger than you ever have been."

"Oh. I... Tom?"

"Do you want to be safe, Dick? To live with people who don't risk their lives every night?"

"I want to live with you! And Bruce!"

Tom squeezes his hand again. "All right. You will *always* have a home with us, for as long as we can give it. I. I'm going to pass out again very soon."

"Tom..." 

"A moment, Bruce," Tom says, and never looks away from Dick's eyes. "I'm going to ask you an important question, Dick. It's probably going to be the most important question anyone ever asks you, so I need you to think carefully about your answer."

"All -- all right, Tom. I'm listening."

And so is Alfred, from the doorway behind Tom. He has a towel in his hands and an almost *wooden* expression on his face, and Bruce knows that *he* knows, too, what Tom is going to say.

"Your parents were our friends, Dick. They helped train us to do some of the things we do every night, but there are other skills, too. Bruce and I traveled the world to learn them, breaking our bodies until we were wracked with exhaustion and pain, until we were afraid that we'd never be good enough, never be *ready*," and this time when Tom squeezes Dick's hand, he doesn't let go.

And Dick doesn't wince, again.

"Do you want this life for yourself, Dick? Do you want the pain and fear and doubt?"

Dick frowns, and Bruce thinks he can almost feel him putting all the stories he's heard about the various heroes in a new context, struggling to make it fit with the iron stink of Tom's blood and the sight of him, drugged and hurting and close to the very edge of his endurance.

And... was this always Tom's plan? Or is this just something that has come to him *because* he's so badly hurt, because Dick has *seen* --

But Tom knows what it's like to be that young and lose a world with the lives of his parents. Their parents. And sometimes it's hard to remember that Bruce hadn't had Tom when he'd made his own decision, that *all* he'd had was the Bat --

He doesn't have to ask himself if Tom is hurt too badly to think, and he doesn't have to ask if Tom is sure. Bruce rests his hand on Dick's shoulder, and feels the tension flow out of him with a breath.

"I do," Dick says, low and strong. "I want it. I'll do anything --"

"You'll do *everything*," Tom says, laughing and *swaying* -- "But first you'll let Bruce carry me to a bed, because --"

Bruce is fast enough to keep Tom from hitting the table and possibly hurting his head or breaking his stitches, but there's some question as to whether or not Tom would've noticed if he had.

He's unconscious again, but his breathing is steady and slow. He's too *pale*, but -- he'll be all right. Bruce had had a similar injury two years ago --

He'll be all right.

Bruce lifts Tom carefully in his arms and carries him upstairs. Alfred has turned back the covers on Tom's bed, and Bruce lays him down and kisses his forehead.

"You're lucky you have a brother," Dick says from the doorway. "I always wanted one."

"I'm very lucky, I know," Bruce says, and sits on the side of the bed. "I'm going to stay up with Tom for a little while if you'd like to join me."

Dick's smile is tight and small, but it looks like it *wants* to be much broader. Perhaps that's why Alfred only says --

"I will return with the tea," before leaving them alone.

Bruce pats the bed beside him. "Tom wouldn't mind, at all."

Dick nods and sits down, studying Tom for a long moment. "He looks like he hasn't had any sleep for a *really* long time."

"Sometimes that's necessary," Bruce says, and brushes at the deep concentration line on Tom's forehead. It never completely fades, anymore.

Dick nods. "When will my training begin?"

"Formally, when we return to Gotham -- which we'll do as soon as Tom is well enough to travel. Informally, it has already begun. And it will never stop."

Dick's eyes are wide when he turns to look at Bruce, but he only nods.

Welcome home, Bruce thinks, and brushes the hair from Dick's forehead.

end.


.Ending #2.
.So safe and comforting.
.feedback.
.index.