"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, with... someone Bruce doesn't recognize.

He's a little taller than Bruce, with black hair, blue eyes, and a bright and somehow incredulous smile --

"Time for *you* to come home," he says, and offers his hand to Tom --

"Dick. I -- oh, God," Tom says, stepping *away* from Bruce --

"Tom, *no* --"

Tom stops and looks back over his shoulder, and his expression is terrible, bleak and hungry at once, *determined* -- "Bruce --"

"'Tom?' Really? I think --"

Tom gestures at the other man -- at *Dick*, and somehow it manages to express 'be quiet' and a dozen other things at once --

"Oookay. I'll just be over here. Waiting. Next to the big, scary magic-user who spent most of the past *week* looking for your skinny little ass --"

"Who *is* he?"

Tom squeezes his eyes shut. "He's -- one of my teachers. We're... close. Bruce --"

"Tom, you want to stay, you *said* you wanted to stay --"

"Bruce, I do, but I can't. It's -- this might be my only chance --"

"It really *is*," Dick says, and Bruce wants to *hit* him, wants to hurt him for this, for taking --

"Please don't leave me, Tom," Bruce says, and his voice is rough again, but there's nothing he can do about it, and maybe if Tom hears, if he knows --

"Bruce --"

"I can't do this alone," he says, and can see Dick looking almost poleaxed out of the corner of his eye -- he doesn't *care* about Dick --

"You *know* you won't be alone. Not always, and not -- not where it counts, Bruce," Tom says, and he's close enough to touch, now, close enough --

Bruce kisses him --

"Oh my God."

Bruce *kisses* Tom, and he knows it's much too hard, that it's not a *good* kiss, but Tom kisses him right back, and wraps his arms around Bruce's neck. There's a dry heat coming from the hole in the world, and it makes Bruce think of Harvey's plateau, of being in the sun with the two people he loves most, loves *best* --

And Tom is kissing him goodbye. It --

Bruce can *feel* it, even though he's trying not to, even though he *wants* to stay, wants to be with him, and Bruce strokes Tom's back, *grips* his hips --

Tom moans into his mouth and it sounds like he might cry --

Bruce's eyes ache again, and -- he can't hurt Tom, he's hurting Tom now. He kisses more gently, and Tom shudders in his arms, pulls back only to kiss Bruce again, and maybe --

He's still saying goodbye. It's just that he's saying it with everything they've learned about each other, every way they've *loved* --

Bruce groans and pulls back, and he knows that everything is on his face, that these -- these *strangers* can see it --

"I love you," Tom says, and steps out of his arms.

Bruce nods. He -- he can't do anything else.

And then Tom turns around and takes Dick's hand, and --

He can see Tom looking back just as the hole pops out of existence. It's like an afterimage, and Bruce knows that it will be in his dreams until he can find Tom again.

Until --

Mrs. Bourne walks in. "There's a telephone call for you, Bruce. It's from Mr. Pennyworth."

Bruce nods. Alfred would know. And Alfred will know what he has to say to everyone and how he has to say it --

"Wasn't Tom in here with you?"

Bruce doesn't close his eyes and he doesn't shout or -- "I believe he went to the bathroom, Mrs. Bourne."

"Hmph, well. Hurry up and get your phone call, Bruce. You shouldn't keep people waiting."

"Yes, Mrs. Bourne."

He'll find Tom again one day. And that's what he'll hold on to.

*

"... had to wait until you were alone for obvious reasons, and let me tell you, for a solitary kid, you spent a *lot* of damned time in company. We had to settle for 'alone with Bruce' and -- you're not listening to a single damned thing I'm saying, are you?"

The Cave. Home. And everything is in the right place, everything is where it *belongs* -- including him.

"Little brother? You with me?"

A place for everything, and everything in its place. Everything --

"Okay, *now* I'm starting to worry. Hey, Fate, that spell didn't scramble anything, did it?"

"Robin is as physically well as he was when we found him, Nightwing."

"And that *would* be reassuring, except for how *not* --"

"I'm fine. I'm all right," Tim says, and turns to face both of them. "Thank you, Dr. Fate. And thank you, Dick."

Dick frowns, but Dr. Fate inclines his head -- and steps back into a shadow which hadn't been there before.

"Well, that's done. Gonna tell me what *that* was about, Timbo? Because -- that was a serious that. It might have even been a *That*."

Tim waits for the blush, but -- it doesn't come. He thinks he might be a little. He thinks. Tim closes his eyes -- and then there's a hand on his shoulder. A gauntleted hand.

"Tim might need some time to rest, Dick."

Tim *squeezes* his eyes shut. That voice. That *voice* --

Dick whistles. "Okay, so Tim's freaking *right* the hell out, and *you* -- are advising some kind of actual mental care? I just want to be sure I've got this straight."

"Dick --"

"I'll *be* fine, Dick," Tim says, opening his eyes and using one of his better smiles. It's all right if it's a little shaky. "That was just... an intense couple of weeks."

Bruce squeezes his shoulder. Or maybe Batman does.

And Dick frowns a little harder. "You're serious? You're going to talk to me about this with actual words, hopefully while we're looking at each other?"

Tim smiles a little wider. "Believe me when I say that there were any number of points during which I was considering how, exactly, I'd talk to you about it, Dick."

*That* makes Dick smile -- and casually tug him away from Bruce and into a hug. The scent is one he's missed *badly*, and had been afraid he'd never have again.

Bruce.

Bruce.

Tim squeezes Dick a little harder than his usual, and Dick makes a quiet sound and turns his face against Tim's ear. When he whispers "I won't say a word," Tim knows that he's using his hair to hide his lips from Bruce's view.

Tim nods, and then Dick lets him go and ruffles his hair. "I'm going to grab some of Alfred's cookies and head back to New York. You both know where to find me."

Tim nods, and the shadows behind him shift enough that he knows Bruce has done the same. He watches Dick go, and thinks about getting out of this uniform and into some serious reconditioning. He hasn't gone this long without daily training since his father was alive, and. And.

Should he have cried for the Bruce he'd left behind? Is it enough for the universe that he's seriously considering doing it right now?

That 'considering' is something of a boldfaced *lie*?

Tim growls -- internally -- and starts stripping out of the uniform, heading toward his workout clothes, and -- "What time is it?"

"One-thirteen," Bruce says, and it *is* Bruce, which means that he really looks exactly as bad as he thinks he does.

Tim rips off the tie, shrugs out of the jacket. "I -- I really will be all right."

"That was never in doubt."

One of his belts is on the first worktable he passes, which suggests that Bruce is still working on that slight lag in batarang release. Good. That kind of thing could get him in trouble.

Bruce.

The second worktable has several items on it, and none of them look quite like they belong in the Cave. Tim pauses and works on the buttons of his shirt --

And stares at the strip of photos from the booth. From --

They're yellowed, cheap photo-paper curling with age, and the photos are. It's.

The book on the table is Triton.

The card is the subscription he purchased --

Tim hears himself make a noise he can't begin to classify --

"The answer is yes," Bruce says, and somehow he'd been shadowing Tim the whole time --

Not 'somehow,' he's *Batman*, and that means everything he did was all right, that he didn't change anything, that he's still --

It means --

The camera Bruce had purchased for him is there, too, and there's an album Tim has never seen before. He touches the cover --

"All of the photographs you took are in there. You can check, if you'd like."

"Bruce." That was strangled. That was barely a *word* --

And Bruce's hand is on his shoulder again, bare this time, large and heavy and *hard* --

"Bruce --"

"Brother," Bruce says, and tugs until Tim is facing him. Facing the *cowl* --

*Think*. "Bruce, I -- I'm sorry. You can't know -- you have to know --"

"I know."

Tim sucks in a breath. "Batman --"

Bruce frowns -- and pulls off the cowl. His hair is as short as it should be, mussed and damp with sweat. The grey is where it belongs in his hair, and the lines at the corners of his eyes are right --

*Focus* -- "I never meant to -- I didn't mean to disrespect your family. And I know that that was the least of what I did, that I betrayed you --"

"Tim --"

"Please, Bruce. You -- it was the first thing that came to mind when I realized where I was. *When* I was. I knew I needed to stay close enough to Alfred to use his contacts -- I." Bruce's hand is on his face, and it's gentle and a little damp, and he'd just --

He'd just *been* like this, in this place with Bruce -- his Bruce.

*Not* his Bruce. "I'm so *sorry* --"

"*Tom*."

That name -- and that *voice*, pure command, and Tim can't even. He's at attention before he can even think about it, though he's willing to bet that his expression is awful. "I'm -- listening."

Bruce takes a breath and steps closer, searching Tim's face, his eyes --

Bruce's lips are parted and his eyes are so *bright*, so -- "Bruce?"

"I've been waiting." Bruce swallows. "I've been waiting for so long, Tom." His voice --

The command is gone, replaced with -- so *much*. "I..." Tim shakes his head --

Bruce tightens his grip, careful of the pressure points -- "My brother."

That doesn't sound like. "You... you aren't angry?"

Bruce *smiles*, and it's familiar and unfamiliar at once. It's *whiplash*, and it takes everything he is not to step closer the way the younger Bruce had taught him to do, the way the smile *demands* --

"Bruce, I don't understand --"

"I trained. I traveled. I sought out mystics and magicians and found countless frauds and forty-eight distinct methods of meditation. I told myself that one day I'd find the right one, or at least be able to approach Dr. Fate as an equal and *demand* that he take me to you. By that point I was willing to take a glimpse, a *moment*..." Bruce shakes his head and smiles wider. "He showed me a squalling infant and told me I could have nothing more."

"Oh. I -- oh." He's blinking too much. He's --

Bruce strokes his cheekbone. "I didn't understand, but I found allies, and even a family. I lost Harvey, and nearly lost Dick for good. I lost Jason, and cursed you for ever convincing me that I didn't have to be alone."

Tim winces and shakes his head --

Bruce tightens his grip again and leans in, and he's not.

He's not close enough to *kiss*, but Tim can smell Alfred's coffee, can feel --

"Barbara came back, but I could offer her nothing. And then..." Bruce smiles again. "You have to understand how perfect it was, Tom. This *boy* I'd somehow never seen, this *boy* who somehow knew everything there was to know."

That -- "But I *didn't* know, Bruce. You never hinted or -- or *touched* -- oh."

Bruce's hand is in his hair, tugging slightly, and that isn't what's working through his mind right now. That isn't --

Every time Bruce pushed him away. Everything he was taught -- in one way or another -- about distrust and *suspicion*. Every moment he *wanted* more, and knew that *Bruce* knew, knew that he was hiding nothing, could never hide from *Batman*. Every --

Every *moment*, and there had been so many. Wasn't it always a little strange the way Bruce almost *pushed* him at Steph? Long before they knew or *could* know anything about her. Pushed them together and held himself apart until nearly the end, until --

"*Steph*, Bruce --"

"She was always yours --"

"She was always *herself*. And you didn't train her enough, you let her --" Tim squeezes his eyes shut and knocks Bruce hand away, steps *back* --

"I couldn't train her the way I trained you. I couldn't ever risk -- I didn't want to change her, Tim. The way I changed you."

Tim. And doesn't he *really* -- "You --" Tim laughs and it sounds just as horrible as it should. He opens his eyes again. "You turned me *into* Tom."

Bruce nods. "As carefully and as thoroughly as I could."

And that feeling... is it sickness? Fear? Hatred? What *is* it, and why is there so much of it? Why can't he ever run *away*?

"I told myself I was protecting the timeline. I told myself that you were too young. I told myself -- many things," Bruce says, and his voice is soft and low. "And I waited for you."

Tim covers his face with his hands and just -- stays that way. For a little while.

Every moment.

Every *gauntleted* touch, and the way it seemed as though Bruce only *ever* wanted him to have relationships with Steph and Dick -- he moves his hands. "You remembered Dick."

Bruce nods, and takes a step closer again, reaching out -- he doesn't touch. Perhaps because Tim is staring at his hand like it's a dangerous *animal* --

"You -- should tell me more. About -- everything."

"I watched you love, Tim. I watched you with Dick, with Kon-El. With Steph and Bart Allen. I wondered if you would ever choose someone truly inappropriate, and what I would do if someone like Lex Luthor entered your life again. I thought... for a long time I believed that Kon-El would lead you to Luthor, unwitting as it might be --"

"You -- you knew that Lex was Kon's human donor?"

Bruce's smile is wry. "Is it because it's so recent that you still call him 'Lex?' Do you miss him, Tom?"

*Tom* -- "I don't -- he wasn't what he is now. You *know* that --"

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "You can't tell me that *you* didn't recognize the seeds of what he'd become --"

"I recognized *Harvey*, too, Bruce -- I'm sorry. I'm -- "

"No," Bruce says, and shakes his head. "If anyone has the right to take me to task for that, it's you. We are... human," and Bruce cups his face again. "And you are so beautiful."

Tim blushes and swallows. "Bruce. We --"

"We were in love. I tried to question that -- especially after I lost Harvey. I looked at it from every angle I could manage, alone in my bed at night. I tried to remember your scent, and told myself that it was proof that it wasn't really love when I couldn't. I held onto your clothes -- they're all in the attic in a space *behind* my mother's things -- and I studied your photographs for signs and clues, and I hated you. But you are so beautiful."

Tim -- takes a breath. "I -- don't. Please don't --"

"The things you said to me, Tom. About wanting 'your' Bruce, about always feeling him to be apart from you, about wanting him for *years* --"

"You *know* it's true --"

Bruce leans in again and -- it's just a brush of his lips against Tim's forehead, it's just -- it's not --

"Bruce -- please."

"Yes," Bruce says, pulling back and looking at him again. "Please. I watched you *learn*, Tom, and there was so much I never needed to teach you about deception. You were always a natural at lying with as much of the truth as possible, and so I watched you and wondered -- is it truly me? Have I done anything at all to make you love me? To make you *primed* for the moment in my past when we would seduce each other?" And Bruce's smile, now, is rueful. "Every time the memories seemed to fade I wondered if I was changing my own past, changing the world and what it would *become*. But you're here now. And you are so beautiful."

"I -- Dick --"

"You never mentioned him. In retrospect, that was surprising, considering how you feel about him. Was it just that you couldn't come up with a context for how you could know someone like him?"

"Yes, Bruce. But -- we shouldn't. What you want -- what you seem to want --"

"Twenty-six years, three months, and seventeen days. Perhaps it's simply 'one of those things' that the hours match up so well. Is it..." Bruce frowns and moves his hands, stepping back again. "I'm older now. Scarred."

"Y-yes. You..." Tim shakes his head. "You're older."

"And you don't want me as I am."

Tim -- blinks rather a lot. "Ah -- Bruce? Didn't we just *establish* --"

"Did we? My first love -- a master of deception. Always careful, always measured. Always sure and cold when cold was needed. Attracted to *Lex Luthor*... because he was such an accomplished liar, himself?"

"I -- that was part of it, Bruce. I could. I felt comfortable around him. I could be... more of who I was. Am. But that's not --"

"You'll have to be very, very careful about encounters with him. He's asked, on several occasions, what happened to you."

"He -- oh. Ah --"

"Of course, he knows I adopted you, and the world knows what you look like... but in my experience, people will doubt their senses until something is shoved in their faces. And the way you move is... distinctive," Bruce says, and the wry expression is back.

And -- *Lex*. What the -- what was he *thinking*? What would he do, or say? He'd been *close* to Lex -- that debacle with Superman and Batman being declared outlaw... had Robin's voice triggered memories? "I didn't think -- I could end the sentence there, but... I had convinced myself that I was in an alternate universe. That I *had* to be in one, because you were so --"

"Unfocused? Inclined toward ignoring the voice in my head as much as humanly possible?"

Tim -- doesn't close his eyes again, but he lets himself shove a hand back through his hair. "It seemed... it helped me stay sane, I think."

Bruce nods. "Tell me. Tell me what I can do to make you want me again. To make you *need* me."

"Because you won't take no for an answer?"

Bruce's expression twists -- it's far more subtle than what would be on his face were he still sixteen, but it's still -- no. It's more. It's so *much* more, because it's --

His Bruce. "No -- not that, Bruce. Not. It's not... no."

Bruce narrows his eyes. "Don't tease me. Please."

Waited. He'd *waited*. Loved and hated and waited, and now he wants an answer, and there's no room for doubt, no room for *sanity*, and Tim wants to run away again and *keep* running, but where would he go?

No, not that. He could go anywhere and do *anything* -- so long as he could still risk his life every night for the greater good. He knows that about himself, knows that 'home' is nothing he ever expected to find -- or find for long. This, here...

It's just that it's Bruce, and that that's the answer to the vast majority of questions that have been in his life since before he ever stepped out of the shadows. "I think... that it will take some time for me to get used to *you* again, as opposed to your teenaged self."

Bruce nods slowly, and Tim wonders, fleetingly, what it had taken for Bruce to develop the ability to stare unblinkingly without pain.

"I. The answer is yes," he says, and has just enough time to *think* about stepping closer, about maybe taking one of Bruce's hands --

Bruce is kissing him --

Bruce is *lifting* him and kissing him, and the armor is hard against Tim's body, *forbidding* --

Bruce is moving him, urging Tim to spread his legs, to lock them around Bruce's *waist* --

Stubble and heat --

*Power*, and Tim isn't sure if this is supposed to seem as different as it does or *not*. He doesn't --

He'd *just* kissed Bruce, and Bruce had been desperate to keep him, to have him --

Bruce strokes down to Tim's ass and squeezes hard, and gasping against Bruce's mouth just means the kiss gets that much deeper, gets --

Can Bruce taste himself in Tim's mouth? The remnants of a kiss he's thought about for a *generation* --

It's almost too much to think about. It *is* too much to think about -- though it's possible that it's just his traitorous mind's way to rationalize giving in to this, to being kissed breathless and *moved*, one slow and steady step at a time to --

Where, exactly?

He could pull back and *look* --

Bruce groans into his mouth, and Tim can't pull back, at all. Bruce's voice is that much deeper, that much *harder*, only he's using it for *this*, and --

*Tim* groans --

And then he's on his back. On the *gurney*, and that -- Tim laughs --

And stops immediately, because Bruce had just grabbed Tim's shirt and *ripped* it open.

"*Bruce* --"

"Forgive me," he says, and tears open Tim's *pants* --

"Jesus, I --"

"Twenty-six years. The last four of which were spent with you close enough to touch, close enough to *smell*," and Bruce doesn't tear his boxer shorts, though he pushes his fingers beneath the waistband and stares at them angrily. "You're not hard enough."

Tim swallows. "I'm still. A little in shock."

Bruce nods -- and then licks a stripe from Tim's navel to his throat --

"Oh --"

"Tell me I can bite you. Tell me I can have everything I *want*."

And Tim feels his penis *twitch* --

"Oh... Tom. Lift your hips."

"Yes. I --"

"Beautiful," Bruce says, and tugs down Tim's shorts with his torn pants. And then he takes off Tim's shoes and socks, pausing to caress each foot. And then he strokes up Tim's legs to his thighs, spreading them wide enough that Tim's legs dangle over the sides of the gurney, and --

Yes, he's getting hard --

"Did you make love to Luthor again that morning, Tom? *This* morning," and Bruce is stroking Tim's inner thighs, and --

Maybe the lack of hair brought it to mind. Or maybe it's just something he'd been thinking about for *just* that long, since Tim had been *speaking* about Lex when Dr. Fate arrived... "We -- stroked each other to orgasm."

Bruce nods and *grips* Tim's penis. "You were going to do it again. You wanted him that *much* --"

"It was more -- I doubted my ability to... resist."

Bruce smiles at him, sharp and *harsh*. "He tried to seduce me once, when we were in our twenties. I was lonely enough to consider it -- but not to ignore the fact that he'd had his father murdered."

It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, unless they consider *Harvey's* father -- "Bruce... the Lex I knew honestly believed in protecting the weak, and in making the world a better place for everyone. He was passionate about it, determined and *focused*. He wanted me to help him --"

"And would you have done so, Tom?  Would you have denied the Mission?"

"I don't think so, Bruce. It's a moot point, now --"

"Can you truly let go of the past so easily?"

"I let go of *nothing*, Bruce. I just... try to adapt, and to leave my more wistful thoughts --"

"For when you are alone," Bruce says -- and wraps one hand around Tim's throat, pushing until Tim is flat to the gurney. "I watched you develop this paraphilia. Holding your breath when you had an orgasm in order to quiet yourself, placing a pillow over your head, using a gorget that was too small to be comfortable..."

"You --" Of course he watched. Of *course* -- "I. You were... tempted."

"I couldn't leave the footage alone. I edited it, slowed it down so that I might savor every movement... when you learned how to stroke yourself the most efficient way, I had to rub and scratch at my own palms, to convince my body it wasn't *time*," and Bruce strokes Tim's chest with his free hand, lingering on scars --

"My scars. You told time by them."

"I had my sketches when I doubted their placement and severity." Bruce *squeezes* Tim's throat. "In your mind... are you Tim or Tom? Is it different now that you're here?"

Tom *really* wants to take over, to give in to every feeling until Bruce can't get any answers from him, at all. Until there's nothing but *noise* --

"I suppose I should allow you to speak... is it understandable that I fear your answer? *Tim* was never mine."

That -- Tim shakes his head, tries and fails to breathe against the constriction -- Bruce eases his grip. "That's *not* true, Bruce --"

"No...? Tim had so *many* lovers -- whether or not he ever allowed them to touch. Tom was far more focused, and would *shake* when I touched him --"

"Tom isn't -- he's not --" Real. Except... *hadn't* he been taking over slowly but surely? Didn't he have his own opinions and *powerful* desires?

And why doesn't it *hurt* for this Bruce to call him Tom?

Tim blushes and covers the hand on his throat, the one just above his navel --

"Tom... there's only so long I can wait."

"*Don't* wait. Don't ever -- you never have to wait," and that was Tom, that had to be Tom, because *only* Tom would give that kind of blanket permission to a man who had *torn his clothes off* --

Tim would like -- very *much* -- to clarify, but Bruce is making a sound somewhere between a hum and a growl and staring into his eyes. Just -- *staring*, and the moment is animal and intimidating, enough that Tim is tempted to pull his legs up and press them together --

Except that that would do nothing about his penis, which is still rising and is currently pointed at the stalactites, because Bruce *wants* -- "Don't *wait*," and he hadn't meant to say that aloud, hadn't meant to --

Bruce is *on* him, making the gurney creak and shift beneath Tim, and the kiss --

The kiss is so much better with Bruce's hand on his throat, with the way it *forces* Tim's head back --

God, *yes*, because Bruce is scratching at him with his other hand, clawing at his abdomen like the massive predator he is, and really, *hadn't* Tim given him his belly?

Certainly that had been Tom's intention -- *fuck*, hand around his penis, and it's almost impossible to take *in* the sensation, as opposed to noting the strangeness of all the calluses, of the hardness and *size* of that hand --

It's the first time, even though it isn't and can't be. It's the *first* time, and so Tim's hands can shake when he rests them on Bruce's shoulders, when Bruce *grunts* and squeezes Tim much too hard -- or possibly perfectly.

He can shake and he can kiss *back*, tug and try to get Bruce to lie *on* him, to crush him a little --

Bruce shakes his head and pulls back.

"Bruce? *Bruce* --"

That stroke is too perfect, too *much*, and it's a *perverse* part of his brain that offers the memory of Lex's fingers curling slowly around him, of Lex's quirked smile and whispered -- '*Now* I feel like one of the guys. Come quickly before I gain the urge to start sniggering whenever someone mentions a woman's breasts.'

No. Just -- Bruce is *smiling* at him, *into* him --

"Luthor again? I'm going to have to try harder."

"You -- another kiss?"

Bruce hums another growl. "There are so many things you can do with your mouth, Tom," he says, letting go of Tim's throat and stroking his mouth with his fingers, and just --

Tim opens his mouth and takes three of Bruce's fingers in, biting and sucking --

"Harvey. Liked to do that. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that sometimes he couldn't stop himself." Bruce shakes his head. "We are minefields. Don't stop," and he pushes his fingers deeper, strokes incrementally faster --

And that, more than anything else, takes Tim back to the last time he'd masturbated *here*, alone in his room with his knees pulled back to his chest and his own fingers deep inside himself, and in his exhaustion the men over him had shuffled and shifted, until Kon had smiled Dick's smile, until Dick stared at him like the Bat, until Bruce had hummed like Clark.

He *hadn't* stroked himself, but if he had it would've been just like this, a rough and implacable *jerk* that some part of his mind had decided, years before, was the best way to simulate being masturbated by another person.

By someone who *needed* him to come, and Bruce --

Looking into his eyes feels like the best mistake he's ever made, because Bruce's eyes are hot and *happy*, as if the arousal he feels is something only right, only *correct* --

Tim rears back until Bruce slips his fingers out of Tim's mouth. "I want -- I have to touch you --"

"You are."

Tim laughs and squeezes Bruce's shoulders. "More. I -- is it. Allowed --"

"*Yes*," Bruce says, and his *voice* --

Tim can't stop himself from arching up, from trying to *shove* himself into Bruce's fist --

"Like that, Tom. Like -- hn," and the kiss isn't hard, but Bruce seems to be trying to reach the back of Tim's throat with his tongue, seems to almost be trying to crawl *into* him, and Tim wants to choke on it, to be strangled by Bruce and everything he *wants* --

He feels himself leaking pre-come --

Bruce groans and *fucks* Tim's mouth with his tongue, slipping his wet fingers around Tim's throat again and squeezing *hard* --

It's too soon for him to be bucking like this, but he can't *stop*. He --

Oh, he's wanted to come for Bruce for so *long*, wanted to show him, wanted him to *want*, and he's stroking Bruce's arms and shoulders, getting *stuck* on the feel of the muscles working, the muscular inevitability --

Bruce bites Tim's lower lip and pulls back, letting go only when Tim has to curl up and *follow* --

"Come for me, Tom," and Bruce eases his grip on Tim's throat *slightly* --

"Nnh -- Bruce, please. I want more --"

"You'll *have* it. But first I'll have your pleasure," he says, and strokes faster, *rougher*, and Tim can't keep the noise in. It's almost a *wail*, and Bruce doesn't choke it off until it's almost over.

Closing his eyes just makes him feel more obvious, *weaker* in front of his *teacher* --

"Tom..."

And he's curling himself up again, pressing against the hand on his throat, arching and thrusting into Bruce's fist --

"Yes, just like that..."

He *wants* to cry out again, wants to give everything, *expose* everything once and for all --

"My beautiful brother. I promise you, we will never be apart again," and Bruce might as well be *threatening* him --

Tom knows that makes it better, that there's nothing more important than having this, *being* this for Bruce --

"You took my loneliness, Tom. You showed me a brighter world, and every time I tried to stray from what you taught me I was broken and *bent*, and forced to acknowledge that you were right all along, that I must *always* find the beauty, the moments of perfect sweetness, perfect *companionship*."

*Bruce*. God, please, please don't stop, *please*, and when Tim opens his eyes, when he tries to remember how to sign that, how to show Bruce what he needs --

Bruce groans and leans in, stopping just far enough away that Tim has to *fight* against the hold Bruce has on his throat in order to be able to take the kiss --

Just the barest brush of lips, just --

And Bruce sighs his name and kisses him back down to the gurney --

Bruce strokes the head of Tim's penis with his thumb, over and over. Tim *needs* the stroke, but Tom just wants to take what he's being given, wants to *know* what Bruce has wanted for this long, what he'll let show --

And then Bruce squeezes Tim's throat *hard* and starts stroking again, rearing up and looking down at Tim, staring *hungrily* --

So --

So close, and the lack of air seems to separate him from the frantic pump of his hips, from the need to take all he can before Bruce stops again --

"I'll never let you go."

And he's all of his body again, trapped and *straining* --

"Once you've come, I'm going to take you upstairs. And then I'm going to *take* you," Bruce says, and his voice is almost *conversational* --

Almost --

"Don't make me wait any longer --"

And the scream is soundless everywhere except within his own head, snapping something free within him, and maybe this time he'll fly apart, maybe Bruce will need to --

To --

And he's spilling all over Bruce's hand, jerking and shuddering --

"*Yes*, Tom --"

Screaming again, and this time there's sound for it -- until he's out of air and struggling, *needing* --

"*Breathe*."

Tim gasps and -- he can feel his hands again, and that means he can scrabble at Bruce's shoulders, stroke his chest and face --

Bruce bites Tim's fingers and holds *on*, and -- he can breathe, and note that his heart is pounding, that Bruce's grip on his throat and penis is loose and somehow *patient*. Tim lets himself fall back to the gurney --

Bruce releases Tim's fingers. "No," he says, and lifts Tim again, carrying him in his arms to -- the stairs, yes. He's naked and Bruce is still in the *suit*, and still the idea of protesting is just --

Twenty-six years, and the last four...

Is this why Alfred had protested his moving back in with his father? *Alfred*, knowing all of this and letting Bruce decide how to *handle* Tim -- and does he really want to ask what Alfred had thought?

*Is* it telling that Alfred hadn't been here for his arrival? And --

Bruce is *jogging* up the stairs, holding Tim tight against him --

Holding *Tom*, and there's less than no reason not to wrap his arms around Bruce's neck, to bury his face against the armor and rub his cheek against it for the whisper --

"Soon," Bruce says, and Tim nods, and doesn't watch the manor go by, doesn't open his eyes or move until Bruce lays him on his bed, and then he only strokes the duvet a little and spreads his legs.

Bruce never takes his eyes from Tim as he strips, as he exposes years of *work*, of --

"*Was* it Ivy who showed you that poem?"

Hunger, and danger, and -- "Yes," Tim says. "She was making a point -- and one of her periodic attempts to seduce me."

Bruce nods and keeps stripping, toeing off his boots and shoving down the tights and shorts. "You may very well be the only human above the age of twelve who has seen that part of the park in two years. She could tell how long ago the poem had been carved?"

"Ah... to the month. She told me that trees remember being alive, and can manage to... hmm. Haunt themselves."

Bruce smiles and stands in his boxer-briefs, and --

"I really can't wait until I can wear that sort of underwear again --"

Bruce smiles *wider* and raises an eyebrow. "I hope to make you change your mind about that," he says, and cups himself through them for a moment that makes Tim *salivate* --

"Bruce --"

"Yes," he says, and peels them off before crawling onto the bed and over Tim. "So much *time*."

"I'm sorry, Bruce. I --"

"You had to come *back* to me, and Bruce strokes down Tim's chest, swiping up a spatter of come and bringing it to Tim's mouth.

Tim licks it off --

"Suck. Please."

It's officially much too soon for his penis to be weighing in with any opinions, but -- just the same. Tim sucks and looks up to meet Bruce's eyes. It's --

His happiness should have a *weight*, should be affecting him more than it is... but he'd gotten used to seeing that expression on Bruce's face, and it's just not that *different*. The lines at the corners of his eyes are deeper, there *are* lines at the corners of his mouth --

And there's a scar at his hairline Tim has never known the story behind, deceptively small, but -- *perhaps* -- snaking back into his hair --

"You must have found it so difficult to limit yourself to judo and karate. You learned so quickly when you were younger -- I was never able to stop myself from teaching you everything I thought you *might* be able to use..."

Tim pulls back and licks his lips. "Ah... Lex knew aikido, as well. He was good enough to never ask how I was able to counter it."

Bruce hums. "I'm sure. And I'm sure he's spent a great deal of time berating himself for never demanding an answer... during those times when he happened to get you in the mood to be honest."

Tim smiles. "To be fair, I was nearly *always* in the mood to be honest, Bruce. Even I get tired of lying all the time --"

"'The role of a lifetime,'" Bruce says and shakes his head. "You were quite brazen at times. Alfred tried -- twice -- to share his suspicions that you were never what you seemed in an attempt to chivvy me from my depression. It worked about as well as you would expect."

Tim winces. "It was a lie that... became true. In a number of ways."

"Yes. Tom," and Bruce leans in to kiss him, still holding himself up on his arms --

"More -- on me," Tim says against Bruce's lips --

And then air is a precious commodity, because Bruce really is that *much* bigger, stronger and larger and -- he has only his fantasies to fall back on, but they're more than enough to let him spread his legs and plant his feet. Bruce is too much taller for him to be able to rub against his penis effectively, but the head of it brushes against Tim's ass periodically, and --

There's something eminently satisfying about this position. Tim hums into Bruce's mouth and pushes his arms beneath Bruce's own, strokes and squeezes and *feels*.

So *many* scars, and all of them are available for his touch, all of them are fair *game* --

I love you, he says with his tongue and teeth, with the way he can catch Bruce's lower lip between his own and press, *hold* --

Bruce cups Tim's face and strokes Tim's cheekbones with the same rhythm he's using for his tongue, slow and *serious*, and there's something --

There's *everything*, the weight and the heat and the *kiss*, and Tim knows that he's flushing all over. His skin is prickling with sweat still beneath the skin, and Bruce's scent is -- different.

Less sharp than it had been before, deeper somehow, muskier for all that the *basic* scent is still the same, still something he'd *recognize*...

He's never spent so much time this *close* to a Bruce who *wasn't* sixteen, and there don't seem to be any limits on how much -- and on how many ways -- it will affect him.

He wants to roll Bruce over and straddle him. He wants them to be on their sides with Bruce's thigh spreading his own. He wants to be on his knees and on his stomach, he wants --

Tim pulls back against the hold Bruce has on his head --

"What is it, Tom?"

"I want -- you said you were going to. Take me."

Bruce smiles and his eyes *glitter*. "So I did. Are you ready?"

For some reason, the 'yes' doesn't come out as easily as he would've expected -- no, he knows the reason. Bruce hasn't asked him if he was ready for anything since the *beginning* of his training, and -- this is anything but training, but --

"Tom. You seem... afraid?"

"More -- panicked. Confused. I'm. There's something of a lag among what I want, what I know you want, what I think you want, what my fantasies suggest, and what *experience* suggests. Bruce... I want you, and that *is* incredibly obvious and something we both know, besides --"

"But you want me to know it even better than I already do," Bruce says, and leans in to nuzzle Tim's mouth. "You want me to realize what it costs you to say it, what it means for you to say it to... this version of me. With all of our history and experience at being anything but lovers."

"*Yes*. That's --"

"You were always my lover, Tom," and Bruce licks a stripe across Tim's lips, continues over his cheek --

*Lex* --

"Perhaps if you thought of it as starting fresh it would be... easier. You are not the same person you were four years ago."

You made *sure* of that -- "I. Bruce, it's not -- it's not *easy* --"

Bruce laughs and pulls back. "Is it supposed to be? When we were young together, I had nothing to stop me but the sense of you being the brother I was never raised with, and *everything* in me wanted that, *yearned* for that -- from the very moment you admitted you shared my desire."

"I." He can see that. He can *understand*, and remember -- kisses in the light of a lamp, and the sounds they'd made, and the way he'd only wanted to make things easier for Bruce, less painful -- no, he was never that altruistic. "You were... yourself. But more open, more -- you showed me everything without a *thought* --"

"Yes, Tom. And now I can do that again. Perhaps I'll find it more difficult now that the world has changed so much, now..." Bruce sighs and kisses Tim, quick and soft. "There has been so much loss. But I don't feel any great need to hide from you right now, and I don't anticipate feeling that need anytime soon."

"I -- noted. I still. I *look* at you and I want to hide --"

"Then think of me watching you sleep. Watching you dream and writhe until the covers tangled around you. Think of me watching you touch yourself -- and you planted many of those cameras, yourself."

Now he's blushing? Really? Tim laughs and digs his nails in against Bruce's back a little --

"Tom --"

"When you call me that... it should and shouldn't make things easier. Certainly, there's some measure of *confusion*. A... split in my mind, because Tom doesn't always want the same things Tim does, and then I have to decide which of them is *right* --"

"Should I try to stop?"

Try to. *Try* -- Tim laughs again and rears up for a kiss, another -- another, and there's no reason not to use his leverage to arch up beneath Bruce, *work* against all that weight and pressure --

And Bruce *forces* Tim back down with his body, and the concept of 'too soon' burns like flash paper, quick and sharp and bright. "T -- Tim."

Tom closes Tim's eyes and shakes his head -- no. Tim closes his eyes and nods -- no.

"You don't know," Bruce says, and his voice is wondering and soft.

"I -- it's complicated --"

"Then we will learn together," and Bruce is shifting and moving, nuzzling Tim's throat and licking, *biting* -- "Let me mark you."

"Y-yes -- *ah* --"

The growl doesn't fade as Bruce bites harder, doesn't *change* until he starts to suck just over Tim's pulse point, and -- twenty-six years to give Tim a hickey. A *second* hickey, and really, Bruce doesn't ask for much at *all* --

And his brain is working with him in one of its more irritating ways, throwing out hysterical humor in order to distract from the fact that a part of him wants to be Tom Wayne more than anything else. There are things Tom Wayne can do, things he can change and *become* that Tim Drake can't even touch.

His father is dead. His mother has been dead for *years*. There's no one to be hurt by this but his own sense of self, and hadn't he been destroying that -- with Bruce's *eager* assistance -- for years?

"My love," Bruce says, and moves to Tim's nipples, sucking each in turn as he strokes Tim's obliques, squeezes and seems to almost test the muscle --

Would it be so bad? Tom wants him to know that it would be something that would make Bruce happy every *day*, a sight that would thrill every time Tim signed something, every time someone else said his name --

*Bite*, and Tim jerks helplessly, gasps and *needs* --

Dick. Barbara. Kon -- would it mean anything to Cassandra, or will he always simply be Robin to her? "*Oh* --"

Bruce hums and continues thrusting into Tim's navel with his tongue, looks up at Tim -- he stops. "You don't have to decide right away."

"No, I -- I know --"

"And you *don't* have to think about it right now," he says, diving in and licking up the length of Tim's penis, pausing at the head to mouth and *press* --

He isn't quite getting hard, yet, but he's close to it. The only thing stopping him is temporal *proximity*, and isn't that just another joke? Bruce is entirely capable of calling him no name at all *until* Tim decides -- "I -- you can. I'm not sure, yet, but you can keep calling me Tom."

And Bruce smiles as if Tim had given him a *gift* -- "Tom," he says, and the name sounds -- low and rich, heady with something other names don't have --

He doesn't know, and the sight of Bruce gripping Tim's penis and sucking the head --

The *feel* --

Bruce doesn't *want* him to think, and Tom believes strongly that Bruce has a point about this, that they should absolutely listen to him, learn from him, always *be* --

Bruce pulls back and pants, licking his lips --

Bruce takes *all* of Tim into his mouth in one long swallow, and Tim's body is searching for discomfort, for the sort of pain which could at least *distract* from the sense of being -- taken. There's none to be had. There's only heat, and the wet *slap* of Bruce's tongue, and the *weight* he feels in his groin as he starts to get hard --

The sound of Bruce humming --

The feel --

There's no hand around his throat, no kiss to bury his noises into --

He could bite his wrist, but Tom thinks that would be cheating -- both themselves and the universe. It has to be enough that he throws his head back and lets the position strangle off some of it, lets himself *wallow*, a little --

And lets himself push his fingers into Bruce's short hair, scratch at his scalp and *try* to pull. The fact that he succeeds only in grinding Bruce's face against his mound isn't, particularly, a bad thing. Especially when Bruce rears back enough to *swallow* Tim --

When his throat closes around the head of Tim's penis and *compresses* --

He'd called Tim his love, on top of a dozen other things that all might as well have been designed to drive Tim crazy -- or spur Tom into doing exactly what he wants to. He *means* it, and that's in everything from the way his throat is working to the way he's stroking Tim's hips, lifting them and dropping them again, squeezing them and lifting enough that he can cup Tim's ass --

Another hum, and Tim knows that it was just a compliment or declaration Bruce hadn't been able to say aloud because that would've involved *stopping*. And --

"I don't -- Bruce, it's good, but you should let me --"

And this hum is low and loud enough to make Tim sure that there's some supernatural ability present here, some way for Bruce to *spear* Tim on his own vibration --

"*Please* --"

Bruce pulls off with a wet sound, a long, slow motion that both seems to last forever and to end much too quickly -- "Are you *ready*."

Because that wasn't it. Because that was only the *beginning*, and Bruce -- "God, yes --"

"Mm. You're not cursing, yet. But I think --" And Bruce moves *fast*, flipping Tim over onto his stomach and *covering* him when he tries to get up on his knees. "Not yet," he says, and bites the back of Tim's neck --

"Bruce --"

One shoulder and both shoulder *blades* --

Tim moans and shifts under Bruce, trying to move, trying for *more* --

Bruce licks the dip of Tim's spine, up and then down again, scraping his teeth as he gets near the base --

"Bruce, *yes* --"

"Brother," Bruce says, *breathes* against the small of his back. "I'll be disappointed if you don't curse for me... soon."

Tim laughs. "Well, I... wouldn't want that. I -- oh *fuck* --"

And that hum was *definitely* a laugh -- it's just that it was aimed directly into his *ass*, because -- *tongue*.

"Tongue. Bruce --"

*Out* and -- "Yes, Tom?"

"You." Tim shudders and pushes up onto his elbows. "I don't actually have anything substantive to say, but the opportunity to take a breath is -- oh my *God*, you did that again."

Another hummed laugh --

"You're -- really going to keep. Doing that. Aren't you? Ah..." Tim shakes his head, but there's no way to shake off either the blush *or* the flush.

He's stuck --

"That feels. Better than it has *any* right to --"

*Out* -- "You were the one who taught me about the nerve endings here, Tom," and Bruce's voice is *scolding* --

"All right, point. Just -- you really want to? That?" And Tim tries to look back over his shoulder enough to *see* Bruce --

Shadows and motion, a flash of pink that could *only* be tongue, and Bruce is sitting up and *massaging* Tim's ass.

"Oh, Bruce. I -- enh. Your hands --"

"But not my tongue? There's a *reason* you never offered this to me beyond the fear of my being squeamish?"

Squeamish. Bruce. Yes, he *is* trying to put a square peg in a round -- hole. Tim laughs at himself. "Okay. I -- the truth is that it never once occurred to me in the list of things we might do together. And that list came up -- a great deal."

"Hmm. I'd like to give this to you. And take this from you. I've found it... vastly enjoyable, in the past."

*Who*? And that flash of jealousy -- no, it's a *knife* of jealousy, cutting through him --

"Tom?"

Tim blushes hard. "Nothing -- no. Jealousy. Um --"

"*Tom*," Bruce says, and Tim doesn't need to see Bruce to *feel* the smile on his face, the *dark* happiness of that admission -- "You were two years old."

"Oh. I -- see. I --"

"The first time," and Bruce spreads Tim wide --

"Oh. God, Bruce. That *feeling* --"

"A difficult pleasure, to be sure. Complex in its implications and attendant emotions. You are... vulnerable to me."

Tim closes his eyes and lets his head hang between his shoulders.

"Tom --"

"I've -- always been this vulnerable."

"To *me*."

Dick... "Ah. At the moment," Tim says, and the smile that makes it into his voice is asking for it in any *number* of ways --

Bruce grunts. "Please tell me that you weren't just thinking of Luthor again. I won't ask you to lie -- you've been doing rather enough of that, lately -- but I will also accept you giving me another name which *could* have fit in that moment --"

"It was Dick," Tim says. "I -- I missed him a great deal. I thought, at times, that I would never see him again, never be able to say the things in. In my heart --"

"He loves you..."

"Like a *brother*, yes," Tim says, and spreads his legs. "I believe you were going to teach me how to broaden that particular definition."

"So I was," Bruce says, and spreads Tim even wider --

"God, Bruce --"

"My advice -- and my plea -- is that you surrender as much as you can."

Tim nods, and --

*In*, wet and deep --

Not deep, not as deep as Bruce's fingers, as Bruce's *penis*, but --

In, and Tim is straining for sound, for something other than the subtle wet noises, anything to make this -- easier. Or --

He needs -- he wants to *talk* to Bruce, wants to say everything he never has, wants to hear the way *Bruce* will talk about them --

*In*, and Tim's body moves in a wave without his permission, without anything resembling control --

Bruce *hums*, and it stops him, freezes him --

Bruce sounds so *pleased*, satisfied to be doing this and *only* this, and Tom wants to wallow in it, to know every little thing about this act, it's pressures and pleasures and possibilities --

Tom wants --

Tim wants to know who had *done* this with Bruce, if the list of possible names is as short as he thinks it is, or if Bruce had been as much more easy and open with the early incarnations of the League as he'd been with the first two Robins.

With --

He'd had this with Jason, and -- what does it mean now that they know that Jason is alive? What happens if Bruce ever convinces him to come out of the cold?

("My love.")

*Could* he be jealous of Jason? He -- the answer is yes, of course. For all that what he's seen of the man is a brutal, murdering asshole, he knows from all of the stories, hints, and snippets of old footage that he hadn't always been that way, and so doesn't have to be that way *now*.

It could be, for Bruce, something a lot like having Harvey back, something --

And the images are too much for his mind right now, but the feeling is right, the same --

He'd liked Harvey so *much*, he'd *wanted* to be his friend, and Bruce had loved --

Bruce had *wanted* this, and had it, and waited --

So fucking *long*. Longer than Tim's *life* --

*In*, and Tim realizes that Bruce had *been* teasing. The slow strokes, the breaks to slip out and lick the outside of Tim's hole --

"*Bruce* --"

This is serious, as low and dark as Bruce's grunt, as desperate and sweet as Tom insists everything with Bruce *should* be, and --

Surrender.

What Bruce wants. What Tom *craves*, and it doesn't matter that he isn't sure if he deserves it, and the concept of safety is as small and ridiculous as it's ever *been* --

("You will never be safe in this life, Tim.")

But that's not what Bruce had *meant* -- had he?

He's moaning now, and Bruce just isn't stopping, isn't even *pausing*. One thrust followed by another, one *delve* after another, and Tim is clenching his fists and his ass, Tim is --

Tom cries *out* when Bruce doesn't thrust in again at the right time, when he licks Tim's cleft, instead, making him wet --

He can hear Bruce's breathing, how rough and shallow it is, how --

*In*, and he's shaking, begging and cursing the way Bruce wants, the way he *remembers*, and Tim wants to leave his scent all over this bed, wants to rub against Bruce until he can't smell himself at all, wants --

He's so *open*, every time the shuddering makes him stop clenching, and Bruce can see it, feel it and know what Tim wants --

Vulnerable *is* the right word for it, because he's the only teenager in this bed, because Bruce has had time and experience to match every last one of Tim's fantasies, every --

"Oh, God, Bruce, *please* --"

Every *moment*, and the time is a weight, a goad and a blow. He can't possibly comprehend everything it meant to Bruce, except that he's supposed to do just that, to accept it and --

Fuck, *in*, and the only thing he'll be ready for after this is to *be* fucked, and a part of him is terrified that Bruce won't want it, that there'll be something else he'll want to introduce Tim to, something strange and new, something wet and *drugging*.

He can't keep his eyes open, he --

He tries to get up on his knees, and Bruce *barely* pauses before pulling his legs out straight again, before spreading him wide enough that the cool air teases his cleft and makes him choke out a noise that goes on too long before the *thrust* shuts him up again.

This -- he goes back and forth between *needing* to thrust against the bed and needing to get his penis *clear*, to stop himself from losing it entirely --

*Surrender*, but only Tom knows what that means. Everything in Tim's *life* has been about *never* surrendering, to *anything*, no matter how good it felt, no matter how close to his own edge he found himself --

Another grunt, and it feels like Bruce is *looming* over him, like every shadow -- whether or not Tim can *see* it -- belongs to him and only him --

Every shadow *should*, and Bruce was never supposed to be everything to him, Bruce --

It was supposed to be *Batman*, that's what he was taught, what he was *given*, but --

So wet. So *insidious*, and clenching only makes it easier to feel the way Bruce's tongue is moving in him, the way it goes so *deep* --

So --

He cries out again, and it's not Tom, at all, or --

Tom is *in* him, and always has been, Tom knows what *all* of this means and can take it, Tom was *made* for Bruce, in every possible way --

And that was a sob, and another --

Oh, please, oh, *please* --

Don't *stop*, he screams, and he's afraid that it's only in his mind, that Bruce won't realize and will *leave* him the way Tim had left *him* --

He couldn't take it, he couldn't --

There's no one --

Tim's cheeks are wet and he's flat to the bed, somehow, arms stretched out and hands *clinging* to the duvet --

No, he's clawing at it and humping the bed, pushing back against Bruce's face and fucking *crying* --

Is this what surrender means?

Could this make him come? And -- what would that mean? What would it *do* to him?

"Fuck me. *Fuck* me --"

Bruce *growls* and tightens his grip on Tim, and now it's fast, as hard as this could *possibly* get --

"Bruce, *please* -- *hn* --"

Bruce *holds* himself inside Tim, and -- his hands are shaking. He's *moving* Tim with the force of it, and it shouldn't feel this *good* --

"Need you. I *need* you, Bruce, I've always -- oh, *fuck* --"

Bruce pulling out, Bruce *biting* Tim's cheeks, licking and holding, shoving back in, and Tim pushes up onto his hands but can't make himself stop digging in with his nails --

"*Please*, Bruce, please, I'm begging, please fuck me, take me --"

Bruce pulls out and licks up Tim's spine -- "*Yes*," he says, growled and low, and Tim shoves against the sheets for the twitch of his own penis, for the feel of Bruce's against the curve of his ass, hard and *slick* --

Tim sobs again and *drops*, scrubbing his face against the duvet, he can't let Bruce see, can never let --

"My beautiful boy. My perfect lover. My little *liar* --"

"*Bruce* --"

"Everything you want is what I *need*," he says, and he's moving Tim, turning him -- "Up on your knees."

Tim groans and does it, shaky and *weak*, and there's the sound of a drawer opening, the sound of himself sobbing as he pants --

And Bruce enters him with two slick fingers, slow as his tongue, deep --

*Deeper*, and Tim knows he's all but screaming, but yes, God, *yes*, and there's no way to stop himself from shoving back against Bruce's hand, from trying to get every last *millimeter* --

"I understood your not wanting to do this at school, Tom --"

"I'm *sorry*, please, *please* --"

"It was easy to tell myself that you hadn't truly enjoyed this as much as I remembered... until I watched you taking yourself in your bed here --"

"Begged. In my mind. Begged for *you* --"

"And sometimes aloud. I *ached* to give you what you wanted, and I watched you stretch yourself more and more, knowing that, at least in part, you were readying yourself for me --"

"Shower. Watched you. *Studied* --"

"You were so *young*, and you weren't yet my love. But I could've made you that way, could have... and ruined my own past, the sweetness I could taste..."

There's nothing he *can* say to that, but mostly that's because Bruce is *fucking* him with his fingers, slicking him all over and leaving him wet, ready --

"Shall I take you the way I did then? Face to face?"

"I don't -- I don't know. I can't --"

"You *can*. You -- hn. You always can, and sometimes I knew I'd never have your perfection, your control and the way it was always present even when you were in extremis --"

"N-no. No control. No *control*, Bruce, fuck me, don't *wait* --"

"But I've waited so long for *this*, as well," he says, twisting his fingers and *crooking* --

Tim screams and feels himself *blank*, feels himself absent from his own body and --

"Did you give this to Luthor?"

*Lie* -- no. "Y-yes. I couldn't -- I *wanted* it --"

"And he wanted to penetrate you. No -- to *fuck* you, dominate you until you couldn't imagine being anyone else's."

Tim shudders and remembers Lex's *eyes*, the moments of softness and the moments of instinctive *greed* --

"You let him hurt you."

It's not a question, and that means -- that means he still has to answer. "Yes. I -- *Bruce* --" That *thrust* --

"If you called my name like that every day from now on... it would still not be enough for my jealousy, Tom. For my *hunger*. And -- you nod as if you understand. I think you do. I think you *must*, and I remember the way I might have feared you if I hadn't been so alone..."

"Please. Please, I --" Tim shakes his head and tries to urge Bruce faster, *harder* -- "I need you. I love you -- oh, *God* --"

Three fingers, and Bruce's *sighing* growl, Bruce's other hand beneath him, pressing up against Tim's chest and stroking down --

Scratching down until Tim is jerking and *writhing* --

"I wanted to give you everything then, Tom. I *can* give you everything now."

"*Please* --"

"Will you take it?"

"*Yes* --" But that was Tom, that wasn't -- he doesn't know anymore, he --

Bruce is moving him again, pulling Tim *up* onto his knees and pulling out --

"Oh, God, no, *no* --"

"*Now*," Bruce says and *pulls* Tim down onto him, opens Tim with his penis --

Bigger. God, he hadn't thought, but --

*Bigger*, and a part of Tim is thinking seriously about calling a pause for Bruce to prepare him a little more, but --

"My *love*."

But somehow, instead, he's reaching up and back, wrapping his arms around Bruce's neck and *breathing* --

"Yes. Yes, Tom, like that," Bruce says, and there's an *edge* of something soothing in his voice, but it's nearly buried under hunger, under *lust* as he keeps pulling Tim down --

Down and *down*, and he has to keep breathing, has to ignore the burn, but not the fullness, never that, oh --

"So many years, Tom. Most of my *life* --"

Tim whimpers and his breathing hitches, he can't --

"*Breathe*, Tom."

*Yes*, he can, and this is where not surrendering comes in, this -- oh, God, it just keeps *going*, and the urge to call Bruce 'big guy' doesn't deserve to be *anywhere* in this room --

"Almost. Almost there..."

Tim nods and tries not to gasp, tries to let the *rasp* of Bruce's voice scour his body into *obedience* --

"*Touch* yourself --"

"No. No, not yet, please, not yet --" And the rest is a *cry*, because Bruce is biting his neck, Bruce is --

Oh, Tim can feel Bruce's *hair* against his ass --

He would never have had that with Lex -- *no* --

Tim shakes his head and clenches helplessly --

Bruce groans against the skin of Tim's neck and shudders, thrusts *slightly* --

"Oh, fuck. Fuck. *Fuck* --"

"*This* is what you wanted from me."

"*Yes* --"

"Know that I wanted to give it to you. Every time you smiled at me a certain way. Every time you -- hn -- made a clever *joke*. Every day after you learned to move. Every *moment* you showed me your control --"

"You -- you wanted to *break* it --"

"*Yes*," Bruce says, and then there's an arm around Tim's neck --

Choke hold, just loose enough to let him take thin *sips* of air, and Tim can't stop himself from scratching at the back of Bruce's neck, at his hair --

"Tell me you want this."

"I *want* it, Bruce --"

"Tell me you'll give me *everything*."

"Oh, God, Bruce, I already -- yours. You know that, you *know* that --"

"*Mine*," Bruce says, and starts pulling *out*, and it doesn't matter that Tim knows what's coming, because Bruce is still taking too much of Tim *with* him, and --

"Please no, Bruce, please *no* --"

And Bruce tightens the hold *as* he thrusts, and the only thing Tim can do is throw his head back and open his mouth on a breathless, soundless *scream* --

No, he can clench -- no. He can breathe through it, squeeze his eyes shut and *focus* --

"*Again*," and Bruce is pulling out slowly, so *slowly* --

*In*, and Tim slams himself back and down for the next scream, the next --

The *next*, and he's already shaking, leaking pre-come *steadily* and twitching, begging with his whole body because he can't *breathe* to beg with his mouth --

"*Tom*," and Bruce isn't stopping now, isn't hesitating so much as a *moment* between thrusts, and Tim is in the past again, bent in half and needing exactly what he's getting, Bruce's wonder and pleasure, Bruce's *relentless* fuck, because he knew enough to know what Tim wanted, what Tom needed, and the fact that he feels like he's *cheating* on Bruce --

Feels like he's hurting someone, denying someone --

He fell in love with the adult and knew he'd never *have* him. He fell in love with the teenager and couldn't stop himself, couldn't *resist* the pull, the need and the fear and the *pleasure* --

So *much*, and Tim knows that part of the problem is the schism between those two things, the way he'd known from the beginning that he'd be going back to a place where nothing like this could ever --

God, so *full*, and at some point he'd moved his hands to Bruce's massive arm, that he's squeezing it and stroking it even as he works his hips, forcing himself to take Bruce's rhythm, take everything Bruce wants to *give* him --

"The feel of you, Tom. Your *heat*, and I --" Bruce groans and thrusts *faster* --

Please. *Please*, and Bruce can't *hear* that, but Tim knows he knows it's there, that he's begging and pleading --

"I'll never give this up again. I won't *let* you get away from me."

Never safe, never alone, never cold and never *safe* --

"When I made love to Harvey I could feel the ghost of your jealousy."

God --

"When I made love to Clark, I dreamed of showing you *everything*."

*Thrust* and he's off rhythm, he can't -- there's no *air* --

"When I made love to Jason -- hnn. You were with me the way you'd promised. You kissed him while I took him into my mouth. You cursed with him while I entered his body. You --"

Air, and Tim gasps, shudders and -- "Please, Bruce. Please -- oh *God*, don't stop, don't -- I think I'll scream --"

"*Do* it, Tom. Loud as you were that -- that New Year's --"

Jason. *With* him, and the images are all wrong, all --

Jason's *smirk* and Bruce's fingers, Jason's broad and soft mouth on him instead of a fist, a knife at his throat --

Tim groans at the feel of himself clenching, the feel of his body trying and failing to *cope* with Bruce --

He has to *breathe*, to stay with this --

"Hn -- Hurts. *Bruce* --"

"*Yes*," Bruce says and strokes Tim's chest with his free hand, finds Tim's nipple and *pinches*, and Tim can't stop his hips from jerking even further off rhythm, can't --

And Bruce shifts until it's just his *hand* around Tim's throat -- and his other hand is on Tim's sac, rolling it and squeezing as he thrusts over and *over*. His breathing is almost *labored* and --

"I don't. Want this to *end* --"

Tim opens his mouth, but the only thing that comes out is a groan, just -- burn, pressure --

He's so *hard*, and there's nothing stopping him from stroking himself, but --

"I want -- want your hand on me -- *Bruce* --"

Another bite, another squeeze, and Bruce is thrusting faster, not bothering to wait for Tim to be in the right position, or -- God, he wants to be on his *hands* and knees, wants --

"Sometimes. Sometimes I would *crawl* onto my bed, Bruce --"

"And pause there, *shivering*. Dreaming of me behind you, holding you there --"

Tim nods and groans again, and this is -- his cheeks are almost dry again, but that won't *last*. "So hard, so *hard* --"

"What you *want*," and Bruce bites him again, growling loud and *harsh* --

And that was still more of a gasp than a sob, but he can feel his body *trying* to clench again, to resist if not reject, but he knows that would hurt too much, take too much *of* him --

*Clench*, and that *was* a sob, and another because he can't stop, because Bruce *won't* stop --

He's shaking his head --

Bruce squeezes his throat and *holds* there, just for a moment, for long enough to make Tim shudder again, try to *speak* --

Bruce stops biting and licks all the way to Tim's ear -- "Is it right? Is it -- what you dreamed?" And Bruce eases his grip --

"Knees. Hands and knees --"

"*No*, I -- not yet," Bruce says, and wraps his hand around Tim's penis -- "This."

Tim nods and closes his eyes, trying -- maybe if he can't *see* Bruce's hand he can find something like the right rhythm, something --

No air again, and shoving himself back on Bruce's penis makes him try to scream --

*Succeed*, because Bruce is *squeezing* rhythmically, too, because it's all *one* rhythm, and Tim doesn't think --

Can't think, can't -- this is what it means to be *used*, taken and forced higher until all he can do is *shake*, struggle and writhe for more, deeper --

*Air*, enough for more than one gasp because Bruce is stroking his face, his mouth --

Fingers *in* Tim's mouth, but he can't remember how to *suck* effectively. He's mouthing and licking, groaning and sobbing, and even knowing that Bruce would start to fuck him *this* way isn't enough to keep him from yelling around those fingers when he starts --

When he strokes --

When he shoves in and in and *in*, groaning Tom's name and love, and mine, and *more*, and Tim feels his eyes rolling back in his head and -- gives up.

Just --

All of this, every sensation, every moment of real *pain* when Bruce thrusts, when he *flexes* --

The tight *thing* at the base of Tim's spine which Bruce ought to be able to feel --

So warm and so *close*, more so with every moment --

Wet fingers on his lips and down over his throat, his chest --

And when Bruce *twists* Tim's nipple he cries out louder, lets his body struggle and shake as much as it wants to, lets Bruce *have* everything --

There's nothing to fear --

There's nowhere to *go* -- not anymore.

Tom smiles for him, broad and dazed by the feel --

And doesn't stop when Bruce starts jerking him fast and *hard*, the way Tim does when he's angry, wired and desperate and needing things he knows he'll never have, only it's Bruce's strong hand --

Bruce's power --

Bruce's *pleasure*, and the way he's grunting with every breath, now, sharp and hitching things that move his chest against Tim's back --

And somehow it's *profound* that Bruce is going to come, that it's *his* body that's giving Bruce this --

"*Mine*," Bruce says, and that's enough to --

Oh, God, *wait*, except --

Tim *screams*, voice breaking in the middle, and Tim can actually feel the moment when his body decides to ejaculate, that pause when there's nothing but how perfect everything is, that feel of Bruce pushing *in* --

And then there's nothing but his orgasm, and the way it seems to radiate out from the core of him, centered on more than just his penis --

White-out --

*Time*, and he doesn't know how long it is, he can't *tell* by the feel of himself shooting, spurting and crying out --

His cheek is against the duvet and his ass is in the air -- Bruce isn't *in* him, and -- had he passed out? "Bruce --"

"A moment," he says, and strokes down Tim's cleft with one finger --

"*Ohn* --"

"To enjoy the view."

Tim closes his eyes and pushes up onto his hands. "*Not* too long --"

"Your recovery time is... entirely age-appropriate," Bruce says, and there's a *laugh* in his voice, even though he has to be --

Tim reaches back and finds air, Bruce's thigh -- and the head of Bruce's penis, because he's lowering it for Tim. Just -- *slick*. Big and hot -- "Bruce, *in* me --"

"A *moment*," he says, and it's an anger Tim can't quite touch with his post-orgasmic endorphin buzz, but --

He can wait. He pulls his hand back and braces himself -- on his elbows.

Bruce laughs softly. "I remember... you were *just* this shameless, this -- open."

"I -- we'd gone too far. I needed you --"

"And I needed to be *taught*. You did everything in your power to show me this could be enjoyable. You knew that if I watched you taking yourself I'd need to do the same. Never before nor since have I been so pleasurably manipulated."

Tim closes his eyes, but -- "I. Needed you. I would've done -- there was nothing I wouldn't have done to get you to fuck me that night, Bruce."

And Bruce rests his hands on Tim's ass and strokes, squeezes -- "Do you *want* me to come inside you, Tom?"

He's so open right now that it would only hurt if Bruce *wanted* it to, and -- "Yes. I -- know the length of time I've waited is negligible --"

"Years for me. Or... me," Bruce says -- *Batman* says, and --

"Oh, fuck. Oh -- Batman --"

Bruce growls, low and menacing and *lazy*. "Did you think I wouldn't remember the way you reacted to this voice?"

"You -- *trained* me with that, you always -- *fuck* --"

Spread again, and Tim's body insists that the cold on his cleft is *just* like what the gauntlet would feel like, just what *he* wants, and never --

Never *Tom* --

"Robin. Do you know what you're asking for."

Tim moans --

"*Answer* me."

"*Yes*. Anything, Batman, everything you want, please *want* --"

"Do you think you can take the pain."

Tim's eyes try to roll back up *again* -- no. "I *want* it. You know I'm ready, you know I've *waited* --"

"And prepared yourself," Batman says, and it's the same purr he uses when a target is on the *edge* of breaking, because he knows he's going to get exactly what he wants.

"Don't -- don't make me beg, Batman. It's not -- we're *partners* --"

"You tried to tell me the truth --" That *wasn't* Batman, and Bruce cuts it off, growls again, and Tim wants to tell him it's all right, that he can --

It's *allowed*. "Bruce, you don't have to --"

"I *have* to give you what you *want*, Tom," and that was Bruce and Batman together, an echo Tim's mind insists is there, a temporal shift --

"All of you, Bruce. The way I reacted to the Voice -- it was because I was having *you* for a moment, the man instead of the teenager -- please."

"I wanted to grow up with you so *badly*, Tom --"

"I wanted it, too, I want you and you're *here* --"

"Yes. *Here*," Bruce says, and lets go of Tim with one hand, and -- he's wrapping it around himself, guiding --

The first nudge makes Tim gasp -- and *shout* because Bruce doesn't pause. All the way *in*, and Bruce's sac slaps against his own --

And being down on his elbows was a *good* idea, because every thrust is as hard as the first, as *long* --

"Give -- your pleasure, Bruce, your --"

"*Yes*," sharp and brief, as if making noise would distract from the feeling too much. Bruce is *silent* except for his breathing, except for the wet sound of his thrusts and the slap, over and *over* --

"Good. So -- oh God, it's *better* --"

"How."

"No -- distractions. Just your body, your *need* -- fuck, *ow* --"

"I won't. Stop --"

"Don't want you to, don't -- God, *show* me, Bruce --"

"*Lover* --"

"*Brother*," Tim says, smiling again and -- yes, he can catch Bruce's rhythm, pull forward when he slips out and *slam* back --

"*Son* --"

"*What*? I -- never mind. Never -- Jesus, Bruce, you -- we need to talk about kink. Sometime -- *hnnh* --"

Bruce *laughs* -- just for a moment before he gasps and moans, but it was *there*, which means -- *what*?

There's something of an urge to call a halt, to make Bruce *talk* about this while he's still -- one hopes -- too hard to *think*, but --

Oh -- God. *Wave* of feeling and he's shivering, sweating and moving, and the rhythm is so perfect, so *easy*. He could do this for hours and, perhaps, there'll be a point when he *can*.

Sometime when they both ache too much to come, when dawn feels like something that happens to another sort of person, entirely --

Bruce is shaking now, his hands unsteady on Tim's hips, sliding in Tim's sweat and Bruce's own as he grips, releases and grips *again* --

"I love you," Tim says --

And Bruce loses his rhythm entirely, gripping hard and slamming in, pausing and grinding, *adjusting*, slamming in again, and again --

Tim smiles helplessly. "Just like that, Bruce. Don't stop now --"

"I *can't* --"

"It's all right, it's -- I think I forgive you for everything --"

"*Tim* --"

Tim gasps -- really?

"I -- my love --"

He's definitely not going to call Bruce 'Dad' -- unless Bruce opens a sexual encounter by first making another attempt to increase Tim's alcohol tolerance -- "*Mine*," Tim says, and tries to follow Bruce's motion as best he can --

Except that Bruce has *stopped*, buried deep and shuddering hard enough Tim can feel it in his *teeth* --

"Bruce --"

Bruce groans and *jerks* inside Tim, coming and thrusting short and hard and something not *enough* like endless, and Tim thinks of Bruce collapsing on him, perhaps panting against the back of his neck --

It doesn't happen, but Tim thinks he can live with that, especially since the alternative involves being able to breathe and feel -- everything. The burn that spreads out from his ass, the occasional sharp twinge that means Bruce has left him *raw* -- "You're going to comment on the ways I do -- and don't -- sit down tomorrow, aren't you?"

"You responded so positively to my adolescence, Tim. How could I not?"

Tim. Tim. He -- probably shouldn't be tense.

Even though it makes Bruce start stroking him, rubbing it away before he can decide exactly *why* he was tense and what he's going to do about it --

"Bruce..."

"Should I consider it a measure of how well you adapt even to the most difficult and strange situations? Or should I simply call you... Tom?"

Tim closes his eyes and lets his head hang, breathing and trying to think about -- something. Anything other than the *argument* in his head, and how he knows it will probably never get any less strident than it is right now, when he's both satisfied and filled.

"I'm perfectly willing to resort to epithets and pet names --"

"Don't finish that thought," Tim says, and Tom wants him to be more *open-minded* -- "I... worry, somewhat, about how to explain the fact that you're calling me 'Tom.' More than I worry about you actually doing it."

Bruce hums and strokes back down to Tim's hips, squeezes --

Tim focuses on his breathing while Bruce pulls out, wincing at the immediate spill of semen down his cleft -- a shower would be a very, very good idea, whether or not he'll be alone for it -- Bruce pulls Tim up and into his arms, turning his head and offering a kiss --

That kiss. *That* kiss, the one from his fantasy, the one from his memory --

Tim groans and shudders, clenches and shudders *more*, raw and remembering, body moving for it --

Until it's over, and Bruce pulls back, a question in the way he's holding Tim, in the way Tim can *feel* him looking even though his eyes are closed --

"I. I think." Tim shakes his head.

"Was it wrong?"

"*No* -- no," Tim says, breathing and opening his eyes. "You know it wasn't wrong --"

"Memory can play tricks --"

"*Not* yours. I..." Tim laughs and presses back against Bruce, rubs. "I never thought about how... artificial that kiss was, how much it had to do with the... the *you* I built in my fantasies --"

"I want to *be* your fantasy --"

"You're too much for that, Bruce. You just..." Tim smiles and shakes his head. "Everything you do, everything you *are* -- surpasses. And I have to live with that. Um. Somehow."

Bruce kisses Tom's forehead. "Yes, you do."

Heh. Well... *Bruce*, yes, and no one else. Never anyone else. Tom shifts again and -- winces. And smiles.

"Yes?"

"I don't think words can express how very much the fact that I had been showering communally for years helped."

"Brentwood," Bruce says, and squeezes, "was far too modern."

"Mm. The dorm mothers weren't even especially out to get the poorer -- or browner -- students."

Bruce hums again and kisses the top of Tim's ear. "I wondered, often, how Harvey put up with my naiveté and ignorance."

Tim tilts his head back and rolls it against Bruce's shoulder a little. "Charm. Anyone who truly knew you then would've wanted to be near you --"

"And now, Tim?"

He -- doesn't wince, but Bruce strokes his chest anyway. Long, even strokes designed to soothe -- and possess.

"My beautiful brother. I've learned regret over the years, and I can't help but feel as though I've gone too far. I realize that the sentiment is late, but I assure you that it's heartfelt."

"Tom... no. I was going to say that he doesn't have a *history*, but the truth is that he does. A not-unhappy childhood filled with intimacy from the first moment, so that even the bad times were... warm," Tim says, and strokes Bruce's arms, reaches up and wraps *his* arms around Bruce's neck --

"And you can imagine such a thing?"

"I pretended I was Dick... often. It didn't feel wrong -- especially when I had you to respond to it."

Bruce laughs quietly. "I had... wondered. You were never like that with your other loves. Even with Stephanie, you were always reserved."

He *wants* to protest that, but -- but. She'd needed him that way, loved Robin before she knew anything about Tim Drake, at all -- Tim nods. "Tom had a brother he loved more than anything else, and a Mission that brought them together even as it *hurt* his brother. And his brother's pain drove him, Bruce, forced him to find as many ways as possible to *ease* it --"

"You did. More than anyone else --"

"Others *could* have, Bruce. If they knew the Secret. And the secret *beneath* the secret --"

"You taught me that I didn't have to be alone... but you are still the only one who knows about the Bat."

The only -- but who else *would*? Who else *could* without... trying to get Bruce help. Trying -- "You showed me --"

"You needed to know. And I needed to see, for myself, that you wouldn't balk, even though I'd given you every reason to."

"You -- you'd stopped trusting me, or. It seemed that way. I'm going to have to spend a good deal of time rewriting my past no matter what I choose, it seems," he says, and the prospect is... just another job of work. Tim smiles to himself and presses closer --

"Tom," Bruce says, and -- hugs him, tight and strong and entirely lacking in attendant tragedy and horror.

"I could get used to this --"

"I'll never let you go. I'll be jealous and moody when you feel the need to share yourself with someone else. I'll be pettish and immature when you come back to me. I'll need you until I die."

Tim bends his arm enough that he can stroke the back of Bruce's head. "I know."

And they're quiet for a time, just breathing together and occasionally shifting -- until Bruce picks Tim up and lays him out more or less the way the bed suggests. Tim sits up on his elbows, Bruce pushes him down and lies beside him, stroking his chest again and resting on *his* elbow.

"All right, I'll stay. Bruce --"

"I can't believe you had sex with Lex Luthor."

"You -- really are planning to beat me with that stick until *I* die, aren't you?"

"*You*, Tom. With everything you knew about him and the way his mind works, everything he's *done* --"

"He was *sixteen*! Like you. Like *Harvey Dent* --"

"I," Bruce says, and smiles exactly like he's laid the flaying knife with the grain and is ready to begin, "had no way to know. For all that hindsight offered any number of warning signs. And -- you never *tried* to warn me."

"It was a lesson you had to learn for yourself --"

"Ruthless," and the *relish* in Bruce's voice is -- warming. Rather.

"There's also the fact that I honestly believed I was in an alternate universe. Harvey showed *me* no signs of imminent psychological collapse --"

"And Luthor showed no signs of incipient megalomania?"

Well...

"Hm."

"It was a *positive* megalomania --"

"If I'd known you found dictators attractive, I would've procured a uniform and several medals of dubious origin. Perhaps a truly virile mustache?"

Virile. "As opposed to some other sort of mustache, entirely?"

Bruce's smile is... predictable. "The ladies love a good 'stache, baby boy."

"I saw that coming, and yet I found myself paralyzed by the crushing weight of my distaste."

"So long," Bruce says, and rests his hand between Tim's nipples, "as you stay *exactly* where you are."

Tim gives up and laughs, and covers Bruce's hand with his own. "Do you *really* want to know why I found Lex irresistible?"

"I could mention something about the *amount* of time I've spent weighing that very question in my mind, but I think you've already taken that to heart, Tom."

Tim nods and lets himself think about it. "Lex's smile -- the real one. His body. His scars. His hairlessness save for his lashes and brows -- shallow concerns I allowed myself to enjoy shallowly. But... he was a passionate advocate for the rights of the weak and abused. He was brilliant and funny -- when we were alone -- and always made it abundantly clear that he was saving that for me --"

"The power of exclusivity...?"

"A temptation dearly appreciated," Tim says, and traces Bruce's knuckles and the dozens of small scars there for anyone with a will to look. "He was an accomplished liar, having convinced nearly everyone that he was a ravenously bisexual dilettante -- when in fact he'd never been with someone male before me. It made him both shy and aggressive, angry and willing to acknowledge that anger and work through it, so that he never actually took it out on me. He was *curious* about me, and he always knew when I was telling him a story as opposed to something true. He *called* me on it -- but never tried to force me to *be* honest once I told him that there were secrets I would just never tell."

"You do realize that he planned to discover the truth for himself some other way."

"Mm. Detectives can be so *sneaky*, don't you think?"

Bruce frowns. "Tom --"

"If I'm still Tim in my head, does that mean... anything? At all?"

"A part of me will always be sixteen."

"A part of you will always be *eight*, Bruce, but -- yes, all right. Being Tom Wayne was easy much of the time -- easy enough that I started having moments where I honestly considered giving up on Tim Drake, entirely, since all *he* could do was lie... and he'd never had a brother like you," Tim says, and smiles ruefully at Bruce.

"He has a brother in Dick."

"Yes, and without him Tom couldn't have existed at *all*, but for all I knew I was stuck there..." Tim shakes his head. "Anyway, in case I've somehow failed to be clear: Lex gave me things you couldn't -- at the time. I could *spar* with him, Bruce, and -- God. I hadn't been there a *week* before I felt as though I was in *prison*, physically --"

"You taught me much... but I think I understand. You were able to be enough of yourself with him that everything else became secondary," Bruce says, moving his hand from beneath Tim's own and stroking Tim's face with his fingertips. "It answers more than one question, but you should know that you wouldn't have to change anything about yourself to be the Tom I'm in love with. You may have mined your relationship with Dick for cues on how to be a brother to me, but the tenderness, the warmth, the *ease* of our intimacy... I was naive and lonely *then*, but I've earned a measure of confidence in my deductive abilities.

"Everything Tom Wayne is, you are. As well as being many things he could, perhaps, never be."

"And... that's what you want."

"That's what I will *have* -- by any name you choose," Bruce says, and taps Tim's mouth.

Tim nods and shifts -- and if he does much more of that, the duvet will be a *dead* loss, as opposed to simply a source of things Alfred probably never wants to think about. And... if there's anyone in the *universe* who can understand a gaping wound of an identity problem... it's Bruce. It will be all right.

"Of course, if you *do* wish to be Thomas Wayne the second, I've had the paperwork ready for quite some time," Bruce says, and his smile is exactly as deadly as it should be.

'All right' possibly needs a broader definition. "Bruce."

"Tom."

"I... suppose I'll just have to keep that in mind."

"Please do."

Tim laughs and bangs his head against the pillow three times --

"Yes?"

Four, and -- he's done. "We really shouldn't traumatize the family in too many different ways at *once*, Bruce. I mean, the fact that we're sleeping together -- in part because of the relationship we had when you were *sixteen* -- is really *enough*. *Without* mentioning the part where you think of me as your --" Son? *Really*? "*Actual* relative."

"Dick seemed willing to accept -- and willing to keep the secret, if you so chose."

Of course he'd picked up on that whisper -- he had *vivid* memories of what Dick had seen occur. But -- "I just think it would be better to be fairly open about this, Bruce. We *don't* want it to come as a nasty shock to anyone, and, well... I'm a bit sick of secrets where they aren't strictly necessary."

"Understandable," Bruce says, and he sounds... entirely willing to take Tim's lead on this.

Tom's lead. Which... there's something to be said for precedent. "I'd like... for us to go down to the Cave and try very, very hard to pummel each other into the mats. No holds barred, dirty tricks encouraged, every possible martial arts style, no limit on falls -- until such time as I'm hard enough to fuck your mouth."

"You have other options for that last."

Tim smiles. "Oh. I do love an older man."

"Noted," Bruce says standing and offering his hand.

Tim takes it, and isn't especially surprised to find himself hauled close once more -- not kissed. "Yes?"

"Welcome home."

end.



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