Gibraltar may tumble
by Te
July 12, 2007
Disclaimers: All belong to DC.
Spoilers/Timeline: No spoilers. A good decade before
Year One.
Summary: Harvey -- isn't really sober, at all.
Ratings Note/Warnings: Teen-friendly.
Author's Note: The inevitable result of thinking about
the Bruce in this story of Petra's.
Acknowledgments: Of course it's for Petra.
*
"I -- I can't believe she *left*."
Harvey -- isn't really sober, at all. He usually doesn't drink,
but he's already done with his finals for the semester. He
won't be going home tomorrow, but there are a lot of
people...
Bruce still has a Physics exam. This is not the only reason he
wasn't celebrating with the others. This isn't -- Harvey isn't
his roommate this year, but he'd been very loud, very happy
and --
"I mean, she was gonna -- oh, Bruce, you should've *tasted*
her."
Harvey is usually very serious. Bruce had been... he'd had
to see. And Harvey, right now, can't tell how much he's
blushing, as opposed to how much he's straining with
Harvey's weight.
He's very...
"And -- hey, are *you* drunk? How are you even sure we're
going the right way, hey?" Harvey's punch isn't as light as it
could be, but it's quite off-center.
"I'm sure. I've got you," Bruce says, and hitches Harvey
closer, nods a little stupidly at the feel of his arm around his
shoulders.
"Well, one of us has to be. And -- mmm. She wasn't wearing
lipstick. None of that weirdly greasy stuff."
He's talking about Beryl Waterford, who had also been quite
inebriated. Bruce had watched two of her friends guide her
away from the party. He isn't sure if it would make a
difference, at this point, to let Harvey know that he *is* sure
she hadn't left entirely willingly.
"Do you like that? When they wear make-up?"
"I haven't thought about it."
Harvey's laugh is temptingly, thrillingly close to his usual one
for Bruce. A little derisive, and something... he's never been
able to think of it as anything other than affectionate,
whether he should or not.
Maybe the fact that they're in Harvey's dormitory is bringing
him back to himself. Familiar surroundings or...
"I think my keys are... hell, you don't have my jacket slung
around your other -- uh... back?" This laugh isn't familiar, but
it has a certain charm.
"Your door isn't locked," Bruce says, and demonstrates.
"It's like you're *psychic*," and Harvey unwraps himself from
around Bruce and stumbles into the darkness of his room.
Bruce can't see much himself, but...
No, Harvey wouldn't really want the light. He could...
Bruce steps close once more, and perhaps some portion of
the universe wants to -- tell on him. Reproach him. His timing
was off, and Harvey trips on his own feet and Bruce's. The
best he can manage is to let them hit the floor gently --
"Oopsies. Wow, Bruce, I don't think I'm... uh." Harvey pats
Bruce's back with both hands, rubbing a little and making a
soft, humming sound. "Still don't know why you don't do
crew or... something," Harvey says.
It's even darker down here, somehow -- Bruce can see the
sliver of light under the door, but it seems miles away --
and that sound, he's sure, is Harvey's head hitting the floor
lightly.
"Mmm, I -- comfortable."
He... he should be helping more. Moving, but -- "Are you?"
"Yeah, I -- you're like a blanket or something. Big guy,"
Harvey says, and rubs Bruce more.
Harvey's fingers are long and lightly scarred. He makes extra
money in the summers by doing construction work, Bruce
knows, but his fingers have always seemed... they belong on
pens, or perhaps piano keys. The inebriation has blunted
their cleverness, made it something to -- wish for.
Something. He --
He swallows, and dares to shift -- only a little. Harvey's groan
is just on the edge of pain, but it doesn't seem --
"Do you... you don't wear makeup," he says, sure and
incomprehensibly pleased.
"Well, no."
"I woulda -- would've noticed," and now he's back to patting,
searching. When his hands slip between Bruce's arms and
his body, it's time to --
He should move. "Harvey --"
"Gimme a minute."
He smells like wine and his own sweat. Sweet-salt, complex --
there is no excuse for the way Bruce shivers when Harvey's
hands find the back of his head and pull.
"I just wanted..."
"You -- you were enjoying the kissing," Bruce says, and he
can smell his own sweat, too. Harvey's breath --
"Shh," he says, and "let me," and then Harvey's tongue is
tracing light and strange over Bruce's lip, and then --
It's a kiss, slow and perhaps messier than what --
Bruce doesn't know what Harvey intended, beyond the fact
of this, beyond --
Does closing his eyes make him a bad friend? He's never
wanted to be that, and Harvey has always -- always --
Bruce shivers and presses closer, and feels himself tightening,
changing and needing at the sound of Harvey's soft, pleased
hum. This can't possibly be --
He's tried so hard not to *want* --
Perhaps this is what saves him from humiliating himself
when Harvey pulls back and lets his head thump on the
floor once more, but. "Harvey?"
"Like -- like *that*, you know? Warm."
"Good. I --"
"*Good*, yeah," he says, and pats Bruce's back. "I think I
need to sleep."
Did Harvey feel Bruce shiver again? He doesn't *react*,
or --
"You -- you don't have to try to get me on the bed. Think
I --" Harvey's laugh, this time, is the one for himself, rueful
and low and somehow older than everyone else Bruce knows
who isn't Alfred. "Probably deserve it."
"I could -- I could help," Bruce says, and the darkness is
hiding his blush far better than he could, right now.
The sound Harvey makes sounds like -- like sleep. Bruce
can't just stay on top of him like this. He --
He can't.
Bruce forces himself up and -- away. It's easy enough to
turn Harvey on his side -- the wine has made his body loose
and willing --
Bruce clenches his fists at his sides.
And leaves Harvey to sleep.
*