May 1979

Somehow -- and Harvey would *love* to figure out how *this* happened -- showering and getting redressed had left *him* looking the most respectable in the bunch. Granted, it was obvious it *couldn't* be Tim. Never mind the fact that he doesn't *live* here -- his face looks *exactly* like the aftermath of a pornographic lightsaber battle. Bruce, though --
Bruce has no damned excuse.

For Christ's sake, he doesn't even have a single pair of jeans which aren't *ironed*. He --

He looks too happy, is the thing.

He's been walking around on a *cloud* for the past hour of them getting themselves together and horsing around a little, and even though he's perfectly put together in a clean pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt --

Well, for one damned thing, he's got a semi.

For *another* damned thing, he's *smiling*.

A *lot*.

And, see, that'd be fine if they just had to go talk to Mom, but they need to talk to her *and* Alfred, because they damned well *all* missed dinner.

Which means *he's* elected, even though Harvey's *absolutely* sure that no amount of brushing is gonna get the smell of underaged boy jism out of his mouth. He --

"Harv? Are you all right?"

And that would be the *incredibly perceptive* underaged boy in question, picking up on the fact that Harvey's just been staring out the window of the ballroom-cum-emphasis-on-cum-maybe-he-should-just-shoot-himself-now-gym. Harvey sighs --

"Oh -- you're not all right. Should I --"

Harvey reaches --

Tim blocks him with the kind of *perfect* reflexes that Bruce'll probably learn approximately ten minutes ago --

So Harvey turns and smiles ruefully. "I'm still a little mixed up. Even though I shouldn't be."

There's a *hollow* little frown behind Tim's eyes, something --

Something Harvey really *should've* predicted --

He shakes his head. "It's not on you, little guy --"

Tim raises an eyebrow, which --

Harvey snorts. "Okay, I can *see* how that sounds like a whole lot of bull in hardly any words, at all --"

"But?"

"*But* -- uh." What, exactly?

What does he get out of brooding about this -- other than the chance to *squat* on moral high ground he has about as much right to as Tim's mother had to that white wedding gown she wore when she married Jack Drake... some three years *after* she started balling *Dad*?

And Tim is waiting for him. Just --

"You'll wait for me some kind of forever, won't you?"

He gets a blush for that -- but Tim doesn't actually look away. He --

"I like that. I *love* that, actually. Keep --"

"Ah. What?"

"You. You just -- brazening it out. Lookin' me in the eye even when I'm saying ridiculous and *crazy* stuff," Harvey says, and cups Tim's cheek. "I just -- a lot of me says you're too young --"

"Harv --"

"Wait a sec, okay? Please?"

Tim frowns and nods --

And Harvey checks -- Bruce has his sketchpad and is still presumably planning out ways to make this place a gymnasium-built-for-*three*. Okay --

"This -- you still haven't told Bruce that his life is in danger."

"No, but I will *tonight*," Harvey says, and turns back to face Tim before smiling ruefully. "Now that I've got you guys together the *right* way."

Tim nods thoughtfully. "Some... some would say you shouldn't have told me."

Harvey raises his eyebrows. "*You* never would've believed a thing I told you again if I hadn't told you ASAP. Right?"

Tim's got a rueful smile of his own. "Ah... yes. I still... never mind --"

"It still doesn't feel real. It still feels like we're using you --"

"No! Or -- I. I don't know --"

"People have been using you -- and throwing you away -- for your whole damned life, little guy --"

"It's not that *bad* --"

"Give us time to be right for you," Harvey says, and cups Tim's pretty little face, tilting his head up a little. "Just -- give us time, okay? Because that's the only thing that'll make *all* of this right."

Tim frowns again. "It seems -- wasteful. Not to just... go with this, I mean."

Harvey grins. "Yeah, I can see it. And I guess it kinda is? But it's the kinda waste that's completely human. It took me a *while* before I could really relax and settle *into* having a family that *didn't* beat the shit outta me all the time."

Tim lifts his arms --

Blushes --

And lowers them again. He --

"Okay, for the record? Hugging me is pretty much always allowed."

The blush gets more serious -- "'Pretty much'?"

"Hugging me when I'm rock-hard when you *don't* wanna fuck might cross my wires a little," and Harvey waggles his eyebrows. "Other than that? We're fine. C'mere."

And Tim walks into his arms --

Tim squeezes him *tight*, and yeah, lots of strength in those lean little arms --

In that lean little *body* --

And there's just a little *heat* for that thought -- the kind of heat that can get serious in a *heartbeat* if he lets it --

Or if Tim does *anything* --

No, not anything. Not -- it's not quite that bad. Good. Bad --

Harvey sighs and kisses Tim's temple. "So I was gonna tell you something."

"Something -- else? -- you wanted to keep from Bruce."

"Yeah, I -- it's like this: part of me thinks I should've kept my dirty hands off *him*, little guy."

"What -- *why*?" And Tim pulls back to search him *incredulously*.

"He knew all this -- all this *stuff* about sex and bodies -- more than *I* did -- but he was still innocent as all *hell*. And... you can maybe understand that? A little?"

Tim frowns *again* -- but he nods.

"Yeah, you can. He made it clear from the jump that he wanted me to be his *older* brother. That he *saw* me as his older brother. And -- God, I loved that. I *still* love that. But..."

"Older brothers are supposed to... protect."

Harvey knows his smile is crooked -- he nods. "Yeah. Just -- yeah."

Tim nods thoughtfully and turns away slightly -- obviously to think even harder. So Harvey just waits, and pets Tim's hair a little --

Does he like it this long? It doesn't seem *like* him at *all*.

Bruce's hair is a nice, grip-able length without being all floppy and annoying, but he periodically tries to get Harvey to grow *his* hair out. That'll happen right around the fifteenth of Juvember.

Maybe they can have a nice, brotherly trip to the barbershop? You can hear a lot about what's going *on* in a city in the right kinda barbershop, and Harvey's been away from Gotham for a long damned time --

"I don't..."

"Yeah, Tim?"

Tim frowns up *at* him. "I don't want your protection, Harv. Not -- in that way."

"See, and I *expected* that answer, but -- older brothers kinda *have* to pick and choose about that kinda thing --"

"But younger brothers -- when they've shown themselves to be reasonably responsible -- should have veto power," Tim says, calm and dignified and --

"How do *you* know?"

Tim purses his lips. "How do *you* know?"

"I --" Harvey snorts. "Okay, you got me there, but --"

"Harv... it. It hurts."

Ah... damn. "It -- maybe feels like I'm pulling away from you?"

Another blush -- "I shouldn't -- you've been very -- "

Harvey *grips* Tim's face -- "Yes or no. Please."

Tim closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, *shudders* --

"Please, Tim."

Tim nods -- and then opens his eyes again. "Then -- yes. And it feels like -- like you're looking for a way to... push me aside while still being... polite --"

"*Christ* --"

"And it feels like you're... dumping me on Bruce --"

"Oh -- okay, okay! Uh. Damn, Tim!"

Tim winces. "I'm sorry --"

"*No*. I *asked*. And -- no, wait, if there's more, you pretty much have to tell me," Harvey says, and strokes Tim's chin with his thumb, nods what he hopes is *encouragingly* --

"I... don't think that would be the best --"

"It *really* is --"

"Harv --"

"Tim. I'm better at this emotional stuff than you *or* Bruce. But I still *suck* at it, because I was raised by a guy who never met a bottle of bourbon -- or a belt buckle -- that he didn't like. Okay? I need the guidance, *too*."

Tim inhales sharply. "You. I'd like it -- I mean. I wouldn't *like* it -- ah." Tim stares -- *glares* -- at the floor.

"Hey, what's --"

"Oh -- right." Tim looks up again and squares his little shoulders. "If you -- if you wanted to talk. About your childhood. With me. Ah. Yes."

God -- "I love you."

"Oh -- oh. Harv --"

"Don't worry about saying it back --"

"No, I -- I mean -- you've always been --"

"I didn't let myself think about it, or even really *feel* about it. You were the brother I was only allowed to have over *there*, you know?"

Tim bites his swollen lower lip and nods slowly. His eyes are so wide, so --

Harvey smiles ruefully again. "I love you. That's it. And we'll all talk together. And probably drink."

"Do you... I've never seen you... inebriated."

"And you never actually will, no matter how much I talk about it. But I let myself get tipsy sometimes. That's allowed -- especially since I know Bruce will *always* have my back --"

"And -- and me. I will. I mean --" And Tim growls and *glares* at him as the blush just takes *over* his face --

But Harvey knows that Tim isn't really angry with *him*. He pulls him in for another hug --

Tim makes his *ribs* creak a little --

So Harvey returns the favor --

"I -- I. I've always. Loved you."

Harvey shivers. "Do I get to ask how many people get to hear those words from you?"

"Ah... you. No one else. No one else wants -- or. I don't know. I think. I suspect Bruce would want... I mean. When I feel -- it won't take *long*," Tim says, and --

"Heh. You sound a little pissed about that, little guy."

"Yes, *well*?"

Harvey snickers a little -- coughs himself to a stop. "I'm only laughing because it took me an *embarrassingly* short amount of time to fall for the big freak. Well, and also?" And Harvey pulls back *just* enough to meet Tim's gaze. "You are *so* freaking allowed to be pissed about liking him now."

"And that's *funny*?"

"Well -- yeah. I'm afraid so," Harvey says, and strokes down the bridge of Tim's nose. "This is where I call *asshole* older brother rights."

Tim gives him a *sour* look that's pretty much the cutest freaking thing --

Harvey can *see* Tim seeing him *finding* it cute --

The sour look turns to a *mean* look --

But then Tim snorts. "I suppose it would be *more* annoying if you were perfect."

"There ya go. I promise I will *never* be perfect. *Ever*. Now tell me what you were holding back before."

"Well... that's it, really," Tim says, and strokes Harvey's waist lightly -- then firmly. That --

"I like that."

"Oh -- good," and Tim smiles up at him --

Harvey is *not* thinking of how young he looks like that --

"And -- ah. It's just... I love you. Not... not the version of you who never loses control, or... ah. I don't know how to say it. I mean, you *have* been basically perfect since you *introduced* yourself --"

"Hey, I was pretty awkward --"

"Because you were trying to make *me* feel comfortable, and -- and I *never* feel comfortable --"

"I want you to. *Always*."

"Well -- ah. Then you should... relax. And... lead by example," Tim says, and smiles almost shyly. "Bruce seems to think you're good at that sort of thing."

"*Bruce* thinks --"

"That you're wonderful in every way," Bruce says, *appearing* out of nowhere and kissing Harvey's shoulder. "So far, my original observations have been borne out."

Harvey sighs. "You're still smiling, big guy."

"Yes. My face is starting to be somewhat sore, but I can't say that I mind."

Tim hums. "Then we match in more than one way, Bruce."

"Oh... so we do. I don't suppose I could join this hug?"

"It's a very nice hug," Tim says, and pulls back enough to make room --

"Thank you very much, Tim. Harv?"

Harvey sighs and wags a finger at Bruce. "Remember that we have to look at least a *little* respectable when we walk up out of here and you can have all the hugs you want."

"As you say," Bruce says, and *blanks* his expression.

"Ah, *Jesus*, big guy, save that for the *parties*. You see that, Tim? You see what I have to - *gah* --" Because of *course* Tim is blanking his *own* expression. "Okay, if either of you people do this crap to me again *before* you're on slabs somewhere? There's gonna be a problem."

Bruce hums.

Tim shows his teeth.

"That's it, no hugs for anyone."

"Brother --"

"Nope, no one's gettin' any of the good stuff," Harvey says, crossing his arms *tightly* --

And then Tim starts... blinking. Or...

Well, his eyes are *really* wide --

And his *lip* is trembling --

Harvey knows he looks freaking *horrified*, but -- "All right, little guy," Harvey says, and leans in so they're nose-to-nose. "You *can* fake it if you wanna... but there are *consequences*."

Tim blinks again and smiles with a kind of *sharp* hopefulness -- "Spankings?"

Bruce hums *again* --

Cups Harvey's *ass* --

And Harvey's dick is reeeal damned clear about the fact that he's losing this one. That he has, in fact, *lost* this one --

"Okay. I give," Harvey says, uncrossing his arms and standing straight --

Tim looks him *over* --

Bruce *squeezes* his ass --

Tim *starts* to reach for him --

And Harvey does a little boxer's dance out of range. "Both of you, seriously, *I'm the one who has to talk to the adults*."

Tim frowns mildly. "You don't consider yourself an adult?"

And that -- is a good question. Harvey smiles and waves his hand a little. "Sometimes I do. Other times I think of myself as the person who *should* be an adult. *Other* times? I think of myself as the overgrown horny kid who *absolutely* doesn't know any better."

"Harv, you were never --"

"Big guy. *Remember what happens to me when I look at your dick*."

Bruce coughs. "I... could hardly forget. But --"

"But nothing. You guys sit tight -- or, heh. Pick a suite to hang out in while I go look responsible and not at *all* like I'm planning to come back up here and screw. *Okay*?"

"As you say," Bruce says, and then the two of them turn to Tim --

Who is absolutely checking out Bruce's hands. Heh. Harvey grins and whistles --

And Tim jumps a little and looks up, blushing *hard* -- "Ah -- I missed something. Please tell me --"

"Bruce'll tell you. And maybe show you a thing or two with those big, big hands," Harvey says, shoving his own hands in his pockets and walking backwards to the door --

"I wasn't -- oh, God. I can't be this obvious --"

"You can," Bruce says, and smiles warmly at Tim. "If only because it will -- hopefully -- guarantee that I won't miss your cues."

And Tim's expression for that is -- complicated. Sourness, hunger, consternation, hope, wonder --

Bruce steps closer --

Tim *doesn't* move away or shutter his eyes --

Yeah, Harvey can leave them to deal with it. Now to do *his* job. It's after ten o'clock, so there's an extremely limited number of places where Martha can be. It's not that she goes to bed early -- ever, even though she damned well gets *up* early most of the time -- it's that...

Well, sometimes Harvey thinks she hates Wayne Manor *just* as much as he does --

That all the little decorative touches she's added to make the place brighter and homier over the years make her feel like she's --

Giving in?

Giving aid and comfort to the enemy?

He's frankly not *sure* if Thomas would object to Martha giving the whole place a *serious* makeover, to letting her banish all the shadows that make walking down this hallway full of old -- and perfectly-maintained -- portraits feel like taking his life in his hands --

Or maybe just his soul.

Thomas lets Martha get away with everything *else* --

Not that she ever does anything *too* scandalous *publicly* --

He doesn't know. He doesn't know and he doesn't *wanna* know --

And he damned well needs to pick himself up and make himself *ready* for -- this.

Harvey knocks on the newest door in this hallway. In the daylight -- not that much *gets* to this part of the hall from the windows at the ends, but still -- you can see that it's just a little redder than the rest --

A little *bloodier*, maybe --

"Now *who*," Martha says, "could that be...?" And it's her amused voice, but Harvey hadn't been here for a *week* before he knew she could be amused in a lot of damned *ways* --

No, no, she likes him, and he's damned well gonna go with it. "Just me, Mom. I... uh. Have a favor to ask."

She *purrs* -- "Well, come in!"

So he does just that. And no, she's *not* in the entryway, of course, so it's *right* into the *boudoir* --

Which is like what would happen if Scheherazade's murder-happy sultan got high with Mingus and then gave *birth* to Martha --

But no, that kid would probably be less scary.

Harvey pulls on a rueful smile and picks his way through the pillow-maze until he gets to Martha's blood-red chaise -- reupholstered twice a year *every* year, and if the furniture people take too long, heads *roll* --

Metaphorically.

And Martha smiles up at him *warmly* and offers her small, soft hand.

It's gotten a little more vein-y over the past five years, maybe a little *knuckle-y*...

But she's forty-seven years old, her manicure is perfect; her long, white-streaked hair is perfect and swinging free, her *makeup* is perfect --

Hell, she doesn't even *have* any of the pancake-y stuff on --

She doesn't *need* --

And he doesn't need to be checking out his mother.

Even though it always makes her happier. Well, at least his rueful smile is *real* now. He squeezes her little hand gently and sits down on the overstuffed, body-sized pillow that will let Martha gaze benevolently down upon him.

He keeps holding her hand for a little bit longer --

"You *do* want a favor," she says, and raises an eyebrow at him. She's wearing --

Well, on anyone else it'd be a tarted-up housedress. On Martha, it's something that makes light blue cotton with darker blue paisleys all over it look like something that could be worn to a freaking ball.

She rolls over onto her hip and *slowly* takes her hand back. "Harvey. Darling..."

"Yeah?"

"The answer is yes."

Harvey coughs. "I -- you gotta let me actually *ask* this one, Mom."

"Harvey. Over the course of a *day*, you managed to get Bruce to acknowledge the boy he previously chose to treat like ninety-eight pounds of disease-ridden elephant dung -- the boy who will save his *life* -- as not just his brother, but as his *beloved* brother. What *precisely* did you think I would say no to?"

Harvey's jaw -- drops. "Uh."

Martha smiles at him. Slowly.

"Uh. So." Harvey licks his lips and tries *real* hard not to sweat --

Not to sweat like he's *dying* --

Not to *bathe* in his own sweat -- okay, fuck this. "So... you've been paying attention."

"I had help," Martha says, and turns *languidly* toward her huge and freaking *diaphanously* curtained bed --

Where an extremely naked Jason Blood is sitting at the foot and filing his nails --

"*Fuck* --"

Harvey scrambles *back* --

"*Don't* worry, Harvey, I *wasn't* here when you walked in."

"Uh -- you. You just kinda... walked in?"

"You could say that," and Blood smiles at him *fondly* with those teeth that always look a little too *ready* to be used --

A little too --

But they aren't any sharper than anyone else's --

But some of those scars look *fresh* --

*Incredibly* -- fresh --except that that stops being true *while Harvey watches* --

They won't *be* there in a little while. They -- but.

Blood's never hurt *him* --

Just his father. Just --

There's a really, really *neat* conical pile of red dust forming on the pillow directly below where Blood is filing his nails.

There's not one goddamned thing *Harvey* can see on the guy's nails that looks red, at *all*.

There's --

There are so many damned alarms going off in his head right now, and the fact that only *half* of them are for Martha is just -- what his life looks like right this second. So Harvey takes a deep breath.

And then another.

And then another --

"That's more like it, darling. Back on the pillow!"

"Uh -- sure thing, Mom," Harvey says, and gets right back on the pillow like the good boy he is. He -- no, he's gonna do this right. He turns to Blood. "So how are you, Jason?"

Blood's smile gets brighter. "Healing at the expected speed -- and with the expected *thoroughness* -- from an unfortunately necessary battle with a Woth demon... and charmed *breathless*, as always, by you."

"Uh... thank you --"

"Oh, behave, Jason, you're not even *close* to being his type."

Jesus --

"More's the pity, really," and Blood looks critically at the nails of his left hand for a moment --

They *grow* while Harvey *watches* --

"Oh, this --" And then Blood shakes his head and makes a sound Harvey can't even *guess* at --

It makes Harvey feel like his *throat* is closing --

Martha hums and *strokes* her throat --

And what looks like a full *cup* of red dust showers down from Blood's -- entirely normal-looking nails.

"There, that's *much* better," he says, and Harvey's throat is back to normal --

And Blood *nudges* the dust-covered pillow with his foot until it freaking *disappears* --

And then he *tosses* the file into -- into *nowhere* --

And that's absolutely Martha's hand on his shoulder. "Keep breathing, darling."

"I'll just -- do that. Now."

"Good boy."

"*Very* good boy," Blood says, and smiles at him again. "You would've loathed the company of the knights with whom I spent the vast majority of my time when I was mortal -- they were, for the most part, a venal, ignorant, and drunken lot who were anything *but* averse to rape when the peasant boys and girls were pretty enough -- but... you, Harvey, are the ideal they aspired to be. Or what they told themselves they aspired to."

Harvey narrows his eyes. "Really. What were *you* doing with all those peasant children way back when?"

Martha squeezes his shoulder *hard*, but --

Blood smiles even wider. "Buying and seducing, of course. I did have a certain nobility of spirit... once upon a time."

"What happened."

"Life... and lots of it," Blood says, and cocks his head to the side. "I will never be a rapist, Harvey."

"Just a voyeur?" And a *murderer* --

"You're angry that I showed your mother what your tireless efforts brought to fruition...? Or perhaps there are other crimes you wish to discuss."

And the hell of it is that Blood's voice is *gentle* for that last, that --

Gentle like --

Like --

("Oh, Harv, shh, shh, we'll just stay in here and wait for your Dad to... to feel better. Okay?")

Harvey -- shudders.

And holds on. Just --

Holds *on* -- and tries a laugh that isn't fooling any goddamned body, at all. "I'll stick with the thing where maybe a little privacy wouldn't be a *bad* thing --"

And Martha digs *in* with her nails --

Harvey's not *looking* at her --

But Blood is. He --

"Martha... perhaps you could give us a moment alone?" And there's that *gentle* voice again, soft and low and *quiet* --

She digs in even *harder* --

And Blood stands, three-piece suit that looks like something between a mod revival and a funeral *flowing* over his body until he's right there looming over the chaise and cupping Martha's chin. Dear one, he says, in French with no accent Harvey's ever *heard*, Nothing of any import will ever be kept from you if I can --

Martha growls. "He *speaks* French!"

Blood laughs. Truly...? So be it, he says, and switches to what *sounds* like Russian --

Martha's replies are angry and frightened and hungry and --

Jesus. Just --

It's not like he *wants* to be alone *anywhere* with Jason freaking *Blood* --

But Harvey thinks that saying that aloud would just make things worse right now. So -- he keeps himself quiet. And he waits --

And, about two minutes later, Martha *whirls* up off the chaise and storms out of the suite, hair flying behind her. It's actually halfway down her *back* now, and he hadn't noticed that before --

She slams the door behind her --

"She *isn't* the most beautiful woman I've ever been involved with -- not even now that she's grown into all the promise she had in her twenties -- but... well. The *confusion* of your feelings for her tells me you understand what I'm saying very well," Blood says, and sits on the far end of the chaise Martha had vacated. "You're welcome to join me. I feel no need to look down on you, save when we're standing and I must once again mourn the lack of proper nutrition during my youth --"

"*Wait*. You've been reading my *mind*?"

Blood blinks in what looks like surprise -- and then snorts. "Not at all, Harvey. You are a teenager, and, while you have a *fair* gift for diplomacy, you are, at base, a very *honest* teenager. When you have powerful emotions about someone, they *show*."

Oh -- damn.

"To be fair... I *have* been observing humanity for over a thousand years," and Blood winks at him. "Please come up here."

"Are you --"

"I will not touch you in any way, shape, or form -- with or without the powers at my disposal."

Harvey -- breathes. And gets up on the other side of the chaise, resting his hand on the armrest. He can smell Chanel no. 22 and something muskier than that -- her shampoo?

Something Blood gave her?

Something *magical*? He --

He turns to  *look* at Blood, to really take him in. He's not *tiny*, but at five-nine and one-forty or so, he's pretty *compact*. Not anyone's idea of a knight in *this* day and age -- and *really* not when you look at the way he carries himself. Pervy old queen right down to the *bone* -- even to the way he's crossing his freaking *legs*. But.

Reddish brown hair, brown eyes that only *seem* like they should be reddish, too. Thin lips. Cheekbones not too different from Tim's, but the cheeks themselves are more hollow. Nose that was broken and set *really* well... probably sometime before 'the New World' was even thought about by the people Blood palled around with.

Murderer.

Murderer --

And he's not gonna ask. He's not --

He's never --

He's never gonna have a better chance than this. Ever. He takes another deep breath, sits straight --

"Yes, Harvey...?"

"How many bodies on you, Jason? Seriously."

Blood shakes his head, and his smile is old. *Old* -- "Harvey... I lost count of *that* when I was *mortal*. The wars of succession began when I was a *squire*. Kings and queens, princes and princesses... *they* can go into exile when they lose. Their followers rarely ever have that option."

"And you were on the wrong side."

His smile gets older. "Eventually. We all believed... well. Arthur was, in fact, a very good man. He *wasn't* the best of us, but he was good enough to surround himself *with* the best. *Always*." The smile slips. "Perhaps... perhaps too many of the best, in the end."

Harvey shivers. Just -- "Bruce... told me a little about your history."

"Bruce was *always* a wonderfully curious boy," and Blood's gaze is distant for a moment -- only for a moment. "Martha loves him, you know."

"I know --"

"Listen very carefully, Harvey: Martha *loves* him. She does *not* love anyone or any*thing* else. She is fond of you, and she is most assuredly fond of *me* -- we are *useful* to her, after all, and entirely entertaining -- but she *only* loves Bruce. This has raised that love... hmm... perhaps I mean it has *alchemized* it. That love is stronger than any crystal, now, more pure, more passionate, more *devoted* than nearly any other love I've ever seen."

Harvey shakes his head. "You don't -- you don't spy on your kid having sex. That's *not* love --"

"I didn't say her love wasn't *also* as twisted as a two-hundred-year-old *witch* hazel tree. She wouldn't be... well. From the very first day we met, on April first, nineteen-fifty-nine, at just around noon right here in the manor," Blood says, and stares *weirdly* at a space in front of them for a long moment -- and then turns back to him. "From the first day -- the first *moment* -- I knew she was mad. It did *not* take *much* longer than that to discover that she had no love for anything, at all. At the time, I thought she never would... but."

"I don't get it. Why do you even get involved with someone like that?"

Blood smiles. "Why do *you* want to make love with her?"

"Hey, *watch* that --"

"All right, we'll leave that aside. You're *certainly* adept enough at mental contortionism to repress that -- again --"

"Look, just because I think she *looks* good --"

"And sounds good, and *smells* good, and -- "

"She's my *mother* --"

"And you never, ever think of her that way. Or do you?"

Harvey narrows his eyes -- and doesn't say a word.

Blood nods like he'd answered *anyway*. "But, to give you a less antagonistic answer to your question... *I* found her stunningly beautiful. *I* found her wildly entertaining. She *shocked* me with her desires -- and she continues to do so. Perhaps you could guess how *rarely* that happens...?" 

"But you knew it wouldn't *go* anywhere --"

"And do *you* require every one of your relationships to be mutual ones? With *women*?"

"Heh. *I* don't, but you've been with a woman who you *know* will never love you since the *fifties*. That's -- well, it wouldn't *surprise* me if you were that kind of masochist --"

Blood laughs, low and pleased and -- dark. "Harvey. I've loved *her* from -- nearly -- the beginning. Functional immortality means, among other things, that one has the *time* for *just* as many problematic relationships as one cares to have --"

"Or maybe you just don't know any better."

"True love and *only* true love every time, Harvey? What *will* you do when you meet a *strong* woman? A woman with whom you wish to converse? A woman who makes you laugh? A woman who *excites* rather more than just your perfectly lovely cock?"

Harvey rears back --

And Blood laughs again. "I'll give you a hint: you will *first* compare her -- almost certainly unfavorably -- to dear, *dear* Martha, because, at the moment, Martha is the *only* woman you know whom you actually respect. And that... is precisely as frightening and tragic as it should be, considering the sort of man you *wish* to grow into."

Harvey stares --

Tries to --

"*Leslie*," he blurts --

"Oh, yes, the dry little *stick*. I suppose it's possible she gains a measure of juice for *Alfred* -- *many* things are *possible* -- but... I've seen the way you look at her, too, Harvey," Blood says. "I haven't observed that quite as *much* -- I do have *some* other hobbies -- but, at a guess, I would say you find her... hidebound. *Admirable*... in certain oh, *so* limited ways, but, in the end, no one with whom you would wish to actually spend *time*."

And he's sweating again. He's --

"But this isn't *really* what I wanted to talk about. I... well -- oh. Have I given you too many uncomfortable truths at once?"

"I don't -- I don't hate *women* --"

"No, of course you don't, Harvey --"

"I'd never hurt -- and I'm not a bad *guy*," Harvey says, standing and pushing his hands back through his hair, one after the other after --

"Really, you --"

"There's -- there's two. Two ways of doing things. *Two*. There's a right way and a wrong way and I'm not my fucking *father*!"

"Harvey. You want to sit down now."

Blood's eyes are... they *are* bloody, and -- and *round* -- "I wanna sit down."

"You may."

"But I'm not a bad --"

"You want to sit down now."

Harvey feels himself nodding, feels his knees just --

Harvey sits down, and he's just -- he's *yanking* at his own hair, and that --

There's a right way --

"Harvey... calm down."

"But --"

"Shh. Calm down," and his eyes are even rounder, even *bloodier*, like maybe they'll start leaking red tears --

Blood all over --

There was blood all over his mama's *face* and more kept coming out more and more and more --

"Harvey... you're in the present now. All is well."

"But --"

"Shh, shh, shh..."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, I can be quiet," Harvey says, and he can take his hands out of his hair, too. He can rest his hands right --

Right on his knees --

And Blood is doing -- saying? -- something. Something low and just -- *rhythmic* . Something --

It's *beating* in him, but not like a --

It's not bad. It's a heart, and it's so *close* to his *own* heart, and he can get it even closer, can't he?

He can --

He can really --

Just --

Sink.

"... course, you'll have an *infinitely* easier time of it if you start paying attention --"

"To women who *don't* fall all over me because I'm a Wayne, yeah, I -- what? We're... talking?" And Harvey pats himself down, but he has no idea why. It's not like he's trying to remember what pocket he put his damned wallet in --

Where --

*When* --

And he can *feel* that his hair is all messed-up, that he's --

There's something like a damned *speed* bump in his mind where there should be nothing but smooth freaking *asphalt* -- something happened.

Something happened in his *mind* --

And Martha just *blooms* in his head, bigger than life and twice as beautiful, infinity times as *scary* --

And Harvey remembers -- everything. Absolutely everything. He's still *calm*, but -- he winces.

The flick of a lighter --

And the familiar crackle of -- a clove cigarette.

Harvey wrinkles his nose. "You usually smoke better things."

Blood raises an eyebrow -- and blows the smoke away from him. "I thought you might find this more pleasant than my usual cigarillos. Even *I* find those positively evil."

"Then why -- never mind. Just --" Harvey shakes himself like a dog and pats his hair vaguely back into place. "Cloves are what a guy I *really* dislike smoked up at Exeter."

Blood inclines his head -- and then the black cigarette is shorter, thicker, and *brown*. And evil-smelling.

But in a kinda nice way.

Harvey nods. "Thanks."

"You're quite welcome," Blood says, and blows a smoke ring before smiling -- hunh.

"You did a spell on your teeth to make them look better, didn't you."

"No. I did a spell on my entire *jaw* to *replace* the nineteen -- or twenty, it's difficult to be sure -- teeth which were shattered when I was hit in the face by a large man who was *quite* skilled with a spiked flail. This was... hm... yes, I was eighteen at the time."

"Jesus. Uh. Ow?"

"I was left for dead after the battle -- this was also when my nose was broken, and I was *quite* a mess -- and, when I woke... well. I *considered* letting myself die -- *very* deeply," he says, and smiles *nostalgically*. "But I was surrounded by the freshly -- and violently -- dead. There is a great deal of power in that sort of thing -- if one has the ability and will to use it."

"And -- you did."

"Oh, yes. And then I foolishly tried to go *right* back to my old life -- after all sorts of people had seen the *ruin* of my face -- and I was very nearly summarily drowned. After being beaten again, of course. By then, however, Merlin was with Arthur, and he convinced the man that my destiny was twined with his own. Devious old bastard."

"I could say something here about pots and kettles."

"*I* was practically a naïf -- at the time. I didn't even know how to *read*."

"Then how the hell did you know -- uh. Never mind."

Blood laughs and blows another two smoke rings. "You shouldn't try to stop yourself from asking questions. You *do* want to be a prosecutor, don't you?"

"God, how much *do* you spy on me and Bruce?"

"Oh, *good* question," Blood says, and takes a long drag. "I think you can guess how Martha reacted when Bruce started sending home long, loving, and *desperately* detailed letters about you...?"

Harvey winces. "I don't *want* to --"

"Because you don't like to think about those sorts of desires. Well, all right, I'll do the thinking for you: She was, of course, *jealous* -- wildly so -- but you must understand that she was also thrilled to her very soul. Up until then, Bruce's passions had been dry and almost universally *bookish* things. She loved him -- and knew she always *would* love him -- but she feared that he would --"

"Grow up like Dad."

"Precisely. But then there was you, and she could... hm. I was *going* to say that she could see *herself* in Bruce, and that's even true to a certain extent."

"But?"

Blood smiles -- nostalgically again. "She was so beautiful as she rushed into my shop that day. It was positively *pissing* rain, and she'd remembered to wear a mack, but she hadn't covered her beautiful hair. It was hanging and dripping like a Shakespearean hag's, but her eyes made her look even younger than she did when we met. Here," he says, and gestures --

And there's something like a hole in the air --

And then there's Martha, *bursting* through the door of Blood's magic shop in a sleek and fancy green raincoat that isn't fastened; a half-drenched pink dress that looks like something she'd wear to a Foundation function at a *library*; and heels which probably *had* been pink when she'd left the manor, but are now a wet and grungy no-color. No way those things hadn't gone right in the trash after that. Her hair *is* crazy -- and she absolutely looks young. Excited. *Happy*. She --

Harvey squeezes his eyes shut and shakes himself all over again --

"All gone," Blood says. "But perhaps you can see why, in that moment, I promised myself that I would do whatever was necessary to stay in her life until the day when she undoubtedly made me kill her in some undoubtedly fascinating way --"

"*What* the --"

"Martha wishes to outlive Thomas. She does *not* wish to grow old. I believe in *choice*, Harvey," and he *looks* at Harvey like he's gonna kick if Harvey protests, but --

"You're talking about killing my --"

"Martha. I'm talking about killing *Martha*. *When she wishes to die* -- and not one moment before. If I *don't* do it... she will ask Bruce."

"*No*! He can't -- you can't let her --"

"*Choice*, Harvey. Nothing will stop Martha when the time comes. Grow used to the idea now -- and prepare yourself to console your brother-lover. He'll need it."

Harvey winces and puts up his hands, pushes at the *air* -- "Okay. Okay. Not thinking about this. You were saying? Before?"

Blood takes another long drag -- and taps the ash in a weird, shallow, off-white... bowl.

It -- "That's a kneecap, isn't it."

"Oh, yes. But it isn't human, so you can relax."

"Uh."

"As I was saying: She saw herself in her beloved son... but she also saw *him*. Perhaps for the very first time. She saw a whole and beautiful person who was *perfectly* happy and *perfectly* in love and who only wished to share it with the person he cared for most. With the *family* he cared for most. I believe, in that moment, Martha came to understand -- as much as she ever *will* -- the *meaning* of family. The *truth* between all of the saccharine and sap -- and recriminations and hatred. *She* had never felt such a thing for *her* parents, but *Bruce*! Why, the things *Bruce* felt *made* her. *Defined* her. She was a *mother*, Harvey. And she had a *son*."

Harvey frowns and just -- "All right. I'm hearing you. I'm absolutely hearing you."

"But?"

"I'm still not seeing how you get from point A to point 'let's watch my kids get it on.' I mean -- all right. I *know* I'm in my own glass house here. Bruce *isn't* just my brother on paper, and he never has been. I commit incest every single freaking day -- at *least* in my heart -- and so does Bruce. But we do it *together* --"

"And you wouldn't be doing it at all if Bruce didn't return your feelings?"

"Hey, I can control myself. If Bruce didn't want me, I'd be -- it's not like I'd try to seduce him, or -- I'd love him *like* a brother," Harvey says, but he can feel his gut twisting a little, feel -- "She's not in love with him."

"She is."

"Being in love -- it makes you *better*."

Blood raises an eyebrow. "Does it? Hmm. She does everything in her power to make sure he -- and you -- have everything you could ever want or need."

"Yeah, but --"

"She never -- ever -- interferes with your relationship."

"She -- wants to --"

"She protects you from the *consequences* of your actions..." and Blood *waits*.

And -- yeah. His gut is twisting again. "Thomas -- Dad wanted to put his foot down."

"Does that truly -- no. I *know* it does *not* shock you."

"I -- just haven't been thinking about it."

"No, you have not."

"Christ. *Christ*. I don't *want* --"

"To be in her debt...? I believe you've lost your chance for that --"

"When you killed my fucking *father* --"

"She did that, actually," Blood says, and takes another long drag.

Long enough for Harvey to really -- "She's -- she's got magic of her own."

Blood exhales -- and *then* shakes her head. "Only what I give her, when I give it to her. But..." Blood sighs and gestures --

And there's an image of a letter in the air. Bruce's plain, classy stationery covered in Bruce's neat handwriting -- only. It's not neat, at all. There are scrawls, and some words are scratched out completely, and the paper is --

It got *wet* in a few places, and Bruce is always *careful* --

But then he sees the date on the paper. He --

"Those are tears. Those -- Bruce cried on that letter --"

"Oh, yes. Martha insisted I taste them for myself. And then she insisted that I give her the use of my power -- again. While she was never precisely *neat* with it, she *was* always *judicious*. And, I will confess, *entertaining*. I..." Blood shakes his head. "I won't show you what she looked like that day -- I'm reasonably sure I've made my point about how you feel about her --"

"*Yes* -- Jesus --"

"But she was... something else, as you young ones are wont to say," Blood says, and crushes his cigarillo out. "Her rage was incandescent. That someone would *dare* to make her beloved boy *weep*! Well. I'm afraid your biological father's life was forfeit from the moment Bruce placed that letter in the post."

That -- Harvey squeezes his eyes shut, but --

He knew that.

He *knew* that --

*But* -- "Would it have made any difference for me to say anything." He can't -- he can't even make that sound like a real --

"To me? Yes."

What --

"Though I would've tried to convince you to do things Martha's way. I knew, by then, that she would do everything in her power to give you a better life. She may not be loving, but she *is* capable of gratitude. You *gave* her --"

"You would've let me convince you -- not to kill him." And Harvey can't even --

Can't even look *up* --

Blood takes a deep, *slow* breath. "I will not belittle your loss. I will not *mock* it. I will only ask, in this moment -- for my own edification -- whether you have considered the alternatives --"

Harvey growls -- "That's *not* for your own *edification*!"

Blood looks down at his ash-filled kneecap, mouth twisting -- and then he looks up again, looks --

Gives Harvey a *steady* look, a *level* look --

Harvey *shudders* --

He -- "Don't -- don't fucking *nod* or -- or *smirk* --"

"I will not."

"Just because I didn't think about -- I was a *kid* --"

"You were."

Harvey pants --

Grips at his own thighs --

Yanks at his -- his jeans --

"I was aware, of course, that the Waynes, with all of their money and influence --"

"Shut up. Just --" Harvey *tries* to growl, but it comes out a moan, a --

He's gripping his own *face* now, and he's not gonna cry, not gonna fucking *cry* --

He's *done* with Dr. Feelgood --

He's *done*, and he'll never get a chance to tell his old man what a bastard he is --

And he'll never get a chance to *catch* the belt before it hits him --

And he'll never get a chance to pick up that bottle --

That one --

Pick it up, so slick and just a little greasy from fingerprints, pick it up and just --

He passes right out at the kitchen table, snores and drools like some overgrown, smelly *baby* --

And Harvey can pick *up* the bottle --

"You are in the present, Harvey."

"No -- *no* --"

"You are in the present, Harvey... and there is nothing you can do about that."

He can --

But he can't feel the bottle.

And he can't hear the old man's snores.

And he --

He can smell Martha, Martha all around him, Martha just --

("Oh, Harvey... of course you don't know *me*, yet, but I feel as though I know *you* from Bruce's letters. Please let me know if there is *anything* you need -- or, if you don't feel comfortable with that, yet, tell *Bruce*.")

Because he tells you -- everything.

Everything.

Harvey shudders, swallows --

Hears himself make another *noise* --

He drops his hands and shudders again.

Again.

And then he takes a deep breath --

And then there's something *cool* brushing his hand -- a glass. A glass full of some kind of yellowish liquid he can't recognize -  "The *last* thing I need right now is a drink --"

"It is *not* alcoholic --"

"What is it?"

"Mango juice."

"Uh. What?" Harvey frowns. "You can get that around here?"

"Yes. For certain values of 'around here.' I'm quite fond of it. Try it?"

Harvey frowns more deeply, but -- fine. He takes the glass, sips -- that's mango, all right. Sweet and thick and kind of pine-y, just like it was on that family trip to the Bahamas last Christmas. Martha had 'forgotten' to book him and Bruce in the same hotel she was staying in with Thomas.

Funny how bad her memory gets for things like --

Like that.

"My head hurts."

"I haven't been especially soothing," Blood says, and, when Harvey looks, he's got a freaking *sword* on his lap. A -- small sword.

"Uh."

"This? Is for young Mr. Drake. I suspect he'll need it sooner rather than later."

"Uh. I don't think he knows how to *use* a sword."

Blood sighs. "You have no comprehension how *strange* the state of education seems to me in this day and age -- well," he says, and lifts the sword in his left hand *exactly* like he knows how to use it. "This *wasn't* my first true sword -- that one was swept away in a flooding Thames along with most of my belongings and the finest, most loyal pony I ever knew -- but it *does* have a fair amount of history... and power."

And, now that Harvey is looking -- yeah. It's clean, and it's smooth and *sharp*-looking, but... lots of scratches. Lots of places where it obviously bit *into* things like armor and *bone* -- "How *old* were you when you were first using real live swords?"

"I was twelve in my first battle. I pissed myself, *shat* myself, *stabbed* myself -- shallowly, thankfully -- and then another boy tripped and fell on my sword and killed himself, and I was named a man. But that's neither here nor there," and he gestures --

The sword is a knife with a *vicious*-looking double-edge. The hilt is sized for a smaller hand than Blood's --

A *much* smaller hand than *Harvey's* --

"Look, I don't think you should be giving Tim *weapons*. It's not he like he knows --"

"Harvey. Have you forgotten what Martha told you already?"

Harvey -- winces. "No. But I thought --"

"That the danger was past. It is not," Blood says, flips the knife handily, and slaps it down in Harvey's palm hilt-first. "Should Timothy need direction, remind him to lead with the pointy end... and not to test the blade on himself, as it is most assuredly cursed."

"*What* --"

"Oh, it won't do anything lasting to *him* --"

"What will it do to *other* people?"

"Stop them."

"I -- you want. Look, we can just call the freaking *cops* if something -- something happens --"

"And it is my *sincere* hope that that is all you will *need* to do, Harvey. However, I have not been able to scry *clearly* for this, beyond knowing that certain items and people were needed. That weapon in your hand. Whatever Timothy is keeping in the secret compartments in his bedroom --"

"What are you *talking* --"

"-- Timothy, himself. And you."

"And you -- what the hell are *you* going to be doing?"

"I can't be certain. However, the *quality* of this lack of certainty suggests a mission with the JSA. Which will almost certainly be desperately irritating to every part of me save the one which misses my King -- my *only* King -- *most*."

And that -- "Where *is* that guy? The *good* knight you were back then. On a day-to-day basis, I mean."

"Waiting in weapons like that one," Blood says, and strokes down the *center* of the blade with one finger. "Other than that... oh... I suppose I *could* say something, here, about the look I see in Bruce's eyes when he thinks about his future --"

"Hey, you -- leave him alone --"

And Blood smiles at him sharply. "Did you think I planned to seduce him, Harvey...?"

"*Yes* --"

"You're absolutely correct --"

"*Christ* --"

"He was a beautiful little boy --"

"*Leave* it --"

"And he has grown into a beautiful young man. Even if Martha *hadn't* urged me to --"

Harvey stands up and points the blade at Blood --

"Do be careful, Harvey."

"*You* be --" But something catches at his shirt -- and, when he looks, he's somehow aiming the knife at his own belly. "*Fuck* --"

But trying to turn it toward Blood just gets it closer to stabbing him --

He's torn his shirt --

He turns away and aims the knife toward the *door* -- it lets him. It --

He's not bleeding. He's whole and he's not bleeding and he's not *cursed* --

Right?

"Do *consider* letting this be a lesson to you about the wielding of magical weaponry... not that *you* should be wielding any weapons, at all."

Harvey growls and turns back to face Blood, holding the knife *away* from himself. "You'll give a kid a deadly weapon, but --"

"But not you," Blood says, and re-crosses his legs. "The dimensions in which Harvey Dents gain proficiency with deadly weapons are *not* the most cheerful places in the multiverse."

"What -- *what*?"

"Of course, I *haven't* checked on the dimensions where the Harvey *Waynes* are provided with weaponry, but, as difficult as this may be for you to believe, I am not *profligate* with the lives of those mortals I care for --"

"You don't give a *damn* about me --"

"Harvey," Blood says, and raises *both* eyebrows at him. "Were it not *staggeringly* pointless, I would be taking this time to try to seduce *you* --"

"You -- you'd fuck --"

"Anyone? Any*thing*...? Not quite. I may have the body of a twenty-five year old, but my libido has become rather more rarefied than that over the years. The fact that I find murderous madwomen desperately attractive does *not* mean that I would find just anyone... well. This is all rather beside the point --"

"It --"

"*Is*. Timothy Drakes *all* across the multiverse were all but *designed* for the use of assorted kinds of weaponry. *Most* of them design entirely new weapons while they're still in their teens --"

"What -- that -- *no* --"

"*Yes*, Harvey. They are *especially* proficient with sharp, pointy things -- given half a chance with them -- which I believe bodes *quite* well for your chances to come out of this crisis, whatever it will turn out to be."

Harvey frowns and just -- "My little brother is not a *killer*, Blood!"

Blood blinks. "I never said he was. While it's true that some few Tims in some of the more *problematic* dimensions are less than averse to *permanent* solutions to their problems, the vast majority of them are far, far too in love with superheroes -- and with the idea *of* superheroes -- to ever, *ever* cross that particular line."

And that --

What if he's in danger?

What if it's the only --

The only *way*?

Harvey hears himself making another freaking *awful* sound, but -- "I'm a killer."

"In many, many dimensions."

"A -- worse than Martha."

"Much, by most measures."

His hands are shaking -- he presses the heels of his palms to his eyes --

The hilt of the knife is digging in against his eyebrow --

His hands are still *shaking* --

"Not here, Harvey."

"You can't -- you can't even protect *Bruce* --"

"But I can make sure that other people *can*... and that people can protect you, as well. Martha wouldn't do it -- she'd frankly love it if you lost the plot --"

"*Jesus* --"

"Though only if you could still make Bruce happy, of course. I..." Blood folds his hands together on his knee and looks thoughtful. "There are... devices. Amulets and the like."

Harvey shudders, but -- "For... for protection?"

"Precisely so, but... I don't usually bother with them. Most of them can be stolen or lost too easily, but by then the person has grown accustomed to taking otherwise foolish chances with their life and health --"

"Could you --" Harvey drops his hands. "Could you protect my mind."

For a moment, Blood only looks at him with sympathy, only --

"You can't. You --"

"I can. But I would have to --" Blood shakes his head. "There would be... an intimacy."

Harvey frowns. "What -- you'd have to fuck me or something? Christ, if it would keep me --"

Blood holds up a hand -- and then stands. For a moment, it's stranger than *strange* that he's nearly four inches shorter than Harvey and at *least* twenty pounds lighter. He --

Harvey can't *shape* Blood in his head, can't place him in *just* this room, can't *see* him the way he's always seen him --

Blood's *bigger*, right now, or --

He's taking up more room, more *space*, and somehow Harvey's sure that that space isn't all *here* --

It hurts to *look* at him --

And Harvey can't --

"Maybe. Maybe I should just go back to Dr. Feelgood. I -- I."

Blood nods once. "That is what I would recommend."

Harvey frowns and searches him, tries to -- "*Why*?"

Blood smiles ruefully -- and a smiling naked guy with horns like a freaking *goat* and a --

A tail --

Long black hair --

*Beaky* nose --

Skinny gold bangles on his throat, wrists, and ankles --

He's -- he's kind of *pretty*, but --

He's walking out of the *air*, and he's smiling, and --

And Harvey can't even ask 'what the fuck' before he's just -- deflating like a freaking *tire*. Just -- "Don't *any* of you people believe in clothes?"

The -- the *new* guy looks down at himself --

Makes his *half-hard* dick twitch --

And looks up and smiles again. "No? I have to go with no. But then, I *am* an incubus."

"A -- demon? A *sex* demon?"

"The *only* sort of demons I'd traffic with -- if I had any choice in the matter," Blood says, and turns to the demon. "Dick, please tell him what you could do for him -- if you chose."

"Your *name* is *Dick*?"

The demon -- *Dick* winks at him, lolls a tongue that's at least five inches long and *pointy*, *shakes* his dick at him --

"Okay! Okay. Uh. Maybe I shouldn't -- ask --"

"Oh, don't be like *that*, Harvey! Can I call you Harv?"

"Uh. Can you drag me to Hell if I say no?"

"Technically, I could drag you to all sorts of different Hells -- or just throw you there -- no matter *what* you said."

Harvey bites his lip.

"I wouldn't!"

"I -- no?"

"No. Those places really aren't any fun. I mean, the sheer *number* of people who insist on getting torn limb from limb, and raped, and torn apart *while* being raped --"

"*Jesus*," Harvey blurts --

"Wants no part of it, really," Dick continues smoothly. "I mean, ever since your species turned him into a demigod, he's really been keeping himself *to* himself, you know?"

"Oh -- fuck. Uh. What? I'm gonna --" Harvey sits back down on the chaise.

Dick pats his shoulder. "You should just relax for a minute. Maybe do some meditating? Did your Bruce teach you how to meditate, yet?"

"What -- I. My Bruce? I don't think he *knows* how to meditate."

Dick blinks twice and turns to Blood --

Who spreads his hands. "I have not guided him."

Dick purses his lips. "I... suppose this one doesn't *really* need it..." He sighs and shrugs, turning back to Harvey. "Okay, just breathe a little. Nice deep breaths."

"I'm -- I'm calm. Really."

"You're really *not* --"

Harvey pushes at the air a little. "What... why did Blood -- Jason, I mean -- why did he call you?"

Dick studies him for a long moment, frowning *worriedly* -- but then he sighs again and nods. "Because you're afraid of losing your mind. Yes?"

"I -- yeah. I am --"

"Well -- it happens to a lot of Harveys across the multiverse --"

"I -- please --"

"But *not*, generally, to the ones who get help when you did."

"What -- that *generally* --"

"You can't live with that. I... I suppose I couldn't, either. Considering," Dick says, and smiles ruefully before dropping into a crouch in front of him and splaying his fingers on Harvey's chest. "I can help you --"

"Do it."

"You -- let me tell you --"

"Just -- just freaking do it, I don't care -- I'll pay anything."

Dick frowns and turns to look back at Blood, who *shrugs* --

"*Please*, Dick -- *hnh* --"

And there's a hand in his *chest* --

God, it's -- right up to the fucking *wrist* --

"Don't move," Dick says, and gives him a *hard* look. "What I'm doing won't hurt your *body*, but one wrong move and your soul could be bruised for... a very, very long time."

Harvey *starts* to nod --

Starts to *swallow* --

He looks into Dick's eyes and thinks 'I won't move' as hard as he freaking *can* --

"All right. Here's the deal. A piece of your soul -- not all of it, just a piece -- is going to belong to me until the day you die --"

"Oh --"

"Be. Quiet."

Harvey's *teeth* click shut -- he doesn't nod.

"I'm going to feel it when you fall in love -- I already know everything about your feelings for your brothers. I'm going to feel it when you're happy, when you're sad, when you're angry -- everything. Just a little *alert* that will tell me *exactly* what's going on with you. And *if* things ever change for you... if the world inside your mind ever *darkens*... well, I'll know that, too. And I'll be able to come to you, and guide you to where you need to be. Do you understand?"

He's -- he's sweating and --

Christ -- fuck -- he's *shivering* --

He has to stay *still* --

"*Harvey* --"

"I understand!"

And Dick's expression stays hard for about twenty more seconds, and Harvey's all fucking set to *go* with the idea that that's as bad as it *gets* --

A demon in his *soul* --

But then Dick looks *sad*, looks -- looks like he's *hurting* for him --

"Don't --"

"Shh, Harvey. Just a few seconds more," he says, and --

Fuck, Dick's *trying* to smile and *failing* --

Harvey -- stays still.

And quiet.

Just -- keeps himself --

But then he's *groaning*, because it feels like everything he is has just got a major case of the *shudders*, feels like everything that *makes* him who he is --

It's over. It's -- over.

Harvey takes a deep breath.

Dick is *searching* him --

"I -- I don't feel any different."

Dick smiles ruefully. "I'm good at what I do. It was a gift from the Morningstar for being good at the *other* things I do."

"The -- that's a fancy name for 'devil,' isn't it?"

"It's more of a title than a name, and it wasn't *always* his title, except in some dimensions, and he doesn't really like it *all* the time even in *those* dimensions... well, it's complicated. Still, I think I know what you meant, so... yes. Regrets?"

Harvey winces and rubs at his chest. It doesn't hurt, or itch, or -- anything. And -- "I can't afford those. Thank you."

"Don't --"

Harvey holds up a hand. "Don't ask me not to thank you. Not for this."

Dick frowns -- but he nods. "All right. You're welcome," he says, and stands, leaning in to kiss Harvey's forehead. "May you never need me."

"I -- thanks for that, too."

Dick walks backwards then, waving with his tail -- and then whips around to stroke a path down Blood's chest to his groin with one hand while gripping Blood's shoulder-length hair with the other.

Blood smiles --

But Dick doesn't kiss him. He -- butts at him. Like a goat. Like --

Okay. Just -- okay.

Harvey looks at the knife he's still holding instead of paying *any* attention. Unlike the sword it was made from, it looks brand new. *Shiny* new, like it's never been used for anything -- much less for anything *violent*.

And -- it looks normal. *Not* cursed, and *not* like anything that'll turn in your hand if you point it at the wrong person.

The lights are never too bright in here, but even holding it up *to* one of the lights doesn't show him anything in particular -- maker's mark. Harvey looks closer --

He can't quite focus --

It's almost like it's -- changing.

Every few seconds.

Right in front of his eyes.

What. The --

Harvey stops looking. Just -- stops. He turns to Blood --

And those spidery and weirdly *hot* fingers are on his forehead --

"Hey --"

"Forget about Dick."

"But --"

"Forget. About. Dick."

"I don't... want... hey, you said you weren't gonna touch me!"

"My apologies," Blood says, and moves his hand away. "I had to be sure the blade had left no ill effects in you."

Harvey frowns. "Somehow I don't trust that."

Blood smiles wryly. "Do you trust *anything* about me, Harvey...?"

"Well... no." Harvey snorts. "Jesus, you really want me to give this thing to my *thirteen-year-old little brother*?"

"Oh, yes. I daresay he'll wield it well and truly when the time is right. Well. I suppose it's more of a *hope*... but hope is *supposed* to be just as eternal as I am, no...?"

Harvey knows the look on his face is... not as friendly as it could be.

And Blood laughs. "Oh, Harvey. Please do remain *entirely* yourself... for as long as humanly possible. And beyond that, too."

"Yeah, I -- keep your hands off Bruce."

"For just as long as he wishes me to. Or were you intending to make your relationship with him exclusive?"

Harvey -- doesn't scowl. He knows it'll just make him look like *he's* the thirteen-year-old --

And Blood'll probably *like* that --

But what is he gonna do about his *mind* --

(It's taken care of.)

Hunh?

(Everything's copacetic.)

What --

And there's something like a shadow in his mind and something like a twin, and when he was a kid that always meant the bad things were coming -- or were already *happening* -- but.

But all the shadow is doing is kicking back on a freakin' *beach*.

He's *never* on a beach. He's never --

He's never in freakin' *sunlight*, as opposed to lurking in whatever shadows Harvey's mind can *build* --

Or maybe just the glare of *neon* --

But this --

Waves crashing on the shore, drink in a coconut, zinc oxide on his nose, smile creeping *right* up the left side of his face --

Higher and *higher* --

But a closer look shows the water crashing right through him --

And the sand *blowing* right through him --

(Like I said -- I'm taken care of now, Harv, old buddy.)

That isn't --

(It's all you now, kid.)

But --

(Make the best of it...)

And the shadow is just -- gone.

And the half-filled coconut hits the sand and spills --

And the beach chair crumbles in on itself --

And the beach itself fades --

And fades --

And --

Harvey jerks and *pants* --

Nearly falls off the damned *chaise* --

Blood doesn't catch him. Doesn't -- touch.

Harvey settles himself and rubs his chest again --

Again? When had he --

No, no, just shake it off. He's been in the freakin' boudoir with the big, scary magic-user for about half-past too freakin' *long*. No wonder he's got the heebie-jeebies. He's gotta --

He's gotta cope. So that's what he does.

Nice, deep breaths.

No staring at the knife in his hand.

Some more deep breaths.

And then Harvey turns to face Blood again. "Sorry for checking out like that --"

"It's quite all right. I assumed you had... unfinished business."

"I -- yeah. That's about right."

Blood inclines his head.

"You're -- gonna keep showing Mom --"

"Yes. *None* of us desires the alternative."

*What* alternative -- but he doesn't have to think about that, either. So he won't. Harvey takes a deep breath and nods. "Maybe you can *try* to keep that from Bruce and Tim?"

"I will not lie to them should they ask -- assuming they both live, they will be *important* allies in my future -- but I also will not volunteer the information. I will *ask* Martha to show the same level of courtesy --"

"But you don't think it'll work?"

Blood shrugs. "Who can say? She has not become *more* predictable with age."

And that's -- nothing but true. And -- "Christ, I still have to ask her --"

"You don't."

"Blood -- uh. I mean --"

"Call me what you will, Harvey. And understand that while Martha *will* expect regular *updates* from you about this and that... she will *not* expect you to come to her like a supplicant. Not for this."

"*You* don't even know --"

Blood looks at him.

And then Harvey beats at his own head a little, because, yeah, they *both* knew that he was coming here to ask permission for Tim to stay over -- and for him to do it *often* --

Right. Freaking -- right.

"Okay."

"Yes...?"

"Yeah," Harvey says, and stands. "Now I just gotta --"

"I am *quite* certain that you'll find that Martha has had Alfred send up a tray for the three of you."

Well... Jesus. But -- "She wasn't exactly in the best *mood* when she left here --"

"No, she was not. But she will always, *always* do everything in her power to provide for Bruce's happiness."

That -- fine.

Harvey takes another deep breath, moves the knife to his left hand, and offers Blood his right.

Blood smiles. "Are you sure you want to touch me, Harvey...?"

"*Hell*, no. Do it anyway."

Blood *laughs* -- and shakes his hand just like a normal, non-pervy --

He clasps Harvey's forearm. And raises an eyebrow. Well -- okay. Harvey returns the gesture and nods. "Thank you for not *actually* driving me crazy tonight, eh?"

And Harvey's expecting a smirk, a nod, a *comment* --

But Blood just looks his age for a long moment. *All* of his age.

It --

"Hey, are *you* okay?"

Blood inhales sharply. "I'll be absolutely *grand* once your mother is bouncing on my cock --"

"Oh my -- Jesus freaking -- I'm going."

Blood laughs then, and pulls his hand back *slowly*. "You do that. And *do* give my regards --"

"*No*."

He sucks his teeth. "Mean boys don't get *any* treats --"

"I think I can live with that," Harvey says, throwing up a hand and turning to go. *He* can't storm out of this room without tripping over the six hundred pillows and falling on his ass --

This is just another way Martha is freakin' *special* --

He walks as quickly as he can.

*

June 2000

"What the fucking fuck."

Tim hums noncommittally and focuses on homing the machine --

"Tim --"

"One moment, Jay."

"Tim, what the fucking *fuck*?"

Tim -- doesn't sigh. It's not like he *isn't* feeling --

"*Seriously*, Tim!"

He splits the difference and shuts the viewscreen down, then turns his wheelchair to face the bed --

But Jay is already there, leaning in to grip Tim's shoulders --

"Don't. Shake me."

"I'm not shaking!"

"Continue with that, please."

Jay's expression is somewhat *stricken* -- and then he shudders all over and glares. "Why the fuck did that *demon* look like *Dick*?"

"I don't know."

"*Why* don't you --"

"Jason Blood is an ally, not a friend --"

If anything, the glare gets angrier. "Then why the fuck was he fucking *looking directly at you* to tell you when to set the machine to see his fucking meet-cute with Grandma Incestpants?"

Grandma -- hm. Tim raises an eyebrow. "Have you been studying our allies and enemies, Jay...?"

"What? Of course --"

"Name *one* magic-user who *hasn't* shown some ability -- however small -- to move between dimensions."

The stricken look is back -- but only for a moment before Jay is *scowling* at him. "Time is *different*!"

"For us, yes. For them...?"

"Aw, god fucking damn it, I *hate* this shit!" And Jay growls and stomps back to the bed, sitting -- no.

He flings himself back -- keeping his feet planted on the floor -- and covers his face with his hands.

Last week -- or even a few days ago -- Tim would've been able to watch that *without* cataloguing the flex of Jay's calves, or his remarkable thighs. *Without* hungering for the way his -- green -- 'FUCK' t-shirt rides up over his well-muscled abdomen. *Without* --

Tim sighs internally. That was only partially -- very partially -- true, even given the realities of pain, disability, and... focus.

Obsession.

At sixteen, Jay is taller than Tim *himself* is, and more heavily-muscled, as well. Jay's *penis* has been bigger for the last six months, and if Jay didn't take so *much* joy out of bending over for --

Well, everyone in the *family* --

"Seriously, Tim, *fuck*!"

"I know, Jay."

"*Do* you?" And Jay sits up on his elbows. "'cause Babs said you were crazier than usual."

Tim raises his eyebrow again.

"Okay, fine, she *also* said you were getting better, but -- answer questions!"

"I don't know why there's an incubus who looks exactly the way Dick looked when he was nineteen."

Jay whimpers. "I *remember* --"

"I know."

"That *hair* --"

"Yes."

"But -- *horns*, Tim!"

"Yes."

"And -- "

"Yes --"

"Fucking A, *call* Blood!"

Tim raises his eyebrow higher. "Right now."

"*Yes*!"

"You would like me to call the man -- the *immortal magic-user* -- who not only always hits on you, but *also* always tricks you into learning magic you never want to use."

"Would *you* wanna use it?"

"No, I would not. And..." Tim shakes his head and smiles. "None of us judge you for your desire to keep yourself as... free of magic as possible. But if I make this call, that will be more difficult."

A queasy look --

A determined look --

A *queasily* determined look -- "Do it. Just -- seriously, Tim. Answers *now*."

"So be it," Tim says, and taps his comm. "Though there's nothing to say the man is even on this plane of existence."

"Just -- *try*!"

Tim gestures for silence, toggles the 'roving operative' channel -- "B-2 to Blood --"

"You don't call *nearly* often enough, Timothy," Blood says, and walks out of -- nothing. Of course. At first glance, his suit could be an undertaker's, but the cut is as perfect as one of Tim's own, and the shirt is a rather daring coral, rather than white.

His boutonnière is *moving* --

Blood taps it --

It stops moving.

"May I...?" And Blood gestures to the brown, bulky, and painfully conservative wingback chair Tim only keeps in his bedroom because he's a masochist.

It doesn't even match the rest of his furniture --

His mother isn't --

Thomas is *dead* --

And Tim makes what could conceivably be construed as a welcoming gesture.

"Thank you *very* much," Blood says, and sits, crossing his legs at the knee -- and looking Jay over like a meal.

Considering what Tim was doing less than five minutes ago -- while Jay was *unaware* -- he really can't judge, but --

He judges, anyway.

Jay, for his part, is giving Blood the blackest scowl in his repertoire.

"Mr. Todd..."

"What."

"Have you given much thought to the question of the multiverse?"

"No. Why?"

Asking a question -- that would be Jay's *first* mistake.

"Well, Mr. Todd, it's simply this: if we consider the wide and rather *wild* concatenation of life -- of all things *living* -- then we must at least *consider* the possibility that the multiverse itself is alive --"

"I don't -- what the hell are you *talking* about?"

Mistake number two.

"Bear with me a moment. If we go *that* far... well. Then we *must* accept the possibility that communication -- in some form -- is possible --"

"We do not! That's -- that's too many assumptions! Even *I* know that."

Arguing -- oh, Jay...

Blood smiles like a *shark* -- "Is it? Perhaps. But communication... what could that mean to a being -- an entity -- made up of space and time? *All* of the space and time which could ever exist?"

Jay frowns. "Well. I mean. It's everything. You'd have to -- it'd have to want to *feel* something..."

Tim raises an eyebrow. He's not at *all* sure how Jay got *there* in his mind... save that he suspects that the journey is a great deal easier for people with the ability to be magic-users. And --

Blood leans *in* -- "Oh, yes?"

"Something... well, if some of the beings *in* the multiverse could move, you know, *between* --"

And Jay is gone.

Just -- gone.

Tim sighs. "I trust you can bring him *back*?"

Blood raises a finger --

"gaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE --" And Jay falls out of the air approximately three feet *above* the bed, lands on his back, scrambles to his feet, and *lunges* for Blood --

Who stands and sidesteps easily. Truly, dear one --

"I don't fucking speak fucking FRENCH!"

Blood raises an eyebrow.

Jay scowls. "Fine, but I don't wanna speak it with *you*! What the hell did you do to me *this* time?"

Blood opens his mouth -- closes it, and then turns to Tim. "Perhaps you would care to explain it to him?"

Tim sighs again and steeples his fingers. "Jay, you now have the ability to use a power -- the power to walk between *dimensions* -- only approximately two dozen other people on this planet have --"

"I don't fucking *want* it!"

Blood spreads his hands. "Life is tragedy," he says, and sits down again. "But I believe the two of you had questions for me...?"

Jay continues to glare at Blood.

Blood smiles *brightly* --

A vein begins to twitch over Jay's *eye* --

Tim takes a breath. "Don't do that, Blood."

"Hmm...? Oh, yes, I suppose I *am* being obnoxious. Terribly sorry," he says, and pulls on an expression of staid contrition.

Jay looks horrified --

And Tim gestures him back to the bed.

"Fucking -- *fine*. *You* ask questions, Tim."

"All right, I will," Tim says, and *looks* at Blood. "The incubus. Please."

"As you say. Dick has -- among his many hundreds of *thousands* of siblings -- two *particular* brothers and a sister. Their chosen -- human -- names are Jason, Tim, and Stephanie --"

"*What* the --"

"Oh, did you wish to continue conversing, Mr. Todd --"

"No! *No*! Talk to Tim!"

Blood smiles again --

*Slowly* --

And then turns back to Tim. "A Bruce from one of the dimensions where *you're* some twenty-one years younger than you are in *this* one, while afflicted with an *impressively* nasty fever, *summoned* demons to his bedside... and shaped them to look like the partners he desired from behind *vast* walls of repression via the crucible of his *will*."

Tim -- blinks. "All right. I honestly didn't expect you to say that."

Blood inclines his head. "They're quite wonderful people, in their way. *Somewhat* murderous -- but far less so than the average demon. The Bruce who summoned them wanted nothing to do with them once he *had* shaped them, so Dick set out to find a Bruce who *would* want them. It took several millennia --"

"Uh -- I'm not talking!"

"Time is relative, of course," Tim says. "Go on."

"They eventually succeeded, and, when last I checked, they were all in the process of living happily et cetera, et cetera. You might consider looking them up sometime. They *vastly* enjoy being helpful to Battish families who *aren't* afflicted with crippling repression."

That -- "Hnn. How... reassuring."

Blood shows his teeth. "Timothy. When will you let me take care of... this." And he gestures at Tim's body --

Tim blinks. "I -- no, thank you --"

"Wait, wait, are you saying you can *fix* him?"

"Jay --"

"Technically, *you* can... but you'd need a great deal of training first which would frankly make you want to strangle me *daily* and *not* with your increasingly impressive cock --"

"Oh Jesus fucking -- *fix* him! I'll *let* you teach me!"

Blood shows *more* of his teeth -- and inclines his head.

This is getting out of hand. "The answer is no --"

"Terribly sorry, Timothy, but I do *not* answer to you," Blood says, whipping out his boutonnière and *throwing* it at Tim --

Tim *can't* dodge in the chair --

He throws himself out of it --

He *starts* to throw himself out of it, but the boutonnière -- which is suddenly a twenty-foot long pulsing red *vine* -- winds around and around him --

*Lifts* him --

He can't talk --

He can't move he can't breathe --

And then he's *screaming* --

The vine is pushing *inside* him --

*Melting* inside --

The burn is --

Is --

He can hear Jay cursing --

He can't see --

He can't breathe he can't see --

Everything *burns* and he can't --

And then, gradually, the burn becomes focused in his back, and shoulders, and knees. The burn becomes an *itch* -

The itch of healing. The --

It feels like his new Kryptonian patella is disintegrating *and* melting  -- and he can feel every second of the growth of a new one. A human one. A *perfect* human one --

The itch is fading. He can breathe. He can't *see* --

He opens his eyes and realizes that he's floating several feet in the air, suspended in a red haze. He looks --

And Jay has -- somehow -- built himself a baseball bat out of what seems to be pure energy. He's *battering* Blood with it while cursing and threatening him on Tim's behalf, but Blood's distinctly ominous and *pulsing* shield seems to be holding for the time being. He --

Blood folds his arms behind his back and raises one reddish-brown eyebrow. "All better?"

"Hunh?" Jay stops hitting.

"Apparently," Tim says. "Let me down."

But, of course. Blood gestures --

And Tim makes a three-point landing, wincing for -- no reason, at all. He hasn't felt this *perfect* --

In years.

Damn it.

Tim stands, stretches meditatively, and nods. "You planned this."

Blood spreads his hands. "You really should've come to *one* of us as soon as you knew Superman would not be able to be of assistance. The *others* almost certainly would have been able to do this without *hurting* you --"

"What -- precisely -- did you do to me."

"Healed you --"

"*And*?"

Blood smiles ruefully. "You're going to have a positive *bitch* of a time against wielders of earth-magic -- like young Mr. Todd, here -- but then, as an entirely *un*-magical human... you always would have. Cut your losses and get back on the street where you belong."

Tim narrows his eyes. "There's such a thing as *consent*, Blood."

"And there's such a thing as obsession... but, well, it would've been *idiotic* to believe this would change your course --"

"Are you warning me about something."

Blood raises an eyebrow. "Would it matter...?"

Tim lifts his chin --

"Hey, uh... Tim? Maybe... maybe we should listen to the pervy asshole? You know, a little?"

Tim -- blinks. And turns to Jay -- oh... "Were you aware that your baseball bat had turned into a giant *penis*, Jay?"

"Wha -- GAH! Oh, get it off get it off --"

"I believe you can accomplish *that* with just a bit of *stroking*, Mr. Todd --"

"Fuck -- you --" And Jay's expression takes on a look of *deep* concentration -- the penis is a bat again --

A spiked *flail* --

"Oh, dear, none of *that*, please," and Blood gestures --

The energy dissipates with a sizzle that makes the short hairs on Tim's arms and the back of his neck stand up.

Jay glares at Blood. "I was trying to back you *up*, asshole!"

Blood sighs. "I know, truly, I know, but... well... call it youthful exuberance?"

Jay clenches his hands into fists --

"Perhaps not. Still... there is a bargain between us now. I expect you to honor it --"

"Hey, I *always* keep my fucking promises!"

"*Excellent*. Now, is there anything else...?"

Jay crosses his arms over his chest --

And Tim realizes he can do the exact same thing without even the *whisper* of pain.

That he can cross his legs --

And jump --

And *kneel* --

Tim shivers and closes his right fist around the memory of a knife-hilt. He closes his *eyes* -- no. He opens his eyes and meets Blood's gaze with his own. "Thank you."

"So you *will* call more often --"

"Probably not," Tim says, in the Voice.

"Oh, *Batman*. I'm all *aflutter*."

Tim lets the right corner of his mouth lift. Slightly.

And ignores the expression on Blood's face which suggests he'll start *cooing* *imminently* -- it passes. And Blood turns to Jay. "*Do* give me a ring when you have some time to spare, hmm?"

"Yeah, yeah, *go away*."

Blood blows Jay a *kiss* -- and steps backwards into nothing.

Tim doesn't sigh until Jay stops sniffing at the air and nods. "He's gone, man."

"Good. Where -- do you *know* where you went?"

"Uh... there were stars. Or maybe... eyes? And... uh. I think I saw God."

Tim blinks --

Considers --

"*Which* --"

"I don't fucking know! Hug me!"

Right. He can *do* that -- and he does, pulling Jay into his arms --

"*Finally*." Jay wraps his powerful -- more powerful, seemingly, by the *moment* -- arms around Tim's chest, and Tim does the same, squeezing as hard --

He squeezes *harder* than he normally would --

"Aw, *yeah*. God, Tim, you always feel so *good*," and Jay tucks his face against Tim's throat, nuzzling immediately --

*Licking* immediately --

Licking and *kissing* --

"Jay --"

"Fuck, yeah. And... uh. Fuck? Fucking? Fuck-fuck?" And Jay pulls *just* his head back and smiles and nods at him *slowly*. Encouragingly.

"Jay."

"Hey, you *can*, now -- and then we can go out and break some fucking *heads*. You hadn't patrolled with *me* for weeks *before* you got all busted up -- and you're giving me the sad look. Aw, don't give me the sad look! Come *on*. You're at a good spot! You made B grovel and Harv sucked you off and -- okay, then you made us watch the poor bastard *lose* it -- wait."

"Yes...?"

"He -- we know about -- Demon Dick. Does he... still... not?"

Tim pulls back --

"Aw, *damn* it --"

He can't -- Tim *can't*, and so he spars Jay *back*, throwing several of his *less* dangerous -- if not less *mean* -- strikes --

Jay blocks quickly and well -- "Hey, c'mon, save this for the *criminals* --"

And so Tim uses his kicks, appreciating the fact that he's in workout clothes from his earlier physical therapy --

He catches Jay's forearm --

"Tim --"

Jay's *wrist* --

"Fuck -- *ow* -- be *nice* --"

Tim spins into a kick Jay can only counter by --

Throwing himself back onto the bed.

"Jesus fucking -- you could've just *asked*!"

Tim smiles and flexes his fists. "And where would've been the fun in that...?"

Jay scowls at him. "I'm gonna hex you into next fucking *week*. You just wait."

"With bated breath, of course. Show me your penis."

"Uh -- what if I don't wanna anymore?"

Tim raises an eyebrow. "What if I sit back down and turn the viewscreen back on?"

Another *stricken* look -- and Jay glares at him. "You're abusive. I'm calling freakin' DYFS on you."

Tim smiles. Slowly. "You'd tell on me, Jay?"

"Yes!"

"You'd tell them how I put you on your knees and offered you my penis to suck when you were only twelve...?"

"Y-yeah!"

"You'd tell them how I put you on your *hands* and knees and fucked your mouth while Bruce rimmed you?"

Jay moans and grips the duvet -- and glares again. "*Fuck*, yeah!"

Tim nods slowly. "Perhaps... perhaps you'd tell them about the time when I used your body to teach Barbara the proper use of a riding crop...?"

Jay *whimpers*, penis twitching visibly beneath his cut-off sweats -- "Uh. Uh. All about that. You -- you're a fuckin' perv is what you are."

Tim shows his teeth. "Perhaps you --"

"Please? Uh. Please --"

"Shh. You know what to do, Jay."

Jay groans and squeezes his eyes shut -- "God, what you fuckin' do to me -- I *know* what *you* want --"

"Do you...?"

Jay glares at him again, sitting up on his elbows. "You look at my cock like you *dream* of bouncing on it, *Uncle Fucking Brother*."

Tim shakes his head and laughs softly, peeling off his t-shirt --

"Are you *denying* that?"

"Bruce and Harvey taught me a *long* time ago that there was no percentage in denying *any* of my kinks... though Harvey came to regret that when Bruce and I began making love with Barbara... well," Tim says, and crosses his arms over his chest. "Did you think I *didn't* still want to, as the kids are wont to say --"

"Don't fucking talk like fucking Blood!"

Tim snickers for a moment --

Coughs --

"I'm... sorry?"

"Don't apologize like him, either! Seriously, Tim --"

"Seriously," Tim says, and strokes a line up the inside of Jay's calf --

Jay grunts -- just for that.

"Oh... Jay. *Strip*."

"Tim --"

"You'll fuck me *after*."

And Jay's beautiful, thickly-lashed eyes are *wide* -- "Oh. Uh. Uh. *Yeah*?"

Tim smiles. "Yes. Now don't make me wait."

"Sir, yes, *sir*," Jay says, sitting up and making his usual attempt to take everything off at *once* -- just as if he'd like a bit more direction.

Tim laughs *darkly*. "*No*."

Jay *jerks* -- and sits up with his shirt half-off and his shorts around his thighs.

"Shirt. First."

"Uh -- yes, Tim," Jay says, and shrugs it off before letting it dangle from the fingers of his left hand.

Tim nods --

Jay lets it fall --

"Now your trainers. Left, then right. Simply let them fall at the foot of the bed, toward the corner on your right."

Jay's penis twitches again, but he doesn't moan before he follows orders -- quickly and well. When he's done, he looks up, lips parted --

And Tim can't not stroke his face, his --

Tim can't not stroke his broad cheekbones, his *bluntly* beautiful features --

"You shouldn't be as beautiful as you were when you were twelve."

"Uh. Sorry? Please don't sound like B, either."

Tim smiles. "Is he so --"

"*Stupidly* pervy? *Yes*."

Tim laughs -- and shoves his thumb in Jay's mouth. "Suck it."

Jay moans and does just that, looking up into Tim's eyes and -- asking, not begging. Or...

It's *Jay*. Every request like this is a plea waiting to happen. He --

("You want me to beg? Heh. Daddy...?")

And Jay had gripped himself through his pants --

("All you gotta do is... heh. Anything.")

Squeezed *hard* --

("You know I --"

"Bend over and grab your ankles."

"Fuck, *please* -- uh. Heh. See?")

Tim licks his -- teeth, not his lips. Just --

("God, every time you people do that I feel like I'm about to fuckin' *bleed*!")

And Jay moans around Tim's thumb, eyelids slipping low...

"You *are* beautiful, I'm afraid. Stunningly so," Tim says, stepping closer -- "Spread your legs for me."

Jay does -- as widely as he can with his shorts around his thighs. The cut-off sweats stretch quite well... but. They'll have to do something about that... very soon. For now...

Tim *grips* Jay through his -- black, today -- boxer-briefs --

Jay moans again --

"*Suck*."

Jay cuts himself off and sucks *hard*, nodding and -- pleading with his beautiful eyes.

"Good boy. I have no difficulty understanding why Bruce is so often driven to art -- and expressions *of* art -- with you," Tim says, and starts to *fuck* Jay with his thumb. "Certain things are just necessary when faced with beauty like yours... for some people."

Jay *swallows* --

Tim smiles more broadly. "You always get what you want from him anyway. Don't you...?"

A nod --

"You always get... mm. What you *need*," Tim says, and squeezes Jay's penis *hard* --

Jay starts to *lick* Tim's thumb, starts to toy with the tip of it *precisely* as he would if it were a penis --

"Oh... but you're such a good boy, aren't you."

Jay nods and *shivers* --

"Such a -- you *want* to obey."

A *fervent* nod -- and Jay is testing his tongue against Tim's thumbnail.

"Perhaps... mm. Perhaps you'd prefer to be my *pretty* boy...?"

A *slight* frown --

"It's safer that way, isn't it...? Beautiful boys get lifted up on pedestals. *Pretty* boys get bent. Right. Over."

A grunt -- and Jay is twitching and *leaking* in Tim's hand, right through his boxer-briefs.

"Yes, I know what you need. I've always known. Haven't I?"

The plea in Jay's eyes gets -- heavier. Perfect.

Tim pulls his thumb out, lets go, and steps *back* --

"*Please* --"

"Get the rest of your clothes off *right* now."

"God, yeah --"

"When you're done? Kneel on the pillows at the head of the bed and grip the bedposts."

"Oh --"

"Shh."

Jay nods *fervently* and works his shorts and boxer-briefs off together, *obviously* considers leaving his socks on --

Obviously *remembers* who he's about to make love with --

He takes them off and tosses them toward the door, then *crawls* up the bed to the pillows.

It --

It seems like *yesterday* that Jay wasn't *big* enough to stretch his arms out to hold the knobs of the bed-posts --

Tim hasn't considered the ramifications of his own aging recently -- but he's thirty-*five*, not fifty --

And a twelve-year-old Jay would've been *just* as likely to mime masturbating the bedposts in this moment if he *had* been able to reach. Tim laughs to himself, gives himself a moment to enjoy the play of muscles in Jay's increasingly triangular back...

"I'm going to hurt you, Jay."

Jay grunts again and *stops* stroking the bed-posts -- "Uh. Yeah?"

Tim smiles, and makes a point of focusing on the back of Jay's neck for ten seconds --

Twenty --

Jay shivers and *moans* -- "Please. *Please*."

"Do you want to bleed...?"

"*Fuck* -- uh. Uh."

"I'll take that as a yes."

Jay moans and *sways*, *gripping* the bed-posts -- and then steadying himself on his knees. "Just -- you know. Dick wants me doing more acrobatics training tomorrow --"

"Then I'll be... careful."

"Oh -- God, Tim --"

"Shh. Wait until I start hurting you," Tim says, and walks to the wingback chair Thomas never sat in -- and never will.

He moves it two feet to the left, crouches, lifts the carefully -- and subtly -- cut carpet, and opens the compartment. Nipple clamps make Jay beg *always*, but would possibly be too distracting. The scourge makes him happy, but won't make him bleed -- not the way Tim uses it. Nor will the cat. The cane...

The cane really does *belong* under the wing chair --

But Tim's penis -- and Jay's own -- are being very, very clear about the fact that it also belongs in Tim's hand. Right now. Tim takes it out and closes the compartment, moving the wingback chair back into place --

Spares a moment to shudder internally about Bruce's insistence on keeping all of *his* sex toys in a *drawer* --

And then spares a moment to look, just to *look*, because Jay is shivering periodically --

Because there is a shine of sweat on the knobs of the bed-posts --

Because there is *more* sweat rolling down Jay's spine --

Tim licks his lips and strikes for Jay's left trapezius -- the center of the muscle, which will not need to flex and move against *other* muscles, no matter *what* Dick makes Jay do --

"*God*!"

Tim strikes again --

"Fuck --"

And for the right trapezius --

"*Tim*!"

And for the right deltoid -- blood. Tim licks his *lips*, since Jay can't see him. "You're bleeding, Jay."

"*Unh* --- I -- uh." Jay shakes himself like a dog. "Tim. I'm -- really, really fucking hard."

Tim smiles. "So am I."

"Oh. That's good. That's really -- *fuck*! Fuck fuck -- oh, *fuck*, Tim, I have to sit *down* tomorrow --"

"That's debatable," Tim says, and continues to cane Jay's ass, *slowly* increasing the force of the strikes until --

"*TIM*!"

"You're bleeding again..."

"Oh, God -- oh, fuck --" Jay pants and shudders --

*Claws* at the knobs --

"*Grip* them, Jay."

"Yes, Tim! *Fuck*, I need --"

"You need to bleed more," Tim says, and strikes for the right latissimus dorsi, so large on Jay, so *strong* --

And bleeding in three places. Move to the left --

And strike --

Jay cries out --

Tim *strikes* --

"*Please*! Please, Tim, *please*!"

"Please what...?" And Tim strikes for Jay's right oblique --

Jay *sobs* -- and never flinches. Never --

"You drive me --" Tim growls and tosses the cane across the room. "On your stomach. *Now*."

"Yes, Tim, yeah, yeah," and Jay's already moving, Jay is panting and *sniffing* --

Jay is *bleeding*, and that --

He should never *do* that, he should --

Jay is *Bruce's* son, but hasn't Tim held him when the work has made him cry? Hasn't Tim taught him, and trained him --

Such a beautiful boy --

Such a perfect --

But he will never be Bruce, he --

He doesn't have that much --

Tim shakes it off and finishes stripping his own clothes off while Jay lays himself out spread-eagle and grips at the duvet with his fingers and toes.

And then Tim licks a path up the back of Jay's left leg to his red-stained buttock --

Jay *jerks* --

And Tim sucks on the wound, Tim nuzzles and kisses, stains *himself* with Jay's blood --

So rich and *metallic* --

And Tim can't be shocked by the sound of his own growls, or by the way he's *biting* at all the wounds he'd left on Jay --

Or by the way Jay is *beating* at the bed even as he grinds, as he *humps* --

"Be. *Still*."

Another sob --

A shudder that rolls through Jay's entire *body* --

And Jay is still save for the nod of his head, the *flex* of his fingers on the duvet --

"Pretty boy..."

"*Fuck* --"

"Hnn..."

"Tim, please, *Tim* --"

"Shh," Tim says, and licks the wound on Jay's oblique --

*All* of the wounds on his right latissimus dorsi --

He can't --

He can't actually *stop*, not even to discipline Jay for his moans, the bitten-off *curses* --

Jay is humping the *bed* again, but then -- Tim is biting him... a lot. This is something he usually only allows *from* Bruce, and so the question becomes -- is it a special occasion?

A reward?

A seduction away from the path Tim is taking?

"*PLEASE*!"

Or is it, simply, that Jay hasn't had his touch in too long --

Jay --

Tim groans and kneels up, snarling and feeling the dry and drying blood on his face stick and *pull* -- "I *know* you."

"You do! You really fucking do!"

"You never --" Tim growls and tries to shake it off, tries to be *more* than just his needy penis --

The taste in his mouth --

The need to *claw* -- no.

Tim draws back and *spanks* Jay --

"*Tim*!"

-- right over the wounds. Again --

And again --

"Tell me what you want, Jay."

"Jesus Jesus *Jesus* --"

"*Tell* me --"

"*Everything*! Starting with your *cock*!"

And that --

That *isn't* all of Jay -- nothing could ever be *all* of a boy who could lie in *wait* at one of the strolls he knew the Batman visited --

Who could *leap* out of the shadows and get in the Batman's *face* --

("What the fuck do you think you're *doing* around here, hunh? Who the fuck asked *you* for help?")

And the other sex workers had laughed and jeered --

And Jay's color had been high --

("We don't fucking *need* you!"

"Don't you...?"

"Shut -- shut the fuck up!")

So *high* --

And Jay had been shaking with hunger and a fear he wouldn't let *touch* him --

("What's your name, boy."

"What's *yours*, asshole?")

And Tim had smiled from behind the cowl --

And Robin -- *Dick* -- who had known him from the very beginning, had thrown Jay over his shoulder and carried him to the car.

He --

"You cursed -- you cursed all the *way*," Tim says, and he knows he isn't making any *sense* --

But perhaps nothing he said in *this* moment *could* make sense, not with Jay whimpering and rising into Tim's spanks --

Whimpering and scrambling up onto his *knees* again -- and leaving his elbows down, because it hadn't taken *him* long to come to know Tim, too. He --

There.

*There* -- the shine of lubricant -- and it *will* turn out to be STARslide Jay had applied *before* coming to this room -- between Jay's buttocks. He --

"I *know* you," Tim says again, and Jay is nodding frantically, *desperately* --

Jay's ass is red with blood and rising *bruises* -- and no, he *won't* be sitting down very much tomorrow.

The fact that that makes Tim's penis twitch --

The fact that Tim's slicking himself with the STARslide that Jay had helpfully placed on the bed while Tim was retrieving the cane --

The fact that he's spreading Jay with one hand --

Jason is reaching back to spread the other *cheek* --

"*Good* boy," Tim growls, and shoves *in* --

One long *push* --

"Good -- so *good* --"

"Oh, *yeah*!"

And Jay clenches for him immediately, but that's not *quite* what Tim wants -- so he reaches down to squeeze Jay's scrotum *meanly* --

Jay screams and flexes *open* --

"Perfect, pretty boy," and Tim starts thrusting fast and *hard* --

"Fuck --"

"Exactly."

"*Fuck*!"

And Tim laughs and squeezes Jay's scrotum *harder* --

"Ow fuck God fuck Tim -- Tim, I'll come too fast --"

"*Not* too fast for *me*."

"Aw, *Jesus* --"

And Tim starts to *pump* --

Shifts his angle just enough to --

And Jason is beating at the bed and screaming again -- so Tim grips his too-long hair and yanks his head back enough to strangle the sounds --

"*Nnk* --"

"Have I -- nn. Have I mentioned how *much* I love the fact that I can *give* you a ride like this, pretty boy?"

*Clench* --

"*Open*."

Jay sobs and does it --

Shudders and *gasps* --

Whines in his *throat* --

"You're just such a *slut*, pretty boy," Tim says, and thrusts *harder*. "You'll take *anything*, won't you?"

"Yeah --" And Jay coughs -- too strangled. Tim eases his grip --

Jay gasps and coughs again --

Clenches and *screams* --

"I *won't* slow down --"

"Oh, God -- oh, God, *Tim* --"

"I won't --" Tim pants and groans for the feel --

For the --

"You're only just slick *enough* --"

"I know -- fuck, I *know* --"

"And you can still take. This. Just. *Fine* --"

"*You*, I can take *you*," Jay says, and he's sobbing again, tossing his head and panting *with* Tim --

"Oh, Robin..."

"B-Batman!"

He is. He *is*, and that means it's right to grip the back of Jay's neck and force his head *lower* --

"*UNH* --"

A little -- a little *dominance* behavior never -- never *hurt* --

But this hurts perfectly. This -- this perfect *fucking* fuck, as Jay would say, this *beautiful* ride, because there's just enough friction --

Because Jay is grunting and sobbing for him *again* --

So *loudly* --

"*Shameless*," Tim growls, and feels himself flexing, twitching and leaking and --

Needing so *much* --

*Getting*, because there is completion in releasing Jay's scrotum --

"*Please*!"

-- and stroking his thick, perfect penis, instead --

"Batman, please, Batman, don't -- don't *stop*!"

-- just the way he likes it, the way they *both* like it: fast and dirty and inclined to use every *drop* of pre-ejaculate --

Every --

Every *molecule* of it, and the stickiness means that his hand is still covered in Jay's blood, but that's better, so much better --

Sometimes --

"Sometimes -- Batman needs to get *dirty*, Robin..."

And Jay whines and shudders, twitching *violently* --

And Tim smiles at *that* place on the back of Jay's neck for five seconds --

Ten --

Jay cries out and *seizes*, clenching -- "Oh, God -- fuck, I *can't* --"

"*Do* it," Tim says, and doesn't let himself *blink* --

And the clenches get *harder* --

Tim gasps and --

His rhythm is *stuttering* -- but he's going to hold on. He's going to --

No, a faster stroke with his hand *and* his penis --

And now the sobs are broken with *screams* --

Screamed *curses* --

And Tim is growling constantly now, panting and *glaring* --

He wishes Jay could *see* this, Jay always *loves* --

But Jay goes rigid and gasps --

*Gulps* air --

And screams *desperately* as he comes, *punching* the headboard and clenching --

*Milking* Tim -- yes.

Tim drops, covering Jay and locking his free arm around Jay's shoulder from the back -- "Stay *up*."

Jay nods, but he's blowing now, shuddering and spasming in Tim's hand as Tim *slams* in --

And in --

So *deep* --

He can't -- stop --

And then Jay *whimpers* and it makes something inside Tim flex and *heat*, makes his spine feel fused and *useless* --

"Jay --"

"Yeah -- *do* it --"

"*Jay*!"

"*Do* it, Batman!"

And he bites Jay's neck and growls --

Bites harder and *jerks* -- he's coming, he's --

He's spilling and *groaning* --

He sounds like *Bruce*, and the only *possible* excuse for that is --

This boy.

And all of their other children, too.

*Laughing* while coming isn't a strange experience --

Even though his inner thirteen-year-old is staring *suspiciously*, *incredulously* --

We're not alone, Tim thinks --

We're not --

He's *begging* his own inner teenager, and he doesn't even know --

"Ohfuck --"

Collapsing on Jay is, perhaps, understandable -- but not what he wants. Tim kneels up, slipping out partway --

"Jesus --"

Grits his teeth against the way his body wants to *sway* --

"Tim --"

And then *slams* back in --

"*TIM*!"

"Yes, Jay...?"

"Uh. Fuck?"

Tim laughs quietly and claws a path *around* Jay's new wounds -- and grunts for Jay's shiver and clench.

"Fuuuck..."

"Mm. How are you?"

"Uh. If you gimme a minute, you can totally ream me again if you want. You know, if you *want*."

Tim laughs again. "Is that what *you* want...?"

"What kind of fucking question *is* -- oh. *Oh*. Fucking fuck, pull *out*!"

Tim smiles *broadly* and *bucks* -- a few times --

"Unh -- unh -- *unh* -- oh, c'mon, Tim, don't make me pick!"

"I wouldn't want you to... settle -- *hnh* -- well. That... is an impressively tight clench."

"I *know*. Steph has been fucking *mean* with the butt plugs since you've been laid-up."

Tim gives himself that image for... several moments. And then he taps the base of Jay's spine twice. "She loves you very much."

Jay flexes open. "Yeah, I *know*. Unlike *you*."

Tim raises --

"And I can *feel* you raising that motherfucking *eyebrow* at me, but you're fucking mean in a different *way*."

Tim *grinds* --

Jay *whines* -- "Tim, come *on* --"

"Shh," Tim says, and pulls out... slowly.

Jay moans and shivers again --

So *beautifully* --

And flips onto his back *immediately* once Tim is out, heedless of his wounds save for a *minute* wince -- "*Fuck*, you're a fucking mess."

This time, Tim allows himself to *focus* on the feel of the blood cracking and pulling on his face as he smiles. "Do I look like a vampire...?"

"No, you don't look like a fucking -- wait. Are there fucking *vampires*?"

"Yes."

"*What*? Why didn't you fucking *tell* -- it's in the reports, isn't it."

"The ones you 'totally read all of forever ago,' you mean? Yes, it is."

Jay winces *while* trying to smile ingratiatingly.

"Hnn. Lucky for you, it was in the section for extra-dimensional threats. Meaning...?"

"Uh. League business taking you out of *this* dimension?"

Tim inclines his head and sits on his heels. "Hopefully, we managed to be convincing to the... gentry about the intelligence of leaving our dimension *alone*."

"You didn't just *stake* the fuckers?"

Tim swipes semen up from Jay's abdomen and licks it from *between* his fingers --

Slowly --

"C'mon, *tell* me!"

"Kal burnt fourteen of the most belligerent ones to ash. This convinced the rest to release us from mindless sexual slavery --"

"Uh. You -- they -- are you *okay*?"

Tim smiles wryly. "We enjoyed ourselves immensely -- they made sure of it. I still ordered Kal to maim the twelve most *lustful* creatures. And then I vomited all over some *very* nice statuary, convinced Kal not to murder the *rest* of them... well, we came home. And Bruce and Barbara and Dick were exceedingly solicitous until such time as I could touch silk without getting a *sick* erection. And then I wrote the reports and moved on. Read the reports."

"Uh -- fuck. Okay. Sorry --"

"Shh. And Dick has a week with you now."

"Oh -- *Jesus*, Tim, he always breaks my *balls*! *Literally*!"

Tim strokes down the bridge of Jay's nose, leaving it sticky and pink. "Then remember that for next time."

Jay blushes --

Bites his lip --

And nods.

"Good boy --"

"You -- you always took care of me. I mean... when you first dragged my ass home."

Tim blinks -- and rests his hand on Jay's abdomen. "You don't think that was more Dick...?"

"Well -- yeah. I mean, Dick was all *over* my ass. I had this whole plan where I was gonna give all of you people the silent treatment until you shipped me off to a social worker I could *escape*, but, you know." Jay smiles ruefully. "Dick wasn't having it."

Tim smiles back. "He never would."

"Yeah, and. I mean, of course he found out about me hooking, and of course *all* of you guys were all over me and making sure I was okay and had everything I needed and was never cold or hungry or lonely or -- *any* fucking bad thing... but..."

Tim rubs Jay's abdomen gently. "Tell me."

"Well -- there was something special with all of you guys back then, you know? With Dick, it was how he just -- never even *blinked*. He was just 'yeah, I *know* you were hooking, and how damaging that can be, and blah blah we can talk and whatever, but we can also *totally* bone,' and okay, I'm fucking paraphrasing, but he'd be smiling that smile that makes him look innocent no matter fucking *what*, you know?"

Tim laughs and grins. "I know."

"Yeah. And *Babs* was there, and she was doing that thing where she's all *soft* and *warm* and *sweet*, and that still makes me blush to talk about it, even though she's done it with *all* of us now -- *you* know."

"I know."

"And *Harv* -- well, Harv had all that psych stuff *down*. Like maybe he should've been a *doctor* instead of a damned *lawyer*. I mean, he knew the words for everything I was feeling before I even knew *what* I was feeling."

Tim smiles. "He's remarkably good at that sort of thing. And you and I both have some idea why, now --"

"Jesus, yeah. But -- I don't know, Tim. Sometimes pasts don't matter. Sometimes it's just who you *are*."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps. But tell me more."

"Yeah?" Jay bites his lip.

"Please," and Tim presses on Jay's abdomen gently.

Jay sighs and arches into the touch. "Love that. Love -- well. Okay. Your little sister Helena was only seventeen then, and she was totally *focused* on going off to Yale -- well, she *should've* been, but instead she was right here hugging on me and promising me that the family would do right by me. She -- she's not even *in* this life and she was dead sure about *everything*. I thought she was the youngest kid I'd ever *seen*."

"Really."

"Heh. Until I saw her eyes, anyway. Um. Yeah." And Jay blushes and looks down. "You and Bruce were... hard. At first, I mean."

Tim scratches lightly. "Tell me, please."

"Well -- you know --"

"I am... hungry, Jay."

Jay frowns and looks up. "For *me*?"

"Is it so strange?"

"*Yeah*. You've shut yourself up in here for a *month*!"

"I --" Was injured.

The look on Jay's face *dares* him to say that aloud. Just --

Dares.

Tim smiles ruefully. "I am not always sane, or even particularly intelligent --"

"You don't have to be like Bruce in *every freaking way*!"

"I need you, Jay," Tim says quietly.

"So -- so *act* like it!"

"As much as I can --"

"*More*!"

"Jay. Tell me."

And Jay looks uncomfortable -

*Unhappy* --

Tim *can't* --

"Sometimes. Sometimes I wonder what I might have been like... had I had someone like you as an older brother. Someone to *be* with me in the years before Harvey convinced Bruce... well. The fantasy falls apart. I wouldn't expose anyone to my mother."

"I've *talked* to Hel about your Mom. *And* your -- uh. Jack Drake --"

Tim coughs a *painful* laugh --

"I would've gotten you the fuck up *out* of there. Which, well. That's what Harv and Bruce *did*, yeah?"

"Yes."

"Just... not really soon enough."

Tim spreads his biohazard-covered hands and smiles ruefully.

Jay bites his lip again and nods. "I -- I hear you. You don't... talk to your -- to the Drakes. At all."

"No, I do not. Helena claimed the right to handle all intrafamily communication when she was eighteen."

"God, and you *let* her?"

That... well. Tim smiles. "Do you know what she does for Thanksgiving, Jay...?"

"Uh. What?"

"She sends a card."

"Jesus --"

"Do you know what she does for Christmas?"

Jay winces. "Another card?"

"A *postcard*. Usually with an overweight cartoon companion animal, as Janet Drake loathes all of the above," Tim says, and smiles at the memory of the tuxedo cat batting at mistletoe while its fat rolls partially obscured rolls of ribbon. "I quite enjoy helping her choose."

Jay stares at him.

"Yes...?"

"That's fucked-up."

"Yes."

"You *know* that's fucked-up."

"Oh, yes."

"What the fuck do the Drakes send *back*?"

"Benchmark cards, usually. Positively dripping with the sort of sentiment that forces me to imagine Janet Drake gagging in her private washroom."

"Uh."

"Too far...?"

"*Yes*!"

Tim snickers, coughs into his hand --

Remembers last year's card and everything it said about the 'joy' he and Helena had brought them, the 'happy tears' and '*pride*' --

He snickers more --

And Jay sits up and punches him -- lightly -- in the stomach --

Tim grunts --

"Hey -- you let that land!"

"So I did," Tim says, and rubs blood and semen into his abdomen while smiling into Jay's *frightened* eyes --

"Uh..."

Tim lets his smile grow *wide* --

"Oh, Jesus, Tim, just hurry up and *hurt* me more!"

Tim darts in --

"*Fuck* --"

-- and bites Jay's lower lip, slowly increasing the pressure until Jay is whimpering again --

And Tim is rising again. Not that he'd *softened* especially much in the first place. He smiles and *sucks* Jay's lip, kisses it and bites it *harder* --

Jay whimpers *louder* --

"You were saying something," Tim says, and pulls back slowly.

"Uh? I totally wasn't --"

"You were."

"Tim --"

Tim presses his fingers to Jay's mouth --

"Oh, fuck, that *smell* --" And Jay sucks *three* of Tim's fingers into his mouth --

Moans and bobs his *head* --

His *eyes* are rolling up --

"Normally... normally, I would encourage this sort of behavior..."

"Mm-hm mm-hm mm-hm!"

Tim laughs and pulls his fingers out *slowly* -- they aren't, actually, noticeably cleaner. "We're going to have to sanitize me --"

"Well, *yeah*. But *later* --"

"Tell me -- please tell me."

Jay blinks. "Oh -- oh," he says, and smiles ruefully. "I didn't actually mean to put you off -- not for that."

"No?"

"Well, not *now*," and Jay shuffles closer until he's straddling Tim's thighs and can press his beautiful, scarred body against Tim's own -- "I mean, you're being good and all."

"Am I...?"

"Oh, yeah. Sharing, caring, all that good shit."

Tim hums. "Will you fuck me *very* hard, Jay...?"

Jay stares at him with his mouth open for a long moment --

A longer one --

He licks his *lips* --

And Tim cups Jay's hips and squeezes, pushing him back. "Let's start getting you used to the idea."

"Uh?"

"Back."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay," and Jay shuffles back, giving Tim room to crawl to the center of the bed and brace himself on his hands and knees --

Jay groans... impressively.

Tim smiles back over his shoulder -- and works his hips in small, tight circles --

"Oh... fuck. Tim..."

"Yes, Jay?"

"It's not like -- uh."

"Do tell."

"I mean -- Bruce wants it all the *time*."

"He's a greedy, greedy man... from time to time."

"Yeah. Yeah," Jay says, nodding and licking his lips. "And that's just it! I could see that you were *both* really greedy. I could -- I could fucking *feel* it, and in the beginning I was waiting for the other fucking *shoe* to drop. I mean, Bruce would just flat-out *stare* at me, and then apologize *while* talking about how fucking beautiful he thought I was, and then apologize more and *vow* to never abuse me or try to *seduce*..."

"You didn't believe him."

"Of fucking *course* I didn't! Except that I totally *did* believe him within a fucking *week*. He just -- he was so *sincere*, and he was always so *surprised* when I asked him a fucking question about *anything*, like maybe he *wasn't* the most interesting fucking --" Jay shakes his head. "But I knew he meant it, even though I also knew he was screwing Dick *and* Babs -- not to even mention you and Harv. He just -- he was... pure, somehow. I could feel it."

Tim sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. "He has... so much light."

"Yeah. *Yeah*. Like maybe *he* should've been the Robin, even though that would've been really fucking *scary* --" Jay snorts. "Now I'm picturing you throwing him around the way he used to throw *me* around out there. The way he still *does* throw me around."

Tim laughs and spreads his knees slightly wider apart -- mainly because he *can*. "I take your point. I was never pure."

"*Fuck*, no. And I was *really* waiting for you, because you would just *burn* at me all the time -- like you were *thinking* all the things Bruce was saying about me being beautiful, but not saying them. And *not* thinking the apologies."

"Well. There was a certain amount of that..."

"Psh. You think I don't know?" Jay shoves at Tim's ass -- "God, your ass is. Uh. Are you sure --"

"Oh, yes."

Jay moans and massages Tim's ass with *rough* skill --

Tim growls and lets his head hang --

"And -- God, I've always loved how low your *sac* hangs, man."

Tim blinks --

Considers looking back between his legs -- no.

"Yes?"

"Well -- it's like a *metaphor* and shit. It's not all huge like Bruce's, but it's just way the fuck *down* there, *daring* a fucker to be a fucker."

Tim licks his lips and frowns --

"Aw, shut the fuck up. I'm having a *moment*!"

Tim *bites* his lip -- no. "I wouldn't dream of interrupting --"

"*Any*-fucking-way. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, yeah?" And Jay starts massaging Tim again.

Tim takes a deep breath --

Another --

"Yes. Tell me."

"Uh, hunh. I'm *watching* B fall in love with me, and it's the craziest thing I've ever seen, because he's *Batman*, but I'm also watching *you* getting ready to eat me *alive* -- and I'm *not* an idiot, so I figure out that that means that the *other* Batman is falling in love with me, too."

Tim -- shivers. "Yes. From --"

"Heh. The first *moment*? *B*?"

Tim growls again. "*Yes*. Call it a factor of the Wayne legacy --"

"Call it fucking *crazy* is what I'll fucking *call* it, man. 'cause there I am, *twelve fucking years old*, and I'm *finally* not cold, and I'm *finally* not hungry, and I'm *finally* getting through whole days -- weeks! -- without the taste of strangers' cocks in my mouth -- but there you both are," and Jay *grips* Tim's hips --

Tim's penis twitches -- "Jay..."

"Yeah, you like that. I've *seen* B do it to you enough times... does Harv do it, too?"

("Maybe I should just hold you *still* for me, little guy..."

"Nnh -- I -- Harv --"

"Maybe I should just make. You. *Take* it.")

And Tim's heating for a blush *before* the flush takes him -- "Yes."

"Wanna see that. Wanna --"

"He won't --"

"I *know*. And now I know *why*, Jesus. But -- I still want it," Jay says, and squeezes hard.

"Clark --"

"Not the *same* -- wait, the vampires couldn't... uh... get him? I mean, he's *vulnerable* to magic --"

Tim laughs somewhat breathlessly. "There was no Superman in that dimension -- or any other superpowered being who could conceivably respond to being staked out and shackled in an area which would receive large amounts of powerful and direct solar radiation... in the way Kal responded."

"They. They staked him out in the sun."

Tim smiles. "Yes."

"They'd beaten him -- enough to *get* him tied up --"

"Yes."

"And then they left him in the *sun*?"

"For *hours*," Tim says, lowering his head just enough to catch the pillow sham between his teeth and growl -- for a moment. He lifts his head again. "We laughed until we cried."

"After the puking."

"After that, yes."

"Jesus, that's -- okay, yeah, I'm reading all the reports now --"

"Good boy."

"And I'm totally -- heh."

And that's the sound of Jay slicking his fingers -- and his penis. Mm. "So soon...?"

"I'm *not* gonna wanna wait."

Tim smiles. "All right. But tell me --"

"It was the love that made it all better," Jay says, and pushes in with two --  "Nn -- Jesus, you're -- you're almost *tight* --"

"It's been -- oh, Jay --"

"God, I'm inside you. Uh. Uh. I'm not gonna have a brain in, like, thirty seconds --"

"That's fine --"

"So I'm just gonna say this, okay?"

Tim squeezes his eyes shut and nods, *fighting* not to clench around those fingers, so warm and hard --

So long and --

*Not* as thick as Bruce's --

But just as good. Just --

"Tim -- Jesus, you're all tensed *up* --"

"I *want* you, Jay --"

Jay moans -- and there's a little spatter of wetness on the back of Tim's right thigh.

"You twitched."

"*Hard*. Uh. Uh. Don't say anything for a second!"

Tim pants --

Smells *blood* and *clenches* --

And they're moaning together --

And Tim is rocking back --

*Back* --

"Ah, *fuck*, I just -- okay, okay, *listen*," Jay says, and grips Tim's left hip with his free hand as he starts to *thrust* --

"*Yes* --"

"*Fuck*, yes. Look, I *know* the fact that you guys were in love with me shouldn't have made one goddamned fucking *thing* better, and I even knew it *then*, but -- but it felt good, and warm. The kind of warm that went all the way *down* --"

"*Please* --"

"I knew you'd *keep* me --"

"*Always* --"

"And -- and I knew that even if I didn't wanna *be* kept -- I knew it would still feel fucking *fantastic*, and that's all I've got, that's -- oh, God, Tim, I can't believe you're letting me --"

"*Harder*!"

"Any-fucking-thing you *say*," Jay says, and starts *pulling* Tim into his thrusts --

"Do this -- do this when your penis -- *hnh* ---"

"Yeah, yeah, I got your -- your prostate --"

"God, *Jay* --"

"Wanna make you *come* --"

"Then *fuck* me!"

"Let -- let me *open* you first --"

"Not too *much* --"

"Oh -- oh, *yeah*," Jay says, and now he's thrusting hard, thrusting *fast* --

Tim groans and *meets* Jay's thrusts, gritting his teeth until his body lets him relax --

"God, I *felt* that -- *fuck*, Tim --"

Until he's just groaning and riding, *needing* --

He *never* needs to be worked open too much --

He --

From the time he was *pubescent* and fantasizing about *Dinah's* fingers --

Ted *Grant's* fingers --

And his penis -- and even showering with the man after a joint JLA/JSA mission five years ago had showed that said penis wasn't *quite* as long as adolescent fantasy had *insisted*...

Well. He still hasn't seen it *hard*. And that's an excellent reason to laugh *while* shoving himself back onto Jay's fingers --

"Yeah, yeah, do it, Tim --"

"*Jay* --"

"C'mon, get *open* --"

"Get me *slick*."

"I -- I'll just shove *in* --"

"*Precisely*," Tim says, and remembers that Jay is *not* him -- and so he starts to clench --

"*Fuck* --"

To do his best to *crush* Jay's fingers --

"Oh, God -- come *on*, Tim --"

"*Jay*."

Jay *whimpers* --

Tim clenches because he *needs* to --

"It's so *wrong* how much you love that fucking sound --"

Tim *growls* --

"*Okay*!" And Jay dumps more lubricant directly on Tim's hole, slips out for long enough to make Tim growl *again* --

And then he begins slicking Tim in earnest, working it around *without* trying to stretch him --

"God, Tim --"

"Yes -- *yes* --"

"I'm so --"

"*Now*!"

Another whimper -- and Jay pulls out again. "Tim -- I need --"

"*Yes*," Tim says, dropping onto his cheek and spreading himself with both hands --

"Ah, *fuck* -- *fine*," Jay says, and pushes in --

And in --

So -- so *slowly* --

"Fuck fuck fuck -- *fuck* --"

Tim shudders and pants --

Shudders and *twitches*, because it's been *weeks* since he's had a penis inside him, weeks since he's felt this --

This *warm* --

"Tim -- God, is it *okay*?"

Tim nods -- and then realizes that he's gritting his teeth again, that he's straining in *place* --

"*Please*, Tim!"

Jay can't *see* a nod like this -- 

Jay always arches *back* when he's entering --

Tim opens his mouth to order Jay to get all the way *in* him, to *fuck* him, to make the feeling inside him make *sense* --

Tim groans and shudders and groans more --

He's clawing at the *duvet* --

"*Tim* --"

"*Nnh* -- *more*," and that's a word, it's definitely --

Jay can *understand* that --

Jay won't make him wait --

"Are you -- are you *sure* --"

"Jay, *please*!"

"Jesus, Tim, it's just -- no, no, you're right, and I fucking -- you feel so good --" And Jay moans as he *rocks* in the last two inches --

Moans and shudders --

"Your fucking *sac* -- I --"

"*Please* --"

"Yeah -- God --" And Jay groans and grips Tim's hips again, *holds* them -- "I need -- I need *this*," and he pulls out *nearly* all the way --

Tim clenches on nothing and *growls* again -- and the growl becomes a yell when Jay shoves in --

Shoves *deep* --

"*Jay* --"

"Yeah -- oh, *yeah* --"

"*Again* --"

"Any -- *anything*," and Jay pulls out and *holds* himself there, holds himself *still* --

"Jay --"

"Heh. Say *please* again."

Tim *grunts* -- and grins. "Please."

Jay pushes in *slightly* -- "Louder --"

"*Please* -- *nnh* --"

"Yeah, that was -- mm. That was worth about *half* my cock -- c'mon, *earn* the rest, Daddy --"

"*Please* fuck me *hard*, Jay --"

"Oh, yeah --"

Tim laughs and licks his teeth. "Please make me take it. Please -- please make me *cry* for it --"

"Uh."

"*Please* fuck me so hard I bite the pillows and howl. Your. *Name* --"

"Jesus fucking *Christ*, Tim, you always gotta take it so *far* --"

Tim snickers --

Clenches and *coughs* --

Jay jerks and *spasms* --

"Please... do it *right* now," Tim says, and grins back over his shoulder again --

"Fucking *fine*, but when I get a fucking *complex* and I --" And Jay growls and *pushes* Tim nearly off his penis --

Pulls and *thrusts* at once --

Tim *shouts* --

"Oh -- oh fuck *me* --"

"*Later* --"

"Uh, hunh, yeah, I'm gonna --" And Jay pushes Tim again --

Pulls and *shoves* --

They yell *together* --

And Tim feels something low in his abdomen *flip* for this, feels himself heat and *sweat* --

Jay is nearly twenty years younger than he is --

Jay is --

He's taught and trained and *raised* --

"I *love* you," Tim says, and flushes harder when Jay whimpers *again* --

When he can't keep himself from twitching and clenching and doesn't want to *try* --

But is it better to be bent over for one's son than it is to have the alternative? Is it --

Could it be something of --

Of *equality*?

And Tim is laughing again, laughing as he gasps and *grunts*, because Jay is crying out for every *vicious* thrust, Jay is all but *lifting* him with the *force* of his thrusts --

And Tim knows that Jay's eyes are squeezed shut --

And that every cry is a *plea* --

That every *slap* of their scrotums is --

Is --

Perfect. Right --

*Necessary*, as necessary as the *impossibility* of truly working his hips in Jay's grip --

So *strong* --

Tim clenches --

And the burn makes him scream, makes him -- "*Jay*!"

And Jay thrusts so --

So much *faster* --

Oh --

It *hurts* --

And he knows what will happen if he sobs --

He --

God, can he *do* that to Jay?

To *Jay* --

His *love*, and does Jay realize how quickly he had given himself to them? How *completely* -- no, of course he realizes it. Of course he --

Welcomes --

"*Tim* --"

God, yes --

"*Please* -- oh, God, I don't -- don't even know --"

*Yes* --

"I need you so fucking -- so fucking *bad*," and Jay is slamming in now, rocking the bed --

Knocking the headboard against the *wall* --

And Tim knows if he sobs --

If he lets that --

He *sobs* --

"*Tim*!"

He sobs and he *keeps* sobbing, because it hurts, because Jay is his --

"Oh, God -- God, I can't *stop* --"

"*Don't* --"

"*Fuck* --"

"Don't *stop* --" And the sobs break the words --

The sobs make him --

Make him scrub his *face* against the pillows --

"Oh, God -- oh, God oh *fuck*, Tim -- I'm sorry, I need you, I won't -- I won't stop for fucking *anything* --"

And Tim is nodding, panting and --

*Gasping* and sobbing more, and he doesn't realize that Jay isn't gripping his hips anymore until he feels those hands moving on him, stroking and petting him so *gently* even as Jay fucks him *harder* --

"Love you -- love you so *much* --"

And a part of Tim wants to warn Jay *away* from him, wants to point out that he's crazier than he'd looked, that he --

That he'll *take* --

But the best he can do is groan *between* the sobs, shudder and cry out --

"I'll do -- do it all the *time* --"

"*Jay*!"

"*Hnh* -- ohn -- *ohn* -- fuck shit *fuck*, I --" And Jay grabs Tim's penis and squeezes hard --

Tim chokes and *shudders* --

"Yeah, yeah -- okay -- it's just -- you gotta *come*," he says, and Tim is nodding and *working* himself between Jay's hand and Jay's penis --

Tim is gulping air and --

And *trying* --

He wants to keep this *feeling* --

But Jay has *barely* started stroking when Tim realizes for what feels like the *first* time that he won't, that he *can't*. It's too good, too --

Too *hot*, and there's salt in his eyes and blood on his tongue --

He'd bitten his *cheek* --

He wants to *kiss*, to stroke and taste and *touch* --

He wants *this*, and he *has* it, and Jay is *riding* him, *taking* --

Jay is fucking him so *hard* and stroking him that much *harder* --

Tim feels --

Tim feels so *much*, and the only surprise is that clenching over and over *doesn't* make him scream --

But then he realizes that he's *already* screaming --

That Jay is driving him over --

Over the *edge* --

And that was more of a snarling *growl* than anything else, but he's *spasming* for this, hitching --

Screaming again -- no, that's Jay, and he has no rhythm, at all, anymore --

He's stroking Tim *violently* and fucking him with a desperation --

So much *force* --

Tim grunts and collapses onto his *face* --

"T-*Tim*!"

Oh, Jay...

And Jay *slams* in --

Whimpers and pulls *back* --

And then thrusts fast and relatively *gently* as he ejaculates, whining high in his throat and squeezing Tim's penis hard enough to make Tim *wince* --

And want more.

Eventually.

Tim laughs at himself --

Jay shudders and squeezes him even *harder* --

And Tim feels no shame whatsoever about letting the laugh turn to a hoarse and somewhat bovine groan.

Jay shudders more --

*Whimpers* more --

"Fuuuck..."

Tim smiles. "Precisely."

"Uh... uh?"

Tim laughs again and pushes up onto his hands, shivering for the shift in angle -- and ejaculate. "I'm going to have to bareback at least once with the *entire* family now, aren't I."

"Uh?"

Tim hums. "Never mind," he says, and rolls his shoulders, his head on his neck --

Arches his back --

"God, you're so *hot*," Jay says, and he sounds *mournful* about it.

"Jay...?"

"No, I -- I just want -- I know that wasn't *all* of what you wanted --"

"Jay."

"*Seriously*, Tim. I *know* you wanted to be, you know, *topped*."

Tim laughs and crawls forward until Jay slips out --

Jay grunts --

And Tim flips over so he can meet Jay's gaze. "I wanted to be fucked. By you. And that is *precisely* what I received."

Jay frowns at him skeptically.

"Jay."

"Seriously --"

"*Seriously*, Jay."

Jay bites his lip.

"You *look* twelve when you do that, you know."

"I -- heh. You love it."

Tim smiles and nods *slowly*.

Jay snickers. "Perv. Okay, fine, I'm a *great* fucking fucker."

"Note the tear tracks."

Jay stops snickering -- and licks his lips. "Uh -- yeah. That was really *hot*, Tim. Does that -- I mean. I haven't seen... you know."

"I don't usually let myself go quite that much --"

"With the *kids*?"

"When there's more than one other person present. Nothing -- *nothing* -- takes me over quite like being thoroughly fucked."

Jay licks his lips and squeezes his penis... which has *stopped* softening.

Tim smiles. "Not again tonight."

"Aw -- no?"

Tim shakes his head.

"I mean -- I can -- I'd have more control, you know?"

"When I want control, I fuck Batman."

"You *are* -- wait. There's something I've always wanted to know," Jay says, and sits on his heels.

Tim rests on his elbows with his right foot planted. "Ask."

"Do you *call* each other Batman when you're fucking?"

"Yes."

"At the same *time*?"

Tim laughs and shakes his head. "Though the temporal distance between such events can sometimes be... small."

Jay looks at him as if he's *crazy* -- which is entirely fair.

"You almost never want to make love with the Batman."

"Too fucking *cold*. It's good when you lose it enough that you can't *help* being Batman, but other times? No fucking way."

Tim inclines his head. "So be it."

Jay nods and throws himself down next to Tim, cuddling close and scratching his chest in a very bad impression of casualness. "So..."

"Yes, Jay?"

"Uh... Blood."

Where, exactly, *is* the Kryptonian patella? Is it still in his bloodstream somewhere?

Lodged in his muscle tissue?

He'll have Clark scan him. For now -- "Ask."

"I thought he was really fucking *hurting* you."

"He was."

"*Asshole* --"

"But he would never, ever injure me."

"How do you even -- I've asked *around*. *No* team wants him."

Tim stretches and calls up... the taste of chocolate ice cream. The smell of chartreuse. He hasn't experienced either since he was ten, and he doesn't intend to ever again. "Very true."

"*So*? Why do *you* trust him?"

"Other than the fact that he's saved my life and the lives of people I care very deeply about many, many times?"

"*Yes*, other than that, because we just fucking *watched* him fucking *admitting* to killing people. *Lots* of people. More people than he could keep *track* of -- and *not* only murderers."

It's tempting to ask Jay *precisely* how he feels about, say, the pimp they stumbled over seven weeks ago with a penchant for *clipping* the *ears* of his 'stable' --

But *he* is not Blood. Still...

"When Bruce and I were building the Batman between us, we realized -- quickly -- that, as much as we wished it could be otherwise, we *couldn't* set our rules in stone. We... well, we had *already* learned that the *hard* way --"

"Yeah, but it's one thing for you guys to make a fucking serial killer disappear -- and you *know* I'm all for that --"

"I do know --"

"It's *different*, Tim!" And Jay turns on his side and rests his big, warm hand on Tim's chest. "I mean, it's not like my old man was worth *anything*, but I'm still glad you guys finally took out the Joker, even though you *didn't* only do it *because* he killed my father. You know?"

Tim takes a deep breath -- and nods. "I know."

"But you still -- you would've sided with Blood and Grandma Incestpants."

That -- "You're going to keep calling her that, aren't you."

"Yeah, pretty much. I mean, I'll *try* not to do it in front of B, but -- yeah. Answer the question?"

"Always, Jay," Tim says, and covers Jay's hand with his own --

Jay smiles at him so *warmly* --

"I love you," Tim says, and sighs. "I never shared a room with Harvey when he was having the worst of his nightmares. I never watched him wake up yelling. I never watched him cringe into a corner before he woke up fully enough to understand what he was doing --"

"Jesus --"

"Bruce saw all of that, and more."

"And -- told his parents."

"Considering how politely *frigid* Bruce's relationship with Thomas became over the years -- before it became *worse* -- it was probably just Martha."

Jay frowns. "Okay, okay, *wait*. Did he know about her watching? Does he know now? Did *you* know?"

"He knew, from the beginning, that she was *aware* of his relationship with Harv -- and, eventually, with me. I... we all talked about it. We had to --"

"*Jesus* -- but. *Wait*. He still *worships* her!"

"I wouldn't say --"

"Okay, okay, fine. But compared to how you and Harv are about *your* parents?"

Tim smiles ruefully. "That truly isn't saying much, Jay --"

"*Work* with me --"

"-- but I know what you're saying. And I don't know what you want me to tell you."

"Yes, you do!"

"All right, you want me to tell you that Bruce has an entirely sane and reasonable relationship with the concept of family, despite the fact that he adopted you not long after he began fucking you *stupid*."

Jay glares at him.

Tim raises an eyebrow.

"*B* isn't *creepy* about -- uh. Heh. Uh." Jay snickers --

Wheezes --

Rolls onto his back and *cackles* --

Tim smiles and rolls onto his own side, stroking firmly down the midline of Jay's abdominal muscles with his fingertips and waiting --

For a somewhat long time --

"Okay, okay -- heh heh -- no, I'm -- *heh* -- I'm good. Whew. Wow. Okay. Man, I can't believe I got that much of that sentence *out*."

"I was duly impressed," Tim says, and kisses Jay's shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm awesome," and Jay stretches, then folds his arms behind his head. "And fine, Bruce loves Grandma Incestpants now and forever."

"Yes."

"And *Blood* loved her -- how *did* he off her in the end?"

"I couldn't say. He came to the three of us after it was done, and brought us to her sitting room. She was reclining on her chaise in a rose-colored silk negligee and matching peignoir, her makeup was perfect, and she had a smile on her face."

"Okay, see, that just sounds *creepy*. What the hell did Blood *say*?"

"Nothing. He was weeping silently, and excused himself once we told him we required nothing else at that time."

Jay blinks. "Oh. I... oh."

Tim lets his smile be a gentle one. "It's all right, Jay. You're allowed to continue to dislike even the people you sympathize with."

"She -- she was *nuts*. And --"

"Had many, many other flaws, yes."

Jay growls. "They were probably fucking *perfect* for each other."

"Inasmuch as any couple can be, I suppose --"

"You *suppose*? You're *not* gonna look it up?"

"Oh, I'm absolutely going to look it up... but you're welcome to skip the experience...?"

Jay scowls blackly.

Tim smiles and kisses his shoulder. "I'm going to wash the top layer of bodily fluids off. I'll be back in five minutes. And then..."

"And then *what*?"

"Your choice, Jay. Always."

"Oh, I'm fucking staying. I'm gonna be *learning* from the asshole soon, and -- hurry up!"

Tim laughs softly. "Of course."

It winds up taking seven minutes of scrubbing at the sink before he can look at his hands and face without cringing, and Tim promises himself a long shower after... after.

For now, he dries off -- then fills a basin with the *moderately* hot water Jay prefers --

"Come *on*!"

-- and acquires the other disinfectant materials, as well.

Jay grumbles, but submits to Tim's ministrations. As expected, he requires neither stitches nor wound sealant -- though the duvet will almost certainly be stained forever unless Tim himself, Bruce, or Stephanie does the washing -- and only requires three small bandages.

By the time Tim is done, Jay has a truly *ferocious* look on his face...

Tim bites it off.

Slowly.

Jay's penis is rising again when Tim eventually stops, and so Tim grabs the controller, tugs the duvet roughly back into place -- just in case -- and settles back against the headboard.

"We're totally not gonna put it in the laundry, yet."

"No, we are not."

"Because *you're* expecting to get turned the fuck on by --"

"'Grandma Incestpants', yes," Tim says, and makes a come-on gesture.

Jay's sigh is long-suffering, but he crawls on just the same, sitting close. He smells of sweat, semen, alcohol, and his own usual *mellowly* sharp musk. He --

"As an aside, you're *also* one of the most sexually *magnetic* people I've ever known --"

"Uh, huh, I know."

"Hm. I wasn't aware that Bruce said --"

"Nah, not him," Jay says, and puts his arm around Tim's waist. "Cass, you know, kind of danced it out."

Tim attempts to picture it --

"It was hot, but not -- I mean, it was her *translating*, you know?"

Tim powers up the viewscreen and raises an eyebrow. "You usually don't need that sort of thing."

"Nah, but she's usually, you know, not talking *about* me, as opposed to *to* me."

"True. Do you feel you understood everything she was saying?"

And Jay... blushes.

Hm.

Tim enters the date, time, and location --

Martha's first *anniversary* --

The *manor* --

Will he see Thomas again?

Is he ready for --

"You okay, Tim?"

Jay is, of course, one of the single most *intuitive* people he's ever met, as well. The advent of Cassandra into all of their lives has only made the inborn talent more *acute*. And Cassandra...

("Not my bed-room.")

And Tim had blinked, and gone over the layout of the room in his mind. It was spacious, received a great deal of light, and, thanks to Bruce's and Stephanie's efforts, already had a large amount of otherwise indefinable *warmth*. But --

Cassandra's expression had been *adamant*.

("Tell me why."

"Space-full. Space-more.")

She'd frowned deeply and patted Tim's mouth *firmly* with her hard, callused fingers --

("Too much space?"

"Yes! No people. Bad!")

And so it had been necessary to move extra beds into Dick's, Jay's, and Stephanie's rooms --

It had been so *hard* not to buy extra beds for his and Bruce's rooms -- but Cassandra is Cassandra, and had not needed them to know that she was welcome whenever she desired...

In the past six months, she has spent the vast majority of her nights in Jay's bed -- whether or not Jay, or anyone, was her chosen lover for the night -- for reasons of her -- hm.

"Tim?"

The machine is homed. With Tim is thinking of nothing in particular *other* than his family, it shows a split-screen of the bed and the -- currently empty -- gymnasium. And -- "Do you know why Cass has spent so much time sleeping with you lately?"

"Uh -- heh. She says I need it," and Jay blushes harder.

Tim blinks and stares at Jay.

"Because I've been... a little worried. Because maybe I've been having -- uh. Things happen."

Tim narrows his eyes.

"Not big things! Just, you know --"

"Magic."

"... yeah."

"Jay."

"Only -- only when I'm in the parks and shit. And just, like, more power? More power. Sometimes. I was actually gonna tell you -- or Bruce --"

"You're calling Blood tomorrow."

"I've got Dick tomorrow!"

"And Blood."

"Hey, he said *I* could choose --"

"And *I'm* saying something *different*," Tim says, in the Voice.

Jay winces and nods. "Jesus, *okay*! Okay! I'll -- uh. I mean, I'll need one of the big-bear comms --"

"I *doubt* that... but you'll have one just the same. You will not wait."

"I -- yes, Tim."

Tim nods. "Why did you blush before?"

"Uh? Oh, I..." Jay shrugs a little. "It's... you know. It's a little weird to hook *up* with Cass after we're fucking around with language lessons and shit. That's all."

Tim frowns. "Why?"

Jay frowns at *him*. "Because I've been *teaching* her -- Jesus, you're a perv."

Tim raises an eyebrow.

"Well, you totally are. *Most* people would get that *without* needing to have it explained, *Daddy*."

Jay -- is probably right about that. Still... Tim shows his teeth.

"Okay, yeah, you being a perv *is* working for me -- put the *movie* on!"

Tim hums and focuses --

And the screen goes *dark* --

And the bedroom fills with the sound of papers being shuffled --

Birds singing --

And a low, menacing growl broken periodically by hitched breaths. Sobs?

"Jesus, what --"

And Martha is there in the library of Wayne Manor. She's *not* on any of the chaises, and that's disconcerting enough to be --

No. Focus.

She's seated at the worktable nearest the -- blazing -- fireplace --

No, it's an older table than the ones Tim is familiar with. The wood is darker, and there is an almost *demandingly* masculine feel to it. Additionally, there are hunting trophies scattered here and there on the walls --

A *bear* pelt in front of the fireplace --

Tim can't help curling his lip.

"Fuck, I didn't know Thomas was into all that dead animal shit."

"He wasn't, but *his* father was. By all reports, so was Martha's father."

"Hunh. And both of those guys are alive at this point?"

"Yes, they --"

Martha growls again, *deep* and animal, and takes a long drink from the bottle of very expensive gin that had been sitting at her right elbow. She glares at the papers in front of her.

She growls again --

*Again* --

And three tears roll down her cheeks and patter on the pages.

"*Fuck*. What is she -- uh. I mean, maybe we shouldn't look at this?"

Oh... Jay.

"I mean -- fuck. She's obviously alone for a reason --"

Tim rests his hand on Jay's thigh. "Knowing what I know of her..." Tim shakes his head. "She was proud of her relationship with Blood, Jay. She would've shared it with the world if it wouldn't have made things difficult for Bruce."

Jay inhales sharply -- and nods. "Yeah, I -- okay. Okay."

Tim nods as well, and focuses -- and the zoom shows that the papers are at least two dozen short letters from Edward Kane. Notes, really, in his aggressively neat handwriting. Certain phrases are... impossible to miss.

"What the *fuck*?"

Phrases about Martha's lack of *fecundity* --

"Is he seriously --"

About her *failures* --

"No, no, that's not what you say to your fucking *daughter* --"

About the *fortune*, and how she'll never see a penny more of it until she does her wifely --

Martha screams -- quietly. The echoes don't carry for an especially long time --

And then she's on her feet, tearing the notes into tiny pieces. It's shocking, once more, how small she is. How --

No, focus. Take in every detail. The view circles her slowly as she picks up the papers and tears them and tosses them and picks them up again --

As she shakes her head and snarls and growls like an *animal* --

Her face is flushed.

Her hair -- obviously uncombed this morning -- is wild around her shoulders, and still fully black.

Her clothes -- a negligee and peignoir nearly identical to the one she'd died in, save that the color is a pale gold -- are somewhat rumpled, and cling to her body here and there with sweat Tim thinks he should be able to *smell*.

Her feet are bare.

Her eyes are -- hurt. Angry. Trapped. Terrified. *Enraged* --

And then simply *wild* as she whirls to pick up the three-quarters-empty bottle of gin --

As she flings it -- into the fireplace.

The fireball is improbably *large* --

And the bear pelt catches fire immediately.

Martha's smile can only be described as *dementedly* pleased --

"Oh, fuck, look at that shadow --"

"Which shadow?"

"*That* one --"

And Jason Blood, wearing a *culturally* anachronistic indigo Nehru jacket and matching slacks steps out of something that, on deeper investigation, looks more like a smudge on the *air* than a shadow. His hair is queued to the space between his shoulder blades, and he looks no older or younger than he ever -- no. He looks *excited*. He clears his throat --

And Martha whirls on *him*, baring her teeth and seeming only moments away from leaping for his eyes.

"Peace, good woman," Blood says, and bows low. "I mean no harm."

"Uh."

Tim raises an eyebrow.

Martha, for her part, looks *confused* -- but only for a moment before drawing herself up to her full five feet, one inch of height. There is, abruptly, no trace of anything save *affront* in her eyes. "Who are you? What are you doing in my home?"

Blood flares his nostrils as he stands straight once more. "I was born Guthlac of Mercia, but I am now called Jason Blood. As to why I'm here... you summoned me."

Martha narrows her eyes *slightly*. "If you're going to insist on speaking nonsense, then I will have to summon the authorities," and her voice is cold and *clear* --

Blood smiles. "I would rather you did *not*... but I am not unknown in those circles, good woman --"

"My *name* is Martha Kane *Wayne*."

"Is it truly...? I am a sorcerer, good woman. I am in the business of -- among other things -- *true* names --"

"What are you *talking* about?"

Blood holds up one long, thin finger. "Would you like for me to do something about your burning rug?"

It is, in fact, burning *merrily* -- for some definitions of the term -- and, for a moment, the wildness comes back to Martha's eyes --

Along with something very much like malicious joy. "Could you make it burn *faster*?"

Blood shows his teeth... and gestures. This time, the fireball is a pale aquamarine --

"*Fuck*!"

And there's an *actual* bear within it, standing up and snuffling curiously before roaring its *defiance* -- and turning to walk into nothingness.

Where the pelt had been, there is a *neat* pile of ash.

Martha gasps and claps like a child --

And Blood flares his nostrils again --

Leans *toward* her --

Stands straight and folds his hands behind his back. "Does it suit, good --"

"Martha. Martha is -- enough," she says, and there is something like a *skin* of calm --

Something like *amusement* -- no, she is Martha. It *is* amusement. Though what *precisely* it's for in *this* moment is anyone's guess. She tucks a lock of her hair behind her faintly pointed right ear. It has, Tim remembers, a slightly different shape than her left ear. It --

"My mother chose the name Martha for me."

"You loved her...?"

"Of course -- and when you flare your nostrils like that, Mr. Blood, you look like you're thinking of taking up *cannibalism*."

Blood smiles. "Are you sure I haven't already...?"

Martha hums, and there is a light dancing in her eyes. "That brings me to my next question."

"Please ask... Martha. And please call me Jason."

She shows *her* teeth... and winds another lock of her hair around her finger like the sort of schoolgirl Stephanie would consider battering.

Blood takes a step closer, but continues to hold himself in a near-militaristic posture.

Martha hums. "Are you a good witch or a bad witch...?"

"Which would you prefer...?"

Martha makes a *moue* --

"You're *absolutely* correct, of course -- you *have* already answered that question," Blood says, and the light in his eyes is *hungry* -- "I am a *blood* witch --"

"A bit on the *nose*, don't you think?"

"Some of us believe in truth in advertising, Martha... and truth in general. Your mother died when you were four."

"And?"

"Do you remember her?"

The expression on Martha's face turns vicious --

Dark --

*Ugly* --

She turns away without a word and begins kicking idly through the torn scraps of paper. She picks up some few with her toes, then sends them fluttering away again --

She hums something -- no, Tim had done his research for this. It's --

"John Coltrane, Martha? Is he a favorite?"

"I think you should leave, Mr. Blood-witch," she says, and there's something deeper than boredom in her voice, something almost *lifeless* --

"Fucking *A*, she's crazy."

"Yes."

"I mean -- *not sane*."

"Yes."

"I mean -- oh, Jesus, look at *him*," Jay says, and --

Tim is. Blood's hands are still behind his back, but now he's *gripping* at himself --

*Straining* --

"I would rather not, Martha."

"Why not?"

"Because I believe you summoned me for a reason --"

"What is this business of me *summoning* you? Are you some sort of *servant*?" And there's life in her voice again, but it's -- pettish.

Blood still inhales sharply. "I could be *your* servant, Martha --"

"I *have* servants. Very good ones, too. They'll clean up *all* of this mess and -- and you won't be able to tell..." She crosses her arms over her chest. In the light from the fire -- the one *in* the fireplace -- there is the shine of new moisture on her cheek.

Blood sighs. "Some messes require special sorts of servants... in my experience."

"And what sort of experience is that," she says, lifeless again.

Blood clenches his hands into fists -- opens them and closes the distance between them, tugging her hands into his own and holding them. "Incandescent rage on a day of foolery, at a time of power, in a location... well. I knew Hezekiah Wayne well enough, Martha --"

"What are you -- he died three hundred years ago!"

"Shh. Simply listen for a moment," Blood says, and squeezes her hands gently. His eyes -- change --

"*Shit* --" And Jay covers *Tim's* eyes with his hand.

"Jay --"

"He's putting the fucking *whammy* on her."

"Ah. I suppose that would explain my sudden desire to listen to Blood speak for hours. Here," Tim says, and focuses --

"Yeah, okay, we're looking at just her now. All good," and Jay moves his hand --

" -- ley lines, Martha?"

She frowns slightly -- prettily. Dreamily. "No, Jason."

Blood sighs 'off-camera,' and the sound of it is somewhat -- shaky. "I believe I would *dearly* love to hear you call my name... well, we'll get to that. *Hopefully*. In brief: despite *all* of my most *fervent* advice to the contrary, old Hez *insisted* on building this monstrosity -- *and* the earliest generations of the Wayne businesses -- at the confluences of several lines of power. This guaranteed him large amounts of money and influence, but also... well. Perhaps you've noticed how young Wayne spouses tend to die and how *exceedingly* haunted your home is?"

The dreaminess fades under a *wave* of rage -- "*Yes* --"

"Just so. I don't *have* to scry -- your child, should you choose to bear it, will hate it for every day of his life --"

"What -- I -- I'm pregnant?"

"You didn't know? Ah, but it is a *very* new pregnancy. *Is* it cause for congratulations?"

Martha's expression... twists. It never grows truly *ugly* again, but the sense of her being *trapped* is back in *force* --

"Oh, Martha... as I've said, I am a man of blood. I can and will remove your nascent problem with a *modicum* of muss and fuss --"

"What. What would you want."

Another sharp breath, and Tim -- re-focuses --

"Hey, *careful* --"

"Martha is clearly out of his influence," Tim says, and looks -- yes. Blood is staring hungrily, *desperately* --

And then he calms himself with obvious effort. "There is power in you, Martha. You are no witch, but you don't *need* to be. You have been... stifled. That much was obvious to me within seconds of walking *into* this... house. I dislike that. I find that wildly *offensive*. And, with your permission, I shall set about making it so that you will be *happy* --"

"Why? Because you *love* me?"

Blood blinks -- and obviously considers for a long moment before nodding thoughtfully. "The words 'it's for your own good' have been used with you -- *at* you -- in the recent past, haven't they? There's been... oh... a certain paternalistic *theme*?"

Martha snarls, expression *livid* --

"You are *beautiful*, Martha. Now tell me what you *want*. Because, in return for your companionship, you may *have* it."

She lifts her chin. "What's the matter, *Jason*? You can't just *magic* the pretty socialites onto your prick when you're feeling lonely?"

"I am not now, nor have I ever *been* a rapist, Martha. Your *undoubtedly* perfect cunt will be safe from me *and* my cock until such time as you would have it otherwise --"

"Even if that's *never*, Jason?"

"Even so. Gotham has been my home since the late seventeenth century, chère. While there are cities with prettier whores, and cities with *cheaper* whores, there will never be *any* city with *madder* whores, and that --"

"I'm not *mad*!"

Blood raises an eyebrow --

And the expression on Martha's face...

"Uh. Fuck?"

"Hnn. When Clark looks like that --"

"He's about to fuck shit *up*. All *kinds* of shit."

"You tend to get a little... dreamy for that expression," Tim says, and crosses his legs at the ankle.

"Well, *yeah* -- hey, not for *her*!"

"Of course."

"She needs a hug and some *therapy*, and I'm not even sure about the order *there* --"

"That's not what Blood thinks she needs."

Jay snorts and pushes his free hand back through his hair. "*Blood* thinks she needs the dicking of her young fucking *life*, but -- and I'll say this slow just in case you miss it -- *Blood's fucking crazy, too*."

Tim smiles and watches Martha and Blood stare at each other --

*Into* each other --

"Man, I am losing *so* much respect for your cock --"

"Shh."

"-- power in madness, as well, Martha --"

"Shut up! Just --"

"There is power -- there has always *been* power -- in slipping beyond the paths laid down by *society*. And you know that already, don't you...?"

*Martha* inhales sharply -- "I'm not -- I can't *be* a rebel and a socialite!"

"You can be what you wish -- and what you *will*. Or will your husband demand so much...?"

She snarls -- "Oh, he has me on a *light* leash. I can do whatever I -- I *want* -- "

"Except leave. Except be your own woman. Except take control. Yes?"

"*Yes*, damn you!"

"I will show you how to have every last one of those things, Martha. I will take you around the world -- and the multiverse -- in a moment. I will *remind* you of all the things you wanted to do with your life. And I will *help* you put a leash on... Thomas, is it? And I will do so while *dreaming* of licking the sweat and musk from your pretty little arse."

Martha blinks and *jumps* -- but only slightly.

"So you *are* experienced. Excellent," Blood says, placing two fingers beneath her chin and lifting her face. "I truly only enjoy training virgins -- and relative virgins -- when they're young enough to be *biddable*."

Martha narrows her eyes again. "I will *never* be biddable."

"Even better. We wouldn't want my cock to get bored --"

"Your *prick* isn't my concern --"

"Yet...? No...? Ah, a man can dream, Blood says, and smiles broadly. "Let me tell you more about madness."

"I'm *not* --"

"Chère, you've cycled through so many emotional responses -- appropriate and not -- while I've been here that I frankly have *whiplash* --"

"Then go *away*!"

"I *want* you. I want you and your *wildness*, Martha. I want you to surprise me every day of my long, long, *long* life. I want your tears and your laughter and your rage -- and everything else. I want to show you everything you can *do* with it... with just a little help from me. Come to me, Martha. *Be* with me."

And Martha's eyes are petulantly angry for long moment --

And then they're nothing of the kind. There's a darkness to their grey-blue depths, a kind of bruised and shadowy *youth* --

And Blood shudders and *cups* Martha's face. "Ah... and sometimes you *are* only a girl, are you not...? A perfect and lovely girl, so hurt and alone -- I will not *leave* you alone, Martha. I am *not* your parents... though I could play them if you'd --"

"*No*," she snarls, shoving Blood back in the seconds before she slaps him *hard*. "No! *NO*!"

Blood shakes himself like a dog and nods thoughtfully. "Not the baby, then. Its grandfather. Shall I read these notes on the floor? Or shall I simply --"

"Burn them! Burn -- burn everything everything *everything*!" And Martha sobs and drops into a crouch in the center of all the shreds of paper. She's clutching at her own upper arms and staring at nothing --

She's rocking and digging her *nails* into her own upper arms --

Blood shivers -- and clenches his hands into fists again. "Martha..."

"Nn."

"Will you answer a question of mine?"

"Nn. Nn. Nn -- anything is possible. I suppose," she says, and her laugh is -- ghostly.

"God fucking --"

Tim squeezes Jay's thigh *hard* --

"I *know*. I -- I can't just -- she looks -- she *needs* something!"

"I believe she's about to get it."

"There have to be ways -- there have to be things she can have that *don't* fucking end in murder and fucking *mayhem* and *incest*!"

Tim focuses -- and the image pauses on an image of Martha staring at nothing and everything at once with her fingernails biting into her own flesh -- and Blood focused on no one but her. *Feeding*...? "What can you sense about Blood in this moment?"

"He's ready to fucking eat her *alive*."

"Parasitically?"

"What? *Yes* -- or. I don't know. I think..." Jay squints and scratches at the stubble on his chin, obviously deep in thought.

Tim waits for it, and thinks --

Tim fills his mind with the memory of Stephanie as she had looked as the Spoiler. Military grade body armor under all-too-thin spandex. Perfect boots and overly thin gloves. Perfect cowl and the *madness* of a *ponytail* --

And Bruce had taken her laughter, her insecurities, her passions, and, yes, her right cross, and built a lover in his *mind* long before any of them had truly known who she was as a person.

Tim had done the same thing. Tim --

Tim *hadn't* dragged her home right away, because following her had led him to a home with *two* parents. But one of those parents had turned out to be an aspiring supervillain, while the other had been so deeply buried in addiction...

Right now, Stephanie's mother is in her fourth round of rehabilitation. Stephanie last saw her three months ago, and came home ready for little save patrols which would allow her to be brutal.

For that, she had had Jay -- and Tim, himself.

Had he fed on her?

*More* than he fed on his other children?

Differently?

In worse *ways*?

He's rubbing *restlessly* at Jay's thigh now, and that --

That lasts for precisely seven seconds more before Jay tugs his arm from around Tim's waist and covers Tim's hand with his own. "I think... I don't know him well enough, man."

"If -- you're sure."

Jay frowns at him for a moment -- but then nods. "You're totally worrying about *your* inner Daddy eating us alive."

Tim knows his smile looks pained. "Sometimes... he's not especially 'inner.'"

"Yeah, well, obviously. *Daddy*."

"Sometimes he'd prefer you to say that --"

"Without being an ass about it?" And Jay looks at him from under his lashes. "Sometimes I'm maybe a little worried about --"

"Encouraging him?"

Jay bumps Tim with his shoulder. "Can we stop pretending there's a whole other person in the room? He's you, just like Batman is you. He's *part* of Batman."

Tim closes his eyes -- but only for a moment before nodding. "Yes. And other parts of me, as well."

"Well, *yeah*. And -- it's not on you that I have to, you know, kick. Sometimes."

Tim... doesn't dig his short nails in against Jay's thigh.

"It *is* you that you don't *punish* me for it --"

"Don't I?"

"*No*. Because you give me what I want and *need*. We both know what it would *really* take to punish me, yeah?"

Cold. Isolation. Lies -- Tim narrows his eyes at the inside of his own mind and nods.

"So, yeah. You're Daddy all the time, even if we're not your kids all the time. It's cool so long as *you're* cool. And you are."

Is he?

Jay shifts --

Tim catches the punch and pinches --

"Yagh --"

*Lightly* --

"Oh. Hey. Yeah?"

"I don't know. I don't always know who I am," Tim says, and forces himself to meet Jay's eyes.

Jay frowns. "Well... that's what you have *us* for, man."

Tim blinks. "I believe. I've always thought that we must look within ourselves --"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, for most of this stuff, sure. I mean, you guys couldn't tell me the important stuff about who *I* am -- and I'd never fuckin' let you. Just like you'd never fuckin' let *us*. Yeah?"

"Sometimes I want to --"

"Everybody does. I *swear*."

Tim raises an eyebrow.

"*Seriously*," Jay says, and nods a little -- apparently to make sure Tim gets it. It's a mannerism he hadn't *had* before meeting --

Tim hums. "Stephanie has been making you spend more time with Young Justice."

"Uh -- oh, fuckin' A. *Yes*. She's got these fucking *kinks* --"

"She does, indeed."

"And -- and they're all *friendly* and shit."

"So I've gathered."

Jay scowls and yanks his hand away from Tim's. "Only fucking needs to be *one* of me," he mutters.

"Of course."

"And -- wait. *Wait*." Jay turns the scowl on *him*, which...

Tim pulls on a bland expression.

"*You* think Kon's *hot*!"

The reflex to lie is -- just that. Jay has never been *that* sort of family, however, and so Tim merely shows his teeth.

"*Augh*. He's an *infant*!"

"Which is why you've been... helping Stephanie with her kinks?"

Jay's blush is *impressive* -- and fascinating.

Tim hums again. "Perhaps you've started helping Stephanie with her kinks involving Impulse, as well...?"

"He -- he's fucking *pretty* --"

"Very true. I *had* been wondering about the... status of his adolescence --"

"Oh, *Jesus*, Tim!"

Tim smiles and leans back against the headboard, uncrossing his legs and bending his left knee up. "I suppose I'll have to wonder about different things now."

Jay looks somewhat wounded --

And Tim laughs quietly. "You shouldn't let me change the subject like that --"

"You're *right* --"

"But I did take your points."

"I -- oh. Yeah?"

"You -- all of you -- will keep me... steady."

"Damned right. *And* we won't, you know, jump down your fucking throat if you're not perfect. We already fucking *know* you're not perfect, because, you know, we've *been* here."

"Will you tell me..." Tim frowns and -- considers.

"What is it?"

But, truly, he's just *pretending* to consider. He knows what he wants to ask. He takes a deep breath. "What's the worst thing I've ever done, Jay? In *your* opinion."

Jay blinks and frowns at him.

"A serious question."

The frown gets darker -- and then Jay nods. "This."

Tim inhales -- "I see --"

"I mean -- not the machine, and not even the Magical Incesty Tour. It's -- the hiding. And what was behind the hiding. Babs said... Babs said you've been really fucked up about all of this stuff, man. For a *long* time. And -- you never said anything."

For a moment -- a moment at least as damning as *anything* else -- Tim is *confused* --

"God, do you seriously not -- "

"I get it. I -- I always insisted that all of you... share."

"*Everything*. And you were right to, Tim. And -- you had us all thinking that you were *just* quieter and less emotional and more buttoned-up -- *except* when you were fucking -- than all the rest of us. You *let* us all think that."

Tim squeezes his eyes shut -- no. No. "I lied to you."

"Yeah."

"I... do you believe me that I'll do everything I can not to do it again, Jay? That -- I don't know if I can express how easy it is to hide. To... the *desire* to hide is a warning, and I can keep myself from listening to it, but sometimes I'm hiding *before* --"

"The wanting -- the *desire* -- hits," Jay says, and nods, biting his lip. "I... yeah, no, I know you're trying."

"Jay --"

"I know it," and Jay's voice is steady, even --

Tim frowns and searches him --

And Jay smiles ruefully. "You're you. You learn *everything* quickly -- once you decide to."

"And I... hadn't decided to learn not to lie to my family before."

Jay nods toward the viewscreen. "Going from all of this -- and from what Babs told us about -- I can see why."

"I -- Bruce and Harv --"

"Couldn't touch you where it counted. Not really. Not all the way down, yeah?"

"They should've been able to."

Jay shrugs. "Maybe. But you can let them touch you *now*. They'd love it. Just like all the rest of us would. You -- hey, does Dick *ever* fuck you?"

Tim smiles ruefully and waves two fingers in the air. "Just before you found us. There was..." Tim shakes his head. "It was the Mastrano case --"

"Oh -- fuck. Dick told me about that one. That -- the kids."

Tim nods once. "Bruce needed someone to hold *him* -- I sent him to Harv and Gilda. And Dick was there for me."

"And then you were there for Dick."

"After weeping copiously. Which, in turn, happened after I ejaculated copiously."

"Heh. Twice, even."

"Three times, actually. I had been somewhat... pent up."

Jay snickers and shoves him.

Tim smiles ruefully and twines their fingers together. "I love you."

"I love you, too. Asshole. You'll give us *everything* now, yeah? Even if it *does* make you sound like your brothers."

"I had *hoped* to be somewhat unique --"

"You built a fucking time machine in your bedroom, Daddy. I think you're good."

Tim -- licks his teeth. And squeezes Jay's hand. "Shall we?"

Jay shakes himself like a dog and blows out a breath. "Yeah, let's do this. She can't get any crazier, right?"

Tim coughs -- and focuses.

The sound of Martha's breathing is the first thing that registers, ragged and *slow*.

The birds aren't singing, anymore --

And there's a high wind outside the manor, slamming the tree branches against the walls and windows.

"Martha..."

"Nn."

"Yes, I see. But you gave me an order, and Blood gestures --

And the scraps of paper whirl up -- into the ghostly, shifting shape of a man. A very *specific* man --

Who brings Martha to her feet immediately. Her eyes are *blazing* --

And whether the blaze is hotter or brighter than the ball of white flame that appears when Blood makes a fist and all the papers *contract* --

There isn't even any *smoke* --

And Martha shows her teeth... slowly.

"Is it what you want, Martha?"

She curls her hands into claws -- relaxes them and stands straight, shuttering her gaze and lifting her chin.

"Beautiful *and* impressive... but."

"I *don't* like being teased, Jason."

"Ever...?"

She tosses her hair back over her shoulder. "The privilege must be *earned*."

"I beg you, chère. Tell me *how*."

For a moment, she is only haughty, only cold and *apart* -- but then her gaze drifts back to the ball of flame floating over Jason's fist. And turns *hungry*.

"Would you take my power...?"

Martha flares *her* nostrils -- and reaches for the ball of flame with the speed and grace of... her son. Whether she notices Blood gesturing just *beneath* the ball before she touches it is a question he'll almost certainly never know the answer to --

"Jesus --"

"Yes."

And Martha is *crushing* the now somehow *solid* flame in her fist, working it down and down into something she can hold *easily*.

Blood shivers --

And Martha narrows her eyes. "What is it?"

"You're touching me rather intimately -- and viciously. I've always been fond of that sort of thing."

"I want your *power*!"

"You have it," Blood says, and inclines his head toward the flame in her fist. "As much of it as I ever give at one time. It remains tied to my soul, however --"

"Let me *use* it!"

Blood smiles and spreads his hands. "Use it as you will, *whenever* you will. I recommend burning this house to the ground --"

"Oh, no. It's *mine* now."

"Very well --"

"But..." She bites her lip, and she looks young again. Younger than *Stephanie* -- and unsure.

Blood touches the edge of the ball of flame with his fingertip --

"Oh -- warm!" And her smile is *brightly* young --

Pleased and almost *thrilled* --

Blood bows again. "Ask your questions. Please --"

"*How* do I use it?"

"Focus on what you want -- *precisely* what you want and nothing else, because it will *not* work without the whole of your will --"

"Oh, it's -- gone. Where --"

Blood grunts and *staggers* -- but only for a moment before he's standing straight once more. And smiling sharply. "You *knew* what you wanted, Martha."

Her eyes are wide --

Shocked --

Frightened --

And then shining with hope, bright and pure and so *beautiful*. She clenches her hands into fists and giggles like a child. "*Show* me!"

"Are you *quite* --"

"Show me show me -- oh, do it *now*, Jason!"

Blood laughs softly. "As you wish, chère... but this will not be especially... pretty --"

She giggles more -- it becomes a predatory *growl* -- "I *know*."

"Mm. I believe you *do*, at that," and Blood gestures almost *grandly* --

And a large, oval-shaped hole opens in the air between them and the fireplace. It's clear that they're looking into the study of a male who treasures a certain *kind* of early-to-mid-twentieth-century masculinity, but, beyond that, Tim can't say for sure *whose* study it is. The only person currently *in* it is --

"*Fuck*. What the -- *fuck*!"

"You don't have to look, Jay --"

"She -- they -- they're watching this like fucking *fireworks*!"

"I --"

"As an aside..." And Blood folds his hands behind his back once more, turns -- and *winks* at them before turning back to the 'show.' "I always try to watch the deaths I have any part in causing --"

"Oh, oh, he's *screaming* like a *baby*! Daddy's screaming like a *baby*!"

"A *tortured* baby, to be precise --"

"Be *quiet* -- no, no, he has to know why this is *happening* to him! How do I tell him before he *dies*?"

"*Vicious*... here," and Blood widens the oval until it touches the floor. "Go on. You'll be able to get back whenever you wish."

Martha gasps --

Giggles --

And *runs* through the hole in the world into her father's study.

Blood gestures again, and the greasy-*looking* smoke flows into the fireplace --

"Jesus. Fucking. *Christ* --"

Blood turns back to look at them. "Did you want to listen -- oh, wait, it would probably be *terribly* paradox-inducing for us to communicate in any sort of *mutual* way right now... so I believe I'll just assume the answer is yes, he says, and gestures *curtly* --

"Did you think you wouldn't *pay* for this, Daddy?"

"Martha -- Martha, *help*!"

"Did you think I wouldn't get *revenge*?"

"It hurts... so much --"

"Die *slowly*, old man! Oh, but one thing -- I *am* pregnant. With the *gardener's* baby."

Blood chokes on a laugh --

Sobers himself with a *cough* --

"It's only... well, I so rarely get to *have* her, multiversally speaking. I still don't know if she will..." Blood shakes his head, crosses his arms behind his back again, and very obviously waits for Martha.

And waits.

And *waits* --

"She is seriously watching every fucking *second* --"

"Yes."

"How is he -- he's still fucking *screaming*!"

"Yes."

"Where's the rest of his fucking *family*?"

"Martha is it," Tim says, and watches as the *extremely* localized fire creates a different kind of magic in Martha's eyes --

"Where are the *servants*?"

"Good question. At a guess? Cowed to the point that they would never dream of entering that room without a direct summons." And out of the corner of his eye --

He can see Jay's horrified look. He --

"Jay... I will not dream this. You --"

"How the fuck do *you* know?"

"I've known about this for quite some time. Blood described it... vividly enough."

"But you still -- fucking *Christ*, Tim!"

Onscreen, Blood is watching Martha sway on her feet as her father -- succumbs. His body is still *whole* within the flames, but he is no longer screaming or flailing. His arms are pulling up --

Tim focuses on Martha, who is young and beautiful -- and visibly happy. He would very much like to know if she's *aware* that she's cupping and stroking her abdomen with covetous pleasure --

Does she know that Bruce will be, for all intents and purposes, all hers?

Has she already *decided* that?

Will --

"*Tim* --"

Tim twists his hand free and raises it. "Had I been *her* son --"

"You wouldn't have been able to jerk off in peace!"

"Hnn. But before then, someone might actually have loved me."

Jay jerks -- recoils, really --

Tim shakes his head. "I'm sorry --"

"No -- no. That wasn't -- that was you being honest. You didn't actually stab me or anything."

"Still --"

"You're not allowed to apologize for shit like that, Tim," Jay says, solemn and low.

Tim squeezes his eyes shut -- no. He covers his eyes and just doesn't think about what he'd actually said --

"I'm -- we're *all* totally allowed to be sad for you that Grandma fucking Incestpants still looks like a good mother to you."

"Yes. Yes, I imagine so."

Forty years in the past, Martha is humming... Tim thinks it's Chet Baker.

Blood is humming with her, and waiting for her *favor* --

Tim drops his hands. "I'm all right --"

"*No*."

"I'm not all right," Tim says, laughing quietly and reaching toward the viewscreen. "I even *look* a little like her, Jay --"

"You look a *lot* like her, and I'm trying to *forget* that -- wait, did your Dad --"

"Thomas. Or, if you must, Jack Drake. I do not now -- nor did I ever -- have a 'Dad'."

"Right, right, sorry --"

"No, I -- I didn't mean to *scold* --"

"No, that was an *important* correction, and I -- really. Uh. I just wanted to know if Thomas only liked *one* kind of woman. Is all."

Tim swallows and thinks of Helena...

No. No.

"As far as I've been able to tell, after his marriage, Thomas was sexually involved with Martha Kane Wayne, Janet Evans Drake, and assorted discreet, petite, dark-haired escorts who were paid exceedingly well for their willingness to be thoroughly bruised --"

"*Jesus* --"

"-- if never, strictly, injured."

"Uh."

"Yes, Jay, I knew about his proclivities from a young age."

Jay winces and pushes a hand back through his hair.

"I tried... I tried to go a different direction..." Tim frowns and looks down at his hands. They're clean. They --

They're *clean* --

And Jay reaches over and *grips* Tim's hand. "It's okay that you both are into -- I mean -- it *happens*. Look at *Dick*, you know? He told *me* that *his* Dad was a big, bendy, violent guy with a hairy chest. That's like you and B mushed together, yeah?"

Tim laughs --

Looks up --

He'd paused the playback... at some point. Martha is in the process of walking back into the Wayne Manor library through the hole in the air. She's smiling radiantly -- and Blood is clutching at his own hands again.

Tim breathes deeply and evenly. Just --

"Tim... you're a better man."

"I know."

"*Do* you?"

Tim laughs and smiles. He knows it's *deeply* crooked on his face, but -- "I've somehow managed to convince all of you that *I* love you. That's -- well, I don't know *how* --"

"You do, though. You were there for us, and you were -- you wanted us. Even when we weren't convenient, or useful, or even fucking *pretty*."

"Jay --"

"Okay, okay, we were *always* pretty. *Fine*. But -- fucking A, Tim. You actually *learned* something from your childhood."

"I --"

"Well -- okay, you learned a lot of damned things, and some of them were really fucking fucked. But you know -- that just makes you even *more* family. It's *okay*."

Tim... strokes the hair on Jay's knuckles.

"Yeah?"

"I'm a better man."

"Fuckin' A."

"Even though --"

"Fucking. A."

Tim laughs again. "I think I need a break."

"Uh. Yeah? We can totally --"

"Grab the chair, and bring it to the gymnasium. I'll be down in a moment."

"The wheelchair?"

"No. The wingback chair."

Jay blinks at him. "You mean... the chair none of us are supposed to ask about ever?"

Tim frowns and stands, gesturing Jay up. "I never said that."

"You didn't *have* to, man. Also -- Babs told us what it meant."

"She -- well, I suppose she does know, now. Hm. All the more reason to get rid of it."

"Isn't that chair, like, more expensive than half my fucking *wardrobe*?"

"Yes --"

"But you want to -- you're about to take a fucking axe to it or something, aren't you."

Tim frowns. "I was actually thinking of one of my experimental flamethrowers --"

"Tim. You have. A fucking. *Charity*."

Tim *blinks*. "I -- there's such a thing as *catharsis*, Jay --"

"There's also such a thing as being too fucking rich for your own fucking *good*. Look, I will totally hide the chair so you never have to look at it again, and then we can break some shit that *isn't* technically a work of fucking art."

"It's -- not the same."

Jay glares at him.

"I'm not saying I don't take your *point* --"

"I'm gonna go hide the chair. You find something *cheap* to break, then break the *shit* out of it. *Okay*?"

Tim licks his lips. "You do that. And I'll... do that."

Jay manages to imbue his nod with a level of pugnacity even Stephanie would be impressed with, and then carries the chair out and away.

Tim... looks around his room. There isn't very much which could be defined as 'cheap.'

There's even less which could be defined as *expendable* --

Tim goes down to the gymnasium.

For a moment, he can only breathe in the smell of *work*, the smell of potential and struggle and *force* --

He tapes his wrists and ankles because he has to, and Jay joins him at the heavy bag, holding it steady while Tim... breathes.

Slowly --

And his kicks are perfect -- devastating.

Evenly --

And his punches make Jay grunt and *leer* --

Deeply --

And his strikes make him want the Batman, the *other* Batman, because he needs to test himself, hone --

And the look in Jay's eyes says that he knows it just as well as Tim does. He is -- rueful. "You'd destroy me in a spar right about now and not even *enjoy* it."

Tim goes for one last heel-kick --

An uppercut for the foolish shadow opponent who mistakenly stepped *in* --

And a haymaker he'd never actually *use* on the street to make Jay whistle and clap.

Tim smiles at him. "I always *enjoy* it, Jay. But -- yes. Now I would be somewhat frustrated, too. More so because I'm not *actually* ready for... this," Tim says, and lets his gesture take in the whole of the gymnasium.

Jay bites his lip and nods. "You're in the past."

"Yes."

"With -- heh. Okay, let's go."

"You should, at the very least, be reading reports."

"And I *will*. *After* we watch Grandma Incestpants get it on with -- was he kinda like your stepdad? Bruce's? I *know* he wasn't Harv's."

Tim coughs -- "No. I'm reasonably sure Blood has never been *anyone's* 'Dad.'"

"As opposed to 'Daddy,' yeah, I hear you. Still -- he was right up *in* that house. I mean -- all the *time*, yeah?"

"Oh, yes," Tim says, and starts walking toward the pneumatic elevator -- oddly, it had been easier to hide the construction of the elevator than it had been to hide that of the stairs -- "The walls between Martha's suite and Thomas' were soundproofed."

Jason snorts. "I fucking *hope* so. But -- that place is fucking *huge*."

"Yes?"

"*Why the fuck did they stay next door to each other*?"

Tim steps into the elevator and smiles, giving himself a moment to just... look Jay over as he steps in after him. Neither of them had bothered with clothes, and Jay is even more perfect in motion --

Jay strikes a bodybuilder's pose.

Badly.

While crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out.

Tim laughs quietly. "Your point is made."

"It fucking well better be," he says, standing straight and punching the button for the top floor, where Tim's bedroom is. On the upper floors, only a very specific selection of people knows *how* to set the elevator to go down below the *official* basement. The selection is larger than Tim had ever thought *possible* when he and Bruce began training together --

And perhaps he would not be himself if there wasn't fear for that to go along with the -- aching -- warmth.

They walk out of the elevator, and Tim starts removing the tape from his knuckles -- "You asked a question."

"It wasn't important. I mean, I was pretty much filing it under 'they were fucking crazy.'"

"And they were, but... there were also any number of parties given in the manor during the sixties, seventies, and eighties. The guests wandered, as guests are wont to do, and...?"

"It would've looked strange if they *weren't* right on top of each other. Okay, yeah, I hear you. Still fucking fucked-up."

"Agreed," Tim says, and walks back into his bedroom, breathing in the *many* scents of sex --

And blood --

And the indefinable *something* that means magic has been expended --

Jay snorts air out of his nose and opens the windows.

"Yes?"

"Smells like a tree came in your hair. Your *sweaty* hair. After you've been using that gay-ass *product*."

Tim blinks... several times. And leaves it, sitting back down on the left side of the bed and patting the right.

Jay throws himself on -- and rests his head on Tim's lap.

"Oh, yes?"

"You'll gimme something better to look at when I start to freak, Daddy."

Tim hums and pushes the fingers of his right hand into Jay's -- moderately -- sweaty hair. "So I will."

"So... uh. One more question."

"Ask."

"The Drakes. What -- did *they* throw parties?"

"Some, but rather fewer than the Waynes. Our fortune was much smaller -- and our social standing much lower. Janet *wanted* more of that sort of status -- and so did Jack -- but they both happily settled for the... hmm... 'golden ticket' that was Wayne approval of one's business concerns in the mid-twentieth century."

"So they were all about the cash."

"With some exceptions --"

"That didn't involve you *or* Hel, so fuck them."

"I..."

"Yeah?"

("Tiiim!")

At three, Helena was taller than Tim had been at *six* -- though not more graceful. She had run *headlong* toward him through the living room, careening heedlessly off antiques and statuary --

But Janet hadn't said a word. Janet had spent the nearly four years since Tim's declaration of independence saying relatively little to *him*, as these things go -- Tim being allied with Bruce and Harvey was *almost* all to the good, as far as she was concerned and as far as she *knew* -- but Tim had been *worried* about Helena.

She'd been too *young* for them to take in any meaningful way, and so all they'd really been able to do was prevail upon Thomas to demand Janet hire a nanny with a *soul* --

But Janet hadn't said a word, and then Helena was in his arms, as warm and solid as an incongruously *giving* block of wood, or perhaps as a bag of wet sand which had somehow gained the ability to give -- hugs.

("Tim Tim Tiiim! TIM!")

At seventeen, he'd been more than strong enough to lift her high --

To spin her around --

To *studiously* ignore Janet's attempts at 'motherly indulgence' --

But she hadn't said a word, and Helena had been happy to show him her toys, and her books, and her flash cards, and her stuffed animals, and her flash cards again.

And, while she had been overjoyed to go *with* Tim to visit her uncles -- ever-so-unofficial while she remained that young -- she hadn't treated it as the reprieve from a bleak and awful prison existence that Tim would have at her age.

And she never actually did. She --

("It's not that she woke up and became a good mother overnight, Tim, but...")

And *that* day, Helena had been fourteen, new to St. Julia's and perfectly put-together in the perfectly hideous uniform. Tim had taken her off-campus to her favorite vegetarian restaurant for lunch --

Tim had considered and rejected any number of conversational gambits which began with the words 'Superman would like to meet you --'

At twenty-eight, he hadn't quite been able to *comprehend* the idea that any sister of his -- and Bruce's, and *Harvey's* -- would somehow *not* want to fight crime in *some* way, shape, or form --

As soon as *possible* --

Barbara and Dick had already *joined* them --

But he had focused, and waited --

("Well, part of it's that she wanted a girl all along. I mean -- I know she pretty much *had* to stab you with that at some point, right? She wouldn't have been able to *help* herself.")

Tim had hummed and inclined his head --

("Exactly.")

And *she* had hummed and sipped her smoothie --

("Anyway, one day you'll decide that I'm old enough to know about *all* the skeletons in the family closet --"

"We can start now --"

"-- and it will be sometime when *Bruce* can give me hugs, because he's *better* at it than you are --"

"This is absolutely true --"

"-- and... oh, Tim, I don't know. I just wish... sometimes I feel guilty."

"Because she hasn't been entirely poisonous with you?")

And she had nodded, grey-blue eyes wide and full --

And Tim remembers needing a moment to stop thinking about the impressive breadth of her shoulders, the strength and *ranginess* of her form --

She used all her natural athleticism for *field* hockey of all things --

Her independent studies were about corporate *ethics* and she didn't even want to ride on his *motorcycle* when he'd asked --

And Tim had sighed and smiled and shaken his head.

("Tim --"

"It's better this way."

"Well -- of course it is, but --"

"*But* -- it would've driven me crazy -- more crazy -- to leave you in that house with her if she hadn't proved that she could be... benign."

"You... wanted to raise me?"

"With Bruce's and Harvey's help, yes.")

And Helena had stared at him for a long moment --

And then snorted --

And then snorted repeatedly while *hooting* --

Tim had waited it out, toasted her with his green tea, and crossed his legs carefully enough to conceal the fact that he'd had a five-inch knife slash on his right thigh that had required thirty-seven stitches.

It was a good lunch.

It's been...

It's been a good *relationship*, even though he knows, with all of himself, that Helena will not want to move in with the rest of the family after she graduates from college. Even beyond the fact that she will almost certainly seek her Master's --

Or.

Lucius Fox is as healthy as any man in his sixties could be, thanks to Clark surreptitiously injecting him with nanites. Lucius, Jr., short of some disaster, *will* rule the Wayne Enterprises legal department until the day he dies, but that leaves the role of Executive Vice President open. There *are* other qualified candidates, but Helena would not be *his* sister if she didn't know that she was the one the entire extended family had their hopes pinned on...

And Jay really is lying here patiently while Tim scratches his scalp. Tim laughs ruefully. "I'm sorry."

"You're good. Where'd you go?"

"Yale."

"You talked to her recently?"

Tim smiles somewhat painfully. "Last week. She was entirely ruthless about taking the opportunity to talk up business as a viable career for retired vigilantes."

"Aw, that's *low*. And we can't even *hit* her."

"I'd certainly prefer you avoiding it. She agreed to taking a self-defense course, but, by all reports, the results were less than spectacular."

"Jesus. Are you *sure* she's your --"

"Yes, Jay, I'm sure. And I... well, in response to your earlier comment, I think Janet is capable of caring about her, and even uses those capabilities from time to time."

"Because Hel's a girl?"

"Because she's a girl who isn't afraid to be ruthless and cold. Though, her first victories were all about Thomas' fascination with her."

Jay turns on his back and frowns up at him from Tim's lap. "What *kind* of fascination?"

"Not that kind... as far as we've been able to tell --"

"Meaning you suspect?"

"Meaning Helena has always been capable of keeping secrets -- and capable of deciding that things *I* wouldn't keep secret were, in fact, worthy of her silence. I..." Tim frowns and closes his eyes for a long moment. And then he opens them again. "My inner thirteen-year-old is convinced Thomas couldn't do it, no matter what. I have... more doubts now. All that said... I still don't actually *suspect* it."

"Are you gonna look for it?"

"Yes. If she ever gives me -- or any of you -- reason to do so."

"Will it -- no. Never mind."

Tim frowns and strokes Jay's hair. "Tell me."

"It's not -- it's not anything you can do anything about --"

"I can be honest with you, Jay," Tim says, and smiles ruefully. "I find I want that badly."

Jay inhales -- and nods. "Okay. Would it -- have you ever thought of hooking *up* with Hel?"

And that question -- isn't a surprise. It -- "Yes."

"Oh. Uh. Do you -- I mean. What *kind* of thoughts?"

"Training her. That's --" Tim shakes his head. "That's where all the thoughts begin -- and end. She has so *much* innate strength and grace -- when she remembers to use it."

"And she's family."

Tim smiles ruefully again. "I seem to have very limited ways to respond to that."

Jay frowns. "Do you think she knows?"

Tim tugs lightly on Jay's hair with one hand and strokes his abdominal muscles with the other. "I think... that she is a very intelligent young woman who knows exactly how I relate to every other family member I communicate with on a regular basis."

"*Dick* would be asking if she felt left out."

And not you...? No, he doesn't need to ask that question. "When I allow myself to consider the matter -- which I rarely do, because I would've noticed if Helena had shown any sign of responding with more than polite refusal to any of your, Dick's, Barbara's, Cassandra's, Stephanie's, or *Bruce's*... offers -- "

"But you totally watched."

"Of course."

"Because you want -- yeah, okay, I hear you. Go on."

Tim inclines his head. "As I said, I don't allow myself to consider it often. But, when I do, I'm forced to assume that Helena received enough actual, non-poisonous, non-incestuous parenting that the idea of... hmm... rewriting and/or rebuilding that sort of relationship now that she's nominally an adult is less than compelling."

Jay frowns. "*I* got good parenting, Daddy."

Did you? "It's not a perfect model. There are no hard-and-fast rules that apply to every child, everywhere."

Jay gives him a suspicious look.

Tim laughs quietly. "We've already discussed the sort of childhood I wish you could've had."

"But you *don't*, really, because then I wouldn't be fucked-up the *right* way."

"Mm, there is that. But I love you too much not to wish you happiness -- past, present, and future."

Jay blushes and shifts slightly -- "I -- uh. Hel."

"Yes?"

"It's the same with her? You're glad she grew up happy *enough*, but you wish --"

"Sometimes. Only sometimes --"

"Oh, I know --"

"I -- don't mean to be defensive --"

"Hey, I *did* just ask you if you wanted to put it to your little sister."

Put it to -- Tim suspects he looks pained.

Jay looks... bland. He holds the expression for a beat --

Another -- no, his expression has begun to look like the moments leading up to a truly *spectacular* sneeze --

And Jay is snickering and rolling his head back and forth on Tim's thigh.

"I'm -- very -- glad that you're amused."

Jay has begun to make sounds reminiscent of a cartoon cat --

Tim sighs and focuses on the machine --

On Martha and Blood --

And the song Martha is humming is "Almost Blue," though Tim isn't well-versed enough in that sort of jazz to know *precisely* which version it is. She *had* been humming something that was recognizably by Chet Baker before, but it wouldn't do to make -- assumptions.

"Jesus, is she really --"

"Dancing through the library like a character in a musical? Yes. The music doesn't really suit --"

"After offing her fucking *father*."

"Yes," Tim says, and strokes through Jay's hair as he watches Martha's peignoir flare and swing --

Curl around her ankles like an affectionate companion animal -- *is* he getting to be too much like Bruce?

Should he be suggesting that *they* take in more pets? Several more? That would be the fatherly thing to do, for some definitions of the term. Bruce's adopted cat Hercules had died only weeks before they took Dick in, and then there were no others until... Dog. Dog -- who will almost certainly never have another name -- is friendly with the entire family, but gives his *allegiance* to Jay and Jay alone -- hm. "Where is Dog?"

"Uh? Probably farting on my pillows in his sleep. Again. You know what he's like when Steph's been feeding him sausage all day. Why?"

Tim shakes his head. It wasn't -- "It wasn't a real... thought. I promise I'll share when there's more."

"Okay," Jay says, and turns back to the viewscreen --

Where Blood is turning in slow circles, because Martha has begun to dance around and *around* him.

She is as light on her feet as she was for nearly every day of her life before the broken hip two years before her death --

And -- there really is no question. If Blood *had* been able to heal it, he *would* have. Perhaps she was too fragile for his kind of healing by then. Or --

He will ask, one day or another. At *this* moment, his dark eyes are utterly focused on Martha, and the tension in his shoulders suggests that he is gripping at himself again. Martha...

Martha is wearing the mask of an Ophelia, drifting on streams of her own -- currently -- pleasurable madness. She could use flowers to strew in her path, or --

"You're not as hot for her when she's like this."

Tim blinks -- "No, I'm not."

Jay nods as if he isn't surprised in the slightest -- "You like her when she's more ready to break shit. Even when she's just doing it with the shit she *says*."

"I -- yes," Tim says, and smiles ruefully. "Then she seems more like someone who could be related to me. I think... I need therapy."

"Nah, then you might get *much* better. *Nobody* wants --"

"Martha..."

"I'll be with you in *just* a moment, darling," and Martha spins like a *ballerina*, faster and faster --

She stumbles --

Giggles --

And catches herself on the table she'd been reading at, panting shallowly with her back to Blood.

"Well, I think your cock is gonna get what it wants, Daddy."

"I'm embarrassed that I missed the *transition* --"

"Eh, I'm pretty sure Blood missed it, too."

Tim hums noncommittally -- but Blood is studying Martha as much as Tim had been, frowning and *wanting* --

And *Martha* hums --

And spins again --

And hops up on the table, crossing her legs at the knee and resting her hands *on* her knee. "Let's negotiate."

Blood raises an eyebrow. "About...?"

"Your *prick*. And what you'll be doing with it."

Blood blinks and laughs, spreading his hands and looking down at his groin somewhat ostentatiously. "Did you hear that, old friend? You're going on the *table* again."

"Or maybe the floor."

"I *have* been fond of floors since the advent of wall-to-wall carpeting --"

"Oh, and there you are bragging about your *age* again. I like *young* men, Jason."

Another flare of his nostrils -- "By some definitions, chère, I will *always* be twenty-five."

A moue -- "You look *thirty-three*."

"I -- isn't that *Thomas'* age?"

The moue turns to something much *darker* --

"Chère. You and I *both* know that, were you to give him small amounts of that which he desires from you --"

"Yes, yes. I can portion them out over *time* and have him pant after me like some overgrown, fuzzy-mouthed *hound*," and she crosses her arms under her small breasts and turns away, frowning -- pettishly again.

Blood steps closer --

Martha glares at him --

"You smell of smoke and death..."

Martha blinks -- and sniffs at her wrists as though she was wearing her father's murder like perfume.

Blood laughs *delightedly*. "Would you dabble your lovely fingers in his corpse, chère? What's left of it, I mean --"

"I'd rather *piss* on it... but I've read that policemen can learn a lot from that sort of thing these days," and now her expression is coquettish --

Viciously amused --

*Ruefully* amused --

And Blood takes another three steps closer, and rests two fingers on the edge of the table closest to Martha's left hip. "The articles you've read are... premature. You could spit, bleed, piss, or *come* on those ashes without arousing much in the way of suspicion. If you'd like --"

"No, I'm *quite* finished with that room." Martha makes a face. "And that entire house."

"But not this one...?"

"No. It's going to *be* mine by the time I'm done with it, and *no* one will forget it. Though..."

"Yes?"

"I must admit that it's... daunting. At times," and she shivers and blushes.

Blood closes the last bit of distance between them. "There are ninety-eight ghosts, shades, boggarts, and... *others* currently taking up residence in this... house, Martha."

Martha blinks, opens her mouth, and closes it again. "I see. Are any of them *dangerous*?"

"To Thomas? No. To you, should you stop allowing Thomas to leave his bodily fluids on and in your person...? Some very much so. There are reasons why the spouses of Waynes don't tend to last very long."

Martha growls -- "I *will* outlive Thomas!"

"Then you will allow me to act as your exterminator on a regular basis."

"Hmph. And your fee?"

"Negotiable. Let me make you scream, chère."

"And how will you do that?"

Blood tilts his head to the side and looks Martha over slowly. "I'm *not* your type. Physically, that is."

"No, you are not."

"That could be... adjusted. For the length of a fantasy."

Martha blinks again, obviously excited -- and then she frowns.

"There would be no additional price for the... mm. *Service* --"

"That's *awful* --"

"I'm *terribly* sorry --"

"You are *not*!"

"You're *absolutely* correct," Blood says, and cups her chin, pressing his thumb to the point of it and tilting her head down slightly.

Just enough that she has to look up to meet his eyes.

"Describe him, Martha."

"*Who*?"

"The man you *most* want to fuck right now."

"Because you can *give* him to me?"

"Oh, yes."

"Fine. He has *huge*, soft breasts and a pussy that would just *swallow* my fist."

Blood chokes again, turning away to cough into *his* fist --

And Martha giggles and kicks her feet, gripping at Blood's trousers with her toes.

"It *could* be arranged --"

"Oh, *please* --"

"You *shouldn't* doubt me, Martha... though you absolutely *should* dare me. *All* the time," and Blood steps back, gestures a circle around himself, breathes *deep* --

And changes. Or...

"Jay..."

"Uh? Oh. I'm pretty sure he's not doing anything *real*. I mean, I can still see the real guy's shadow and everything. Or. I guess that's not his shadow? I dunno. He's still using a *lot* of fucking power to make it *look* like he's doing something."

Tim nods and focuses, trying to see --

Trying to see more than a relatively tall and somewhat *severe* auburn-haired woman with large, free-hanging breasts which *strain* at her Nehru jacket and hips that make her trousers gap.

He can't --

And Martha looks thrilled again, clapping and reaching out to grope the breasts in question --

Blood sighs and smiles. "Do you like them...?" His voice is higher and *softer* --

Martha hums and giggles --

Squeezes *hard* --

Blood *grins*. "More for the nipples, please --"

Another giggle -- "You need a *bra*!"

"Oh, did you want to *dress* me...? We could play *that* game, too -- *nnh*. Martha..."

Martha sighs nostalgically and eases the force of her pinch for Blood's nipples.

"*Do* tell me. Please."

"See, if you look, you can see that Blood's torso is actually closer to her hands --"

"Jay."

"You totally can't see it."

"No, Jay, I cannot."

"Oh. Damn."

Tim laughs quietly and strokes Jay's hair more firmly, tugging at it a little --

Jay arches for him --

"I really *only* want to fuck women when I'm *paralytically* drunk," and Martha leans back.

"As you will," Blood says, and seems to almost *pull* himself back into the shape of a male --

"He's totally breathing in, like, fucking *illusion*. That's *cool*."

"If you learn how to do something similar, we could finally use you for undercover work."

"Nah, I'm pretty sure you have to *feel* like whatever you're pretending to be at least a *little* to make it work. Good thought, though."

Tim smiles and shakes his head --

"Did you have any other requests...?"

"Because I can have them?"

"Within reason --"

"*Limits*, Jason...? I think I might be disappointed."

"Then my heart is broken, chère. Truly, though, the only limits are those which my power demands."

Martha lifts her chin. "You've *weakened* yourself...?"

"Oh, yes.... well. *Nearly* as much as I *ever* allow myself to be weakened... when I have any choice in the matter."

"Do you *often* have a choice?"

"I tend to make rather *rapid* exits from places where it seems as though I won't --"

"I doubt that," Martha says, shrewd and -- not cool. Not *quite* that. Her nipples are visibly hard through her negligee, and it's stuck to her skin in more places with sweat.

Her scent must be --

"I am *no* one's hero, Martha --"

"I've sobered up enough to remember your name, Jason. Nobody knows how *old* you are --"

"*Close* to a thousand."

"You -- truly?"

"Yes. Pay no attention to the pathetic little *articles* which have been written about me, Martha. I do what I must to protect that which I love -- as any reasonable man would --"

"Stop trying to impress me with how *blasé* you are. Now." And Martha raises one well-shaped eyebrow.

Blood -- blinks. "Is that what I'm doing?"

"You can be as altruistic as you like, darling... so long as you give me what I want."

Blood closes his eyes and lowers his head, nodding once. And then he looks up again. "Tell me what that is."

Martha bites her lip. "That used to be an easy question. But..."

"It isn't, anymore."

"No. I don't even -- I want this *baby*, and I didn't think that was *possible*! I don't know *why* it's possible!"

Blood smiles ruefully. "The magic of *that*... is far, far older than I will ever be, I'm afraid. And far more mysterious, as well --"

"Take it *away*!"

"Oh, Martha... all I could do is take your child. I *cannot* take your desire for it. I might not even be able to make you *forget* --"

"I don't want to forget *anything*! *NO*!"

Blood raises his hands and gestures for peace. "Then I will not touch a single memory in your mind --"

"*PROMISE ME*!"

"You have my oath. Even if a memory burns you. Even if it *cuts* you. Even if it holds you away from *my* touch -- you will keep it."

Martha searches him wildly --

*Thoroughly* --

"I'm guessing he never made that promise to Harv."

"I'm reasonably sure that, were we to ask him, we would find out that he'd made that promise to a vanishingly small number of people," Tim says, and watches Martha calm herself -- no.

The sense of calm lasts only a moment before the amusement of an *aging* socialite returns. It is, Tim realizes, the same amusement he knew from her when she was in her forties -- and beyond.

And her laugh, when it comes, is throaty and low. "It doesn't matter what I want --"

"It does."

"Do *not* interrupt me. If I don't accept it from my lawfully-wedded husband, then I *won't* accept it from --"

"The instrument of your revenge?"

Martha snarls --

"Or, perhaps, merely the man who wishes to remind you of --"

"Oh, yes, the power of *madness*. I don't want it. I don't want *any* of it --"

"No."

"Shut *up*!"

"*No*," Blood says, and steps close once more, gripping Martha's face.

"Let --"

"Take your power!"

"Shut up and fuck me!"

"Not until you're ready to *enjoy* --"

And Martha backhands Blood --

"Better, but --"

And then she does it again --

"I do believe you're getting the *idea* --

She *yanks* at the fastenings of Blood's jacket, and the first two of them go flying --

"All right, how's this: Associate with the people who make you laugh, and no one else --"

"I need the other useless bitches for the *charity* --"

"Mock them *mercilessly*. They won't understand a word of it," and Blood opens the rest of the fastenings --

"Oh, you're *muscular* --"

"Swordplay and lots *of* it. Another suggestion: Spend obscene amounts of your *men-folk's* money on things you know they'll hate, then *decorate* with those things --"

"I've already *started* that!" And Martha is yanking at Blood's pants --

"More. *Always* more. Another?"

"*More*!"

Blood gestures -- and he's naked and *mostly* hard. Even the thong is missing from his hair, which hangs down, straight and thick, well past his shoulders. He offers Martha his hand.

Martha inhales sharply -- and there's a certain covetous gleam as she looks Blood over. She --

"Eh, your body's better."

Tim -- blinks.

And considers.

And -- "I... hadn't been thinking about the fact that Blood and I share a build."

"... oh. Uh. Don't? Your body's *totally* better."

Tim laughs quietly and claws Jay's abdomen --

"Unh --"

"Thank you."

"You are *absolutely* --"

"*Well*?"

And Blood's penis twitches, rising still more. It's dark with blood, and it angles slightly to the left. The curve of it... is increasingly unsubtle --

"*Someone* wants me to be a *shrew*."

"I *could* turn you into one... for a little while." And Blood shows his teeth.

Martha's eyes widen *somewhat* dramatically --

And Blood laughs. "It would be an *excellent* excuse for you to shit all over *every* part of this mausoleum you dislike..."

"Oh --" And Martha snorts and slaps Blood's chest with her palm --

"Yes...?"

"What *else* can I do, hmm...?"

"You could consider digging in with your *ever*-so-well-maintained little claws and scratching your way -- oh... yes. Thank you *very* much."

"You're *welcome*," she says, and *grips* Blood's entirely respectable penis. "I always assumed these were smaller back then."

"Oh, they were. *Everything* was, in general -- in the British Isles, anyway. But -- oh, please --"

"This stroke...?"

"Yesss..."

"You sound like a *snake*."

"Truly -- truly, I sound more like a *demon*, and I should tell you --"

"Finish what you were saying *before*!" And Martha --

That squeeze looks *painful* --

And Tim wraps his hand around Jay's penis --

And Blood *pants* --

"Mother*fuck*, Tim, *I* don't need this kink --"

"You already *have* *this* kink," Tim says, and... *measures* the forces of his own squeeze --

Jay arches and closes his eyes --

Blood *groans* --

"Talk talk *talk*!"

"But of course. I... I was landed -- and relatively well-*fed* -- gentry --"

"Another petty little *lordling*?"

"Quite a *large* one for the -- ah, your *nails* -- Martha --"

"Give me more *advice*!"

Blood laughs --

Martha growls and claws his *face* with her free hand --

And Blood catches Martha's hand between his teeth and growls like something *chthonic* --

"Jesus *fuck* --"

-- and Martha spreads her legs and *pants*.

Blood raises an eyebrow and releases her hand slowly. "Oh, yes...? You have, perhaps, wanted something inhuman?"

Even Martha's *sneer* --

She's flushed and panting more *deeply* --

"Humanity... has been *disappointing*."

"So be it," Blood says, and his eyes flare red before something black and liquid almost seems to *swallow* them -

His hair lifts and *stiffens* -- before attaching itself to his back and growing down his *spine* --

His teeth lengthen and *sharpen* --

"Jay..."

"Uh. Some of that's real."

"Really."

"Yeah. Uh. That's not in the reports, is it."

"No, it *isn't*," Tim says, and shows his own teeth as he starts to stroke. "But it will be."

"Oh -- oh, good -- fuck --"

And Martha sighs on a *high* note --

And Blood *rolls* out a tongue not dissimilar to the demon-Dick's -- and licks Martha through her negligee from her abdomen to her sternum --

She gasps -- "What are you going to do to me?"

Blood growls again, low and echoing, and when he gestures it becomes clear that his hands have gained the look of things *dipped* in blood -- to the elbow. And his voice, when it comes, comes from *everywhere* -- save for Blood's throat: "I'm going to fuck you breathless, Martha. And then I'm going to continue giving you advice."

"And if I want the advice first --"

"You *don't*."

She gasps again -- "Well. You're a *very* intelligent creature and I have nothing else to say -- make *me* naked!"

Blood sways on his feet and seems to *work* the air between his hands -- until something thick and smoky *grows* between his hands. He *blows* it at her --

It covers her completely --

And becomes three - no, *five* shadowy figures who work together to strip Martha... incredibly inefficiently. It --

She's moaning and being *moved* --

And she closes her eyes and lets it happen, going limp as one -- two -- of the shadows *race* up under her negligee --

Another two slip between her flesh and her peignoir --

And Jay shivers. "He's using so fucking *much* energy --"

"I *don't* think that's why he's crouching like that..."

"Nah, nah, he's giving her the full hellspawn experience, but -- God. He's *draining* himself for this shit."

"I believe he thinks it's worth it," Tim says, and squeezes Jay again --

"Nnh -- would you -- would *you*?"

"For a lover of generations? Or a mother?"

"You're *you*. *Either*. Or *both*!"

Tim laughs softly and squeezes *while* he strokes --

"Nnh -- unh -- oh, yeah --"

"I don't know, Jay. I don't --"

And Martha groans, long and loud, as the shadows pull her negligee and peignoir in opposite directions. They've left her supine *next* to the pile of ash from the pelt --

And Blood *lopes* to her on all fours --

"*Oh* --"

"Shh..."

He dips his fingers in the ash -- and marks her with... symbols. Runes?

"Jay..."

"Unh -- wha? Oh -- oh, shit, he's *binding* -- or. I don't -- I don't know," and Jay shakes his head and blinks --

Squints --

"I'm not -- can *you* see them changing, Tim?"

"Not at all."

"Then... uh. Fuck. I don't know *what* the fuck he's doing, because *some* of that *feels* like slave shit, but some of it feels like *he's* the slave, and some of it just feels, you know, *protective*... I don't know. And I don't even know if it'd *work*. It's not like that's *blood* or anything --"

"Thisss was once a living creature... and the soul of the beast is only *recently* departed. The potency is *quite* high," Blood says to the *air* --

"Fucking fuck that's so fucking *creepy*!"

And Blood smiles, showing teeth that *gleam* in the light from the fire which, now that Tim is thinking about it, really should've died down by now.

The wind outside the manor is *screaming* --

Blood's eyes are oily *pits* --

And Martha is writhing for each new rune, moaning, shining with sweat that somehow always rolls *away* from the runes --

And Blood chants something --

Something that almost certainly only *seems* wordless --

Jay whimpers, penis twitching *violently* -- "Can't -- can't even -- he's makin' it so *real* --"

Oh... "It is real," Tim says, and grips Jay's scrotum with his other hand --

"*Please* --"

"It's *all* real."

And *Jay* doesn't see the ash-drawn runes sinking *into* Martha's body -- but he twists and *jerks* as if he can feel them, as if -- no.

His hands are flowing into *abortive* passes that are breathtakingly similar to Blood's own, and Tim knows -- with all of himself -- that *Blood* knew in nineteen-fifty-nine that this moment would be watched by a *student* sometime in the future --

Blood is *teaching* as much as he's doing anything else --

"*Martha*..."

"Mm -- *please* --"

"Remember that everything in my power to give is *yours* --"

"Yes -- yes --"

"Remember that I serve only the masters I *choose*."

"Jason --"

"Remember --"

"*PLEASE*!"

"I must -- I must *tell* you --"

And Martha cries out and reaches to *grip* Blood's hair, yanking on it and pulling him close -- "I want a kiss!"

"You'll *bleed*, chère --"

"Do it any-- *mm*!"

And the blood runs down the right side of Martha's chin immediately --

She pushes closer and it runs down the *left* side --

Blood growls and twitches, clutches her and pulls back --

"NO!"

And Blood nearly *slaps* her with his tongue as he licks her clean --

"Oh -- oh, *God* --"

"There is too much *power*, chère -- and I *lack* the power to control it," he says, and his voice comes from the rafters, the fireplace, the *stacks* --  "I *will* make it up to you."

"Yes, you -- *OHN* --"

And there is no *thought* before Tim is focusing the zoom on Blood's long tongue slipping deep within her vagina --

Before he's watching her clench --

Listening to her *yell* --

Blood locks his red-stained arms around her slim, strong thighs and *holds* her as she bucks, and --

She was quieter when she was screaming and growling about her father's notes. She was --

It makes sense. Of *course* it makes sense. It's just that that's the Wayne Manor *library*, not a honeymoon suite, and --

Has the arrangement been made? Formalized? It's their first *time*. Even Bruce and Harvey hadn't *immediately* begun --

Bruce's grandfather Jonah still *lives* in the manor. It's *possible* that both he *and* Thomas are at Wayne Enterprises, but it's equally possible that they're *not*.

Thomas could be seeing *patients* --

But the part of Tim which is scandalized is being crushed -- *burnt* -- under the part which can only stroke Jay harder and faster --

"Please, Tim, *please*!"

-- as Martha clenches for Blood, as she --

Yes, split-screen, because she's biting her bloody lips to make them bleed *more* --

Blood is growling in the *air* --

"Ah, *fuck*, Tim, I can feel it, I can -- *HNH* --"

And Tim realizes that he's *working* Jay's prostate through his perineum --

Jay is shuddering on his *lap*, allowing --

Allowing *everything*, just as Martha is, just --

Or is it Blood who is making allowances? Is the scent of her blood driving him as much as the smell of Jay's sweat is driving *him* --

Or would it be more?

That doesn't seem *right*. Jay is *his*. His son, his lover, his partner --

*Everything* --

And right now it seems as though Tim should be able to be *broken* by Jay's grunts and cries, that he should be bent and *driven* --

Martha screams, slamming her groin against Blood's face --

And Blood shudders all over, spinal hair prickling and rising into a reddish-brown *brush* --

Tim can see her *clenching*, and he must not allow himself to become addicted to this, he must not --

He focuses, and the angle changes to show her face, her wide and almost *absent* gaze --

Blood pulls back and licks her fluids all over his *face* -- his teeth are back to normal, though nothing else is. "Come back to me, Martha. Come back *now*.

She jerks and *spasms* --

And Jay does the same, flailing out to clutch at Tim's shoulder --

He opens his eyes and *pleads* into Tim's own --

And there is no question what he needs. He --

"You're as juicy as a milkmaid in a stable full of *bulls*, chère... and I believe it's time for me to take advantage."

The noise Martha makes is affronted and *shocked* and *amused* --

And then Tim can hear nothing but Jay's groans as Tim pushes in two fingers slickened only with the small amount of sweat from Jay's scrotum. There *is* still a significant amount of lubricant from earlier, but --

"Oh, *God*, Tim, oh, *fuck* --"

"I *love* you --"

"Yeah, *yeah*, please, just do me, do me so *hard* --"

Always, *always*, and it's perfect to squeeze *meanly* while he strokes, while he *fucks* --

And Jay works himself between Tim's hands --

And Jay tosses his head and shudders --

Arches and *shudders* --

Tim crooks *up* --

And twitches hard and repeatedly for Jay's whimpers, so high and sweet, so *abandoned* --

"Beautiful -- you're *beautiful* --"

And Jay nods and pants, groans and whimpers *more* --

And Tim realizes that he's *twisting* his fingers, *grinding* --

He tries not to *do* this without adequate lubricant --

And the smell of his own sweat seems *carried* to him on a breeze full of Gotham fog --

He *needs* -- "Jay. *Come*." And that was the *Voice* --

Jay *barks* -- and nods as he works himself faster, *shoving* himself onto Tim's fingers harder and *harder* for a moment --

Before he goes rigid and *yells*. Tim aims Jay's penis up -- and gasps for the sight of Jay coming on his own cheek. On --

On his *face* --

"Oh, *fuck*, Tim -- *UNH* --"

*Again* --

Tim groans and *works* Jay's prostate just a little more --

But the last spurts of ejaculate only make it to Jay's lower sternum.

Tim forces himself to stop. To -- breathe.

Just to breathe.

He listens to Jay pant and *croon* --

Arches and *lifts* Jay's head on his lap --

"Oh -- oh, *yeah*, Tim," and Jay flips over and opens his *mouth* --

"Wait," Tim says, and looks up -- he'd paused the playback. He --

Specifically, he'd paused the playback at a point when Martha was splayed on the carpet, resting on her elbows and leaking what may or may not have been ejaculate from her vulva and *blood* from the corners of her mouth. *She* is staring at Blood's cheek.

Blood... is leering back over his shoulder.

*At* them.

The effect is especially... itself with his eyes black pits of oily nothingness.

"Aw, *Jesus*, *why*?"

"I think the answer to that is that Blood is --"

"An *asshole*?"

"The thought had occurred --"

"Tim, you're fucking *rock* hard. *Let me blow you*."

"Not yet," Tim says, but pushes his sticky hand back into Jay's hair and *grips* --

"*Fuck*, yes --"

And focuses --

On the sound of panting. Martha's pants hit a high note every time. *Blood's* rumble through a growl --

"What are you *looking* at?"

"My future," and Blood turns back to Martha and smiles *broadly*. "Which my cock wants me to know is infinitely less important than my present. *How* shall I fuck you?"

Martha... purrs. And lifts one small foot to Blood's right shoulder.

Blood growls again and bites her ankle --

She jumps and *grins* --

"Chère, you are *beautiful*. *Answer* my *question* --"

"Do it *hard*, Jason --"

"As you *wish* --"

"Wake -- wake my little baby *up* --"

And Blood coughs another laugh and bends her leg back to her *chest*. "I *don't* think it works that way, Martha... but I *could* be wrong --"

"Let's find *out* -- ahn -- *AHN* --"

"Oh, *very* flattering, considering what *Thomas* is *packing* --"

"You -- *looked*?"

Blood *winks*. "I *always* do, chère. Now *scream*," and he begins to thrust *hard* --

She cries out --

She gasps and cries out again --

*Again* --

"*Come* now, Martha, you can be *much* louder than *that*," and he's *moving* her with his thrusts --

"Oh -- oh, *fuck* --"

"*That's* right. And this is yours *whenever* you *want* it --"

"Jason --"

"Yes...?"

"*Jason*!"

And this time Blood's growl makes something thrum in Tim's *chest* --

"Mother*fuck* --"

And Martha screams *briefly* --

"*More*, you beautiful little *slut*."

She backhands him again --

Blood laughs and -- it's not saliva. It's something bloody and smoky and *thick*, and it coils around Martha's *throat* --

"Nnk --!"

"Do you like that, Martha? Do you want it *tighter*?"

And Martha's tongue slips out from between her swollen lips --

Martha's eyes grow wide and *shocked* --

And then they roll back in her head and she shudders powerfully, beautifully, *powerfully* --

"Oh, chère... I will *not* stop."

"Okay, now I can see her being your Mom -- *mmph* --"

"It's not that your conversational contributions aren't welcome, Jay," Tim says, and pulls Jay *all* the way down. "It's just that they're even better around my penis."

Jay gives him a thumbs-up -- and uses skill it *hurts* to think about him having learned to suck hard enough to make Tim groan --

Shiver --

Squeeze his eyes shut --

"No. No, I need your *sounds* --"

And Martha gasps and *croons*, tossing her head --

Blood is fucking her across the *floor* --

And Tim is using Blood's rhythm with Jay, Tim is --

Tim is fucking Jay's *throat*, giving him no time for anything more than *sips* of air --

"Ahn -- ahn -- *AHN*!"

"*More*!"

"Jason -- Jason, *please*!"

"What are you begging for, Martha? It's *yours*!"

She whimpers and tosses her head --

Tim bucks and *flexes* --

Jay shoves Tim's leg over the side of the bed and starts *massaging* Tim's hole with his rough fingers -- or.

There's something --

Something strange and --

Something like being *pulled*, like being *connected* to something --

Deeper --

And when he looks down, Jay has twisted his head enough to meet Tim's eyes with a *reassuring* look --

Magic. *Magic* --

"*Tell* me, Martha!"

"Oh -- *oh* -- do it! Use your *power*!"

And for a moment Blood looks demented and *starved* --

There's *actual* fire in his eyes --

"As you *wish*," he says, and *claps* his red-stained hand down between Martha's breasts --

The stain *spreads* --

And Tim knows it must feel like being part of something larger, that he *is* part of something larger, something beyond tribe and even family, something beyond --

Blood --

And every pulse brings him the scent of green from the park --

And every *suck* brings him Jay, always *Jay*, and Tim knows he's being moved, being --

Being *taken* --

Is this what Jay feels all the time? Is this --

Oh, but he's close to everything, close --

His heart is --

Beating --

So --

And there's something pushing in, something --

Something green?

There's something *alive*, and Tim has never been so sure so full so --

(Daddy --)

Loved --

And Tim is coming before he knows that he's screaming, screaming more and losing so *much* --

He has to clutch has to hold --

Jay he needs he *needs* --

And Jay is clutching Tim's other hand just like --

Tim *grunts* and ejaculates again --

*Again* --

And then he's falling back to -- not earth. Not --

He's falling *into* his body, which he's never been more aware of as something only *thinly* tethered -- or.

He doesn't know.

He doesn't know.

He opens his eyes and pulls Jay off his penis and into a kiss that slowly -- slowly -- gives him the ability to focus on more than the fact that he is not, in fact, one with Gaea.

And that *Jay* almost certainly is -- and always has been.

Tim smiles into the kiss and makes it deeper, *harder* --

Jay moans and nods and *clings* to him --

Tim *drops* Jay onto his back and straddles his waist --

"Oh, *yeah* --"

Tim cups Jay's slick and sticky face and kisses him again, again --

Sucks his soft, swollen mouth and *bites* --

Sucks *harder* --

And then pulls back. And raises an eyebrow.

"Hey, that was *good*. You *know* that was good."

"I also know that you had no idea what you were doing, Jay."

"*Not* true. I totally knew."

"How."

"Uh. You know." And Jay mumbles.

"What was that?"

Another mumble --

"*Aloud*, Jay."

"The All-Mother *told* me, okay? At least, that's what I think that was. I mean, it *felt* like that."

Tim blinks once. And looks at Jay.

"Hey, fuck you, man, you came *screaming*."

Tim touches his tongue to his upper lip -- and takes a deep, even breath. "We'll revisit this later," he says, and looks up at the viewscreen --

Where the scene has paused on what seems to be Blood *forcing* a stain *into* Martha while holding one of her legs pressed to her chest --

Martha has her mouth open in what looks like *shock* --

"Oh -- *oh*!"

"*Yesss* --"

"What -- *tell* me --"

"I'm in -- *hnh* -- I'm about to fuck your *soul*, chère. And you're going to love every *second* of it."

"Nnh -- burns -- so *hot* --"

"I am a *fire* witch, as well -- but we'll -- we can discuss -- oh, Martha, so *wild* --" And Blood groans and shudders --

Throws his *head* back --

Martha's scream spirals up most of an *octave* --

*Blood* screams like a *wildcat* --

And it looks less like sex than like two people trying to shove themselves together, to force themselves into *one* body --

They're perfectly *synchronized* --

And there are hardly any breaths between the screams, hardly any *pause* between the moments of desperation -- frustration?

They *can't* do what they seem to want more than anything *else* --

The stain *flows* back and forth between them like a *tide* --

Faster and *faster* --

"More -- I need *more* --"

"Don't -- *please* --"

"I've *needed* you, Martha --"

"Jason -- *Jason* --"

"Across -- the multiverse --"

"Don't *STOP*!"

And then their eyes meet --

The stain *slams* through both of them, leaving them dark and *bloody* --

And they seem to come at the same time, clawing and straining at each other, howling like animals --

So much triumph *and* despair --

They aren't *blinking* --

Until the stain winks out like a light and they slump against each other like exhausted children, shuddering and moaning.

"Ho-lee shit."

"Hm."

"'Hm'? What *hm*?"

"I -- you *don't* find that tempting?"

"Uh. Tim. They both look like someone shoved them in a bag with dusted-up pumas who *hated* each other. *And* them."

Tim watches Blood lift one *shaking* hand -- he pauses the playback *consciously*. And then he raises an eyebrow at Jay. "And yet they came screaming."

"Well, *yeah*, but there's a difference between coming screaming and coming *screaming*."

"Is there."

"Fucking *yes*, you freak! Uh. Not that there's anything wrong with you. Uh. Badly wrong -- wrong in a bad way -- uh. I'm shutting up."

Tim hums and strokes down the bridge of Jay's nose. "I take your point. Still... that sort of soul-deep *culmination* --"

"See, that's just it, Tim. They were so close that they could feel how far *apart* they were. We don't *get* that when we're fucking. Uh. Right? I mean you don't, do you?"

"No. I... there are *moments*, at times, when I feel the *ache* of not being able to know a lover's mind --"

"Yeah, yeah, but you're not going *fucknuts* about it. I mean, that didn't even really look -- okay, no, it *did* look fun, but also *scary*."

Tim tilts his head to the side. "You'd never do it."

"Not with a fucking *crazy* lady I just met *who was incapable of love*."

Tim nods thoughtfully. "I wonder if he knew that then."

"If he didn't... fuck, I don't know. It's a crazy-ass risk to take, Daddy. He's been immortal for too fucking long."

"I believe that's how it works, Jay."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," and Jay jerks his chin at him. "You'd do it. You'd take a risk like that with someone you didn't know."

("And who are the roses *for*, lover-boy...?")

Tim smiles ruefully. "Not just anyone."

"Then *who*?"

"I spent a lot of time dreaming of the Justice Society when I was... younger than you are now."

Jay frowns. "Yeah, you said, but -- hunh. With them? Like... no, *you* tell me which one. Ones?"

"The *first* Black Canary. And..." Tim considers -- and shakes his head. "No, none of the others. None of them meant as much to me as she did."

"But -- you didn't even *know* her until... wait, did you know her, at *all*?"

"A few -- moderately -- substantive conversations after the rather spectacular incident with Bruce. The Society retired when I was your age. Dinah kept going out until the cancer wouldn't let her, anymore..." Tim swallows. "She died too young."

"You're saying you were kinda in love with her."

"More than a little."

"But --"

Tim holds up a hand. "I know it's strange to you, Jay. But... a part of you stalked that stroll because you wanted the Batman to *see* you as much as you wanted to tell him off."

Jay blushes. "Uh. You weren't supposed to fucking *know* that --"

Tim smiles. "Sorry."

"*Liar*. I -- okay, fine. But I *wasn't* in love with Batman *or* Robin. And I'd only spanked it to Batgirl a *few* times."

Tim *spreads* his hands. "I'm a romantic."

"You are -- not." And Jay squints at him.

Tim raises an eyebrow.

"You... *Bruce* is a romantic."

"Yes."

"*Harv* is a romantic."

"Absolutely."

"You..." Jay squints more ferociously -- and then blinks. "Hunh."

Tim raises his eyebrow higher.

"I... can see it."

"Is it hurting your mind to a certain extent --"

"Fucking *yes*, Daddy!"

Tim laughs quietly and pulls Jay up off his back and into his arms. "I promise to only act like it *sometimes*."

"Well -- okay. Afterglow with the crazy people?"

Tim *coughs* a laugh. "That's what Barbara said about Martha and *Thomas*."

"*Well*?"

"Mm. Your point, once more, is made," Tim says, and kisses Jay deeply while letting himself get manhandled back to the head of the bed.

Once Jay has Tim where he wants him, he buries his face against Tim's throat and -- snuffles. And nuzzles. And growls.

All of the above would *just* be cause for affection -- and a certain hopeful twitch -- were it not for the abrupt advent of Dog in the doorway.

What *is* the connection?

Is Dog a familiar of some sort?

Jay is still *snuffling* --

He hasn't *noticed* Dog -- or has he? Tim grips him by the hair and tugs.

"Uh? Oh -- hey, boy!"

Dog -- an *exceedingly* large apparent Rottweiler/German Shepherd mix whom Jay had insisted they retrieve from Crime Alley before he would agree to live with them -- barks deeply and loudly --

*Prepares* himself to bound --

"*No*," Tim says in the Voice --

Dog barks much more quietly and sits down just inside the doorway.

"Aw, Jesus, Tim, it's not like you don't need to do fucktons of laundry *anyway*."

"I don't want Dog learning --"

"These are *good* habits. *Awesome* habits. At least let him in the *room*."

He *is* in the -- but. Jay is looking at him.

Pleadingly. He --

Tim is supposed to be a better father than Thomas. He --

Tim takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and nods.

"*Nice*. C'mon, boy!"

Dog barks again and *trots* up to the bed, but happily neither jumps nor stands. He settles next to Jay's side of the bed and rests his massive head on the duvet.

Jay immediately shifts closer to that side of the bed and begins petting, leaving Tim --

Tim thinks of Harvey, sucks it up, and moves closer to Jay. And then focuses on the machine.

Blood groans --

Martha whimpers --

Dog *growls* --

"It's cool, boy, they're not actually here."

Tim blinks. "Will he... understand that?"

"Uh... maybe?" And Jay turns to look Dog over.

To Tim's eyes, Dog's expression is as blankly inscrutable as it ever is when Dog isn't threatening, begging, or being playful. No one has ever, ever wanted to give Tim a dog. *Jay*, on the other hand...

"Yeah, boy, I hear you," and Jay turns back to Tim. "He's good. He totally wants you to put on something better, though."

"How... all right, never mind," Tim says, and leans past Jay. "Good boy."

Dog continues to give him an inscrutable look.

Well -- he tried. Tim turns back to the viewscreen and focuses once more --

And it's difficult to tell which of them is panting -- no, they both are. It's just that one of them sounds significantly more pained --

Blood's breathing hitches and he sways -- he's the pained one, for all that his scratches and bruises are healing as they watch.

His scars -- and there are many -- are almost certainly *all* very, very old.

Martha whimpers again, but doesn't open her eyes.

And Blood reaches out with his shaking hand for her cheek. He strokes her gently with his thumb. "Martha..."

Martha shudders and moans, shaking her head --

"Please, chère. Please tell me --"

And then Martha *laughs*. The exhaustion is clear, but the laugh itself is bright and loud enough to carry.

"Your laughter suggests..." Blood shudders and groans as a *deep* scratch on his back seals itself closed --

And Martha opens her eyes and smiles. "Yes...?"

Blood sways again -- and this time has to catch himself on his hands to either side of Martha's head.

Martha blinks and frowns. "Jason? Are you all right?"

*Blood* laughs, but it's breathless and half-*moaned*. "I am. I am *moved*, Martha. The inside of your soul... is not like any other place."

A pout. "I'm not sure I should take that as a compliment, considering the fact that you look like the first three seconds of a *faint*."

"You don't think acute fucking-related syncope is a compliment --"

"*Don't* talk like Thomas."

"I might have been referring to *music*, Martha --"

"But you *weren't*," and her expression is dark --

And Blood's expression is *avid*. "Chère. I *will* speak Greek from time to time. It's an *exceedingly* perverse... tongue," and he rolls *his* tongue out again --

Martha jerks and inhales sharply --

And Blood shows his teeth. "Can you smell yourself on my breath, Martha? I want to *bathe* in you --"

Martha growls and her expression shows *concentration* --

In the half-second before Blood cries out and shudders, left elbow *buckling* -- "*Nnh* -- your cunt is a *vise*, good woman --"

"Say my *name*."

"Martha. Chère. *Cherie*. I am *yours*. Make of me what you will."

"I'm not *mad*!"

"Martha --"

"I'm not -- I'm not *weak*!"

And Blood blinks --

Kneels up --

Shakes himself like something *completely* unrelated to a canine --

And when he stills, his hair is simply long hair, his eyes are simply brown eyes, and the only stains on his skin are from drying blood. He cups Martha's face --

Martha sinks her teeth into the webbing between his thumb and forefinger --

Blood grunts and smiles. "Martha. You are *royalty*... and *all* of the best queens were mad as *hatters*."

Martha frowns *doubtfully*, and Blood's blood runs down her chin.

"Everything in my power. *Everything*."

Martha *slurps*... and releases Blood's hand.

Blood *starts* to lick the blood from his hand -- then shakes his head and gestures, letting the blood fall in an impressively neat infinity symbol around her nipples --

She gasps -- "Burns --"

"But only for a moment, yes...? I am *weakened* now, Martha. And I find I don't give even one *eighth* of a damn... save that I'm going to have to ask you to fuck your husband one more time, as I will be too weak to clear out *all* of your supernatural pests for at least... hm... fifty-eight hours. Give or take a dozen."

Martha snarls --

"I *do* understand. I can *smell* how much you've been stifled here, how much you've been... *lost*. I *highly* recommend positively *begging* him to do something he normally wouldn't. You can give him hope that he'll win your stony little heart that way... and then dash it on the stones in question, of course."

Martha *beams* --

"Yes, I *thought* you'd like that idea," and Blood smiles down at Martha fondly. "Perhaps you started out that way...?"

"*Yes* -- but..."

"It all began to *weigh* on you. The history, the responsibility, the expectations, the monumental *Wayne*-ness --"

And Martha growls again, eyes seeming to *blaze* as she stares up at Blood... though only in the human ways.

"*That*, chère. *That* feeling. *Those* desires. That -- mm. Rage and lust and violence and power and fun and bitchery and pure, unadulterated *madness*. You are *yourself*. *Hold* to that."

A *brief* shuttering --

And the coquettish smile of a *teenager* -- *obscene* with all the blood on and around her mouth --

"Yes, Martha...?"

"What else, Jason?"

Blood smiles. "Everything."

A pout --

"Everything you *want*, that is... and nothing you don't. We'll discover it all *together*... and you need only let me know that you are bored before I will *promptly* try something else."

"Because you're mine."

"Oh, yes."

"Because I *summoned* you."

Blood smiles and strokes Martha's stained and wounded and *swollen* mouth. "In many worlds across the multiverse. Not enough."

"What does *that* mean?"

"That you do not always *allow* me to give you happiness, chère... and so I am very, very appreciative when you do."

"I..." Martha frowns and turns away, but it's a *thoughtful* frown rather than a petulant or rageful one. It's... hm.

"What are you thinking, Daddy?"

"She's about to give in entirely."

"Are you surprised? I mean, even aside from, like, *history*, he's pretty much giving her the sweetest deal ever."

"No, I..." Tim shakes his head and cups the back of Jay's neck, massages it --

"Oh, yeah..."

"I think... I think I understand Bruce."

"Uh. I fucking well *hope* so, Daddy --"

Tim snorts. "You know what I mean."

"Heh. I do, yeah. I don't *want* to, but... you love her now. More than you did before."

"I didn't... I didn't. I certainly didn't want to *protect* her."

Jay raises his eyebrows. "Daddy, I'm pretty sure the family elected me and *B* to have the Mommy Issues."

Tim snorts. "Point. I -- it's not --"

"It's totally important. Just, you know. You *can't* protect her anymore, and you totally couldn't protect her when she was alive, either. And I'm pretty sure you actually know that?"

Tim closes his eyes and smiles -- nods. And then he turns to the viewscreen and watches Blood stare with hungry *patience*. His hands are flat to his thighs and his hair is no wilder around his shoulders than Martha's --

"Jesus, she's gonna have *killer* rugburn, isn't she."

Tim coughs --

"Sorry, sorry, don't mind me --"

And Blood sighs. "My apologies, Martha. I wish to know your thoughts."

She waves him -- or possibly just his words -- away the way she would wave away a gnat --

And Blood laughs softly. "All right --"

She turns to look at him. "Men have been *claiming* to belong to me since I was *twelve*, Jason."

He lifts his chin -- and inclines his head. "You have little enough reason -- at this point -- to believe I am any different from all of those other... failures. Yes?"

"*Worse* than failures. *Disappointments*."

"I understand, chère. I understand... and, were that sort of thing not *strictly* frowned upon by the powers and tides which *move* the multiverse -- and that which lives *inside* me -- well --"

"You'd let me murder them, too? For the crime of making me *cynical*?"

"It's only that I know you'd do it in such entertaining *ways*, chère --"

"Oh --" And Martha's giggle seems to surprise her --

And Blood smiles avidly again. "Beautiful Martha. Surely *some* of them have committed more crimes than merely dipping your lovely little tongue in acid...? Go on, tell me *all* about it..."

"*Jason*."

"No...? Another time, then -- and while I do have *some* measure of monetary wealth to my name, *temporal* wealth is where I truly shine. I am functionally immortal, Martha, and I want to spend your life with you."

"My life. Not -- yours." And Martha blinks rapidly, thoughtfully --

Blood inclines his head again --

Martha shivers and licks her lips -- "Jason, I'll be *old* when you're -- this."

"And *I*... will never be *wholly* faithful to you. Such things are not in me. But, while your youthful body is *quite* attractive to me --"

"It will never be prettier than my *soul*? *Really*?"

Blood smiles. And raises an eyebrow *slowly*.

"I -- oh. Oh. I suppose that we *did* just... hm." And Martha licks her lips and looks up at Blood from under her lashes.

Blood raises his eyebrow *higher* --

And Martha giggles and drums her feet --

Giggles more and winds two locks of Blood's hair around her small fists --

"Yes, chère...?"

"Kiss me! And then let me watch you getting rid of all the pests you *can* get -- *mm* -- mmmm...."

And Blood rolls them over and over --

And at least *one* of them is bleeding into the kiss --

And Jay blows a raspberry and begins a slow and decidedly sardonic clap.

Tim hums and shuts down the machine.

"Oh. Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Thank fucking Christ. Do you *have* reports on how much mayhem *they* caused?"

Tim taps his own temple.

"Aw, come *on* --"

"One word: Bruce."

"Two words: *Crime fighting*!"

Tim laughs quietly and shakes his head.

"Fucking *A*. Okay, all right, so Kane was a diseased donkey cock -- I'm with that. Nobody deserves to be fucking *burned* to death, but fine --"

"Jay..."

"*What*?"

Tim turns enough to meet Jay's gaze and hold it --

And hold it --

And *hold* it --

Jay winces. "You... are totally thinking about me cheering when you... took care of Savage."

"When I -- to be specific -- chopped him into several still-living pieces and had Kal put the pieces in separate stasis boxes --"

"And then had him hide the boxes on different planets, yeah, okay, *okay* --"

"All of those pieces are still alive, Jay."

"He -- he fucking *deserves* --"

"The torture will last forever -- on whatever level he can comprehend it -- until someone puts him back together again."

"I -- yeah. I know. And I know what you're saying."

"Yes...?"

"You didn't fucking -- it's *okay* for you to do shit like that, because you never cross the *line*."

Tim blinks. "I... am now confused, Jay."

Jay snorts and coughs. "Yeah, okay, I guess I do -- have to explain that. Uh." Jay scrubs at his face with his hands --

Dog watches him expectantly --

And then begins to pant idly when Jay drops his hands again. "Okay, it took me about thirty-five *seconds* to figure out that when the killings happened, it was *you* doing it, with Bruce looking that way and Harv way the fuck over there looking *that* way. And, like, I thought it was fucking *ass* for a while, but then I *got* it. Bruce and Harv don't *work* that way, even for real fucking *shit-stains*, and that was that, yeah?"

"I'm listening."

"Yeah, I know. And -- and I didn't get *that*, at first, and it pissed me *off*, but they were both -- fuck, you *know* how they are."

"I do."

"And -- you are not cutting me *any* slack for this, are you."

Tim smiles ruefully and strokes Jay's cheek. "I'm not sure I can."

"Yeah, okay. I'll just -- keep going then."

Tim nods.

"So -- okay. There I am, back then, and I get why Bruce and Harv are the way they are, and I *think* I get why you're the way *you* are, but I also really didn't. I thought you were like *me*, you know? That you got pissed-off when people did fucked-up things and fucking well took *care* of it -- especially when the victims couldn't get up and take care of it for themselves. And you *are* like that on the surface, and even down deep a *little*, but... you're also not."

"Keep going."

Jay nods and bites his lip. "You're -- you're *cold* for this stuff, Tim. You're -- you weigh this stuff *out* in your head, and you figure out... well, for you, it *wasn't* just that the Joker had killed and tortured a bunch of people, it was that he'd done that, and that all the best doctors couldn't figure out how to fix him -- or even what was really *wrong* with him -- and that *he* was suffering. And then you went in there and you shot him six times in the head. You didn't beat him to death, you didn't drop him in an acid bath -- fuck, you didn't even kick him in the fucking *sac* that last time. You *just* ended him, and then left his body where everyone could see it but no one could, you know, *desecrate* it until the authorities could take it down and take care of it.

"And that's what I mean about the line, okay? Because Martha *could've* just killed her father. Hell, she could've just burned him to death the old-fashioned way -- you can't tell me fucking *Blood's* power wouldn't let her do that. It would've hurt like fuck *and* it would've given her time to gloat. But she had to go that extra fucking *mile*. And that -- I can't go there. And I can't really get why you can."

That -- Tim nods. Slowly. There was nothing in that he couldn't understand.

It --

He stares down at his hands and tries to -- to find a way *around* the words at the back of his throat --

The words he *must* say --

And Dog jumps on the bed and tries to get to him --

"Hey, no, boy --"

"It's all right," Tim says, and gestures stand-down.

"*You're* not all right --"

"I cross the line all the time," Tim says, and looks up into Jay's eyes again. "In my heart."

Jay blinks and *clutches* at Dog for a moment --

Dog twists free and immediately begins nosing at Tim's cheek and ear, very clearly offering comfort Jay doesn't know *how* to at the moment -- or.

Tim doesn't know. He --

He smiles ruefully. "If there had been a way to ensure that Savage would stay awake for every moment of his... imprisonment --"

"*Fuck* --"

"I would not have done it. But I would have wanted to."

Jay looks queasy and nods. "Why, though. Why *wouldn't* you have done it?"

"One: I treasure the good opinion of the people I love. Two: I must do everything in my power to make sure I retain the right and responsibility to kill when killing is necessary, because I do not trust most of the League to do it as *well* as I have. Three: I must continue to set an example for Barbara, who will take this duty when I no longer can."

"And -- it's in that order."

"Yes. I --" Tim shakes his head and reaches for Jay again -- he drops his hand. "I'm sorry, Jay."

Jay nods and looks down at the bed, frowning deeply.

Dog moans and nudges Tim --

*Bumps* him --

Tim frowns. He doesn't *want* to interfere with Dog in any way, but --  "Jay..."

"He's just -- he's trying to get you to say more."

"Dog... wants me to talk?"

"Not --" Jay shakes his head and looks up. "*I* want you to talk, and I can't figure out how to --" Jay shakes his head again and whistles sharply --

And Dog moans again, but stops pushing Tim and moves to sit next to Jay.

"I want. I don't actually know what I want you to say."

"I suspect that you'd like me to say that I don't spend time thinking about torturing people to death."

Jay chokes on a laugh. "God, your sense of humor is so *bad*, Daddy..."

Tim smiles ruefully. "It is, yes. I'm sorry --"

"No -- no. It's not your fault I tried to make you, you know, the Perfect Fucking Instrument of Justice --"

"I want -- if I could be perfect for you -- all of you --"

"No, Daddy, no way."

"Jay --"

"You'd have to stop loving Grandma Incestpants. And -- maybe Kal, too?"

(<<My companion, I have a need which brings me shame.>>

<<Tim Drake, there is *no* shame -->>)

And Tim had raised an eyebrow --

And Superman had brought him to the Fortress in an instant --

And Clark had blushed --

And Kal had burned at him from behind wind-whipped hair.

(<<There is no shame but that which we decide to *keep*, Tim Drake.>>

<<That, perhaps, *you* decide...?>>

<<If you will.>>

<<Will you -->>

<<Always, my companion. *Speak*.>>)

And Kal had been wearing only the black bodysuit which had come to mean the comfort of heat, of power and undeniable *force* --

Tim had walked into his arms and began speaking about the most beautiful boy in the world. More beautiful than Bruce in the middle of a spar, more beautiful than Harvey in the middle of a *laugh*.

The boy was *thirteen*, and while Tim had long since forgiven himself -- and Bruce -- for the love they had been sharing with the sixteen-year-old Barbara for the better part of a year by then --

While Tim had already *taught* himself about coltish legs and high-pitched cries --

Thirteen was different.

(<<Is it...?>>

<<*Kal* -->>

<<In my experience, my companion, individuals are just that. You've told me of his beauty, his brilliance, his physicality, his warmth... now tell me of his *youth*.>>

<<He is *thirteen*!>>

<<My companion... that is not what I asked.>>)

And Tim *had* continued to argue... but they had both known that the *flush* on Tim's skin had answered every question -- and made every decision.

Just as Tim knows, now, that Dick would've been too young for Jay --

That Jay would've considered it to be at least a *small* obscenity --

"You thinking about Chester?"

Tim laughs and -- doesn't pinch the bridge of his nose. He meets Jay's gaze again. "Yes."

"You -- you *wouldn't* give up on loving him, would you?"

"If he changed in some fundamental --"

"No, man, the way he is *now*. Freaky identity-changing kidfucker who goes along with all of *your* plans and does what *you* say and probably already knew all the *dark* fucking shit in your head, because he fucking taught you *ancient* Kryptonian when too many people got to know the regular kind."

Tim smiles wryly. "You're answering your own question."

"See -- but are you... no, all right, I don't know what I'm saying. I don't --" Jay frowns --

Dog barks quietly --

Jay grips Dog's scruff and tugs it back and forth. It seems to calm them *both* -- "Okay, no, I know what I mean. You loved a woman who was, like, three times your age and barely knew you from a hole in the ground. Later -- much later? -- you loved your brothers. And, like, *no* one else. For pretty much your whole fucking childhood, yeah?"

Tim feels himself tense -- he relaxes himself immediately. "A part of me has a great deal of reflexive denial to offer here. It -- Harv was there even before Bruce --" 

"No, I know, I... it was still kind of a while, yeah? Because Harv wasn't there until you were at *least* -- nine, right?"

Tim knows his smile is -- weak. "Yes. But --"

Jay smiles at him ruefully. "I hear you. I do. You don't want to really deal with -- I mean, no one *would*. But it's still *not your fault that there weren't any fucking lovable people around*."

Tim -- doesn't look away. "I enjoy loving people. I -- crave it."

Jay nods. "I'm pretty sure any-fucking-body *would* if they grew up like you, Daddy. I just. I don't know."

"You would, perhaps, advise me that I don't have to love *everyone*?"

"*That*! Yeah! Right there. Because you can do better than Grandma Incestpants."

Tim hums. "I'll take that under advisement, Jay," Tim says, and leans in to kiss Jay's forehead before standing. "Let's go take an hour-long shower."

"And get off again? Because I can go for some of that," and Jay tackles Dog off the bed --

Rolls around --

Gets *gently* bitten and *viciously* stomped on several times --

Dog barks -- Tim thinks that must be joy in his voice. And... hm.

"Jay..."

"One sec, Daddy," and Jay wrestles Dog onto his back and -- licks his nose.

Dog licks him back *thoroughly* --

Jay snickers and pats Dog's belly like a *drum* -- and then he stands up. They shake themselves together.

"He's your familiar."

"What? No! He's just my friend. Right, Dog?"

Dog barks... noncommittally.

Tim was *reasonably* sure that wasn't *possible* --

And the expression on Jay's face suggests that he was, too.

Tim nods to himself. "You'll take him with you when you go to see Blood."

"Aw, man, no! He'll probably *hit* on him or something!"

Tim turns and walks to the bathroom. "He's a big dog, Jay. He can take care of himself."

"Fine, but if Blood drops a litter of little flaming puppies, I am *not* taking care of them."

*

May 1979

Tim wakes up to a strange, repetitive, but *not* rhythmic scratching sound --

And then *jerks* awake, because the bed is wrong, the smell is wrong, the --

"Oh... hm. I don't suppose I could convince you to lie back down?"

Bruce is in his bedroom --

Only. It's not his bedroom. It's the bedroom which had, according to Bruce himself, last been used by Thomas Wayne's grand-uncle Bertram.

It's right next door to Harvey's --

Which is only used, Tim now knows, in the hours just after *dawn* --

For the sake of *appearances* --

"Or... are you all right? There's tea, coffee, and orange juice --"

"Bruce," Tim says, and then tries to figure out the words which come after that.

Tries -- very hard.

Very --

He turns toward the area of the room where Bruce's voice had come from -- and finds Bruce sitting in the blue-upholstered fauteuil which *had* been near the corner, but has now been pulled into the light from the window. Bruce is holding a sketchbook. Bruce is also smiling at him.

Tim narrows his eyes.

Bruce blinks and *frowns* --

And Tim remembers -- several varieties of everything. He -- "I... have never wanted to shake myself like a wet dog before."

"I believe that was the sort of non sequitur Harv tends to smack me for, Tim."

("Yeah? You like that, little guy? You want harder?")

Tim blushes. "Ah -- yes. Well. Yes." Tim looks down at the thin coverlet in the hopes that it will provide something like --

Inspiration?

Intellect?

A *chance*? "I'm sorry," he says, at the same time Bruce says:

"I shouldn't have woken you --"

"It's all right --"

"Is it?"

Tim blushes harder --

*Glares* at the coverlet --

"I'll leave you," Bruce says, and stands, and a part of Tim is satisfied. *Happy*.

Bruce should be as uncomfortable as he is --

Bruce should --

Shouldn't --

Tim *growls* --

Bruce walks *faster* --

"*Wait*," Tim says, and pushes the sheets back, *dealing* with the fact that he's wearing nothing but one of Harvey's long-outgrown pairs of briefs and a t-shirt --

They hadn't *planned* a sleepover --

Who *has* sleepovers with their unacknowledged bastard brothers --

But Bruce is standing in the doorway, gripping the jamb in one hand and his sketchbook in the other and -- glaring at the floor.

Tim laughs painfully --

Bruce blinks and *starts* to turn --

Tim can be -- better than this. Tim can --

Last night had proven a lot of things, and changed even *more*. Right?

Right. Tim nods to himself. "I'm sorry. I'm not -- at my best."

Bruce still doesn't quite turn to look at him. "I need not -- you need not... deal with me --"

"We. We made a start. Last night." Right?

But it stops being a question when Bruce *does* finish turning, because his eyes are wide and full of hope and want and apology and --

So many other *things* --

Tim swallows and nods because he *has* to, he has to, because --

He's always wanted --

Tim can't quite bring himself to *pat* the bed next to him, but he can... rub it a little. In circles. Repeatedly.

Does it look like he's trying to scrub off a semen stain? *What*?

He can just *pat* the stupid bed, because it's not like it would send a *more* welcoming message, and it's not like he *doesn't* want to send a welcoming message, and --

"Brother..."

Tim tenses -- and stops rubbing. And looks up --

And up -- damn it -- Bruce is standing next to the bed and looking down into his eyes and --

"Do you really feel *that* much hope?"

"Yes," Bruce says, and it's so -- so *flat*. So *unassailable* --

Tim frowns --

Bruce steps *back* --

"No! No. Don't -- sometimes -- all the time -- I frown a lot."

"Yes?"

"Yes. I. My mother -- she's always telling me to... not," Tim finishes lamely, and -- he doesn't look down.

So he gets to see Bruce *very* clearly struggling with *all of his might* to think of something fair and reasonable and kind to say about Tim's mother.

The Homewrecker.

Tim feels something very strange almost *tickling* his throat, and he has no idea what it *is* --

Until he coughs his way into a semi-hysterical laughing fit.

Oh, dear.

He really needs to stop this.

*Now* --

Bruce is patting his *back* --

And smiling *encouragingly* --

Like Tim is *four* --

Which makes all the sex really *problematic* --

("Would you mind if I... if I could *sketch* you wearing... certain things...")

Tim coughs his way to a *stop*. Was *that* what...? He licks his lips and looks up --

And Bruce strokes Tim's *cheeks*, studying him closely and seemingly focused on --

Not something else. Not *someone* else, either. Bruce is focused, in this moment -- Tim would *gamble* on this -- on the Tim who is already far more aroused than amused.

"Bruce."

Bruce blinks -- and smiles ruefully. "I'm sorry. There is a very large part of my mind which has tasked itself solely with berating the rest for not noticing your loveliness."

Loveliness. Not handsomeness. Not attractiveness. Not even *beauty* -- "How..." He doesn't want to ask. He doesn't want to ask. He --

"Yes?"

"How *much* do you want to see me in women's clothing and makeup, Bruce?"

Bruce's eyes are full with... something entirely heated.

And inspiring.

And *terrifying*, *considering* --

"Bruce."

"Yes."

"I'm -- I'm definitely not female."

"No. I -- I don't want you to be."

Tim narrows his eyes.

"I don't," Bruce says, and he sounds solemn, and reasonable, and *sure* --

Tim narrows his eyes *more* --

Bruce laughs softly -- *calmly*, *somehow* -- and gestures to the space on the bed Tim was rubbing.

Tim nods --

And Bruce sits, and immediately turns to face Tim, cupping his chin and lifting it *slightly*. "I cannot help but notice your cheekbones, which are as dramatic as a fashion model's despite your youth. Additionally, while your lower lip is relatively thin, your upper lip has a very sensual pout to it. Your eyelashes -- and I do not understand why women are supposed to have the longer, thicker eyelashes, when it's a function of testosterone levels --"

"I *know* that --"

"Good," Bruce says, and smiles in *cheerful* approval. "Your eyelashes aren't especially well-curved, but they *are* lengthy and thick, and your eyes are wide and well-spaced. You have a sort of *natural* androgyny --"

Tim growls --

"And that is exceedingly arousing. Have you given any thought to undercover work?"

What. Tim blinks. "I -- in the future, you mean?"

A solemn nod. "I imagine it would be an exceedingly useful way to acquire otherwise inaccessible information, and I've been terribly frustrated by the fact that I seem to be growing even larger and more... conspicuous."

"Whereas I... will almost surely not."

Another nod.

Tim sighs. "It would, in fact, be something of a *coup* if we had operatives who could disguise themselves as males *or* females --"

"More operatives than the two of *us*, Tim? Harv truly doesn't wish to --"

"I'm not -- speaking about Harv," Tim says, and blushes again. He hadn't really meant to bring this *up* --

Not *yet* --

"Maybe -- I should have that coffee --"

Bruce stands up immediately, and wheels a tray close to the bed. "Alfred wasn't sure what you would like, so he provided a selection..." And Bruce shakes his head once and sets a delicate, beautiful, and obviously *old* china cup on a saucer before pouring coffee for Tim. The sort of heirloom his mother would like to have the family *history* for. "How do you take it? I usually prefer tea in the mornings, but Alfred's coffee is quite delicious."

("I like my coffee black... like my clothes.")

And Dinah's laugh had been low and throaty for the man on the other end of her telephone conversation --

And she had winked at Tim again as she rang up his order for yellow roses --

And Tim hadn't been able to come up with a single excuse to stay. He --

Bruce is staring at him curiously and *patiently* --

"Ah -- I'm sorry. I take it black with two sugars. I can do it myself --"

"Please, allow me," Bruce says, and smiles into Tim's eyes --

And Tim thinks he could *kick* Harvey for every single piece of advice he'd ever given Bruce about how to maximize his fundamental attractiveness. It's abundantly clear that he *knows* how devastating that look is --

But Bruce frowns -- and Tim realizes that he's glaring again. Wonderful --

"Tim... I truly don't have to stay --"

"I want you to," Tim blurts --

And the wry smile is even more devastating. Perhaps Tim should be grateful to be 'lovely'. His *brothers* are beautiful and *impossibly* sexy without any effort expended whatsoever --

And he can stop glaring *any* time now. Tim takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly.

He repeats the process --

Again --

And then he reaches for his coffee, which, judging by the scent, will make every cup he brews for himself from now on taste like half-charred swill.

The taste confirms it, but in a way that makes Tim relax despite himself. Perhaps Alfred Pennyworth is not above drugging the underaged children of homewreckers --

He's not going to get hysterical again. He's *not* --

"I much prefer that expression on your face," Bruce says, and raises an eyebrow. Devastatingly. "Though I confess that I can't help wondering if I put it there in some painfully embarrassing way."

Well... Tim waves a hand, and spares himself from needing to speak by taking a long, deep sip. Really more of a *drink* --

His mother would have something to say about his manners --

And, last night, Harvey had spun open his thermos of hot cocoa with a flourish and drank with relish, humming as he did.

("He's so beautiful.")

And Bruce had been smiling at him, *inviting* him --

And Tim hadn't been able to do much more than blush and nod --

And the three of them had --

It had almost seemed as though they were *gravitating* toward each other, as if Bruce's bed was magnetized and they were filled with iron filings. Harvey had been stressed and *desperate* about something they hadn't *discussed* --

The strange, simple knife currently on Bruce's dresser almost certainly has something to do with *that* --

But last night...

Tim shakes his head and sets his cup down neatly. "It was easier last night," he says, and smiles ruefully at Bruce.

Bruce nods solemnly again. "With Harvey."

"I -- yes. But before then, too. When we were just... speaking together."

Bruce breathes a sigh of --

"Are you -- relieved?"

Bruce offers his own rueful smile. "Before Harvey, no one but Mother and Jason ever seemed to find it easy -- or even tolerable -- to spend much time alone with me."

Tim blinks, but --

("He isn't perfect in *every* way, of course. By all reports, he's utterly hapless -- or perhaps I mean helpless -- in any social situation requiring more inspiration than cocktail party politesse...")

And his mother had frowned *lightly* -- never enough to encourage wrinkles to form -- and looked him over.

("It *would* be just our luck that *that* is what you'd have in common with the boy. *Work* on it.")

Yes, Mother --

Bruce hums. "I have another confession to make," he says, and pours himself -- perfectly-brewed Lady Grey, judging by the scent.

And really -- "Let me guess: You were sketching me into lingerie."

Bruce *blinks*. "It was really more of a... hm. I think, perhaps, that the style is too aggressive for me to consider it 'lingerie.'"

*Tim* blinks. And stares.

"But that was not my confession," Bruce says, and reaches across the tray to cover Tim's hand. "Tim... I want to spend as much time with you as possible. I want -- more than simply training. More, even, that whatever sexual and romantic interludes you allow --"

"Brotherhood."

"Yes. I want... I *thought* you enjoyed being alone with me last night, but it's such a rare thing..." Bruce shakes his head. "I'm... somewhat hopeless socially, when it comes to people I find even the least bit interesting, or attractive... I will not believe you if you tell me you hadn't noticed that."

My *mother* did -- but. "I -- I did, yes."

Bruce nods again, and stares into Tim's eyes. "I've learned much from Harv. I would learn still more from you."

"Bruce... I have no friends. At all."

Bruce raises an eyebrow again. "I also will not believe you if you tell me that *much* of that isn't due to *choice*, Tim."

Tim... picks up his coffee and drinks, looking at the rumpled coverlet.

"You give me your cheek so often. It feels... like a tease of invitation. Mother's rouge has a taste of powdery sweetness that blends well with that of her skin --"

Tim chokes on his coffee --

"Oh -- are you all right?"

He manages not to make a mess. And then he stares at Bruce. Just -- stares.

Bruce stares back.

This could last indefinitely, and *yet* -- no, he isn't going to ask that question. Yet. "How much time have you spent alone with Jason Blood?"

Bruce blinks -- and then looks thoughtful. "Mother was always there, except for when Jason was teaching me about sexuality. I would say... a few hours a night, every night, for about a month."

Tim stares.

Bruce stares back *curiously* --

Tim holds up a finger --

Bruce nods and leans back slightly --

And Tim finishes his coffee. It does not get any less perfect while Tim pictures Jason Blood blowing chartreuse all over Bruce's bedroom and --

And *what*?

He *can* ask, and that's what brothers are *supposed* to do --

Wonderful. He's blushing.

And thinking of Bruce kissing Martha Wayne's cheek -- slipping his tongue out to taste? *Really*? Who *does* that?

"Tim..."

"Ah. Yes?" And Tim looks up --

Berates himself for glaring at the tray and not even realizing that he was *doing* it --

He focuses on Bruce. And raises an eyebrow.

And Bruce laughs quietly. "I may be socially inept, but I *know* I've said at least one terribly strange thing in the past few minutes... tell me? Or... ask? Or..." Bruce frowns. "Perhaps it's one of those things Harv wouldn't *want* to know more about?"

Tim stares at Bruce -- no. No, he's not going to start that again. He's going to -- wait. "There are... questions Harv doesn't ask you?"

Bruce smiles ruefully. "Yes. Often about Mother. I believe he feels my relationship with her is... too much. In some ways."

You don't say. But -- he can do this in something resembling the right way. He shifts until he's on his knees, and then sits on his heels with his hands on his thighs --

And he watches Bruce taking in his body, his posture, his musculature -- almost certainly countless other things. And then he nods and looks at Tim expectantly.

"Why don't you feel that way? Do you think."

Bruce smiles ruefully again. "I would've had no companionship, at all, for the first fourteen years of my life without her. And Jason, of course."

And Tim wants to *protest* that --

It feels as though there should be something there *to* protest --

("Oh, *honestly*, Tim! Thomas is going to *be* here in less than an *hour* and he has *no* patience for excessive displays of emotion. We've *discussed* this.")

What *had* he been crying about -- no, there isn't any real question there. Even when he was only ten years old, Bruce had had more than enough presence to pull *off* a genteelly disgusted sneer.

And, at five, Tim had been more than old enough to feel the effects of one aimed just over his right shoulder.

Perhaps he should be protesting that. Perhaps he should be --

Just --

"Tim --"

Tim throws up a hand and -- takes a deep breath. And another. When he looks up again, Bruce's expression is worried and sorrowful and *deep*, somehow *deep* --

"I'm hurting you solely by being *near* --"

"Bruce --"

"Please, Tim, tell me how I may make *amends* --"

"It's not -- that simple --"

"I was a *fool*. I -- I continue to *be* a fool, and I -- I'm so afraid I will make more mistakes, *worse* mistakes --"

"Stop."

"Tim, I --"

"*Stop*," Tim says, and grips his own thighs to keep from clawing at them, or -- anything else. "Please."

Bruce searches him and nods --

Tim nods back and takes another breath. "It was easier last night."

Bruce swallows and nods again. "I -- I will do anything. Please."

"I -- I don't think --" Tim shakes his head. "I was in *shock* last night, Bruce. I had just lost my virginity -- all right, I'm still a little in shock about that --"

"We can make love whenever you wish --"

"*No* --"

"*Yes*, Tim --"

"*Bruce* -- I." Tim frowns and shakes his head.

"You -- you're not aroused. You don't wish to *be* aroused?"

Tim smiles ruefully. "There's that. There's also -- I don't think I want to... ah... have sex every time I don't want to think about something."

Bruce nods thoughtfully. "It would... cheapen the acts. Pervert them."

"Well... yes? Yes."

Another nod. "Are there... other things? I... I know I should not want to shock you --"

Tim laughs. "You could do that -- easily. Probably just by showing me your sketchbook -- that's all right! I... am reasonably sure I'm not awake enough for that. Yet."

Bruce sets the sketchbook back down. "You may -- all of my sketches are yours. Or... you might not be interested --"

"You -- I... have technical sketches. For my... I've been designing... ah. Electronics. I mean -- I don't really have much in the way of... art."

Bruce studies him excitedly. "I know little of such things, but many scientists suggest that computing -- electronics in general -- is the wave of the future... what do you think?"

Tim offers his own wry smile. "I think my computer made me tear out a significant amount of hair while I was in the process of building it. I think that the materials and *possibilities* we have now are woefully limited. I think... I think that people will be saying similar things even when computers are capable of doing things -- quickly, easily, and cheaply -- that would stun us breathless now."

"So you *would* invest?"

"In a heartbeat. I... have been trying to steer my... parents in that direction."

Bruce narrows his eyes -- almost certainly for the hesitation --

Tim raises his hand --

And Bruce inclines his head. "Would you consider discussing the matter with our father?"

That... "Would you tell me..."

"Anything," Bruce says, and smiles so *warmly* --

Tim blushes. "Ah. I was just -- You refer to your mother -- all the time -- as 'Mother,' whereas --"

"I impose more distance with our father?" And Bruce raises an eyebrow.

*That* -- Tim laughs quietly. "I suppose you did answer that question last night." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry --"

"No. Please. I want all of your questions. I. I feel as though I stole you from myself."

Tim closes his eyes for a *moment* -- "You did."

Bruce makes a small, *hurt* sound -- "I'm so --"

"She -- your mother allows you... emotion? Freely?"

"Yes...? Is that... strange?"

The panic for that --

He hadn't meant to ask such an *obvious* question --

"Oh -- I'm sorry. I don't mean --"

"It's all right!"

"You need not answer --"

"I -- I *asked* --"

"It's important to me -- you must feel *comfortable* here, Tim --"

Tim laughs *painfully* --

And Bruce -- winces. "I. I suppose that is... a lot to ask," he says, and hangs his *head*.

Like -- like --

He can't possibly be --

("He's *helpless*.")

*Yes*, Mother, but there isn't --

You don't always have to *abuse* that --

*He* doesn't always --

He wants to be a *hero* -- and he can start *right* now. Can't he?

Tim takes another deep breath and adjusts his posture -- no. No, not that. He kneels up and shuffles closer to Bruce, ignoring -- as best as he can -- the heat of him --

He's only wearing a *robe* -- or.

Tim doesn't know what he's wearing under the robe. He *isn't* wearing a pajama top, and his chest is hairy, and --

And he's *sad*, because of the things he's said and done. It's his own *fault* that Tim's uncomfortable and angry and -- and *wounded* in several discrete places within himself --

And it doesn't have to matter. At least -- Tim doesn't think it does. He rests one hand on Bruce's shoulder --

He gives himself a moment to feel painfully, stupidly, *ludicrously* *small* --

And then he cups Bruce's face with his other hand. He --

Bruce turns to face him immediately, looking up the short distance into Tim's eyes with an expression in his own which --

"A part of you wants me -- to say something hurtful."

Bruce nods once. "Or -- a look."

Tim nods. "I don't... I don't want to be like --" My mother. "That."

Bruce shivers. "You shame me."

"No --"

"Yes. I..." Bruce shakes his head. "I've told Harv countless times about my loneliness when I was growing up --" Bruce laughs derisively. "When I was growing *large*. 'Fool' isn't a strong enough --"

"We can't -- we can't move forward. If you're... berating yourself. All the time."

Bruce frowns and searches him. "Does it ease nothing for you to know that I know regret?"

"It -- it does. But I already *do* know. And -- I strongly suspect that you're going to continue to find ways to let me know..." Tim smiles ruefully and strokes Bruce's cheek. "We... we can try new things now." Right -- no. "Right?"

Bruce takes a deep breath and shudders -- nods. "Anything. Perhaps we could breakfast together? The three of us, I mean -- or. I don't know how long you'll be able to stay," Bruce says, and the hope is back in his eyes, so --

So *large* --

And --

("Bruce. Wants you to sleep over. *Tonight*."

"Yes, Mother."

"What on earth -- no, you can fill me in on all the details later. I *trust* that you already know what to do."

"Of course, Mother."

"Very well. I'll have what's-her-name bring you fresh clothes tomorrow morning. Until then... remember *precisely* who you are.")

That... is *precisely* what he's going to do. Tim smiles a little more widely. "I have time. I don't... well. It's Sunday. I don't have anywhere to be."

"We could have the day? I mean -- of course, I wouldn't pressure --"

"Were you --" Tim licks his lips and strokes Bruce's cheek again. "You shaved."

"Yes. I wanted... I was thinking about nuzzling you as I lay in my bed."

"Oh... oh."

Bruce flares his nostrils -- and turns to kiss Tim's fingers lightly. *Dryly*. "But you were going to ask something else?"

Was it something about your penis? It was probably something about your penis. "Ah..."

"Or... we could discuss... what precisely *is* a computer?"

Tim blinks. And stares.

"Hm. I know it's a device which can be used for *computing*, but the human mind is much faster, isn't it? And surely... well, some of the articles I've perused -- and stories I've read -- posit devices which can perform thousands of equations at once. How would it be possible to create such a thing? Wouldn't it require massive amounts of space and materiel?"

Tim licks his lips --

"Your mouth --"

"I was going to ask you -- what. What about my mouth?"

Bruce exhales slowly. "It isn't -- I had thought the swelling would go down... more."

"Oh." Tim doesn't lick his lips again. He -- "Is it... obvious?"

"To me, yes. I'm not sure it would be to others. You might have simply been eating... very sour or spicy foods. Do you like --"

"Yes. Many -- ah. Were you... awkward? With Harv?"

Bruce *stares* at Tim's mouth. "I would like to touch you."

Tim -- grunts. There *was* some question about whether he would get hard -- no there wasn't. Tim laughs and shakes his head --

*Thinks* about it --

"Ah -- that wasn't no."

Bruce meets his gaze again. "When you had your mouth on me, every moment was an ache. A need to *give* my control to you. And yes."

Tim blinks. Tries -- "'Yes'?"

Bruce stares at Tim's *throat* -- "I was very awkward with Harv. I didn't know what to --" Bruce shakes his head and frowns. "If it had simply been a matter of not knowing what to say, I could have *asked* him. I didn't know -- for weeks -- what I was *feeling*. Save that it was wonderful, and more intense than anything I had ever known. May I bite your throat."

"Oh -- that wasn't a question."

"It was meant to be. It... I sometimes... lose my questions when I'm very aroused. Jason must have thought that I was ordering him around when he was teaching --"

"*How* did he teach you? Ah. Ah. You don't have to tell --"

"But do you want to know."

Tim grunts again --

Leans in *gracelessly* -- but Bruce is there to cup Tim's face in his huge, perfect hands, to pull him in the rest of the way and position him perfectly for a kiss --

A kiss that makes Tim *feel* young, as young as he had felt when Harvey was opening his *pants* --

Or -- maybe younger. Maybe --

Bruce seems *inhumanly* large like this, like --

It would barely take a *moment* for Tim to be on his *lap* --

Would he like that? Would he --

Would he enjoy it in some *disturbing* way? How to even *define* that? *Laughing* into the kiss makes him feel even younger, distract-able and shallow --

Until Bruce groans and *moves* Tim onto his lap, moves Tim into a straddle of his thighs and pushes his tongue deep --

So *deep* --

Tim hears himself making a *strangled* noise, but this is -- good. This is --

Bruce has his hands on Tim's *hips*, and it's *abundantly* obvious that he could move Tim in any way he *wanted* to --

Move Tim again and *again* -- or maybe just *closer*, because Bruce is hard under his robe --

So big and *hard* --

Bruce moans into the kiss and pulls *back* --

Tim *whimpers* --

And Bruce bites Tim's *upper* lip -- gently. And pulls back again. And -- pants. Not rapidly. Not -- it's a somehow *slow* pant, one which speaks of control which could be pulled on --

Or --

Tim isn't sure. Tim is busy licking his lips and trying to convince himself not to *grind* --

For -- some reason. He should really think about that. Or at least consider *not* staring deeply into Bruce's eyes like this --

Bruce nods slowly, as if Tim has answered a question, or *asked* one or --

Tim is nodding, *too* --

"I want you."

"I -- oh." Tim laughs somewhat breathlessly. "I think I knew that."

Bruce smiles, but it's shaky on his face, *difficult* --

"Bruce?"

"You... you were uncomfortable... very recently."

Tim -- licks his lips again. "Yes, but... ah."

"Perhaps... you could tell me what you would like. What I can have."

*Everything* -- no.

Everything right *now* -- *no*.

Everything -- Tim growls and covers his face with his hands --

Bruce *moves* *his* hands --

"No! Don't -- ah. Please?" Tim drops his hands -- no. He puts his hands on Bruce's shoulders and -- he's not a child. He can't --

He'd *told* Bruce, and Harvey was right there, and --

He's not a child. He licks his lips *again*, and he *breathes* -- "I like. I like feeling your hands. On me. My hips."

Bruce inhales sharply -- and puts his hands back. "Like this."

No *questions* --"I. You could... squeeze."

And Bruce squeezes gently -- no. Bruce is increasing the firmness of his squeeze slowly and steadily --

So much *control* --

Tim *moans* --

"This level of firmness."

Fuck -- "More. More. Please."

Bruce pants twice and keeps increasing the firmness --

Tim can't keep himself from *twisting*, but -- "Don't stop --"

Bruce nods *once* -- and the grip is painful now, *frightening* --

The strain in Bruce's forearms is so *impressive* --

Tim moans and strokes Bruce there, squeezes and massages because he *has* to --

"Tim..."

"You..." Tim laughs breathlessly again. "You feel... very good."

"You enjoy pain."

"Ah. Ah. I've only... I haven't really experimented... thoroughly..."

"No?"

Oh, good, a question. How novel -- "Ah. No? Not -- I like it. I want -- I enjoyed it -- that. Brief spanking. Last night."

"Harv was very aroused. He was... I could smell his *sweat*."

Tim *groans*, but -- "So could I. Is he. Is he sleeping --"

"Alfred drugged his tea this morning."

Tim blinks. And -- blinks. And -- "I... can't seem to make that sentence -- what?"

Bruce *flexes* his hands on Tim's hips --

"*Nnh* -- oh -- Bruce --"

"I'm not certain how Alfred knew this, but Harv slept badly after you left us --"

"Oh, that's -- no, go on. Please?"

"Alfred occasionally provides sedatives when we sleep poorly. I believe he felt Harv needed more rest today."

"Well. That. Ah." Tim... tries to think about it. He tries --

He realizes -- quickly, he thinks, to his credit -- that he's trying to think around his own penis. He stops. "Do you think Harv will be all right?"

Bruce nods once, and the light in his eyes is a smile which isn't -- quite -- making it to his mouth. "Always. He is one of the strongest people I've ever known."

Tim -- breathes and --

There's an *ache* in him, a part of him which only wants what Bruce and Harvey have, wants to touch it and *taste* it --

And then he's blushing *and* flushing, because -- he can. He --

"If... if you only wish to make love when Harv is present --"

Tim presses his right thumb to Bruce's mouth -- and then can only stare at the way the pressure is forcing his relatively thin lips out of true. "I. I was going to say something."

Bruce stares at him *hotly* --

Tim moans and -- bucking gets him absolutely *nowhere* because Bruce is still holding him *still* -- "I want everything. That's. That's what I was going to say before. Ah."

Bruce closes his eyes for a moment, draws back -- and then licks Tim's thumb from the wrist to the tip.

And then does it again.

And again --

"Oh -- God. Bruce --"

Bruce bites the *heel* of Tim's hand -- and looks at Tim from over Tim's spasming fingers.

"Nnh -- you. What would *you* like?"

Bruce bites Tim's hand *harder* --

"*Oh* --"

-- and then he pulls back and licks his lips. "I find I'm not sure."

"... oh. Ah. We can -- I mean. I don't know --" What kinds of things did Jason *fucking* Blood *teach* you for hours every night for a *month*? He can say that. He *can*. He probably *should* --

"Tim --"

"Yes? I mean -- yes?"

Bruce licks *his* lips. "Your skin is very soft. Very. Do you bruise easily."

There is no part of Tim which can view that *lack* of a question as a non sequitur. "Ah... yes. To a certain extent. In some places."

"Do you think. Harvey was spanking you very firmly."

"I --"

("Oh, yeah, *yeah*, little guy, I *love* it when you make noise like that for me, for *us* --")

Tim blushes again. "It. It felt very good --"

Bruce narrows his eyes -- and *slowly* slides his hands around to Tim's buttocks. And squeezes *hard* --

"*Oh* --"

"Does it hurt."

"No -- no --"

"Would you like it to."

"Oh, *fuck*, Bruce --"

"I vastly enjoy hearing you curse. Please -- answer my question," Bruce says, and now his eyes are *hungry* and full --

He looks -- "You look at Harv that way -- I -- I can't --"

"Please. I will. I can control myself --"

"I don't want you to --"

And Bruce's growl is low and heavy and -- enough to make something in Tim's abdomen turn over, enough to make him moan and *grip* at the sheets --

Because Bruce had just *put* him on them. On his hands and *knees*. He -- "Bruce --"

"Tell me. Tell me I may have you naked --"

"Yes -- *hnh* --" And then he's on his *stomach* and Bruce's robe is fluttering to the coverlet beside him, and Bruce is *yanking* Harvey's briefs off of him --

It's a good thing they were *loose* --

"Bruce --"

"You're bruised."

"Oh. Am I -- where --"

"Here," Bruce says, and presses on a spot low on his right buttock --

"*Mm* -- oh -- Harv. Harv's fingers --"

"So strong. So beautiful. Do you want them inside you."

"*Yes* --"

"Do you want *mine* --"

"*Yes* --"

Bruce growls again and shoves Tim's t-shirt up to his armpits before licking up Tim's *spine* --

"Oh -- "

Biting his way *down* --

"*Bruce* --"

"Anything. I -- I *enjoy* providing pain when it's desired --"

"That's good! Ah -- *fuck* --"

And Bruce *holds* the bite over Tim's bruise --

Growls and bites *harder* --

And then pulls back and pants. "I thought, for a long time, that I would never do such a thing. That I would never *hurt* a lover --"

"It's all right! It's absolutely all right --"

"I know," Bruce says, and spreads Tim's *ass* --

"Oh --"

"Jason explained everything," and Bruce licks *wetly* --

"*Hnh* --"

"He... answered every question," and Bruce stabs *in* with his tongue --

"*Bruce* --"

"I want to make love to you with my mouth *daily* -- but I was going to give you more pain," Bruce says, and scrapes his *teeth* along Tim's *perineum* --

Tim *shouts* --

"Oh, Tim. You... the swelling here is..." Bruce takes a *shaky* breath. "Jason told me of people who *pierce* themselves here."

"What -- *what*?"

"Other cultures. Other --" Bruce *sucks* the sensitive skin there, and Tim doesn't know what to *do* with the sensation, how to feel other than in *need* --

But then Bruce begins to bite again, a bite after *every* suck, and it makes his scrotum feel both tight and neglected --

It makes his hole feel --

Vulnerable --

"Bruce..."

Another *lick*, all the way from Tim's scrotum *to* his hole -- but Bruce doesn't push in, this time. He *teases* --

"*Bruce* -- oh, Bruce --"

He sucks *there* --

"God -- *what* --"

Bruce pulls back and breathes *hot* on Tim's hole. "Jason told me about life in other *dimensions*, about life in the *future* -- perhaps I should have asked him about computers..."

Tim *gasps* a laugh and looks back over his shoulder --

And Bruce is smiling ruefully. "I couldn't *stop* thinking about sex and sexuality, Tim. I wanted *him* to touch me, to make love to me even though he was Mother's lover..."

"Did... did he... ever?"

"No. And when I made a -- desperately clumsy -- attempt to seduce him using all of the words he'd taught me over the month before, he made me very sleepy, kissed my forehead, and promised me that I would have love soon enough. Love that would not hurt me."

Tim... frowns. Or tries to. It's very difficult to *think* at the moment --

"It seems strange to you."

"Yes. Yes, it *does*."

Bruce hums, low and amused --

And then the bites begin again, hard and somehow *heavy* things all over Tim's ass and thighs -- and *between* after Bruce summarily *spreads* them.

Tim moans for them, content to go without an answer, *almost* content to forget his question --

He *hates* that --

But Bruce's mouth is so hot, and Bruce lips are soft, somehow *soft* -- or is it just that his teeth are so hard? So *slick*, and his breath is *cool* when he inhales --

When Tim shivers and arches --

When Bruce grips Tim's hips and *shoves* him back down --

"*Bruce*!"

"I am not unaware of his reputation, or of the things he does to earn it -- including the fact that he has been carrying on a deeply sexual affair with Mother in, among other places, my father's house, for nearly twenty  *years*. But he has been gentle, and he has been caring, and he has answered questions even Mother turned away from me for, and he has given Mother happiness when..." And Bruce sighs quietly --

Painfully --

"There have been times, Tim, when I've thought that nothing at all could give Mother happiness."

"Oh... oh, I see -- and. Blood -- Jason was there."

"Every time he could be, for as long as he could be. He is not my father, but there are times when I have wished he could be. I would like to take you with my penis, brother."

"I -- *mn* -- all right..."

Bruce *grips* Tim's buttocks again --

Squeezes hard over all of the *bites* --

"The pain... the pain can be very intense, brother..."

Tim closes his eyes and -- licks his lips. Again. "I know."

And Bruce's hands *shake* on Tim's buttocks --

Bruce groans and spreads Tim again, *pants* against Tim's hole and groans *again* --

And the kiss makes Tim tense *hard* -- but only for a moment before he's whimpering and -- God, *melting*, and isn't this the best possible response? He *wants* Bruce inside him -- as much as is *possible* -- and he has to relax, has to give *in* --

("You *know* what to do.")

*Yes*, Mother, I do, but I really don't think *you* -- do --

You never --

Tim whimpers again and feels himself sweating, *itching* with sweat -- no, that's just the desire -- the *need* -- to grind against the sheets --

To hump and *writhe* --

Every time Bruce makes a sound, it *vibrates* Tim's *anus* --

That --

Tim cries *out* --

*Yanks* at the sheets --

And perhaps there should be resistance, something -- something his mother could understand and *approve* of. Perhaps there should be some moment of hesitation --

No, resistance is the right word, *fight* against this pleasure that's turning him liquid, making him *shameless* --

Are you shameless for Thomas Wayne, Mother?

Were you from the very beginning?

Did you tell yourself you were only doing it for what he could do for *you*?

That seems like precisely the sort of lie his mother would tell herself -- it's expedient and flattering in *practical* ways, and --

And Bruce is *fucking* Tim with his tongue, *moving* --

No, Tim is the one moving, straining to push up onto his knees again --

Bruce shoves him *down* --

And crying out feels so good --

And moving in *only* the ways Bruce is allowing feels so good --

And flushing-clawing-*humping* feels --

("You have to *take* what you want from this world, Tim. *No* one will give it to you.")

As you say, Mother, and Tim can't help laughing --

Bruce's *surprised* hum makes Tim choke and *whine*, shudder and *whine* --

And then Bruce is pulling back --

"*Please*!"

"Oh... would you like to have an orgasm from my tongue."

Tim *grunts* --

Bruce spreads him again --

"*Wait* --"

"I don't want to."

Tim groans and licks his lips --

He can't keep himself from lifting his hips for Bruce, pushing himself more into Bruce's *hands* --

"Oh -- so lovely -- tell me what you want."

*More* -- but Bruce would just -- "just" -- *rim* him more --

("I gotta tell you, big guy -- I never *guessed* that I'd grow a kink for you teaching Tim sex slang? But I *absolutely* have. Keep it up.")

And Bruce had blushed --

And *Tim* had blushed --

("It's only -- "

"Nah, nah, *teaching* now. 'Only' later.")

And Harvey had grinned and waggled his eyebrows --

Stroked a line down Tim's sweaty spine with two fingers --

They'd all still been *panting* --

They'd all been on Bruce's *bed*, and somehow --

Somehow, that can happen *again*, and again --

Tim could've *stayed* last night if he'd wanted --

He --

"Tim. Please."

"I -- I wanted to stay last night," Tim blurts, blushing and hanging his head --

Bruce inhales sharply -- "I don't understand."

"I didn't feel like I could. I didn't want to -- interfere. I was afraid. I was -- I was afraid --"

"Of... overstaying your welcome."

Tim blushes *harder* --

Claws at the *sheets* --

"*Brother*..."

Tim *pants* -- "God, Bruce, I -- you have to *understand* --"

"I *do*. I don't *want* to -- but I will keep this knowledge, Tim. And I will *use* it."

"Use --" *How* -- except that Tim can't ask *any* questions -- or make any noises other than *shouts* -- because Bruce is biting the back of his *neck* --

Bruce is growling and *holding* the back of Tim's neck between his teeth --

"Bruce -- *Bruce* --"

A *deeper* growl makes Tim twitch, *leak* -- and Tim knows what Bruce isn't saying, knows --

Bruce will remember this.

Bruce will *look* at him -- *into* him -- every time Tim says he wants to be alone, and then --

Tim groans and goes *limp* --

Bruce bites *harder* --

And *then* Tim remembers -- tenses -- "Don't -- don't bruise me there --"

Bruce *snarls* a growl and pulls back -- "I would keep you here --"

"I have to go to *school* tomorrow -- "

Bruce grips Tim's hips -- his hands are shaking. He's shaking *Tim* -- "Yes. Yes, of course. I will remember."

It feels so good -- no. "I'm glad. I'm glad you forgot. For a moment -- *NNH* --" And he's being *gripped* again --

Held and *lifted* until his ass is in the air --

His *knees* are off the bed -- but only for a moment before Bruce sets him down again, strokes him and massages --

Tim moans and scrubs his *face* against the sheets -- and *grunts* for the feel of Bruce gripping his penis --

Squeezing it so --

Hard --

"Lovely. Lovely brother..."

And Tim catches himself nodding long after he can do something about it -- but he can be lovely for Bruce, can't he?

For moments like *this*?

Bruce is *working* Tim's penis, and the only thing wrong -- "I'll come --"

A *shuddering* moan -- "You don't want to."

Tim licks his lips. "Not -- not yet -- *ohn* --"

"I enjoy... your penis feels wonderful in my hand, Tim..."

"Th-thank you --"

"I told..." Bruce's laugh is -- breathy, not breathless. "In the first week of my education with him, I was convinced that I would never wish to make love to anyone -- for all that I had grown hungry for touch. For *love*. I was also positive that I would never commit a homosexual act," and Bruce starts squeezing Tim's penis lightly, *gently* --

It feels -- "Please -- *please* --"

"A little -- a little while longer. Please."

Tim moans and shudders -- and nods. He -- "I want -- you can touch --" Tim shudders more and *scrubs* his face against the sheets --

"Please tell me."

Tim groans again -- but. "It feels -- if you touch me the ways you want to --"

"Then you never need worry that I'm merely humoring you. Yes, I see. I am not a sexual *altruist*, Tim --"

"It's not that I -- don't believe --" Tim groans and tries --

His vision is *blanking* --

And then he realizes that Bruce is squeezing harder again, that he's squeezing hard with both the hand around Tim's penis and the hand on Tim's *hip* --

It --

"Hurts. *Hurts* --"

"Do -- no. You like it."

Tim nods *frantically* --

Tries to *see* --

He has to be able to *see* -- but he doesn't, all he has to do is feel this, right? He --

("Just *feel*, little guy...")

Oh -- oh, Harv --

Tim cries out and -- brings his hand to his mouth, bites his fingers, sucks them and moans, *needs* --

Bruce stops.

Bruce *stops* --

Tim whimpers and tries to push up on his other hand, to do more than shake, to --

To *shove* his fingers *deep* into his mouth when Bruce pushes one finger --

Just one --

It's *slick* --

Where the hell was Bruce keeping *lubricant*?

What -- what was he *planning*? What kind of assumptions was he making --

The right ones, offers a voice in his mind that sounds too much like --

No, it doesn't have to sound like anyone. He doesn't --

Tim doesn't have to *listen* to anything in his mind, he can just enjoy this, *take* this the way he already *is*, moan and *rock* --

*Clench* --

Bruce is panting -- and his other hand is shaking on Tim's hip every time he loosens his grip *slightly*. Every --

It doesn't *have* to be a matter of assumptions --

It doesn't have to be *anything* but desire, mutual *lust* --

"Tim. I want. May I thrust."

And Tim grunts --

Spatters his own abdomen with pre-come --

And he can't even say that he's never been fucked, because there's Bruce's *tongue* to be considered --

Tim's penis twitches *again* --

Bruce *moans* --

"Yes! Yes -- *oh* -- oh, *Bruce* --"

"I have... some measure of *experience*," Bruce says, and he's doing --

He's moving his finger --

Thrusting and *pushing* --

Working and --

Tim can't stop making *noise* --

"Harv tried to tell me countless times that the body could be more intelligent -- *wiser* -- than the mind, but I didn't. I didn't believe until *this*, Tim," and Bruce crooks his --

Finger ---

Tim's penis twitches *ridiculously*, but that's not as important as the way Tim is whimpering, *clutching* at the sheets and trying to spread his legs wider --

*Needing* to spread his legs --

"Oh... yes, Tim. But take this," Bruce says, and begins to *work* his finger around --

And around --

Tim can feel himself *salivating* --

He wants the *thrusts* again --

"I could believe anything of the body after this. After Harv showed me how to *give* this, how to turn *theory* into *practice* --"

"Yes -- please -- *please* --"

"So lovely, so -- I want to give you another finger, Tim --"

"*Yes*!"

Bruce growls and pulls most of the way *out*, and Tim --

"No -- no, don't --"

"*Tim*. I must -- it's only for a *moment*," Bruce says, and his other finger is right there *pushing* --

Tim *shudders* a sigh --

"Yes. Yes, you must... please trust me."

Tim groans and nods because -- because --

"I will *always* work to please you, to give --"

"*Please* --"

"*Yes*, Tim," and Bruce pushes in with both fingers --

Not -- not *slowly* --

Tim is making a noise like some kind of animal, like a *desperate* animal, but Bruce is *opening* him --

Making Tim's body *take* --

"I want to watch you *taking* yourself, Tim --"

And Tim feels himself nodding before he can even --

He's still growling and --

God, it's almost a *yowl*, and what kind of noises is he going to make when it's Bruce's penis?

Except that just the *thought* of it makes him *yell* --

"Tim. What --"

"Need you -- *need* you -- fuck --" Tim shoves his fingers back into his mouth --

Bites down and squeezes his *eyes* shut --

But it doesn't help when Bruce moans. When --

When he grips Tim's hip even *harder* and starts to *fuck* him with his fingers, fast and hard and somehow perfect, somehow --

It's like he *knows* Tim's body, like he knows every internal *surface*, like he's studied and Tim is an open --

So *open* --

Tim is *chewing* on his hand, but it can't distract from the feel of himself flexing *open* --

*Relaxing* for this, just as if --

As if Bruce is the one --

The one --

"*Brother*, I am *hungry*."

And Tim is nodding again, and there are *tears* --

He has *two* brothers, and both of them want this for him, both of them would laugh *knowingly* at Tim's -- former -- belief that *this* act would always be at least somewhat challenging --

Bruce has had years to *learn* -- and so much desire, so much *reason*, because wouldn't anyone want to pleasure Harvey?

Bruce had used his fingers with Harvey last *night* --

And Tim had resisted the blind and *driving* need --

("Please -- oh, please, Tim, your hand, tough little -- ah, *fuck* --")

Tim's mouth had been *sore* last night, but Harvey's penis was dark, slick --

Darker even than it had been in the gymnasium, as if he'd been *harder* longer -- even though that wasn't --

Possible --

And Tim realizes that he's *fucking* his own mouth with his fingers --

That he's grunting *rhythmically* as *Bruce* fucks him --

So --

So *hard* --

"Tell me *when*, Tim!"

And at first that makes no sense, no -- he can't turn the words into *any* sentence, much less into one which would allow him to respond with more than grunts and *drooling* --

Bruce feels so *good* --

The only thing that's *ever* felt this good was taking Harvey into his mouth -- or --

Harvey smiling and taking --

Taking *him* --

Bruce *fucking* his mouth --

"*Tim*."

And Tim thinks that sound has more in common with the noises of excited *marine* mammals than it does with anything *remotely* related to a teenaged boy, but it's good --

And he makes it *again* when Bruce *twists* his fingers --

Again when Bruce --

"*No* --" Only that was barely a word --

Tim's fingers are still in his *mouth*, but Bruce is slowing down, slowing --

Is he tired? Does he want something --

Else ---

Tim *yanks* his fingers out of his mouth and says -- nothing, because he's groaning for the sound of Bruce's growl. He tries again -- "*Fuck* me!"

"Tim, yes -- with -- "

"Your *penis*!"

"*Thank* you," and Bruce sounds so fervent, so *grateful* --

Tim is *shivering* for it -- and he shivers more when Bruce pulls out -- more slowly and gently than Tim had the first time he'd fucked *himself* --

Bruce *knows* --

Bruce *understands* --

And that sound -- no, Tim has to *see*, and so he flips himself over onto his back, spreads his legs --

And watches Bruce staring down at him, watches Bruce *studying* him as he slicks his penis --

His big, thick --

Tim *whimpers* --

"I will *please* you," Bruce says -- *vows* -- and his hair is almost *lank* with sweat --

His chest is *shining* with it --

And it's impossible not to feel small, thin, *small*, impossible not to be aware of the relatively *pathetic* amount of space he takes up relative to --

Relative to the man staring at him *desperately* --

*Woundedly* --

That's *confusing* -- until it isn't, because Tim *is* capable of realizing it when he does things like *tease* at his own slick *hole* while his brother is *watching* --

Tim feels himself blush and just --

There's something like the physical equivalent of a *stutter* --

"I will do *anything* for you," Bruce -- Bruce *vows* again, and the *worthless* part of Tim wants to say something about hurting Harvey --

But they both know Tim never *would* ask for that, never would *risk* that* --

"Push... please push in? For a moment..."

And Tim bites his lip and tries to come to *terms* with this moment, with what he's doing, with what these *sheets* are going to *look* like --

But what he's really doing is staring at Bruce's penis, at Bruce's working *hand* on his penis, as he pushes *three* fingers *deep* inside himself --

Bruce squeezes himself so *hard* --

His penis is *spasming* --

"Tell me -- tell me you desire --"

"Bruce --"

"It's only that you look so *beautiful*, Tim --"

"Not -- not lovely?"

Bruce blinks -- and laughs breathlessly. "Harv often takes me to task for my linguistic habits -- oh, Tim, I want to sketch *this* --"

"Nnh -- I -- please don't --"

"I won't. *Yet*. Perhaps -- when we have our own home? The three of us --"

And Tim hears himself make a noise like a strangled *cat* -- but that may have more to do with the fact that he's *fucking* himself than with anything --

Anything --

"Oh, Tim, *yes* --"

"No -- no --"

"Tim?"

Tim whimpers and shakes his head -- pulls out. "I can't get *deep* enough!"

And the light behind Bruce's eyes seems to *flare* -- "I will not tease you," he says, and his hand is huge on the back of Tim's left thigh as he pushes *gently* -- and implacably. "This will be easier. Do you understand?"

Oh. Oh, he knows --

And somehow Tim had *forgotten* that for just long *enough* --

Tim nods and bites his swollen lip --

Bruce *winces* with obvious lust -- "I will not. I will not be *slow*, brother --"

Tim groans and tries to fight back the need to spread wider, bend his leg back *farther* -- no. No. He *does* it --

Bruce *shudders* -- "I love you," he says, and presses the tip of his penis against Tim --

What -- no. No. He can focus on Bruce's penis --

It's so warm --

It's so --

It's *not* thicker, or harder, or --

But really it's *all* of those things, because Bruce isn't *waiting*. Bruce is pushing in *steadily*, so --

He's breathing *slowly*, *evenly* -- and Tim realizes that he's guiding Tim's breaths, that he's *teaching* --

Tim blushes and *clenches* --

They grunt *together*, and Tim feels himself sweating more, *smells* himself so --

So *dirty* --

"Beautiful. Brother -- please *open* --"

And Tim is whimpering before he realizes that his body is *listening* to Bruce --

Tim is breathing *evenly* again --

And Bruce is pushing *in* again, stretching him --

His fingers were slightly *smaller* --

And Tim blushes again, blushes *harder* and fights the need to clench, to hold Bruce still, to --

To --

They're staring into each other's *eyes*, and Bruce isn't stopping even for a moment, Bruce is *guiding* him into this --

"I love you, Tim --"

"*HNH* --"

"Oh -- so tight. So. I will stop. I will. I will *wait* --"

"*Don't* --"

"Tim --"

"It's too much, please, it's too much --"

"I'll pull out and use my fingers --"

And Tim doesn't *have* long fingernails, but he's still trying to dig them into Bruce's shoulders, trying to pull him closer, *hold* him -- "Stay, please --"

"Tim --"

"Fuck me, you have to --"

"But --"

"*You're* too much, I -- don't make me *explain*," Tim says, and he's laughing, but he can feel a tear rolling down his cheek --

He doesn't have to *acknowledge* it --

He doesn't have to do anything but stare into Bruce's *wondering* eyes --

And *grunt* when Bruce rocks his hips --

"Tim..."

"Please -- please -- *nnh* -- *NNH* --"

"Oh... yes, I see," and Bruce's expression gains a look of concentration that's almost *enraging* -- until he starts to thrust perfectly, starts to move Tim, *fill* Tim --

"Oh, God --"

"I do love you --"

"*Please* --"

"I will not stop, Tim --"

"*PLEASE* --"

"You arouse me beyond -- but you are my *brother*, and this can only. Be. *Correct*," Bruce says, and the thrusts are making Tim scrabble at Bruce again, claw at him and *jerk* --

He's leaking so *much* --

He can't *focus* properly --

He doesn't have to. He doesn't have to do anything but *take* this, because every thrust is heat and the kind of pressure that makes Tim gasp --

And every gasp makes Tim *flex* --

He's flushing and sweating *more*, but Bruce is moaning, *struggling* to breathe evenly and moaning even more deeply --

*Loudly* --

And it feels so good to touch Bruce's mouth, to feel the vibration and get kissed --

To stroke his chest and *muss* that thick and ridiculous chest hair -- more vibration, *deeper*, and Tim is clenching again --

Crying out and -- God, throwing his head back, *wanting* --

Flexing open --

"Beautiful, so lovely -- nn. You must know my desire for. For you --"

"Bruce -- "

"You must know what I would *give* --"

"Bruce, don't -- don't stop --"

"I *won't*," and Bruce is *clutching* the back of Tim's thigh --

Bruce is gripping the pillow next to Tim's *head* --

Bruce is groaning and -- speeding up. Thrusting *faster* --

Tim pants and --

And clenches again --

Bruce groans *loudly* and *grinds*, and now Tim is shouting, struggling to spread his legs wider than they can *go* --

He has to have *more* --

"Yes -- yes, I *see*. Perhaps --" And Bruce grips Tim's too-long *hair* --

Yanks his head *back* --

"My love. My brother. *Take*." And now the thrusts are *long* things, hard and --

And *uncaring* about how much Tim is clenching, or --

"You feel *perfect* --"

Every thrust goes so *deep*, and whimpering makes him blush, makes him need --

"Will you. Will you have an orgasm even if I don't touch your penis?"

He doesn't -- he can't *talk*. He's busy whimpering, arching more --

Bruce is *forcing* his penis in --

So deep --

So *deep* --

"Oh -- don't close your eyes, brother..."

"Nnh -- *nnh* --"

"*Open* them," and Bruce's *voice* is deep, too, Bruce --

Tim can't stop clawing at his *chest* --

"*Now* --"

"*HNH* --" And his eyes are open --

And Bruce is staring into them, staring *down* into them, *looming* --

Bruce is so big, so perfect and *huge* --

Filling --

Tim clenches *again* --

Bruce growls and thrusts hard enough to *move* Tim --

Tim *screams* --

"*Brother*. I. I must -- please trust me."

And Tim is nodding before he can think -- and whimpering for the feel of Bruce pulling out, taking his penis *away* --

And flipping Tim over onto his stomach --

Holding -- holding him *down* --

"Spread -- *please* --"

Tim *sobs* --

He didn't mean to *make* that noise -- but it's a distraction from what he's doing, it's --

What does it even *look* like to do this? Can it be attractive? *How* --

But Bruce is groaning like something large and *dying* -- and Tim can hear him stroking himself fast. *Viciously* --

"Bruce --"

"I could stare -- I *want* you --"

"Your -- please *take* --"

"As you wish," and the shadows shift --

It's so much hotter, so much *darker* --

But all Tim can do is *yell* when Bruce pushes back in, when he --

Oh, God --

Oh, God --

"Deeper. I -- I will *cover* -- "

"Do it, please *do* it --"

And Bruce growls and starts to thrust, starts to *work* --

Tim yells again --

*Again* --

"No. *More*," and Bruce pulls Tim's *ass* up again, *just* his ass --

And this time Tim can't help screaming, can't --

He's in Wayne *Manor* --

He has to --

He shoves his face in the pillow and keeps screaming, keeps --

"Brother... *brother* --"

Bruce is so --

Every --

Every *thrust* --

"Brother, this desire can only -- I *need* you," and that last was more growled than spoken, more --

*More*, and it feels like Bruce is fucking him *into* the bed, feels like he'll never *stop* --

But most of all, it feels like Tim will never again be a person who can live *without* this, because he's still. Fucking. *Screaming* --

Biting the pillow and *screaming* --

Until he stops --

Until he *gasps* --

Not enough *air* --

Because Bruce is stroking his penis fast and *hard* --

Bruce is grunting and *growling* --

And Tim feels his skin come over in gooseflesh and *immediately* prickle with new sweat --

Feels himself *clawing* at the pillows --

Feels Bruce staring and staring --

Fucking him. *Fucking* him, and there's no coming back from this, no --

And the growl *yanks* itself out of him --

Bruce had just *squeezed* Tim's penis --

He's *holding* it that way and panting --

Blowing like -- like something massive and *overworked* --

"Tim. *Tim* --" But there are only more growls to follow that, more *squeezes* --

Bruce's *sweat* is pattering on Tim's back --

"*More*."

What -- but there's no *time* for the thought to finish before Bruce is fucking him *faster*, so much *faster*, and even the squeezes are coming too quickly to --

To comprehend --

Tim sobs into the pillow --

Bruce growls *more* and squeezes hard enough to make Tim *scream* again --

*Again* --

"I *need* you!"

"Stroke! *Stroke*!"

Bruce grunts and *stops* --

"*Please* --"

But only for a *moment* before he's moving perfectly, *rhythmically*, a downstroke for every thrust and an *upstroke* every time he pulls most of the way out --

"Fuck -- *fuck* --"

So fast --

So --

"Brother, *please*!"

"*Please*!"

And they're groaning together, moving and sweating and yelling --

No, into the pillow, the *pillow*, and he can do this, he can give this --

His body --

His -- his --

"*Brother*!"

*Everything*, and nothing has ever touched, no one has ever wanted, nothing will ever --

He's screaming --

Screaming and *crying* as he comes, but it's so much, it *hurts* and it's so much --

"My *love* --"

Bruce --

Oh, God, it's *Bruce*, and he sees everything, he'll know, he'll --

But Bruce is still *thrusting*, and it's impossible to hold onto *thought* with that, to hold onto anything but the feel --

So much --

So *much*, because now the thrusts are short and almost sharp --

So much so *fast* --

Tim lifts his head to *gulp* air --

And Bruce *shoves* a scream out of him with a *ruthless* thrust, makes him twitch and *ejaculate* again --

Tim feels his *eyes* roll back --

And it's so good to put his face back into the pillows, to clutch them for dear life as Bruce grunts --

And fucks --

Him --

*Blind*. Tim's body *hitches* with a laugh he can't hold in at *all* --

Bruce slams in so hard that Tim has to catch himself against the *headboard* to keep from *braining* himself --

And Bruce groans and shudders through -- an orgasm. Oh.

Oh, he's --

Tim feels himself blush to his *hair* --

He'd barely even *fantasized* about a man coming inside him --

He hadn't *thought* -- and now he can feel every twitch, every --

Every *spasm* --

So *wet* --

Bruce is still *groaning* --

Tim shivers. He doesn't feel like laughing anymore. He doesn't --

He *also* doesn't feel especially *panicked* -- beyond the inescapable question of what may or may not be going on outside his closed door --

He's in Wayne *Manor* --

Oh, there's the panic --

And there's the laugh. Tim hums and scrubs his sweaty face against the pillow --

And hums again for the feel of Bruce dripping still more sweat *on* him --

And for the feel of his ass almost seeming to *buzz* --

Oh. Endorphins.

Endorphins? From *sexual* activity that *wasn't* -- well. Tim supposes this *was* a lot more vigorous than his usual masturbatory activity --

Bruce shudders and pants --

Moans --

"Tim..." His voice is so *emotional*, so --

Tim shivers. "Bruce. I..." What is he supposed to say? "Thank you."

Bruce laughs softly, gently -- "You're quite welcome. Thank *you*. How are you?"

"Ah... the endorphins are... I feel somewhat high. And scattered." He's blushing again --

He *wants* to hum for it --

He wants to clench and --

He clenches and they groan together again, shudder and --

That --

That *buzzing* feeling --

Moaning just seems more *appropriate* than humming --

"Brother..."

"Ah... yes?"

Bruce laughs again. "I want to hold you for hours."

"That's... amusing?"

"The image I have of you glaring at me -- nerve-striking me? -- after ten minutes is *deeply* amusing. Though... hm. Would you *allow* ten minutes?"

"I -- I think I'm affronted --"

"Then you have my apologies," Bruce says, and strokes Tim's back warmly, slowly, *heavily* --

Tim hears himself make a --

"I like that sound very much, brother."

"It wasn't a purr," Tim says, and wonders why he's *bothering* --

"All right," and Bruce's voice is even, accepting --

Tim is blushing again --

"You left so quickly last night..."

"I -- I'm sorry --"

"You didn't want to. I..." A small, wet sound -- had he licked his lips? "I will not forget that. I cannot forget that. Perhaps you would've allowed Harv to hold you had he not fallen asleep so quickly?"

The blush is... going nowhere --

Bruce is still *petting* him --

"Bruce --"

"I want to stay inside you... in part to keep you exactly where you are."

Tim *grunts* --

"And for other reasons, as well," Bruce says, and laughs *again* --

"You're more confident now."

"For this, yes. Thanks to Harv, I have experience with such things. I have felt -- I am reasonably confident that I have felt what you're feeling right now."

Which... makes sense. Tim laughs quietly and shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I'm -- I don't know what I am."

"Perhaps somewhat... stunned? By the intensity."

"Yes. That."

"And... still lost. Your body wants you to be *aware* of the great pleasure you've recently felt."

"*Yes* -- and the pain."

Bruce strokes him again, massages -- "And the pain... had a sweetness?"

Tim closes his eyes -- no. "It still does."

Bruce sighs. "The pleasure you gave me.... I want more of you."

Tim clenches -- and whimpers. That -- that was --

"A sharp feeling, Tim?"

Tim laughs -- "*Yes*. I -- I don't think... ah."

"When Harv and I first began taking each other, it was not something we could easily repeat... please tell me when you need me to pull out."

It's nearly -- *nearly* -- impossible not to clench again, but he manages it. And nods. And breathes. The sharp feeling is... spreading. Or possibly *deepening*. It is and *isn't* similar to what he's felt on nights when he's fucked himself hard with three fingers. There's more --

There's more.

Tim licks his lips and nods --

"Now, brother?"

"Yes --"

Bruce cups the back of Tim's neck. "Please breathe as evenly as you can."

"Yes. Yes, I -- I know --" Tim shakes his head and focuses on breathing. It's harder than it's ever *been* --

Bruce is right *there* --

But he doesn't have to be panicked, or --

He doesn't have to see *or* feel his mother's eyes --

He doesn't --

He pushes it away, and fills his mind with a darkness that warms with every one of Bruce's strokes, every --

"Yes, brother, like that..."

Tim shivers, but even that's warm, somehow --

Every darkness is --

("*Live* from the shadows, Mr. Drake...")

Is it better or worse to have *Blood's* eyes in his mind -- the question answers itself by the fact that Bruce *can* pull out this steadily, this --

He is relaxed.

And he will stay that way.

Though --

Tim turns onto his back and rests on his elbows, meeting Bruce's warm and loving and *happy* eyes --

This is easier. This is --

Tim isn't sure if it's a matter of trust or not, but he's willing to go with -- oh. He winces --

"Pain, Tim?"

"Ah... more... moisture."

Bruce smiles ruefully. "Truly, it feels far, far more copious than it is."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "It *feels* like you hadn't ejaculated for a *month*, Bruce."

"And you know -- quite well -- that that isn't true."

Tim... smiles. "I suppose I do. That was... that was amazing."

Bruce smiles more broadly. "Yes. It was. You're a wonderful lover."

Tim -- blinks. "Ah... Bruce --"

Bruce hums. "Perhaps... when Harv takes me, I often lose the ability to be fully cognizant of how I am moving," Bruce says, and raises his own eyebrow.

... oh. "I was... moving?"

"Vigorously. Rhythmically. *Powerfully*. You... brother. We were together."

Tim feels himself blush *again* --

And Bruce strokes his cheek -- with, thankfully, his relatively clean hand. "You are so lovely."

"Would it have been more arousing for you if I'd been wearing -- all right, no, tell me --"

"I sketched you into something of a leather bodysuit."

Tim coughs. "I -- do you even know where people *buy* those?"

Bruce smiles sharply. "Do you...? Harv has taken me to many, many parts of the city."

That -- "All right, that's exceedingly jealousy-inducing --"

"Oh -- no --"

Tim holds up a hand and offers his own sharp smile. "I've spent a great deal of time wandering various parts of the city by *myself*, Bruce. I know *exactly* where I could acquire that sort of thing... though I'm not sure I want to patronize anyone who *would* make something like that for someone my age."

Bruce blinks thoughtfully and nods. "There is that. Perhaps I'll learn to make one myself."

"Bruce."

"Yes? We'll have to learn how to make -- vaguely -- similar things for ourselves in the future."

That's... true. But -- "How much body armor is the Tim in your sketchbook wearing?"

Bruce -- colors.

"I see."

"You can -- I believe you'd look very --"

Tim laughs and shakes his head. "Show me. Please."

Bruce hums. "One moment," he says, and goes to wash his hands before retrieving the sketchbook from a fold of the sheet. "There are... a few --"

"What -- when did you have *time*?"

"They're really quite basic -- well," and he opens the sketchbook to a study of... Tim's face, in three-quarter view. All right.

Tim was already prepared for Bruce to be as good at this as he is at apparently *everything* else, and so he can deal with the fact that looking at the sketch is like looking at a penciled *mirror* --

Save for the fact that he never lets himself look that *troubled* when he's looking at himself in a mirror --

And he also doesn't wear eye shadow. Or eye *liner*. Or blush. Or -- hm. "That's not lipstick."

"No, it's... I've observed younger girls --"

"Lip gloss."

"Yes," Bruce says, and strokes the air above the sketched Tim's mouth.

Tim takes a deep breath. "You did an excellent job capturing the... shine."

"Thank you. You don't like it."

Tim raises an eyebrow.

Bruce smiles ruefully. "It's entirely possible that I've been too... indulged in my desires."

You're assuming I *won't* -- indulge -- and Tim is blushing again --

"Tim...?"

Tim coughs into his fists, takes another deep breath, and meets Bruce's eyes. "I don't think the makeup... theme is correct."

Bruce frowns at the page for a long moment. "It's true that I haven't seen anyone with quite this combination of products and colors -- could you tell what colors I was thinking of?"

Yes. *Damn* it -- Tim nods. "At least -- I believe so."

Bruce's nod is troubled. "It's the gloss, isn't it."

"Yes. It doesn't fit with the other makeup."

Bruce frowns more *deeply* -- "I was hoping for something... I'm not sure how to explain it," he says, and sounds... dejected. That's --

Tim can't. He sits up further --

Bites *back* what was undoubtedly going to be a *squeak* --

"Oh -- are you all right?"

"*Yes*," Tim says -- all right, that was more of a *grit* --

What are these sheets going to *look* like --

"Tim --"

"I'm fine."

"*Brother* --"

"The problem, such as it is, Bruce, is that my rectum is convinced that your penis has a great deal in common with your average firehose. When connected to a hydrant, that is."

Bruce blinks --

"I'm all right," Tim says again, and raises an eyebrow.

"As you say. But -- I can't help but feel that you only moved that precipitously in order to comfort *me* --"

"*Well*?"

"Tim --"

"You *needed* it. And you still do," Tim says, and reaches for the sketchbook --

"I don't -- you mustn't compliment me where you don't feel --"

"Give me the book, Bruce."

Bruce gives him the book.

Tim tilts his head to the side --

Leaks --

*Ignores* the leaking --

And breathes. "You were... hoping for something which expressed my physical youth and emotional age. Yes?"

"Oh -- *yes*."

"Something that would express... an essential dichotomy you see within me, perhaps?"

Bruce stares at him and nods. Slowly.

Tim smiles. "I'm not a mind-reader, Bruce. I just --"

"Deduced my motivations -- no, tell me. Please."

Tim inclines his head. "If you were the average nineteen-year-old male interested in dressing me up and bending me over, I would assume the lip gloss spoke to a general... hmm... *continuation* of your assorted perversions. You're not average."

"I am, however, perverse."

"I have no argument with that statement, Bruce, but... I've observed Harv very closely over the years. You never would've captured as much of his attention as you did were anything about you... lesser."

"And so you allowed yourself to... postulate backwards from the sketch?"

"Not the *safest* method of deduction, but... you are my brother."

Bruce's smile is warm and soft -- until Tim meets his eyes once more, and finds them *blazing*. "Yours, yes. Tell me... do you know much about cosmetics?"

"I asked my mother about them years ago. I couched it as a matter of wanting to know how to read her female business associates and employees."

"You... 'couched' it?

Oh, dear -- "Ah... leave that? Or..." Tim smiles ruefully. "My mother has been... concerned about my masculinity. I didn't want to worry her."

Bruce frowns --

"We were talking about *makeup*," Tim says, and -- he doesn't want to glare. He doesn't --

Bruce nods. "I'm sorry. Please continue."

Tim takes a deep breath and -- shadows. He has shadows, and darkness, and warmth, so much warmth -- and he can smile. Ruefully. "*I'm* sorry. I didn't really want to talk about -- anyway. We can talk about that... some other time."

"Whenever you wish, brother," Bruce says, and very clearly tries to *will* that *vow* into him --

Tim shivers and rolls onto his knees, shuffling closer -- close enough to touch, to stroke Bruce's cheek -- "You chose dark colors, and applied the eyeliner thickly. Dramatically."

"You have... it would suit you."

Tim smiles ruefully again. "The hell of it is... I know you're absolutely right. I have my mother's complexion nearly exactly, save that she's far less likely to develop pimples than I am. She was quite clear about which sorts of makeup which sorts of women should wear to make which sorts of impression... et cetera. She was also quite clear about the fact that, in her teens, the less... hmm... *committed* colors did absolutely nothing for her."

Bruce frowns again. "I would think... she is quite beautiful..."

"Yes, and in the paler, less saturated colors, she tended to look as though -- and I quote -- she were pretending to be weaker than she was. It didn't work."

Bruce nods thoughtfully. "And the gloss... would have a similar effect?"

"Yes. Though it would possibly just make me look frivolous, as well --"

"No, that's -- that's incorrect," Bruce says, and moves to tear the page from the book --

"No, don't! Don't. Ah... please?"

"No? It's not correct --"

"It's --" You were thinking of me. You -- Tim blushes. "Perhaps we'll refer to it... when I go undercover."

Bruce looks at him *hungrily*... and nods. And turns the page.

The next sketch has hardly any detail of Tim's face beyond the -- basic -- shape of his nose and mouth and eyes, and --

"I really think Dinah pulls that off better than I can."

"Who?"

Oh -- oh, dear --

Bruce is frowning at him *curiously* -- "You have... a friend named Dinah? Who dresses as Black Canary?" 

"I have *no* friends, Bruce, but -- ah. Ah. Damn," Tim says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I wasn't going to tell you --"

"You. You know Black Canary's identity."

Oh -- "Heh. Surprise?" And Tim looks up and smiles ruefully. "I... ah. Followed her home. From a battle."

Bruce stares at him *wonderingly*. He --

"Are you -- you're probably... angry --"

Bruce shakes his head *dumbly*.

"I -- oh. All right. That's -- that's a relief --"

"It never *occurred* to me -- but. Does she socialize with the rest of her team? You could --"

"Yes. Ah... and I have... yes." Tim smiles ruefully. "Sometimes... sometimes I take pictures."

Bruce stares at him.

"I don't -- I always wind up destroying the most... incriminating ones. But they -- I memorize them first --"

"You keep them. You... hold them."

Tim breathes and -- nods. "Yes. Yes."

Bruce smiles like -- like he's -- "I'm so proud to *know* you, brother!"

Tim stares at Bruce.

Bruce continues to smile at him.

Tim -- just -- "All right. That's -- I'm... red. Aren't I."

"I find your blushes very becoming --"

Tim sighs. "You might've just said yes. You -- ah -- we were looking at your sketches --"

"Will you show me, brother? Your photographs?"

They're *his* --

No one -- no one *else's* --

"Of course -- of course you need not --"

They're his, and that -- Tim bites his lip and closes his eyes. For a moment. "It's been... lonely. Keeping them to myself," he says, and meets Bruce's eyes.

Bruce shivers and holds Tim's hand against his cheek. "I would have you never be lonely again."

"That's rather... impractical? I think that's the word I'm looking for --"

Bruce shakes his head *slowly* --

"All right, but you're five years older than me, Bruce. I'll be fourteen in a few weeks *and you will not be joining me for my freshman year of high school* --"

"But I will not be leaving Gotham... unless your mother forces you to attend school somewhere else."

Tim inhales --

Tugs his hands *away* --

Bruce catches them. "Brother, I will not -- I will not *oppress* you with myself. But I also will not leave you lonely."

"Bruce --"

"If nothing else..." And Bruce's smile is *wry* -- "We must train."

"You -- there are -- you'll have to leave the country. We *both* will --"

"Yes. But not yet."

Tim frowns. "You can't put your training off for four *years*, Bruce --"

Bruce squeezes Tim's hands. "No. And I will not. But, perhaps, you will be able to attend a high school of your choosing... out of state."

Tim blushes *again* --

And Bruce smiles. "Harv explained to me -- in very small words -- that brothers who *could* stay close *should* --"

"But you live *here*!"

"I visited him many times, for days at a time. I -- do you think... may I have you on my lap again?"

Tim swallows. He can't, actually, blush any more deeply than he already is.

"It's only... the closeness..."

Tim nods --

And Bruce lifts him immediately -- "Oh. I should've asked --"

Tim laughs. "Yes. You should put me down now."

"On my --"

"Yes."

Bruce smiles brightly and does so, spreading Tim's legs over his thighs. "You're so --"

"Lovely?"

"And beautiful, and brilliant, and wise --"

Tim covers Bruce's mouth with his hand -- and then notices the deep tooth-marks on his fingers. And stares --

And Bruce smiles at him *knowingly* --

And Tim narrows his eyes --

And Bruce kisses Tim's fingers once, twice -- several times. "I'm very sorry. It's only that your passions *surprise* you --"

"That's *amusing*?"

"Desperately so, considering how impossible it is to *escape* my passions --"

"I've *noticed* --"

"I was speaking of --"

"I *know*," Tim says, and narrows his eyes again.

Bruce hums. "Do you think, perhaps, you would ever allow me to lick the entirety of your body after we've made love? Harv is far too ticklish for such things --"

"Oh -- he is? I mean -- ah. Never mind. And we can try it. Ask -- at the time."

Bruce hums again and smiles, cupping Tim's hips. "Thank you. Your hips did not bruise."

"What? Oh -- good. You'll have to be careful about that during the school -- year," Tim says, and feels his face heating. Again. *Damn* it --

Bruce looks *confused* -- but then he nods. "You surprised yourself by making plans."

"Stop -- being intuitive --" Tim growls and looks at a space over Bruce's left shoulder --

And Bruce kisses Tim's cheek. "I promise to do so as soon as you do... though I believe Harv will quickly lose patience with us."

Tim growls again -- but it turns into a helpless laugh midway through --

"Beautiful. Would you ever consider wearing --"

"Probably not. Unless it was for --"

"Our mission, Tim?"

Tim pulls back enough to meet Bruce's eyes, and -- and deals with the fact that he's working so hard not to smile that his face is starting to feel somewhat sore. He stops that --

And Bruce smiles back. "Brother..."

"I would -- I'm not... ruling out... makeup," Tim says, and lets himself just... exist. Which, at the moment, involves smiling ruefully and shrugging a little even though his mother --

But she's not here.

And Bruce is, and he's studying Tim's shoulder and throat as if he's memorizing the flex of muscle, the length of *bone* --

"Please," Bruce says, and meets Tim's gaze again. "I would do --"

"Anything...?"

Bruce nods once, solemn and -- solemn.

Tim lets his smile get broader. "My -- parents go on vacation often. I... wouldn't want to do it while there is any chance my mother could... catch me."

Bruce swallows. "We could -- I spoke to a realtor this morning."

"I -- what? Oh -- an apartment."

"Yes. You could -- it would, technically, only be for me, but I plan on acquiring quite a large apartment --"

"And it would be... private."

Another solemn nod.

"I would --" Tim nods. "I would."

"Perhaps you --"

The knock on the door makes Tim *lunge* to cover himself -- until he realizes that it's 'shave and a haircut.' He blushes -- harder.

And Bruce is looking to *him* --

Because this is his room. At the moment. Right. "Come --" Tim clears his throat so that actual *sound* can come out -- "Come in, Harv!"

And Harvey does, smiling ruefully and *tiredly* -- until he sees precisely how naked and *obvious* they are, at which point he *grins*. "Well, all right," he says, and kicks the door closed behind him with his heel. "I'm feelin' kinda overdressed, but I can live with that... if it means I get to see *this*." He waggles his eyebrows. "Especially because the way Bruce's hands are positioned *strongly* suggests you were a lot closer to him a minute ago, little guy."

"Oh -- *Bruce* --"

"Hm. I'm... sorry?" And Bruce smiles at him and moves his hands before standing and closing the distance between himself and Harvey. They kiss -- briefly --

Harvey snickers. "Big guy. I can tell you washed your *hands* -- but."

"Oh... hm. I do not have a toothbrush in Tim's bathroom... yet?" And Bruce turns to smile hopefully at Tim --

And so Tim stops trying to decide whether he wants to cover himself or dress or -- "I imagine... that it would be a good idea for me to keep certain toiletries in your apartment --"

"Our apartment, brother."

"Yes -- well. Ah... good morning, Harv. Are you feeling better?"

Harvey smiles gently, warmly -- tiredly. "I am, yeah. We gotta talk about all the stuff Blood told me last night, but that can wait a *little* while. How are you, hunh?"

"I -- very good. Actually." And Tim can feel Bruce looking at him --

*Smiling* at him --

It shouldn't make him want to *arch* --

Except for how it should. And --

Harvey raises his eyebrows... and looks Tim over. Slowly.

It's an invitation -- it has to be -- to do the *same*, but the part of Tim which insists that Harvey shouldn't be wearing jeans and a t-shirt --

Again --

Or anything --

At all --

It's a *vocal* part, and -- Tim hasn't been doing anything especially unpalatable -- "May I... have a kiss?" And he can just *ignore* this blush --

"May I have an invite to that *incredible*-smelling bed?"

"Always -- I mean --"

"Always...?" And Harvey's grin is sly, wet, *wide* --

And infinitely improved by the fact that he's moving closer --

And resting one knee on the bed --

And resting one hand on Tim's *thigh* --

And pushing the other into Tim's *hair* --

Tim lets his eyes slip most of the way closed and leans in, heart *pounding* --

"Did he fuck you, Tim?"

"*Hnh* -- ah. Ah. Yes." And Tim opens his eyes --

"No, no, keep 'em -- yeah, like that," Harvey says, and kisses him once *softly* --

Tim moans --

Harvey kisses him again --

*Again* --

"Your mouth is still so -- mmmm," and Harvey kisses him *hard*, driving him back --

But his grip on Tim's hair won't *let* Tim get far, won't --

His tongue is so *deep* --

He's gripping Tim's thigh and stroking up --

Up --

Bruce *hums*--

And Harvey rubs at the join of Tim's thigh and torso with his thumb, and it's enough to make Tim feel --

To make Tim *feel* --

Tim moans *more* -- and it's *loud* when Harvey pulls back, obvious and *loud* --

"Yeah. I needed that."

"Oh -- I'm happy to -- ah. Oblige --"

"No, keep your eyes closed for a little longer. Just..."

"Harv --"

"Did he fuck you hard?"

Tim moans again --

*Nods* --

"Say it. Say it out loud for me?"

Bruce *sighs* --

And Tim swallows. "He fucked me -- hard. Yes --"

"After he rimmed you out again --"

"Oh, God -- "

"You liked it," Harvey says, and licks Tim's mouth --

Licks *around* Tim's lips --

*Dips* his tongue in --

"Harv --"

"Say it, little guy."

"I liked it. I -- please --"

"'Please'?"

"I'm -- I think it's reasonable that I'm already begging --"

"*You're* reasonable. Too reasonable. Maybe I should spank you again."

Tim's penis twitches -- and starts to rise. *Quickly* --

And Harvey lets Tim feel his *smile* against his cheek -- "I missed you this morning, little guy..."

"You. Bruce said you didn't... sleep... well --"

"I could've used another brother a lot more than I could've used Alfred's Little Helper," and Harvey licks Tim's *ear* --

"Oh --"

"Someone. Someone to really hold me *in*."

"I --"

"Can't let me... let me get away, yeah?" And Harvey *nuzzles* Tim with his smile.

"Certainly... I... don't want to," Tim finishes *lamely* -- "I think I'm going to need --"

"Me?"

"*Yes* -- but."

"'But'?" And Harvey *yanks* Tim's head back and bites his *throat* --

"Oh -- oh, *wait* --"

Harvey pulls back. "Berenice brought over *high*-collared shirts for you, little guy, so... no waiting," and Harvey waggles his eyebrows again. "Unless you don't like it...?"

"I like it -- I just -- I shouldn't --"

"Who looks at your pretty naked skin, little guy?"

Pretty -- "Ah -- you. And Bruce --"

"No one else, yeah? No one else *ever*."

"Not -- I understand there are communal showers --"

Harvey grins. "Not at The Armoury... which is where Bruce *almost* convinced Dad to send us after our freshman year. It's right --"

"It's -- it's just outside of Bristol --"

"Yep. And it's just as chock full of rich jerks as anywhere you'd like. And it's a *day* school. So...?"

He wants --

God, he *wants* --

"I still have to convince --"

"Mrs. Janet Evans Drake? The *delightful* older woman who stopped by --"

"*WHAT*?"

Harvey winces and pushes at the air. "It's okay, little guy, I *promise*. Everything's copacetic -- and you *know* I wouldn't snow you about that, yeah? All she wanted to do was pump me for information about *Bruce*. She's gone now."

"Oh. Oh, God," Tim says, and backs away --

"Okay, see, I've *seen* you at that dojo, so I'm *not* gonna try to pin you without your permission --"

"*Good*!"

"But I want that permission," Harvey says. "Because I have *good* news. And you need to calm down." And -- *he's* calm. And rueful. And wryly *amused* -- but mostly calm.

Tim takes a deep breath -- and nods.

Harvey drops Tim immediately, and Tim distracts himself from the need to kick, and punch, and *strike* by filling his mind with all of the things Harvey is doing wrong from a physical standpoint --

And then he fills his mind with Harvey's kiss, which is deep and slow and easy, so *easy* --

And that *shift* means that Bruce is sitting down on the other side of the bed --

And Harvey's *knee* is between Tim's thighs --

And Harvey's hands *aren't* as large as Bruce's, but they're still big on his shoulders, still firm and warm --

No. No, he needs -- Tim bites Harvey's lip *gently* --

Harvey moans and *nudges* Tim's scrotum with his knee, and the sensation of denim there is *wonderful*, but --

Wait, *no*. Tim bites Harvey's lip *hard* --

"*Yow* -- okay, okay, what -- no, you need me to talk *faster*, yeah?"

Tim licks his lips and tries to *breathe* around panic and hunger and *lust* --

Harvey is wearing Adon again --

The scent had been mostly gone by last night --

"Or maybe you need me to do a little somethin' that'll help you think...?"

Tim *grunts*, twitching again, *needing* --

"You'll learn, little brother. You gotta steal every *moment* of being in a bed with someone you love, someone you need --"

"I --"

"I believe he's coming to understand that, Harv," Bruce says, and that's his huge hand on Tim's *ankle* --

"Oh, yeah? Like maybe he *admitted* that at least a part -- a *big* part -- of him didn't wanna go *anywhere* last night?"

"Well, if you knew -- I mean -- oh, God. Forget -- forget that -- ah --"

Harvey grins again and strokes down the bridge of Tim's nose. "I was too wiped last night to do that kinda fast talkin', Tim. You *would've* fought me, yeah?"

Tim winces.

"Uh, huh, exactly. So maybe we don't let *any* of us get that tired. Now tell me which comes first -- you or the *news*?"

Me. Me. "The news."

Harvey *looks* at him --

Tim can *feel* Bruce doing the same --

And so Tim sits up on his elbows, using every bit of upper body strength he *has* to push up against Harvey's hands --

"*Nice*, but --"

"I'll be -- distracted. At inopportune moments. How *sure* are you that she left?"

Harvey looks at him with a *dumbfounded* expression -- "Are you saying you think she's *lurking* around the Manor somewhere?"

Well, that makes her -- or possibly him -- sound insane.

Or possibly it makes *both* of them sound insane.

Or --

Harvey winces, and it's an excellent reminder to do something about his own expressions, to *control* --

But Harvey cups his face. "Two things, okay? One, Dad is at WE today -- it's his monthly Sunday for it, and *you* already know that, yeah?"

*Tim* winces -- "Yes. But --"

"Two? Mom is *right freakin' here*. Those two things should tell you something about *your* mom, yeah?"

Tim takes a deep breath and *yanks* on the shadows until he can feel warm --

Smell sex that had involved *him* --

"Yeah, like *that*, little guy. It's *okay* --"

"What -- what did she want to know about Bruce?"

"Well, that's where we get the good stuff. She wanted to know if Bruce still planned to hang out in Gotham instead of going off to school somewhere. I was not *about* to say anything about the crazy-psycho training you people have planned, so I just said *yes*. And said Bruce was looking for a place of his own. Speaking of which --"

"I spoke to a realtor this morning. She said she would be available whenever I wished her to be."

"Ah, that's the ticket. Gotta love that Wayne magic," and Harvey turns back to Tim with a grin. "So she was fishing a little, trying to figure out what was going *on* between you and Bruce -- nah, nah, *not* like that," and the grin gets wider and a lot more *playful*. "See, I may not know her as well as you do, Tim, and I may not be a super-genius-detective-type like you *and* Bruce --"

"Harv --"

Harvey holds up a hand to Bruce --

And Bruce subsides with obvious unhappiness.

Harvey smiles ruefully and taps his temple with two long fingers. "I've picked up just a few things about reading people over the years. Right now? She's *stunned* by the fact that Bruce wants your company. And you've already seen a little of that, yeah?"

Tim -- doesn't close his eyes or -- he nods.

Harvey nods back. "She'd *long* since written *me* off as being either generous enough, or just dumb enough about social *correctness*, to risk all the careful little lies about your freakin' *parentage* falling apart... well, it doesn't matter. She's already *got* me in a little box," and Harvey raises his eyebrows again.

"She -- does. Yes."

"So she figures -- maybe -- she can get what she wants from me and move on. Maybe you're used to that a little too, little guy?"

Tim feels himself blush and *tense* --

"Oh... Harv. Perhaps we shouldn't --"

Harvey sighs. "No, I -- we definitely shouldn't. Not right now anyway, 'cause that's not even the important thing. Okay, little guy?"

"I'm -- I'm listening."

Harvey smiles *ruefully*. "I told her how much we hated Exeter. I told her that we'd -- finally -- gotten Dad to stop dropping cash on the place until they shaped up -- and that's even true. *Somehow* she'd never even talked it out with him, you know? Exeter was a different freaking place in the thirties and forties -- but *that's* not the important part, either."

"You suggested she send me to the Armoury? Just -- like that?"

"Gimme a *little* credit here, little brother. *She* asked if I thought a local school would be better, and went on a little spiel about how she hadn't even *thought* about it blah, blah, *blah*. *That's* when I pointed out how much research we'd done on The Armoury when we were trying to convince Dad to send us to a real school... et cetera," and Harvey spreads his hands.

It could work. It --

It could *work* --

She *wants* him closer to Bruce, closer to --

("Your birthright is what it is, Tim. *Thomas* believes you'll never get it. Between the two of us... I believe we can change his mind. Given time and *work*.")

*Yes*, Mother, and that --

That's just what he can say he's *doing* --

All he has to do is *stay* close to his brothers, and --

Well, of course, he'll be expected to perform for Thomas Wayne more often, but --

But.

"Tim...?"

"Hey, hey, little guy, you were happy for a minute there! What happened?"

Tim feels *queasy* --

How could they not *know* --but.

They don't have to think about this. They don't --

They don't *ever* have to --

Harvey squeezes Tim's shoulders. "C'mon, tell us --"

"Us -- I..." Tim shakes his head and looks back and forth between them. "Has it *occurred* to the two of you that Thomas Wayne may very well have *objections* to all of this?"

And Bruce and Harvey... share a look. It's a long look, and a *dark* look, and a *wry* look --

"Tim..."

"Uh... little guy... he kinda doesn't call the shots. For things like this."

"How -- you'll be using *his* money to -- you already *are* using his money!"

Harvey scratches at his sideburn with one finger. "Let's just say that Mom -- and Blood -- made it *real damned clear* who gets to make what kinds of decisions when."

"She's not -- she's not *my* --"

"No, she isn't, little guy. But she's still claiming you -- and making Thomas do some claiming, too --"

"What does that even *mean*?"

Harvey turns to look at Bruce -- but Bruce just looks *curious*. Harvey sighs, nods, and turns back to Tim again. "You make Bruce happy. That means one whole fuck of a lot in Mom's book --"

"She -- she doesn't even know --"

"She knows," Harvey says, and gives him a *level* look.

Tim frowns.

"She *knows* -- and you don't wanna think about how she knows."

Tim rears back, but -- there's only one answer to that question. "Blood."

Harvey closes his eyes for a moment -- and nods.

*Bruce* frowns. "Jason speaks to Mother about our relationship, Harv?"

"Are you really -- surprised. Heh." Harvey reaches back and cups Bruce's shoulder. "Yeah, he *really* does. They... uh. Yeah."

Bruce nods thoughtfully. "And you're saying that Mother will intercede with our father on Tim's behalf?"

"In terms of how *close* we all are? Hell, yeah, she will. Let's just say that *both* she and Blood made it *real* damned clear that there wasn't *anything* we couldn't ask for in terms of that."

Tim... frowns more.

"I know, little guy, I know. It's creepy *and* weird --"

"I... don't think 'weird' is a strong enough term."

"No, hunh? Then let's go for 'fucked-up.' Except for how I'm pretty *damned* sure that the *three* of us have the healthiest freakin' relationship in the whole extended family, so I refuse to get bent about anything that lets us keep it."

That -- Tim raises an eyebrow.

Harvey squeezes Bruce's shoulder one more time, then moves both hands back to Tim's. "Anything that doesn't hurt anybody else."

Of course. Of -- course. Tim swallows.

Fights back --

But he has the shadows --

And he has two brothers, and those two brothers have -- faith.

"You honestly believe -- you *both* honestly believe this can work."

"You'd still be getting a top-notch high-school education, little guy -- *better* than what you could get at Exeter. Dad knows we wouldn't mess around with *that*. He doesn't *have* to know that *you* don't plan on getting anywhere near a college, either."

Does Thomas Wayne feel chagrin that it's his adopted son and not his natural son -- his true and *acknowledged* son -- who is studying at Yale?

The part of him which his mother will, perhaps, *always* be able to drag into some version of the light wants him to use that, to *manipulate* that.

He's been at the top of his classes from the very beginning -- there *won't* be any difficulty maintaining that in high school, if the textbooks his mother had been giving him to study for the past three years are anything to judge by. And then he could attend some Ivy League school or another -- Thomas Wayne *always* attends his Princeton reunions -- and then he could go to medical school and --

And it falls apart, as it always does.

While he *has* learned some things in school that he wouldn't have thought to study on his own, school for its own sake has never appealed. As for medicine... well, he already knows that he would never be *allowed* to devote himself to neurosurgery. There is -- there *are* the *businesses* to be considered --

And there is his life.

His dreams --

His -- Mission.

"Yeah, you're hearin' me now. I can *smell* it."

"I think -- I think you can smell -- ah. Other things?"

"Heh. *Good* things. Nothin' like the smell of a whole lotta come in the morning. And *you're* gonna get to know that *real* well. Yeah?" And Harvey's grin is winning, beautiful, bright --

So much of the right *kind* of light --

But there is another smile in his mind which is equally -- compelling. At the moment.

"No? What are you thinkin' about now, little guy? I can tell you're not still upset..."

Tim rubs his temple, but it's not really -- "I don't have a headache," he -- blurts. And shakes his head. "For some reason, I can't stop thinking about Jason Blood *smiling* at me."

Bruce blinks --

And Harvey frowns. "Well -- I was just talkin' about the guy --"

"Maybe... what about the knife? You said... it's for me?"

Harvey winces. "It -- yeah."

"Oh... is it still in our bedroom, Harv?"

"It really is. And there's a sheath for it, too. The kind -- uh." He jerks his chin at Tim. "Do you even *own* boots? Like... not just snow boots or ski boots, but --"

"I have boots, yes. Ah... hm. He was in your bedroom?"

"Hm. It wasn't sheathed when I left you this morning, Harv."

"Oh, that's just -- dandy. Yeah, he was there. Sometime when I was all alone and freakin' *defenseless* --" Harvey shudders -- and then breathes. "But if there's anything that guy wouldn't do, it's mess things up for Mom. Which means he'd never mess things up for *Bruce*... which means he'd never mess things up for *us*, little guy --"

"Unless, of course, we ever plotted *against* Bruce," Tim says, and raises an eyebrow.

"Heh." Harvey wags a finger at him. "I *wouldn't* recommend that. For a couple-few reasons."

"Of course not. I'm only saying --"

"That you don't wanna trust him as far as you can karate-throw him. That's fine -- I don't either --"

"Both of you, he's truly been a *friend* --"

"To you, big guy, and I'd never try -- to get between you --"

"Harv. I think that was a lie," Bruce says, and frowns deeply.

Harvey winces again and *starts* to shake his head -- and then he blows out a breath. "Okay, yeah, it was, but..." He looks to Tim again. "Pay attention, little guy, 'cause this is *real* damned important, okay?"

"I'm listening --"

"Okay. I -- Blood's never gonna lie to Mom -- or Bruce, unless Mom tells him to. He might lie to *us*, but, again, only if it doesn't get in Bruce's way -- or Mom's. I think... I think Bruce should have a long damned talk with Blood *someday*. I don't know when I think that day should be. Okay, big guy?" And Harvey turns to almost *plead* into Bruce's eyes.

"Of course, Harv. I'll always take your advice --"

"Heh. No. You won't. Because *one* day my advice is gonna be 'don't go out in the middle of the night and beat the hell out of strangers.' Get me?"

*Bruce* winces -- "Yes, Harv. You know I --"

"I know. I know." And Harvey turns back to Tim. "Do *you* get me?"

"You think I should be... sanguine about the fact that there's going to be a magical weapon in my possession. And... presumably I'm supposed to start carrying it around on a regular basis?"

"I don't know. But I think so, yeah. I mean -- I wouldn't be *real* surprised if Berenice somehow got the idea in her head to *bring* your boots with her."

"That... is exceedingly creepy."

"So's Blood. How much... how much experience do you *have* with him, little guy?"

"A brief conversation in his shop when I was ten --"

"You were in his *shop*?"

"It seemed -- I wanted to know more about him."

Bruce moves further up the bed and cups Tim's knee. "Many people find Jason's shop disconcerting, Tim. Disturbing --"

"You got that right," Harvey says, and shakes his head. "Don't *do* that --"

"Harv. You want me to walk around Gotham carrying his *magical knife*. You really can't forbid me... ah... anything, actually," and Tim *looks* at Harvey.

Harvey frowns at him -- it's almost a *glower* --

"*No*," Tim says, and considers the use of mild to moderate nerve-strikes to make his point --

Harvey raises his hands in surrender and sits back. "All right, little guy. But be *careful* --"

"I *will*. I -- other than that... incident --"

"Hey, what did he do?" And Harvey looks -- worried. *Prepared* to be angry on Tim's *behalf*. And that --

That is extremely *annoying* -- but also warm.

So Tim smiles ruefully and sits up the rest of the way, making his own soothing gesture. At least, he hopes it's soothing. "He convinced me to be less obvious about my attempts to pump people for information -- a decision I would've come to on my own with only a little more thought -- and... got me high?"

"*What*?"

"I'm not at all sure. One moment, I was trying very hard to *focus* on his cigarette holder --"

"Okay, *never* do that. In fact, try not to think too hard about *anything* --"

"Harv."

"Tim, I'm trying --"

"I *know* what you're trying to do. And I appreciate it," Tim says, and grips Harvey's wrist. "Stop now."

Harvey frowns again -- and nods. "Okay, what happened?"

"I came back to myself two blocks away with a half-eaten ice cream cone. I've never been able to bring myself to eat chocolate ice cream again --"

"That sounds like --"

"-- *because*... I don't particularly *like* losing control. Not because I think he touched me in my *no-no places*."

Harvey *coughs* --

"Oh, Harv, Jason *wouldn't* --"

Harvey coughs *harder*, which -- well...

But Bruce *also* has a point. "Does Harv *know* about your attempt to seduce him?"

"Oh, God, what?"

"It was quite clumsy and somewhat abortive --"

"What -- you -- no," Harvey says, and shakes his head. "You don't have to tell me, because you *did* tell me that he's the one who gave you the birds-and-bees talk, and you *showed* me that it didn't go farther than talking -- all right, fine. Just because I think he'd fuck a *kitten* if it looked at him just the right way doesn't *necessarily* mean he would. Okay? All right? Everybody happy?"

Bruce nods, but he's frowning.

Tim *nods* --

"Ah, hell, guys, have a little pity, hunh? I don't even know what Alfred *dosed* me with."

"It was probably a standard barbiturate --"

"*Thank* you, Bruce, but -- ah...?"

"Hm. I take it that wasn't the most important concern."

Harvey laughs, quiet and *slightly* breathless --

His smile is so --

His smile is wonderful, and for a moment, all Tim can think about is the fact that he isn't being *touched* -- no, that's not true. Bruce is still cupping his knee. *Harvey* isn't touching him, though --

It's his own *fault* -- wait. He can't --

He's not going to panic about *this* --

But Bruce and Harvey turn to look at him at the same time -- too *quickly* --

They frown and *move* for him, and Tim has a moment to think of protesting, of raising his hands to do more than stroke his way up Harvey's chest through his t-shirt --

"Oh, yeah, little guy...?"

"I..." Tim shakes his head and deals with the fact that his other hand is on *Bruce's* chest, that he's *mussing* Bruce's chest hair --

"Are you quite sure you don't wish to speak more, brother?"

"Ah..." And he isn't sure. At *all*.

But --

Maybe he doesn't have to be. He smiles ruefully and turns his short nails against Bruce's chest before rolling onto his knees to kiss the left corner of Harvey's mouth --

And the right --

"Mm. You kiss me like that and I... heh."

"Ah... yes?"

And Harvey tucks his fingers beneath Tim's chin and tilts his head up. "Little brother. Maybe don't let Bruce ream you again until I get a chance...?"

"*Unh* --"

"Oh... brothers. I will be patient, of course," Bruce says --

"Nah, nah, if Tim *needs* that big, fat dick of yours, you *gotta* give it to him," Harvey says, and never looks away from Tim's eyes.

Tim -- licks his lips. "Is that -- a rule?"

"Oh, yeah, little guy. It's the number one rule around here."

"'What I say, goes'?"

"Heh. When you say you gotta get *fucked* -- that goes. A long damned way."

Tim -- breathes. And -- "What if. What if I say I need to be fucked now?"

Harvey narrows his eyes and licks *his* lips. "Then I think *real* hard about it... even though I know you don't really want it."

"I do --"

"Your heart does. Your mind does. Your -- mm. Your *dick* does, too --"

"*Yes* --"

"Your ass doesn't want anything of the *kind*, little brother," and Harvey raises his eyebrows.

Tim shivers and -- "I want the feeling back. The -- all of the sensations --"

"Yeah. Those *good* feelings that just drive you right outta your *head* --"

"*Yes*, please --"

"*Clench*, Tim."

"Nnh --" Tim does it -- and cries out. And shudders. And *winces* -- "Oh. Ah. I take your point," Tim says, and blushes hard. "I want -- I still want --"

"I know, Tim. *Believe* me, I know."

"As do I, brother. There were few things I desired *more* than being taken once Harv had given that to me."

"God, yeah. But the other stuff isn't exactly chopped liver --"

"No, it isn't," Bruce says, and lifts Tim's hand to his mouth --

Sucks three of Tim's *fingers* into his mouth and *moans* --

And Harvey looks over and grins. "Is that what *you* want, big guy? You didn't *get* a real taste last night..."

And Bruce narrows his eyes and sucks *hard* --

"*Mm* -- ah..."

"Oh... little guy." And Harvey grins and sits back, yanking off his t-shirt. "I got an idea I think we'll *really* like."

Tim stares back and forth between Bruce and Harvey --

Tim licks his lips --

Tim gives himself *permission* -- and reaches to use his free hand to help Harvey with the fly of his jeans with his free hand. It's incredibly inefficient -- worse for the fact that Harvey is *stroking* Tim's hand, and squeezing --

Petting and *touching* --

Smiling at him as --

As Tim pulls his zipper down --

Slowly --

Harvey shifts, and his erection bulges through the gap in his fly, briefs-covered and *tempting* --

It's so hard not to stop pulling the zipper down just to *touch* -- no, he can pull it down *faster* --

"Like that, little guy?"

"Yes -- *yes* --"

"Sounds good to me," and Harvey pulls back to toe off his trainers and shove down his jeans and briefs --

Naked, they're all *naked* again, and it's the middle of the *morning* --

"How 'bout you get on your hands and knees, Tim?"

-- and Tim doesn't care what time it is. He --

Bruce hums and tugs Tim's fingers out of his mouth with a *wet* sound --

"Oh --"

Bruce bites the inside of Tim's *wrist* --

Sucks and hums *again* --

And Harvey turns Tim to face him --

Harvey kisses him hard, licks into his mouth and cups Tim's face with both hands --

Bruce is biting his way up Tim's *arm* --

Harvey shoves his tongue *deep* --

Bruce moves closer, presses against Tim's side --

It's impossible not to feel *exactly* how small he is, how much *smaller* he is --

But they're enjoying that, they --

Harvey pulls back and *moans* -- but it's only loud for a moment before it's buried against Tim's throat as he -- kisses, not bites.

Kisses *softly*, *wetly* --

Pushes Tim's head back and out of the way -- no, that's Bruce, who's licking Tim's *elbow* --

"*Please* -- please, I..."

"Tell us, brother..."

And Harvey moans again --

*Licks* Tim's throat --

And pulls back. "Yeah, tell us. Tell us what you *need*."

"I -- didn't you -- I'm supposed to get on my hands and knees --"

"*Only* if you want to," Harvey says, and grins -- and reaches down to *squeeze* himself --

To *stroke* himself and *pant* --

And Bruce *sucks* at the inside of Tim's elbow before pulling back. "Harv is always so beautiful when he masturbates himself."

Tim nods *helplessly* --

And Harvey grins more widely and laughs, bright and loud -- "You guys wanna see me jerk off?"

"Always, brother -- hm. No, that was a terrible lie. My apologies."

Tim snorts despite himself --

Stares at Harvey's working hand and tries to *think* about what he wants --

And immediately realizes that that was a terrible plan.

That --

Bruce strokes his hair. "It's quite mesmerizing, isn't it."

"Yes -- yes..."

"He is... rough with himself."

"Almost. It seems as though he wants to -- hurt himself," Tim says, and looks *up* --

But Harvey is still smiling with his head tilted back. He --

"You -- Harv. Are you... offering yourself?"

"Hey, the two sexiest guys who *don't* run around in tights -- yet -- wanna take a good look. Who am I to say no?" And Harvey squeezes himself *harder* --

Bruce *grunts* -- "Harv. Harv... slow down."

"Nnh -- heh. How 'bout you, Tim? Do *you* want me to slow down?" And Harvey rolls his head forward *slightly* --

He's still exposing his *throat* --

He's stroking himself so --

So fast -- "I -- I don't know. Ah. Bruce?"

"It's beautiful when he does, brother. Here," Bruce says, and wraps his hand around Tim's penis --

"*Oh* --"

"Like this," and Bruce's stroke is slow and *hard*, slow and --

And --

Tim *growls* --

And Harvey is staring at him just like that, licking his *lips* -- "Is that how you want me to do myself, little guy? Say the word --"

"Yes -- yes, please --"

"*Anything* you say," Harvey says, and slows down immediately --

Groans and strokes himself exactly --

Exactly the way Bruce is stroking *him* --

The same *rhythm* --

Tim hears himself moan *desperately*, and this is more of a *scrabble* then a reach --

Bruce grunts -- "Yes, brother, your touch -- oh -- oh, please --"

"Heh. This is too slow for *all* of us. I *know* it is. Let's keep it up anyway," and Harvey waggles his eyebrows and licks his *teeth* --

"Fuck -- I -- oh, God, I --" And Tim shakes his head and starts thrusting into Bruce's fist --

He can't -- he can't *not* --

Bruce hums. "I think that might be cheating..."

"Heh. We can't have *that*," Harvey says. "Slow down *more*, big guy --"

"No -- oh -- " And Tim growls again and squeezes Bruce's penis hard -- too hard --

"*Hnh* -- brother... so *cruel*..."

"Ooh. He's got you, big guy?"

"I... the pain is..." And Bruce licks his lips and exhales with a *shudder* --

"Oh, *yeah*..."

And Tim realizes that he's still *squeezing* -- he stops that and *strokes* --

Bruce grunts again and *stares* at him --

Into him --

"Is it -- is it wrong?"

Bruce shakes his head *slowly* -- and squeezes *him* --

"*Ahn* -- oh. Oh, fuck --" And Tim pants and shakes his head, pants and tries to focus, to *breathe* --

"How close are you to coming, little guy?"

"I -- I -- *please*!"

"*That's* an answer. Can Bruce suck you?"

Tim whimpers and bites his fingers again --

They're going to *bruise* --

"*Please*, brother --"

Tim moans around his fingers and nods, squeezes Bruce again and *wants* --

And Bruce only shifts enough that he *can* bend his head down to Tim's groin. He --

He lets Tim keep *stroking*, and that's so -- it's so *good*, so --

Bruce *licks* him --

Licks him and -- *slides* his tongue around and around the head of Tim's penis --

Tim shudders and pants --

Bites his lip, and he's already having trouble stroking again, he's --

He has to do *better* than this, he --

Bruce sucks the head *hard* --

"*Please*!"

Bruce hums a *question* --

"I don't -- I don't know -- I can't --" His hands are shaking, both of them, and he's not even touching anything with his right --

Tim grips at the rumpled coverlet -- but he's also gripping at Bruce's penis again, *pulling* as much as stroking --

He has to *stop* --

He loosens his grip -- and retightens it immediately when Bruce moves his hand and goes down --

And down --

And *swallows* --

Tim *shouts*, squeezing his eyes shut --

"I think," Harvey says, and there's a laugh *under* his voice, "that I'll save this show for another time..."

"Please! I'm sorry -- I don't mean -- I want to *see* --"

"But you can't open your eyes right now, little guy," Harvey says, and the mattress is shifting --

He's moving *closer* --

"You can't do anything but take it right now, yeah?" And Harvey is *behind* him --

Cupping Tim's sad little pectoral muscles --

*Squeezing* --

Tim moans and tries -- tries to *say* --

"I couldn't get out a coherent *sentence* the first few -- dozen, heh -- times Bruce put his mouth on me, little guy. I couldn't... mm. How sensitive are these?" And Harvey rubs Tim's nipples with his thumbs --

Tim pants and shakes his head, blinks and tries --

*Tries* --

"That a no, little guy? How 'bout this..." And Harvey *pinches* Tim's nipples, tugs them just --

A little --

Tim groans and arches, writhes -- and realizes that he's pumping his hips, that he's --

"*Ohn* -- oh, God -- *Bruce* --"

"You're fuckin' his mouth pretty good there. You should see the way your little ass is flexing..." And the smile in Harvey's voice is so --

So *wet* --

Tim's hand is *spasming* on Bruce's penis --

And this time when Bruce hums, Tim cries out --

Throws his head back and cries out *again* --

His rhythm --

He *has* no rhythm, but it's stuttering just the same, turning jagged and so *rough* --

"Wanna fuck you *so* bad, little guy --"

"*Please*!"

"Shh. We can have *this*," Harvey says, and *spreads* him -- and slips his penis *between*. "Oh -- yeah, still nice and *slick*," and he thrusts --

Tim *shoves* himself into Bruce's mouth --

Bruce *gulps* --

Tim *blushes* --

And Harvey thrusts again, and *again* --

Tim can't -- he can't stop *riding* the motion Harvey's setting, the motion he's *demanding* --

"This is how I'd do you, little brother. This -- *nnh* -- *nnh* -- oh, yeah, I can *feel* your tight little hole --"

"*Please* --"

"Please *yourself* -- heh. No. *All* of us," and Harvey leans into kiss Tim's *forehead* --

It's so gentle and *soft* --

Tim whimpers -- and *grunts* when Harvey licks him there, again when Harvey starts thrusting faster --

*Faster* --

And Tim has heard of this, heard all sorts of ridiculous *names* for it -- but he'd never considered how it would *feel* to have a long, sleek, *hot* penis sliding along his cleft, to feel the mushroom of the head *brushing* at his hole, poking and *teasing* at it, and Tim is grunting for every --

Every *thrust* --

And Harvey's hands are back on his nipples --

And Bruce is -- is *fucking* himself with Tim's penis --

And Harvey is growling and *pinching*, *grinding* --

They're so close to him, they're so --

Bruce is *moaning*, moaning so much, and Tim can smell his sweat and theirs, smell how much they're enjoying this, enjoying *him* --

He has to --

He *tries* to focus, to -- to *give*, and he's stroking, he's stroking Bruce's penis and smiling in *relief* --

But Bruce opens his mouth around him and *pants* --

"Aw, *yeah*, *do* it, big guy --"

Bruce shudders --

Shudders all *over* --

And then he's ejaculating in Tim's *hand*, *on* Tim's hand, all *over* --

Tim's making his brother come *again*, and this time he's feeling it outside of himself, he can --

Bruce groans and twitches so *much*, and Tim wants to say his name, say something sexy or at least *encouraging* --

"*Please* --"

And Bruce nods and *swallows* him again --

"Oh -- *oh* --"

"That what you wanted, little guy?" And Harvey *shoves* his tongue in Tim's ear, *twists* Tim's nipples and *bucks* --

Bucks hard enough to --

He's practically bouncing Tim on his *lap*, and Tim is crying out for it, loud and shameless and --

"Oh -- Jesus, that's good, little guy, little *brother*, that's so good, don't you stop, don't you stop for *anything*," and Harvey releases Tim's nipples and wraps one arm around Tim's ribs and locks the other arm around his left shoulder from the *back*.

The only thing Tim can do is reach up and back to clutch at Harvey's hair, reach down to clutch at *Bruce's* --

Harvey is -- is all but *fucking* him into Bruce's *mouth* --

And he can have that someday. He can --

He can be braced against a wall with Bruce on his knees in front of him --

On his knees and taking, taking like --

This --

"*Nnh* -- fuck -- *fuck*," and Harvey tightens his *grip* --

Tim is *trapped* between --

He can't move --

And the sound that comes out of his mouth is loud and almost *angry*, but Tim still has to make it again and *again* as he shudders and --

God, it feels more like *shooting* than spilling --

He can't *see* and everything is so *hot* --

Harvey is biting his *ear* --

And Bruce is *holding* him in his throat, *forcing* him to stay --

Right --

*There* --

And he has to *scream* when Bruce forces Tim *part* of the way out and *grips* his scrotum --

And Tim *chokes* on the scream as he ejaculates again --

And shakes like he's *feverish* --

And *slumps* --

But Harvey is holding him, *Bruce* is kneeling up and holding him, kissing him softly and *crushing* him between them --

So warm --

So *warm* --

And Harvey pants and clutches him even more tightly, Harvey *growls* -- "God, I need -- need a *kiss*..."

"From *which* of --"

"*Both* of you -- *nnh* -- not the best position -- God, please, big guy, gimme --"

And then Bruce and Harvey are kissing over Tim's shoulder, and the part of Tim which can only wonder how much the taste of his penis and semen *can* override the taste of his *ass* --

Possibly hasn't been fucked enough.

Though Tim *dearly* hopes that both of them were too focused to notice that -- that *giggle* --

Except that both of them are humming, squeezing him even *tighter* even though Harvey seems to be doing his best to move them all --

And that's Bruce's thumb on his mouth, thick and strong and salty -- Tim moans and sucks, tries a messy slurp just to *see* --

"Ah, *fuck* -- *hnh* -- *HNH* --"

"Oh, Harv, *yes* --"

Tim does his best to *stroke* Harvey's hair despite the awkward position --

"Please -- *fuck* --"

And the feel of Harvey's semen on his back --

In his cleft --

On his *hole* --

So hot and thick and *slick* --

Tim closes his eyes and shudders for it --

And his mind *immediately* fills with an image of Bruce licking him clean. He knows -- some of -- what that would *feel* like --

Tim moans and tries to hold his brothers tighter. Just -- tighter.

After a few minutes, Harvey makes it easier by shifting his hold on Tim to one with his arms around Tim's *waist*--

And Tim can tilt his head back for an awkward kiss which nonetheless makes him blush and shiver *more*. It's so passionate, so deep and *passionate* --

And he can feel Bruce watching every moment of it with... pride? Pleasure? Hunger? Tim doesn't *know* him well enough, yet, and so he has to pull back --

"Hey, I wasn't done with that pretty little mouth --"

"I --" Tim shakes his head and just *looks* at Bruce --

And finds him studying them both the way he was studying Tim's musculature earlier. He --

"Are you... planning sketches?"

"Yes," Bruce says *flatly* --

And Harvey laughs softly and cups Tim's hip with one hand and Bruce's waist with the other. "I *saw* you had your sketchbook in here, big guy. "Did you *ask* our brother before you started immortalizing him?"

"I..." Bruce blushes.

Harvey laughs harder. "Didn't think so." He kisses Tim's temple. "You *can* get him to stop, you know. Or to draw -- or not draw -- certain things --"

"He can. He can draw... anything," Tim says, and does his own blushing. He *doesn't* look down --

And Bruce cups his face and smiles so *happily*, so -- "Thank you."

It's tempting -- incredibly so -- to say something about it being good practice, or how he'll have to learn how to design all sorts of things for the Mission, or -- "You're... ah. Welcome."

"Well, all right," Harvey says, and the grin in his voice is *unmistakable* -- he squeezes both of them. "Do I get to see what he was sketching this morning?"

Tim blinks. "I -- they're his sketches --"

"And they're all *you*. They are, yeah, big guy?"

Bruce nods once -- he's still *gazing* into Tim's eyes --

So gratefully --

Tim shakes his head -- no, that sends the wrong message. "As far as I'm concerned, Bruce can share any and all of his sketches of me with you --"

"Brother..."

Tim shivers and -- works a hand between his chest and Bruce's so he can stroke, and pet. "We -- we're together. All of us."

And Tim can *feel* both of their smiles --

He knows the one on his own face is --

It *must* be inadequate --

He lets it stay on his face anyway.

*

May 1979

The realtor's name is Emily Henderson. She is a petite blonde with a dazzlingly bright smile -- it has reached her eyes approximately half the times she has flashed it, thus far -- and her royal blue pantsuit, while oddly reminiscent of something an airline stewardess would wear, flatters her figure and coloring immensely.

Bruce would be surprised if it *hadn't* been tailored for her.

The four of them take Harvey's Lexedes, since it's the largest vehicle -- and since Harvey feels guilty for not using it since their father had purchased the Accompli. Bruce does the driving, however -- with Emily in the passenger seat -- so that she can point out the assorted properties her firm is listing.

She does that for the *entirety* of the drive into Gotham proper, despite Bruce telling her repeatedly that he has no interest in staying in the Bristol area. He will, perhaps, have to be more assertive.

Still, once they *are* in Gotham, the properties are much more acceptable. The very first -- a townhouse near St. Justin's -- has all the space Bruce could ask for, and receives a great deal of natural light on the second and third floors. The first floor was clearly set aside mostly for servants' quarters, and, as such, is really rather terribly *grim*, though...

They move on.

Harvey refuses the second property out of hand -- before they even step out of the *vehicle* -- which is terribly confusing until Bruce takes a closer look at the men on the doorstep of the next townhouse over. He'd assumed the two were motorcycle police officers --

They're really very *affectionate* men --

Oh.

"I... suppose this isn't the sort of image I'm supposed to present," Bruce says, raising an eyebrow and turning back to look at his brothers --

Tim hums. "Probably not, no. Though the society pages would undoubtedly be entertaining about it."

"Ah, Jesus, that kind of entertaining we *don't* need -- where's the next place, Emily? Dad would -- yeah, never mind. Onward."

She colors faintly -- purposefully? -- and directs them northeast, toward the docks --

Though hopefully not *too* close, as Bruce hadn't *needed* Harvey to tell him how entrenched the crime problem is there. Even Gotham's notoriously *incomplete* newspapers have *that* information.

Happily, Emily stops them near Perrineau park. The area isn't as fashionable as, say, the neighborhoods near *Grant* park, but Bruce does not especially *want* to attract his 'peers' to his home for champagne-soaked parties. Though...

Would it be better to host a few of those sorts of parties for Tim's sake? It would, perhaps, solidify his place in Bruce's life in a way Tim's mother could -- understand.

Bruce frowns. It is abundantly clear that Tim *fears* his mother, and that is terribly incorrect, terribly --

Bruce will not ever become their father, with his ironbound *laws* of what is and isn't correct behavior and *thought*. Even beyond the fact that Bruce believes that many of the laws *themselves* are incorrect, Mother, Jason, Harvey, and now Tim have *all* taught him that there must be room -- *space* -- for compromise, for --

For change and *learning* --

"-- Wayne? Mr. Wayne?"

"Still with us, big guy?"

Oh -- "My apologies," Bruce says, and covers Harvey's hand on his shoulder reflexively, squeezing and it and smiling down at Emily. "I'm afraid I was woolgathering rather terribly."

"Oh, that's quite all right, Mr. Wayne --"

"Please, you really should feel free to call me Bruce," and he offers one of his cocktail party smiles --

And she offers back a smile which could be in a toothpaste advertisement in one of the glossy magazines Mother sometimes peruses. It reaches her eyes --

And so Bruce inclines his head --

"Bruce, then. The property is right here," she says, and gestures almost grandly --

At a large brownstone with a truly fascinating pattern of brickwork around the windows. That...

Bruce finds himself moving closer --

"Oh, yes, do take a closer look, Bruce. The artisans who worked on this building..."

He knows Emily is still speaking, but for some reason it's difficult to focus on the words, to *parse* them. The brickwork is so --

There's an almost *ancient* quality to it, as if the artisans were trying to bring to mind an era...

Perhaps... something Egyptian? Or -- no. Sumerian?

Something --

No, that's not --

It's nothing he's ever seen, and that means he has to get closer, and study, yes, study --

It's important to study, to learn --

His brothers will --

But where are they? He has to share this with them, he --

Is there someone shouting? Saying his name?

Why... why is it so dark all of a sudden? It's the middle of the afternoon --

"You'll come with us now, Bruce," Emily says, only her voice is... different. Sibilant, perhaps?

He turns to look at her, looking down --

But she's a foot taller than she *had* been, and her torso ends in the body of some sort of *lizard*. Specifically, a royal blue one. She is naked and bleeding from several wounds --

She is swaying on her *feet* --

"I believe I would like to go back --"

"You can't."

And Bruce moves to attack --

But even wounded she's too fast for him, too --

She slams him against a wall which shouldn't *be* there --

He doesn't know where -- oh. Oh, no -- "What have you done with my brothers?"

"They're perfectly safe -- *despite* what they did to us. We have no quarrel with them, Bruce," she says, lifting him easily in her arms --

*Lengthening* her arms and winding them around and *around* him --

"Our quarrel is with your mother. We imagine she'll be eager to resolve it once your brothers tell her what happened." And Emily laughs --

"You do not have to do this --"

"Shh," she says, and spits in his *mouth* --

He can't --

See --

*

.continued.

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