June 2000

Cassandra is studying the action on the viewscreen intently. She has been since she joined him, but she has definitely been paying a greater degree of attention since the fight began.

She'd even put down her bag of chocolate-covered pretzels -- which is something which rarely happens once the bag has been opened. She --

"Slow."

"Agreed," Tim says, and watches his younger self use Blood's knife to slash at the groin of a... person who *had* looked entirely human -- specifically middle-aged, paunchy, and of Mediterranean descent -- until Tim had managed to slash one of its upper... limbs.

At present, it appears to be bipedal, significantly more *liquid* than the average human, and iridescently scaled.

At that point, he already knew the scales could be sliced through.

At that point, he still thought he could *rescue* Bruce *before* the creatures -- demons, he knows now -- took him away --

And Harvey lands a truly spectacular haymaker on -- and in -- the face of one of the other demons. His expression twists with disgust, but, to his credit, he simply yanks his hand free and keeps fighting.

Cassandra tilts her head to the side. "You knew Harv couldn't help."

"It was clear they were distracting him -- us -- more than anything else -- there."

The two demons which *had* been hanging back converge on his younger self --

"Yes. They see the knife."

Tim smiles. "They certainly didn't see *me* as a threat."

"No."

The first demon falls -- and begins to dissolve.

His younger self snarls and *starts* to leap for the one attacking Harvey -- and then notices 'Emily' dragging Bruce into the sudden, gaping darkness where the door to the brownstone had been.

He catches himself before his trailing foot leaves the ground, turns, runs, leaps, kicks --

"Good."

"Thank you," Tim says, and watches his younger self do his level best to savage 'Emily' who is, as Tim had suspected for the past twenty-one years, working hard not to hurt him too badly. 

Cassandra narrows her eyes. "She is sad."

Tim closes his eyes for a moment -- no. "I'm not surprised. Humanity hadn't been especially kind to her people."

Cassandra nods thoughtfully. "More Harv now."

"As you wish," Tim says, and focuses -- giving Cassandra a split-screen. While his younger self was busily slashing 'Emily'  -- shallowly, unfortunately -- everywhere he could, Harvey had picked up a rusting, partially bent pipe and had started laying into the other creatures with it with a violence that... hm. "He's in control."

"Yes. Why are you surprised?"

Tim shakes his head -- no. "Did you speak to Jay about what we watched last night?"

"Yes. He said Blood --" Cassandra frowns as Harvey leaves his entire left side vulnerable for the length of another punch -- "He said Blood fixed him."

"He did, yes. But... in my experience, such things rarely take --"

"You are crazy-more. Crazier."

Tim licks his teeth.

Cassandra looks at him. Pointedly.

"As you say," Tim says, and gestures back to the viewscreen. They turn back in time to see 'Emily' kick Tim's younger self nearly into the street -- where no one has stopped to even *gawk* at the altercation --

She gestures -- and the other creatures turn away from Harvey and *flow* after her. Tim's shoulder tenses with --

There, the knife is thrown -- and, yes, it corrects its own trajectory in flight. It passes through the neck of one of the creatures --

The *arm* of another --

And they both fall and dissolve before they can escape.

But Bruce is gone. Bruce --

Harvey is beating on the unbroken brick of the brownstone --

Yelling and cursing --

And Tim's younger self is in the process of panting his way into something of a panic attack -- until he notices the thick, manila envelope resting in the spreading pool of dead demon.

He picks it up along with the knife, wipes the knife on his jeans, sheaths it, opens the envelope, and pulls out the short note --

"You let Harv hurt his hands."

"At the time, I couldn't think of a way to stop him."

"Crazy."

Tim smiles ruefully. "Yes."

"What it -- what does the note say?"

"At the moment, nothing I can translate. The characters seemed more pictographic than anything else -- and now they're changing...

"Again...

"Again... there," and Tim prepares to recite from memory as his younger self takes a deep, shaky breath. "'Martha Kane Wayne, for every day we live without our Brother, you will live without your Son. Return him to where you found him, and we will return Bruce.' That's all."

Cassandra nods thoughtfully again.

Onscreen, Harvey has turned away from the brownstone and is yanking the paper out of Tim's hands. His own hands are bloody and bruised, his eyes are wild, his clothes are torn, and his hair is mussed.

Two tears roll down his cheeks while they watch --

Cassandra makes a soft sound and reaches -- then shakes her head and grips at the bed, instead. "Too real."

"It *is* real --"

"How long... when did you rescue him?"

"It didn't take long once we acquired the relevant information from Martha. Though we did pick up something else first."

Another nod. "The Brother -- why said like that?"

"It was his title as much as his familial position," Tim says, and watches his younger self make a conscious decision to let Harvey all but *throw* him back into the car --

He homes the machine and considers spinning his new, hideously expensive, and extremely comfortable computer chair. It doesn't match his old, hideously expensive, and *very* comfortable computer chair. It doesn't match anything in the *room*.

He doesn't care.

He still doesn't spin it, though. Cassandra is upset. He stands up and moves to join her on the bed --

She hugs him immediately, simple black t-shirt riding up along her scarred, golden back --

And Tim remembers not to say anything idiotic about being 'all right.' Cassandra is more than capable of hurting him for that.

He strokes her back, instead, and leans in to kiss the top of her head. At five feet, three inches tall and one hundred and seventeen pounds, she is the smallest of them -- and is likely to remain so. She had refused HGH years ago, explaining to them -- through Jay -- that she had learned to control her body as it was, and that she would not be able to trust it with the artificial growth hormone in her body.

Tim still has hopes of synthesizing HGH for her from her *own*... but, ultimately, not very much.

And she doesn't actually need it. At sixteen, she is capable of sparring Tim -- and Bruce -- to a draw eight times out of every ten. The other two spars are split between them.

Her only true weakness is her continued relative lack of literacy -- and, since Stephanie has joined them, Cassandra has started making true progress with *that*, as well. He could wish that Stephanie would choose *different* texts to teach Cassandra with, but the fact of the matter is that Cassandra finds GIRL! magazine endlessly fascinating, and that Stephanie will surrender her lifetime subscription to Capes Quarterly when Doctor Fate starts wearing a sparkly purple domino.

("They get the best pictures!"

"You can *talk* to the other vigilantes now, Stephanie. *All* of the other --"

"They get. The best. Freaking. Pictures.")

Tim had resisted the urge to kiss her out-thrust jaw -- she tends to offer violence for that sort of behavior at times like those -- and moved on.

Here, now... Cassandra is still holding on. Tim kisses the top of her head again. "Harv's grief affected you powerfully."

She nods against his chest. "Yours, too. You pushed it down, though."

Tim smiles ruefully. "I had to --"

"Yes. Also..." She pulls back enough to search him, but not the way she usually does. There's a certain *extra* depth to it -- similar to the way she used to search all of them when she was thirteen and new to the family, but not entirely --

Ah. "You're looking for my inner child."

She nods once.

Tim considers making the gesture for 'scatter,' but -- it isn't true. "I hid parts of him in several places within me. I'm still finding him now."

"Yes. You knew Brother was dead."

Oh, Cassandra... Tim nods. "Or rather, I feared and suspected it enough that it *felt* like knowledge."

"Harv didn't know."

"He feared and suspected it, as well... but he has always been capable of a great deal more hope than I am, in general."

She nods again, but she's still searching him, still --

"You can -- and should -- ask *every* question."

"Wastes time --"

"With me?"

She scowls and jabs him with two fingers just to the left of his solar plexus. "Jay says you are trying to do better now. Babs *also* says."

Tim smiles ruefully again and cups her strong and brutally scarred hand, bringing it to his mouth and kissing it. "I need to talk about things before --"

"You *feel* them?"

"Sometimes. Not all the time. Not with you and Barbara and Dick and Jay and Stephanie."

She frowns at him -- and nods.

There is, as always, relief in being able to be honest when he wishes to be. He *can't* be honest all the time -- there is the street to be considered, and the small amount of work he does at Wayne Enterprises --

Never, *ever* Drake Industries --

And there is a pang for that, shocking and sudden, *deep* --

He's never *wanted* the reins of Drake Industries, and he still doesn't -- the closest he wants to get to having them is giving Helena whatever minuscule amount of assistance she needs when she finally ties the two companies together -- but...

"Tim?"

"There's a conversation Bruce had with Thomas. I... it was well after their *first* true confrontation, but... you brought it to mind," Tim says, and programs in the date, the *approximate* time -- "It was just before Bruce began going out as the Batman. I was doing my level best not to be summarily murdered by various members of the League of Assassins in the interests of training... he told me about it later," and Tim nods toward the viewscreen --

Cassandra turns obligingly -- and narrows her eyes in confusion at the whining hum of --

"Primitive -- very primitive -- computers."

Another nod.

The sound of shuffling papers is familiar enough --

A cleared throat -- "Father, we must speak."

And the viewscreen fills with the image of a fifty-seven year old Thomas. He is nearly entirely grey, but shows no signs of the 'hypertension' which will kill him only five years after this conversation. In truth, his autopsy showed a man who could have -- and perhaps should have -- lived twenty or even thirty more years, but --

("Are you asking me whether I *did* it, Timothy...?")

And Blood had been smiling to himself as he dropped a disconcertingly large and beautiful -- apparent -- beetle the color of uvarovite garnet into a gift box. The beetle immediately tried to escape, but stopped -- everything -- after Blood had made a pass over it with his left hand.

And Tim -- had needed to know. Even if he'd never be able to tell anyone about it.

("Yes, I am."

"Then, no, I did not. Nor did I acquiesce to any of Martha's *dozens* of requests over the years to give her the use of my power for that purpose. There are, in fact, *some* rules I deign to follow. But..."

"Tell me.")

Blood had wrapped the box with gold and red ribbon, hummed to himself, and handed it to him.

("For Zatanna, the next time you see her. She'll know *precisely* what it's for. As for Thomas... well. Twenty-five years ago, I advised Martha to use my power to burn Wayne Manor to the ground, as it was a magnet for *malignance*. She refused. *Twenty* years ago, after a particularly *detailed* scrying, I had my *one* conversation with Thomas. I gave him the same advice -- and a warning. He informed me that I had... overstepped my place.")

Blood had spread his hands, but he hadn't *quite* shrugged.

("I bade Thomas a good day, and returned my focus to keeping Martha safe, which I will continue to do until the end of her life. I do not know *which* supernatural horror ended Thomas' life in a fit of pique when it could not injure, maim, or *madden* Martha, and I almost certainly never will -- it fled from the ire of the rest, leaving no spoor. Timothy... do not let that house live on after Martha is dead. It *will* only get worse.")

Tim represses a shiver at the thought of what might be living -- existing? -- in and around the spaces making up Wayne Manor at present --

Bruce hasn't *let* them raze it to the ground --

And Cassandra presses closer, matter-of-factly digging her small shoulder in against Tim's side the way she always does when she wishes to offer Tim comfort. For each of the others, there is a different touch --

And, onscreen, Thomas is -- still -- merely looking at Bruce from behind his desk. His glasses are halfway down his nose and he is using them to their full effect. Tim imagines that any number of Wayne Enterprises employees -- and Mercy General Hospital subordinates -- had quailed, however internally, for that look...

But it had been a long time, by then, since *Bruce* had.

Thomas nods once and sets his glasses on his desk before folding his hands together. "I presume by the solemnity of your mien that you do not merely wish to discuss the weather."

Bruce folds his hands behind his back and inclines his head. "I appreciate your attempt at levity, Father --"

"Do you?"

Bruce frowns. "Yes. It could very well ease what will undoubtedly prove to be an uncomfortable conversation."

Thomas takes a deep breath and nods, smiling wryly. "Out of curiosity... how does your mother react when you speak to her like that?"

Bruce opens his mouth -- closes it and shakes his head once. "Much to my regret, I'm afraid that that is none of your concern, Father."

Thomas lifts his chin -- lowers it again. "So it isn't. Tell me what you wish to discuss, Bruce. I believe we've covered the ground taken up by our respective... romantic exploits?"

"Exploits --" Bruce frowns more deeply. "That is --"

"A terrible and cavalier word for it, yes, Bruce, I know. You have my apologies," Thomas says, making a pushing gesture before folding his hands together once more. "Please, go on."

Bruce nods. "As you say, Father. I wish to speak of Tim."

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "And yet you do *not* wish to speak of --"

"He is my brother, my lover, and my partner. It is only the *first* of these things which we must discuss."

"Do you *wish* to speak of him, or *must* we --"

"We must. I apologize, Father," Bruce says, and raises his own eyebrow. "I know you find exactitude important."

Thomas inclines his head. "It is not the *only* thing which separates us from the beasts of the field, Bruce, but it is one of the most *important* --"

"I am more than willing to pay for a paternity test, Father. Would that exactitude suit?"

Thomas blinks. Slowly.

Bruce nods again. "I have your attention, then. Good --"

"You had it before, Bruce. Petty threats --"

"There is nothing petty about it, Father. There is not one single person in our so-called 'social circle' who does not know the truth about Tim's parentage --"

"When Janet raises this topic --"

"I am not your sexual submissive, Father -- though I assure you that I have made a study of such things in order to better understand you," Bruce says, and takes a deep breath of his own. "I will not be a physician. I *will* do my duty to the company when the time comes --"

"Stop for a moment, Bruce," Thomas says, and stands. For a moment, he only looks down at his own right hand, fingers splayed on the desk --

And then he walks around to the other side, closing the distance between them and cupping Bruce's shoulders. At fifty-seven, Thomas is still over six feet tall and obviously muscular beneath his perfectly-tailored suit, but Bruce --

Bruce is Bruce. Somehow, he never seems more massive than when he's standing next to people who *would* be considered large in any other circumstance.

Thomas' expression is both concerned and frustrated, but there is a mildness to it -- no.

"Cassandra..."

"Thomas is very, very angry. Bruce doesn't know. You don't know. Why don't you know?"

Tim shakes his head and tries to imagine explaining the entirety of his childhood --

But he doesn't, actually, have to.

"When I look at him, I see the same frustrating mystery and frightening source of my mother's... agitation as I've seen since I was old enough to reason."

Cassandra narrows her eyes. "Dangerous."

"Yes. But..."

"*Dangerous*. He is thinking of hurting. Violence."

Tim rears back -- no. He turns back to the viewscreen and focuses until the view is of Thomas's upper body. Tension in his forehead and jaw, yes. Tension in his shoulders...

No, wider focus.

His hands are perfectly still.

He isn't shifting on his feet.

His body is calm --

Back to the face. Back --  the eyes.

His eyes seem more blue in the late afternoon sunlight than they normally do, more... bright? More full? No, that's not --

Tim focuses -- and the zoom gives him two eyes which, were they in any other face, would cause Tim to mace first and ask questions later. They *are* bright and full. It's just that they're full of a wildness --

An incipient loss of *control* --

"You see now."

"Yes, and I --"

"You are frightened for Bruce."

"*Yes* -- and." Tim frowns and shakes his head --

And Cassandra reaches up and matter-of-factly bends Tim's head down so that they can meet each other's eyes. "What?"

"I'm frightened for my mother... retroactively. I have to... I think. I might have to see..."

"Yes."

"I --"

"Yes, you have to see. First this," she says, and turns him back to face the screen --

Where Thomas is smiling wryly and benignly, just as if no one can see his *eyes* --

Had Martha seen them?

Had it been one of the things she *liked* about him? There had to have been some *few* --

"I am listening, Father."

Thomas chuckles softly, shaking his head. "Bruce. Son... there are times when I think I lost my chance to have a *true* relationship with you before you were even *born*."

Bruce looks away, exposing his *throat* --

He and Cassandra tense *together* --

But then Bruce turns back. "Father. Mother, Jason, Harv, and Tim have all put a great deal of time and effort into trying to help me understand how it could come to pass that you would deny your relationship with Mother for a younger woman. I understand much more about you and Mother -- and about that time in general -- than once I did. I am not here to... heap scorn upon you for the way you have negotiated your sexual and romantic life."

"But my familial life is fair game...? Tell me this, Bruce: Has Timothy wanted for anything over the course of his childhood? Has he starved? Frozen? Gone naked or without education? Gone without the best of *everything*?"

"He went without you, Father. And without us."

Thomas' hands jerk -- slightly -- on Bruce's shoulders.

Bruce frowns --

And Thomas moves his hands, crossing his arms over his chest. It's not a pose he used often, in Tim's memory.

He saw it while Thomas was overseeing construction of a joint Wayne Enterprises-Drake Industries research facility in Oudwark, another time while Thomas was mocking his own father in front of the children in the newly built daycare facilities at Drake Industries...

The other memories fall away at the lift of Thomas' eyebrow, the sardonic curl of his upper lip -- just visible beneath the brush of his mustache.

Bruce lifts his own eyebrow again -- and then nods. "I believe I know what your next comment will be about, Father. It is entirely true that you forbade neither Mother nor me from socializing with the Drake family. It is equally true that all failures in that respect are wholly my own --"

"I would not go that far, Bruce --"

Bruce raises a hand. "I was as cruel, as cutting, and as overall useless as the worst of our 'peers,' Father. The fact that Tim has forgiven me for that --"

"Is, if you think about it, more than a trifle self-serving."

Bruce inhales sharply and *starts* to clench his hands into fists --

Cassandra nods approvingly --

Bruce relaxes himself with obvious effort. "I would say that you had obviously mistaken Tim for his mother, but, if you had, you would have, perhaps, spent more time with him over the years."

For a long moment, Thomas only looks at Bruce levelly. He --

"Cassandra, what can you tell me about the *kinds* of violence which are on offer?"

"He wants weapons. He is thinking of --" And she mimes striking with something like a club, or some other blunt instrument. Then she frowns and looks up to study Thomas more, making the gesture for 'three-sixty.'

Tim focuses -- and the angles shift to a slow rotation around Thomas and Bruce.

Cassandra nods and watches, eyes narrowed.

Tim studies Thomas, forcing himself to look at him as a target, as someone -- no, it's not a matter of force, at this point. There is enough tension in Thomas' body now that even Bruce has noticed it -- though he almost certainly hasn't noticed it on a conscious level. Bruce has slipped about a fifth of the way into a -- defensive -- ready position, all without shifting more than his feet and shoulders. He --

And Thomas is -- breathing. Calming himself down?

Tim split-screens again so that he can see Thomas' face while the other half of the screen continues to turn --

And his eyes suggest a slow burn, and anger that is --

"Old anger."

"Yes," Tim says, and shifts to sit in his usual place against the headboard. The sheets -- and duvet -- have been changed yet again, and Tim had spent half his day doing his own and -- some of -- the family's laundry and the rest in intensive training.

Every moment felt wonderful. But --

"Is the anger at Bruce?" He doesn't *think* so --

"Not... special. Spec--" She snaps her fingers impatiently at him --

"Specifically."

"Specifically, yes. It is general. He is angry at *everyone* right now."

Tim nods. "He has been for a long time, and he thinks he *will* be for even longer than that."

"Yes," Cassandra says, and moves to join him at the headboard.

Tim had not paused the playback. Bruce and Thomas are simply *staring* at each other, waiting --

No, they know each other well enough to know that there will not be apologies for what has been said without -- further -- reason, or at least explanation. And, after another long moment, Thomas nods.

"You feel -- you *believe* -- that Timothy has, somehow, come of age without one iota of his mother's more mercenary traits. Despite the fact that she was, by far, his primary caregiver --"

"The term is laughable when considered against who she is as a person --"

"-- and educator," Thomas says, and raises his eyebrow again. "You had your mother, Alfred, and, yes, even that Blood... individual to introduce you to the softer side of life, and, for all that I must disagree with what they've turned you into, I must *also* admit that they managed to do precisely what they set out *to* do. Timothy had no such influences... until you and Harvey."

Bruce takes a deep breath --

And another --

And slips approximately a *third* of the way into a *combative* ready position. It's not clear whether Thomas can see it as anything but a certain conscious *loosening* of Bruce's stance --

But Bruce, himself, is very clearly ready. "I will leave aside your pointless attack on my character, as it has no bearing on this discussion --"

"I have no quarrel with your character, Bruce. You are -- and have always been -- one of the single most *noble* people I have ever known. While I find myself concerned about what will happen when you allow yourself to meet and 'bond' with *other* intelligent and attractive young people --"

"That's *disgusting*!"

"Yes, it is," and Thomas' eyes are hard once more. "It is one of the *most* incorrect things humans *do* to other humans... and you initiated Timothy to sexuality when he was still *thirteen*. Or would you say that he seduced you?"

Bruce narrows his eyes. "Is that what you told yourself when Janet Evans was nineteen?"

"It was one of the *many* thoughts in my mind at the time... but, in truth, we seduced each other. Effortlessly. We've been over this --"

"So we have," and Bruce's expression is dark. "You have my apologies for allowing this... detour into irrelevancy to continue."

If anything, Thomas' expression becomes *harder* --

And Bruce nods again. "Tim doesn't want an ownership stake in Wayne Enterprises, or even an equal stake to mine in your will --"

"Is *that* what he told you --"

"You will not interrupt me again, Father."

Thomas tenses harder *visibly* -- and, when he relaxes himself, it is not nearly as smooth as when Bruce does it. He is --

Cassandra mimes stretching a thread between her fingers -- and breaking it.

"Yes," Tim says, and wraps an arm around her lean, hard waist.

"Tell more. *Think* more."

Tim nods and -- doesn't close his eyes. He watches his brother and father stare at each other --

He watches the family he never had and the family he didn't have until it was *almost* too late for him to have anything of the kind --

Almost too late for him to be someone... someone Jay would consider real and someone Cassandra would consider *whole*. Someone Dick would consider worth loving and Barbara would consider worth the respect which often means *more* to her than the love she feels for so many...

Someone Stephanie wouldn't feel the need to punch *daily*.

Tim laughs to himself --

"Funny?"

"Stephanie."

Cassandra smiles and digs her shoulder against his side in approval, then pats his abdominal muscles firmly. "Tell more."

Tim nods and watches Thomas stare at Bruce for another long moment -- and then Thomas inhales sharply and moves back to his chair, sitting down, putting his glasses back on, folding his hands together once more, and looking only at them. He --

"At this point in his life, Cassandra, he would've grown accustomed to... hmm... something *like* absolute power. He was the CEO of Wayne Enterprises and, unlike Bruce, he was *active* about it. He didn't oversee *every* decision, but he definitely played a role in every important decision -- and that had been the case since *his* father had retired in nineteen-sixty-three. He was also the head of the Internal Medicine department at Mercy General Hospital, but my own research into the matter suggests that, effectively, he had even more power than that. The Waynes have been donating to that hospital for generations --"

"'Money is power.'"

"Precisely," Tim says, and watches Thomas' nostrils flare --

Watches Bruce stand and wait, patient and unafraid --

Tim shakes his head. "The only person Thomas had to deal with on a regular basis, at that point, who he could not control absolutely -- or at all -- was his wife. And the two of them worked diligently and *well* to stay out of each other's way, save for when it was necessary for them to appear together for a party or gala..." Tim considers -- "No, he did have a fair amount of control over her when they first married, and could have made her life incredibly difficult. He chose not to do so. When Bruce was born in nineteen-sixty, Martha gained a small amount of power of her own. When *I* was born in nineteen-sixty-five, she gained much, much more. The passage of time and the changes in the culture -- and in the divorce laws -- gave her even more power. She used it against him without a single spasm of conscience --"

"He is angry at her?"

"I would be very surprised if he weren't. But... I think he also may be angry at..." Tim frowns and fights back the part of him which only wants to perform, to smile decorously and professionally --

Cassandra jabs him again --

"Thank you. He's angry at the world for not conforming to the expectations he formed when he came of age. He has power, but not enough of it to suit him, I think. He is..." Tim narrows his eyes. "He sees himself in decline."

"Don't do that."

For a moment, Tim thinks he is repressing -- or *regressing* -- again... but. "I have every intention of leaning on the five of you -- and whoever else comes to join us -- so that I do nothing of the kind."

Cassandra nods once.

"I need you all --"

"Yes --"

"What does Timothy want, Bruce," and Thomas' voice is toneless, but --

Tim thinks it would be a terrible mistake to assume surrender at this point. He focuses, shifting the split-screen to show frontal views of both Bruce and Thomas -- yes. Bruce's suspicion is only banked for the sake of politesse -- almost certainly more for politesse than for *correctness* -- but, after a moment, he nods. "He has no interest in the business world, Father."

Thomas tightens his grip on his own hands --

*Reddens* slightly --

And exhales. Slowly. "Then why, precisely, are we here."

"Because, as I began saying earlier, I will take my place as CEO of Wayne Enterprises *only* if Tim --"

"Is given a seat at the proverbial table. Yes, I see," Thomas says, and continues to stare down at his hands for a moment before looking up. He is using the light from the windows to throw a glare over the lenses of his glasses -- that much is clear from Bruce's deepening frown. "When you *are* CEO, Bruce, you'll be able to do what you wish."

"After you've died, Father? That is... weak."

"Really."

Bruce firms his mouth into a hard line and nods.

"You would have me publicly acknowledge -- after all of this time --"

"I would have you formally hire Tim, as you have formally hired me. He is, if anything, *better* prepared for a role at Wayne Enterprises than I am --"

"He is *prepared* for a role at *Drake Industries*. The fact that he chose to antagonize his *parents* --"

"*You* are his father. No one else."

"The answer is no, Bruce."

Bruce inclines his head.

Thomas nods --

"The lawsuit will be filed by the end of business today --"

"*Lawsuit* --"

"It will be in my name, Harvey's, and Tim's --"

"*Bruce* --"

"Father. I have discussed this matter -- and others relating to it -- with Tim several times over the years, and he has always said that he is more than willing to remain, legally, no more than your *by-blow*. This is, however, *incorrect*. If you will not do the *bare minimum* for your *child*... then *I* will do the *maximum*," Bruce says, and his stare is hard, cold, *unblinking* --

It's just as he'd always *imagined* the conversation, only --

Only more --

And every Tim he is wants to blush, and protest, and pull Bruce *back* -- except for the Tim who has been raised by his *true* family. Except for the man he was, perhaps, always meant to be.

Tim smiles, letting it hurt on his face, letting his sinuses *prickle* --

Cassandra smiles at him *happily* --

Tim homes the machine. "This... is what I wanted to show you. This feeling. It was there when I was thirteen, bruised, frightened, and repressing as ruthlessly as I was able, as well."

"Not as strong."

"No, but... the beginnings were there. And the need for it -- for more *of* it -- was *definitely* there. My feelings for Bruce came so *rapidly* --"

"No."

Tim blinks and turns to face her more fully.

"You fought for the Bruce you had *always* had *and* the one you had just gotten."

Tim considers, searching his memories for *emotion*, rather than just sensation and thought... "I remember thinking 'no,' and 'please,' and '*no*' over and over again. There were... very few other words until I had the note in my hand."

Cassandra nods as if this makes perfect sense --

"You're saying I was fighting, in part, as the child who used to try to become close to Bruce."

Another nod.

"Hn. It's tempting to blame my poor performance on that child's limitations..."

She lifts her fingers to jab him --

"... but I will, instead, merely consider the matter in depth for a moment."

"Yes."

At the time, he had been... young, of course. Increasingly disinclined toward anger. Increasingly *hopeful* -- no. That day. *That* day, after the night before, he had been the next thing to *stoned*.

In the fifteen years he's spent as the Batman, he's been exposed to *powerful* intoxicants which had nonetheless left him better able to reason than he had been that Sunday afternoon in May.

The sun had been shining, the birds -- mostly starlings, but still -- had been singing, his ass had been sore, and he'd smelled pleasantly of Jeux -- a cologne Bruce had purchased for Harvey, but had, Tim remembers, found to be far too serious for him, despite the name.

He'd been wandering Gotham with his brothers -- both of whom *wanted* him there -- in order to help one of those brothers choose an apartment. An apartment in which he'd be expected to spend a great deal of time. *Desired*.

Harvey had been smiling and winking at him periodically --

Bruce had been effortlessly -- *somehow* -- making sure Tim stayed in the conversation instead of merely observing from the sidelines... yes, he'd been stoned. With those sorts of emotional *tides* flowing within him, it would, perhaps, be only reasonable for there to have been some measure of... peeking.

And Tim thinks that's the best word for it. He can practically see his four (and five, and six, and seven -- he'd given up by the time he was eight) year old self slipping out from the shadows to creep up to Bruce's side, as wide-eyed and hopeful as some Dickensian waif...

He is not in the least bit sane.

Tim laughs helplessly and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Funny?"

"Mm. The parts of me which you like are mocking the parts you dislike for mocking the parts of me you wish to protect." And Tim looks up and smiles ruefully at her.

Cassandra's expression is a perfect illustration of 'I already know what's wrong with you, but I want to ask anyway. While bruising you.'

"Yes, I know. I'm working on it --"

"Faster!"

Tim strokes her always surprisingly broad cheekbones. "As you say. And as you *said*. I loved him, and I was in the process of allowing myself room to love him as... the child I never actually had the chance to be."

"You should be a child now."

Tim raises an eyebrow.

"*Sometimes*."

Tim opens his mouth to protest that -- closes it, and tries again. "There are some childish things I'm afraid of. For example, there are parts of me which still *resent* Bruce, even after all of this time, and wish to punish him. Even if that boils down to punishing myself."

"Yes. Don't do those things."

"Hm. I --"

"You can," she says, serene and -- no. Not serene. *Confident*.

Hm. "You'll make sure of it...?"

"We all will. We agreed."

Tim thinks about it --

Tim kisses the top of Cassandra's head. It does, actually, help him think. By putting things in perspective.

"Bruce asked for your -- all of your -- help with me."

"Yes."

"Because he -- because he knew he wouldn't be able to help me himself."

"Yes."

"There is a part of me which is only angry with him --"

"I know."

"-- for putting this *on* all of you --"

"Yes, I know."

"And you don't care."

"No," Cassandra says, and looks at him. "I care, and think you're wrong."

Tim smiles -- no. He lets himself laugh quietly. "What did Stephanie have to say about this?"

"'We're *kids*, asshole!'" The sound of Cassandra's voice is nothing like Stephanie's, but the tone... is perfect.

Tim raises an eyebrow.

"She was wrong, too," Cassandra says *firmly*. "We can be kids for some things, not everything."

There is guilt for that --

There is *more* guilt for the fact that there's so *little* of the first sort of guilt --

And then, as ever, there is the simple reality of the life he'd chosen to live. That they had *all* chosen to live. "I want... I want to grow up, once and for all."

Cassandra frowns at him.

"No, I... I've always thought that, in a truly successful life, there *must* be room for things like absurdity, and uncomplicated happiness," Tim says, and smiles again. "Fun. Helena has fun all the time, as do Harv, and Bruce, and Clark. Diana, Zatanna... various other vigilantes I respect and care for do, as well. I think... I think I tend to save 'fun' for sexuality and things which can be connected -- however indirectly -- to the Mission."

Cassandra nods thoughtfully and points to the viewscreen. "You were having fun before the attack."

"Yes."

"You... too much fun?"

"If I had been more focused --" And Tim manages to block Cassandra's jab, but it will bruise both of them. And it was -- "That was pointless. I'm sorry -- you're absolutely right. I could have done nothing to avert Bruce's kidnapping. They were too fast, too strong, and too many."

Cassandra nods with a *glare* -- and then takes a breath and gestures 'begin again.'

Tim inclines his head -- no. He breathes and *opens* himself -- *nearly* the way he would for meditation.

Cassandra looks at him curiously --

And then smiles and pulls him close, kissing his cheeks and nose before nuzzling his mouth. "Cuddle how?"

"Hm. You can't see it?"

"Your body says cuddle and *sleep*. Sleep is... in the way."

Tim nods thoughtfully. "I'll show you," he says, and pushes back -- before shifting over and resting his head in her lap.

She blinks at him.

Tim smiles ruefully. "I don't do this."

She shakes her head.

"I watch Jay do it all the time --"

"He likes the smells. And he thinks of his mother," she says, and looks at him pointedly.

Tim laughs. "I like your habit of wearing warm -- too warm for you -- black tights with no underwear on beneath them... by which I mean that I like the scents. And I never had a mother. But if it makes you uncomfortable -- hm. I think I'll grow somewhat... stressed if you continue to hold my head between your thighs in a manner so conducive to snapping my cervical spine."

Cassandra giggles and twists his head to the left --

To the right --

To the left again --

Tim hears a *creak* -- and gives up and laughs more.

She beams at him, relaxes her thighs, and 'boops' his nose -- a habit picked up from Stephanie after they began building Stephanie's resistance sedative D-seven.

Jay enjoyed that particular interlude so much that he wasn't careful... and Stephanie's lack of coordination with her 'booping' had led to Jay having a rather spectacular black eye.

Tim *sighs* a laugh --

"Stephanie," Cassandra says with conviction.

"And Jay. But... will she come to me, do you think?"

"She says you go to *her*."

Tim laughs more -- "Of course. Perhaps I'll pretend I'm Bruce and carry her in here bodily."

"Lots of bruises."

"Not if I sedate her first," Tim says, and lets his smile be sharp.

Cassandra giggles again. "I will help. But..." Cassandra frowns at the viewscreen, and then back at him.

"I... planned to avoid exposing her to the more actively incestuous... memories. Or. Hm. The more... problematically incestuous? Darkly incestuous? I'm... no longer sure what I mean."

Cassandra snorts -- and 'boops' him again. "I know. It's okay."

Tim takes a deep breath and nods. "Good. I love you."

"I know. I wish it didn't hurt you," she says, and rubs Tim's chest firmly with her rough hand.

"It never... hurts you?"

"Like spicy food. Like good sex. First sex. Like sad movie. Good hurts. It doesn't hurt you that way. Not all the time."

Tim closes his eyes and smiles. "Sometimes, though. Now."

Cassandra hums and pats Tim's cheeks with both hands. "Also wish you *just* wanted more cuddle."

"I do --" But Tim doesn't need her *look* to know that that was a lie. He --

He knows what he needs.

"I think it's a wound, Cassandra."

"Yes. Infected. We drain it now," she says, and taps his right shoulder.

The controller is in his right hand. Tim programs in the date, and the approximate time that the Wayne Enterprises Young Businesspersons Open House had *ended* on March first, nineteen-sixty --

And then he breathes.

And waits.

The first sound is the familiar creak of desks -- students' desks -- moving against tile, and Tim wonders where in Wayne Tower the final speeches and question-and-answer session had taken place --

Whether it was Lucius who had decided to purchase the desks to make the college students more comfortable --

And now the sound is hushed voices speaking -- young voices. Tim strains to hear his mother's -- no.

No.

He strains to hear *Janet's*, because that's who she is, that's who she always was and who she'll always *be* --

Even *Helena* would understand that change --

And the view cuts in on a thirty-two-year-old Thomas... pretending to look over a sheaf of papers in his hand. There is no doubt about that. Whenever he *actually* perused something, he would have a slight frown on his face, a line visible between his eyebrows --

He is not young *enough* for that line not to be there.

He --

"You know he's lying," Cassandra says, and strokes Tim's hair.

"Yes, I do," and Tim focuses -- the sheaf of papers turns out to be a schedule for the Open House. He may not have planned out the entire itinerary, but, at this point in time, he wasn't *yet* the CEO of record. He was still *building* his power base, his... wave of the future. He would've had a hand in this program at *some* point... Tim shakes his head. "He's already thinking of her."

"Yes. Show?"

Tim focuses enough for a split-screen -- and Janet isn't quite at the mathematical center of the room, but she certainly isn't at the front *or* the back. Unlike the other students -- currently in the process of filing out of the room for what will be a complimentary meal in the Wayne Enterprises cafeteria, followed by a bus ride back to the stolidly middle-of-the-road hotel where they've all been put up for the long weekend --

There *will* be complimentary shuttles to the airports, train stations, and bus stations, as these students *are* the best and brightest --

Janet Drake is wearing a well-tailored suit in *nearly* her favorite shade of burgundy. It isn't *exquisitely* tailored -- she can't afford that kind of thing *yet* -- but it still makes her stand out among her fellow students like, perhaps, an FBI agent among undercover Vice officers. Even given the relative formality of most college students in the mid-twentieth century, sweaters and button-downs and slacks *can't* compete with a well-cut jacket, tasteful blouse, knee-length skirt, and two and a half inch heels which, taken all together, are almost anachronistically *aggressive*.

Her makeup strongly suggests that she had, by this point, grown out of experimenting with pastels, as well. She --

Janet looks like herself, right down to -- up to -- her perfectly-coiffed hair. Tim's aesthetic -- and Clark-enhanced love for the environment -- is pained by the amount of hairspray which had to have been necessary to shellac her somewhat bouffant 'flip' into place, but he has to admit that it looks quite good on her. The *more* bouffant styles she affected in the seventies and eighties all made her seem to be trying too hard to be some variety of 'feminine' --

Just as the way she keeps picking up and then dropping assorted papers and pens to give her the excuse to stay in her seat when everyone else is leaving is making her seem to be trying too hard.

Should Tim program in an earlier time? An earlier *date*?

When, precisely, had she and Thomas first *noticed* each other?

Had they -- "Cassandra, do you have any thoughts about how long they've been attracted to each other at this point?"

Cassandra rubs Tim's throat meditatively. "Need them to look at each other more."

"All right."

Onscreen, Thomas has -- finally -- set down the itinerary and is looking over the blackboard with his hands locked behind his back. His posture is as perfect as it ever was, and the light from the windows catches the few -- very few -- grey hairs at his temple.

His mustache is still entirely black.

The tension -- he doesn't need Cassandra to tell him that Thomas is impatient. Tim knows that particular tension from all the times when Janet has taken too long recovering from their sessions together, leaving Thomas with *him* --

"I was never someone he wanted to know," Tim forces himself to say.

Cassandra's finger tense on the sides of Tim's throat -- and then go back to slow massage. "Tell more."

"I have no idea what sort of birth control methods Thomas used with Janet, but he never had any intention of impregnating her *once* -- much less twice. There is no doubt in my mind that he counseled abortion throughout the first trimester of both of her pregnancies, even though Janet would've had to leave the state to have one when she was pregnant with me, and possibly continued to do so well into her second trimester -- despite the fact that he, personally, only performed second trimester abortions when he felt there was a pressing medical emergency --"

"He was *gynecologist*?"

They had all made sure she knew *those* words -- "No, but he believed in the necessity and... rectitude of the procedure --"

"Janet doesn't?"

"Oh, she does. She always donates to pro-choice causes, and used to use Helena in ads discussing how she had chosen to have her children, and so other women should have the right to choose to do the same -- or not -- as they would."

"Good... public. Pub--" She snaps her fingers --

"Publicity --"

"Publicity, yes," Cassandra says, and strokes Tim's collarbone. "Better publicity with you in ads, too?"

Tim smiles and watches Janet drop her notebook for the fourth time. "Oh, yes. I might have done it, too -- those ads are highly effective for the pro-choice movement -- had she informed me that the ads were being filmed ahead of time. As it was, she didn't even tell *Helena* until she was whisking her out of St. Julia's for the day and into a stylist's chair."

"Janet believes, but doesn't *care*."

"Precisely. You could apply that to nearly anything in --"

Thomas and Janet stiffen together at the sound of the door closing, and *stay* tense as they very clearly wait for another sound, the proof that there *is* someone else who might see them --

Who might, perhaps, discover what's about to happen --

There's nothing, and Thomas relaxes visibly, consciously, and *nearly* as completely as Bruce can.

As *he* can --

*He*, at the very least, has a very good *idea* of what's about to happen.

*Janet* relaxes enough to suggest that she *thinks* she knows --

"Gather your things, Janet."

"All right --"

"Now. Silently."

Janet jerks -- and blinks. She wasn't expecting that... and Thomas is still giving her his back.

She narrows her eyes in a calculation she'll never entirely learn to mask --

("*Let* them see that you're thinking about them, Tim. If you've been doing your job *properly*...? It will make them *fear* you more.")

Cassandra hums. "She's wanted him for at least a day. She wants him differently now, though."

"Yes -- no, let me guess: she wants to know how to control him."

"Yes. Or..." Cassandra digs in slightly with her fingertips -- she is thinking deeply.

Tim raises an eyebrow. "She *thinks* that's what she wants?"

She drums her fingertips on his collarbone. "You tell. I --"

"The longer you make me wait," Thomas says, and his smile is small and *cheerful*, "the more severe your punishment will be."

Janet blinks and purses her -- perfectly -- painted lips. "I haven't agreed --"

"Did I not make myself clear, Janet? You are *only* to speak when spoken to."

Is that a blush on her face? A flush?

Both?

There's so much Tim doesn't *know* about this aspect of Janet's life -- but. "She controls Jack Drake utterly, and has from the beginning."

"Yes. She tried to control you. She did for a long time."

"Precisely. She's made *fewer* efforts to control Helena, but the drives are clearly still there. She is an autocrat --"

"Explain."

"A control-freak. Across the board -- or so I thought."

"Her with Thomas confused you. Still does?"

Tm smiles ruefully. "To a certain extent. I know, all through myself, what it can mean both to wield absolute control... and to surrender it utterly."

Cassandra frowns down at him. "She is not you."

"I know --"

Cassandra frowns more deeply --

And Tim blinks. "Hm. Perhaps I'll know that better in a little while," he says, and turns back to the viewscreen -- where Janet is gathering her notebooks and pens... though more neatly than quickly.

"I'm going to hurt you," Thomas says, conversationally.

Janet's hands jerk -- but she doesn't drop anything. She stands, holding her sleek and somewhat overtly masculine briefcase at her side and waiting with her left eyebrow raised.

Thomas chuckles, and continues to give her his back.

And continues.

And continues --

"You do that with Steph."

"It's effective," Tim says, and deals with his desire to blush -- no, he lets himself do it --

Cassandra strokes his cheeks. "You're not him, either."

"Thank you."

"You are --"

"Set your briefcase down, bend over, and *grip* your ankles, Janet."

"What -- we --"

"Now."

"Mr. Wayne --"

"*Now*."

"I will not *humiliate* myself in front of your *business* associates," and Janet is... trying not to glare. She's trying to sound reasonable. She --

Hm. "She hasn't even remotely given up on this... encounter."

"Yes," Cassandra says, and shifts. "She's a virgin."

Tim *chokes* --

"You are surprised?"

"Ah -- yes," Tim says, and wonders how close to his hairline his eyebrows have migrated -- "You're sure."

"She is yelling about it. I see it... look at her hands."

Tim does, and they are tensed and not -- quite -- shaking. "Yes?"

"And her legs. Her thighs."

*They* -- have a slight tremble. Or they *had* one, before they stopped. "You see this often --"

"On girls --" Cassandra frowns. "'Old-fashioned' girls. Some not American. When people are... pushing. *Hitting* on."

As opposed to merely hitting on. Tim nods thoughtfully. Thomas... is definitely hitting. And, right now, he's turning.

Slowly.

*Judiciously* --

Janet draws herself up to her full five feet, one and one-half inches of height, lifts her chin, and waits --

"Janet."

Janet raises her eyebrow higher --

And there's a *flare* of something paradoxically *dark* in Thomas' eyes before he uses the light from the windows to throw a glare over the lenses of his glasses. "Do you truly think anyone -- *anyone* -- enters a room with me in it without knocking first on my *secretary's* door...?"

"This is *not* your office."

"So it isn't," and Thomas smiles again. "It is, however, my conference room. In my company. Which is located in my tower." And Thomas raises his own eyebrow.

Janet swallows, and a pulse beats faster in her throat --

"Yes, this is precisely what you want for your future, isn't it? Well, there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. Those primitive little boys who were making all of those comments about 'a woman's place' and all of that business will *have* no place at the Wayne Enterprises table. You, however, have thus far shown yourself to be intelligent, talented --"

"Pardon me, Mr. Wayne," Janet says, and her eyes are hard -- but that pulse is still beating.

And her thighs are still trembling --

"I... am going to have my *own* company."

Thomas looks at her thoughtfully.

Thomas *studies* her -- then walks closer, looking her over in a manner not dissimilar to how a chef would look over a particular cut of *meat*.

Janet holds her ground --

"I could make you a very wealthy woman... assuming, of course, that you lived up to the deeply impressive potential you've shown over the past few days. You're the best candidate I've seen since Lucius Fox forced my painfully-racist father to admit him to this program four years ago..." And Thomas stops just behind Janet's left shoulder and looms, breathing against her hair. "Lucius is a Negro, you see. He's also one of the single most brilliant men I've ever met outside of the field of medicine, and he *will* be my strong right hand..."

"Is that. Is that wise?"

Thomas chuckles softly. "My father is dying, and I am his heir. I will make *every* rule, Janet... and those rules will be followed. Do you understand?"

This time, it's definitely a blush on Janet's face --

"Yes... I see that you do. But you're a young woman, still. A teenager, yes?"

"That's irrelevant --"

"Not," Thomas says, and lifts her hair enough that he can see the back of her neck, "to me. Are you a virgin?"

"That's --"

"Yes. Or. No."

Janet winces --

*Starts* to shift on her feet --

Stops, and holds her ground. "Yes," she says, and stares straight ahead.

Thomas hums.

Tim frowns. "Discomfort or arousal?"

"Yes."

"In equal measure?"

Cassandra waves her hand back and forth. "It is... changing. All the time."

Tim nods. "He's acting as if he understands how aroused she is --"

"He knows he will please her. He is confident." She frowns.

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"You will take this the wrong way."

"I might not --"

"You will."

"I'll try not to --"

"He is confident like you."

Tim... frowns. More. "I -- bruise me somewhere, please --"

The pinch will bruise his neck *spectacularly*, and will hurt every time he turns his head, wears anything with a tight collar -- like his *cowl* -- or *swallows* vigorously.

It will also remind him of what happens every time he gets *that* kind of morbid about familial legacies. "Thank you."

"Welcome," she says, and starts to pet his Adam's apple with the *most* callused parts of her fingers. It's less ticklish than comforting, and Tim lets his eyes slip... a third of the way closed.

And focuses again on the viewscreen, where Thomas is stroking the back of Janet's neck, slowly and... possessively.

Janet is doing a creditable job of trying to control her breathing, but it's clear that she's a talented amateur, at best. She --

"You wear entirely too much hairspray --"

"No."

"'No'?"

Janet *starts* to shift on her feet again -- stops. "You will not *dress* me."

Thomas hums again. "If you *do* come to work for me --"

"Do you want an employee or a *lover*?"

Thomas chuckles and lets Janet's hair fall --

Janet shivers --

Stills herself --

Clenches her small hands into fists -- relaxes them and breathes.

And breathes.

At this point, Tim often makes Stephanie wait -- her curses begin to gain, as Bruce would say, an 'ecstatic quality.' With other lovers...

The kryptonite would come out with Clark. Nothing large enough to *injure* him, of course, but definitely something which will weaken his knees enough to *drop* him.

*Then* he would make Clark wait.

Or Jay --

Or -- Dick would already be begging. Dick...

In the eleven years Tim has known Dick, he has never been able to make him wait. Not like this. He --

Cassandra taps his temples. "Stop panicking."

Is *that* -- hm. "I was doing a very good job of distracting myself from the panic."

"Sex."

"Of course."

Cassandra nods. "Stop it, anyway."

"As you -- say. Ah."

Thomas has his -- very, very large -- hand wrapped around Janet's throat. He isn't squeezing --

He squeezes.

Janet's eyes are wide and -- yes, that's worry, if not quite *fear*. Yet.

"In a simplified -- and logical -- world, you could be both. You would negotiate contracts for me -- I suspect you will *always* get the best deals for me with just a bit of training in businessperson's politesse -- then bring them back between your teeth as you crawled to my desk with your delightful posterior held high and your head hung low. And then you would wait for your... rewards. Everyone would know of your exalted status, and would work their *very* hardest to perform well enough to, perhaps, take your place someday. Such is the world of business in a nutshell, yes?"

Janet nods -- with difficulty.

"Yes, you understand that sort of mindset quite well, don't you? You were probably a mercenary little girl even when you were a toddler, weren't you?"

Another nod -- and a greater degree of confidence. She knows -- or thinks she knows -- what's desired.

"No one, of course, would believe that the ever so *virile* young CEO could ever be... loyal," and Thomas raises his eyebrow and loosens his grip on Janet's throat.

Without letting go.

Janet takes a deep breath and licks her lips -- something Tim almost never saw her do even when he was in her presence nearly every day. She absolutely has a right to it now.

She --

"What would your wife and newborn son say about your loyalty, Mr. Wayne?"

Thomas smiles --

Grins --

And laughs *delightedly*, for all that his eyes speak of a greater degree of --

"He will lose control soon," Cassandra says.

"Yes, I see it, too --"

"My wife devotes her time to breastfeeding our newborn son -- who is growing at a frankly astonishing speed, considering her own small stature -- and to breastfeeding her ravenously bisexual immortal sorcerer of a lover. At least, I assume that's why I smelled milk on his breath the last time we passed in the hall -- and this shocks you." Thomas chuckles again. "Which part...? Or is that irrelevant?"

"I... was ill-informed. I'm... sorry --"

"Do you do that often, Janet? Apologize, I mean."

Janet narrows her eyes. "No."

"Mm. You'll learn to do it better with me," and Thomas releases her throat and walks toward the door. "Follow."

"I -- what --"

"You wanted *privacy*, didn't you? Pick up that briefcase and *move*," and Thomas is out the door without another word.

Janet stares --

Pants --

And jogs, graceful and quick in her heels.

Tim focuses, and watches Thomas lead her to the executive offices, and from there to his private elevator. Before the doors are fully closed, he yanks her skirt up in the back and does *something* --

Tim doesn't shift his focus.

Tim doesn't shift his focus.

Tim --

His hand is working between her legs with rough -- and possessive, again -- speed. Janet flushes deeply and spreads her legs, biting the inside of her lip and narrowing her eyes.

"Is this the degree of vaginal lubrication I should expect, Janet?"

"I -- I --"

"Answer."

"I'm not... certain --"

Thomas makes an irritated noise and moves his hand from her panties. "Fix your clothes."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne --"

"You're not one of those terrifically backwards women who don't masturbate, are you?"

Janet's flush deepens as she *jerks* her skirt back into place --

"Press B3."

"Yes --"

"In brief; masturbation is entirely natural, healthy psychologically *and* physiologically, and, among other things, allows your vagina to refresh itself between your 'periods.' It --"

"I masturbate. I -- I just don't... *measure* my... wetness. Mr. Wayne," and Janet stares at nothing but the elevator buttons.

Thomas blinks thoughtfully. "And you cannot make judgments about that sort of thing by sensation alone?"

"Not... without using my hands."

"Fascinating. Very well. You're going to be thoroughly bruised when I'm finished with you for the day, Janet."

Janet grunts -- "I --"

And the doors open on the -- then -- lowest level of the Wayne Enterprises parking garage.

Thomas gives her a slight push. "There is another elevator approximately fifty-eight yards to the northwest. Go."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne."

They walk in silence until they reach the small, lonely, and somewhat incongruously-placed elevator leading to the bomb shelters Jonah Wayne had built. And --

"Why are you surprised?" Cassandra rubs Tim's collarbone.

"I just realized those bomb shelters -- and Thomas' dungeon -- can't be more than five years old at this point. Less, probably."

"Everything was new sometime."

"Very true, but --"

Inside *this* elevator, Thomas presses Janet against the wall with one large hand splayed between her shoulder blades and spanks her through her clothes with the other.

Hard.

Over and *over* --

He doesn't stop when the doors open.

He doesn't stop when they close again.

He doesn't stop when she makes a sound -- but he smiles. "As an aside, Janet, I'm *very* fond of the noises beautiful young women make when they're being hurt for my pleasure --"

Janet cries out --

"But I will always, *always* punish... fakery," and Thomas spanks her even harder, all but *shoving* her against the elevator wall with his spanks --

His *strikes* --

And he is *visibly* erect now, tenting his perfectly-tailored trousers --

"Nnh -- please --"

"Yes?"

"It -- you're hurting me --"

"I did say that I would," Thomas says, and -- stops. And takes a deep breath. "Lift your skirt to your waist."

Janet pants and flushes --

Bites her lip --

*Claws* at the wall --

"Lift your skirt to your waist... or I will make you weep like a little girl."

Janet grunts again -- and laughs somewhat hysterically, still facing the wall.

Thomas studies her curiously, seemingly unaware of the *flex* of his own hands --

And Janet's hands are shaking as she lifts her skirt to her waist, exposing what Barbara would call 'granny panties' and what Jason would call 'hot' -- while blushing furiously. Her stockings are obviously silk, though, and they sit perfectly on her legs. She's still laughing --

"Tell me what amuses you, Janet," and Thomas *grips* her left buttock --

And *this* cry is real enough --

"Tell me now."

"Your -- you *want* me to be a little girl. To -- soften my *hair*, and be *obedient*, and -- I even *look* like your wife -- oh -- oh, *ow* --"

Thomas squeezes harder --

Grips her other buttock and squeezes *that* --

And Janet groans and shivers --

"I was, in fact, terribly disappointed in myself when I discovered that I had a type that was so obvious to everyone who knew me, even shallowly, that I could be ribbed and mocked every time a sufficiently petite and dark young woman happened by... but man is made of both greatness *and* limitation, Janet. I have accepted this. Still, I can't allow you to remain in ignorance: I have no interest in little girls, as opposed to little -- and biddable -- women. You need not 'bone up' on your Nabokov to learn how to entice me," and Thomas lets go --

Janet's knees buckle -- for a moment before she stands straight, hands fisted at her sides.

She breathes.

Thomas *waits* --

And Tim -- doesn't squeeze his eyes shut. "How much does she *want* to 'entice' him?"

"She doesn't know. She is asking herself right now."

Tim bites the inside of her cheek -- stops. "How *frantic* is the questioning?"

"You see --"

"There's --" Tim shakes his head and drags his hand down over his face in a mock caul.

"I will bruise you again --"

"No, thank you. No --"

"*Look*!"

Tim winces -- and sits up enough that his head is pillowed on Cassandra's small breasts. And he looks.

Janet is shivering -- except when she's not.

Janet's breath is *hitching* -- except when it isn't.

The back of Janet's neck is flushed.

Her shoulders are tense enough that, were she anyone in Tim's *actual* family -- save for Helena -- he would be expecting violence. And that's the answer. Janet is far more angry than she is anything else, and -- she is herself.

She will never, ever aim anger at someone who can damage her if it can possibly be helped. Therefore, she will not *allow* herself to be angry at Thomas. Therefore...

She's angry at herself.

She's angry at herself for not... coping? Being prepared? Both? More?

Cassandra wraps her arms around Tim's waist and squeezes. "You know now."

"Yes. I -- I think a part of me would like to introduce her nineteen-year-old self to all of you --"

"Would hit her."

Tim coughs a laugh --

And, while he watches, Janet stops shivering, breathes deeply, lifts her chin -- stops --

Blinks --

Smiles *secretively* -- and lowers her head, crossing her arms behind her back. "How *do* I entice you, Mr. Wayne?"

Thomas smiles, sharp and *wild* -- and sighs as he strokes what seems to be a firm line down the center of her spine. "That's an excellent start, but move your hands... hm. Yes, hold your skirt up by your sides... higher... yes, like that. Have you viewed pornography with bondage and domination games? Sadomasochism?"

Janet licks her lips. "One of my sorority sisters... smuggled a magazine in. Part of a magazine, I should say --"

"Which one."

"Bound... Beauties --"

Thomas hums. "Spread your legs further... yes. I'm familiar with that particular periodical from my days at Exeter. Pulp *schlock* is what I believe the kids would call it these days, but really rather exceedingly helpful to the fevered imaginations of adolescents. Your scent reminds me pleasantly of the inside of a shell which has been freshly washed by the sea. My wife would undoubtedly be more poetic about it, but I would prefer it if you *didn't* sleep with her."

Janet *squeaks* -- and blushes darkly.

Thomas laughs and presses the door-open button. "She swears she's not bisexual, that drunken escapades don't *count*... well, time -- and science -- will prove me entirely correct. Not that it will matter. Be a good girl and walk directly down this hall. Keep your hands *precisely* where they are."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne," and Janet does her best to walk with a sway to her hips, but it's clear that she'd learned to do that with her arms only in certain positions. Held somewhat as though she's attempting to imitate a *chicken*... it's a little beyond her.

"Don't worry about finesse this early in our relationship, Janet. Learning never ends -- and *we* have just begun."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne."

The hall is -- dim. Grim. *Relentlessly* grey -- specifically *battleship* grey. The same battleship grey it was until Tim had talked Bruce into going *down* there with him three years ago --

("This is... horrible."

"Yes, Bruce, it is."

"I wouldn't want... of course, we should protect our employees in case of any emergency."

"Yes."

"We could... do... something?")

And Tim had smiled at him --

And Bruce had exhaled with relief.

("You *do* have an idea."

"Harv did. He refused to come down here *with* us, but... well. And did you think I would bring you down here just to torture you?")

Bruce had *looked* at him --

And Tim had hummed and left it.

("Murals, Bruce. We recruit local artists -- young ones who, presumably, haven't lost hope and faith in things like *color* -- and then we let them wreak artistic havoc all *over* the bomb shelters."

"Oh. Inside the actual shelters, too?"

"Wouldn't you want something to look at while you were stuck in there?"

"I thought... we could add books?"

"We could add books, too. Children's books, as well.")

And Bruce had smiled *brightly*, very clearly remembering learning to read at Martha's and Blood's knees --

Hopefully not *grimoires* --

But then his smile had slipped.

("Bruce...?"

"What about... the other room.")

They'd winced *together* --

And looked down the hall at the carefully locked, carefully unlabeled --

Thomas had left Bruce the key in his *will*, with a jaunty little note about how he trusted Bruce would find a good *use* for it --

Neither of them had ever been inside it. *Harvey* liked to pretend it didn't *exist*.

("Hey, it's bad enough that he put one in the *manor* -- and, no, Bruce, this is not where you tell me to be *fair*.")

There, then --

They had stared for a long, long moment.

And then Bruce had sighed.

("I'm the oldest. I will... see about disposing of... the materials."

"Bruce --"

"We must be... enlightened about this, I believe. He engaged in consensual relationships with adult women throughout... throughout...")

And Bruce had shuddered --

And Tim had gripped his forearm and squeezed.

("Your mother had... things to say about her relationship with our father."

"Yes.")

And Bruce's eyes had been so *dark* --

("We'll do it together. We'll bring in... those extra large, heavy-duty canvas bags workmen use --"

"And power tools. I believe we will need those, as well, Tim."

"Yes. Yes. We'll bring everything we can think of. Including hard liquor.")

And Tim had tried a smile --

And Bruce had smiled gratefully back, kissing Tim's forehead and --

("Brother..."

"Brother."

"Harv *will* want to join us for this, for all of his protests --"

"Yes."

"I wonder... should we make it a fait accompli? Schedule it for a time when he must be in court, perhaps?")

And Tim had sighed --

("It's tempting, Bruce, but... we don't ever want him to feel left out. Not of things which involve this much emotion."

"As you say.")

And Bruce had stared at the locked door one more time --

("Is it wrong that I want, very badly, to beg Alfred for *his* assistance?")

And Tim had squeezed Bruce's shoulder.

("Wrong, no. Problematic..."

"Yes. He is... enjoying his retirement with the Foundation community theaters --"

"Far, far away from anything *remotely* related to *Thomas* Wayne.")

Bruce had taken another deep breath and inclined his head.

("Let us begin, then. Perhaps, when we are finished, this hall will feel less... deathly."

"Perhaps.")

And it does... so long as one isn't *alone* in it. In this moment...

Does Janet feel alone? Oppressed by all the grey? The silence and *emptiness* that surrounds her -- except for the sound of her own heels and Thomas' *relentlessly* steady breathing.

He's remaining a full four paces behind her, and walking just *off*-pace. It's doing an excellent job of keeping her unsteady on her feet.

Once, just once, Thomas strokes down his fly with the side of his thumb -- but then he brings his hands back to his sides and keeps walking.

After another three paces --

"Stop four feet -- approximately -- away from the door at the end of the hall."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne."

When she gets there, Thomas sighs and lets himself speed up -- minutely. He unlocks the large door, starts to open it -- it would bump her arm. He shakes his head, pushes her back slightly, opens the door again --

This time, it *just* brushes the tip of her nose and compresses -- slightly -- her small breasts. He nods in satisfaction, pulls a small grease pencil from his pocket, and marks a straight line just in front of her toes.

"*Every* time, Janet."

"Yes... Mr. Wayne," and the question in her eyes is clear.

Thomas smiles and gestures for her to walk in. "That was very good enticement, as well. Waiting for my pleasure in terms of explaining my motivations, that is. Do that... often."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne."

"I enjoy the sight of noses being touched, of breasts being compressed... oh, all sorts of things. You'll come to know these things... assuming this all works out, of course."

Janet swallows and nods, and very clearly tries not to look around, not to *gawk*.

There are the medieval stocks he remembers. There is the upright *board* with restraints bolted in at the positions for wrists, ankles, and waist -- and they're positioned perfectly for a *very* petite woman. There is the St. Andrew's cross. There is the suspension net -- though not the same one Harvey had taken down without a word. There is the *horse*, and Tim has never been able to bring himself to acquire one of those for his own use, because the thought of placing Barbara, or Cassandra, or Stephanie on something --

Something that *relentlessly* --

Tim is *aware* of any number of sexual submissives and simple masochists who enjoy the use of horses --

And of course, they *can* be used on males, but --

Cassandra is laughing at him. Specifically, the repetitive hum that denotes a giggle she's trying to keep in because she believes she won't be able to control it. Which --

"Well, do you *want* one?"

"No!"

"All right, then --"

"Still funny."

"My love and appreciation for your and your sisters' clitorises is really quite serious, Cassandra --"

"Hee hee hee!"

Tim hums and goes back to following Janet's gaze. There is the wall of paddles, of course. Wooden ones, metal ones, leather-encased ones, furred ones, studded ones, et cetera. They're all neatly hung, with handles which would be too broad and unwieldy for *most* of the population -- but not for Thomas.

Next is the wall of whips, floggers, cats, scourges, canes, crops -- et cetera. Those, Tim remembers, were *all* leather of the highest quality. The artisans' marks were all from a firm in northern Italy -- which had refused to answer *any* of Bruce's questions.

They'd hung *up* on him.

Next are the cages. One of them appears to be small enough for a *collie*, but Tim knows from doing the measurements on it that a small person can crouch in it well enough.

The next one would allow an -- again, small -- person to kneel.

The next one would allow a small person to stand, and has -- metal -- restraints at several places for assorted poses. Janet looks at that one and breathes the same sort of sigh of relief that Bruce had...

("Oh. It's. It's electrified. Tim..."

"I... was hoping you wouldn't... notice --"

"Would you. Have you ever --"

"With Jefferson. During that... ah. The sex nebula incident.")

And Harvey had stared at both of them like they were *crazy* --

("Wait, is this where I put my headphones on or where I *yell* at Tim for him being nuts?")

Bruce looked thoughtful for a moment --

And Tim had sighed.

("Perhaps a little of both, Harv. But Black Lightning has full control of his powers --"

"Wasn't he *high*? Weren't you *all* high?"

"Yes, but --")

And Harvey had thrown a scourge at him --

And then looked horrified --

("Oh, God, I *know* where that's been -- and *you* know where that's been -- and we *all* know -- where's the booze.")

And Bruce had pointed to the cooler Alfred -- who had *somehow* known they were doing this -- had insisted on packing for them --

And they had started drinking. Heavily.

Right *now*... Janet is studying the wires with an expression on her face which suggests that she doesn't *fully* understand what she's seeing --

And Thomas hums again, crossing his arms over his chest. "*Half* of the bars are electrified. It's possible to remain in the cage without being shocked... but not for very long."

And Janet stares at him with wide, *shocked* eyes --

"I have, thus far, been forced to save that cage for the professionals whose services I occasionally purchase. While I *have* been able to find women in that line of work who are both intelligent and well-read..." And Thomas raises an eyebrow.

Janet swallows, hands spasming on her bunched-up skirt --

"You're frightened."

"Yes. Mr. Wayne."

"Of... scarring, perhaps?"

Janet inhales shakily and nods --

"No, Janet. You will -- always -- answer aloud."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne. I -- am afraid --"

"Apologize."

"W-what?"

"Apologize... for your error."

Janet stares at him, and her thighs are trembling again. Her eyes...

There is a *softness* --

Cassandra taps Tim's abdomen. "You see."

"She is... aroused."

"Yes. Still frightened, though. What... you pause now?"

Tim focuses and does so, and the image on the screen... is of a teenaged girl who is both intimidated and *excited*. She's flushed and *shocked* -- and ready for more, even if all she's ready for is to *know* more.

Tim squeezes Cassandra's hands on his waist. "What do you want to know?"

"Her parents. Her family?"

"Her parents died in a car accident just after she graduated from high school, leaving just enough money to -- with her scholarship supplements -- pay for an exceedingly high-quality college education --"

"'Accident'?"

Tim blinks --

And his mind fills with the image of Lex smiling at him with his mouth and *inviting* him with his eyes --

("We both know what you do with your nights --"

"Just as we both know what you do with every moment of every *day*, Lex...?"

"Well... not right *now*."

"Lex."

"Plausible deniability is --"

"Another term for a tissue of lies."

"You don't think you've created more of a broadcloth at this point...?")

And Tim had kept his stern expression for a beat --

Another --

And then Lex had blown him a kiss, and Tim had snorted and promised himself a significant amount of time to make Clark deliriously happy -- as well as at least one photograph of the 'World's Finest' doing something irritatingly -- to Lex -- heroic.

He doesn't *quite* have a foot in both camps, and he never, ever will, but --

But.

Lex had almost certainly been busily working on taking advantage of his parricide *while* Tim and Harvey were frantically trying to figure out how to get Bruce back. The murder had been in December nineteen-seventy-eight and Lex had been under -- ultimately useless -- suspicion *immediately*.

Janet's parents had died in late June of nineteen fifty-eight -- over twenty years earlier. Had Janet been, say, a *James*, there might have been *some* suspicion leveled at her back then... or there might not have been. It was, in fact, a more innocent time.

Still...

"No?"

Tim shakes his head slowly. "To the best of my knowledge, Janet's mechanical expertise is almost nil *now* -- and it would've been even worse then."

"Accident was mechanical?"

"That was what the articles I studied... suggested," Tim says, and frowns. "I never did see the actual police reports. Does she seem, at this point in time, to be capable --"

"Everyone is capable of murder."

Tim raises an eyebrow.

"Even Bruce."

Tim raises it *higher* --

"Would just hurt him more. Maybe *enough* more that he would do it... badly. You know this."

Tim strokes Cassandra's forearms. "I believe, with all of myself, that he would fail. Even if one of us would die if he did."

"Yes, you do."

"You disagree."

"He breaks himself -- he would break himself to save us. He would..." She scratches his abdomen meditatively, *thoughtfully* -- "He is not the only one. Don't know how else to say it."

For a moment, Tim is confused -- but then comprehension hits hard. "He's not the only Batman... and so he feels he can afford to destroy his own psyche and ability to act *as* the Batman --"

"Yes! Yes, that!"

Tim winces. Queasily. "That... is too easy to see."

"You protect him. So do we. *Always*."

"I have to talk to him, Cassandra. I -- he can't do that --"

"He doesn't know he will."

"If he does know --"

"Will it help?" And Cassandra looks down at him curiously.

Tim winces again --

"You don't think so."

"I -- still have to try, Cassandra."

"Yes. You do," she says, and squeezes him again. "More now."

Tim nods and focuses --

And listens to Janet pant --

And struggle to slow her breathing down --

And *pant* --

And then she straightens her posture as best as she can with her arms akimbo, lifts her chin --

She lowers her head. "I apologize, Mr. Wayne."

"For...?"

Janet *just* touches her tongue to her upper lip --

Thomas' eyes are *glittering* --

"For... my error --"

"Be specific. Exactitude is important in *all* areas of life, Janet."

And the angle isn't the *best*... but it's still abundantly clear that she's narrowing her eyes and preparing to resist.

Thomas can see it, too -- *that* much is clear by the way he tightens his grip on his own biceps for just a moment. "Before you do... take a moment to continue touring this space. I think you need to understand where you are somewhat better than you do now. Head up."

Janet looks up immediately --

"Good girl. Explore."

Janet flushes -- and does so.

She stops by the collection of leather-covered ottomans. All of them are of different heights and widths, and would present the submissive using them in a variety of ways. Harvey had convinced them to simply sterilize them and donate them to charity.

Janet moves on, and stops by the small table which had, at the time of Thomas' death, fourteen different gags -- all of which allowed for the submissive in question to make a great deal of noise, however incoherently. There are only six there at this point in time, but all of them are quite complex -- and almost certainly custom made.

Perhaps by Thomas *himself* --

Janet picks up the one which would most commonly be known now as a 'spider' gag and stares at it with confusion --

And Thomas smiles. "The ring fits behind your teeth, forcing your mouth to remain open -- no matter what. The straps fasten behind your neck. The 'legs,' such as they are, are far more aesthetic than useful."

"It... looks like something one would see at a *dentist's* office, Mr. Wayne."

Thomas hums. "You don't say. Keep going."

"I -- yes, Mr. Wayne," she says, and sets the gag down.

The next small table is covered with an assortment of nipple clamps and weights. There is no sign of the -- clip-on -- jewelry which had been there in the eighties.

Janet swallows. "Are these... for my breasts?"

"For your nipples *only*, Janet. I've experimented extensively, but clamping the breast itself creates an aesthetic which can only be termed sloppy. We will not be doing so. Keep going."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne."

She pauses in what, at first, appears to be a large, empty space -- but it doesn't take her long to look up. Bolted into the ceiling are chains -- of adjustable length -- with simple leather cuffs at the end of them, chains with steel *manacles* at the end of them, and several lengths of several *kinds* of rope. The nautical-quality rope appears to be the most-used, but Tim isn't going to try to make that sort of estimate right now.

Janet licks her lips --

*Flexes* her hands on her skirt --

And keeps walking.

The next piece she comes to is a standard -- for the year two thousand, anyway, and no one has ever said Thomas *wasn't* ahead of his time -- adjustable bondage chair. The submissive can be reclined at several angles while her thighs are locked in a spread position and her arms are locked in a cruciform position. The seat is completely split.

"Self-explanatory, I believe?"

Janet closes her eyes --

Opens them and straightens her posture --

And lowers her head again. "Yes, Mr. Wayne."

"Good girl. Keep going."

By the eighties, there was a bench *there* that would force the submissive's knees nearly to her chest while locking her ankles to a bar above her head. The wrists could be tied in any number of positions... and the vulva and anus would remain exposed to anything desired.

To Janet's left -- where there is currently a small table holding a collection of 'free' leather cuffs and steel manacles -- there will eventually be an 'impaler' bolted to the floor with a spreader bar and removable dildo.

Janet isn't looking at the cuffs.

Janet... is looking at the hospital-green curtain that stretches across the entirety of the space.

"You may feel free to remove *one* hand from your skirt to pull the curtain aside. But you *will* put it right back."

Janet shivers and turns to stare at Thomas, who still has his arms crossed over his chest.

His legs are precisely shoulder-width apart, and his erection is visibly impressive enough --

Janet stares at it for a long moment --

"Oh, Janet. You haven't earned that, yet."

Janet makes a shocked and *affronted* noise --

And then obviously tries to pull her submissive and *obedient* expression back on. She fails --

And Thomas shakes his head. "Janet. What did I *just* say about fakery?"

"I'm not -- I was surprised --"

"That wasn't the answer to my question," Thomas says, and he's already moving, fast and gracefully.

Janet steps back once --

"No, Janet."

Janet stops and shakes her head --

And then Thomas winds her hair around his left fist and grips her small wrists with his right. He walks her the last two paces to the curtain, then forces her face against it. "Bite it."

"What -- I --"

"*Now*," and Thomas *shakes* her --

"*Fuck* --"

"Profanity is, at best, a failure of imagination. At worst, it is the sign of a *polluted* mind, fit only for the lowliest possible occupations. Often? It is *both*. You will not curse again, Janet."

"I -- I apologize --"

"For?"

"I apologize for cursing!"

"Very good. Now *bite the curtain*."

Janet moans and does it --

"Do you have a *good* grip, Janet? In this case, you may nod or shake your head."

Janet moans --

Shivers --

And nods.

"Excellent," and Thomas *pulls* her -- and thus the curtain -- across the room, exposing what Tim had taken to calling 'the medical area' aloud. He's called it other things *deep* in the privacy of his own mind --

Bruce was so *upset* --

("It's a *perversion*, Tim! Harv, please help me explain --"

"It's a perversion. It's -- I can't believe -- I'm trying to think of me using my office to bang defendants or something --"

"To be fair, I think we can be reasonably sure that he didn't bring his *patients* here --"

"Wasn't your *mother* his patient, little guy?")

And that...

That had been a *skip* in his mind, something like a caesura between his need to soothe his brothers and his need to finish cleaning out his *father's* *dungeon* --

Tim had sat down *on* the cooler --

Harvey had placed a Macallan on the rocks in his hand --

And Bruce had stroked his hair.

Here, in this moment, Cassandra is stroking Tim's navel through his worn t-shirt and digging her chin in against the top of his head.

There, in nineteen-sixty, Janet and Thomas aren't breathing very well, at all, as they stare at the gurney -- with stirrups just *waiting* for feet which are, presumably, as petite as the rest of the body.

The stirrups have canvas restraints attached to them, as does the gurney itself. It appears that, at this point in time, at least, Thomas prefers his submissives to keep their wrists near their waists.

"Do you see, Janet?"

"Y-yes, Mr. Wayne --"

"Good," and he walks her to a collection of rolling trays which wouldn't be out of place in an operating room.

The first one has a selection of speculums -- and Janet looks confused.

"Hmm. I see you don't know what these are. You will -- someday," and Thomas smiles and moves to the next tray, bending her face down enough that her nose is pressed to the first -- and smallest -- pair of forceps on the tray. "Do you see?"

"Y-yes --"

"Good," and Thomas lifts her and moves her to the next tray --

And the next --

And the *next* --

And Janet is panting now, flushed and -- no. They're *both* sweating, and Thomas' breathing is rough enough --

*Difficult* enough --

His hands are *shaking* on her wrists and in her hair -- and then he lets her go. "The stockings are lovely. The panties are adequate. The shoes are excellent. All of the above must go. *Now*."

Janet moves to unbutton her skirt --

And Thomas lifts her and throws her bodily over the side of the gurney --

She slides far enough over that her toes don't touch the *floor* --

And Thomas begins to spank her *hard* again, *fast* and hard -- "I said *nothing* about the skirt!"

"Ow -- oh -- *ow* --"

"*Apologize*."

"I'm sorry!"

"For *what*?" And Thomas alternates buttocks --

Janet kicks and *yells* --

"*Answer*!"

"Please -- *please*, Mr. Wayne!"

"What. Are. You. Sorry. *For*?"

"Oh -- oh, God -- fuck --" And then Janet is screaming -- and trying to close her legs against Thomas spanking her *vulva*.

"If you don't spread your legs, Janet... well. You have *some* idea now of what will happen, don't you?"

"You -- you'll hurt me anyway!"

"Oh, yes. But the *question* is... when will I *stop*?"

Janet grunts and kicks again -- apparently involuntarily -- and one of her heels falls off. And then she spreads her legs.

"There's a good girl. Think about your apologies," Thomas says, and begins to spank her again through her panties, using his fingers more than his palm.

Janet whimpers and bites her lip --

Curls her toes and claws and the side of the gurney's mattress --

Pants --

And then begins to cry out for every spank, wincing and *shuddering* as Thomas strikes again --

And again --

And again --

And Tim knows how that feels with Barbara, with Stephanie --

Once, even, with Dinah the younger, because adrenaline and shared kinks had been enough to *combat* the incestuousness they both found -- for *once* -- *problematic*. This --

His *mother* --

Cassandra squeezes him, and... and Tim has no mother. Tim has *never* had a mother. Janet is the woman who *eventually* gave birth to him after allowing the man currently -- almost certainly -- bruising her outer labia to impregnate her.

Janet is the woman who is beginning to moan. Who --

Tim lets himself *shift* --

And Cassandra makes a small questioning sound and *scratches* Tim's abdomen. That --

"You're not sure?"

"*You're* not sure."

Well. "That's an entirely fair assessment -- I'm not planning to spend my time watching this... the way I spent my time watching the other... interludes," Tim says, and twines his fingers with Cassandra's. "I think that would leave 'draining the infection' behind and head somewhere... else."

"Maybe."

"'Maybe'?"

Cassandra shrugs. "Neither of us know."

"That's... extremely frustrating."

"To you, yes," she says, and squeezes his hands.

"I suppose we should just... take this sort of thing --"

"As it comes, yes."

Tim nods thoughtfully -- stops. Blinks. "That was a pun."

Cassandra hums and wags her head back and forth.

Tim snorts quietly. "Noted," he says, and turns back to the viewscreen --

To Janet being *rocked* by every strike --

Janet *grunting* and crying out -- no, that was more of a loud *whimper* than a cry, more --

Tim sighs and focuses... and the view swings to show her face clearly. She's flushed, of course, but her expression is almost *contorted* with the sort of discomfort that can make someone shudder -- all over -- every few moments. She --

"I'm still waiting, Janet..." And Thomas sounds cheerful again, sounds --

Tim shifts the focus -- yes. The wildness is still in his eyes, but the *volume* has been turned down. Not by *much*, but --

Enough that there's an actual skin of *serenity* over the rest of his expression when Janet gasps --

"Oh -- oh, *God*, I --"

"Yes?"

"I'm -- *nnh* -- *ow* -- oh, *God* --"

And Thomas is spanking her faster, if no harder --

Thomas is smiling --

"If there's anything you need to *say*, Janet..."

"Ahn -- nuh -- *hnh* -- "

"Anything, at all --"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry for -- for *cursing* -- Mr. Wayne!"

"You know, I almost *believe* you. Almost," he says, and then *does* start spanking her harder --

Janet *wails* -- and begins to buck and kick *wildly*, screaming in staccato *bursts* --

"Control your-- oh. Oh, I *see*," Thomas says, and smiles *brightly*. "Perhaps we'll just..." And he begins to spank her with rapid and *sharp* motions --

Janet *chokes* on a scream and kicks again --

Gasps and screams again --

*Gurgles* -- "Mr. -- Mr. *Wayne*!"

"You still owe me another apology, of course..."

"*HNH* --"

And Janet slumps, dropping onto her elbows and groaning --

Thomas doesn't stop *spanking* -- "Anytime you're ready, Janet. We have time."

Janet moans, mouth working as she obviously -- no. Tim focuses, split-screening until he can see both of their faces again -- and Janet's expression is more stunned than shocked, more...

Jay would say 'blown' -- or possibly 'fucked out.'

*Tim* -- has never seen Janet this... lost. He searches his memories of all of those times when she's walked into his bedroom in a full-coverage robe... but, as calm and *pleased* as she was at those times, she was always in control of herself. This...

There's *saliva* on her chin --

She's blinking in an almost *bovine* -- and then she shakes herself, pants, focuses -- "I'm. I'm very sorry I tried to take off my skirt without -- permission, Mr. Wayne."

Thomas sighs, and there's almost a tinge of *regret* to it -- "Very good. You'll learn to be faster, of course."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne -- *ah*!"

"Count," Thomas says, and begins spanking her vulva as hard as he was *before* --

"Nnh -- *nnh* --"

"*Count*!"

"One-two-three!"

"Good. Keep going."

"Four!"

"More."

"*Please* -- I mean -- *five-six*!"

"Good girl, keep going...."

"S-seven --" And Janet sobs -- shakes her head --

Thomas *growls* and *strikes* at her --

And Janet *shouts* -- "Eight-nine-ten!"

Thomas hums -- and stops, pulling back and looking Janet over thoughtfully. He is, if anything, even more erect than he was *before* --

He kicks her shoes away from her feet. "Up, and follow the orders I gave you before."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne!" And Janet tries to move quickly -- she nearly falls when her knees buckle --

Thomas catches her easily and sets her on her feet. "Breathe, Janet."

"Yes -- yes, I'm sorry --"

"Shh," he says, and squeezes her biceps gently. "These feelings can be quite intense. More intense than they are when we masturbate," and Thomas smiles down at her -- also gently.

Janet pants and stares up at him, lips parted and eyes wide --

She's so young --

She's so *young*, but not that *much* younger than she'll be when she gives birth to *him*. She's -- she's the same woman. Isn't she?

Shouldn't...

Shouldn't this feel --

Cassandra squeezes him. "Why scared?"

Tim laughs. "I would think she'd be frightened because the very large man she's locked in a dungeon with --"

"She's not scared. Not much, anyway. You are."

Tim -- doesn't bite the inside of his cheek.

Nor does he bother with denials.

He focuses enough to shift the view to a large zoom of Janet's tear- and saliva-slick features, and then he pauses it. And then he simply looks at her, and --

And looks.

She isn't his mother. She isn't --

He's never *had* a mother -- not by any definition which would make sense to his family, whether or not *they* had mothers -- and watching this doesn't change the past thirty-five years of his existence. She is, however, the woman who gave birth to him, and trained him, and taught him, and helped turn him into the paranoid, mean-spirited, and emotionally repressed *bastard* he is today.

She is the woman who was the single largest -- largest by *far* -- influence on his life until he was nearly fourteen years old.

Not Thomas, not Harvey -- no matter *how* much his visits meant -- not the JSA, and *certainly* not Jack Drake.

Her. *Her*. She was *iron*. She was -- not steel. Steel is *stronger* than iron, and doesn't *degrade* as catastrophically. She was iron and pain and cold and --

And the *enforcement* of every --

Every *rule*.

But right now...

Right now, she's perhaps *one* more *decent* orgasm away from a state which would leave her...

Putty? Something even *more* malleable?

If all she *really* needed from him was a show of *dominance* --

But he'd already known that, hadn't he?

His confrontation with Janet in the summer of nineteen seventy-nine shattered no earths but the one inside his mind, but --

But it gave him freedom. And it taught him that he was capable of standing up to her, of doing more than mocking and being snide within the privacy of his mind.

It taught him --

But she never *softened* during that conversation. Not even after she was *enchanted*. She --

("Do *precisely* what you want, Tim... because we both know you will *never* forget who you are.")

Of course, he wasn't even fourteen, yet --

Not experienced in any way, shape, or form with *taking* control --

It was the last substantive conversation they ever *had* which didn't involve Helena --

Tim frowns and digs his fingertips in against his temples --

Cassandra squeezes his wrists immediately. She doesn't have the strength to move his arms if he chooses to fight her -- not with the available leverage -- but --

He doesn't have to make her fight. He relaxes his hands.

She loosens her grip.

"I want -- I want to understand --"

"No, you don't."

Oh. "Well... shit," Tim says, and laughs somewhat hysterically -- then stops. "All right, let me fix that," he says, and focuses on himself, looking for -- fear --

Fear of Janet -- no. Fear of his *mother*, because there are parts of him which still believe in that fiction --

Oh, yes, and they *want* to believe in that, they *need* to --

They're young and they're holding *on* to it, because --

Because if they can, if she *is* his mother, then it doesn't matter *how* he turns out, right?

How hateful, how small and *hateful* --

And he's within himself at once, the avatar he's built --

Of course he's in the Batsuit. Black and grey and full of shadows, *calling* on shadows --

But so is the boy he's stalking.

The boy is reasonably well-formed for his size, quick and stealthy as he moves on the edges of --

Where?

No, no question: He's in Wayne Manor, and the Batman knows that only some of the shadows here belong to him, but the boy doesn't care. The boy only wants one thing, and that's revenge, revenge against the man who hurt him --

It's all his *fault* --

He'll make him *pay*, pay *forever* --

And the Batman isn't in the least bit surprised that the boy is walking past Thomas' suite --

That the boy is building a weapon to fill his hand that can't decide whether to be a sword or a knife --

That the boy can't truly *see* Bruce, see the man he is, the *boy* he is --

Bruce is on his *knees* again --

The boy just sees an easier target.

The boy crouches to spring --

And the Batman doesn't hesitate, striking hard for the bundle of nerves at the base of the boy's spine --

The feel is almost *mushy* --

The boy is *screaming* as he collapses --

And so the Batman snaps his neck. The avatar disappears, and something --

Something *lightens* in him, while something else wants to *weep* --

The Batman --

*Tim* shudders and stands, lifting Bruce to his feet and kissing his cheek before sweeping Wayne Manor *away* --

He also isn't surprised that the manor is distinctly *sluggish* about leaving. Still, eventually the space is blank, clear --

And Tim feels even lighter, even --

Less tethered? Less -- less *bound*?

There's something *similar* to the feeling he'd had when Jason had released him from his/the earth's power, only it's significantly more positive, and --

Cassandra pats his cheeks firmly. "What did you do?"

Tim opens his eyes --

Blinks at Janet's soft, soft face --

Searches himself -- and smiles. "I want to understand her."

"Yes! *How*?"

"Well -- don't hit me."

"I want to hit you now."

"I know. Don't do it," Tim says, and tilts his head back to smile at her. "I murdered one -- just one! There are still several left -- of my inner children."

Cassandra stares at him in *horror*, which --

"All right, that reaction *is* only to be expected -- continue not to hit me --"

"*Tim*!"

"It was... one of the parts of me which were clinging to the past. Specifically, to the parts of the past which *hurt* the most."

"You *talk* to those parts! You *show* those parts the good -- the *better* way!"

"And when that doesn't work --"

But Cassandra's scowl can be as effective as a nerve-strike, in some ways.

Tim laughs quietly and reaches up to caress her face. "It had spent the past two decades -- more -- murdering Bruce, Cassandra."

She rears back -- and frowns. "Blames... him?"

"Yes."

"Even --" She frowns more deeply. "You... said."

"I did, yes. In truth, I didn't realize how deep the resentment... well, of course *parts* of me knew *precisely* how deep the resentment went," and Tim smiles ruefully. "I just wasn't letting the rest of me know."

"Too many *pieces*."

"Yes --"

"Don't *murder* any more!"

"I --"

"Put them *together*. Make them -- make them *learn*. "

Tim takes a deep breath and strokes her mouth. "Even if it takes years?"

"We will wait. We will *all* wait."

"Because you love... enough of me."

"*All* of you," she says, and glares again.

"You don't *know* all of me --"

"Love *anyway*. Because we -- because it works that way. You *know* that."

"I --"

"I will break your computers."

"Cassandra --"

"I will *pee* on them!"

Tim touches his tongue to his upper lip. And raises an eyebrow. "You could just nerve-strike me."

"Not hurt enough."

Tim coughs --

And laughs --

And sits up and turns, cupping Cassandra's face with both hands and kissing her deeply, as softly as she likes from him, more deeply than that --

She tackles and pins him --

She bites his lips hard enough to make him grunt and grunt *again* --

She *grinds* their groins together -- and her scent, which had settled into background sensation, is loud enough to taste, heavy enough to *touch* --

He rolls them and kisses her again --

She turns her head.

Tim pauses -- and kisses her cheek before pulling back. "No?"

She sighs and reaches up to pat his cheeks. "More fixing."

"No sex until I've had my therapy?"

"Yes."

"Hm."

"No 'hm'. Fixing."

Tim inclines his head and kneels up. "As you say."

She smiles up at him. "Understand Janet now!"

Tim opens his mouth to protest -- and presses on the bruise on his neck, instead.

"Good!"

He inclines his head again. "It shook me to see her like that, because she suddenly seems not just soft, but *attainable*. *Comprehensible*. It was even more difficult to take because the process of *getting* her to that point was one which I've been on both sides of in the past. In the *recent* past."

Cassandra nods.

"However, the fact of the matter is that, while she is *not* truly my mother, I am *enough* her son that that sort of relationship is closed to us. More to the point, while I believe that *she* believes that she would've married Thomas had the opportunity been presented to her..."

"You don't?"

"Oh, I believe she would have -- but it wouldn't have pleased her. To have to live with him, breakfast with him, presumably make love with him *more* than once a week or so -- and that was the maximum for them... no, she wouldn't have coped well with that, at all," Tim says, and gestures a come-on.

"Lap or breasts?"

Tim considers.

Cassandra waits cheerfully.

"If I put my head in your lap again *while* watching this, I'll probably wind up murdering more of my inner children. While ejaculating several million unborn children *on* you."

She sticks her tongue out at him.

"Precisely. Breasts, it is."

She sits up and moves to sit against the headboard again, then opens her arms for Tim. Her pectorals are actually more substantial than her breasts, but that doesn't make her breasts any less wonderful.

Bruce likes to dress Cassandra in men's -- boy's -- suits before thoroughly sodomizing her --

Bruce is marvelously predictable.

So is he.

Tim smiles and closes his eyes for a moment.

"More Janet?"

"Oh, yes," Tim says, and turns his cheek against her right breast. She only wears bras for patrol and -- *sometimes* -- the *press* --

And he can focus.

"I'm not sure she ever realized -- or ever *will* realize -- that she wasn't made to be Janet Evans Wayne. I *am* sure that it's a rare autocrat who doesn't require *some* time to let their hair down, however metaphorically, and the fact that she got to do so while a) climbing the social ladder, b) climbing the *business* ladder, and c) thumbing her nose at all the wealthier, higher-status women she will never, ever admit to having wanted to be when she was that age... well," Tim says, and spreads her hands. "Thomas was useful on a number of levels."

"Okay. Other lovers?"

"Only Jack Drake, to the best of my knowledge."

"We will watch --"

"No."

"No?"

Tim reaches up and back to wrap his left arm around the back of Cassandra's neck. "He is a nonentity in my life. Our lives. He is... meaningless."

This particular *quality* of silence means that he's being studied, but... for this, he's confident about his self-analysis. And, after a moment, Cassandra nods.

Tim gestures at the viewscreen. "Shall we?"

"Let's!"

Tim smiles and focuses, dealing with the unnatural stillness of the image of Janet's face as his bedroom fills with the sound of her ragged breaths --

Her *quiet* moans --

And Thomas' hum. "That's right, Janet. Allow yourself to feel precisely the way... well, why don't *you* tell *me*?"

And the image cuts in on Thomas' -- openly -- paternal expression --

The smile lifting the corners of his thick mustache and -- somehow -- belying the sweat at his temples and the tension at the corners of his *eyes* --

The hunger *in* his eyes --

Tim changes the view to a split-screen --

And Janet is getting some of her focus back, but she's still wide-eyed, still -- "Should I... I'm not sure what I should say. Mr. Wayne."

"How you feel. Physically, emotionally, intellectually..." Thomas nods encouragingly. "Go on."

Janet licks her lips. "Yes. Yes, I -- oh --" She drops her hands to her waist and gathers her skirt up again -- and lowers her head.

Thomas sighs and squeezes her biceps again. "Good girl. So lovely. You know what to do."

"Yes. Yes, Mr. Wayne. I... my... lips. Hurt."

"How much, on a scale from one to ten? Ten being the most pain, of course. A pain which makes you weep despite yourself."

"I..." Janet licks her lips. "S-seven. I think. Or... seven and a half."

Thomas sighs again and strokes her biceps. "That's good. That's very good. You can take a great deal of punishment, Janet. You should feel very proud."

"Th-thank you. Mr. Wayne --"

"What of your buttocks?"

Janet pants --

Blushes *deeply* --

And hangs her head further. "My... buttocks are only at... five and a half."

"Is that so."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne."

Thomas hums and lets go. "Stockings and panties off. Now. You may let your skirt fall as it will while you're taking them off."

"Yes, Mr. W--"

"Often, a fresh, new submissive will try to impress a dominant by claiming to be able to take more pain than they truly can..."

Janet jerks and nearly trips while removing her left stocking -- and this time Thomas doesn't catch her.

"I've always found that the best way to teach that lesson -- to teach the importance of *honesty* and *clarity* in all things -- is to let the submissive learn... the hard way. Faster, Janet."

"Y-yes, Mr. Wayne."

And she moves quickly enough for Tim's tastes --

There are *parts* of him which were not ready to deal with the fact that Janet's dark brown pubic hair has been shaved into a neat, but still quite substantial triangle --

Possibly it's those parts which expanded the view of her undressing to full-screen --

But, despite her compliance, Thomas still grips her biceps firmly and throws her forward over the gurney again, exposing her *extremely* reddened ass before opening a drawer Tim remembers being filled with assorted metal anal toys. He pulls out --

The hook.

Specifically, an anal hook of the sort Tim *only* allows Clark to use on him, because *only* Clark has the speed and control to keep Tim from going rather dangerously *insane* --

Perhaps some (even more) things will turn out to be hereditary.

Thomas lifts a small metal ball from the drawer and examines it closely for... flaws? Size?

His own kinks?

He then blows out a breath through his nose and shakes his head. "Rest your face on your left cheek, reach back with both hands, and spread your buttocks."

"W-what -- I --"

"I have thus far restrained myself from making you bleed, Janet. I do not have to continue on that path."

Janet jerks and flushes, pushing up on her toes before dropping down again --

"No. Stay on your toes... yes, like that. Perfect. Now spread your buttocks for me."

The whimper is quiet -- muffled --

"And rest your *cheek* on the gurney, Janet. Don't backslide so *quickly*."

Janet pants on a moan -- it isn't muffled, at all.

And she reaches back to spread her buttocks without another word. It's awkward, and her left hand slips twice before she can get the right grip --

And Thomas strokes down the fly of his trousers with the side of his thumb again. Once. "Good -- no. Spread wider."

"H-how --"

"As widely as you can, of course."

"Oh, f-- God --"

"Was that going to be a curse, Janet...?"

"*No*!"

And Thomas sighs and shakes his head. "Lying is a terrible offense, Janet. And really, don't you think you do enough of it in your day-to-day life?"

"I -- I wasn't --"

"*Compounding* the error? Well. I *had* been planning on using the smallest... attachment --"

"What -- what?"

"And *then* I had been planning on using the *next* largest, but... I'm afraid you've asked for just this," and Thomas pulls the third-largest steel ball from the drawer and immediately screws it on to the end of the hook.

The sound of it makes Tim *clench* in *memory* --

Cassandra scratches his abdomen --

And Tim lifts her other hand to his mouth and plants sucking kisses along all of her knuckles.

She hums and kisses the top of his head --

And Thomas is lubricating the ball thoroughly while staring down at Janet, who is flushed and *squirming* -- while remaining on her toes with her buttocks spread.

"It's abundantly clear that you *can* be a good girl -- a *wonderful* girl, even," Thomas says, and moves close enough to loom over her. "It's equally clear that we can both enjoy ourselves immensely when you... are," and Thomas presses the ball against her hole --

"*Ahn* --"

"A bit chilly, I know, but it will warm quickly inside you, I assure you."

"I -- I -- it's too big --"

"Shh. Simply tell yourself that it *will* be going in no matter what... because it will be going in. No matter what."

Janet's hands shake on her buttocks --

"*Don't* let go. Dig those lovely little claws in, if you'd like."

Janet whimpers -- and does it. "Yes. Mr. Wayne -- you're pushing --"

"Oh, yes. And I will not stop until the ball is inside you. You need not worry -- the design of this implement is such that it's absolutely impossible for the ball to become... lost."

"Oh, God --"

"That, at least, wasn't another curse... I knew you could learn quickly, given the right incentive."

"Please -- please, it's too big --"

"No, it isn't. It's merely big enough to cause you... discomfort," and Thomas smiles again, mustache almost seeming to bristle.

By a trick of the timing, Janet shivers *just* as the smile... peaks --

Shivers and *flexes* --

"There we are," and Thomas pushes *hard* --

"Please, *no* -- *HNH* -- *NNH* --"

And Thomas steps back to, perhaps, examine his handiwork. Janet is still grunting -- *loudly* -- on every breath --

And the way she's clenching around the ball is eminently visible. She's still holding herself *spread* --

The hook portion of the toy is curved *almost* perfectly to suit her --

And a part of Tim only wonders if Thomas had made it himself in the -- private, of course -- workshop he'd made for himself in what had been the stables --

If he had, perhaps, made it with *Martha* in mind...

Tim licks the backs of his teeth -- and stops Cassandra from stroking down to his groin.

"No?"

"Not yet," he says, and smiles ruefully.

"Okay."

Tim focuses, zooming in on Thomas' face -- yes, the wildness is back in full force, the sense of control as being something which simply doesn't *happen* to him --

"Stay right there, Janet. In *precisely* that position."

Tim shakes his head and lets the display return to a wide enough view that he can see them both --

"P-please -- the... the ball --"

"Will remain inside you until I'm ready to remove it," Thomas says, and slaps her vulva with the hand he *hadn't* been using to force the toy in --

Janet screams --

Clenches --

Screams *again* --

And Thomas sighs. "My advice is to accustom yourself to the sensations -- as much as is possible -- as *quickly* as possible. Otherwise, you will simply compound your suffering."

"*Please*!"

"Shh. Remember to stay still." And Tim lets the focus follow Thomas as he leaves her there, washing his hands and forearms in the deep, hospital-standard sink and drying them before moving back into the main dungeon.

He pulls what seems to be an eight-foot length of nylon rope from one of the drawers, then spends two solid minutes perusing the collars on display. He spends the longest amount of time studying a two-inch wide black leather one with a metal D-ring -- but he sets that down and moves to one of the cabinets Janet hadn't examined.

In the eighties, the cabinet hadn't contained anything but minor construction equipment -- presumably for on-the-fly repairs. Now...

Now, Thomas is pulling out a *posture* collar -- with rings at front and back -- which is designed to provide coverage from the base of the throat to just beneath the *nose* -- ah, it includes an open-mouth gag. That's --

"You want one," Cassandra says.

"To a certain extent. I'd need someone who'd want to *use* it with me first," Tim says, and squeezes himself viciously --

"Clark."

"Clark can *make* one --"

And there's a tap on the window with the easiest-to-remove screen. Tim hums and pauses the action.

"Do come in."

"Oh, thank you," Clark says, and settles beside them on the bed. His boots are off and his cape is gathered neatly in his lap. "It's wonderful to see you both," and he beams at them.

He doesn't need to see -- he knows Cassandra is beaming back.

Clark hums and turns to him. "Ah...?"

Tim lets his smile be a sharp one. "Yes...?"

"Perhaps you could... be specific? About the *size* of the collar...?"

Tim smiles more broadly.

"Oh, my." Clark adjusts the tie which isn't there. "Of course... of course, we wouldn't want to be... hasty."

"Hasty...?"

"It... it might be... precipitous..."

"Yes, Clark...?"

And then Kal is -- quite literally, if carefully -- burning at him. <<I believe there will be a need for more than *one* such garment, fine one.>>

Tim laughs... and lowers his head. <<This one believes that you are correct, as ever... you-who-are-most-high.>>

Cassandra giggles and leans in to *nip* the back of Tim's neck --

Tim's penis twitches hopefully -- but. He reaches back to tap Cassandra's hip twice --

"Okay," she says, and leans back --

<<You -- and your devices -- could be in the Fortress in moments, fine one.>>

<<This one -->> Tim shakes his head. "I'm not -- quite -- ready for that. For all that my body is *exceedingly* ready for it."

And there is the moment -- and it's always there -- when Kal lingers slightly too long --

When the feel of him *threatens* just enough to put Tim's back up *and* make him sweat at the base of his spine --

But then Kal closes his eyes, and, when he opens them, he is Clark again. "It's really quite terrible of you to put the rest of us in a position where we must be grateful to Jason *Blood*, Tim."

Tim hums and reaches over to twine his fingers with Clark's --

"Oh --" And Clark smiles *brilliantly* and squeezes with the perfect amount of firmness. "Thank you. But?"

"We're going to have to work harder to bring him in -- yes, that *is* what I just said."

Clark looks *subtly* stricken, but --

Tim squeezes back. "Look at it this way, Clark: He's just going to get worse if we continue to leave him to his own devices until such time as we need him."

"I do see what you're saying --"

"No buts."

Clark sighs, and leans -- floats -- in to kiss his cheek, and then, judging by the sounds, to kiss Cassandra all over her face --

Cassandra giggles and makes lip-smacking noises --

And then there's a blur -- and Clark is hovering outside Tim's window making the 'call me' gesture.

Tim inclines his head --

And Clark is gone... inasmuch as he ever is. Tim resettles himself against Cassandra's chest, and Cassandra wraps her arms around him and squeezes tightly. "He missed you."

"I missed... all of you. I'm not going to do that to myself again."

"No," she says, with certainty.

Tim smiles and focuses on the viewscreen. "You will, of course, not let me."

She grunts instead of bothering with pointless language --

And Thomas takes a shuddering breath as he examines the posture collar --

As he lifts it in his hand and strokes the broad 'o' of the open gag --

Janet whimpers loud enough...

Thomas bares his *teeth* -- and then straightens his shoulders and walks *briskly* back into the medical area. Tim considers widening the view, but, almost before he decides, there's a split-screen showing Thomas' and Janet's profiles on one side and Janet's face on the other.

Janet is shivering and whimpering more, whimpering *quietly* as she holds her buttocks spread --

She's sweating and there are *tears* rolling down her cheeks --

"Does the ball still feel cold, Janet...?"

"W-what? I --"

"Does the ball. Still. Feel. Cold."

"Nuh. No, Mr. Wayne. But --"

"Shh. Up on your feet," and Thomas snaps the fingers of the hand not holding the collar.

"I -- I don't think I can --"

"Of course you can. And you will," Thomas says, and his voice is hard and low.

Janet whimpers again --

Squirms on her feet --

Cries out -- had she clenched?

"If you make me get the cane..."

Janet sobs and stands abruptly, staggering on her toes --

"Flat on your feet. *Now*."

"Nnh -- I -- yes, Mr. Wayne," she says, and settles, shivering -- no, that's more of a full-body shudder.

Thomas examines her critically, plucking at her jacket -- and then shaking his head. "This won't do. The aesthetic of such things -- the fully-clothed dominant, the partially-clothed and decidedly *rumpled* submissive -- has quite a long and noble tradition... but it doesn't suit my plans," he says, stepping back and snapping the fingers of his free hand. "Everything off. Now."

"Yes -- yes, Mr. Wayne," she says, and shudders all over as soon as she touches the fastenings of her skirt --

Her breasts are soft enough that even covered and clothed, there's something of a *quiver* --

"Be quick about it, Janet."

She jumps for that, even though his voice wasn't particularly sharp; groans; and undresses herself at speed. Her grace leaves something to be desired, but it's clear that she feels... shaky. Full.

Tim can't say he doesn't understand.

"When you're done, simply rest your clothes on the chair in the corner. We won't be using it just yet."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne."

She does so, and --

The chair had been replaced -- almost certainly multiple times -- by the eighties. It had surprised Tim that it *wasn't* the wingback style of chair that was ubiquitous in Wayne Manor and at Wayne Enterprises while Thomas was in control. It was... more comfortable than that.

Nothing so crass as a *throne*, but definitely closer to an armchair -- albeit one designed for a taller-than-average person -- than to anything else. Something which encouraged the user to stay a while, and be comfortable... while watching the struggles of whichever petite, dark-haired young woman was up in the stirrups.

Janet winces when she bends to place the clothes in the chair -- as slowly as someone elderly and arthritic -- and she's no faster when she stands straight and turns back to Thomas. He points to the floor in front of him. She walks over to him -- perhaps as quickly as she can -- shuddering and perhaps a little chilled --

*Full* --

And she's biting her lip.

"Good girl. Grip your buttocks again."

She does so -- and blushes deeply.

Thomas narrows his eyes in pleasure. "Let's get you situated. Open wide. No, wider --" Thomas sighs and shakes his head, then reaches between Janet's legs with his free hand and does --

Something that makes her scream and let go of her buttocks. She pushes at his arm --

"Hands. Behind. Your. Back."

"*Please*, Mr. Wayne --"

"*Now*!"

Janet sobs once --

Again --

And then she yanks her hands behind her back and opens her mouth -- clearly as wide as she can. Tears are rolling freely down her face --

And, after a moment, Thomas moves his hand and swipes his fingers over her philtrum.

She flinches -- but doesn't close her mouth.

"Perfect. See how quickly you learn?"

Janet shudders again and nods quickly, eyes wide -- and pupils blown. Hm.

"Cassandra..."

"She is confused."

"Yes? Or... she'd almost certainly never experimented with anal stimulation before," Tim says, and steeples his fingers, resting his elbows on Cassandra's thighs.

"Yes. And she is surprised."

"By liking the pain -- no. By how *much* she likes the pain."

"Yes. But also there is --"

"Shame. For... weakness?"

"Yes. Lots. Too much. Why?"

Tim smiles wryly and watches Thomas slip the -- impressive *and* intimidating -- ring of the gag behind her teeth. "It could be the shuddering, the whimpering, the tears... anything. All of them are... shameful, in their ways. The question is --"

"She likes the shame, too. Doesn't know it, though."

Tim nods thoughtfully. Thomas is having no difficulty whatsoever with fitting the rest of the collar in place. "I'm not at all sure when she'll pick up on that -- assuming she ever does on fully conscious --"

"There. Say my name."

The noise Janet makes is, of course, incoherent and nearly *inhuman*. The *flap* of her tongue -- visible through the shining *hole* of the gag -- is obscene. She is blushing... deeply.

And Thomas is smiling. "Excellent. Almost there," he says, and moves around behind her, looping the rope through the rings on the hook and the collar and knotting it *tightly*.

Janet can now either face *almost* forward -- as much as the posture collar will allow -- and *yank* on the ball in her ass; tilt her head back far enough to ease the pull -- and thus see nothing but the ceiling; or --

"Head. Down."

Or that, and, as it happens, a whimper with that sort of gag in sounds like a truncated keen. It's possible that it *was* a keen --

Her eyes are still so *wide* --

"I see you know what will happen. But understand this, Janet: It will happen no matter what. The only question is when, and for how long. Do you understand?"

She *starts* to nod --

Winces and almost *dances* on her feet --

Thomas smiles almost *brightly* -- "You know how to answer."

Another keening sound --

Saliva drips down Janet's chin --

And she makes -- approximately -- the same inhuman collection of noises she'd made before, *spraying* saliva this time.

"Such a messy girl. Well, there's nothing to be done for it *just* yet. Head down."

That sound was almost certainly a *plea* --

"No. But feel free to make that sound... often --"

The plea is repeated *frantically* --

Saliva drips to the *floor* --

"Shh, shh. Not while you're already late to follow orders. *Down*."

A sob --

And she lowers her head slowly, shuddering --

Almost *quaking* --

Sobbing again and again as she pushes up on her toes, remembers that she's not supposed to and drops, pushes up *again* --

Hm.

"Yes?"

Tim digs his elbows in against Cassandra's thighs --

Cassandra squeezes Tim's waist. "Ask."

"This isn't bothering you."

"No."

"Why?"

"Nothing I can do."

That's not, strictly, true -- but neither was Cassandra's answer. Tim tilts his head back --

Cassandra smiles down at him *meanly*.

"Yes, Cassandra?"

"Why doesn't it bother you?"

Tim opens his mouth -- closes it. It *doesn't* bother him anymore. It's *arousing* him, when, by rights, he should be thinking about walking through the portal and, at the very least, explaining the concept of date rape to his parents -- paradoxes be damned.

But he isn't. He --

"I'm not a very nice person."

Cassandra wrinkles her nose on a laugh she isn't voicing --

Janet *keens* again --

Tim pauses the action half-thoughtlessly -- "You, Cassandra, *are* a nice person."

"Yes. Most of the time."

"But?"

She shrugs like -- exactly like -- Jay. "Nothing I can do --"

Tim opens his mouth --

"Nothing I can do *without you doing more bad things*!" And she glares at him.

Tim nods. "Go on."

*She* nods. "They are... not for me to save. They are not victims. They... made Batman," she says, and very clearly searches her thoughts for more and better ways to put it -- and then she shrugs again. "Not a job for Batgirl. Never was."

Tim blinks --

Gives himself a moment to try to *encompass* Cassandra's thought process -- "What else isn't a job for Batgirl?"

"*Your* jobs. Killing."

"And?"

"No 'and'. Everything else is mine, and the family's."

Tim takes a deep breath --

Cassandra strokes his throat and chest -- "It's okay. I'm not evil and neither are you."

Tim *snorts* --

And Cassandra nuzzles his scalp.

Tim keeps breathing, settles back against her again, and focuses.

The keens are nearly constant, now, which is making Tim impatient for the image to come back --

Thomas' breathing isn't *quite* panted --

Janet's keen hitches and she *gulps* --

And the image comes back split-screened, with Thomas' wild-eyed stare and parted lips on the left and Janet *sweating* as she lowers her head slowly --

*Slowly* --

Thomas growls and grips her shoulder --

She pleads and *drips* saliva --

"*Faster*," he says, and begins to spank her rapidly and viciously.

She cries out immediately, throwing her head back --

"*No*."

She lowers her head and screams --

"*Lower*."

She bends and screams and *shakes*, and there's some question as to whether she can even *parse* the sensation of the spanks apart from everything else --

But Thomas doesn't stop until her head and neck are at a sixty-degree angle, at which point he growls again and reaches between her legs -- and sighs. "That's better. You were practically *dry* before..."

Janet sobs again and says... something.

"Was that an apology, Janet?"

*That* was definitely an affirmative --

She drips even *more* saliva --

*Quakes* again --

And Thomas hums. "I think... that you deserve a treat for that. I'm a *firm* believer in positive reinforcement," he says, and wipes her fluids all over her lips. "Stand right there, but spread your legs shoulder-width apart. Yes, like... hm. No, that's not far enough. Your thighs are too thickly-muscled to make that work. Do you follow an exercise regimen?"

Janet answers in the affirmative... and then almost certainly apologizes again.

Thomas licks his lips and *starts* to reach for himself -- but then, perhaps, realizes that she would see him do it. He lowers his hand to his side again. "There's nothing wrong -- and very many things right -- with exercise, Janet. I'll be sure to work up a program for you that will keep you both healthy and slim," he says, and walks over to the cabinet which, by the eighties, had been replaced with a large and somewhat primitive -- but undoubtedly highly effective -- electrical stimulation machine with many, many attachments.

Harvey had made a morbid joke about defibrillators.

Tim hadn't brought up Jefferson again.

Now... Thomas is pulling out a large... thing. Tim frowns. It's about the length of his forearm, is three and a half inches thick at its widest point, has a rounded end, and can be plugged in. It looks, at first glance, more like a *club* than a sex toy --

It's a vibrator. Well. At least it doesn't look like a medieval torture device.

Thomas plugs in the -- long -- cord, and eyes Janet critically. Even if she *can* see the vibrator with her head in that position, there's no way she'd know what it *was* --

Is there?

Cassandra squeezes him again. "Questions?"

"I can't decide whether Janet will have any idea what she's in for with that vibrator."

"Is it important?"

"I -- wait."

"Yes?"

Tim pauses the action. "If the makers of the Batmen aren't a job for Batgirl, then what about *Cain*?"

"Not a job. Fun."

Tim blinks.

Licks his teeth --

"Fair enough," he says, and restarts the action --

And the buzzing *whine* of the vibrator is immediate and sets his *teeth* on edge --

"*That* won't do," Thomas says, and does something -- the whine changes to more of a thrum. "There. Now spread your legs wider. Do it slowly, so that you keep your balance. There's a good girl. More. More..."

And the image comes back to Janet working her legs apart like a child experimenting with skis, or snow shoes. She's shaking and continuing to drool --

And she's making soft, helpless-sounding noises that are no more problematically arousing than the shine of moisture on her thighs.

She is... ready.

And Thomas is going to take advantage of every moment.

"Perfect. Hold that position for me."

An affirmative *slur* --

And Thomas chuckles happily. "You're going to enjoy this a *great* deal, I think, Janet. Most women do. If we lived in a more logical world, pubescent girls would be able to purchase such things for themselves from their local apothecary and learn to pleasure themselves in peace and privacy -- without one lick of shame. But we do not live in that world. Remember to keep your feet *flat* to the floor. And he touches the rounded head of the vibrator to her mound --

She squeaks and jerks --

"Be still now..."

And he pushes the vibrator down and between slowly before pushing it *up* against what must be her clitoris --

Tim will not zoom --

And Janet's screams are immediate and sharp, staccato at first --

Coming in bursts of *three* -- and that starts to make sense when Tim sees the way Thomas is moving the vibrator. Three pushes and a long pause --

Three pushes and a short pause --

Three pushes and he *holds* it against her --

She tosses her head and *wails* --

"Head *down*."

That was almost a *bleat* -- but she lowers her head. And pants. And drools --

And screams for the press of the vibrator --

Her knees buckle --

"*Stand*."

She *gibbers* something which can only be an apology --

And he presses the vibrator against her again, holds it to her for second after second while she shakes and screams --

And screams --

And throws her head back and howls like an *animal*, bucking and *grinding* against the vibrator while Thomas smiles... like a different sort of animal entirely.

And presses harder.

After several seconds, Janet's grinds lose everything resembling a rhythm and she's simply spasming and *jerking* against the vibrator --

And then she tries to shrink *away* from it --

Thomas grabs her hip and holds her *still*, but doesn't visibly react to her upright posture, at all --

And Janet sobs and shakes her head as much as she can, shuddering and whining and sobbing *more* --

And then *shrieking* for what is, perhaps, the sort of 'aftershock' which can feel -- according to nearly *every* female lover Tim has had -- like a *painful* additional orgasm. She's completely rigid for it, toes curled in against the tiled floor, hands balled into fists --

Sweat is *rolling* down her body --

It's impossible to be sure which moisture on her face is sweat and which is *tears* --

She *slumps* --

Staggers --

And Thomas pulls the vibrator away and *jerks* Janet down onto her knees.

She looks up at him and -- pleads? Tries to say his name? Both at once? Her eyes are much more eloquent than her mouth, and so it's impossible to be sure. And --

Tim is officially far too erect for deniability. A part of him -- a part which *may* be older than thirteen, but which absolutely isn't any quicker on the uptake -- is asking the rest whether he might have a problem.

The rest is squeezing himself through his shorts precisely the way Cassandra would --

No, Cassandra would already have her small, perfect hand *in* his shorts --

"Shh. Head down again. You *almost* did correctly, Janet -- in truth, you did quite well for a beginner -- but you still need to be punished."

She sobs and drools her way through an apology --

Lowers her head and *wails* again as she lifts her reddened ass --

"There, there. Hands behind your back. Cross your wrists *above* the hook."

An affirmative -- and she does it, swaying on her knees and sniffing.

"Perfect. Now crawl into the other room."

A questioning noise -- but then Janet shakes her head and starts to --

"Hm. I suppose that's more of a *shuffle* than a crawl..."

Janet apologizes with *frantic* incoherency and very clearly tries to lift her knees higher --

"No, no, that's not aesthetically pleasing, at all. Shuffle at will," Thomas says, and moves out of her path.

An affirmative -- and she moves. She shakes with every 'step,' makes sounds that Tim's mind insists on translating *as* whimpers --

She keeps *trying* to lift her ass higher --

And she doesn't stop.

"More to the left... yes, there you are. Good girl."

Janet -- was that a *thank* you?

Thomas has to be wondering the same thing -- he's stroking himself through his pants almost *restlessly* --  "Good... very good." He licks his lips. "Don't stop."

A *negative* -- and she's dripping drool as she goes. Has she honestly --

"Cassandra."

"Yes."

"What -- do you --"

"Yes, she is... there. Where you like your lovers to be."

"So --" But he can't really call that 'easily.' At all. He'd have to be --

All right, objectively, he probably *is* as crazy as Thomas -- or even crazier. He just happens to be that crazy in -- mostly -- benign ways.

Thomas has taken Janet to...

Roy likes to call the state of mind 'sub-space,' and Tim has no particular difficulty with the term. It implies the internal vastness of it, as well as the *specificity*. It's a place *only* someone with strong submissive tendencies *can* reach. It's a place of simple rules and great *intensity*.

You belong to your dominant.

You follow their rules -- and *only* their rules.

You rise and fall on their pleasure -- and on their disappointment.

You surrender your *independence* -- and absolutely everything *attached* to it -- for the length of the scene, session, or *life*...

And you do it with pride.

That last...

Tim isn't sure Janet has caught *on* to that last -- any number of people who *aren't* nineteen-year-old virgins *don't* --

And never mind the lack of a *safeword* --

Is that making it better for *him*?

Has he wanted something --

He has, of course, experimented *extensively* with rough and *explicitly* D/s sex with Clark *and* Kal -- and they *never* use safewords. But... it's Clark. He's a walking, talking, *flying*, safeword. He has the powers of a god -- and not even a *minor* god. There's nothing *safer* --

Is he... using this to feed a heretofore unexamined need for 'extreme' pornography? He usually allows Bruce to handle those cases when they come up, since his level of offense is commensurate with his *need* to offer violence --

"Faster now, Janet. I need..." But Thomas trails off and shakes his head almost violently.

Janet makes another questioning sound --

*Drips* --

But absolutely shuffles faster. She isn't even trying to lift her ass, anymore. She is... accepting the discomfort.

Or is it pain?

Does he want it to be?

*Need* it?

"More, Janet. Give me. Give me everything now..."

A slurred affirmative --

She's left a *trail* of saliva --

And she's shuffling like a toddler who knows there'll be *candy* at the other end of its journey, rapid and heedless of the contusions building on her knees --

That tile is over *cement* --

She passes the bondage chair -- and she's *equally* heedless of the way the wood scrapes her left biceps. She shuffles *faster* toward the 'blank' space beneath the various hooks and hanging manacles --

"Stop," Thomas says, opening his belt and freeing it from the loops. "Kneel up, posture straight -- no, you're leaning to the right... a little more... there. Hold yourself there."

Another slurred affirmative --

Thomas wraps the belt around his fist. "How dry is your mouth, Janet? Nod once for 'very dry,' twice for 'moderately dry,' and three times for 'not dry, at all.' If you are not honest, you will bleed so badly, you will not be able to travel for days."

Affirmative -- and Janet nods once, slowly, before lowering her head again.

"Good girl. Very... I see I didn't need to use that threat, at all..." And Thomas laughs, then, breathless and aroused. "I believe I'm getting to be as giddy as a schoolboy. Stay right there."

Another affirmative, and Janet simply pants and wants, whining every few seconds and dripping randomly.

She is... still ready.

And Tim has started squeezing himself *rhythmically*. He's no longer young enough to get *off* that way, but --

But.

"Cassandra. Why --"

"You still don't want me."

Tim blinks --

Examines himself --

"So I don't. Carry on."

She giggles and bites his earlobe. Lightly.

Tim smiles and squeezes himself *harder* -- and then deliberately moves his hand while he watches Thomas retrieve a squeeze bottle similar to the one boxers use. He fills it with cold water from the cooler which...

Who *delivered* that?

Had he carried it down himself? The refills, too?

No, it's irrelevant. What's *relevant* is the sight of Thomas splashing Janet's hair and face and chest as she tries to catch the water in her mouth --

The smile on his face is almost *gentle* again --

Her pleas sound like the "eeeaaaa, eeeaaaa" of a child with a very specific speech impediment --

"Shh, there... here," and he splashes the water into her mouth. "Tilt your head back and hold it there for a moment before you swallow... good girl." He splashes her nipples again while she does --

Then crouches to pinch them -- not hard. Testingly. She shudders for it --

Gargles clearly involuntarily --

"Swallow, Janet."

She does, hugely -- and then moans and arches --

"Oh, you *want* me to play with your lovely little breasts...?"

Another plea, the slur of his name --

And Thomas sighs. "I *do* have a schedule to keep, but it's very difficult to ignore requests from good girls like you," he says -- and begins to spank her nipples --

Janet shouts --

He spanks back and forth and back again --

Janet shakes her head and arches *more* --

"Oh... very good girl. Very..." Thomas growls and starts *striking* her breasts. He's using his fingers rather than the flat of his hand, but the force is loud enough that there's a *crack* for every hit --

Janet shouts and *bounces* on her knees --

Twists away --

And *yanks* herself back in range, lowering her head --

Lifting her ass --

Moaning and dripping saliva onto Thomas' *wrist* --

And there's no question that her breasts are going to bruise. The redness spreads far beyond the areolae to the thin but strong-looking pectoral muscles -- and is quickly moving from blush, to flush, to *brick*.

Janet keens --

Arches and *keens* --

"Head *up*, now. Show me your face, Janet."

She slurs and *babbles* her gratitude, moaning and arching, *offering*. Her eyes are wide and -- less frantic than needy, less wild than --

("You know how it is, alternate papi -- heh, no. You know *exactly* how it is, because Jay *told* me how you do. And so did the rest of the family. Sometimes you just gotta give every *last* little thing up.")

And Roy had grinned down at him and waggled his eyebrows.

("Is 'sometimes' now, Roy...?")

And Roy had stepped *back* -- and further back until he was against the wall of his temporary quarters on the Watchtower -- with his arms raised high above his head and his hips thrust forward.

("You tell me. Papi.")

Roy had barely needed a single *push* before he all but *fell* into sub-space. Tim hadn't even had to use the *Voice* once Roy was naked *enough* --

And perhaps, now, Thomas doesn't need to do anything but *ride* the tone he'd already set. He's *happy* -- that much is clear -- and while he's still aroused enough that he almost certainly hasn't *noticed* how *tightly* he's gripping the belt in his other hand --

While he's aroused enough that he's *twitching* nearly every time she tries and *fails* to say *please* --

He's happy, and *already* satisfied on a very deep level. He --

"He thinks he's in love," Cassandra says, and *tickles* Tim's nipples through his t-shirt.

Tim grunts -- for more than one reason. "He isn't."

"No. He isn't like that. I don't think he is like that?"

"He isn't, no. He'll probably be able to convince himself that he's perfectly unaffected once he has an --"

"I'm going to *keep* you, Janet..."

"Or not," Tim says, laughing a little. "I -- wow. All right..."

"You are surprised?"

"I was expecting more than one encounter to solidify --"

"I'm going to turn you into... mm. The most dangerous woman on the Eastern seaboard," Thomas says, and spanks her breasts harder --

*Harder* --

She yells and *pleads* --

"And I'm going to hurt you every. Chance. I. *Get*," and he stops and stands, backing away from her as she sways and moans --

As she pants and *shudders* --

He *circles* her --

He licks his lips -- his *mustache* is mussed -- "Janet... hands above your head, clenched together. Perfect. Scream... scream all you like," and he raises the belt --

And strikes.

And strikes --

And *strikes*, striping her back and sides over and over --

Striking for her biceps and forearms with just the *tip* of the belt --

"Kneel *up*."

She nods *while* shouting --

Obeys while *shaking* --

And Thomas moves around to whip her thighs and abdomen, her breasts and *throat* --

"We'll *use* those high collars, Janet!"

"Eeeaaa! Ehhh!"

"Oh -- look how beautiful -- how perfect --" And Thomas growls and tosses the belt away --

Janet pleads and shuffles up to him, rubs her face against his *thigh* --

"Oh, yes. Oh -- yes," and Thomas grips the top of Janet's head and pushes her *back* before opening his pants with shaking hands, letting them fall to his ankles. His briefs are tented and *stained*, and he pushes them down unceremoniously. They get caught on his left sock garter --

And Janet immediately moves to free them --

"Good girl. Very -- mm. Head *up*!"

Janet obeys and -- tries to open her mouth wider. This act, at least, she's heard of --

She *knows* this -- or thinks she does --

And Thomas is shuddering and stroking his long, thick, *dripping* penis --

Thomas is staring down at Janet's face as if he hadn't *seen* it before --

And then he squeezes himself viciously while squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth --

Janet moans and shakes her *head* --

And when Thomas opens his eyes again, they're wide and wild and almost *blind*. "Listen -- listen to me carefully, Janet..."

A *shouted* affirmative --

Thomas' laugh is breathless and *needy* --

He growls *again* --

And then grips her hair in his free hand and lifts her *higher*. "*Listen*. You're *going* to choke. You're *going* to cough. You're going to *gag*. But you will not vomit. Do you understand?"

Another shouted affirmative --

She's still trying to open *wider* --

"Oh, Janet, Janet... I might not make you bleed, at all," he says, and starts to push into her ringed mouth --

"Ehh! Ehhh!"

The head pops in *immediately*, and now her sounds are even more scrambled, wet and muffled at once --

"I might... I might be gentle... at some point," and he laughs and *thrusts* --

She tries and fails to *recoil* --

She gags and swallows and gags *again* --

"Shh... shh. You can take it, Janet. You can take it... and you will." He pulls back and allows her to pant through her nose --

Again --

Again --

And then he *shoves* deep --

Janet flails and reaches for him -- and then *locks* her hands behind her back --

"Good. Good girl. But I'd... nnh. I would prefer it if you masturbated yourself like the whore you are. My whore, yes?"

The sound --

She's trying to say *yes* again --

"Good... so very..." Thomas licks his lips and *grinds* in *slowly*, inch by inch --

Janet reaches between her legs and begins -- it seems to be a *rubbing* motion along a line parallel to her clitoris --

Tim doesn't want to *know* that --

But he knows, he knows and he wants --

Janet gags and *coughs* --

*Stops* the  motion of her hand --

"*Masturbate*!"

She coughs again and makes a sound Tim can't even *begin* to translate -- except that she's also trying to nod --

And she's working her hand again --

*Faster* this time --

And Thomas thrusts *shallowly*, never pulling out far enough to *let* Janet to do more than gasp and choke, gasp and gag, gasp and -- gulp --

"*HNH* -- oh, you perfect -- and you're turning as red as a beet. You can't breathe. You *won't* breathe until. Until I *let* you --" And Thomas growls and thrusts *faster* --

And Tim growls because he has to, because he *needs* --

"Yes," Cassandra says, and hauls on him until he's sitting up against her, until she can easily *reach* his groin --

She pushes her hand down his shorts --

And Janet cries and --

*Cries* --

She's sobbing without *air* as she works herself, as she drools and gets *fucked* --

And Cassandra squeezes him hard enough that he *grunts* --

And Thomas growls and pulls *all* the way out --

Janet sways and leans in --

Leans against the *grip* Thomas has on her hair --

"You're not going back to school today, Janet. You're not..." And Thomas laughs and strokes himself fast and *lightly*, pressing the head of his penis against the tip of her nose --

Pushing her nose out of *true* --

She tries to reach him with her *tongue* --

"You're not. You're not leaving this *room*. Don't... don't worry. You'll be fed well. Hydrated. *Exercised*..." And Thomas laughs again and *slaps* her lips with the head of his penis --

Janet *flinches* --

Tim *arches* --

And Cassandra begins to stroke him with *ruthless* efficiency, rough and fast and heedless of the pre-come he's been leaking --

Heedless of everything save the rhythm she's known since she was *thirteen* --

"Eeeaaa! Eeeaaa -- "

And it's cut off with another cough, another --

He's fucking her in *long* strokes now, in and in with no pause, no hesitation to let her *catch* her breath between coughs, between helpless *flinches* --

Her right arm is *spasming* --

Is it arousal? Need? Simple loss of control?

Tim *wants* to ask, but he can't stop *groaning* for long enough to do it, can't risk turning *away* --

Thomas shoves *in* again, *forces* himself in and holds himself there, shaking --

*Shaking* --

Janet is sobbing soundlessly and *jerking* her hand -- but she never stops. She never --

Janet's whole torso is *hitching*, bruising breasts quivering --

No, she's shuddering all over, all --

Tim is bucking into Cassandra's *fist* --

Thomas bends, *looms* over Janet and grips her shoulder with his free hand --

It looks like he's holding himself *up* on her -- no, he *is*, because she suddenly *drops* down to a seated position on her heels --

Thomas *grunts* --

And begins to fuck her *raggedly*, focus entirely internal and pupils *blown*. His mouth is open for one hungry grunt after another --

Janet is turning the color of brick again --

Thomas is *squeezing* her shoulder what must be *painfully* hard --

"*Janet*. *Now*!"

She flails with her left arm --

And then stills everywhere except for her pumping hips. Even *they* can't move much in that position --

Thomas is holding her against the *floor* --

Janet is *coming* --

Shuddering so --

Tim bites his lip and shoves his shorts down enough that he can twine his fingers with Cassandra's own, *make* her --

"Yes," she says, and *twists* with every stroke --

Harder --

Harder than he would've --

He opens his mouth to *say* something, but can only whine and *growl* --

And Thomas grunts again --

*Again* --

Thomas shouts and hunches further, hips pumping no faster --

No faster than Tim's own --

Oh, God --

God --

And a part of him is only begging Thomas to come, begging him to do it *before* he does, because he knows he'll wind up pausing, and he doesn't *want* to come back to --

"M-- *Janet* --" And Thomas throws his head back even though he's hunched --

Thomas shouts and *slams* into Janet's mouth --

*Crushes* her face to his groin --

And spasms and *shakes* his way through --

His --

"*Fuck* --"

Cassandra's tongue is in his *ear* --

Cassandra is *scratching* at his foreskin with her short pinky nail --

Cassandra is *fucking* his ear --

"Cass -- *Cassandra* --"

"Safe now," she says, and *giggles* --

And Tim gasps a laugh --

And *bucks* --

And gives up and lets the feeling ride him, *moves* for it the way he would for --

The way he *does* *every* time he's been teased for an extended period of time before being touched the right way --

The *best* --

She *bites* his ear *hard* --

Holds *on* even when he tosses his *head* --

"*Fuck* -- *Cass* -- *HNH* --"

And a part of Tim remains aware enough to know that Cassandra is close to *piercing* his ear -- in multiple places --

To know that he's arched and *straining* --

The rest is falling and yelling, falling and giving it *up* --

It's so *perfect* --

Especially the moment when the fall turns into something he has to scream for, that last twist, that last *vicious* squeeze --

He hits the bed --

Cass *pants* into his ear --

And he suspects he looks like the aftermath of the best sort of crucifixion. Well. The best sort which *doesn't* involve whips.

Tim smiles broadly.

Cassandra hums a snatch of "We Are The Champions."

"You certainly are," Tim says, and takes a deep breath. "One moment."

"Yes."

Tim focuses on breathing --

And then on breathing while listening to Cassandra lick and suck her fingers clean --

And then he stops that, flips over, bites the waistband of her tights, tugs it away from her abdomen with his teeth, and raises an eyebrow.

She pushes three fingers deep into her mouth while crossing her eyes.

Tim snorts -- but keeps his grip.

She pulls her fingers out with a wet pop. "Yes."

"Excellent," he says, letting go and shifting back --

She folds herself in half and pulls her tights off immediately, leaving her shirt *precisely* where it is -- hm.

"Fast?"

"Yes."

Tim licks his lips, inhales, licks his lips *again* -- "I can't be convincing --"

"No."

"You let *Jay* be convincing --"

"He is Jay," she says, pushing her hand into his hair and *gripping* --

"Your point is made," he says, and shoves into her *exceedingly* wet vagina with two fingers before setting out to lick her clean.

Quickly.

She's due for her period in... three days. Five at the most. This explains the relative thinness of her fluids, as well as the strong, musky, *tangy* scent. They'd showered *together* after training, but there's no sign of the soap she'd used other than the few ghostly hints of peach lingering further down her thighs than he'll be allowed to... travel.

Tim smiles and licks a stripe along the left side of her clitoris --

"Nn --"

And along the right --

"Tim."

Tim laughs and crooks his fingers *precisely* the way she likes, dragging the tips back and forth against her G-spot until she starts to shake --

"*Now*!"

And then he hums *while* turning his head enough that he can close his lips around her clitoris --

"Un -- un -- *Tim* --"

"Mm-hmm..."

She giggles breathlessly and *yanks* his hair -- but neither to punish nor to get him to move. She simply *is* rough, and Tim loves that about her, loves *her*, loves the way she makes him salivate and the way she makes him *move* with her when she starts to buck --

"*Nnuh* --"

"Mmmm..."

"M-*mn* --" And she taps his right shoulder twice with the fingers of her free hand --

And that means exactly *one* thing: He stops rubbing at her G-spot, straightens his fingers into *nearly* a strike position, and thrusts at a *slight* upward angle, fast and hard --

"*More* --"

And harder than that as he hums, as he *presses* his lips against her clitoris --

She cries out and *slaps* his shoulder --

He pauses his thrusts --

"No!" She slaps him *again* --

And he hums a chuckle and starts thrusting again, pressing harder with his lips --

She cries out again --

Again --

She bucks hard enough that he *slips* -- but she *puts* him *exactly* where she wants him --

And he sucks --

And he *tickles* with just the tip of his tongue --

She giggles and -- "Oh! Oh! *NNH* --"

For this -- always for this -- there is room for just a bit of improvisation:

A growling *suck* --

A *fast* nibble --

She smacks his *head* -- but since she's in the process of *driving* her vulva against his face, Tim thinks there's a fair chance that he's doing something right. He keeps it up --

And her moan is as throaty as one of Barbara's as she lets go of his hair in favor of gripping the back of his neck --

Her whole body *shakes* --

And Tim takes the opportunity to kiss and lick his way to the vestibule of her vagina. He makes a loud mess of things there between his tongue and fingers --

And she hums and pets him.

For precisely two minutes before yanking him away again. Tim raises an eyebrow. "You could tell me what Jay *does* to make you amenable to a more leisurely --"

"You can't do it."

"I could *try* --"

"No."

Tim licks his lips slowly, smirks, and waggles his eyebrows. "I dunno, sis --"

She backhands him.

"You know... that wasn't very nice," Tim says, and works his jaw in a clockwise motion.

She giggles and points at him.

Tim raises an eyebrow.

She giggles more and *snorts*.

And Tim tries out one of his more *dramatic* long-suffering sighs. "You could at least allow me to flog you every now and again."

She sticks her tongue out at him.

"Paddles?"

"No."

"Nipple --"

"No."

"You didn't --"

"No."

Tim laughs quietly and wrestles her -- with some difficulty and the judicious application of a nerve-strike which will leave her left arm paralyzed for the better part of the next twenty minutes -- onto her back.

Tim Drake will have two *more* new bruises to brazen out in front of the Wayne Enterprises shareholders at the meeting he has no excuse to skip now --

One of them will be on his *forehead* --

But the kiss is slow, and warm, and full of the sort of laughter he wouldn't surrender for anything, anything, at all --

He would give up this *machine* and everything --

Tim blinks and pulls back --

"Yes?"

Tim licks his lips and leans in to *peck* her lips -- and smiles helplessly.

"Oh! Better now!"

"Yes --"

She pats his cheek with her one functioning hand and beams. "Tell?"

"It's only -- it's not only --" Tim shakes his head. "It's the present. I have you. I have so *much* --"

"Past is dead?"

"Well..."

Cassandra smiles ruefully and wryly at once. "Never dead."

"No matter how many times I snap its cervical spine, yes. But..." He leans in and plants a lingering kiss on her forehead. "I have so much."

"Yes. Always," she says, and pats his cheek again -- then locks her knees around his chest and throws him --

He manages to *scoot* --

And then realizes that she'd manipulated him -- easily -- into sitting back against the headboard in his usual space. She cuddles her useless arm against him and pats his abdomen with her other hand. "More."

Tim takes a deep breath and wonders if he can smell the earth -- "We don't have to."

"Yes."

"We truly don't --"

"*Afterglow*," she says, slowly and *pointedly* --

Tim coughs. "I'm frankly terrified --"

"Don't care," she says, and jabs him to the left of his solar plexus.

"As you say," and Tim looks at the viewscreen --

He'd paused the action at a point which makes a timber-like fall for Thomas look *inevitable*, even if it involves bending Janet in a way which may not technically be possible. He takes another deep breath and focuses --

And the groans are immediate --

The *wet* sounds of abortive thrusts -- and possibly Janet's still-moving hand?

The *image* is still -- but there are no thuds or *seriously* pained sounds, so Tim has to assume that Thomas maintained his balance *somehow*.

Thomas pants --

Groans again --

And the image kicks in with a view of Thomas working himself into an upright position *without* pulling out.

Janet's complexion is closer to plum than brick now, and she's hitching *randomly* -- but she isn't trying to move. And she *is* still trying to masturbate herself, though it's clear that at this point she lacks even *basic* motor skills --

"Oh, Janet... can you even still hear me?"

A *spasm* that could be assent -- or anything, at all.

Thomas sighs and shakes his head. "Sadly, I must assume that you can't. As much as I would enjoy remaining in your throat until you passed out -- I am quite practiced at performing CPR should it become necessary -- it simply isn't practical. Here," he says, and pulls out -- slightly.

Enough that her next hitch gives her actual oxygen --

She sways and flails again --

"Be still and breathe, Janet. Just breathe."

This time, the assent is... what has *become* clear. She pants through her nose with her hands behind her back, eyelids fluttering --

She never tries to look *up* --

And, eventually, she stops swaying. Once she does, Thomas releases his grip on her hair... and begins to pet her, instead. Her hair, yes -- and her salt-streaked cheeks, and her swollen lips --

"That's right. Good girl. I didn't even have to tell you to swallow it all -- that's quite rare for beginners like you. And your eyes are shining... ah, you're weeping again. It's only natural. Let it out."

Another affirmative -- and she begins to sob and keen almost immediately. It's --

The sight and sound of it --

She still has Thomas' *penis* in her mouth --

"Oh, so sweet... go on. Weep more for me."

That was almost *certainly* an affirmative, but it's hitched and broken and *muffled* --

Her eyes *and* nose are leaking --

She's trying to *gasp* around Thomas' penis -- and he isn't softening quickly enough to allow that to happen. It's abundantly clear when he realizes that -- he actually *snorts* a little --

And then he pulls out, straightens his clothes, and looks her over.

She's still sobbing freely.

Weeping... like a little girl.

Thomas strokes himself through his clothes and shudders with obvious pleasure, then bends down and lifts her into his arms like a bride. "Shh, that's right. Let it *all* out, Janet," he says, and carries her back to the medical area.

When he gets her to the gurney, he bends her over it and quickly unties the rope connecting the hook to the posture collar. He drops the rope in a large, empty container which is almost certainly for laundry, then splays his left hand against her hitching back and tugs the hook out with the right --

She howls and sobs *louder* for a moment --

And Thomas clucks his tongue against his teeth and strokes her. "It's all right, Janet. That part is over. Do you understand?"

A breathless and *gasping* affirmative --

"Good girl." And Thomas drops the hook and ball into a container which is almost certainly for items which require sterilization. He then moves back to the anal toy cabinet... and pulls out an inflatable plug. He lubricates the business end almost perfunctorily, then moves back to the gurney. "I'm not, however, done with your rectum, Janet. But this will be much gentler on you. Now reach back and spread yourself for me... oh, good girl. Your anus is *somewhat* swollen, but I doubt it will take very long, at all, to heal. Try to breathe -- well, of course you *can't* breathe deeply right now, can you? It's all right. Everything will be all right," he says, and pushes the plug in quickly and neatly --

"Ehh!"

"Good girl. Two pumps will do for now," and he does just that.

Janet pushes up on her toes for each --

Sobs and *shudders* --

"Well... one more," Thomas says, pumping again, then tightening the release valve and letting the tube and pump dangle like a tail. "Release your buttocks and stand straight for me."

A shuddering, *sobbing* affirmative --

"Turn around and face me, Janet... yes, good girl," and he begins releasing her from the posture collar. Her throat and jaw are welted, but not deeply --

And she screams and sprays saliva when the gag comes out --

And she doesn't seem to remember *how* to close her mouth.

Thomas smiles. "Let's get you washed up."

He brings her to the sinks, and first sterilizes his own hands and arms, then washes her face, throat, and torso with what seems to be warm water -- and a much gentler soap than what he had used for himself.

Eventually, Janet stops crying and leaves her mouth only *partially* open.

"I rather enjoy the scent of begonias on a young woman. I never understood why so many of you insist the scent is only for dried-up old grandmothers... well. You'll smell like it *here*. Do you understand?"

"Ehh --"

"No, Janet. You can and will speak like a *person* now."

Janet blinks --

Blinks *rapidly* --

Narrows her eyes -- and closes her mouth. And swallows.

"Go on."

"Yes -- yes, Mr. Wayne."

Thomas chuckles -- and tickles Janet's chin. "That shocked you more than the plug, didn't it? The 'person' comment?"

Janet inhales sharply --

Licks her lips --

And lowers her head. "Yes, Mr. Wayne."

Thomas chuckles again -- and walks to the armchair, moving Janet's clothes on top of one of the many cabinets before sitting down and leaning back. And patting his right thigh.

"I --"

"You know what to do, Janet."

Janet winces -- "Yes, Mr. Wayne," she says, and walks over to him... gingerly. Her knees are already visibly bruised in places, and there is the plug to be considered. She --

"When she wore perfume, at all, while I was growing up, it was begonia," Tim says, and strokes Cassandra's hair.

"Mm."

Janet very clearly tries to sit down gracefully on Thomas' thigh, but jumps as soon as her buttocks touch --

*Hovers* --

"*Down*."

She forces herself down and cries out, wincing -- and more tears roll down her cheeks.

Thomas brushes them away -- and pulls her against him, allowing her to rest mostly on her hip.

She pants and *whimpers* --

"Shh. Shh."

"Yes. Mr. Wayne."

"There are times when you will be my whore, Janet. A whore isn't an escort, or a prostitute, or even a woman of ill-repute. A whore isn't a person. A whore... is an object, and objects are meant only to be used. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Wayne. But..."

"Yes?"

"What are *people* meant for?"

Thomas laughs delightedly -- and kisses the top of her head. "Excellent question, Janet. And, truly, I expected no less. Clench around the plug for me."

"I -- yes, Mr. Wayne," she says -- and shudders her way through a long, helpless-sounding moan.

"Thank you *very* much."

"I -- ah. You're welcome. Mr. Wayne."

"Am I...? Good," and Thomas kisses the top of her head again, and cups her waist. "You're such a beautiful little woman... but you had a question. People... people are meant to strive, and struggle, and achieve everything they can. People are meant to work *hard* -- but they are also meant to learn, and thrive, and love, and *live*. Part of that -- and not a small part -- is freedom. And that freedom *must* include the freedom to choose not to be a person, at all -- for a time."

"And the freedom to make use of such... not-people?"

"Oh, yes. So long as certain things are understood."

Janet breathes deep and closes her eyes, and they track fast behind the lids.

"Would you like to know -- forgive me. Would you like to be *sure* of what those things are?"

Janet opens her eyes again, and the look of *heated* calculation is so familiar --

Parts of Tim want to draw back and parts of him want to *fight* --

"No murdering," Cassandra says.

Tim coughs. "Noted."

"Yes, Mr. Wayne. I *would* like to be sure."

"Very well," he says, and tilts her chin up so that they can look into each other's eyes. "Oh, look at you. From the very first moment I saw you, I knew a wonderful *rush* of desire... and amusement. You would bleed me dry in a *heartbeat* -- if it would advance your assorted agendas and you thought you could get away with it."

Janet firms her lips into a hard line --

Winces for the obvious pain --

Shakes her head --

"Shh, no, don't try to think of a denial, Janet. For one thing, your bloodstream is far too full of endorphins to make that work right now, and, for another thing, it's pointless. I'm nearly fifteen years older than you, and I have *not* led a sheltered existence -- for all that it pleases the press to make it sound as if I wandered blissfully from nursery to ivory tower to boardroom... but that's neither here nor there. I happen to *like* strong, ambitious, and vastly intelligent women who aren't especially nice people when all is said and done, and I quickly grow bored with the alternatives. I don't want to hurt you because I think you're somehow *unworthy*, Janet. I want to hurt you because it excites me sexually -- and because you howl like an angry young wolf when you achieve an orgasm *through* painful means. You are beautiful to me... and I'm going to give you what you want."

Janet raises an eyebrow. "And what do you think that is?"

"An 'in,' as the less well-bred types are wont to say. Once you have decided on the *sort* of business you'd like to run --"

"I already have --"

"Shh. I am not finished."

Janet inhales --

Lifts her chin --

And lowers her head. "Yes, Mr. Wayne."

Another chuckle. "I'm going to make you scream for me... often. But, as I was saying, once you've given deep and serious *thought* to the sort of business you'd like to run -- don't grit your teeth like that. There, good girl. Once that's done, and you've worked up a reasonable business model, and you've shown me a reasonable plan to gather *half* of the start-up capital you need... I will provide you with one hundred and fifty percent of that capital. You will *still* get those independent investments, of course -- and I will *not* be allowing you to use my name like a club -- but you will have much, much smoother sailing than the average young businessperson... and Wayne Enterprises will be behind you publicly *and* privately."

Janet -- pants. And stares.

Thomas smiles and raises an eyebrow --

And Janet swallows and raises an eyebrow of her own. "And in return, all I have to do --"

"No."

"'No'?"

"You're going to be my protégé because you're brilliant and talented -- and because I believe in taking calculated risks. You're going to be my whore -- whenever I tell you to be -- because you *enjoy* it, Janet."

She rears back --

He raises his eyebrow *higher* --

"Has it occurred to you that your life philosophy is more than a little self-*serving*, Mr. Wayne?"

Another delighted laugh. It almost certainly is... but it's also based on logic and careful observation --"

"Of your more *vigorous* erections?"

Thomas hums. "You'll note that I didn't wash your genitalia, Janet."

"What does that have to do --"

"I can smell you, Janet. And you have already taught me -- very well -- the scent of your rising arousal."

Janet flushes *dark* --

"Now, the difference between me and the average sort of man -- the sort of man who you will, presumably, someday marry and produce children with -- is that it is, quite frankly, all the same to me whether it was the words 'you're going to be my whore' which did it... or the words 'one hundred and fifty percent.'"

"*Fuck* you!"

Thomas chuckles and shakes his head. "Oh, Janet. We're going to have so much fun together."

"We --"

And Thomas has the bulb of the inflatable plug in his hand just that quickly --

"Oh, God -- oh, no -- I'm sorry -- I mean --"

"Shh, Janet, shh. You can't get away from this now," and Thomas pumps once --

"*UNH* -- *please*, Mr. Wayne!"

"Mm. Your nipples are already wonderfully hard again..."

"Please -- God, *please*!"

And Thomas pumps *again* --

And Janet screams and kicks her *legs* --

And clutches at Thomas' shirt --

"I'm sorry, I'm so -- I'll do *anything*!"

Thomas hums and strokes between her legs -- and lifts his slick, shining fingers between them. "I know you will, Janet. You will, in fact, do *everything*. But first... you'll call me 'Thomas.'"

Janet gasps --

Laughs --

And laughs *harder*, shaking her head and wheezing, gasping --

Thomas looks *thrilled* --

And then he pumps the bulb again.

Tim homes the machine before he has to listen to Janet scream any more.

And then he closes his eyes.

And tilts his head back.

Cassandra squeezes him. "Questions."

Tim opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling -- "Shoot."

"They always liked each other?"

"That's... difficult to answer."

"Not hard for *all* of you."

Tim smiles ruefully. "True," he says, and "one moment." And then he builds a moment in his mind. He's sitting at his desk, trying to be interesting and intelligent -- but never, ever grasping. Thomas is in the wingback chair, smiling with *polite* interest which never actually reaches the paternal. Janet is between them, robe hiding the latest session's bruises and whatever else as she rests one hand on the back of Tim's chair and one on the back of Thomas'. Her smile is both satisfied and *determined*, and they are --

A family.

Who don't look at each other.

Who never --

"I'm not sure how much they laughed together, or how much they spoke, or how much they spoke as *equals* -- as opposed to as moderately-psychotic-and-rape-ish-mentor to voracious-and-*reflexively*-deceitful-protégé. I *can't* be sure, because every moment when the three of us were together was carefully *staged*."

Cassandra frowns. "All?"

Tim strokes her cheek. "All. I can't be sure. And I'm admittedly cynical. And I have all sorts of reasons to think the worst of them as people. By rights, I should be skewing my deductions and assumptions positively, if only as a check on my own emotions..."

"You can't."

"I can't. Watching this tells me that they *could've* found a great deal of common ground with each other -- with a little work and a *trifle* more interest in *consent*... but I don't think they did, no."

Cassandra nods thoughtfully. "Were they... sad?"

Tim frowns and tries to -- he shakes his head. "I don't want to think about that. I know --"

"Okay."

"I know it's unworthy --"

"No, it's okay."

"I -- hm." He raises an eyebrow.

She wriggles free and shakes out her -- recovered -- arm. "Training now?"

The rest of the family won't be back for at least another hour or two --

Cassandra always giggles *more* during spars --

"Absolutely," Tim says, and stands. He shuts the machine down as he goes.

*

May 1979

Bruce is gone.

Bruce is *gone* --

Bruce is gone, Tim is covered in weird demon-metahuman-whatever-the-fuck *glop* --

The knife hadn't fucking *worked* --

Except that three of the *things* that attacked them are melted all over the damned *sidewalk* in East Gotham and --

But there were five of them. And the other two have Bruce. And --

Harvey puts a little more weight on the accelerator, trying to tell himself he's not going the wrong direction, that he's not --

" -- listen. You have to --"

"What? What the fuck *is* it, Tim?"

Tim jerks -- Harvey can see that out of the corner of his eye -- but it isn't really a flinch. It --

Ah, God, he can't --

He can't yell at *Tim* --

"I'm sorry, fuck, I know --"

"No, it's all right -- but you have to drive more slowly --"

"I *can't* --"

"Harvey," Tim says, and his voice is low and shaky  -- "Look around at the road. Look -- just look."

Harvey shudders once, all over --

And deals with the fact that he's weaving the Lexedes through traffic that *isn't* bumper-to-bumper, but is damned close. They --

Fuck. *Fuck* --

He slows down.

He slows down.

He hears himself make a noise like --

And that's Tim's tough little hand on his wrist, squeezing hard --

"I'm slowing down --"

"I know. I -- I'm trying -- ah."

Harvey frowns and just -- "You're... tryin' to comfort me?" Red light. He turns to study Tim a little, see him and know him --

His *brother* --

And right now, Harvey can see an expression *trying* to happen on his face. It looks a little like one of those marionettes trying to stand up on its own -- "Stop that, little guy --"

Tim blanks his expression just like *that* --

"No, no -- I mean -- I just meant you shouldn't try to make any kinda expression you don't feel. You gotta -- let --"

Bruce is gone.

Bruce is gone.

Bruce --

Harvey yanks against Tim's grip on his arm until Tim lets go --

Bangs on the dash with his fist --

Again --

And it's so good to feel something *solid*, something --

He couldn't get one good *punch* in against those fucking -- those fucking *things* --

They took *Bruce* --

"Green light."

"Wha--"

"Green light, Harvey."

No. No, that's not --

Harvey sucks in a breath, focuses, wraps his bleeding hand around the wheel and drives, just drives, because the horns are blaring just like this is a normal day, just like Bruce isn't gone -- wait. "You call me *Harv*, Tim --"

And Tim's laugh is high and freakin' *cracked* --

But Harvey can't say he doesn't understand it. He -- he smiles --

And his eyes immediately fill with tears. He --

What if they can't get Bruce back?

What if they missed their *chance*?

They were supposed to get something from Tim's *room*. They --

Harvey sucks in a deep breath and grabs Tim's wrist when he reaches to pet him, comfort him more, God --

God, he's only *thirteen* --

"Harv, do you -- do you need to pull over --"

"*No* --"

"I can drive --"

"*What*?"

"One of the live-ins taught me the basics --"

"You're too *short* --"

"When I was twelve --"

"You were even *shorter* --"

"There were *pillows*, Harv --"

Harvey chokes on a laugh --

More tears, more --

He lets go of Tim's wrist so he can wipe them away, so he can *see* --

"Harv --"

"I'm good. I'm -- ah, Jesus, that's a lie, but I can drive," Harvey says, and gets on the bridge that'll take them to Worth and, from there, to Bristol. The vibration of the road surface puts his teeth on edge a little, but he can handle it.

He can --

"Tell me -- are we going back to your place?"

Tim frowns. "What --"

Harvey growls -- "Are we going back --" But he hadn't actually *told* --

Why had he fucking *waited*?

He smacks himself in the forehead once, twice --

And Tim's holding onto him again, and this time he's out of his *seatbelt* --

"Don't *do* that, little guy --"

"Don't do *that* -- and tell me --"

"Blood. Blood said you had something in the secret compartments -- why do you have secret -- never mind. Just -- what do you have in those things, hunh?"

"I -- nothing -- nothing *important* --"

"Don't do that, don't -- God, we're gonna be freakin' repeating ourselves --" Harvey shoves a hand back through his hair --

Takes a *deep* breath --

Another *tear* comes out --

But he can see, and they're almost there. Ten, fifteen minutes this time of day. They can do this. They can --

They *will* do this. And -- "Just tell me everything you got, little guy. We'll figure out what's important together, okay?"

"All right, Harv. I have -- one of Black Canary's heels. She broke it off in a fight with some gang members --"

"Can't believe you were watching -- or that her name is Dinah -- no, don't listen to me, go on --"

"A vial of Hour-Man's formula --"

"*What*?"

"He uses... some sort of drug to give him superpowers --"

"What are you *talking* -- how did you even --"

"It fell out of his hand when he was fighting -- well, the press called them ogres, but they really looked more like -- ah. That's not important. It rolled into the sewer --"

"You went into the -- all right, we're getting that."

"Harv, it seems to be very addictive --"

"I don't care."

"It -- it *hurts* him --"

"I don't. Care. If we get another shot at those guys --"

"And -- and Blood said."

"Exactly. Christ, I can't believe what an *idiot* I am, what a -- what a freakin' *coward* --"

"*Don't*, Harv --"

"I was so busy trying not to *think* about this stuff --"

"*No* one would want to --"

"God, what are they gonna do if we can't get what they want? Kidnapping is no *joke*, Tim!"

Tim swallows audibly. "We -- we'll figure something out --"

"We'll get -- no. We'll get their freaking *brother* back -- what the fuck did Martha *do* with him?"

And Tim -- isn't looking at him. Isn't --

"You know. You --"

"I don't. I don't know," Tim says, and turns to face him again.

Harvey looks away from the road -- Tim's being honest. Of course he's -- "You're never gonna lie to me again, are you."

Tim shakes his head. "If -- it might... slip out. But I'll... fix it."

Harvey licks his lips and tries a smile --

Tim tries one *back* --

"These smiles are pretty pathetic on our faces, hunh?"

Tim bites his lip and nods -- and then nods toward the road.

Right, yeah. Yeah. Not to get into a car accident before he can *strangle* Martha --

Not strangle her, not -- never *do* that --

He's just gonna talk to her, get the answers out, *all* the answers, and hadn't he just been letting her slide on *everything* for all these years? Hadn't he --

And Tim is gripping his arm now --

Which means he was about to start beating on something again. Jesus. Harvey tries a laugh. "You gotta let me work some of this *out*, little guy --"

"We might -- need those fists. Later."

Harvey sucks in a breath --

Fists. *Just* fists, because --

("The dimensions in which Harvey Dents gain proficiency with deadly weapons are *not* the most cheerful places in the multiverse.")

Yeah.

Harvey nods. And breathes some more. Drives a little faster, just a little, the roads are empty enough --

"What else -- did Blood say anything else about this?"

Harvey shakes his head. "Just us, that knife, your -- your secret compartment stuff -- wait, what else do you have?"

"Other -- souvenirs. Two of Wildcat's whiskers. A scrap of one of Doctor Fate's capes -- burned to unrecognizability. Pictures -- photographs. A lot of photographs."

"Of the JSA, yeah?"

"Yes."

Harvey bites his lip and nods, tries to think, tries to think of some way --

But is it enough that Tim knows who all these people *are*? They could just go *get* -- except that they're off doing God only knows what with freaking *Blood*, so -- no. Not enough. Unless --

Did they all go?

Do they have time to figure that out?

Are these people in the *book*?

Harvey laughs, and he's not surprised by how freaking hysterical --

*Bruce* --

"Harv --"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here, I'm listening -- no, I'm thinking, that's -- that's what I'm doing --"

"I don't think," Tim says *cautiously*, "that it's enough that I know the JSA's identities --"

"Neither do I. I was just -- yeah," Harvey says, shaking his head and pulling off the little excuse for a highway and onto the back roads. Faster. Much faster.

"If we could contact --"

"You already have those numbers memorized, don't you."

And -- he can see Tim blushing out of the corner of his eye. Just --

"You're adorable, little guy. Now is *not* the time to be embarrassed by the fact that you're obsessive. You get on the horn and see if you can raise any of these guys -- maybe they left someone *home*, we don't know -- and I'll freakin' brace Martha."

"Ah... all right."

"No? What? C'mon, we *both* need to think --"

"Are you up to that?"

Harvey blinks and frowns -- but it's not the worst question in the world. Or even a *bad* question. It -- he winces.

"I'll do it --"

"You don't *know* her, Tim --"

"And I don't owe her anything," Tim says, low and quiet and *even*.

Harvey licks his lips --

*Thinks* about it --

"No."

"Harv --"

"You don't know her tells, little guy. You -- I got a *real* damned problematic relationship with her -- I'm not gonna lie about that. At all. I owe her for a *lot* of damned things. But, right now, we want the same thing -- and that's gonna count for more than anything else."

Tim is frowning --

"I'm sure."

"I just don't want you to -- I'm worried about you."

Harvey laughs again -- it's no better than the last one. "I'm worried about me, too, little guy. Hey, Jesus, are you -- I don't see any blood on you, but --"

"I'm all right --"

"She kicked you ten feet *away* --"

"I'll have bruises, but --"

"Are you *sure* you're up for another fight?"

"Harv. I regularly allow my sensei to kick me that way -- and in several other ways --"

"Your *sensei* doesn't have *scales* and *claws*. I *know*. I *met* her," Harvey says, and glares at Tim for a second before turning back to the road --

And Tim coughs a laugh. "All right, you have a point. But... the bruises won't be severe. I *have* experience with that."

"But do you have *enough* --"

"Harv. I will not fail again."

Harvey shivers and *grips* the wheel -- "You didn't fail."

Tim's laugh is old and *dark* -- "Harv."

"No. *No*. We only had part of the puzzle -- thanks to *my* screw-up -- and you *still* took out three of those guys and wounded the big one. The -- Christ, what *was* she?"

Tim frowns. "I don't -- I don't know. I've never seen or heard of anything like her before. I was assuming that she was some sort of demon, but only because Blood seemed to know what was going to happen."

Harvey shakes his head. "That's no kind of -- he's magic. He was magic *before* he had a demon inside him, you know? A *powerful* wizard, even before he was trained to use any of that stuff. That's *why* Morgan Le Fey picked him out for her plans --"

"What? Ah... what?"

Harvey blinks -- and remembers that not everyone actually knows *that* story. "How much Arthurian stuff do you know?"

"Ah... the basics? A mystical sword, the uniting of England under one King-of-Kings, as it were? Wars of succession, rumors of incest, treachery... ah." Tim blinks and frowns -- and then blushes again, shaking his head. "What I've seen of it has been... heavily dramatized. I'm aware that these people were real, but beyond that... ah. He was... involved?"

"He was involved, all right. Specifically, he was banging Morgan. Apparently, he was young enough to think it would go somewhere serious --"

Is that why he likes women like Martha?

Is that his freaking *type*? Harvey -- doesn't squeeze his eyes shut. He drives, blows out a breath, and keeps going: "Anyway, she wanted Mordred on the throne and Arthur -- and the rest of the knights -- dead and rotting somewhere out of the way. So she set up this huge spell -- no, I don't know how this part works -- with Blood as the target/sacrifice, so she could summon an unstoppable demon. With me so far?"

"Etrigan."

"Yeah, exactly. Etrigan was supposed to feed on Blood or take over his body or some damned thing, but Blood was too powerful and/or Etrigan was too *noble* to do it, so instead they wound up bound together forever. And that's why Blood's immortal. They still couldn't save Arthur, though. I think --" Harvey frowns. "I know that messes with him. Don't ever expect him to *show* that for long enough to keep him from acting like a creepy old bastard, though. And, anyway, my point is that I don't *know* exactly what kind of magic Blood has -- just that it's been enough to save a whole lot of lives over the past thousand years. And maybe *end* a whole lot more."

Tim frowns *hard* --

"Heh, yeah, *that*. He lost count of the number of people he'd killed when he was mortal, Tim. And that's a quote."

"I... well. *War* is... an issue, of course. But..."

"Still."

"Yes," Tim says, and turns to look out the window and at Worth slowly turning into the money on top of money that is Bristol.

"I hear you. *Believe* me, I hear you. I -- are you gonna be okay about today?"

"The killing... I don't know. I don't know if they were sentient."

Is that what you're telling yourself, little guy? No. No, that's not what he has to ask. At all. Ever --

And Tim covers his face with one hand. "That doesn't matter," he says, and his voice is muffled.

"It does --"

"I didn't know, and so I shouldn't have -- I started -- I started going for killing blows, Harv --"

"I know."

Tim winces and -- God, that was *almost* a flinch --

"They were taking our *brother*, Tim."

"I want -- I want to be a *hero* --"

"*Stop*," Harvey says, and reaches to grip Tim's shoulder, to hold it and shake it a little. "Just stop, okay? All we knew, right then and there, is that there were magical creatures attacking us and kidnapping our *brother* to do God only knew *what* with him. We *still* don't know what they're doing -- fuck. Fuck, tell me you know what I'm *saying*, little guy!"

And Tim sucks in a breath and drops his hands to his thighs, sitting up straight and nodding, just like that -- for the panic in Harvey's voice. Just --

Harvey *knows* it -- "I'm okay --"

"You're not -- and neither am I," Tim says. "We're -- we'll keep each other okay."

Harvey breathes and thinks -- of empty beaches. Beaches with no shadows.

*Shadows* with no shadows, even when he could really *use* one, something to keep him steady and calm --

Someone to shove him down in the dark and take *over* --

Except that, somehow, there's a sound of jingling, or chimes. Like...like jewelry banging together --

A vague sense that he should be thinking about *goats* --

And then... all he really wants to do is focus on getting this crap taken care of so he can take a long nap. He *can* do it on his own --

Chimes --

He *won't* be on his own. He's got a brother who's *extremely* handy with magical knives, and who does things like pick up vials of superhero juice out of sewers, and --

Yeah. He can do this.

*They* can do --

"-- me? Harv?"

And, somehow, he's *parked*. Right in front of some random person's house --

There's a short guy with a crew-cut watering his lawn and *scowling* at them --

At the two random teenagers in the way-too-fucking-expensive car just *sitting* --

No, that'd be *less* suspicious. *He's* been sitting here staring into space. Tim's practically in his freaking *lap* --

"Harv? You -- you *seem* more --"

"I'm here," Harvey says, and swallows. And smiles ruefully. "Just had a little -- skip. In there. Somewhere. Uh. That's not really reassuring."

Tim *stares* at him, intense and wide-eyed, and shakes his head *slowly*.

Harvey laughs helplessly, and this time no tears come out. This time --

Tim smiles at him *cautiously* --

And Harvey pulls him into a hug, just holds him, holds him *tight* --

"Oof --"

"Don't ever let me lose you, little guy. Not for anything."

"I -- I won't --"

"I mean -- I just mean --" Harvey laughs again and holds him *tighter* --

"Harv --"

"I don't know what I mean."

"Are you --"

"But I'm okay. I'm -- I'm pretty sure Blood did something to my brain the last time we talked. Something -- I used to have... a lot of real dark stuff in my brain. A lot of... shadows... I don't know how to talk about it --"

"He... took the shadows away?" And Tim's kind of wheezing --

Harvey lets up so the kid can *breathe* --

Kisses his forehead --

And crew-cut-guy hoses down their car. *Right*. Harvey flips him off --

"Oh, God, what --"

"Let's get outta here before he comes after us with a gun or something," Harvey says, and *puts* Tim back in the passenger seat.

"You -- you have to tell me --"

"Buckle up," Harvey says, and starts the car. "And I will. I'll tell you absolutely everything one day *soon* -- I promise."

"All right --"

"And I'll tell you --" Harvey laughs again and shakes his head. "Sometimes I think, maybe, I had a whole separate person in my head. Or maybe not a *whole* person, but... enough of one that the rest of me could... take breaks. Go away. When my old man was beating on me hard enough."

"Oh. Oh. You don't -- have to --"

"I do, though, because it's part of *this*, too," Harvey says, and smiles wryly. "I told Bruce why I had so many bruises. He begged me to, and I couldn't -- I couldn't. This was our freshman year. It hurt him -- I could see that. I *remember* that. Clear as anything. It hurt him, and that made me warm inside and it made me *start* to be okay -- if only so I could make *him* okay again. But he... well, he wrote to Martha about it. Just like he wrote to her about every *other* important thing in his life. Hell, he'd starting writing to her about *me* before I even *introduced* myself, you know?"

Tim smiles. "I... think I can understand you having a profound effect on someone."

"Ah, get outta here. I'll show you *profound* once we get Bruce right back here where he belongs. But..."

"I'm listening."

Harvey doesn't let himself slip. Not even a little. "Martha was pissed beyond *words* that someone had made her baby boy cry. That -- heh. That's just  not how the world *works* if you're her, you know?"

Tim inhales sharply. "Your biological father -- the reports suggested that he died of a burst blood vessel in the brain --"

"Heh. More like burst blood vessels all over his freakin' body, little guy. She --"

"Killed him. Or -- Blood did?"

"Blood gave her his power. Or -- a little bit of it, I guess. And she used it to do *that*."

And Tim's breathing -- fast and hard. He --

"Yeah. Just think about that for --"

"Harv -- I'm so sorry --"

"No, that's -- no. I can't take that right now, okay? But thank you."

"You're welcome. I... I won't say -- I won't say. But."

"Yeah?"

Tim licks his lips. "Do we know how often she's done... things like that?"

"How often she's offed people with Blood's help? I don't know. I really don't. But I know that *her* father died real damned suspiciously back in 'fifty-nine --"

"Oh -- the reports suggested spontaneous combustion -- oh. I see." Tim swallows.

Harvey smiles wryly. "Exactly. She's not -- she's not *like* other women, Tim. She's not like other *people*, period."

"Does -- ah. Does Bruce..."

"I haven't talked to him about it. I... I kinda want to protect him from it for as long as humanly possible -- Christ. Would knowing have protected him? Stopped this today?"

Tim shakes his head. "I don't know. We *can't* know -- yet. But... I tend to think that it's... better to know."

Harvey smiles ruefully. "Always, little guy? 'cause I know some things about what happened with my old man's body that I *sincerely* wish I could forget --"

"Even if forgetting would also make you forget how dangerous your mother is?"

"I... heh. Point to my *other* genius brother, because, yeah, I *am* gonna be thinking about Lester Dent's *failed* autopsy when I walk into Martha's freakin' boudoir -- or wherever she is --"

"Let me come with you --"

"You have to call --"

"No. We're going to stop by my... parents' house, pick up the vial, and then go straight to the Manor. And then we'll meet with your mother --"

"Just call her freakin' Martha --"

"No, I don't think so. She's going to be 'Mrs. Wayne' to me, and I think she should --"

"You think she should continue to be 'Mom' to me? Even though I'm -- no. No, you're right," Harvey says, and pulls onto Harrison Terrace. The Drakes are *near* the end, and then it's another mile and a half to the manor. "All the cops I've talked to over the years are all about that. Show the perp respect until he -- or she -- gets overconfident and sloppy."

Tim nods once, and that --

"You studied interrogation technique, little guy?"

"I... just from books."

"I didn't see *that* on your bookshelf."

"You -- looked -- ah. It would've been suspicious."

That's *confusing* for a minute -- until it isn't. Tim isn't *supposed* to be interested in things like that.

Or in anything Janet or *Thomas* wouldn't approve of --

*Christ* --

Harvey reaches over and cups Tim's shoulder, squeezing *firmly* --

"I'm all right --"

"No, you're not, little guy --"

Tim laughs and covers Harvey's hand with his own. "I'm *relatively* all right. With this. About this? Ah -- let's focus."

Harvey squeezes him again. "Anything you say. We'll go in soft and determined. We don't let her get away with anything. We don't let her *distract* us."

"All right. What does she... ah.... like? In terms of conversation."

"Flirtation. Intelligence. *Naughty* humor." And Harvey can *feel* Tim's eyes crossing -- "Heh. Yeah, I said it --"

"You're her *son* --"

"I'm her *son's* *brother*. That's not really the same thing in her book."

And Tim's got a thoughtful look on his face when they pull up in front of his house, but it doesn't slow him down any. He's up and out of the car like *that* --

"What are you gonna say --"

"Wrestling on the grounds. I'm going to change into something... sturdier while I'm inside."

"Are you sure you don't want me to come in with you?"

Tim's smile is dark. "I'll be faster if I say you're waiting for me in the car."

And -- he gets that. Harvey winces and nods, leaning back and watching Tim jog -- not run -- up the walk.

He waits.

He runs over the fight in his head --

God, not even his *best* punches had done a damned *thing* --

And who the hell had *taught* Tim how to even *hold* a knife? Did he get that from books, too?

And that toss at the end had *looked* wobbly as hell, but it had damned well done the job.

Magic. He can file it under magic --

("Timothy Drakes *all* across the multiverse were all but *designed* for the use of assorted kinds of weaponry.")

-- but maybe not all of it.

Maybe he should be making Tim drink the superhero potion? Make him faster and stronger so he can *really* use that knife -- no. Tim said the stuff was dangerous and addictive. No way he can risk the little guy like that.

It's bad *enough* to risk him like *this* --

Harvey will take the potion, and he'll be able to *help* kick a little ass, and then -- well, then he'll have his brothers to talk him down from whatever screwed-up high he gets on. And he *won't* get addicted, because no matter how good it feels? That's *not* gonna be his life.

No matter how much it hurts.

No matter how much his body says he *needs* it. That's not --

His family -- his real family -- needs him more.

Harvey takes a deep breath and stares at his bruised and cut-up knuckles. He's had worse from the fights he used to get into on the street before he was a Wayne, but the pain is a surprising little reminder --

It seems like everything, lately, wants to remind him of how things used to be. And that --

Well, that just means that he's late to be thinking this stuff through. He can't do that, anymore.

He can protect Bruce -- maybe -- but he can't use protecting Bruce as an excuse to *hide*.

His old man beat the shit out of him -- a lot -- from the time he was old enough to walk, to the very last time Harvey saw him alive. The last time he saw him period -- the casket was closed.

His mother -- his real mother -- is almost certainly dead somewhere -- thanks to the old man in question.

He's screwed up about that -- bad. Bad enough that there were whole parts of his mind sectioned off from the rest. *Hiding* from the rest, covered in the kind of shadows --

The kind of shadows that don't belong in *healthy* minds, at all.

Those shadows are gone *now*, but -- there's nothing saying he can't bring them back if he's not careful --

Chimes --

Where *are* those chimes?

But it doesn't matter, because he's not gonna bring *any* of that crap back. He's gonna stay gold, light up *every* part of his mind *forever* --

Yeah. Yeah, that.

And that means he has to deal with the fact that he's grown into the kind of person who loves his brothers *that* way, and who could probably use some sisters, too --

Who could *definitely* use some sisters, because he's also grown up into the kind of guy who can turn Martha Wayne into someone who can --

Own him a little.

Harvey shakes his head. Blood wanted him to know that about himself -- no. Blood *needed* Harvey to know that about himself, because *some* part of the creepy old bastard knew that Martha would have a hand in this.

Or... did he?

Or did he just suspect?

How much fucking around have the two of them *done*? What do they *do* between the galas and balls Blood pretty much never shows his face at and all the meetings and organizational stuff Martha does for the Foundation? Screw like it's going out of style, sure. Make fun of all the squares, absolutely. But what *else*?

By rights, Harvey shouldn't *have* to know this -- but he does. He *really* does, because *one* of the things they did -- no way Martha managed this *completely* on her own -- involved a *kidnapping*.

And maybe worse --

No, he can't think about --

But doesn't he have to think about it?

Isn't that *why* he's making Tim get the superhero juice? They might have to *fight* Bruce out of wherever that lizard-woman took him to, because --

Because Martha isn't even a little bit afraid to commit murder.

And hasn't been for a long, long time.

Harvey winces and grips the steering wheel hard --

Wishes like *hell* they could call in the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, *and* the freaking angelic *host* --

And why *don't* they do anything about Blood? Are the people and other things he kills -- or helps to kill -- all that bad?

Or does God just not care? 

Harvey knows -- in his *bones* -- that Blood has an answer to that question. And he knows *just* as well that he doesn't want to *hear* that answer. But --

He's still gonna ask.

And every *other* question that comes to mind, too. Hey, if he makes Blood sick of him, then maybe -- something.

Laughing alone never sounds as good as you think it will. Ever.

He stops.

And he waits --

And he builds a list of questions in his mind for Martha. Nice softballs to get her ready, get her --

But she's gonna be panicked, isn't she?

Freaked right the hell out. This is her *son*, and Blood had *shown* him how she reacts when anything serious goes down with Bruce. She might *cooperate*. *That* would be --

No, he's not gonna hope for it. He's just gonna make himself as ready as possible -- and he knows that his little brother is doing the *exact* same thing.

He leans back and waits, letting his eyes slip most of the way closed and letting his mind just -- go.

Martha dancing alone to jazz in the ballroom before it was the gymnasium.

Bruce sketching and frowning so hard he looked *angry*.

Tim smiling up at him like he's the best thing since hot dogs with extra onions --

Thomas looking away --

And away --

And *away*, because that's apparently the *correct* thing to do when your wife won't let you say boo about the fact that your sons are screwing each other every night --

What did you do, Mom?

Tell me everything. Tell *us* --

And Tim is jogging out of his front door just like that. He's wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and a leather jacket that's a little too warm for the weather, but might keep him from getting torn up too badly if he gets kicked into any more cars. There's something odd about the jeans Harvey can't put his finger on. Something about the way they fit looks off, but he can damned well *move* in them. The boots are the same --

And he's got a little satchel that looks full of random books, and undoubtedly has that little vial *somewhere*.

Harvey leans over and pushes open the door --

And Tim slides in. "I'm set," he says, and closes the door.

"No friction?" And Harvey starts the car --

Tim's smile is cold. "My brothers are waiting for me. She's ecstatic -- inasmuch as that's... possible."

And your not-father -- no. No editing. "And Jack Drake's not even an issue, is he?"

"No. Not at all. She's quite fond of him -- they enjoy each other's company a great deal, and, obviously, work well together -- but she made it clear to both me *and* him years ago that I had one... father."

Harvey winces and drives, keeping an eye out for the Bristol cops -- who all just *love* getting paid to baby-sit the young and the useless while their rich parents talk to their lawyers --

No, no, and no.

Right on the speed limit.

Right --

It hasn't even been an hour.

It hasn't even been forty *minutes* --

They're good.

They make it to the manor without incident, and Harvey leaves the car on the driveway instead of pulling into any of the garages. They might be leaving in a hurry, after all. They --

Yeah.

Tim's right on his heels as they head into the kitchen -- Alfred *always* knows where everyone is in the manor at any given time, and never *mind* how --

They find him stirring a big pot of gumbo -- a dish that hadn't even *happened* in this house until Harvey had mentioned being curious about it --

A dish that Bruce loves --

They're getting him back. *Fast*.

"Ah, Master Harvey and Master Tim. What may --"

"Alfred, I'm sorry for interrupting like this, but it's important. Where's Mom?"

Alfred blinks once --

Looks at Harvey's knuckles --

Looks at the bruise beneath Tim's left ear Harvey hadn't even noticed until just now --

And shudders. "Is Master Bruce in danger, sir?"

Sir, not young sir. Not anymore. Not -- focus. "He is, yeah. Blood saw this coming --" Harvey shakes his head. "The things that took him say Mom took one of their own and that they won't give Bruce back until --"

Alfred sucks in a breath and nods. "You may find her in the library, sir and young sir. If you require assistance, I am at your disposal."

Tim raises an eyebrow --

But Tim may not actually know what Alfred was getting up to overseas before his father died and he came here. Not that *Harvey* does, *either* -- but. Harvey swallows and nods. "Thanks, Al. We'll keep it in mind," and then Harvey steers Tim up the back stairs because it's faster --

The servants' stairs which are that much darker and narrower --

Like maybe the people who built this house couldn't let *anything* just be *normal* for the people who worked for them --

No, not that. Not now.

It only takes two minutes to get to the library this way, and -- Martha's on her chaise with Sense and Sensibility. She's wearing something sleeveless and flowing; the afternoon sun is making her pale, perfect skin look a little golden; her hair is tumbled down around her shoulders, and when she turns to look at them --

When she sees that it's just the *two* of them --

She moans and drops the book, clutching at the arms of the chaise and suddenly looking -- her age.

She did this.

She *did* this --

Harvey reaches toward Tim --

Tim puts the note in his hand --

And Harvey hands it to her.

For a moment, she stares at it like it's another language -- one she *doesn't* know -- hard enough that Harvey wonders if it magically changed again --

And then she *keens* --

Tears the paper and *glares* at Tim with her teeth bared -- "You were supposed to --"

"*Don't*, Mom. He killed *three* of the *five* things they sent to take Bruce and injured one of the others --"

"That's not *good* enough --"

"Mom. Listen. *What did you do*?"

She's staring at Tim like she's about to leap for his *throat* --

No. Just -- no.

Harvey closes the distance between them and *cups* the arms of the chaise, leaning in close enough that she can claw his eyes out if she wants. "Focus on me now, Mom --"

She *growls*, low and freaking *savage* --

"Focus. On. Me."

"Get *away* from me --"

"Not until you focus. We *all* want the same thing here --"

She *screams* -- but it's quiet enough not to carry, sharp and high and -- controlled.

And he can see Tim raising an eyebrow out of the corner of his eye. Yeah, he's seeing this. *Knowing* this. And Martha --

"I know you're hearing me, Mom. I know --"

"What do you *mean* 'what did I do?'"

"You know *exactly* what I mean. Somewhere along the way you pissed off a lizard-woman and some weird half-liquid creatures --"

Martha's eyes -- shutter. Just a little.

Harvey nods. "You're hearing me more. Okay, let's go with this, Mom --"

"Where's *Bruce*?"

"We don't know yet, Mrs. Wayne. But we're going to find out," Tim says, calm and low and quiet.

"And you're gonna help us."

Shuttered eyes --

Squeezed-*shut* eyes --

*Anguished* eyes --

*Terrified* eyes --

*Enraged* --

And it just keeps going, keeps *cycling*, and damn if there isn't a part of him that's heating right up, *warming* right up --

This is familiar from the *inside*, if not the out --

*Tim* is looking more than a little freaked, but this --

Harvey nods, nice and slow and easy. "I'm right here, Mom. We're right here, and we're gonna get Bruce back -- to you."

"Yes. Yes, you have to do that. He can't -- he's not supposed to..." And Martha's eyes are *almost* blank, but there's something deep in them, something like *hunger* --

She's *clawing* at the chaise and the backs of Harvey's hands --

And Harvey doesn't wince. "He's not supposed to go anywhere, yeah? You put up with him leaving for four long years, but now he's home. *Forever*."

"The way it should be."

"Yeah. Yeah, I hear you," Harvey says, and tries a smile. "He'll never leave after this, Mom. We'll make sure of it."

She looks at him *hotly* -- "You want him to move *out*."

Is she back? He doesn't *think* so, but -- go with it. "Just into Gotham proper, Mom. Not far --"

"*Too* far!"

Improvise. Harvey grins conspiratorially. "Far, yeah... away from *Dad*."

She gasps a little --

Grins --

"Not far from me."

"Never far from you, Mom. We both know he *couldn't* do that, don't we?"

And she doesn't look her age, at all.

She looks like the woman who'd run into Blood's shop with a letter --

She looks like the woman who dances to jazz --

She looks like --

Like --

Like someone who can make Harvey smile *just* like this, make him waggle his eyebrows just a little, jerk his chin. "We know what he likes, don't we, Mom?"

She giggles and *grins* --

"Yeah. Yeah, we know *exactly* what he likes. What makes him... excitable --"

"*Passionate*."

"That, too," Harvey says, licking his teeth and leaning in a little more. "There's nothing like it when he's passionate, am I right? Nothing like *anything*."

Martha shivers and *purrs* --

"Yeah. You gotta have that. You *need* that -- and I need it, too."

"You've *had* it," she says, and that's a *dangerous*-sounding pout --

He knows how to derail it. "When he was young, yeah. Not old enough for you. We were *kids*."

Her nostrils flare. "You're not a child anymore."

Harvey lets his smile be lazy. "Not even a little. *He* still is... but I think we can fix that. Can't we?"

She touches her tongue to her upper lip --

And the part of Harvey telling him to lean in and press his *advantage* -- has been spending too goddamned much time with worthless socialites. This is -- something else. He jerks his chin at her again, instead. "Let's get him back here, Mom. Let's take *care* of this."

"Yes. Yes, *let's*."

"Well, all right --"

"But..."

*Fuck* -- no, no, keep cool, stay gold -- "But what, Mom? Tell me," Harvey says, and *does* lean in a little --

"Oh --" And she darts in to kiss him softly, dryly --

Not even a *little* innocently --

Her mouth is so --

Fuck, fuck, Jesus --

And she hums and pulls back, sighing and crossing her arms under her breasts. "I *had* to kill him."

No --

*No* --

God fucking --

And he's gotta keep this out of his eyes, gotta --

He *has* to get the whole *story* --

Tim makes a small, *small* sound and draws a line across the carpet with the toe of his boot like some kung fu guy daring another to kick his ass. Okay. Okay --

"Harvey...?"

Harvey manages a laugh and shakes his head. "Sorry, Mom. Just gotta change our plans a little," he says, and sits down at the end of the chaise, resting her perfect little feet on his lap. "Tell us what went down?"

Martha *starts* to turn to look at Tim -- no, don't distract her.

Harvey cups her chin and turns her to  face *him*.

"Any *number* of men have suffered for less than that, Harvey."

"Oh, I have *no* doubts about that, Mom, but... sometimes I can't control myself," Harvey says, and waggles his eyebrows again.

She giggles again. "You were *always* adorable. And charming in the *good* ways," she says, removing Harvey's hand from her chin -- and twining her tiny little fingers with his.

Harvey *raises* his eyebrows. "That's fine by you?"

She hums. "For now. But... let me tell you about Nemen."

"That's -- that *was* Brother's name?"

"That's how he introduced himself once I used Jason's power -- he'd left me a fair amount before allowing Etrigan to take their body on an apparently difficult mission to one of the Hells -- to free him from Harris Wellington's awful little dungeon."

"Uh... what?"

She gives him an impatient look --

Blinks --

And laughs softly. "Oh, Harvey, I'm sorry. This was nearly twenty years ago. I... all right, I'll give you the story in brief. Harris was one of my many suitors when I was a girl, and he was rich enough, but even my pathetic and *greedy* father refused to countenance selling me to him, since everyone with *half* a mind knew what happened to women -- and young men -- in his care."

"Are you *serious*? No one *did* anything?"

"It was the forties when these rumors --- truths -- began making the rounds, and the women and boys were, in various ways, undesirable," and Martha raises an eyebrow. "I trust I don't need to explain that to you...?"

"Oh, I understand all right. Jesus freakin' -- no, go on."

Martha nods. "I had had Jason at my side for three months then. I was pregnant with Bruce, and I felt happy and... almost secure. Jason had asked me several times if there wasn't someone *else* I felt the world could do without, and I was almost *confident*, as well. Confident enough, in any event, that I felt we could do something about Wellington. That *I* could, with his power. And I did, and I freed his captives, and forced Thomas to arrange for the best medical care for those who could still *use* that sort of thing...." Martha frowns, looking her age again and maybe...

Maybe smelling the place.

Maybe feeling it.

Harvey squeezes her hand because he *has* to --

And she gives him a warm and grateful smile that looks so motherly that he *wants* to flinch.

He doesn't. "What about Nemen?"

"From the way the humans responded to the sight of him as they crawled and limped out into the light, it was clear what Nemen had been used for. It was *equally* clear that it wasn't his choice. Once the humans were gone, he gave me the full story," Martha says, and squeezes Harvey's hand *hard* --

"I'm here --"

"I -- yes. You are," she says, and laughs painfully. "Most people -- thankfully -- don't realize how very *easy* it is to summon a demon from one of the alternate dimensions they live in so long as you're willing to do something... perfectly terrible. Wellington realized it, summoned Nemen, and put him to work -- and bound him. If he ever failed to follow an order, or failed to protect Wellington or his 'investments', his life was forfeit. If he *did* follow every order, he would be allowed to return to his home in ten years..."

"He couldn't wait that long."

Martha shakes her head silently.

"He was -- he was dying while you talked to him. Wasn't he."

Martha nods.

"Ah, God --" And Harvey covers his face with his free hand and breathes, just breathes --

"He... he began to scream," Martha says, quiet and *harsh*. "And they were all words at first. 'Tell the Sister to begin anew.' 'Tell her there is love, always love.' 'Tell her --' And then he couldn't speak, at all." She lowers her head. "I used the last of Jason's power to kill him quickly."

Harvey blows out a breath --

And Tim steps close and pulls the knife out of his boot. "We have our answer. Let's go find a way to explain ourselves."

Harvey drops his hand. "*How*, little guy?"

"The knife wants me know that a few drops of Martha's blood on the paper would expedite communications."

That -- "Not with that knife."

Tim takes a breath -- nods and sheaths it, and pulls *another* knife out of the back of his weird jeans.

"Jesus -- where -- *why* --"

"A precaution, only. I purchased these jeans because they were easy to move in, and had room for things like boot sheaths -- and belt sheaths. And then I altered them --" Tim shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. Mrs. Wayne, do you consent --"

She reaches out with the hand Harvey isn't holding --

She's not even *looking* --

And Tim reaches for the note -- and hands him a little test-tube-looking thing with a rubber stopper.

"We're gonna talk --"

"Yes. But first we're going to get Bruce back. "Be ready -- hm. Get out of range of a first-flush attack."

"What about --"

"As soon as Mrs. Wayne is bleeding, I'm pulling out the other knife," Tim says, and raises an eyebrow just as *cool* --

"All right, fine," Harvey says, and turns to Martha. "Be ready to move, Mom."

And -- she smiles at him. *Wetly*. "I always am."

Shit, shit -- no, he's dealing with this. Including the part of 'this' where a part of him is just fine with the fact that his mother is --

That *Martha* is --

Yeah.

"We're ready, Tim," Harvey says, and watches Martha's eyes --

Watches her narrow them *slightly* when Tim slashes --

How much *blood* magic does she let Blood get up to --

"Now, Harv."

"Yeah," Harvey says, lifting Martha into his arms and carrying her back to the stacks at a jog --

"I've never regretted anything about making you ours," she says in a low and *sultry* voice --

And Harvey deals with *that* by setting her down on her feet and getting a *good* grip on the vial with one hand, on her *hem* with the other hand --

He tears off a strip of her pretty little dress with his teeth. "Wrap that hand, Mom. I'm going."

He doesn't look back --

But he can still feel the *ghostly* touch of her fingers down his spine --

Still --

But maybe that's all the fog filling up the library all of a sudden, maybe --

Jesus, there's a *hole* in the floor where the paper used to be --

It's getting freaking *bigger* --

And Tim is holding both knives and working his way back and back just like he knows what he's doing. Christ --

What the hell are they even --

No. No, they're doing this, and they're *gonna* be ready. Hour-Man's name is real damned telling about how long his magic potion lasts, so Harvey's gonna wait 'til the last *second* --

Shapes in the fog -- or.

One shape?

It's moving sluggishly and it's not *solid* --

It falls over --

It rises on two huge, clawed feet --

The lizard-thing. The so-called freaking *realtor* --

It falls over again, and this time it slips nearly halfway back into the hole in the floor. Jesus. Is it --

No, he *knows* Tim had wounded it. Now he just has to make sure Tim doesn't lower his guard too --

And Tim really is just crouching there staring into the fog, blinking *irregularly* so he doesn't freaking *miss* anything --

Tim's fine.

Harvey grips the test tube --

No, he switches it to the hand that *isn't* sweaty and watches the lizard-thing crawl out of the -- dissipating -- fog.

In the two minutes it takes it to stand again, Harvey can see that it's -- withered. The royal blue color is now more of a brackish marsh-brown, the blonde hair is falling out in clumps, and it's --

She's smaller. Older.

She falls to her knees and sighs. "The truth is in the blood," she says, in a low, rattling whisper. "The Brother is dead."

Shit --

"Yes," Tim says, and doesn't lower either of his knives. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Human. Your species is a *plague*," she says, and coughs out something black and smoking --

She falls to her elbows --

She *groans* --

"*Please*," Harvey says, and steps closer --

"Stay *back*, Harv --"

"No, we gotta -- look, we'll *help* you --"

She makes a rattling, bubbling sound -- "I'm *dying*, you fool! The sword the boy carries is seasoned with the blood of one who is beyond... beyond *mortality*..." And she wails --

She wails *again*, spattering the walls and shelves with more black and smoking -- whatever it is --

It's leaking from --

From every *part* of her --

And Harvey realizes that she's calling out "Nemen," over and over, that she's --

God, fuck -- "*Sister*. Please let us have our *brother* back!"

"*Why*? Why shouldn't he die alone and unloved?"

"He did nothing *to* you, Sister! And Martha -- all she did was make sure Nemen --"

"Don't say his *name*!"

"I'm *sorry*!" And Harvey steps closer to her, to the pit -- "Brother was dying in *pain*. Martha *stopped* it!"

"Humans did this! Humans took him and slaved him and *raped* him, over and over -- the blood tells! The blood *screams*!"

"Then take *my* blood, Sister! My blood will tell you everything you need to *know* about Bruce, about how *good* he is, how -- he would never have *hurt* --"

She wails again --

She struggles up to her knees and *lunges* for Tim, and her speed is incredible, too much, too *much*, and the stupid stopper isn't coming out of the vial --

His hand slips --

No, no, he's not dropping it, he's not dropping it --

But Tim slashes his own fucking *arm* -- and splashes Sister's face with it.

She freezes and recoils, limp, blackened tongue slipping out to taste -- "He hurts! Your brother hurts you!"

"That's not all he does," Tim says, calm and cool and freaking *dripping* --

Did he at least use the right freaking *knife*?

But Harvey gets the stopper open, lifts the vial --

"Don't, Harv," Tim says --

"*Jesus*, Tim --"

"*Don't*."

Fuck --

But Sister cocks her head to the side --

More *hair* falls out --

"He *hurt* you!"

"Yes. Many times."

"I will keep him in the dark with my corpse. He will rot *with* me --"

"No. I need him back. We all do," Tim says, and flicks more of his blood at her face.

This time, she doesn't recoil. She sniffs --

Gurgles and *spits* --

A piece of her tongue falls *off* --

"Nemen loved me every day! There was love! There was always love!" It's garbled --

It's -- it's a *mess*, but it's clear enough --

"I want that with Bruce," Tim says.

"So do I. I need it," Harvey says --

"So do I. We're not -- "

"We're not *complete*, Sister. *Please*."

She sways, hugging herself --

And Harvey -- can't. He closes the vial -- *loosely* -- and slips it in his pocket before he steps close and holds her up. He can smell his clothes *sizzling* --

He stays right where he is. He -- "Please, Sister. We need him."

"Badly," Tim says, and lowers his knives.

"Nemen," she says, and *shrinks* in Harvey's arms --

Harvey holds *on* --

"Nemen would never say no..." And then she's -- gone. Just freaking gone --

"No. No -- c'mon, Sister, *please* --"

"Harv," and Tim grips his arm -- and points.

Bruce is on Martha's chaise -- and dangling *off* it because it's too freaking *small* for him -- sound asleep.

Just -- asleep.

His *clothes* aren't even too rumpled --

Harvey breathes. Just breathes --

And in the time it takes him to do it, Martha is damned well on *top* of Bruce, hugging him and kissing him --

*Mostly* just his cheeks --

Tim's eyebrows are up near his freaking hairline --

Harvey's own eyebrows are a little too jaded for that.

Bruce wakes up the way he always does -- sudden and *complete*. He sits up *while* arranging Martha in his arms -- on his freaking *lap* -- kissing her temples and blinking at the mess all around him. "Mother, brothers, what's happened -- oh. Hm. I believe I'll need a new realtor."

Harvey coughs a laugh. "Uh -- yeah. Yeah, you will. Where did you even *find* this one?"

"In the phone book. I... can't recall *why* it seemed so important to choose that particular advertisement, though."

Tim smiles wryly. "I have my suspicions."

"Yes, I -- oh, you're bleeding, Tim --"

"It's a shallow wound. I'll be fine --"

"We still need to get you bandaged up, little guy. And Mom, too --"

"I'll take care of myself," she says *quickly* -- and wraps her arms around Bruce's neck.

"Mother, if you're injured --"

"I'm all *right*, Bruce --"

"It would hardly be correct --"

Martha growls at him.

Bruce blinks and frowns. "Mother, it's only that I don't want you to be hurt."

Martha sighs. Gustily. And then turns to *him*. "Harvey, would you be a dear and have Alfred bring --"

And Alfred walks in -- *briskly* -- with a first-aid kit.

Martha sighs *again* -- and moves off Bruce's lap.

Bruce stands to give her more room on the chaise --

That *pout* is back --

But Harvey has to admit that he cares about it a *little* less than he did before. "C'mere, big guy. Jesus, we were worried *sick*," he says, and pulls Bruce into a hard hug.

Bruce hugs him back. "I'm quite all right, save for an odd taste in my mouth. Emily -- assuming that was her name -- drugged me with her saliva."

"Uh. She kissed you?"

"Spat into my mouth."

Harvey blinks and pulls back --

Looks at all the still-smoking places where Sister's spit landed in *here* --

"Uh. Go wash your mouth out, big guy. Now."

"Hm. Are you suggesting that all of this ichor-like material is her spittle?"

"Yeah. Or --  I don't know. The knife did a number on her," Harvey says, and turns to Tim. "Tim was amazing out there. And in here."

Tim blushes hard and looks like he's trying to figure out something to do with his hands other than *bleed* --

The knives are sheathed and Harvey can't even see the *outline* of the belt sheath he has to be wearing --

And Bruce just walks them both over to Tim, smiles, and cups his face. "Thank you."

"I -- you're welcome. I'm sorry we couldn't -- I couldn't --"

Bruce covers Tim's mouth with his thumb. "Thank you," he says again. "Brother."

And Tim's eyes are wide for that, wide as *hell* --

What had the Sister seen in his blood *other* than the hurt? Was the love enough?

It's enough for *him* -- no, that's not true. He wants more. He wants more for *all* of them, and he's gonna find a way to get it. Just -- everything.

And Martha...

Well, right now Martha is chatting with Alfred about repairing and cleaning up the library just like she *isn't* really pouting about not being on her son's lap anymore, but Harvey knows *that's* not true, either. He'll --

They'll figure something out about *that*, too.

And they'll do it together.

*

May 1979

Filling in Bruce about what had happened *hadn't* taken especially long -- even with Harvey exaggerating about Tim's fighting prowess and Bruce asking to be shown *how* Tim had done certain things --

Tim has spent a lot of time blushing today. The fact that he's doing so *again* even though he's *alone* in his *room* --

No. No, alone in his room is the *right* time for blushes. No one can *see* him now --

No one can appreciate the blushes, either --

Bruce finds them *alluring* --

Bruce --

Bruce had taken a quick shower, then brushed his teeth, then insisted on washing both him and Harvey... thoroughly.

Lovingly. He --

("Okay, there's no actual warning that's good enough for the Bruce-wash experience, little guy, so I'll just say this: Enjoy it.")

He had.

A lot.

Enough that it hadn't even been *embarrassing* -- at the time -- to stroke himself while watching Harvey --

Watching Harvey *fellate* Bruce in the incredibly *crowded* tub --

Bruce had looked almost *pained* every time Harvey swallowed --

Harvey had looked *drugged* --

And Bruce had been shaking too much to reach for Tim effectively, shaking and begging Tim to slow down, to wait for him, wait for *them* --

("I can't -- "

"Please --"

"You look -- it's so --"

"*Please*!)

And the pained look had turned to something almost *anguished* --

Tim had *had* to stop stroking -- but then he'd also had to come closer, had to -- to *press* himself against Bruce's *thigh* --

("Oh -- oh, *yes*, brother --")

*Work* himself against --

Bruce is so *hairy* --

And the water had sheeted down over all of them --

And Tim had gripped at Bruce's waist --

At Harvey's *hair* --

And Bruce had *crushed* Tim against himself --

And Harvey had pressed his thumb against Tim's *hole* --

And now he's doing more than just blushing, which is -- problematic.

His mother hasn't been in, yet, for her report. She --

She's going to want --

Tim evens his breathing, blanks his mind --

("Brother, so *beautiful* ---")

Blanks his *mind* --

("Oh, *yeah*, little guy, *let* me get you going again --")

*Blanks* *his* *mind* --

He still hasn't found a place to put the *knife* --

And that does the trick. His mind is now blank with something very like *terror*. Tim shakes it off and tucks the knife in his largest secret compartment. He winds up having to take it out of the sheath and wedge it on a diagonal -- and stab the hardwood -- but he's reasonably sure the curse on the blade only works on living things.

If not, the house is in trouble.

He stashes the sheath in his *second*-largest compartment, and then tries to decide what he should look like he's doing when his mother inevitably walks in. Working on the computer might make it seem like he's backsliding in nerdish ways.

Going over his homework for flaws might make it seem like he *hadn't* gotten it all done on Friday afternoon.

Reading his science-fiction -- yes. Bruce had wanted to discuss his reading interests, which had made Harvey laugh rather more than the moment seemed worth, but he'd just shaken his head and waved them on, stretching out between them like a happy...

Animal. Of some sort.

'Dog' seems insulting. 'Cat' seems *unlikely* and insulting.

What is Harvey thinking about right now?

Are he and Bruce making love again?

Are they talking to Martha Wayne about what had happened? *Thomas* Wayne?

What if they don't want Bruce and Harvey associating with him anymore? He'd -- he hadn't been able to keep Bruce from being *kidnapped* --

Tim balls his hands into fists and stares at -- absolutely nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing -- until he can regulate his breathing again. Just -- slowly. Evenly. Slowly. Evenly --

Bruce and Harvey had driven him back here together, even though the drive is only five minutes from Wayne Manor. Bruce had spent the drive asking him serious, probing questions about popular music Tim felt completely unqualified to answer, as his tastes run toward the more experimental and progressive end of things --

And then Bruce had asked him serious and probing questions about *that*, and Tim had -- answered. Blathered, really, and --

God, it had looked like Bruce was taking *notes* --

("You know he's gonna drag us all into the city so we can pick up albums for *all* those bands, right, little guy?"

"Oh, I'll -- ah. Hm.")

He'd known he wouldn't have to make a list.

He'd --

They'd sat in front of the house for over ten *minutes*, and by the end of it Tim had only wanted to be back in a bed with both of them, wanted to be held and touched and --

Given a reason to talk this much.

Feel this much.

Tim picks a book at random off his shelf -- Dhalgren by Samuel R. Delany  -- and sits down with it. The cover is reassuringly plain -- unlike an irritatingly high number of perfectly good, hard science fiction books which have been saddled with covers which bear far more of a resemblance to soft-core pornography than to anything having to do with the *stories* --

Sex sells.

He -- now knows exactly why sex sells.

Not that he hadn't known *before* --

He knows better now.

What would it be like --

Had Harvey been *serious* about finding ways to help him with women? Obviously --

Well, there almost certainly won't be very many nineteen-year-old women who want anything to do with *him*, but --

Younger sisters?

Double dates?

Incredibly *perverse* double dates --

("Yeah, little guy? You'd like that? The two of us and a couple of girls -- no *way* we'd talk Bruce into it until he was *dead* sure it was a barrel of laughs *and* educational *and* also morally improving --"

"Harv, I'm not *that* bad --"

"'course not, big guy, you're perfect just the way you are -- but... heh. Tim.")

And Harvey had grinned and waggled his eyebrows --

("You wanna know what it's like to eat a pussy, little guy?")

And Tim had *grunted* --

("You don't think that term is disturbingly *cannibalistic*, Harv?")

And Harvey had *snorted* --

("Okay, you go over there and sketch the cute faces I'm about to make Tim make. Go on, scoot."

"It was only a *question* --"

"Back me up here, little guy.")

And Tim had warmed inside --

*Wanted* --

They'd both been smiling at him, *willing* him to play with them -- no. *Expecting* him to play with them, just like it was something they'd all been doing for months. *Years*.

So Tim had leaned back on his elbows, ignoring the twinges from his bruises and his slashed arm --

("It was a poorly-*timed* question, Bruce."

"But --")

And Tim had shaken his head.

("It may have *seemed* timely -- what with the mention, and the fact that the question had been on your mind for quite some time...?"

"*Yes* --"

"Cannibalism should almost never be discussed -- I'm nearly certain about this -- when sexuality is about to be discussed.")

And Bruce had hummed and raised a -- devastating -- eyebrow.

("You don't think that's rather limiting...?")

Tim had hummed *helplessly* --

("I think... that I'm willing to be limited."

"In the interest of learning cunnilingus.")

And Tim had let his smile be *sharp* --

("In the interest... of learning how. To eat. A pussy.")

And Bruce had blushed --

And Harvey had whistled and *clapped* --

("As you say.")

And Bruce had taken a sketchbook out of the bedside table -- even though they were in *Harvey's* room --

And Harvey had rolled close, spread Tim's legs, and *gripped* the backs of Tim's thighs.

("Right about now? You can smell her more than anything else. Half the house could be burning down, but if you've been doin' your job with all those kisses and touches and little bites -- and I already *know* you can do that job -- she's wet as hell and ready to *talk* to you with her pretty little kitty. Get me?"

"Oh -- oh. I... more?"

"Heh. You got it...")

And Harvey had leaned in and *nuzzled* him, his scrotum and the base of his penis --

Nuzzled and kissed him, *sucked* kisses --

Tim had moaned and arched, but --

("Kisses -- for her clitoris?"

"Oh, yeah, but I like to get down 'n' dirty first. Really get my whole *face* wet."

"Oh. Does -- do women... enjoy that?"

"Eh, some of them *say* they don't -- and some of the ones who say it even *mean* it -- but it's easy as hell to grab a washcloth and start over for those women, you know? Because there are a whole *lot* of women out there who just *love* to see their juices all over their man's face."

"A... facial?")

And Harvey had grinned slowly and started stroking Tim's hardening penis --

Aimed it toward his *face* --

("Oh -- Harv --"

"Wanna give me one, little guy?"

"I want -- I want *everything* -- *nnh* --"

"And I want you, little guy, I want... mm. Think about really *nosing* up against a puffy little clit..."

"Hnh -- I -- how -- how do they *feel*?"

"Soft. Soft over *firm*. Softer than a dick even when she's swollen and *ready*. More tender -- especially with that little hood pulled back. You can't suck on it *too* hard --"

"Oh. Oh, God --")

And Harvey had stroked him faster --

And Bruce had been sketching *furiously* --

("They got -- kind of a little *spring* to 'em. Again, not as much as a dick --"

"I want -- I really --")

And Tim had laughed and shaken his head --

("I think about it all the *time*!"

"Heh. Black Canary, yeah?"

"*Yes*. Oh -- oh, *Harv* --"

"Lick her, little guy. Lick her just -- mm. Just like this... *mmm*..."

"All -- all over?"

"She'll tell you where the best spots are -- one way or another --")

And Harvey had wiggled his tongue in the *slit* --

And Tim had whimpered and *bucked* --

("Just like you're tellin' me..."

"Please --")

And Harvey had taken the head in --

Just between his *lips* --

Harvey had *hummed* --

"Please! *Please*!")

And if there were lessons after that --

If there was more to the lesson than how good it could feel to have Harvey push *deep* with his long, slim fingers --

Tim had been sore and swollen and it hadn't *mattered* --

*Nothing* had mattered but the feel, the look in Harvey's eyes, the --

The *press* --

And he had arched --

And --

("Oh... *come* for him, brother...")

He remembers arching --

He remembers crying out --

He remembers that Bruce was still *sketching* even though he wasn't actually *looking* at the *page* --

Of *course* he can do that --

And of course Tim *can't* recall the actual *sensations* of his orgasm, even though it was only -- he checks his time-sense -- two hours ago. It was... it was good, and --

He'd sweated and sobbed and clenched and hadn't been able to *unclench* for nearly three *minutes* --

("Gonna keep me, little guy?"

"*Please*!")

It had been --

Oh -- damn, he's given himself another erection. He --

His *mother* is going to --

Tim stands up, walks into his bathroom, doesn't think about Martha Wayne, doesn't think about Martha Wayne's relationship with her sons, doesn't --

He tucks, clenching his thighs together --

The pain gives him a *headache* --

But *both* pains fade relatively quickly.

Tim straightens his clothes, washes his hands --

Martha Wayne --

She'd *kissed* Harvey --

On the *mouth* --

Some mothers do that. Some --

Tim has seen that. In foreign films, and even on television. It --

It wasn't that kind of kiss. She hadn't -- she hadn't used her *tongue* --

She'd wanted to. It --

Tim would've had to be younger, stupider, and significantly more virginal -- in mind, body, and *spirit* -- not to catch that.

Just like he would've had to be all of those things not to catch the fact that Harvey --

Some *part* of Harvey --

Tim shudders, and just --

She'd kissed Bruce, too. That -- that *had* seemed more innocent. She'd kissed him all over his face, and the passion there *could* have been ascribed to desperate relief. Bruce is her only biological child, and he *had* been in terrible danger. Moments before, a *demon* had been threatening to imprison him with her rotting corpse for *eternity*.

The fact is, if Tim *hadn't* witnessed that... *that* with Harvey, he wouldn't be thinking *anything* untoward --

Is it possible that his relationship with his mother and Jack Drake is *better* than he'd been making it out to be in his own mind? It --

His mother had *always* suggested -- and flat-out stated -- that he was a whiner. Various observations Tim has made over the years suggested -- and flat-out stated -- that his mother was incorrect about such things --

At least *most* such things --

No matter how *useful* --

Certainly Bruce and *Harvey* want him to think that way --

Tim stares at himself in the mirror and -- licks his lips, which are both swollen and somewhat more *red* than they usually are. The bruise beneath his ear is already black and blue -- as are the bruises on his chest and back and hip.

His mother will almost certainly never want to... French him.

Tim bites his lip --

Coughs --

*Snickers* --

*Helplessly* --

Just -- how on earth do you *live* with that? Harvey's somewhat *oblique* speech about it -- he is *still* protecting Bruce -- suggests that he knew all about the rather incestuous undertones to life in Wayne Manor long before now. That he had --

Lived in denial?

Pushed it out of his head?

*How*?

Don't they have *dinner* together every day? And -- other meals?

Harvey had spoken of visiting Martha in her *bedroom* for various things --

Tim -- well, that was more of a nervous giggle --

Which is, of course, *why* *his* mother is *rapping* on the bathroom door.

Tim chokes his heart back down his throat -- "I'll be just a moment, Mother," Tim says, and washes his hands again, flushing the toilet for no earthly reason whatsoever.

He dries his hands thoroughly, stares at himself in the mirror --

Well, he's blushing. There's nothing he can *do* about that -- is there?

He fills his mind with the memory of his blood splashing the Sister's face

With the memory of her *dissolution* --

He'd killed four people today -- *people*. He'd had a good reason -- he'd honestly thought he'd *had* to, and, no, it *doesn't* matter that he hadn't known ahead of time what the knife would do, or *how* the knife was cursed --

He killed four people today, and, perhaps, a part of *himself* --

The blush fades -- more quickly than it ever has in the past.

He feels something like *regret* --

But he doesn't have time for that.

He walks back out into his bedroom --

And finds his mother in one of her full-coverage robes, perusing his bookshelf.

"Hello --"

"It's time for you to begin studying advanced economic theory."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Did you have recommendations as to where I should start?"

She doesn't actually look at him before pointing -- to a typed sheet on his desk. Undoubtedly, she'd had her secretary prepare it for him.

"Very well, Mother. I'll begin after school --"

"What do they want from you?"

Tim raises his eyebrow higher -- no, no, he doesn't need to be *combative*. He *does* need to be... who she needs him to be. "Apparently... another brother."

*That* gets her to look at him. Her arms are folded beneath her breasts, her chin is lifted, and her expression is a perfect illustration of skepticism --

It makes him want to --

To go back and *push* Bruce or -- something --

But there's always Harvey. He raises his eyebrow again. "We've already established that Harvey is... sentimental, Mother."

She narrows her eyes at him --

Searches him like she can *smell* his *own* sentiment --

He stands firm, and rests his hand on the back of his chair. Sometimes, Thomas Wayne uses this pose --

Tim stands firm anyway.

She smiles... secretively, but not especially coldly. "We've also established that *Bruce's* feelings toward you are... well." She raises her own eyebrow.

"Harvey decided to take him to task for those feelings --"

"And it worked?"

I'm a good *person* -- no. No. That's not helpful. "Bruce... well. As it happens, he listens to everything Harvey says."

A slight moue --

"Everything, Mother."

"You're saying that Harvey takes the dominant role between them...?"

And his mind fills with the sight of Harvey on his knees --

Harvey *smiling* on his knees --

He will not blush. "From my -- as yet limited -- observations... yes," Tim says, and tells himself that his mother will never be able to use that against them --

Harvey wouldn't *let* her use that against them --

Not ever -- "Bruce is, in many ways... young."

She *purses* her lips, lowering her chin and looking at him from over the pair of reading glasses she isn't wearing. She is thirty-seven years old now. She'll be thirty-*eight* when the child is born --

Assuming she *has* it --

No. No. She will. She will, and then Tim will be... expendable? In danger?

Free?

"Tim."

Free... would be very nice. For now -- "I'm fully aware of your thoughts about my last statement, Mother, but... I stand by it. He has a certain innocence that is belied by his behavior at --"

"His behavior suggested *haplessness*, not --" But she cuts herself off with a frown, and is very clearly thinking.

Tim waits, patiently.

Freedom would be...

Of course, he couldn't just *abandon* his younger sibling. Harvey would never --

But he'll be fourteen years older than he or she is. He'll be --

That's a *lifetime* --

And of course his mother would want to focus on training him or her properly, and --

She hums quietly and taps her bare foot.

"Yes, Mother?"

"Bruce was... apologetic?"

Warning bells -- but they're non-specific. "Yes, he was."

"Exceedingly so, I imagine? He has been, after all, *quite* insulting."

Tim -- doesn't narrow his eyes. "He was... notably sincere."

"'Notably'. Hmm."

"Yes, Mother?"

"How *long* have he and Harvey been fucking, Tim?"

"Ah. What?"

She looks at him -- levelly.

"Mother, they're not --"

"Tim. I am *more* than willing to take you to Thomas for a thorough physical examination."

Tim doesn't *recoil*, but he can do nothing about his expression. Which -- is useful. "Mother, that's disgusting --"

"Tim."

Tim draws himself up. His mother is still -- slightly -- taller than he is, but he --

He's a good person. And he has brothers. And he --

They like him, and they want --

They want to be with him, and they hadn't wanted to let him go, and --

And he's a good person, and so he will not -- betray. He meets his mother's gaze. "I suppose it *isn't* the sort of thing Thomas Wayne would feel moved to confirm or deny in the midst of pillow talk --"

She inhales sharply and narrows her eyes again --

"-- but I would think that you would already know for certain, Mother. If there were anything *to* know."

She doesn't -- quite -- show her teeth.

Tim doesn't *shiver* --

"Did they tell you all was forgiven, Tim...? That you were... one of them?"

Tim doesn't say a word. Just --

She smiles. "Did they tell you that you couldn't be blamed for... hnn. Your mother's behavior? That they liked you for who you *were*?"

He doesn't -- he doesn't shift on his feet --

"Oh... son."

He stands *firm* --

"It *is* intoxicating, isn't it? The beautiful people -- the *correct* people -- and, suddenly, they want *you*."

They *do* --

She moves closer, and cups Tim's shoulders with her small, strong hands. For whatever reason, the exercise regimen Thomas Wayne had given her included the use of hand *strengtheners* --

What kind of bruises does she have now?

What did Thomas Wayne tell *her*?

How -- how did he --

"Does it seem like all your brightest little dreams are coming true -- no, I don't *actually* have to ask that, do I?" And she smiles wryly and shakes her head. "I never *had* to order you to keep trying to get on Bruce's good side -- you just kept throwing yourself at that brick wall like... well, I don't even know. Jack is the one with a gift for metaphor."

Tim just -- stands. And looks.

"And now you're standing just as tall as you can, proud and firm and *adamant* -- are you pretending to be one of those superheroes you used to love so much? No, you still *do* love them, don't you. You're just smart enough not to *blather* about them, anymore," she says, and squeezes his shoulders. "You *are* a highly intelligent boy and you always have been. Do you know... I believe attempting to befriend Bruce -- with your heart on your sleeve -- is the *only* mistake you ever made more than once."

That -- "You --"

"Ordered you to get close to him, yes, Tim. But I *never* ordered you to fall all over him. And, really, *would* I? *Ever*?"

Tim -- inhales. And shakes his head. Once.

"Exactly. Now on to this... loyalty you're showing. I can understand you wanting to do just *anything* for *Harvey* -- he's been utterly charming from the beginning, yes?"

Tim nods. Once.

She nods back. "I even believe you that he decided -- for reasons of his own -- that Bruce's behavior with you was unacceptable... or had finally gone too far? It doesn't matter. I also believe you that Harvey plays the dominant role in that relationship, because anyone with *eyes* can see Bruce *mooning* after the boy whenever her deigns to dance with a female of the species. So. We have a situation where Harvey sets out to *fix* things between the two of you now that he's home from a banner year at Yale... but."

Tim raises an eyebrow again, but he knows it's somewhat shaky on his face.

"Oh, Tim. It's only been a couple of *days*. Even if Harvey explained to Bruce in the *smallest* possible words that he wouldn't get his *cock* sucked even one little bit until he made *nice* with the geeky little *bastard* --"

"Mother. Not everyone... views the world in the same ways you do," Tim says, quiet and ill and -- is he shaking? He stops that --

"You certainly don't."

"No, I do not."

She stares at him for a long moment. She --

There's a small bruise at the right corner of her mouth, almost hidden by foundation and lip-liner.

Almost.

She stares.

Tim allows himself to blink twice, and stares back --

And then she lets him see her *anger*, which is, as ever, white-hot and *terrifying* --

But there are things good and worthwhile parents do not do, according to Thomas Wayne.

Just as there are things good and worthwhile corporate citizens do not do.

Just as there are things good and worthwhile members of high society --

She yanks her hands away from his shoulders, balls them into fists, and glares at him. "How *useless* do you intend to be, Tim?"

"I'm going to do my level best to foster a close, positive relationship with my -- with Bruce and Harvey --"

"With your *brothers*, Tim?"

Tim narrows his eyes and just -- "*Yes*, Mother, with my *brothers*. They're not perfect and neither am I. They -- they needed someone like me --"

"Or a willing teenaged *ass*, as the case may be."

Blushing... is getting easier not to do. Flushing with *rage* on the other hand --

No, it would be just as useless. As *counterproductive*.

He breathes. "Mother. You're a very intelligent and thoughtful -- in terms of your ability to move beyond the first raging flushes of emotion -- person, so I'm only going to say this once. If Thomas Wayne can't stop his sons from living the lives they wish to live -- and he *can't* --"

"Then I can't stop *you*? *You* don't have *Martha* Wayne's protection --"

"I have something equally --"

And there -- is a sound.

Of someone clearing his *throat* --

And Jason Blood steps out of -- nothing. Or... a shadow?

There shouldn't have been a shadow *there* --

And his mother is gripping at her robe like she expects Blood to tear it off her.

Blood, for his part, is wearing chain mail the color of *mostly* dried blood, and something that looks like wool padding beneath it. His boots are cracked and torn in several places -- to the point where it's impossible to be sure how high they used to go before whatever battle he was involved in happened. When he pulls back the cowl of his mail, his shoulder-length hair is sweaty and matted to his head -- and there's *actual* dried blood in it that may or may not be his own. The fact that his hands and face are clean just makes the rest of him look *worse* --

"What are *you* doing here?"

Blood bows to Tim and his mother both before turning to focus on her. "Tendering the thanks and appreciation of Martha Wayne to your son for all of his help today in the conclusion of a certain... family matter, good woman --"

"Why the hell did she send *you*?"

Blood smiles. "Because she was indisposed... and because I very much wanted the chance to discuss the matter with your son myself. In private," he says, drawing himself up to his full height, and -- looking at Tim's mother.

For a moment, she seems about to say something else cutting -- or at the very least demanding -- but then her pupils dilate at speed --

Blood gestures *subtly* --

"I can, of course, continue this discussion with Tim later --"

"You can, yes, but do you truly have to, Mrs. Drake?"

That -- no. Tim grips Blood's mailed forearm. "She has to."

Blood hums -- and never looks away from Tim's mother. "My mistake -- of course you do. You have to continue this conversation with him in a calm, reasonable manner."

"Of course I do," she says, and her voice manages to be *both* clipped and dreamy. "He's not *pathetic*, even when he insists on pretending otherwise."

Tim -- doesn't flush.

He definitely doesn't *flinch* --

And he moves his hand from Blood's arm.

Blood nods once -- without turning. "You have to listen to him, and, in due time, agree with him. Not *too* quickly --"

"Of course not. You must never show weakness in front of an opponent."

"As you say, good woman. But you will agree."

A frown line appears on his mother's forehead --

"You will agree... to everything."

The frown line gets *deeper* --

And Blood shows his teeth -- and bites the pad of his thumb hard enough to... draw blood.

And then he shoves his thumb in her mouth.

She frowns *more* deeply --

"*Suck*."

She does -- and almost immediately slumps. *Sags*. She looks like she's had her *strings* cut --

And Blood is speaking a language -- if it is a language -- that doesn't seem *human*, much less Indo-European. The speech lasts for the better part of two minutes, and then he pulls his -- healed -- thumb out of her mouth --

Snaps his fingers --

And his mother blinks and frowns abstractedly, looking around Tim's room and very obviously not seeing what she's looking for. She --

"Was there anything else, Mother?"

She narrows her eyes at him.

It's an effort not to -- to *snarl* -- but he manages. He doesn't even raise his eyebrow.

She reaches up for her temples, but doesn't actually rub them before she turns and walks for the door. "You have your assignments," she says, and closes the door behind her.

Tim -- takes a breath. A deep one.

And Blood sighs and rolls his head on his -- grimy -- neck. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to wipe her memory rather more thoroughly than that before I leave, lest there be... friction."

For a moment that's *confusing* -- but then it isn't. "Thomas Wayne has explicitly asked you not to... interfere with his... women."

"'Asked'. That's an *interesting* way to put it," Blood says, and chuckles. "May I sit? I promise that the assorted filth you see on me is all magical in nature -- I'll be able to remove it easily when I stand once more."

Tim gestures to his desk chair. "Please."

"Thank you *very* much, Timothy," Blood says, sitting and resting his elbows on his knees. He lets his hands dangle between his legs, and --

"You... would you like something to eat or drink? You look... tired."

Blood smiles sharply. "I *look* a *fright*. Unfortunately, the nature of my... nature is such that neither food nor drink will improve me -- as opposed to improving my disposition. The offer is *much* appreciated, however. Will you sit with me?"

"I -- yes. But let me get --"

"The sword can wait a while longer. I can *smell* how well you blooded it."

"Oh -- I thought I'd cleaned --"

"You did. But it takes rather more than soap and water -- or metal cleanser and a fresh chamois, as the case may be -- to erase certain scents to ones such as me. Please."

"Ah... all right," Tim says, and moves the rolling chair he keeps by his worktable to a position which will allow him to continue meeting Blood's eyes --

Not that that seems especially *safe* --

Nothing has seemed safe in the past forty-eight *hours* --

And, perhaps, that's part of what it means to not be a child. "What did you want to speak about, Mr. --"

"Jason, please. We've shared weapons, after all," and Blood smiles *toothily*.

"You've also penetrated my mother, but I still use a honorific with Thomas Wayne --" And Tim bites his tongue --

And shakes his head --

"I'm sorry. I'm --"

Blood is laughing. *Happily*.

Blood is *shaking* with laughter --

*Clutching* at himself --

Tim sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose -- no. No. "I don't suppose we can pretend I didn't say that."

Blood *beams* at him. "I *like* playing pretend, Timothy --"

"Yes, well, maybe you can pretend to be one or both of Martha Wayne's children -- I didn't say that, either. I -- I don't know why --"

"Assorted terrible things are coming out of your mouth?"

"I -- *yes* -- are you doing --"

"There is no geas on you whatsoever. None from my hands, and none from any other magic-user's. You are, at a guess, in need of... a bit of release."

Tim rears back --

And Blood laughs again. "Not *that* sort. Although, at your age, that sort of thing is always rather closer than it *isn't*. No. I believe you've felt a need to get a few things off your *chest*."

"I -- I've been talking all *weekend* --"

"About *everything* in your heart, Timothy?"

"No -- of course not --"

"Then... about everything you've *seen*?"

"There's no way --"

"All right. How about everything you've *done*?"

Tim narrows his eyes at Blood -- and wonders how *much* he resembles his mother when he does. He --

He stops that, and turns --

He looks at the floor. "Thank you for -- your help. With my mother."

"You're quite welcome, Timothy. But I must confess that I did not do it out of altruism."

Tim frowns and looks up again, searching Blood --

And finding a gentle smile -- and rising *smoke*. He --

"Are you on *fire*?"

Blood pinches his fingers together slightly. The smoke is rising from his *hair* --

Which is waving above his head *like* flames --

There's -- the smoke is -- "Etrigan -- my bosom companion these past thousand years -- finds our stink offensive. He is doing something about it, in his own inimitable way. It will only take a few moments," Blood says, and the fire is behind his eyes --

The smoke is spilling out from between his *teeth* --

He's *screaming* -- but there is no sound. There --

He's just a *shape* in the flames that somehow don't scorch or even *singe* anything else --

And then Blood is naked and *slumped* on the chair --

The flames seem to *shove* themselves down his throat --

He can't seem to sit *up* --

He's shaking and *groaning* --

Tim stands to --

Well, he has no idea *how* to help, but it's clear that he has to do *something* --

But Blood is sitting up with his legs crossed and one hand resting on an odd-looking and *gnarled* off-white walking stick. He's wearing a form-fitting black turtleneck, black trousers, black ankle boots, and an... odd cast-iron pendant on a chain. It's a primitive -- almost rudimentary -- female figure who is... gripping her... labia. And spreading them. Impressively wide, considering matters of proportion and --

She does seem very happy about it, though.

Blood smiles and taps the figure's... vagina with a smile. "Sheela-na-gig. *Very* old magic from... my neck of the woods. Roughly. I felt a need for a trifle more protection."

"It... seemed as though you were being hurt."

"Oh, I was. Etrigan likes to take the opportunity to do things like that when he can."

Tim winces. "I'm sorry --"

Blood waves a hand. "I'm no innocent. If I wished to be kind to the creature, I'd spend far less time on this plane of existence -- and far less time exterminating his spiritual brethren. Not that *he* cares for them all that much... well. It's complicated, and, I suspect, not to your direct interest in this moment?"

"I owe you a great deal --"

Blood smiles more broadly. "Timothy. How much do *you* wish to converse with people who feel they *owe* you things...?"

Tim winces and shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I don't -- I'm doing this wrong --"

"It's all *right*. You are *very* young, and you've had a *very* exciting weekend --"

"I -- don't treat me like a child."

Blood stares at him --

Into him --

And nods, once. "Then please sit once more. We *do* have much to discuss."

Tim nods and pulls the chair closer --

*Tries* to pull the chair closer --

Every hair on his body stands up, including the ones he was reasonably sure were too long to do that. Hm.

"Oh... dear. You *aren't* under any geas, but you *have* been exposed to enough of my magic for *long* enough that you can feel my walking stick rather more strongly than you should be able to."

"Ah. What does that mean?"

"It means that, should you continue to try to get closer to me while I'm holding it, your balls will relocate themselves to your abdomen."

"Ah."

"Forgive me, Timothy. I'm feeling somewhat fragile at the moment. I won't take your distance as insult if you won't take my paranoia as insult. All right...?"

Tim licks his lips. And pulls the chair back two feet -- four feet. His hair settles down. He sits. And nods. "Please... start with the lack of altruism. What do you get out of helping me with my mother?"

Blood smiles, and it seems as though it *should* be a secretive smile -- but it isn't. It's wide, and inviting, and --

And it makes Tim feel exceedingly young.

He doesn't --

He doesn't let himself blush. Much --

"Would you agree that someone in my position would be far better served by taking the *long* view than by any other sort of approach?"

"Ah -- of course --"

"Think about what you plan to do with your future, Timothy. What you *and* Bruce plan to do."

Tim blinks rapidly -- "You... know."

"I do. I believe Harvey explained that to you...?"

He *had*, but -- "It's -- it's a *dream* at this point --"

"Timothy. I walk between the dimensions *daily* at times. *Hourly*. *Some* people's dreams come *true*."

And -- Tim's eyes are wide. Just --

There's nothing he can *do* about that --

Blood had just said -- "You. But you don't know what will happen *here*."

Blood waves his free hand. "I get... hints, shall we say? Some of those hints are *quite* broad and specific. Others... well. It is an *exceedingly* rare dimension -- in terms of the ones which *I've* observed -- where Bruce Waynes and Timothy Drakes *don't* wind up becoming desperately important to 'the never-ending battle.'"

Tim can't help *gasping* --

"I'll give you a moment to take that in."

"I -- I -- but -- tell me more -- please, tell me *more*!"

Blood raises an eyebrow --

"You *had* to know I'd want to know *more*!"

"Even at the risk of... spoiling yourself?"

"Of course -- I --" Tim blinks. And -- thinks about it.

*Tries* to think about it --

No, wait -- "We live in a deterministic --"

"Oh, no, no, we truly don't."

Tim exhales. "Then --"

"But... some things are... more probable than others. I think that's the best way to put it --"

"Tell me -- do -- do the Bruces and Tims work well together?"

"Almost without fail. Your personality types... well, you both tend to be quite practical, at heart."

Tim frowns. "Bruce is... practical?"

Blood blinks at him -- and coughs into his fist --

"Was that a laugh?"

"Yes, Timothy, it *was*, because... well, all right, I suppose that *was* a reasonable *enough* question..." And Blood touches his tongue to his upper lip thoughtfully. "Let's just say that he tends to be a great deal more... well... like *you* --"

"*What*?"

"-- in those dimensions where he grows up without a brother. Or a mother, for that matter."

Tim -- rears back. "He. Does that happen... often?"

"Quite. It's one of the -- many, many -- reasons why I'm so protective of Martha. There are powers -- powerful powers -- which *much* prefer it when she and Thomas die young."

"I -- that's horrifying."

"Oh, yes. Don't tell her -- I have no idea *how* she'd take it -- but I have personally saved her life one hundred and seventeen times since nineteen-fifty-nine."

"I -- that's -- and -- and Thomas Wayne's, too?"

Blood looks at him -- shrewdly. "You need not be so formal -- ever -- with me, Timothy. I can *smell* his blood in you."

"Yes, well, it wasn't his *blood* that was -- ah. I'm not finishing that sentence."

Blood grins -- and laughs. "All right. But in answer to your question... there are other forces protecting his life. Do you want to know more about that?"

"He's --" Tim shakes his head once. "Does it concern me? Or... people I care about?"

"Do you not care about him...?"

Tim... holds Blood's gaze. Evenly.

And Blood inclines his head. "It concerns your mother, and the fact that she was not supposed to be born until some fifteen to twenty years after she *was*."

"I -- what? How? I don't understand --"

"Timothy Drakes... are *usually* Timothy *Drakes*. They may not always be *Jack* Drake's children, but they are hardly *ever* Thomas Wayne's."

Tim -- blushes. "I'm. I'm not Bruce's brother. Or -- Harvey's."

"Usually not, no."

Tim bites his lip -- stops that. Just --

"Timothy... it's a very rare universe where you are not the son of Bruce's heart."

"*Son* -- ah. What? I can't -- " Tim shakes his head. "I... can't. I'm sorry. Can we leave that?"

Blood inclines his head. "Of course. To get back to the question at hand... there was something of a hiccough in space-time. That which was supposed to occur there and *then*.... occurred *there* and *then*. It all might have still shaken out as it normally does, with Thomas and Martha dying squalid, ugly little deaths in the late sixties --"

"When. When Bruce was a child."

"Oh, yes. But your mother entered Thomas' life, and that... well, even before your birth *really* started changing things around, the entire *weave* of this dimension was altered dramatically."

"I -- *how*? She's just -- she's just his *lover*."

"And confidante, and junior partner, and... well, all sorts of other things it would be worth *our* peaceful existences to attempt to *discern*. Yes?"

Tim... rubs his hands against his jeans. "Certainly... they've remained... close. Or. I don't know. I've always thought... I've wondered..."

"You've wondered if Thomas were using her?"

Tim... stares at the floor.

And Blood sighs. "He has never been *my* confidant -- in any dimension. I cannot say for certain. I suspect, however, that *you* will find an answer which will satisfy you someday."

Tim swallows, and nods, and looks up again. "What about -- what about Martha Wayne's relationship with her sons?"

Blood smiles ruefully. "You're worried for them."

"I -- yes. She... she can make their lives very difficult --"

"And yours, as well."

"They're. They're my brothers."

"Oh, yes. And they always will be --"

"Can. Can you promise that?"

"Timothy. *I* don't *have* to," and Blood raises *both* of his eyebrows.

Tim knows what that *means*, but -- "I would -- let them go. If they wanted me to."

Blood shakes his head.

"I *would* --"

Blood holds up a hand. "I do not doubt that, Timothy. You have not -- yet -- grown into the sort of possessiveness you'll make *desperately* attractive in your late teens and beyond --"

"I'm not -- if someone wants to *leave* me --"

"Then you -- being you -- will find a way to alter yourself so that they will not wish to leave, at all. Yes?"

Tim -- flushes.

Blood waves a hand. "Truly, it's not important. What *is* important is that *Bruce* is *already* *incredibly* possessive -- he gets it *honest*, as it were -- and he will never, ever, let *either* you or Harvey go. Not cleanly."

Tim frowns. "He's not -- he's a good person --"

"Oh, yes. He's just also... possessive." A one-handed shrug. "Look at it as insurance."

"That's -- cold."

"A part of you will *always* be cold, Timothy. The powers and tides of the multiverse would have it *no* other way."

Will people love me anyway?

Will my mother --

Am I really a good person --

Tim swallows and -- breathes. "I... believe I need you to reassure me about Martha Wayne."

"She will not stop Bruce and Harvey from moving out of the manor. When she balked at the idea tonight, I reminded her of the number of times I've saved Bruce's sanity. And life, as these things go. Mad Waynes don't last very long, even when -- "

"*What*? What are you talking about?"

"*Things* have tried to attack -- not kill -- Bruce. To lure him into the darkness of the spirit and... colonize him. Wayne Manor is something of a supernatural sinkhole, Timothy. The creatures which are attracted to it..." Blood frowns and shakes his head. "Thomas is rather too... all-of-a-piece for *most* of the ghoulies and et cetera to make headway on *his* sanity -- such as it is. Bruce, however, is open. *Vulnerable*. There is *one* particular creature which tends to possess him in more universes than not --"

"Oh. Should. I don't -- I'm glad you protected him --"

"Yes, you truly are. And so will your extended family be -- in due course."

"What --"

"But. Remember the *fearsome* qualities of bats when the time comes, Timothy. And *do* use your influence to get Bruce to raze the manor to the ground once it's in his name, since *both* of his parents have refused to listen to reason on the matter."

"Is. Is he safe -- I should have him sleep here, or -- or I don't --"

Blood raises a hand again. "He is safe tonight, and will be safe for at least six days. Which is when I'll be doing the next bout of extermination. It's my understanding that this little diversion won't stop him from searching *aggressively* for a new home, yes?"

"Yes, but --"

"Do feel free to invite him -- and Harvey -- over *all* the time. It will be good for Martha, too."

That. *That* -- "You've... kept her from molesting him. Them."

"I've kept her from shagging them *breathless* --"

"Oh, God --"

And Blood laughs softly and shakes his head. "I will continue doing so -- in ways I'm *quite* sure you do not wish me to detail -- until such time as they have *fully* come into their own power and can either refuse her once and for all... or not."

Tim stares at Blood.

"Did you expect me to be *jealous*, Timothy?"

"I. I was hoping for more *horror* --"

"Timothy. There is a demon inside me who, should I choose to sleep, will fill my mind with images and *scents* of everyone I've ever loved being slowly -- *slowly* -- torn to shreds, then burnt. Once they're all gone -- and Etrigan can make my dreams seem to last for *decades* -- he begins on *me*. And *all* of the sensations are right there for my... delectation. 'Horror' is something that takes a fair amount of... effort with me."

"Incest... doesn't cut it."

"When *both* of the children in question would enjoy themselves *immensely* should the attendant trauma somehow be lessened...? No, it does not."

"Bruce -- I -- never mind. I don't know -- I don't know."

Blood inclines his head again.

"But."

"Yes, Timothy?"

Tim frowns. "Do you plan on... helping her get what she wants?"

"Always -- ah. There are always exceptions. I forced Harvey to face his stickier feelings for Martha not because I wanted to talk him into bed with her, but because I knew he would need to use them to get information from her --"

"Did you -- did you know *who* would kidnap Bruce?"

"I didn't even know it would *be* a kidnapping. But, in terms of probability... I suspected that a danger to Bruce would have nothing to do with anything Bruce himself -- or Harvey -- had done, and would thus be something involving either Thomas or Martha. The fact that I was -- nearly -- absolutely sure the threat was magical in nature precluded the cause being Thomas." Another one-handed shrug.

"How much do you allow her to do with your powers *without* your supervision?"

"As little as possible... but Martha *will* have her freedom."

"And you'll insist on that."

"Oh, yes. But I will *not* be insisting that either Harvey or Bruce throw aside millennia of *mostly* sensible taboo in the interest of making love with their mother, who is, among other things, mad as a hatter."

Tim blinks.

Blood smiles. "I'm allowed to say things like that. I *habitually* make choices which can only be termed mad. Continuing to be an auxiliary member of a team of *theoretically* grown men and women who run about in long underwear against people wielding deadly weapons, just as an example -- oh, such a frown. Well. As fetching as you would look in Black Canary's ensemble, I *do* recommend something with rather more coverage for you."

"Because you know something I don't?"

"Yes. Bullet wounds *hurt*." And Blood looks at him *waspishly*.

And Tim tries not to laugh --

Tries -- hard --

He laughs, covering his mouth so it won't be *loud* --

And his mind fills with the taste of chocolate and cool cream, sugar and the smell of chartreuse --

And Blood had been spinning on his stool making ridiculous faces --

And even more ridiculous *voices* --

And Tim had been giggling just -- uncontrollably.

While he licked his ice cream cone.

Tim -- frowns. And glares.

Blood winks at him --

And Tim -- realizes. "You're going to take my memory of this conversation."

"Not entirely. You'll still be able to call on every last bit of information when you need it, and you'll retain a certain degree of... ineffable confidence --"

"I just won't be inclined toward obsessing about the warp and weft of space-time when I should be doing other things?"

Blood grins. "One hopes."

Tim laughs and shakes his head. "All right. Fine. I -- fine. Do it."

"Are you quite sure you don't have other questions, Timothy? I'd be more than willing to answer them."

Will I be *loved* -- "There is one."

"Please, ask."

Tim nods and bites his lip -- stops that. It's what a child would do. "Is there anyone you can have a conversation with without wiping their memories afterward? I -- *anyone*?"

Blood blinks as if the question had surprised him, but --

"I -- I'd like to know."

For a long moment, Blood's expression is only soft, only --

"I'm -- not a child --"

"No, Timothy, you are not. But you were a beautiful child when you were, and you are a beautiful young man now, in body and spirit."

"I -- I don't --" Tim blushes and shakes his head --

"Many people ask me why I gravitate toward the mad for my long-term romantic relationships, and I give them many answers. All of them are true. None of them, however, are more true than the fact that the mad can touch the divine. Not all of them want to. Not all of them *benefit* from such things. But all of them -- *all* of them -- gain a certain ability to deal with people such as me. To... 'roll' with us, as it were. We are no stranger to them than the rest of the world is. And, if we are very, very careful, we cannot hurt them worse simply by being ourselves. Does that answer your question?"

Tim -- breathes. And. There's something like --

A part of him wants to *cry*, and --

Tim shakes his head --

"Timothy --"

Tim laughs, instead. "I'm sorry. I've never. I've never wanted to be mad before. I -- you shouldn't be lonely."

Blood inhales sharply and shakes *his* head --

Licks his lips --

"Timothy... *no* one should -- ah, but *that* is what you have not *asked*. Sneaky little thing," he says, standing and tossing his walking stick into -- nothing, at all. It's gone --

And Blood is closing the distance between them with so much grace and speed that it's almost impossible to remember how he had looked when he'd *gotten* here --

He cups Tim's chin --

"Bruce will teach you greed, Timothy. He will not be able to stop himself -- even assuming he'd ever wish to -- and you will suck down the lessons more hungrily than you suck his *cock* --"

Tim jerks --

Blood squeezes tighter -- "There are many, many children in this world who are more like you than not, Timothy. Children no one was *ever* greedy for -- not in positive ways. Children who will do *anything* to be given a purpose married to love and desire --"

"I'm not -- I wouldn't --"

"You would," Blood says, and draws what feels like a *wet* line down the center of Tim's forehead. "And you will grow accustomed to the idea starting... now."

Tim *feels* his pupils dilating -- "Blood -- Jason -- I --"

"Shh. You're going to build a *family*, Timothy. A *big* family. A *strong* family. And you'll do it with your brothers at your side. Always and *ever* at your side."

"Please -- please, let me -- I need *adults* --"

"You'll have them, too... but they probably will not be the ones you desire the most right now. I *am* sorry about that... but you should start growing accustomed to that, too."

Tim... sways. And. It's so easy to breathe. So... "Yes. Yes, I should. Pain should never be shocking."

Blood sighs and strokes Tim's cheekbones. "Such a lovely boy... and you will not be mine, I don't think. Not for *many* years, if then."

"You have the benefit of patience."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" And Blood leans in and kisses Tim's forehead. "Remember that you will have love. Remember that, at times, it will seem to be more love than you can comfortably *comprehend*. And remember that a *very* old man equipped with a *very* flexible morality will always, always be at your disposal."

Tim blinks. It feels as though it takes an extremely long time. When he's done, Blood is smiling down at him patiently -- "Why?"

"It's quite simple, Timothy: Some of us are positively weak in the *knees* for heroes. Now. Why don't you get ready for bed so you can wake up fresh and ready to explain the new world order to your mother?"

"Yes, that's a very --" Tim frowns. Slowly.

"Yes, Timothy?"

"I have to give you back your --"

"Ah..." And Blood points down to his own hip, where there is a sword-belt, and a sheathed sword. The hilt looks much older than the one which had been on the knife Tim had used, but when he reaches out to touch it --

It feels precisely the same.

It feels *right* --

"Oh, yes. A *part* of it will always belong to you now, little killer... hm. In *my* day it would be time for me to acquire a likely young doxy and make sure we saw in your manhood in *style*, but...?"

"No, thank you," Tim says, blinking slowly and bending over to remove his shoes. "That would remind me far too much of Thomas Wayne."

Blood shudders delicately. "Yes, I believe that man *could* ruin an orgasm. Well. We'll call it a rain check until you are... thirty-five or so? Yes, I think that's a good age. Strip yourself thoroughly, dress in your *comfiest* 'jammies' and dream of the beautiful and deliciously *sticky*. We *will* talk again soon."

"Yes, Jason," Tim says, and continues working on his shoes. They're really very complicated --

Was he talking to someone?

He's *tired*. He's --

Well, it's been a long weekend. And --

And he has *brothers*. And Bruce had promised to pick him up after school --

And both of them want to take him to their favorite restaurants, and have Tim take them to *his* --

And then they'll look at apartments with, presumably, *non*-vengeance-driven realtors. They --

He has *brothers*!

Maybe... maybe he'll dream of them tonight.

*

June 2000

"I can't believe you built a time machine in your floating orgy house, Tim," Helena says. She's sitting cross-legged -- not lotus --  on the bed, and is fully-dressed.

The way she always is in this house.

Always.

*Always* --

Tim is sitting in his new computer chair, and is also fully-dressed, because he is a respectful big brother. "I wish you wouldn't call it that."

Helena smiles precisely like she's his sister. "Time machine...?"

Tim lets his sigh be long-suffering as he *looks* at Helena from under his lashes.

She giggles and snorts, waggling her head like the stoner she will almost certainly never be. She has, however, been known to give otherwise entirely unsuitable suitors second -- and third -- dates if they've bathed themselves in *enough* patchouli. She's been a vegetarian since she was in the eighth grade, and he's still not allowed to tell her how much Clark wants to insert his tongue in her various orifices.

He is a good and respectable and *responsible* big brother --

"How *many* of your kids did you screw on this bed in the past week? C'mon, be honest."

Tim raises an eyebrow at her.

She raises one back.

"I am no one's father --"

She pushes down the bright blue granny glasses Dick had given her and *looks* at him from over them.

Tim sighs again. "Three. I would like to point out, however, that there were no orgies."

"At all? In the *whole house*?"

Well...

"My point."

"If you moved in with us --"

"No, Tim."

"*All* of the bedrooms are soundproofed --"

"That's terrifying, Tim."

"You don't *have* to have sex with *anyone* --"

"And I don't have to have sex with anyone *in my apartment*, either. Except, you know, for all the nice people without *any* bullet wounds or knife scars or shrapnel pimples or whatever the hell you call those things --"

"Are you *shallow*?"

Helena looks at him.

Tim licks his lips. "I... rescind that question. There's nothing wrong -- ah. Never mind." Superman doesn't have *any* scars -- "You know --"

"No, Tim."

"Your building doesn't allow pets."

Helena looks at him like he's *crazy*, but --

"You could have any pet you wanted. Any. At all."

Helena glares at him. "I want a moose named Hephzibah."

"You'll have to clean up after her, but --"

"*Tim*!"

Tim laughs. "All right. All right. Can you really blame me? By the time you were sentient, I was in training. I *couldn't* see you enough."

"So *retire*! *Help* me merge WE and DI. I've got some ideas that'll help us punt LexCorp into the *Dark* Ages, and all we really have to do -- oh, God, are your eyes actually glazing *over*? How the hell did you manage to grow *up* with Janet Drake?"

"In siege positions, mostly," Tim says, and raises an eyebrow.

Helena winces. "I... knew that. Actually. Sorry --"

Tim raises a hand. "You're forgiven."

She smiles ruefully and looks up at him from under her lashes. "Yeah?"

"Always, Helena."

"Because you love me so much?"

Tim spreads his hands. "It happens."

She nods toward the homed viewscreen. "What are you going to do about Mr. Wizard?"

"Make him part of the family, if I have to beat everyone with sticks until it works."

A quirked look. "That's... uh. Okay? He's not exactly your *type*."

"I have more than one type, Helena." 

"Well. All right, yes, you *are* a giant whore."

Tim coughs.

Helena giggles and wags her head again. When she was in high school, she'd confessed to finding it difficult to find girls her own age who understood her sense of humor -- or who cared to *try* to understand it. The much younger girls liked her and the college students adopted her as her own. Her fellow high school students... did not.

Tim knew he could give her people who would *appreciate* her -- and he *had* -- but...

But there was always another wound in need of stitching, another bullet to be dug out of tender flesh, another spar which turned into something more --

So much *more* --

"I've. I've never been able to make my home comfortable for you. Not for long," Tim says, and frowns.

"Well... no. But that's why it's *your* home and not *mine*, big brother," Helena says, widening her eyes and nodding slowly and encouragingly.

Tim laughs painfully and gestures to the viewscreen. "Greed."

She frowns. "What Bruce was supposedly going to teach you?"

"I'm not sure I can blame him entirely, but -- yes. I *am* a slut -- I claim that label without hesitation -- but I'm also a *glutton*."

"Sexually?"

"Romantically."

A *deeper* frown. "You... it's *not* just about having the sort of family neither the Waynes nor the Drakes could have stomached?"

Tim considers, staring up at the ceiling and swinging his chair back and forth. "It's... mostly that."

"But not entirely."

"No," Tim says, and faces forward again. "I'm a lover."

"You are *not* --"

"I'm a lover... along with several other -- violent -- things," and Tim smiles ruefully.

Helena's frown is *disputatious* --

"Yes?"

"*Who* are your lovers, then? Your -- the ones you're not 'related' to?"

"The ironic single quotes are --"

"I'm sorry -- I -- I'm sorry," she says, and raises both hands.

"It's all right --"

"Wait. Wait," she says, and squeezes her eyes shut, pressing on her temples with her fingertips the way she's been doing since she was four or so -- whenever there have been ideas that --

("They're -- they're *crowding* me more than they're *expressing* themselves --"

"Take a knife to them."

"A -- what?"

"Slice them into pieces --"

"Tim --"

"-- and arrange them into manageable chunks.")

And Helena had looked -- up -- at him --

She'd still been shorter than Tim, when she was ten --

And her frown had grown more and more *serious* --

More *tremulous* --

And Harvey had picked her up, carried her into the sun room, and played with her for two hours while Bruce had led *him* down to the gymnasium for two hours of -- knife practice.

In the absence of his brothers, Tim presses himself against the back of the chair so that the knife strapped to his back will make its presence felt, and he -- wisely, he thinks -- says nothing to help his sister organize her thoughts.

She is not ten anymore.

She --

She is beautiful, and strong, and brilliant, and he --

It's not that he *can't* have her. It's just that he can *only* have her in healthy --

In limited --

In mainstream --

"What... what's making *you* frown," she says, and her voice is low and *hesitant* --

Tim blinks. "I... our relationship," he temporizes --

"We're not *that* bad --"

"*No*, I -- we're not bad, at all. I'm -- greedy," Tim says, wincing and pushing at the air --

"You -- want more of me."

"Yes," Tim says, and attempts to *will* her not to think about that --

At all --

*Please* --

She smiles ruefully and pushes a hand back through her long, thick black hair. "I know what that means, I think."

Tim doesn't wince, or blink, or -- he raises an eyebrow.

"You've been -- really good about not showing it or..." She shakes her head. "It's not me."

"Helena --"

"Now -- isn't the time for you to fake it, Tim. Okay?"

Tim closes his eyes -- and takes a deep breath. And then he opens them and meets Helena's gaze.

She shivers hard -- but doesn't shrink away from him, or --

There's already several feet of space between them, and -- apparently, that's enough. He can be --

"I'm not -- I'm not even *bi* --"

"I'm not a woman, Helena."

"Fuck -- even the way you say my name -- ah --"

"I'll stop," Tim says, and draws back for both of them --

"Oh -- no, *don't* -- I *never* want you to lie to me!"

Tim raises an eyebrow.

"All right -- no. I *don't*. I don't even want *Bruce* to lie to me, and you *know* what he's like!"

("I'm afraid I've upset our sister, brother."

"Oh -- how?"

"I confessed my feelings."

"... oh. You. All of your feelings?"

"Yes."

"Did she -- did she ask you to *stop*?"

"I felt... it seemed more important to be honest.")

And Bruce had given him that *earnest* look --

The one that always makes him seem ten years younger than Tim is -- as opposed to five years *older*.

("What... what did you actually *say*?"

"I told her she was beautiful."

"What else?"

"That... that I desired her --"

"Oh -- what else."

"That I imagined her dancing nude in moonlight --"

"You. She doesn't. What -- was there more?"

"Yes. I --"

"Stop. Did she hit you?"

"No. I rather wish she *had*. She... left.")

And Tim had licked his lips.

And Bruce's expression had grown *more* earnest somehow --

("I'll talk to her."

"Thank you, brother --"

"Don't -- don't talk to her until I do."

"All right --"

"In fact -- don't talk to her until *she* talks to you."

"As you say --"

"Did you. Did you bring up the naked sketches?"

"She didn't give me a chance --"

"Just. Just pretend that she's already told you that she doesn't want to hear about them."

"Hm.")

Here, in this moment --

"He *told* you what he said to me, didn't he?"

"Ah... some of it."

"What -- oh. You stopped him."

Tim smiles and spreads his hands. "I... had the gist."

She giggles -- nervously, but doesn't use her long hair to hide her face. She --

"Sometimes, I think about brushing your hair," Tim says.

"As a prelude to --"

"Nothing. Or -- a hug."

Helena frowns. "You could do that --"

"I think about it. I don't --" Tim shakes his head. "I am... deceptive, Helena. Even to myself."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that, despite what my mind is saying -- vehemently -- I would want more."

"Oh. I... oh," she says, and blushes.

Tim -- crosses his legs.

Helena looks him over. For a civilian, the look is subtle.

For him --

"I know you caught that."

"Yes," Tim says. "I --"

"I don't -- I didn't mean --"

"I know."

"It's just -- this *conversation* --"

"We *don't* have to have it," and Tim closes his eyes for a moment, forces himself *back* -- and opens his eyes again with a smile. "I promise."

She gasps -- "That's *creepy*!"

"I'm sorry --"

"You're still doing it!"

"I'd rather not force you to sit here dealing with me lusting for you --"

"Oh, God, and you just -- said it. Uh."

"I'm sorry --"

"*No*. No. Be yourself. Be -- I'm not a kid anymore, Tim. I'm not going to burst into tears if you pop a stitch at the dinner table and start fountaining blood everywhere."

Tim coughs a laugh. "I'm sorry about that, too --"

"You apologized at the *time* --"

"It was your birthday --"

"And I've had *nine* others since then. Just -- just. Let's have this conversation? Please? Once and for all?"

Tim takes a deep breath, and exhales himself out. *All* of himself.

"There you are," she says, and her smile is quirked and brave -- "When did it start?"

Tim shakes his head. "It's hard for me to answer that --"

"Because the answer is disturbing?"

"No, because there was a stretch of time when you were... approximately eleven --"

"Oh, God --"

"-- when I knew that I *would* become sexually attracted to you sooner or later --"

"Jesus --"

"-- and a stretch of time around your twelfth birthday..." Tim sighs and shakes his head again. "Your breasts began to grow."

"Uh. Uh. Uh."

Tim laughs again. "Helena."

"*No*. I can *take* this. I can take *you* --"

"I'm your brother, and I am... not healthy --"

"Your children *love* you. They -- they *worship* you --"

"To a certain extent --"

"They don't -- you don't *scare* them!"

"*Not* true, Hel," Dick says, walking in without knocking -- as usual. "And hey! But wait," and he walks around the work tables gracefully, beautifully --

Leans over Tim's chair --

And kisses Tim, pushing his scarred, hard-worked hands into Tim's short hair and humming --

Licking and *humming* --

If Helena weren't here, he would grip Dick's throat and *throw* him --

But, if Helena weren't here, he probably wouldn't be quite this aroused. Tim smiles into the kiss and settles for biting Dick's lip --

"*Mm* --" And Dick pulls back, *jogs* to the bed, and hugs Helena firmly before sitting next to her. "We're *all* afraid of Tim at least sometimes."

"I --" Helena blushes deeply and -- probably -- painfully.

Dick frowns. "It's not time for me, is it."

"No, it's -- it's your house --"

"And it's *your* time with Uncle Brother," Dick says, leaning in to peck Helena's cheek before standing smoothly. "I can wait."

"Oh -- don't --"

Dick smiles at her, and it is, of course, one of the *countless* smiles in his repertoire which tend to leave the uninitiated -- and some of the initiated -- speechless.

The fact that Helena can only nod while Dick walks backwards out of the room again -- while waving -- is, as far as Tim is concerned, proof of her basic personhood.

Tim re-crosses his legs while he's waiting for Helena to stop staring at the closed door --

Considers -- "You know..."

"Don't say it," she says, and frowns tightly.

"I wasn't --"

"You were going to say something about how Dick is a wonderful person and a wonderful lover and would never, ever, ever break a date with me to beat the living bejeezus out of a stranger."

Tim touches his tongue to his upper lip. "Well..."

"*Tim*!"

Tim laughs. "I'm sorry. It's just that you have that reaction to him *every* time --"

"*Everyone* has that reaction to him! I've been on lunch dates with you guys! The last time the poor waiter set his own *tie* on fire."

"Very true. But --"

"But -- wait, I need to ask him -- augh, I *can't* ask him -- no, tell me. You'll tell me the truth, because you're you, and you know all of this, and you're not going to tell me any lies unless I *ask* you to. Right?"

Tim raises an eyebrow --

"*Right*?"

Tim inclines his head.

Helena blows out a breath and unfolds her legs, planting her feet on the floor and gripping the edge of the bed with both hands. "Okay. *Why* are they all afraid of you?"

"Because I'm a killer, and have been since before you were born."

Helena winces. "You -- there's more, right?"

"Yes. It's also... Bruce, while he shares nearly all of my kinks, perversions, and predilections --"

"He's Bruce, and you can't -- he's *never* scary."

"Not when he's being himself. He *is* capable of playing exceedingly intimidating roles --"

"I can't *see* it. I mean, I trust you, and obviously he's been one of the Batman for over fifteen years, and that *must* work *somehow*..." She shakes her head. "He wasn't even scary when he was *looming* over me and telling me how much he *yearned* for something with my *scent*."

Tim coughs again -- "Well... yes. I've never been able to manage that sort of... harmlessness."

"You've never *been* harmless. Or..." She frowns thoughtfully. "Were you? When you were a kid?"

"I think so," Tim says, and smiles ruefully. "Certainly, Janet was clear quite often about my... softness."

"Oh, but you can't listen to *her*!"

Tim spreads his hands again. "There was no one else to listen *to*."

"Not -- the nannies?"

"It was my understanding that Thomas vastly approved of seeing Janet spend time with me, and seeing me respond to Janet as to someone tasked with my education and care. She was... more hands-on."

"*Really*? No, I -- I knew that. And I know you're not actually talking about *diapers* and -- " Helena frowns again. "She didn't leave you alone."

"Not until I was old enough that I could be trusted to work independently."

"You made that happen quickly."

Tim smiles again. "As quickly as I could. That was probably when I started losing my... harmlessness."

"Whereas Martha Wayne was... no, tell me. Bruce said you've been watching a *lot* of old family... God, you can't really call these *movies*, but -- you know what I mean."

"She loved Bruce. More than anything or anyone else in the world. More to the point, she was entirely capable of showing that love in ways Bruce could comprehend. *More* to the point, Jason Blood was there to act as a check on her behavior --"

"When she wanted to show her love in ways that might have made *Bruce* less harmless," Helena says, and nods thoughtfully again. "I guess... I guess it just makes more *sense* for Bruce to be all incest-y than for you to be, Tim. Unless... do you think it *did* start with Bruce and Harv for you?" 

"No. And... there's something to be said for the problematic things which can occur when a child is... deprived."

"Yeah, but -- those kids usually wind up on the sociopathy spectrum, or with personality disorders, or committing violent crimes, or -- uh. Hm."

Tim smiles broadly.

Helena *snorts*. "Okay, *fine*, but that still doesn't explain all the *incest*."

"It does, actually. It's more rare than other... hmm... paths to the disorder --"

"But it happens that way? Kids who weren't loved enough wind up loving their kids... wrong?"

Tim nods. "When I was studying these topics in my late teens -- there wasn't a *great* deal of scholarly material available at the time, but there was some -- I took a good, hard look at myself and promised myself that I would never allow myself to come into contact with young children."

"What -- Dick happened."

"Barbara first, but -- yes."

"*Barbara* was already sixteen --"

"Not when we first met her," Tim says, and smiles ruefully again. "But, yes, we waited, with her, until after she began going out as the Batgirl."

"You didn't want to wait."

Tim shakes his head.

"You -- forgot your promises?"

Tim closes his eyes -- no. "I don't tend to forget very much, Helena."

"Then --"

"I realized. I realized I wasn't strong enough for them. Not when the teenager in question desired me, in turn."

Helena swallows audibly --

Blushes --

And, this time, she *does* use her hair to cover her face.

Tim takes a somewhat shaky breath, but he doesn't offer to change the subject again. Not --

Not until she asks. Not --

"I thought... sometimes..."

Tim raises an eyebrow -- no, too combative. "Tell me. Please."

She shakes her head. "It's -- really stupid."

"I doubt that," he says, in the gentlest voice he *has* --

"Your Batman scares the hell out of children, doesn't he."

"Despite my best efforts to the contrary, yes. I -- I know I scared you --"

"Dad never did," she says, and sighs, soft and low.

Tim flares his nostrils and tries to --

The warning bells are so -- no. Part of being honest is *asking the question*.

"Did he ever --"

"What -- oh -- God, Tim, I was *nine* when he died," she says, but --

"You're still not looking at me."

"It's not -- it's not anything *bad* --"

"*Helena*."

"Okay, *please* tell me you let Bruce talk to the traumatized children?"

"Or Robin. Or Batgirl. Helena --"

"He just -- I just -- he would make me feel guilty for sitting on his *lap*, okay?"

Tim growls --

And Helena looks up at last. "Jesus, not like -- I mean -- it was just really obvious, even when I was *seven*, that *he* thought there was something really, really wrong with the fact that he wanted to, you know, cuddle me."

Tim -- frowns. "I. Tell me more. Please."

"He was. He was *repressed*. You *know* that."

"Not. Not with the women in his life. Generally."

Helena blinks and stares at him. "You... looked?"

Tim nods.

"But not... not at him and me?"

"No." Not -- "Not yet."

"Oh -- you don't *have* to. He just -- he didn't know -- God, I don't know how to *say* it."

"I'm listening. I -- please. I need to know," Tim says, uncrossing his legs and resting his hands on his thighs.

"Did you ever think... all right, this is just... something I came up with a few years ago when I was... obsessing. Okay?"

Tim nods.

Helena smiles ruefully and pushes *both* hands back through her hair -- "You know a lot about obsessing."

Tim tries a smile -- he knows it fails. "Please."

"Okay. He... I wondered if, maybe, there was a point in his life -- really *fucking* *early* in his life -- when incidental affectionate contact just... stopped. And, you know, he had the guys he rowed with at Exeter and Princeton, and they probably slapped and gripped at each other sometimes -- you know this stuff. You *are* a guy."

"Not an especially manly one, but... I'm not unfamiliar with the protocol you're describing. Additionally, Evelyn Wayne died quite young, and Jonah Wayne was not known for his affectionate nature. Go on."

She swallows again and nods, eyes focused on something... distant. "I think, maybe, he got used to only touching the women he had sex with. And... um. I mean, Mom actually *told* me what kind of sex -- ah. Well, not details -- hell, I'm asking --"

"Every time."

Helena winces. "Every...?"

"He had a dungeon in the basement of Wayne tower --"

"Oh my God. An actual -- like -- wait, do *you* have --"

"We have any number of toys and accessories we make use of in various ways at various times. Generally, when one of us wants something more... formal, we ask S--"

"Oh -- I'm not asking."

Sorry, Clark. Tim inclines his head.

"Wait, is the dungeon still *there*?"

"Bruce, Harvey, and I cleaned it out after he died. He'd left the key to Bruce in his will, along with a rather insulting little note."

Helena frowns deeply. "He -- wasn't like that with me."

"I know."

"Did you -- or Bruce? Or Harv? -- tell him not to be?"

"Bruce did, yes. But, in truth, we knew it wouldn't be necessary when Thomas visited Janet in the hospital after you were born."

"Oh -- he did?"

"Yes. Every day she was there after her Caesarian. He didn't allow for there to be pictures taken of him holding you as an infant, but... there were many opportunities to do just that."

Helena licks her lips and nods slowly. "He wanted a daughter, too."

"I think so, yes. And -- you were a *highly* satisfactory one."

"When I was. There was a while before I realized why the cuddling was... weird."

Oh... Helena. "You thought the worst."

"Yes. I. There's still a little part of me which isn't sure --" She blushes again. "I can never sit in a guy's lap, Tim. Not if I think he might have an erection."

Tim narrows his eyes --

"Dad *didn't*. *Ever*."

"But there's a part of your mind which insists that he did?"

She squeezes her eyes shut -- but only for a moment. "It's more... it's more that there's a part of my mind which insists that he *could* have. *Easily*."

"Because it would explain the... weirdness."

She looks at him levelly. "Like it did with you."

And Tim can't -- no. He can show her how he feels for that, show her his guilt, his *regret* --

She shakes her head and smiles ruefully. "I still love you. You're -- well, *Harvey* is my favorite --"

"As he should be --"

"*How* did he manage to grow up normal, anyway?"

"Intensive therapy, both psychological and magical."

"... oh."

"Also, a portion of his soul belongs to a -- thankfully friendly -- incubus --"

"*What*?"

"-- who is, for reasons of his own, inclined toward *monitoring* the dark recesses of Harv's mind --"

"What are you *talking* about?"

Tim laughs quietly. "File it under 'things you don't want to know about the life I live.'"

"But Harv lives a *normal* life!"

"He grew up with Bruce. Some things... sprawl."

Helena frowns... powerfully.

Tim brings his finger to his mouth. "Blood wiped Harvey's memory of the deal he made in nineteen-seventy-nine and we haven't reminded him of it, yet --"

"I *highly* recommend that you do so relatively soon," Blood says, and steps out of the air where the wingback chair *used* to be. "You *know* how he is about delays of that sort." He taps his foot over the all-too-thinly disguised sex toy compartment, bows deeply to Helena, and walks to the bed to present her with... a charm bracelet. It has a quill, an inkwell, a peace sign, a *dollar* sign, a field hockey stick -- and spaces for several other small charms. "For you, with my compliments."

Helena blinks and takes it. "Oh! Thank you. But... why?"

"Because you make people I care for deeply exceedingly happy. Before you ask -- and before Timothy clears his throat in that belligerent way he loves so much -- it also has a small protective spell placed upon it. While you wear it on your person -- and it will never rust, or snap, or irritate sensitive skin -- you will be immune to most, shall we say... *aggressive* magic?"

"Ah. That's very kind of you, Mr. Blood, but --"

"*But*, you're about to move into a very *public* sphere. While it's my understanding that Alexander Luthor is *quite* fond of Tim -- in his way -- *you* are a rather different animal, Miss Drake. And Luthor has been an enemy to *all* of us."

"He doesn't use *magic* --"

"Helena," Tim says, and shakes his head with a smile. "Lex, as much as I would *dearly* enjoy riding him for an hour or two after the next joined board meeting, is someone who will use anything and *everything* at his disposal to get what he wants. I'm asking you, as a favor to me, to take Blood's gift. *Jason's* gift."

Jason inhales sharply, but doesn't look at him.

Helena frowns at the bracelet in her palm for a long moment -- and then laughs quietly and stands. At twenty, she's nearly six feet tall, and Tim does not dress her in Kevlar and Nomex. Not even in the privacy of his own mind.

He stands, instead, and clasps the bracelet around her wrist. It flares... chartreuse.

And Tim wonders if Blood will tell him what *else* the bracelet does --

"Oh... hunh."

Or if Blood will *have* to tell him, considering the fact that Helena is breathing deeply and easily and *smiling*.

Smiling as openly as she was when she *arrived* --

*More* openly --

Tim shoots Blood a *look* -- but the man is making a show of studying the backs of his hands. He -- fine.

"Helena? Are you all right?"

"Hmmm? Oh, I'm good! But... what were we talking about?"

Oh...

There's a *pang* for that, a -- no. No. He can't allow -- this. "We were talking about Thomas. And about me. And about -- about my perversions."

Helena frowns... vaguely. And nods. And then laughs. "I guess you do have kind of a lot," she says, and wraps her long, lean arms around him and pulls him close --

"Helena --"

"I love you anyway, big brother, okay?"

"How do you *feel*?"

"Like I spent way too long worried about things that will never happen," she says, and squeezes *hard* --

"Like -- tell me --"

"Bruce is never going to crawl in my bedroom at night and demand that I perform my sisterly duties -- whatever that means," and she snorts in his ear -- "Oh, sorry --"

"It's all right --"

"And I think Bruce did sneak into my apartment and replace my old, ratty nightgown with a new one, but the new one got me laid almost immediately, so that's okay."

"Oh -- God. I'll talk to him --"

"It's *okay*. And *you're* okay, too, big brother, because *you're* not going to throw me down and tie me up and -- and *rape* me. You love me too much for that, and -- you actually know how all of that stuff works, even if you do it wrong for your family. You do it wrong in ways they all *like*," and she pulls back to smile down at him... loopily.

"Helena..."

"I'm pretty sure Mr. Wizard got me stoned, *but* a) it's a pretty sweet high, and b) I'm pretty sure it won't last, and c) I like what it's doing for my ability to make complex intellectual and emotional connections in my brain. I mean, I'm still speaking sensibly, right?"

"... yes. But --"

"Maybe... maybe it's insurance. Like he said back when I was a zygote --"

"More... more of an embryo --"

"*Fine*," and she -- huffs out a breath which smells strongly of the anise candies she loves more than can possibly be healthy.

As ever, it makes Tim want to *kiss* her -- no. "Tell me about insurance, Helena."

"Well..." She bites her lip and raises her moderately thick eyebrows, which are as straight and un-plucked as ever. "Maybe... I mean... doesn't everyone get scared of being lonely someday?"

Tim grips her waist -- "You will never be lonely --"

"If you can *help* it, I *know* --"

"I'll *find* someone --"

"Or -- or maybe it'll be you --"

Tim grunts and -- steps back.

"-- because I already know that no one loves me the way you do. And I always --" She shakes her head. "I guess I just need you to know that, Tim. I need you to know that it doesn't *just* scare me, or weird me out, or make me want to be -- elsewhere."

Tim swallows. "Thank you."

Helena winces. "Um. Are you sure about that? You look --"

"I never learned how to... *deal* with hope, Helena. This... this is what a certain variety of happiness looks like on me."

She searches him and frowns. "Do you *promise*?"

"I will never lie to you again," Tim says, and stares directly into her eyes.

Helena pants and licks her lips. "Okay. I -- okay. I'm... I'm going to head out now. You could... I mean. I'm home for the summer now. Harvey and Gilda are taking me out to dinner tomorrow, and I know your family has really been missing you -- call me? Soon."

Tim nods once, and doesn't stare at her body, and doesn't reach out, and doesn't pull her *close* --

"Oh -- big brother --" She bends down and kisses his forehead, quick and firm.

Tim closes his eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'm -- and thank you. Mr. Blood."

"Jason, please, Miss Drake --"

"Ms. is -- better -- God, I'm going. *Right* now," she says, and giggles as she *runs*, just as if she's fourteen instead of twenty --

Would she have been easier to convince then?

If...

If at some point they could have *spoken* about the 'weirdness,' about her fears and *doubts* --

Tim shivers and grips himself through his shorts, squeezing hard and tilting his head back to give himself something of a stretch to go along with the pain --

"I would, of course, be *thrilled* to be of assistance..."

Tim laughs, shifts his grip to his scrotum, and *yanks* --

"*Vicious*..."

Tim tilts his head forward again. "I thought I was too sane for you, Jason."

"You were. When you were thirteen," Blood says, and raises his eyebrows.

That -- is worth another laugh. "Pardon the scent of frustrated lust and relative lack of tasteful furniture --"

"Both of which I highly approve of. But..." And Blood gestures toward Tim's other computer chair with a questioning look.

"Please," Tim says, and sits back down in his own chair. "Was I also too young for you then?"

"I would say that you were too young for me that *day*. That *hour*. I have made love to children younger than you were then, and with doddering old grandmothers who measure their ages geologically. It is... a question of *mood*."

"Not a question of how you prefer your heroes...?"

Blood smiles and reaches into nothingness with both hands -- and pulls out two tumblers full of what certainly appears to be mango juice. He offers one to Tim --

Tim takes it and inclines his head in thanks.

Blood sips and hums in pleasure. "By the time I'd met you, I had observed the growth of teen sidekicks -- and superhero teams -- in other dimensions, of course. But..."

"It wasn't for you?"

Another one-handed shrug. "I like being appreciated, Timothy --"

"Tim. Please."

Blood smiles with surprise and toasts him. "Thank you *very* much for that, Tim."

Tim smiles wryly. "You're welcome. And go on, please."

"As you will -- though there's nothing profound awaiting you at the end of this paragraph: I like being appreciated, and *modern* young people rarely have very much time for ones such as me."

Tim wants to protest that on his and Bruce's behalf -- but, even when they *were* young, they were anything but modern. "I take your point. I do think Jay will come to like you, given enough time to curse you and your entire ancestry two or three dozen times."

Blood laughs. "I'll be sure to give it to him, then," he says, and sips again. "Though I'm not *particularly* worried about my -- future -- relationship with Mr. Todd."

"You've... scryed?"

"I have looked into other dimensions where the two of them -- the two of *us* -- became quite close."

Tim narrows his eyes. "How close."

Blood chuckles. "Never, *ever* so close as to interfere with his love for you -- and the rest of his extended family. As I believe you *would* know..."

"Were it not for the reflexive jealousy built on the frustrated lust, yes. I -- apologize," Tim says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Just for a moment.

"You are, of course, forgiven," Blood -- *Jason* -- says, and crosses his legs. "There is... something I could give you. Show you."

And there's something in the tone of Jason's voice -- "I believe I'd like to blush."

"I'm flattered. Unless... I *am* correct about the fact that I'm one of the few people who bring that response out of you these days, yes?"

Tim smiles wryly. "Oh, yes. You, Clark, Harvey... Bruce at his *most*... Bruce-ish..."

"Rarefied company, indeed. But... the question of Helena."

"There's a question?"

"Oh, yes," Jason says, and tugs one of Tim's FaeQuest coasters out of the pile for his tumbler.

"I'll take one of those."

Jason inclines his head and gives Tim one of the Rogues -- almost certainly not by accident.

Tim takes another long drink, sets his tumbler down, and rests his elbows on his knees. "Tell me."

"Just as there are Tim Drakes in the multiverse who *are* the children of Jack Drakes, and Tim Drakes who are the children of *Stephen* Drakes --"

"I'm not familiar --"

"You wouldn't be. He was, in this dimension, a penny-ante criminal who died quite, *quite* young."

"All right. Go on."

"There are Helena Drakes. There are Helena *Bertinellis*. And... there are Helena Waynes."

For a moment, that doesn't seem at all earth-shattering -- but. "Martha has another child."

"Yes."

"With *Thomas*?"

"Yes. Though I should say -- *most* of the Helena Waynes who have come into being have been the children of Bruce... and Selina Kyle."

"I... am very, very glad not to be drinking anything at the moment."

Jason chuckles. "Yes, I imagine so."

"Bruce -- it's not that he *hasn't* found himself in any number of compromising positions --"

"I wouldn't know."

Tim looks at Jason.

Jason -- titters. And clears his throat. "Yes?"

"Selina. *Selina* agreeing to bear a child. *Bruce's* child. And -- presumably allowing Bruce to have a hand in *rearing* it? *Her*. A *female* child?"

Jason spreads his hands. "Sometimes they even get married."

"To *each other*? No, no, I -- tell me more about Helena."

"As you wish. Some things are nearly always the same. The height, the *glorious* hair, the *basic* physique..." Jason waves a hand and sips his juice. "Other things... well. *Most* Helenas wind up in *your* line of work."

"*Damn* -- what did I do *wrong*?"

Jason raises *both* eyebrows.

"I -- ignore that question."

"You do *realize* that there's something to be *said* for a young woman who does *not* wish to risk her life and the lives of others on a nightly basis whilst wearing exciting clothing?"

"Ignore. That. Question."

Jason hums. "All right. The reason *why* I bring up the variance of Helenas in the multiverse..." And he nods at the machine. "Your project, and the conclusions you've come to about your collection of parents, pseudo-parents, and parental placeholders --"

"An excellent way to put it."

"Thank you *very* much," Jason says, and pushes the controller toward Tim's hand. "I couldn't help wondering if there might not have been Thomases better-suited for you and your brothers. Thomases who could... offer."

"And you found one?"

"Oh, yes. And he just happened to have a Helena. If you would like to see...?"

"I..." Tim takes a somewhat shaky breath. "I've... come very close to *dealing* with the rather profound lack of parenting I received, Jason."

"And you don't want to risk backsliding. I understand that *very* well. My *own* father was an ale-swilling, wife-beating, child-beating, dog-beating, *everyone*-beating illiterate who wasn't above buggering the sheep if the squires were too nimble for him, after all. I was *still* deeply morose when he bundled me off at age nine without so much as a *hug*. For *years*."

Tim opens his mouth -- "I'm... sorry."

Jason's eyes have a certain sparkle to them. "*Thank* you. But... I think you'll... enjoy this."

Tim narrows his eyes. "You -- suddenly I'm quite sure I know what this Thomas has to offer."

"You *think* you are. You see, *your* Thomas was a rather different animal than this one. I think they started out in life *basically* the same, and trundled along on the same path *well* into their twenties -- "

"But then -- no, both of them met and married Martha. What happened to the other? Did Martha... love him?"

"Of *course* not --"

Tim chokes on a laugh. "Oh -- I'm going to have to apologize to Bruce for that."

Jason grins. "Yes, you will. But *I* won't tell a soul until you do. In any event, my -- limited and somewhat *numinous* observations and interviews --"

"Interviews -- no, go on."

Jason inclines his head. "The Thomas I wish to show you is... less angry. Less... well, I suppose the modern children would say less 'damaged,' but, to my eyes, he's simply less of an arsehole."

Tim hums. "And Helena is... his."

"Very much so."

"I want to blush again."

Jason grins more widely. "Is that *all* you wish to do?"

"Coordinates. Now."

Jason gives them to him without another word, along with a date in April of nineteen-ninety-four. Hm.

"Is she --"

"The same age, yes."

"Martha would've been --"

"Forty-seven when she gave birth. The pregnancy was a surprise to *everyone*. But then, so was the conception."

Tim raises an eyebrow and tries to not to *will* the image to come up.

All he can hear is *typing* --

The hum of a *moderately* primitive computer --

"Martha got *staggeringly* drunk when Bruce confessed to her what he'd be doing with his life instead of going to college and following in Thomas' footsteps. *Her* Jason wasn't around..." Jason spreads his hands.

"And, presumably, this Thomas was agreeable *enough*."

"They all love her madly, really. Some of them are just *better* at it than others."

The sound of shuffling papers --

The screen is still *dark* --

"Do any Marthas love *him*?"

"Presumably."

"You don't know?"

Jason's smile is small and -- old. "The powers and tides of the multiverse are not entirely known to me, nor is the breadth or *depth* of the multiverse itself. But... it has always seemed to me that love -- *true* love -- *is* a power of the multiverse."

"And it will find a way?"

"Or force a way -- if it must. I... don't tend to look very closely at that particular relationship in dimensions where they die young."

And Tim feels like an *idiot* -- "I'm sorry --"

Jason waves it off. "I am a luckier me than most. She was mine -- inasmuch as she belonged to anyone -- for over three wild, free, *beautiful* decades --"

"Daddy!" And Helena's voice is -- perfect.

Tim hadn't realized how much he'd *missed* the faintly uneven *peal* of it that was gone by the time she was a junior in high school --

And the image kicks in with the sight of a sixty-seven year old Thomas smiling -- brightly. He isn't showing his teeth, but his eyes are shining, and his -- fully white -- mustache is twitching with...

Amusement?

Nervousness?

Happiness?

Tim has never *seen* that look on his face before --

"Helena, what have I *always* told you --"

"I know, I know, I'm supposed to knock, but --"

And then she's onscreen and hugging Thomas hard. At fourteen, she is a full five feet, seven inches tall, and there is no awkwardness when Thomas hugs her back, no looming, no --

No *awkwardness* --

He's smiling into her *hair* --

And his eyes are closed behind his wire-rimmed glasses, but it almost seems as though there are no secrets, no --

Tim doesn't know.

He doesn't --

They're in Thomas' *home* office -- specifically, the medical office he had begun using for his more elderly patients in the last three years of his life *here* --

When had he begun there?

There's a *hominess* to what he can see of that office -- no. Tim focuses and the view widens, showing framed pictures -- in crayon and marker; a scatter of Wegos; large, brightly-colored children's books --

"Is he a *pediatrician* here?"

Jason smiles and shakes his head. "Not at all. The... other Jason informed me, with something of an air of *exasperated* admiration, that *this* Thomas *encourages* his patients to bring their entire families with them. 'Health is a family matter, after all.'"

Tim... doesn't let his eyes cross. "I... see."

Thomas and Helena are still hugging. Still --

"You're saying that your... other actually had to make an *effort* to look more attractive than Thomas."

"Well. Not with Martha. Much."

Tim laughs -- "And that's another apology to Bruce."

"You're a *horrible* person, and --"

"*Mmmm*, you always smell so *good*, Daddy!"

Tim blinks. Once.

Jason *titters* again --

And Tim leans back in his chair, crosses his legs, and steeples his fingers.

Thomas chuckles, and that's at least *familiar*, but -- "It's just the same old cologne I've been using since before you were born, bumblebee --"

"Bzzz! And Helena giggles and leans back, ineffectually tossing her long hair back over her shoulders. She doesn't stop hugging him. "I've *smelled* that cologne on other guys, Daddy. It's *better* on you."

"Hmph. Well, if you say so --"

"I *do* say so," she says, and beams -- and then bites her lip.

And blushes --

And, abruptly, the look in Thomas' eyes is much, much more familiar.

Tim shakes his head *hard* --

"You need not watch, of course --"

"But I hope you -- ah," and Clark's wake spins their chairs -- "Terribly sorry. Would you mind if I --"

Tim points to the bed.

"Oh -- thank you very much. Very, very --" Clark sits on the bed. He's dressed in jeans, a simple white t-shirt, and workboots, and he's already *impressively* erect --

"Helena..."

She steps back, holds up a moderately-crushed and official-looking envelope, and then and *only* then stops biting her lip. "Four point oh again, Daddy..."

Thomas nods once.

"I want... you know what I want..."

Thomas flares his nostrils --

And Helena smiles, tossing the envelope away and beginning to undo her tie --

"Wait," Thomas says, and his voice is low and *sharp* -- but not cold. Not --

"Oh -- please, Daddy --"

"Shh. Close and lock the office door, notify the answering service that it's time to begin taking my calls, and then... and then go into the examination room and take all of your clothes off," Thomas says, and there is a bead of sweat at his left temple --

Helena is staring at it with her lips parted --

"Do it now, bumblebee."

She moans --

She --

It's a moan Tim has never *heard* --

"Yes, Daddy!"

Tim bites the tips of his thumbs -- stops.

Tim watches Helena run off-screen --

Watches Thomas breathe far too roughly for a man his *age* --

He's *flushed* --

And he closes his eyes, and licks his lips, and evens his breathing with slow, steady care.

He *isn't* visibly erect, but Tim suspects that will change... quickly.

Clark takes a shuddering breath. Which --

"There's a part of me which only wants to be... bitchy," Tim says.

"Oh -- please don't."

Jason hums and finishes his mango juice. "I have no objections whatsoever to your bitchery, Tim."

Clark gives Jason an *annoyed* look --

Jason *winks* at Clark --

And Tim snorts. "As I was *saying*."

"Ah... yes?"

"I'm tempted. She's not *your* sister."

"Technically --" And Clark adjusts the glasses he's not wearing. "Technically, *she's* not your sister, either."

"Genetically --"

"Also, if I may?"

Tim licks his teeth --

Watches Thomas shuffle the papers on his desk *utterly* ineffectually --

"Ah... please?"

"Go ahead, Clark."

"Well. Well. It's only..."

"Go *ahead*, Clark."

"Don't you think I'm the *most* appropriate person in this room to be harboring romantic and sexual feelings for your younger -- much younger -- sister?"

Tim narrows his eyes.

Jason snickers and coughs --

"Not that I would ever dream of... ah... coming... between --"

"I'm going to get the kryptonite Lex gave me --"

"Oh -- Tim --"

"And I'm *not* going to use it to make our sex life more exciting."

"Really, that's -- it's not that I don't find your father very attractive, too."

Jason -- that's really something of *guffaw*.

Tim -- suspects his expression is pained.

"I mean -- his mustache is nearly as wonderful as James Gordon's --"

"Please stop."

"And he's quite fit for a man his age --"

"Clark."

"Do you know if he continued to... ah... work out? From what I can see of his musculature --"

"Clark, you're making my erection go away."

"Oh, Tim. You're usually a much better liar than *that*," Clark says, and his smile is -- Lois', through and through.

Which is a reminder. "Do give your wife my regards."

"I'd like to give her other things from you --"

"And I'd like to shut you up in one of several very particular -- ways --" And then Tim is *grunting*, because Clark is between his legs --

Clark is kneeling *on* Tim's shorts and boxer-briefs --

Clark is *swallowing* around him, again and --

"*Fuck* --"

And Jason is watching -- avidly.

Tim laughs --

Gasps and laughs *more* --

And *almost* misses the end of Thomas' shuddering breath. Almost. He turns to see --

He's checking his watch while stroking the finish of his desk.

He's biting his *own* lip --

Clark pulls back enough to suck *hard* --

Tim growls and shoves his hand into Clark's hair, tugging him *back*.

Clark's eyes flare *bright* red -- but he allows himself to *be* tugged. "You *do* want me to speak more, Tim...?"

Tim laughs again and glances down at his *vigorously* erect penis, abruptly and *deeply* sure that he isn't the only one looking.

He pushes it down... and when he releases it, it bobs up and smacks -- pleasantly ridiculously -- against his abdomen.

"I want..."

Clark hums.

"I want to be naked --"

And he is.

"I want to be on the bed --"

And he is, in his usual place.

"I want popcorn."

Clark looks at him. "No, you don't."

Tim raises an eyebrow -- and pauses the playback.

Jason clears his throat -- and, when Clark turns, tosses him an un-popped bag of microwave popcorn.

Clark raises both of his eyebrows.

Tim folds his arms behind his head. Patiently.

"You're going to make me use my powers. *This* way."

Tim inclines his head.

"You're going to do this even though everyone in this room -- this *house* -- knows that you'd rather be watching your father make love to your sister."

Tim inclines his head again.

"You're going to -- I could do it one kernel at a time, Tim."

Tim shows his teeth.

"Personally," Jason says, "I'm quite enjoying this from a purely aesthetic standpoint."

Tim considers and rejects the idea of flexing his penis. He is, as Cassandra would point out, not Jay -- who can get the sort of flexion with his cremaster that --

"Oh, and now you're *distracted*!"

Tim blinks *slowly*. And shows more of his teeth.

Clark -- huffs.

And then there's a sound like a coughing, hollow *bang* --

And Tim is holding a bag of steaming, perfect popcorn. "Thank you kindly, Clark. Now join me on this *very* large bed -- between my legs, please -- yes," Tim says, and rests the popcorn on Clark's chest.

Clark is *slouched* against him -- it's really the only way to make this position work with someone nearly nine inches taller and a truly depressing number of pounds heavier --

And he's warm --

And *sleekly* bare above the waist --

Impossible *not* to touch with at least his *free* hand --

Clark catches his wrist. "Tim."

Hm. "Yes...?"

"If you don't eat every kernel of that popcorn..."

"I'm listening."

"... I'm going to mention your parents' sex lives *every* time we see each other."

*Tim* coughs -- "Noted. But..." He turns to Jason -- who isn't there, anymore. "Oh."

"I don't know when he left, *either*. And don't you think that's rude?"

"Clark. You started *fellating* me. In *front* of him."

"That's *different* --"

Another *hollow* cough -- and the word 'enjoy' writes itself out in the air in smoke.

Chartreuse smoke.

"Oh -- really --"

Tim laughs, shakes his head, starts the playback again, and begins eating the popcorn, which is the 'butter' flavor Stephanie had given them all a taste for.

Perhaps he'll sedate her later this afternoon --

Or perhaps he'll just twitch for the sound of Thomas failing to even his breathing. He *had* been doing well, but the anticipation is clearly -- hmm.

"Yes, Tim?"

"Can you tell anything about his health?"

"His lungs are clear; his heart rate is fast, but regular; his circulatory system doesn't seem to have any major flaws or weaknesses, and the same is true for his digestive tract. Beyond that..." Clark shakes his head. "I can only be sure of what I hear. Did you expect his health to be poor?"

"A part of me did," Tim says, and eats another kernel of popcorn. "Despite knowing that his death *here* was entirely supernatural."

"I was... listening."

Tim smiles and eats more popcorn. And waits.

"I don't suppose... I mean. Perhaps if you could convince Bruce to remove everything he *wants* from the manor..."

Oh... "You could trip and accidentally set it ablaze?"

"I'd frankly be terrified to try anything which would require me to get *closer* to it, Tim."

Tim laughs. "You are a very wise man, Clark. Fortunately, all of the keepsakes and mementoes have been removed."

"Then --"

"*Unfortunately*, many of Bruce's happiest memories are sunk deep in the wood, the brick, the mortar... et cetera. He was even more poetic about it."

"I was afraid you'd say that."

Tim grunts... entirely committally. And eats more popcorn. And --

The image cuts in as Thomas is walking from his office into the hall leading to the examination rooms he'd had carved out of the old servants' quarters. Wayne Manor once supported -- and had been supported by -- a much, much larger staff.

There isn't much in the way of *natural* light in these rooms, but the fluorescents are as gentle as they can be made while still doing the job they need to do. And --

And the door to exam room A is open, just a crack.

Thomas pauses outside the door and makes yet another effort to slow his breathing. There is a visible bulge now, and --

"I want to know how this *began*," Tim says, and lets himself arch against Clark's back.

"Are you sure?"

"*Yes*, I'm sure. I can't possibly get more fucked-up about my family than I already am."

"I feel strongly that you shouldn't *say* things like that --"

Tim growls --

And Thomas exhales through his nose and pushes the door wide before closing it behind him.

Slowly.

Helena is wearing one of the pale teal examination gowns Thomas apparently favors across the multiverse. She's smiling and sitting sideways on the table, rocking back and forth with her hair spilling down and down over her shoulders and down her back --

And Thomas makes a quietly *pained* sound --

Helena *starts* to rise --

"No," Thomas says, and raises a hand. He looks like he *wants* to chew on his mustache -- "No. Sit back down."

She bites her lip and does it. "Yes, Daddy."

"I thought -- I told you to take all of your clothes off."

She bites her lip again -- and looks up at Thomas through her lashes. "I thought... that I could have a check-up, too."

Thomas flushes *hard* --

Helena *pants* -- her large nipples are, at the very least, *mostly* erect.

Tim hasn't seen them since her swimsuit slipped when she was *ten* --

He hadn't known to take *notice* -- no. No, not that.

He can wait. He can --

"Hold the popcorn," Tim says, and, once Clark has it, he proceeds to eat with one hand and *molest* with the other --

"Have I mentioned how much I enjoy your possessiveness? Because I really do --"

"I enjoy *you*, Clark," and Tim licks 'butter' powder from his lips and thinks about having a penis in his mouth --

A breast --

*Her* breast --

"Stay there," Thomas says, and turns toward the cabinets, washing his hands thoroughly at the small sink before drying them and pulling on two extra-large latex gloves.

They are, of course, snug on his hands.

He doesn't turn around right away. He pauses, simply standing there --

"I'm not sure if you can see it, Tim, but his hands are shaking continuously."

"Really."

"I wonder if yours ever would, in a similar situation."

"Hnn." Tim pinches Clark's right nipple and twists --

Clark gasps and arches --

"Are you saying you didn't watch me with Barbara in the eighties? With Dick?"

"My powers weren't quite so -- please. Please tell me --"

"I shook. I flushed. I growled. I... bruised them. I would've bruised them more had Bruce not been there to keep me... on a leash."

<<My companion wears such things well.>>

Tim laughs and twists in the other *direction* --

"*Mm* -- I do wonder... who held *Bruce's* leash...?"

"I did. When I could remember my sanity."

"Always a --"

Thomas turns suddenly, graceful and quick as he closes the distance between himself and Helena. He looks into her eyes, opening them wider gently, then folding back the lids. "Good," he says, and then begins palpating her lymph nodes, lingering on the ones beneath her jaw with an abstracted frown.

"Um -- ow --"

"Have you been taking your vitamins, Helena?"

"Yes, Daddy --"

"Every day?"

She bites her lip and shakes her head.

"Tch. Not good, bumblebee."

"Sorry, Daddy --"

"Shh," and he sets the earpieces of the stethoscope in his ears. "A little cold," he says, and presses it to her back --

She hisses --

"There's a girl. Breathe deeply."

"Yes, Daddy," she says, and manages surprisingly deep and even breaths, considering --

But Tim always managed that for *his* exams --

But Thomas never had an *erection* for those --

He doesn't know. He doesn't --

"Cough for me."

She turns and does it --

"Again. Harder."

She nods and does it --

And Thomas leans in and kisses her long, pale throat softly, *wetly* --

Helena moans --

And, now, it's easy to see that Thomas is shaking, that he's on the *edge* of his control --

He *sucks* a kiss to the flesh over her carotid --

"Daddy..."

He opens the ties of the gown, leans back, folds the gown down to her waist, and begins to listen to her heart. Her breasts are no larger than an A-cup, and have something of a *scoop* to their shape.

Her areolae --

Her areolae are the same dusky reddish-brown his own are, and -- "You already knew -- I."

Clark licks his lips. "I -- yes? What did I know?"

"Her -- the color -- it doesn't matter --"

"I would've told you --"

Tim growls and claws Clark's abdomen --

"Oh -- yes, Tim --"

"*Naked*."

And Clark is, and in what *seems* to be the exact same position. His penis is hard, leaking and blood-dark and *hard* --

"I want -- I want to watch you fucking her so *badly* --"

"I would be more than happy to oblige --"

Tim laughs *painfully* -- "I'm *working* on it."

"Perhaps... perhaps if I were to bring her a nice tabouleh salad sometime -- you know, if you make it with freekeh it's an entirely different culinary --"

Tim shoves his dusty fingers into Clark's mouth --

Clark hums and *sucks*, arches and *twitches* --

"Lie down now, bumblebee," Thomas says, taking the earpieces out and removing the stethoscope entirely.

"You're not going to take my blood pressure?"

Thomas smiles and shakes his head. "I'm afraid I'm going to be raising it much too soon for such a measure to be... useful."

Helena giggles and lies back, scooting to the end of the table *just* as Thomas unfolds the stirrups. Thomas sets her feet in them gently... and strokes the air just *above* the impressive bruises on both of her shins.

"Field hockey?"

"Yes, Daddy. Amanda Rollings is a -- not-nice person," she says, and blushes.

Thomas wags a finger at her. "Field hockey isn't a very nice *game*, bumblebee. You have the upper body strength for rowing --"

"But it's *boring*, Daddy!"

"Nonsense! You get to get out in the world --"

"At *dawn*!"

"When all the world is waking up --"

Helena sticks her tongue out.

Thomas gives her a mock-stern look --

Helena crosses her eyes --

And Thomas chuckles and shakes his head. "Stubborn little bee. All right. But we'll see how you feel about being the only debutante who looks like the aftermath of a *mugging*."

Helena -- pops out a bridge.

Tim grunts and *flexes* --

"You know, Tim, your kinks are *fascinating* --"

"The *point* of kinks is to *be* fascinating --"

"And it's really quite impressive that you can spar with me linguistically when I can *hear* you clenching --"

"God -- *God* --"

"In fact... please pause the playback."

"I --"

"Please."

Tim groans and does it -- and suddenly he's on his hands and knees and *something* is moving in his *ass*. He doesn't feel especially full *or* pained, and the speed is *threatening* -- "You're fingering me."

"Stretching you. At *speed*," Clark says.

"The -- muscle relaxant lubricant?"

"Of course. Look at where you paused."

Tim pants and licks his lips, pants and clenches and *grunts* --

And looks up. Onscreen, Helena is supporting her bridge with her tongue. Her eyes are narrow and *hot* with amused lust, and her breasts point up and to the sides. Her legs are up and *spread* --

But, for now, the gown is shadowing her vulva.

*Thomas* is shadowing *her* --

Looming as he tugs on his gloves to adjust the fit --

So --

She's so --

"I *need* her --"

"You should have her, my companion. You would give her --"

"*Everything*," Tim says, and beats at the bed with his fist -- "I would never -- I would never try to hold her *back* --"

"She would be free, yes," Clark says, and pushes in another finger --

"*Ohn* --"

"Always free. Always -- so beautiful, such a perfect family -- oh, I've *missed* you --"

"*Please* --"

"I'm going to *seat* you on my penis... and then we're going to watch this. Every moment of this you desire --"

"*You* --"

"Oh, yes, because she's as beautiful as you are -- oh --"

Tim feels himself *open* --

Blushes *hard* --

"*Now*," Clark says, and there is motion --

*Speed* --

A press --

A press that doesn't *end*, and the heat is as impossible as it always is, as *frightening* --

"Oh, shh, shh --"

"*Clark* --"

"*Take*," he says, pulls and *thrusts* --

So *deep* --

And Tim arches --

Screams and *arches* --

His penis is *spasming*, and he hasn't been this full in so long, hasn't --

"God -- God, *Clark* --"

<<Most-fine. Most-desired. I have *ached*.>> And it feels like *Clark's* spasm should move *both* of them --

And Tim thinks it does... in a way. He smiles.

<<My companion regains a state of readiness?>>

"Hnn." Tim spreads his thighs wider around Clark's, plants his hands on them, and focuses on the viewscreen.

The *image* doesn't change, but --

"Is the bridge still comfortable?"

A click and a slurping sound -- "Yeth -- Bleh. Yes, Daddy."

"Are you *sure*?"

"I'm sure. I know it could hurt my jaw and my other teeth to keep wearing it if it didn't," she says, and there's something of a sing-song quality to it, a sense of something which has been repeated *often* --

Thomas sighs --

"I *know* it's important, Daddy. I *promise* -- oh --"

Tim pants and narrows his eyes --

Clark *cups* Tim's hips --

"You must let us care for you --"

"Yes -- y-yes, Daddy --"

"You must..." Thomas sighs --

And the image returns just as Thomas rolls his -- relatively -- short stool closer to the table. He is stroking Helena's mound with his left hand, and --

She doesn't shave, at all --

Her hair is dark, thicker than what's on her head, so curly --

Thomas sighs again, and touches Helena's furled and *swollen* inner labia lightly with his gloved right hand --

Helena shivers and *squeaks* --

"Bumblebee..."

"Yes. Yes, Daddy?"

Thomas shakes his head. "You've been very rough with yourself. Haven't you."

Helena squirms. "I --"

"Yes or no, Helena."

She moans and curls her toes, lifts her hips --

And Thomas presses down on her mound and abdomen with the hand he isn't using to touch her inner labia. "Stay put now, bumblebee."

"Yes, Daddy. Sorry -- and. Um. Yes. I was... rough --"

"Why?"

She whimpers -- "I -- I was... really *horny*, Daddy --"

Thomas tuts --

"'Aroused' doesn't really *cut* it," she says, and smiles ruefully. "I was starting to clench every time I saw a *telephone* pole."

Thomas *coughs* -- and hums as he strokes the slim, small hump of her still-hooded clitoris --

"Ohh -- oh, please --"

"Is your vibrator no longer sufficient, Helena?"

"Uh. Um. It's fine -- please --"

"Now, Helena --"

"It's *good*, Daddy, I *promise* --"

"And your phalluses?"

"Please -- please, Daddy --"

And Thomas presses *firmly* on her clitoris --

She cries out -- "Yes! Yes, please!"

"There's obviously an... insufficiency. If you require more... toys --"

"I know -- I know you'll get them, but..." She groans and shakes her head --

And Thomas moves his fingers away from her clitoris. "You *must* tell me, bumblebee."

She whimpers --

Arches *high* --

Whimpers and *sobs* when Thomas pushes her back *down* --

"*Helena* --"

"It's not *you*, Daddy! I need -- it's not the *same*!"

And Thomas gasps and blinks rapidly, flushes dark once more -- "Bumblebee..."

"I know -- I know you don't want to do this all the time, and that I have to be patient, and I *try*, I really *try* --"

"It's... too much for you?"

She bites her lip and --

Her sadness is *palpable* --

Tim groans and has to *fight* the urge to reach, the urge to lift himself off Clark's penis and *dive* through the portal --

"Oh... fine one, *please*," Clark says, holding him and stroking him, petting and kissing --

"So -- so *warm* --"

"Always for you, my companion --"

"I can't -- I --" Tim groans and squeezes his eyes shut --

And Clark sighs and pulls Tim back against him --

Tim shivers for the *heat* --

"You've paused the playback again. You -- do you mean to give me a chance to plead my case?"

Tim laughs *painfully* --

And Clark presses a smile against Tim's ear. "Lover, you need never hide your *strain* from me," he says, and *licks* --

Tim moans and *shudders* -- "It would be -- polite --"

Clark *bites* Tim's ear --

"*Fuck* --"

Clark *thrusts* --

"Oh -- oh, *fuck* --"

Clark *moves* him, moves everything *in* him, and Tim is small, young, human, *fragile* --

Tim is clawing his own thighs and *panting*, twitching --

Leaking and *groaning* --

"I would watch you with her *daily*, my companion..."

"Love -- I would love --"

"I would watch you lose *control*."

Tim grunts --

Shakes his head --

"N-no, Clark --"

"Oh, yes. Look at how you strain for her now, when... no. Look at *her*," Clark says, and tugs Tim's head up by the *hair* --

And Thomas is still touching her gently -- that much is clear --

Thomas is flushed and --

"No, Tim. Look at *Helena*."

Tim groans -- but he can't actually resist. He can't --

And there is arousal in her eyes, desperation, yes --

What he's always *wanted* to see --

But there is her sadness, too, her *anguish* at -- at not being able to please someone she loves so *much* --

Tim *knows* that expression --

Tim had *fought* himself so that he could hide at least *most* of his disappointment about her not wanting to become a vigilante, so that he wouldn't *have* to see it. And it had worked. She had come into her own, *realized* that there was nothing wrong with not wanting to live his life --

But he misses this. He misses --

Tim groans again --

*Reaches* --

<<Would you make her yours, my companion?>>

<<For... for...>>

<<For the Mission? For your vocation? For good and all...?>>

Tim whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut --

And Clark squeezes Tim's scrotum *hard*, making colors explode behind Tim's eyes, making Tim gasp and *shout* --

And making him open his eyes again.

Making --

Making him *see* --

"Tell me what you want, Tim. Tell me everything..."

"I want -- I want *her* --"

"Be specific," he says, and *works* Tim's scrotum --

Tim groans and grips Clark's forearms --

*Working* forearms --

And then Clark *stops* thrusting. He --

"*Please* --"

"Tell me, Tim. Pretend..." And Clark laughs softly and nearly as musically as *Dick*. "Pretend you're *not* Bruce."

That -- Tim laughs and *clenches* --

They groan *together* --

"Bounce me -- bounce me on your penis --"

"Of course," Clark says. "But you know what has to happen first --"

"I would -- nnh. I would. She's never had a massage as good as the sort I could give her. I *know* she hasn't."

"Oh... have you chosen a particular scented oil?"

Tim *barks* a laugh --

Clenches *again* --

"I'm *not* Bruce, remember?"

And Clark laughs and starts thrusting again, starts --

"Oh, God, so *sharp* --"

"I remember. Go on."

"Please --"

"More, Tim."

"I would -- make her... pliant. Make her... *relaxed* -- Clark -- oh, *Clark* --"

"More."

"That -- that *bounce* --"

"Just what you like, I know. My companion, I know everything -- and not nearly enough," Clark says, and squeezes Tim's scrotum even *harder*. "More."

"I couldn't -- not her face. Not the first time -- *please* --"

"You'd flip her over...?"

"Force -- please, just -- onto her stomach -- I don't know how she would *feel* about being on her hands and knees --"

"Your *fantasy*, Tim."

Tim growls and clenches deliberately hard --

*Screams a *growl* --

And Clark shudders and cups Tim's throat. He --

"*Please*, Clark --"

"No."

Tim pants -- "Hands and knees. Hands -- her hands are larger than mine, more -- "

"They weren't always..."

"Oh, *God* --"

Clark laughs again and bounces him *faster* -- "You have her on her hands and knees. She is... oiled for you. *Slick* --"

"I -- I take her with both hands. I *fuck* her, slowly -- as slowly as I *can* --"

"Which isn't *very*..."

"I'm *inside* her, and I can't -- nn -- *nnh* --"

"Shh, more."

"You're -- it's so -- hard --"

"You can have it even harder..."

Tim clenches and cries out --

*Sobs* --

"You know what to do, Tim..."

"I -- I give her an orgasm, I try --"

"You're good to her. Gentle?"

"I try s-so. So hard -- please --"

"You give her your penis. Do you ever remove your fingers from her rectum? Or...?"

"No. No. I -- I have to *feel* -- I have -- *please* --"

"You have to feel yourself inside her in every possible way. Oh, yes, I see," Clark says, and now he has one hand on Tim's throat and one on his *hip* --

Tim's body knows what's going to *happen* --

He *can't* make himself breathe --

"Oh, Tim... sweet... sweet companion. Start the playback again. While you can focus."

There's a part of him which wants to say *something* cutting --

But Clark knows Tim's body in moments like these, as well as anyone --

And Clark knows what he needs. Clark --

Tim focuses --

And Clark sighs immediately, even though Tim can't hear --

"His heart is pounding, Tim. He is... so close to his own edge," Clark says, *gripping* Tim's throat --

"*Nnk* --"

Pulling Tim into his thrusts --

Over and --

"Her heart is pounding as well, and her breath... can you hear it hitch?"

Tim nods as much as he *can* with Clark's massive hand around his throat --

She whimpers --

Thomas *sighs* -- "I would never..."

She whimpers *again* --

And the image kicks in with a view of Thomas stroking the backs of her thighs almost restlessly --

Her vulva is *shining* with her fluids --

"I would never... never *deprive* you --"

"Please, Daddy, *touch* me!"

Thomas groans and *grips* the backs of her thighs, *pushes* --

"Oh! Oh, yes!"

"Bumblebee, you're *swollen* --"

"I need you, Daddy, it's been so *long*!"

"Two... not. Not even two weeks --"

And it's obvious that her expression of desperate *grief* cuts him off, obvious that he doesn't know quite what to *do* with Helena --

How many *steady* lovers had he had before he married Martha?

How many times had he and Martha made love *period*?

How -- "*Unh* --"

And Clark is holding him *pinioned* on his penis --

Clark is breathing roughly and *grinding* -- "You wouldn't make her wait. Would you."

Tim shakes his head --

Black --

Tim *gasps* -- and *then* realizes that Clark had loosened his grip --

Clark *tightens* it again --

"You'd love her... every day..."

Sister, *sister* --

"You wouldn't push your other loves aside. You'd show her how to love with them, as well."

Tim nods and strains, tries to -- to *take* more --

Clark is holding him *still* --

He needs more air, he needs --

He needs the sound of Helena whimpering over and over again, the sight of her clawing at the paper-covered table as though she's moments away from *leaping* on Thomas --

"Bumblebee... I... would you truly desire... more of me?"

"*Daddy*!"

Thomas flushes darker, and the *tremor* in his hands is visible even with him gripping her thighs --

"Oh -- oh, but Daddy --" Helena growls and shakes her head. "Yes, I want more! I want -- I want you every day --"

Thomas *grunts* --

Squeezes *hard* --

"Ow --"

"I'm -- I'm so sorry --"

"No! Just -- please touch me, please -- please *take* me, Daddy, like -- you -- I promise I won't curse!"

And Thomas pants --

And Tim feels himself twitching and --

And needing --

And then Thomas throws his glasses across the *room* and *buries* his face against Helena's vulva --

"Ohn! Oh my God! *Daddy*!"

Thomas moans and nuzzles her, moans and --

Tim can't *tell*, but it's vehement, passionate, *needful* --

Helena is drumming her heels against the *stirrups* --

Thomas isn't even *sitting* on the stool. He's crouching above it, hovering and -- and *shoving* himself at her --

And Helena is moaning, moaning so --

She can't seem to close her *mouth* --

And neither can Tim once Clark starts pulling him into his thrusts again, once --

Again --

*Again* --

And Tim is grunting in his *chest* for every thrust, grunting and --

And *howling* for it, because Clark goes so deep, so very --

There's barely any *lubricant* that deep --

And Clark's fist around his throat won't let him make a sound. He can --

He can hear *everything*, from Clark's half-*pained* whispered speed-babble, to Helena's increasingly *sharp* cries, to Thomas' moans and grunts. His --

His mustache is going to be *dripping* --

He'll smell her all day.

All *night* --

He'll *taste* her, and Tim wants to --

Black --

And Tim is gasping again --

Needing --

"*Clark*! Please -- please *again* --"

"Another *breath*, Tim --"

Helena cries *out* --

Throws her *head* back, and there's a small, *small* red mark where Thomas had sucked her throat --

Is he sucking her now?

Is he --

What does she *like*?

And changing the focus only gives him shadows, a *confusion* of nuzzles and bucks --

Thomas is *grinding* his face against her --

He isn't --

"*Breathe*, Tim!"

Tim gasps --

"That -- that will have to *do*," Clark says, and grips Tim's throat *hard* --

"Hnk --"

*Hauls* Tim into every thrust, and it feels like the preparation was meaningless, like *this* is what's opening him, like this is the only thing which *can* --

Thomas pulls back panting, *groaning* --

There is fluid dripping from his *chin* --

His mustache is wet and *matted* --

"Helena..."

"Daddy -- God, please -- *unh*!"

And Thomas licks her again, licks her --

Licks a long stripe from her vestibule to the apex of her clitoris, licks her and *shudders* --

She *clenches* --

Tim's penis *spasms* --

"Yes, I see," Clark says, and thrusts *faster*.

Tim squeezes his eyes shut -- no. *No*. He opens them again --

"Good. Good boy," and there's a wet sound as Clark licks his lips --

A *slurping* sound as Thomas lowers his mouth to her vestibule again --

Helena *mewls* --

"She hasn't had very many lovers," and Clark's voice is *quiet*. *Careful* --

Tim *flushes* --

"She is... mm. I imagine she's still. Quite. *Tight*," and Clark is *shoving* in --

Tim is panting and getting nowhere, yelling *soundlessly* --

"Do you think Thomas is thinking about her tightness, Tim?"

Tim's eyes roll back -- *no* --

"Do you think he aches the way you do?"

And Helena is tossing her head --

Pulling her knees back to her chest and *sobbing* -- "Daddy, *please*!"

And Thomas growls again, *kisses* her vulva, kisses her again and --

And *staggers* to his feet --

*Fumbles* with his belt -- and pauses. *Shudders* --

"Daddy? Please, Daddy, don't *stop* --"

"Have you. Have you been taking your birth control --"

"Yes!"

"On *schedule*?"

"Yes, yes, I *promise*!"

Thomas licks his lips and shudders all over --

Tim feels himself heating --

*Needing* --

"It's. It's only that condoms sometimes --"

"*Please*, I *need* you!"

"Oh, bumblebee..." And Thomas shakes his head, but he still opens his belt, still reaches to take one of the high-quality, lubricated condoms out of the large jar he keeps for his patients' use --

"Oh, yes, please please please --"

"You don't know how much -- how *beautiful* you are, how perfect --"

"Hurry, please *hurry* --"

And Thomas' pants are around his ankles along with his briefs --

Thomas' upward-curving penis is not --

Not *enough* like Bruce's --

This *isn't* his father --

He's never *had* --

"And you struggle -- oh, my companion, *here*," Clark says, and releases Tim's throat --

"Oh, *God* --"

*Strokes* him so *fast* --

"Hnh -- *hnh* --"

"Shh, *open* yourself, Tim --"

"I'm -- I'm open --"

"Not *enough*. I can *smell* it," Clark says, gripping him and *vibrating* his *hand* --

Tim *screams* --

"*Shh*..."

Tim bites his lip and tries to buck, tries to *ride* -- and is completely unprepared for it when Clark lets him, just --

He's screaming again, shouting --

Shouting over the sound of Thomas rolling the condom on, *speaking* --

No, he has to shut *up* --

"-- care, *always* take care of you, my little girl --"

"I know, I *know*, oh, please, *in* me --"

"This. This will *hurt* you, bumblebee --"

"I don't *care*!"

"But I do, and I always will. Please. Please hush for just a moment," and Thomas takes himself in hand --

And Clark covers Tim's mouth --

And Tim moans in *gratitude* -- and keeps moaning as Thomas pushes in so slowly, so *gently* --

Helena is biting her *lip* --

*Wincing* --

"Your... your poor labia minora... you must be *careful* -- no, no, don't speak," and Thomas takes a *shuddering* breath and pushes deeper --

*Deeper* --

Clark is fucking him more *slowly*, *vibrating* more slowly --

Tim pants against his hand, licks it helplessly, *needs* --

And Thomas is panting, too, sweating and licking his lips --

*Moaning* and licking his lips as he turns to kiss Helena's ankles --

She giggles and *squeaks* again --

Shivers and pants *with* him --

"This. This will ease you," he says, and pushes her legs back to her chest slowly and carefully. "You must -- you must tell me if you can't. Breathe..."

Helena nods and licks her own lips --

Croons and closes her eyes --

Tilts her head back and croons *more* --

"No.... no, give me your beautiful face..."

She whimpers and faces forward again, and her eyes are wide and full, as full as she must *feel* --

"My bumblebee, my precious -- you must tell me if you're *sure* --"

And Helena nods frantically, opens her mouth --

They moan *together*, and Tim knows she's *clenched* --

He clenches, *too* --

Clark grunts and *shudders* -- in precisely the way that means he's on the edge of his *own* control. He --

Tim can smell Clark's *sweat*, and that only happens when he starts to let *go*. There's a part of him which wants to slow things down, which wants to *make* Clark have more control --

But that part would want control from Helena, too. That part has never had *any* lovers, has never *deserved* --

He can't stop licking Clark's *hand* --

He can't --

He's *gasping* more than breathing, and he's blinking only when he *has* to, because this --

He's holding *on*, because *this* --

Thomas is rocking in so *slowly*, and he'd think that would be a *tease*, but --

Helena is staring as much as Tim is, mouth slack as she moans, as she --

"Is it. Is that good, bumblebee?" And Thomas' laugh is *nervous* --

But Helena is nodding, moaning *more* and nodding --

Curling her *toes* --

Her -- her long and graceful toes --

Tim clenches and *bites* Clark's hand to keep from screaming --

Clark shudders and -- babbles as he speeds himself again, as he --

"Please --" Muffled. Incoherent -- "*Please* --"

<<My companion, I *must*.>>

And Tim is on his hands and knees --

Tim is *empty* --

"Oh. So... is it all right if I --"

Helena nods *frantically* --

Thomas chuckles breathlessly, wipes sweat from his temple -- "I want -- I can keep thrusting slowly --"

"Fast! Fast is good, too!"

Clark is *stroking* himself --

"Don't -- oh. Oh, you. You've been exercising your pelvic floor. Haven't you."

Tim grunts and clenches on *nothing* --

"What. What?"

"It." Thomas licks his lips and groans. "It isn't. It isn't important... it won't be until you begin thinking of having... children... oh, bumblebee, I need you so *much* --"

"I'm *yours*, Daddy -- *unh* -- *hnh* --"

"Is it. Is it too *much* --"

"No! No, don't -- *nnh* -- oh, please *don't* --"

"*Helena* --"

"Need you, *need* you -- *hnh*--- *hnh* -- *HNH* --"

And Thomas is thrusting so fast, so -- so *smoothly* --

Thomas is *filling* her, giving --

Thomas is giving her *everything*, he can't --

*This* Thomas would never dream of holding *back*. Not from her, at least, never --

But does Tim 'Drake' exist in that world?

What is his relationship with *Bruce* like?

Could this have ever *been* for him -- no, no he can't *think* of that, and he won't, he *won't*. "*Clark*."

"Whenever. Whenever you *call* --"

"*Please*!"

"It will not be. Gentle --"

Tim growls, reaching back with one hand to spread himself --

Clark moans and shudders hard enough to move the *bed* -- "I will. I promise to do my best to allow you to *concentrate* --"

"In me, *in* --"

And that noise was more of a *howl* than anything else, more --

It doesn't *matter* how slick he is when he can feel Clark in his *lungs* --

Feel himself open, stretched wide and -- and *stuffed* --

Just like his sister.

Just like -- and she's crying out now, holding her breasts to keep them from bouncing -- are they sore?

Where is she in her cycle?

Tim wants to *know*, and he wants to be there, wants to have her *scent* as Thomas takes her, strokes her thighs and pants --

Stares myopically down at her and *pants* -- and doesn't slow down even when she whimpers --

When she *begins* to whimper, because it isn't only once, isn't --

Oh, God, he can't stop himself from making the same *noise*, not with Clark flexing inside him, *reaming* him --

"*Tim* --"

"*Please* -- "

"*Daddy*!"

"B-Bumblebee, it's. I promise it's all right --"

She whimpers again --

"Oh -- oh, how you *clench* around me -- I never wish to *leave* you --"

"*Don't*, oh *don't* --"

"I know -- I know this is too *much* --"

She sobs and rears up, clutching at his shoulders and pulling until he *falls* on top of her --

"So strong, so -- my beautiful bumblebee, I can't *stop*," and that was  *almost* a sob from Thomas --

He's gasping and *groaning*, *pumping* into her even as she wraps her legs around his chest and beats at his *shoulders* --

She's crying out so *high*, so sharp and *high* --

And Tim is with her in this moment, with her *completely*, because Clark has him by the *penis* again, and they both know he won't let go this time, won't --

Won't *stop* --

He's timed his thrusts to be *opposite* to Thomas' so that Tim doesn't drown out the sound of Helena's cries with his own --

He's -- so good, so perfect and --

"Clark -- God, *Clark* --" But he can't get the words out, can't speak in more than shouts and -- "*Please* --"

"*Always*, my companion!"

Tim sobs again --

*Helena* sobs again --

And Thomas kisses her *softly*, so --

Thomas takes her mouth *precisely* like she's the precious daughter he loves more than *anything*, and the part of Tim's mind which is aware of families which *don't* work that way --

The part of Tim's mind which goes missing so *often* --

Tim laughs and shoves three fingers into his mouth, hums and sucks and fucks himself in *Thomas'* rhythm, because he can't get --

Crazier --

Oh, God --

Oh, God, this is what it would *feel* like --

And Clark's fist is as hot and slick as -- as --

It's clenching around him, hot and *wet* around him --

And Thomas is thrusting *harder*, so he can, too, he can take himself, use himself --

Give himself to Clark and the father he never --

The *Daddy* he never had, and he can moan and *drool* for it, be as shameless as Helena as she tosses her head, arches out of the kiss and begs --

And begs --

And Thomas *growls* --

And Clark clenches his fist as he *thrusts* --

And Tim is faintly -- *faintly* -- aware of his own whimpers, but mostly he's aware of heat and *light*, of the pressure of his own clenches as he comes --

And comes --

As he ejaculates hard enough to make himself *scream* around his fingers, around Daddy's penis, what he's *needed* --

Always --

*Always* --

And Clark is there to hold him up -- *haul* him up -- as he slumps, as he --

God, he can't even clench on *purpose* right now, can't do anything but get *reamed* while watching Thomas Wayne clutch at the examination bed with one hand and at Helena's perfect hair with the other --

Watch him *shove* his way into her --

Listen --

Listen to the perfect, dirty *music* of it --

Tim clenches *helplessly* --

Clark groans and *clutches* at him, holds him still and *fucks* him, grunting for every thrust --

Every incredibly *fast* thrust --

And, as always with Clark, there's a moment when the need to move outweighs even the endorphin rush -- and Tim can use that. He *forces* his body to clench in Thomas' rhythm --

"*Tim* --"

Again --

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

*Again* --

"*Please*, my companion --"

"Come --" But he can't *finish* that thought, because Helena is screaming, *clawing* at Thomas' shoulders through his shirt and *gripping* Thomas' chest with her thighs --

"*Yes*, bumblebee --"

"Yes yes -- *OH*!"

And her sounds almost *warble* --

Tim has never *heard* --

And he can't clench rhythmically anymore, because he's clenching *helplessly* again. He's -- he's *needy* again, even though he's still softening --

His sister --

His *sister* --

But Clark's clutch brings him back to his bed, brings him back to the *inescapable* feel of his rectum being slicked with *copious* pre-ejaculate --

He can clench again, he can *give*, he can --

He leans back and pulls Clark into a kiss --

He *tries* to pull Clark into a kiss --

"No, no, Tim, you must -- you must *watch* --"

"I've seen *enough* --"

"You've needed her --"

"I need *you* now," Tim says, and deliberately tilts his head back to expose his throat --

(<<Every time you do that, my companion... I have a need.>>)

Clark groans *and* grunts --

Flexes hard enough inside him to make Tim's *eyes* cross --

Helena is whimpering *raggedly* --

And the kiss is wet and hard and needful, needy, slick and *hungry*. Clark is *feeding* on him as he thrusts --

But he pulls back almost immediately to shout --

And shout *again* --

Tim rears up to bite Clark's chin --

And bites hard enough to hear his jaw *creak* when Clark *slams* in and starts to ejaculate. He moans and pants through the whole process. He shudders and babbles *between* moans --

There's so *much* --

And all Tim can do is -- purr.

Quietly. He --

Thomas is growling under his breath almost continuously now, and turning and focusing on a shift of angle --

His eyes are as wild as their own Thomas' had been in moments like these, but there's still a difference. There's more panic than rage, more *hunger* than *hate* --

And Tim knows, now, that there had been hate.

*This* Thomas *loves* his daughter, and knows that he's hurting her.

*This* Thomas is *worried* by his loss of control, and will almost certainly feel *guilt* --

"Daddy, please!"

-- but it's not enough to keep him from freezing, from going *rigid* for that --

From panting against Helena's forehead as he bucks once --

Twice --

And two more times before shuddering *violently* with the force of his orgasm. He catches himself before he can slump --

But Helena immediately forces him to give her his weight.

"H-Helena --"

"*Need* you, Daddy!"

Thomas moans and kisses her softly again, works awkwardly to wrap his arms around her --

They nearly fall off the *table* --

And Helena giggles. "Um. Okay, this isn't going to work. Maybe... we can go upstairs? Please?" And she bites her lip again.

This is something he's refused before, something --

Tim presses himself back against Clark --

"Thank you," he says, and strokes him all over at speed, squeezes and holds and *rocks* him at speed --

"Slower, please. I -- I want to give us time together, if we can have it."

Clark shivers -- "Please," and it's a much more *sedate* cuddle. And very, very warm.

Tim tilts his head up to *kiss* Clark's jaw --

"Bumblebee..."

"It's not. I know it's not proper, Daddy, but there's no one *here* but Mom and Alfred, and they *know*."

Thomas shudders --

"Please? Please, Daddy, it only has to be for a little while. It doesn't have to be your bedroom, at all --"

"You. You need me."

"Very. Very much, Daddy," Helena says, and smiles ruefully. "I get... lonely."

Thomas shudders again. "I. I won't let you be lonely. Not -- not when I get lonely for you just as much --"

"Oh! You *do*?"

"There is... a pain. Such..." Thomas stands, pulling out slowly and carefully while massaging Helena's abdomen to encourage her to push. "I have never been a poet --"

"I don't *need* you to be!"

"-- I don't have the words, bumblebee. I only know that I am happiest when you are near to me, when I can hear you laughing, and smell your hair... well. We'd best neaten ourselves so we look presentable enough to *make* it upstairs, Helena!"

She looks at him softly, and seems inclined to *coo* -- and then she retrieves his glasses, flings herself at him for a long, firm hug. "Anything you say, Daddy." And then she sets his glasses on his nose. Crookedly.

The glare off the lenses may or may not hide tears welling in his eyes, but he is -- happy.

As happy as he never was with Tim --

Or with Bruce --

Tim shakes his head once and shuts the machine down for the time being, then sets the controller down on the bedside table.

And retrieves the cooled popcorn.

"You truly don't have to eat that --"

"Hnn. Are you going to bring up parent-sex every time we see each other if I don't?"

"Of course. But... you don't have to eat that."

Tim laughs quietly and clenches while he chews --

"Oh -- mm. I may be moved to distract you from eating again --"

Tim sucks his teeth with exaggerated disappointment. "You know how Bruce feels about people who interrupt my or Cassandra's meals."

"You -- oh, of course you'd tell on me." Clark's sigh is wounded. "This isn't the basis for a very healthy relationship, Tim."

"I'm a damaged, damaged man, Clark," and Tim pulls on an expression which rests somewhere between lofty and simply dramatic. "Only... only *love* can heal me -- ee. That was quite an impressive flex."

"Thank you kindly. Would you like me to reheat that popcorn?"

"Yes, actually --"

"No," Clark says. "You haven't earned my heat vision."

"Really."

"You've been quite the harridan -- oh, don't --"

But Tim continues the process of kneeling up off Clark's penis --

"Really, this is *why* they all like Bruce better --"

Tim grins and adds something of a *wriggle* --

Clark moans *desperately* -- and stops Tim when only the head is in. "Please?"

"Popcorn?"

"Honestly --"

Tim *pulls* against Clark's grip --

"You -- you're a *horrible* person --"

Tim snickers the way he hasn't --

It feels like he hasn't in *months* --

"I feel so *used*, Tim --"

Tim snickers *harder* --

"And -- and furthermore --"

Tim sits on Clark's penis and they groan together, pant --

"Oh, but of course -- of course, you can be quite merciful -- mm. When you put your mind --"

Tim holds up the popcorn -- and it's steaming perfectly again before he can blink. "Thank you kindly."

Clark sighs and pulls Tim into a hug.

Tim eats contentedly, in -- relative -- silence.

When most of the popcorn is gone, Clark hums and kisses Tim's temple.

"Mm?"

"I note that you've left yourself time, tonight, for a patrol."

"Oh, yes. It's time."

"Will you take a partner?"

"Jay, unless he needs more time to canvass the strolls. If so, then Stephanie."

<<My companion has a need for brutality...?>>

<<Always... to a certain extent.>> "But both of them have missed me in rather specific ways."

"Stephanie has only *expressed* a feeling of lack with regard to your -- excellent -- crepes."

"In your hearing," Tim says, and smiles. And eats more popcorn.

Clark hums again. "She *is* rather like you in some respects," Clark says, and there is a question in his voice. An invitation.

Tim smiles more broadly. "We haven't beaten the reticence out of her, yet. Not all of it, anyway. Not for things like this."

"You hope to convince her away from her determination to move back in with her mother when she graduates from rehab -- again."

"Clark. Is that a *question*?"

Clark laughs quietly. "I'm terribly sorry, of course --"

And the knock on his door is rapid and *unfamiliar* -- "Brother, *please*."

Tim blinks. "Come in, Bruce --"

And Bruce is there, wide-eyed and panicked and determined all at once --

"What *happened*?"

"Jason showed me -- Jason Blood, I mean -- I have a *son*. Hello, Clark."

"Hello --"

"You have *two* --"

"I have a *biological* son, Tim!"

"Oh, congratulations!"

"Thank you --"

Tim opens his mouth -- closes it. Breathes. "Start at the beginning."

"I -- I need to go *get* him --"

"Yes, of course, but who --"

"The mother is almost certainly Talia al Ghul," Jason Blood says, leaning in the doorway with, oddly, one of the large, shallow serving bowls they use for pasta in his left hand. "I told Bruce a little about what you were watching, and he was interested in alternate configurations of his family. I scryed somewhat at random... and found a *Damian* Wayne. And a very telling resonance with *this* dimension."

Tim opens his mouth again -- no. No. "All right, first of all, Bruce, *when* did you --"

"Brother, I *told* you about the *one* time Talia and I made love. I never *penetrated* her with my penis."

"Did you leave your semen somewhere she could collect it from later?"

Bruce gives him a horrified look, but --

"*Well*?"

Jason clears his throat. "While I cannot be sure about what is happening in *this* dimension, in at least *one* dimension Damian's upbringing leaves rather much to be desired."

Bruce shudders once, all over, and stands straight. "I must, at the very least, speak with Talia immediately."

"And a phone call on the topic might make her run..." Tim frowns and strokes Clark's forearm idly --

Clark squeezes his waist --

"And take the boy with her," Tim says, finishing his own sentence and frowning more deeply before turning to Jason. "You don't know more because she's using magic dampeners."

Jason inclines his head. "Ra's has had access to the best for most of the past five hundred years."

Which means -- "You can't take Jay -- *or* Jason -- with you."

"No. But I must have back-up. I've already contacted Barbara, and she has agreed to postpone her projects. I -- Dick?"

"It's entirely selfish --"

Bruce makes a cutting gesture. "You've needed him. Stephanie is too young for this -- I'll take Cassandra if she will agree to go."

"I will, as always, be a call away, my companion," Clark says, and tightens his *grip* on Tim's waist.

"Thank you. I... I am not sure how to *feel* --"

"Worry about that later, Bruce. Make sure that your son is *okay*." 

Bruce's smile is rueful. "I -- I never meant --" He shakes his head. "You know. You *all* know."

Tim offers his own rueful smile and reaches out --

And Bruce twines his fingers with Tim's and squeezes. "Brother. I will return as soon as I can. I'd planned a fourteen-B patrol for tonight and a six-E for tomorrow, but..."

"Those are dependent on *both* of us being in Gotham. I'll decide when the time comes."

"As you say," Bruce says, and leans in to kiss Tim's forehead. "Brother. I would have you with me always," and it's in *that* voice --

Which is reason enough to *clench* --

Which, in turn, is reason enough for Clark to moan --

And for Jason to hum --

And for Bruce to raise a *hopeful* eyebrow.

Tim laughs quietly and squeezes Bruce's hand *hard*. "Make it a *quick* trip."

"As you say," and Bruce lets go, inclines his head to Clark, and turns to walk out the door. He squeezes Jason's shoulder as he goes, and Jason turns to follow --

"Wait," Tim says, and crosses his arms over his chest.

Jason smiles *before* he turns fully back --

"I *am* aware that I'm less than intimidating in this position, before you say anything --"

"Oh, no, Tim, I always find you quite formidable when you're on my penis --"

"Clark."

Clark hums and strokes down to Tim's hips --

And Jason is leaning against the jamb with his hands folded in front of his abdomen. "What may I do for you, Tim?"

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Why did you leave?"

"I have developed a *keen* nose for when a threesome -- or a moresome -- is desired... and when it is most assuredly *not*," he says... and smiles over Tim's shoulder.

Clark coughs. "I... we don't know each other... well."

"No, we do *not*. More to the point, you've never desired to change that particular state of affairs."

"Your methods... are not my own," Clark says, temporizing -- and *softening*. Both of those things are tragic.

"We need to be closer," Tim says, in the Voice --

Clark twitches and *stops* softening --

And Jason's smile shows teeth. "I am... willing."

Clark *clutches* Tim's hips -- "I would never -- of course I would never work *against* you, Tim. Not for something like *this* --"

"But?"

"I. I believe I need *time*," Clark says, and sounds as nonplussed -- as *bewildered* -- by his own words as Tim feels. But.

There's such a thing as 'the right way.' Tim reaches up and back so he can cup the back of Clark's head --

"Oh -- Tim."

He tilts his head back and kisses Clark's cheek. "Time is available. As are many, many other things."

Clark shivers and kisses him *deeply* --

Strokes Tim everywhere he can reach at *speed* --

It's *precisely* like being molested by a warm and friendly *whirlwind* --

Tim hums and smiles into the kiss -- and holds up a finger to ask Jason to wait.

"As you wish."

Clark shivers again and *moans* into Tim's mouth -- and then pulls back and pants. <<My -->> "My companion. I will be as quick as I *can* be."

"I know."

"Perhaps... perhaps I'll begin by having a long talk with Zatanna," Clark says, and smiles ruefully.

Jason chuckles. "She *is* the magic-using hero who loathes me *least*, yes. But Superman... you may always talk to *me*."

Clark frowns in *consternation* -- but then turns that frown on Jason. "Every time we've spoken in the past --"

"I've... deflected you, yes?"

"*Yes*."

Jason inclines his head. "I'm not going to do that anymore."

"I -- no?"

"No. I've decided --"

"Oh -- wait," Clark says, and laughs quietly. "Tim, are you really going to let me get *away* with having a serious conversation with a third party *while I'm inside you*?"

Tim smiles. And clenches.

"*Nnh* --"

And holds the clench --

"*Tim* -- I -- *please*!"

"It's only that you've been such a *good* superhero lately, Clark..."

Clark moans, long and *low* --

Jason coughs and almost *beams* --

And Tim knows, suddenly and sharply, that, whatever else is going into Jason's reasoning for these moments --

Whatever other thoughts are in his *mind* --

He's been waiting for this -- for *him*.

Tim shivers and releases the clench--

Clark growls and *bites* Tim's throat --

And Tim gives Jason his hazing-over eyes, his parted lips --

Jason gestures and there is a chartreuse paper heart fluttering between them --

A paper butterfly --

Smoke and the smell of *chocolate* --

Clark inhales sharply and pulls back, nuzzles and moans --  and softens himself suddenly and *completely*.

Tim *grunts* for the shift of fluid and -- seemingly -- every organ in his abdomen -- "Clark."

"I -- please, Tim," Clark says, and rests his forehead against Tim's throat.

Jason has turned away --

And Tim nods and turns to kiss Clark's ear. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right --"

"I would do well to learn your patience," Tim says, and kisses Clark's ear again. "Until later?"

<<Lover, you are my -- >>

And the whirlwind is molesting him again, though this time there's rather more *internal* molestation --

A *dampness* --

A *mild* chafe --

And Tim knows he's as clean as he *ever* gets even before he can focus on Clark again -- and Clark is a safe two yards away, fully suited-up and showing no sign whatsoever of... anything.

Tim raises an eyebrow.

Clark smiles *entirely* Clarkishly. "Until later, my companion."

Tim smiles and leans back on his elbows. "Lover."

Narrowed eyes --

*Heat* --

And then Clark just *is* in front of Jason, and offering his hand.

Jason raises an eyebrow - but then he shakes his head sharply and grips Clark's forearm.

Clark returns the gesture. "I would know you, Jason Blood," and that's very much Kryptonian *warped* into English --

And Jason smiles. "I would be known... though I will confess that the prospect leaves me feeling somewhat *daunted*. Well." Jason touches Clark's forehead with the fingertips of his left hand. "May your friendships always give you precisely what you need, fill you whether or *not* you hunger, and lead you precisely where you must be led."

Clark grunts and *staggers* -- but regains his footing quickly enough. "A blessing?"

Jason's smile turns crooked. "A curse."

Clark frowns. "I --"

"One such as me is allowed *no* blessings, Mr. Kent. But... I've had quite a long time to learn how to *word* a curse *properly*," Jason says, and lets go.

Clark frowns more deeply, shaking his head --

"I believe Jason will try harder, next time, to be less disconcerting," Tim says, and crosses his legs at the ankle.

Jason coughs again -- "Ah... yes. I will."

"I... see," Clark says, and inclines his head. "Until we meet again, Mr. Blood."

Jason inclines his head in turn. "Until then."

And Clark is -- gone. Tim takes a deep breath and focuses on Jason. "Gifts for me? Curses? Ice cream?"

Jason smiles at him. "You loathe chocolate, don't you."

"I haven't eaten chocolate by choice -- in any form -- since that day twenty-five years ago, but I wouldn't say 'loathe.'"

Jason laughs and steps further into the room, pausing by the foot of the bed... and resting his fingertips on the top of Tim's left foot. "Have I mentioned how much I adore the rather *extreme* lack of body-shyness in this community?"

"And yet you're fully dressed."

"Not truly. Unless I'm mailed, armored, or wearing silk... my clothes are probably pure glamour."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "You'd waste your powers that way?"

Jason smiles again. "I don't consider it to be a waste -- as opposed to an *excellent* way to save money."

"You're a very wealthy man, Jason --"

"And I was a very *poor* man working my way through a *very* large and magically-dampened area of the Arabian peninsula during the early seventeenth century. Perhaps you'll trust me about the experience not being one worth repeating."

Tim blinks. "Ra's?"

Jason inclines his head. "Though -- thankfully -- our paths never crossed. Once I was on the coast and *could* use -- some of -- my powers again, I decided to make *sure* that our paths wouldn't cross."

"And you came here."

"Just so. I spent the *entire* voyage eating only *just* enough that the vastly superstitious -- and universally *evil*-smelling -- crew would not suspect what they had aboard --"

"And vomiting as quietly as possible?"

"It's a very *unique* skill, and I sincerely hope I need never demonstrate it for anyone again," Jason says, and smiles at him. "You make a wonderful adult."

"I'd thank you for that, but I happen to know what sorts of adults you *prefer*."

Jason laughs. Evilly.

Tim... gestures.

"Is *that* what you'd like...?"

"I'd *like*... to know how *many* children you groom to be your future... companions."

And Jason's smile is... quieter. "Have you never found it prudent to set a little something aside for a rainy day...?"

And that --

How many friends has Jason buried?

How many *lovers*?

Tim winces. "I rescind the question --"

"No, Tim, don't do that. Don't -- please don't ever pity me. I live *far* too well for that."

Tim meets Jason's eyes and *holds* his gaze --

"I *believe* in humanity -- and in all the little off-shoots and *variances* that have been popping up more frequently over the last few generations. You -- all of you -- will carry on in assorted marvelous ways forever and ever and *ever* -- long after *I* am finally dust. And, before I *am* dust --"

"You'll be amused?"

"Desperately so."

"Happy?"

"As much as is possible."

"Loved?"

Jason sighs and splays his hand on Tim's foot. It's nearly as warm as Clark's, though the heat is much dryer and more *ominous* --

"You could come closer."

Jason smiles and shakes his head -- then blinks. "Where, do you think, did your tendency to love so *precipitously* *come* from?"

Tim tilts his head to the side and *looks* at Jason.

"Surely you're not blaming *me* --"

"No, Jason, I'm not. I'm merely wondering how *long* you're going to pretend you haven't been close to the Wayne family for *generations*."

Jason laughs -- and touches his tongue to his teeth. "Not... all of them."

"Mm."

Jason laughs *harder*. "Very well. Waynes -- some of them -- can be a *highly* passionate breed. I suppose you *do* 'get it honest,' as it were."

"*Thank* you."

"And you are quite, quite beautiful."

Tim smiles. "And mad...?"

"Do I *truly* need to answer that question?"

Tim laughs. "You're not allowed to make Jay *any* crazier than he already is."

"Not even a *smidge*?"

"No."

"For the *Mission*...?"

Tim narrows his eyes.

Jason shows far more teeth than is remotely polite --

And Tim -- admits certain things to himself. And sighs. "Fine. But we'll all side with him when he *does* learn how to beat the living hell out of you."

Jason tuts. "You're making *assumptions*, Tim."

"How interested would you *be* in having him as your student if his potential  *wasn't* dangerous?"

"Nearly *every* magic-user can be *dangerous* in the right --"

"Jason."

Jason hums. "He has a great *deal* of raw power. It will avail him nothing if he doesn't learn how to control it more viciously -- more *completely* -- than he has ever learned how to control anything else," and Jason raises his eyebrow in *question*.

Tim -- inhales. And nods. "He has avoided much in the way of... that."

"As I suspected, given his basic personality type and the fact that his familiar has frankly seemed to be the dominant personality nearly half the times I've scryed him. If *you* couldn't teach him the benefits of ruthless control, I'm frankly not sure *I* can even come close."

"You will."

"Tim --"

"You will," Tim says, and rolls up onto his knees before sitting on his heels. "Because you'll have help."

Jason breathes... and strokes the air where Tim's foot had been. He --

"How *much* do you miss Martha?"

"Every day sometimes. Other times... every hour. *Other* times.... there are other people to miss," and Jason looks down into Tim's eyes. "I would like a kiss."

"You can have more than that."

Jason grins. "Fair warning: You will never, ever need Virilgra while I am alive."

Tim coughs a laugh --

"A kiss for now, please."

"And anticipation for later?" Tim shakes his head. "I could die tonight, Jason."

"But you won't, because I'm using a significant portion of my power to protect you until after we *do* fuck."

Tim snorts. "Fine. *You* could die tonight."

"Or Etrigan could finally *win*, yes, but... but. Gamble with me. Please."

That -- Tim shivers. "The child in me --"

"Never would. But you're a man now. A man... who knows how to play games," and Jason raises an eyebrow.

Tim licks his lips and feels something like an *undertow*, something like the heat of *pure* seduction --

It's ridiculous --

It's just a *kiss* --

But it's a game, too. It's --

It's taking a *chance* --

"Please," Jason says, and touches Tim's cheek --

Tim pants --  "Clark is immortal."

Jason blinks --

"Make friends quickly."

"Tim --"

"Kiss me. Make it -- make it something I'll beg for --"

"Shh," and Jason breathes in for much too long, much --

And when he breathes out, the exhalation is thick and black and *roped*. It wraps itself around Tim's arms and torso several times, *forcing* Tim's arms to his sides --

It wraps around his *throat* --

It wraps around his *penis* --

"Jason, please --"

"Yes," Jason says, and the *world* is black for a moment that leaves Tim disoriented and *confused* --

Until Jason's hands are on his face --

And Jason's mouth is pressed to his own, pressed *softly*. Tim tries to slip his tongue into Jason's mouth --

He can't move.

He can't --

He can't move any *part* of himself, and the ropes are tightening slowly, so *slowly* --

Tim moans and *strains* --

"Yes," Jason says again, and licks his way into Tim's mouth, lifts Tim's still tongue with his own, teases and *strokes* it --

Tim moans more and wants to move, wants to *give* a kiss --

But it's almost enough when Jason's kiss gets harder, when the black *fog* dissipates enough to show Jason's closed eyes, Jason's squeezed-*shut* eyes --

He pulls back -- "*Yes*," and he kisses Tim hard enough to drive him back, claws at Tim's scalp and *sucks* Tim's tongue --

Tim grunts and feels himself *twitch* -- inside, not out. He still can't *move* --

No bondage has ever come *close* to --

And Jason pulls back to bite Tim's lower lip, and then the upper. And then he pants and opens his eyes --

And then he smiles as he breathes in the ropes once more. He --

Tim's penis twitches *violently* as the ropes unwind from around it --

For a moment it doesn't seem like it will *stop* --

All he can do is stare and *grunt* -- and blush.

And then all the ropes are gone and Jason stands straight, stroking himself through --

But he's not actually wearing pants. Tim raises an eyebrow.

Jason *squeezes* himself. "Was that sufficient?"

"It was the sort of tease I usually make people suffer for."

"Ooh. *Promising*."

"Hnn. Get out... unless it's part of the game to watch me masturbate furiously?"

*Jason* pants --

Licks his lips --

"I'd be more than willing to help you summon in assistance --"

Tim shakes his head and smiles, taking himself in hand and squeezing hard enough to make himself make a -- small -- sound --

Jason *growls* -- "Why *not*."

"This is how *I* play, Jason. This -- nn. I'm thinking about *you* hurting me --"

"Tim --"

"I'm thinking about you *touching* me --"

"There."

"I'm thinking..." And Tim bares his teeth and turns his short nails against himself. "I'm thinking -- very, very deeply -- about all the ways *you* can fuck me."

"Me."

"You."

Jason claws at his own abdomen and stares at Tim's throat, his mouth, his penis -- "No one else."

"Hnn. At the moment."

"You mad, beautiful whore. I *promise* to spend every *second* I'm not fucking you wishing *sincerely* that I wasn't such a *contrary* *bastard*."

Tim laughs and *gasps* --

The world *darkens* --

And Jason steps back into nothingness without another word. He leaves... a lingering smell of chartreuse. Which...

"You know, Jason, it would be nice if you at least made that smell like the *liqueur*."

No answer.

Well. He might as well make this *really* hurt. He bends himself back over his own legs until his quadriceps and knees are screaming a little --

He arches his head back until his throat feels moments away from being *slashed* --

He fills his mind with the *were*-creature that had *mauled* Martha on her first wedding anniversary --

He smiles.

And begins.

*

.continued.


Feedback lets me know you're out there -- and yes, I care about that. Feedback is how I connect to people, and how I make new friends and meet new lovers -- just ask the ones I already have sometime. Feedback makes all the hard work *more* meaningful, and *more* special, and *more* worthwhile. Feedback? Is the glue that holds my fragile sanity together, to be honest. Talk to me.

DW :: LJ :: E-mail

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