May 1979

Bruce wakes up more abruptly than he'd wished -- the dream is gone.

He frowns and tries to recapture it, looking for --

Were his brothers there?

There was *warmth* -- he remembers that -- though that could have very well been the inevitable result of having Harvey sprawled on his chest and snoring as lightly and breathily as he always does.

There's just a bit of saliva connecting his soft, slack mouth to Bruce's sternum --

Bruce strokes Harvey's thick, mussed hair --

Bruce takes his first truly *deep* breath of the morning -- sex and sleep and the cocoa Harvey would happily drink every night of the year, no matter *how* hot the weather came to be. He --

("Nah, nah, the cold stuff's no *good*, big guy."

"I find it to be entirely agreeable --"

"That's because you've got the palate of a *peasant* sometimes -- and Al is gonna *kill* me for encouraging that someday --"

"*Harv* --"

"You can hardly taste *anything* about chocolate when it's cold, big guy."

"I *disagree* --"

"You are *entirely* welcome to your wrong opinions."

"Oh -- that's very generous.")

And Harvey had inclined his head and grinned --

("I'm gracious like that. Everybody says so.")

Bruce hums helplessly, shifting enough that he can wrap his arms around --

"Whuh -- buh -- oh, Jesus, big guy, the *alarm* didn't even go off, yet," Harvey mutters into Bruce's chest. He --

"You say that every morning --"

"It's *true* every -- mm. God, you smell good," and Harvey licks a stripe between Bruce's pectorals --

Bruce *grunts* --

"Oh -- yeah. Okay. Hit the clock before --"

The alarm blares --

Harvey groans and covers his *ears* --

Bruce shuts the alarm off as quickly as he *can*, but -- "Harv, we could get a much less *offensive* --"

"I *need* that offense, big guy. A *nice* alarm would just make me want to stay in this bed *all* night," and Harvey kisses his way along Bruce's collarbone --

Bruce shivers and doesn't -- doesn't *say* --

"Heh. We'll get our own place and we'll lay up in bed until *noon*," and Harvey licks Bruce's suprasternal notch. "We'll teach the little guy how to really be a *slug*."

Oh... he could sleep with *both* of his brothers --

"'course... we wouldn't let you sketch all night. You know that, right?" And Harvey grins up at him, eyes bright and dancing in the pre-dawn gloom --

Bruce cups his face --

Harvey lets his eyes slip most of the way closed -- he wants a kiss.

Bruce *knows* he wants a kiss. But -- "Harv..."

"Tell me, big guy..."

"You... have you never felt at home *here*?"

Harvey blinks and frowns, draws back --

"I... it's only..." Bruce shakes his head and smiles ruefully. "It's... difficult to think of moving, Harv. Sometimes. Of course I will --"

Harvey shakes his own head and grips Bruce's wrists, bringing them down between them and then twining their fingers together.

"Brother..."

"Brother," Harvey says. "This... this is your home."

"Yes. I'm sorry --"

"No, no. I've kinda been running roughshod over that -- damn. *I'm* sorry --"

"No, you -- the idea is entirely sensible, and -- and practical --"

"You've been happy here."

"With you. And with Mother."

Harvey licks his lips and frowns, turning away slightly the way he does *sometimes* when Bruce mentions Mother. Not *all* the time, but...

"Harv...? Is there -- there's something you need to tell me about Mother."

Harvey looks *pained* --

"It -- you can tell me anything, Harv. I'm sure if there's a problem we can talk about it --"

"As a family, big guy?" And Harvey's voice is so *sharp*, but --

Bruce nods and frowns.

Harvey licks his lips and squeezes Bruce's hands hard, turning even *further* away --

"Harv..."

"One. One sec, okay?"

"Of course," Bruce says, and schools himself to patience, to -- to patience. Harvey needs time. Harvey is *upset*. Harvey has *been* upset, and that means Bruce has been an unworthy brother to him --

He should've known --

He should've *asked* at least one of the times when Harvey turned away from him -- wasn't that the best *possible* warning of trouble?

Bruce strokes the backs of Harvey's beautiful hands and waits, and promises --

It's just that a part of him doesn't want to *hear* what Harvey has to say about Mother -- what. What?

Wouldn't that imply that he already knows?

That --

Certainly, he's known all along that he's considered a 'mama's boy', but there's nothing wrong --

Nothing truly --

It's only that he can feel Mother's body in his arms, so small and perfect, and hasn't she always welcomed his touch? It would've been --

Bruce doesn't know how he would've *survived* in the years before Harvey if he hadn't had Mother, because there had been no one *else*.

A *handshake* from his father for a perfect report card, a pat on the shoulder from a teacher --

He'd been so *cold*, so --

But Mother had always been there to warm him, Mother had always welcomed him -- even when her door was closed to everyone else. She --

("Oh, I love you, I love you, I love you so *much*!")

And her mouth has always been soft on his cheek, on his forehead and on *his* mouth --

And her arms have always been lean and strong and *inviting* --

He was never too big for her, or too awkward, or -- or too *strange* --

"Big guy?"

Bruce blinks -- and realizes that he'd tugged his hands away from Harvey's. Oh. He shakes his head and reaches --

And Harvey holds his hands up and smiles ruefully. "First... why don't you tell me why you had to stop touching me right then."

Mother --

He doesn't want --

Bruce blushes. "I find. I find I am... trepidatious."

Harvey bites his lip -- but only for a moment before he nods. "I think. I think we have to talk about it, anyway, big guy."

Bruce's heart is beating faster -- "I... wasn't expecting you to say that."

"I usually don't," Harvey says, and smiles ruefully again. "But this time... this time it's between us. I can't take that."

"Oh... brother. Nothing will ever --"

"This will. This will mess us up, Bruce. If we let it."

He can't --

He can't let anything --

"Harv. I promised. I promised her..." Bruce licks his lips and feels himself *sweating*, feels himself starting to *panic* --

And Harvey nods slowly and *thoughtfully*. "You promised you'd never leave her."

"Yes --"

"She made you do that."

Bruce frowns. "She didn't have to *force* me to do it, Harv --"

"But..." Harv licks his teeth and sits back a little, nodding to himself. He scrubs the rheum out of his eyes, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand -- "She was serious about it, though. Wasn't she?"

("Do you *promise*, boychik? *Do* you?")

"She was... she seemed almost frightened --"

"Uh, huh. And how old were you."

"Five, but --"

Harvey holds up a hand.

"Harv, you -- you shouldn't misconstrue --"

"What am I thinking, big guy? What thoughts is this putting in my head?"

Bruce frowns more deeply. "I don't know --"

"But you do. I can see it. You didn't *before*... but something made you twig."

Mother on his lap -- something she almost never does.

Mother's arms wrapped around his neck like -- like a lover --

Mother *growling* at him when he suggested a moment of physical *distance* --

Just to allow her to be *bandaged* --

Bruce... blushes.

"Yeah, you know what I'm talking -- heh. *Around*."

Bruce shakes his head --

"Bruce, don't --"

"She's never -- she's never been *inappropriate*, Harv --"

But Harvey raises his *eyebrows*, and that's terrible, that's --

Bruce moans and --

If he can just --

Move back --

The headboard is in his way. The *wall* is in his way --

And Harvey's expression is -- hurt. So --

"Brother, I never want --"

"To hurt me. I know. But -- this. *This*. You know what I had to do to get her to tell me and Tim about Nemen? You know what I had to *say*?"

Bruce clutches at the sheets -- no. No. "Tell me."

"I had to *use* us, Bruce. I had to *flirt* --"

"*No*!"

"I had to -- *had* to -- promise that I'd never take you too far away from *her*. I had to talk about how *young* you were -- and how you were getting older every day. Old enough *for* her --"

"*Please* --"

"I had to -- ah, God, big guy, you *know* I don't wanna *say* this!"

"Then --" Don't. But. But there are questions.

There are questions which could be answered all too quickly and easily -- Tim was *there* -- and there are questions which would be much more difficult.

Questions he would have to look deep into Mother's beautiful grey-blue eyes for the answers to, and --

And sometimes she *doesn't* answer his questions.

Sometimes she simply touches his cheek, and smiles, and calls to *Jason* --

Would this be one of those times?

What...

What would it mean if she decided *to* answer his questions? What -- what would that *signify*? There is such *darkness* now --

Because he is covering his face with his hands.

Hiding.

Like a *coward*. Bruce groans and *tears* his hands away from his face, and he knows the only expression on his face is a desperate *plea*, but Harvey always --

"Oh -- Bruce..."

Always --

Harvey shakes his head. "I. I can't take this away from you, Bruce. I'm sorry."

There is *pain* -- but. "I must. I must be -- a man."

Harvey *shudders*. "I want -- you know I always want to *protect* you --"

"I want. If I will lead a life of protecting... others..." But Bruce feels himself wanting -- *needing* -- to shrink inside, to cover, to turn *away* --

To *hide* once more --

In his *home* --

And he could have a suite of his own, soundproofed and decorated to his pleasure, and Mother could --

Could --

Bruce shudders and swallows, and doesn't allow his hands to clench into fists *or* to cover his face. He -- he has *control* over them. He has control over *himself*.

He will not be a *coward* --

"Sometimes --" But his voice is small and *choked*. Bruce clears his throat and tries again. "Sometimes," he says, and makes a point of looking into Harvey's eyes, "I would dream of being married to her."

Harvey winces, but -- "I'm not -- I think a lot of kids have fantasies like that, somewhere along the way."

Bruce smiles, and he knows it's wry on his face. "Once or twice...?"

Harvey laughs painfully. "Yeah... uh. It doesn't usually stick after the first or second explanation of why it wouldn't work, big guy."

"I never got that explanation."

"Did you..." Harvey trails off --

Frowns --

Turns *away* -- and growls and turns back. "Did she say you could, big guy? Did she promise you could be together?"

"I..."

("And it will be the *two* of --"

"Martha."

"Oh, *fine*, Jason, you can come, too.")

"Yeah?"

Bruce takes a deep breath. "There were... moments. When she would come close to saying... to saying those things. Always when Jason was there to stop her."

Harvey frowns. "I... hunh."

"That's... strange -- no. I see. You would expect her to be more open, more *free*, when we were alone."

"Well -- yeah, big guy."

Bruce smiles ruefully. "Perhaps she wasn't... ready."

Harvey winces again. "She -- uh. She kissed me, Bruce."

Bruce blinks and searches Harvey, tries --

*Tries* --

And Harvey is simply watching him, *waiting* for him, level and *pained* --

"Brother..."

"Yeah."

"She --" Bruce swallows again. "Did you like it?"

Harvey looks at him as if he's *mad* -- and then he laughs. Hard.

Bruce smiles cautiously --

"Of course -- of course you'd ask that *first* -- ah, Jesus, big guy," and Harvey smiles at him fondly, *warmly* --

"I love you," Bruce blurts --

"And I'm yours. Just -- I'll always love you. And yeah, I liked it. It freaked me right the hell *out*... but I'm not actually sure which of us is more attracted to her."

Bruce blinks and licks his lips, but he can't --

He *can't* --

"I would like... to make denials."

"Well, most people would in this situation, big guy."

Bruce nods slowly. "I haven't. I honestly believed, until this moment, that I was a *homosexual*, Harv."

Harvey bites his lip and scratches at his right sideburn -- stops. "I'm pretty sure this is why I didn't. Actually."

"You -- for all this time?"

"Not --" Harvey shakes his head and reaches for Bruce again. "Please?"

"Oh -- brother," and Bruce shuffles closer on his knees, pulls Harvey against him, *holds* him --

Harvey shudders and *clings* --

He --"You were frightened."

"Of losing you. Of -- part of me still is, big guy --"

"Never! Please, *never* --"

'"Yeah, *that*, 'cause I can't -- God, I need you so *bad* --"

"Yours, I'm *yours*, Harv, and -- and we have Tim now, too --"

"God, yeah," Harvey says, pulling back and smiling. "I'm so proud of you for that, big guy."

Bruce blushes and smiles. "You -- you knew best. You *always* know best --"

"Hey, no, I really don't --"

"You *do*, and -- please, Harv, please *guide* me," Bruce says, and cups Harvey's face. "I'll *listen*."

But Harvey frowns. He --

"Harv...?"

"I..." Harvey frowns more deeply -- and covers Bruce's hand on his face with his own. "I'm not sure I *can* for this, big guy."

"But... why?"

Harvey shakes his head. "It's too important. Too -- these are decisions you have to make for *yourself*."

"Decisions...? But -- of course I *have* to leave the manor, Harv. It's -- my mission requires it. And -- and I can't make love with our *mother*. It's -- it's not --"

"Correct?"

"Oh -- please don't sound like our father --"

"Heh. Sorry. But... you never say that, big guy. 'Our mother,' I mean. What do you think that's about?"

Bruce blinks. "I... hm."

Harvey smiles at him, patient and calm --

"You're happier."

"You're damned reassuring when you wanna be," Harvey says, and jerks his chin at him. "C'mon, think."

Bruce nods and gives himself over to -- it doesn't take long. "I want... to impose distance."

"Because?"

Bruce raises an eyebrow.

Harvey grins. "Yeah, I know, but you really do have to answer this. And *think* about it."

"All right. I..." Bruce forces himself to go back to thinking about -- it. "I'm... I'm afraid."

"That's natural."

"I'm afraid to look too *closely* at the matter."

"That's natural, too. But."

Bruce nods once. And -- breathes. "With distance, I don't have to think of the woman who forced you to all but *prostitute* me, the woman who *kissed* you, as being the same woman I love with all of myself."

Harvey nods and smiles ruefully. And raises his eyebrows.

"She... there is no difference between those women for you."

Harvey opens his mouth -- closes it and shakes his head. "I wouldn't say that. I *couldn't* say that. Blood made me take a long, hard look at how I feel about her. I think... I think, when it comes down to it? I'm always lying when I call her 'Mom.'"

Bruce frowns. "Harv...?"

"She's -- she's not my mother. She's just not."

"Because... because of how you feel about your --"

"No. Or -- maybe?" Harvey pushes a hand back through his hair and smiles again. "It could be part of it -- I don't have all this down perfectly, you know? I do know it'd *just* be a part. *Mostly* it's because of who she is. And who she's been to *me*."

Bruce -- blushes again. And -- "Her flirtatiousness."

"That. And the fact that --" Harvey frowns and shakes his head. "No, never mind. I don't really have... a handle on that part of it, yet."

That wasn't true. That --

But Harvey is meeting his eyes with calm and rueful humor -- he knows that *Bruce* knows he was lying.

"You're asking me to... leave that."

"Yeah, I am."

Bruce drops his hand -- no, he takes Harvey's hand in his own again. "For which of our sakes, brother?"

"Both of ours. Just -- for now, okay? We've got enough to deal with here, I promise."

Bruce breathes deeply. "All right. I... tell me. Tell me who she is to you, if not our mother?"

Harvey squeezes his hands. "Your mother. Martha Kane Wayne. The hottest woman I've ever seen -- sometimes. The only woman I *know* who I actually respect -- and I'm working on that. I... more than that. Less -- she scares me pretty often --"

"*Why*?"

"Wait. Okay?"

Bruce frowns and nods.

"She scares me because, among other things, her sense of morality doesn't look like mine *or* yours. I think it might be a little familiar to *Tim*, but then I just watched the little guy *kill* four people -- they might not have been human, but they were for sure *people* -- and I gotta admit I'm a little screwed-up about that --"

"Mother -- Mother wouldn't --"

"Wait."

"And you can't -- you *know* Tim was --"

"Tim was protecting you, and doing *exactly* what he was *born* to do, apparently -- Blood told me about that, too, big guy. He's... you're *both* pretty *serious* with the violence. For good things. Across the multiverse, even."

"I... I can't... I don't know how to respond to that, brother," Bruce says, and squeezes Harvey's hands again. "I can only say that I hope you won't let this drive a wedge --"

"No, never. Never. But... a part of me needs to pull back a little. Just -- for a little while --"

"Harv... he'll feel that," Bruce says, as gently as he can.

Harvey frowns and looks down between them --

Hangs his *head* --

And sighs. "Yeah. Yeah, he will. Poor. Poor little guy --"

"And we must never *pity* --"

"*Never*, yeah, but --" Harvey looks up again. "I didn't give him any time to hurt about those killings. I didn't give him -- I was so busy freaking out that he *had* to step up and cope. Christ, I *know* I'm being unfair to him -- ah, big guy, help me out here."

Bruce nods and tugs on Harvey's hands until he shuffles closer, until he kneels straddling Bruce's thighs and Bruce can hold him again, grip his hips --

Harvey sighs his pleasure, his *relief* --

"The violence... is too much for you."

"I think. I think it might be, yeah. I mean, it's all well and good when we're watching an action movie, or when you're *talking* about what you're gonna be doing every night..."

"Was it too much when you were watching Tim at the dojo?"

Harvey frowns, obviously thinking about it -- and then shakes his head. "Still theoretical. He was too good to go up against the other students, but the *sensei* could've wiped the floor with him. That was obvious."

"It made the violence in him... safe."

"God -- God, I'm not -- but I am. I really am," Harvey says, laughing painfully and shaking his head. "You should've seen him facing up to the Sister. He barely *blinked*. He -- *he* was moving like the reptile. Like -- some kinda crazy knife-wielding *snake*."

And that -- "Some of that was the magic of the blade --"

"Yeah, but some of that -- Blood said Tim Drakes are *made* for knives. That it's one of those true-across-the-multiverse *things*."

"I..." Bruce smiles ruefully. "A part of me wishes --"

"It would've turned you on."

"Very much."

Harvey nods and swallows. "Yeah. Yeah, I know that about you. It -- there are a lot of things that turn me on about Tim, and some of those things *do* involve him kicking ass. Just -- I'm proud of him, *too*."

"I know --"

"I need -- I need other things from him. I need the part of him that likes to read *incredibly* nerdy things, and build even *nerdier* things, and... the *sweet* kid -- even if he's got an edge to him -- the generous and loving and -- ah, you know what I mean, don't you?"

"I do, brother," Bruce says, and strokes Harvey's sides. "He was beautiful to you before you knew he was capable of violence --"

"He's *still* beautiful --"

"But now... a little frightening?"

"Yeah. I -- you're gonna scare me, too, big guy. I'm... figuring that out."

"I will always try to keep that away from you --"

"Don't -- or. Hell, I don't know. Maybe -- maybe I need to beat this outta myself --"

"Brother. Let me -- let *both* of us give you what you need of us --"

"And *only* that? No. Hell, no. It doesn't work that way --"

"But I know Tim would never wish to frighten you --"

"I -- I don't *have* to be a coward --"

"It's not cowardice to fear something which can *only* be termed darkness, Harv --"

"And that's --" Harvey shakes his head. "There's a black heart to this place, Bruce. *In* this place. There's -- there's something *beating*, and living -- or *not* living..."

"What do you mean?"

"You've never -- no, I'm not --" Harvey licks his lips. "I know you've never felt it. You grew up here. You never really known any *other* home but freakin' *Exeter*, and God knows there was a black freaking heart *there*, too."

"You're confusing me, Harv. We were talking about Tim --"

"Yeah. Tim and *darkness*, because *he* lives in a place with a black heart, too, and her name is freaking *Janet*. And I -- I don't even know *why* it's so clear to me, why it's so -- it's not like I grew up in the land of sunshine and daffodils," and Harvey smiles ruefully again. "But... it's there. And it's *here*. And maybe... maybe all that time I spent running around in the street and in the parks and in the arcades and just *every-freaking-where* else I could go that wasn't home was enough, you know?"

Bruce frowns again. "Enough to... show you a contrasting view?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Because I think if you asked *Blood* about it? He'd tell you straight out that there was something wrong in this house."

"Brother, he *loves* Mother --"

"'Mother' again, God -- but that's not important, because I wasn't even *talking* about her that time. I was talking about what she feeds on, or maybe what feeds on her -- no, Blood would never let that happen -- God, I'm confusing *myself* now," Harvey says, and squeezes his eyes shut --

Covers his face --

"Harv --"

Harvey moves his hands to Bruce's face and presses their foreheads together. He --

He breathes *raggedly* --

Bruce strokes his back in the firm, long motions that most ease him, most *relax* him --

And, eventually, Harvey takes a shuddering breath and licks his lips. "I won't pull back from Tim."

"If -- if you must --"

"I'm gonna tell him just -- everything. Everything about my past. He's a smart little guy. He'll know *exactly* how my -- my freaking *damage* works in a New York minute, and then he'll probably make the same promises to me *you* did, and I'll have to worry about *both* of you walking on eggshells around me."

"Neither of us would ever hurt you --"

"And you know that about him. You --" Harvey tilts his head up again and smiles. "You feel him a little now, yeah?"

"More... more than that. I must keep reminding myself how little I still know of him --"

"He's my brother in my heart -- just like you are. But you guys -- you share blood --"

"It's *not* more meaningful --"

Harvey's expression is... deeply wry.

"I *realize* that it just saved my life, brother, but there's more to life than --"

"Life?"

"*Yes*. *You* taught me that."

And Harvey's expression softens immediately, beautifully -- "I love you so much."

"Every moment with you in my arms is joy, brother."

"Even when we're talking about painful things?"

Bruce nods once.

Harvey sighs and shivers. "Yeah. I knew that, too, didn't I." He smiles. "All right. It doesn't mean any more. We're bigger than that --"

"*Greater* --"

"Ah, I wish he was here right *now*," Harvey says, and squeezes his eyes shut. "He should know everything about *us* already.

"Yes. I'm so sorry I wasted so much *time*."

"Tell *him* -- well, he's probably sick of your apologies already."

"That... did seem to be the gist of his commentary on the matter."

Harvey laughs softly. "Also... you know..."

"Yes?"

"It could've been a little screwed-up if we *hadn't* waited. In *some* ways," and Harvey raises his eyebrows.

That's confusing -- until it isn't. Bruce blinks. "I would never wish -- hm. When *did* he become pubescent?"

Harvey coughs. "I dunno. I'm thinking we probably shouldn't do that math with any *great* degree of vigor or rigorousness, big guy."

"Vigor -- hmm. If you're sure."

"I'm *sure*... that sometimes things happen at just the right *time* for them to happen."

"Harv... have you become religious?"

"Heh. I've *become*... pretty damned sure that there's a whole lot of stuff out there that we can't see or understand not because we're too young, or even too ignorant, but because we're too *human*." Harvey leans back enough to jab at Bruce's sternum lightly with his index finger. "What I wanna know is how the *hell* *you* managed not to come up with that despite Blood being right *there* all your *life*."

"I... he can be as protective as *you*, Harv."

Harvey's expression is skeptical beyond *words* --

"I... can also be quite stubborn?"

Harvey nods slowly and -- firmly.

Bruce smiles ruefully and takes Harvey's hand in his own, bringing it to his mouth for a kiss, and another, and another --

"Bruce..."

"There are times -- like now -- when I am only lost in the wealth, the *privilege*, of being allowed to do this," Bruce says, and sucks a kiss to each of Harvey's bruised and abraded knuckles.

Harvey sighs. "As much as I wanna let you get privileged all *over* me..."

"We are not done speaking of serious matters. Yes, I know, brother," and Bruce releases Harvey's hand and moves his own hands back to Harvey's hips. "Tell me more about your fear of -- Martha --"

"No --"

"Brother --"

"No, don't -- she'll always be *your* mother. You -- call her that, okay? It wouldn't be right for you not to --"

"Your comfort --"

"Is wrapped up tight with *yours* for some things," Harvey says, and smiles again. "Most things, actually."

Bruce shivers -- "There are times when I wish only --" He shakes his head. "In these moments, I think -- I believe with everything I *am* -- that if I could merely touch you in every way I was moved to, then I could make you understand --"

"I *do* understand --"

"I *ache*, brother."

Harvey narrows his eyes and nods. "It's like -- every day before we started making love --"

"*Pain* --"

"But there was sweetness, too, all those hours just *talking* --"

"Imagining the pain of *rejection* --"

"Yeah -- God, and I was just -- I was a *kid* --"

"I knew *nothing* --"

"You knew a lot more about gay sex than *I* did --"

"Brother, I was *ignorant*. Every -- every moment with you was my *true* education --"

"God, you taught me everything about *love* --"

"*Brotherhood* --"

"And I would --" Harvey licks his lips. "I would squeeze my eyes shut in my narrow little bed, try -- try to squeeze my *ears* shut so all I could see and hear would be my memories of you *showering*, or *humming*, or *running*, or -- Jesus, bending *over* --"

"I want -- I want Tim to know *this*!"

"*God*, yeah, and he could -- he could tell us more about his fantasies --"

"His *dreams*. I think -- he *must* dream --"

"Everyone --"

"I think his dreams must be beautiful, dark and sweet --"

"Yeah, hell, he's been alone for so *long*. Like you, but *worse* --"

"And we could -- we could *ease* --"

"And *teach* --"

"He..." Bruce *grips* Harvey's hips.

"Yeah?"

"I believe his school day doesn't start for another three hours --"

Harvey coughs. "Big guy."

"You believe it would be... too much to go to him now."

Harvey smiles wryly and ruefully at once. And nods. Slowly.

"Hm. It could -- we could say he forgot something --"

"And then drag him out of his house in his pajamas and bone him in the car?"

Bruce licks his lips again. "I was also imagining some degree of conversation --"

"*After* school."

"I --"

"And before school *every* time he sleeps over," Harvey says, and pats his cheek.

"There are few things more maddening than your *sanity*, brother."

"I'll be honest, big guy -- I'm still thinking about Martha."

"And that... is allowing you to have a lesser degree of arousal?"

Harvey coughs again -- and then laughs truly for a moment. "I *want* to say something about how that *shouldn't* be a surprise..."

"But you've actually been paying attention to the conversation we've been having...?" And Bruce raises an eyebrow.

"Heh. *Mean* bastards like you don't get any -- Jesus, I'm gonna have to stop using that word so much, aren't I."

"It's a terribly insulting and coarse --"

"And you *love* it when I'm 'coarse,' because it's just the kind of 'incorrect' that puts distance between us and *Dad*."

"Very true. But... *is* he your father?"

"I -- no. But sometimes I think he's more my father than Martha is my mother."

Bruce nods thoughtfully. "*Because* he's more correct."

"I... don't know if I'd put it that way? But then, I *mostly* don't want to put it that way because I know how much *you* hate it, so... yeah," Harvey says, and smiles ruefully again. "He's actually *acted* like a father to me sometimes. A *cold* and *distant* father, but I can't actually get on him for that, because a) it's not like he treated *you* any better, and b) we're screwing around like animals in his house every night instead of doing anything *like* our Wayne-ly duties."

"I... confess I've never quite known what those *are*, brother. And... he's been terrible with Tim."

"I think *your* Wayne-ly duties are somewhere over in Princeton learning things you already know about business and biochemistry while auditioning *smart* co-eds to mother the next generation of crazy people --"

"Harv."

"You think I'm wrong? *Ask* him. See what he says about what you should be doing when you *force* him to answer a direct question. But..." Harvey shakes his head. "I thought he was better with Tim. I -- I guess I just assumed that the fact that he was *still* banging Tim's mother meant... something. *Anything*."

"It should have."

"Yeah. Really -- yeah," Harvey says, and smiles sadly. "I'll tell you something, big guy."

"Please," and Bruce squeezes Harvey's hips again.

"I think -- I think I'm not gonna have any kids of my own."

"Oh, but -- you'd be a *wonderful* father!"

"You think so, hunh?"

"*Yes*!"

"Well, I think *you* would be a wonderful father," Harvey says, and *looks* at him.

Bruce... recoils. Slightly.

"Yeah. *That*."

"It's only... there are so many ways it could go *wrong*, brother --"

"Uh, huh."

"*Terribly* wrong --"

"Exactly."

"To be -- to be responsible for the life of a *child*, for the *emotional* life of a child --" Bruce shivers. "I don't understand how *anyone* can make that choice after giving the matter any thought *whatsoever* -- oh."

"Yeah. And most people? Don't think about it. At all. I mean, I'll never know, but I'd be *stunned* if my biological parents ever *really* sat down to work it out between them. Now, *your* parents had the benefit of a ton of education and everything else --"

"No, I -- it was a purely mercenary decision to have me."

"Oh. Uh. What?"

Bruce nods and strokes Harvey's hips with -- just his thumbs. "Mother told me it was a matter of what their fathers would surrender in terms of control over the Wayne and Kane fortunes --"

"Wait, wait, they didn't even want to have you for the sake of -- I don't know, their *own* immortalities?"

Bruce smiles ruefully. "I'm forced to admit... Mother has tried to explain to me more than once what *you* have, Harv. She... once, when I was nine, she explained to me -- using very simple words -- that she and our father only married because it was arranged for them --"

"Jesus, she *told* you --"

"-- and that they were both opposed to having children. Mother told me that she didn't think our father would be any sort of father, at all, and that she knew she wasn't ready to *be* a mother..." Bruce shakes his head. "She didn't tell me what our father's objections were, assuming she knew them."

Harvey looks horrified... but, after a moment, unsurprised. He nods --

Bruce nods back --

"She softened it for you."

"Yes. She immediately began telling me about her love for me, and how much she knew she wanted me nearly from the time she first knew she was pregnant." Bruce frowns. "There is... she's told me that Jason was the one who informed her of her pregnancy, but then, she's also told me that the two of them didn't become close until after our father began seeing Tim's mother."

"You're not sure which one to go with?"

Bruce shakes his head somewhat dumbly. "Though... I suppose Jason didn't need to be *close* to Mother to know she was pregnant."

Harvey raises his eyebrows -- but then he shrugs. "Powers like his... hard to be sure."

That... "You're being gentle with me again."

"I --"

"Harv."

"Maybe I am. Or maybe I'm just owning up to the *fact* that *neither* of us can be sure when that relationship started -- or what 'close' *means* to Martha when it comes to that kind of relationship -- without asking her or Blood or *both* of them some real damned personal questions."

Bruce blushes again, but -- "Perhaps we should."

"I don't want --"

"Perhaps *I* should."

Harvey frowns. "You don't have to, big guy. Not -- all that stuff is off to the *side* of the real issues."

Oh... his hands are shaking. Bruce squeezes Harvey firmly until they *stop* --

"Big guy...?"

"I... I was about to start being... avoidant."

"I... oh. Don't do that."

Bruce laughs softly and rests his forehead against Harvey's again. "She's so beautiful, and brilliant, and wise... and all of that is -- nearly -- meaningless."

Harvey shivers. "Is it? Wait -- no. She was kindness, love, *acceptance* --"

"*Warmth*, brother. And -- and she's continued to be that. She accepted *us* --" But he can't finish that thought. He can't --

He remembers the *interest* in her eyes whenever he came close -- perhaps *perilously* close -- to talking about Harvey's kisses, Harvey's *touch* --

The interest and *avidity* --

The --

On any other person, he would define those expressions as *lustful* --

Bruce moans and *clutches* Harvey --

"I'm here, big guy --"

"Brother, oh -- she *desires* me!" And Bruce looks up, *searches* Harvey, searches for *denial* --

And doesn't find it.

"Brother... brother, I don't know what to *do*."

Harvey swallows and nods. "It's a lot -- you don't have to come up with all the answers right now --"

"It's only -- my own desire for her is already too *much*!"

"It wouldn't even *be* there if she hadn't --"

"You don't *know* that, Harv!"

"I *do*. It's how these things *work* --"

"I told her that I would always... that I would always *work* to give her what she needed, what she *wanted* --"

"Some promises *have* to be broken --"

"I *know* that, brother, but I don't --" Bruce squeezes his eyes shut and shudders all over --

All *over* --

And Harvey holds him, squeezes and *rocks* him --

Harvey is so warm, so strong --

"Brother, I *need* you --"

"You're always have me. *Always*. No matter *what*."

And Bruce wants to deny that -- no. Bruce *wants* to want to deny that, to help *Harvey* to deny it --

To give Harvey room and -- and *freedom* --

He can't. He --

He buries his face against Harvey's throat and lets himself shudder again, lets himself --

Oh, but that's a *tear* --

"Ah, big guy, I wish I could just protect you from this *forever* --"

"You *can't*. You -- you *mustn't* --"

"I *love* you --"

"Brother, you are my love, my light --"

Harvey holds him more *tightly* --

*Gives* Bruce his *strength* -- and he must take it, must be *worthy* of it, must --

He must face *everything*, and the easiest *and* most thorough way to do that is... logically.

Mother desires him -- and has for some unknown length of time. Exactitude in this is desirable in and of itself, but not vital. It is enough to know that the desire is *old* enough that it has adjusted and *defined* her behavior with regards to *both* him and Harvey. Mother has a *prurient* interest in their relationship. She may or may not wish their happiness -- no.

She has always --

He begins again:

Mother loves him romantically and physically as well as filially. Mother's motives -- for everything -- can thus never be considered entirely pure. Not without knowledge Bruce does not -- yet -- have access to --

"You're thinking over there, big guy?"

"Yes. I -- I need --"

"I'll be quiet and just hold you," Harvey says, and kisses Bruce's cheek. "Don't -- don't hurt yourself or anything."

"I will not," and Bruce closes his eyes and fills his mind with the image of Mother dancing in the ballroom before it was the gymnasium --

Before Harvey came to them --

Dancing and *inviting* --

("Come *on*, boychik, I'll *show* you the steps!"

"I -- I'm very clumsy with modern dances, Mother --"

"Shows what you know. *This* dance hasn't been popular since before you were *born*.")

And she had smiled at him, hair tumbling about her shoulders as she shimmied and beckoned, twisted and smiled --

And all Bruce had wanted to do was watch. All -- no.

He'd wanted to sketch, as well, but he'd known that his skills at the time were not even *remotely* up to the task. He'd known that she'd be stiff and lifeless on the page, *cold* --

He'd wanted her heat.

He -- frowns. "Has she danced for you, brother?"

"What? Uh... yeah, actually. Back before the gymnasium -- you know."

Bruce takes a deep breath and looks up again, meeting Harvey's eyes --

"Ah, big guy..." Harvey wipes Bruce's tears away with two quick motions. "Tell me."

"Did you know what she wanted then?"

"I... that's a big 'sort of.' I mostly had some big, thick walls between me and all the things I wasn't thinking about. I knew the walls were there, and I knew enough about what was behind them that I didn't peek by accident... but. She danced for you."

"Many times," Bruce says, and lets himself sink back into thought. *Pushes* himself until --

He desires Mother.

He desires her touch, her taste, her kisses, her cries and moans of pleasure -- everything.

When Jason was teaching him of heterosexual lovemaking --

"I wanted... I wanted to ask Jason about Mother. About -- what they did together. *How* they made love."

Harvey strokes him and nods.

"You... I feel strongly that I should be *judged* --"

"No, brother."

"Harv --"

"I want her, *too*, remember?"

"She isn't -- you don't *think* of her as your mother," Bruce says, and grips Harvey's hips again --

"And you always will. I just -- she built this in you --"

"I don't think --"

"If she didn't do it alone? She *helped*. Because *you* couldn't do this alone, big guy --"

"I learned to desire *you* entirely without help --"

"*Think* about it," Harvey says, and squeezes Bruce's shoulders. "Think, okay? Because --"

"Because... my own desires toward correctness would have stopped me... without her willing and eager assistance," and Bruce frowns and swallows.

"Yeah. That."

"I still... love her."

"You always will."

"I -- oh. You. You still love... your parents."

Harvey smiles ruefully. "Both of 'em, even though I barely remember anything about my Mom, and my Dad... well. You know all of that. It's who we are. How we're built. It's -- it's *human*."

Bruce closes his eyes. For -- a moment.

Harvey strokes his face, with and against the grain of Bruce's stubble --

Bruce nuzzles Harvey's hand. He must -- he *must* -- "I've never considered love a weakness before --"

"And you shouldn't start now. Love is -- love is love, big guy. You can't get away from it if you're anything like human --"

"You also can't get away from the *rhinovirus* --"

Harvey raises his eyebrows. "Is what we have a virus?"

"*No* -- but -- surely, we can't consider our love and what I feel -- what *we* feel -- for Mother in the same *terms*?"

"Why not?"

"Because one is -- is *sick*."

"A lot of people would say *both* of them are --"

"And they are *ignorant*, brother. I -- no. There must be... there *must* be a segregation of terms."

Harvey nods, but he's frowning --

"Harv --"

"I just think it's dangerous, big guy. You start separating things --"

"And, perhaps, I'll begin forgetting that the woman I'm in love with is also *Mother*, is also the woman who *twisted* me, is also the woman who -- who *molested* you -- oh, brother, are you all *right*?"

Harvey's smile is quirked. "Yeah. I am. Are you?"

"I am well in your arms, brother. But... I remain unsure of what must be done about Mother, beyond being certain that we must move as quickly as possible. I... there is a weight on me now."

"I'm so freakin' sorry about that --"

"No, Harv. *Brother*. I -- I know, now, that it is a weight you've carried for five long years."

Harvey blows out a breath and shivers -- and nods. "We can. We can share the weight."

"Every -- *every* weight --"

"Always, big guy. I'll do anything for you, and -- God, I'll stick by you, okay? No matter what."

"Harv --"

"No. Matter. *What*," Harvey says, and he's *gripping* Bruce's face and almost *glaring* into Bruce's eyes --

And Bruce knows what that means. Knows --

("These are decisions you have to make for *yourself*.")

Bruce inhales sharply. "Brother... do you believe I *will* make love with Mother?"

Harvey winces --

"Oh --"

"I don't know. I don't know. I just know how seductive she can be --"

"I'm not a *naïf* anymore, Harv --"

"I don't trust *myself* around her, big guy. Not -- not a hundred percent."

Bruce blinks. "Oh."

Harvey strokes Bruce's stubble more and smiles ruefully. "Yeah."

"Do you -- you don't normally *appreciate* women that much older --"

"Nothing normal about her. Not -- not the good *or* the bad. She's special, full stop."

Bruce shivers again. "Yes, she is. I -- I'll stand with *you*, Harv --"

"Good. Let's -- let's hit the papers early, hunh? Maybe we can skip the realtor and just go visiting places."

"A realtor might allow us to see *more* places quickly, Harv. I -- assuming he or she isn't a demon bent on terrible vengeance."

"Assuming that, yeah." And Harvey snorts --

And snickers --

And kisses Bruce *while* he's still laughing. It's messy, breathy --

It's wonderful, and soon enough they're laughing *together*, holding each other and swaying on their knees --

"I love you --"

"Always. *Always* --"

"*Anything* --"

And Harvey pulls back. "Yeah? Shower with me."

"I -- you wouldn't prefer to --"

"If we stay in this bed *any* longer? We're gonna stay in this bed all day."

"I -- do remember why we don't wish to do so. A shower with you would be wonderful."

Harvey leans in and *pecks* his mouth. "Westward ho, brother!"

"The bathroom is actually to the northeast --"

And Harvey starts pushing him. There is a temptation to resist --

But only enough that he may see Harvey strain, and struggle, and smile *hungrily* for Bruce's strength --

He always *enjoys* it so much --

And so, perhaps, it's necessary to *wrestle* Harvey into the tub --

"*Jesus*, big guy, we still have *clothes* on --"

To force him against the tile with one hand and turn the water on with the other --

He's *laughing* again, shaking out his hair and trying to get water in Bruce's eyes --

And so Bruce presses him against the wall more firmly, forces out some of his air --

"*Bruce* --"

-- and shows him the tube of lubricant he had tucked into the waistband of his boxers during their wrestling match.

"Christ, you got fast hands. And I -- am not saying no," Harvey says, grinning and waggling his eyebrows. "Gonna put me where you want me?"

And Bruce's mind is flooded with images and memories. Harvey's cheek against the tile, Harvey ejaculating into the spray, Harvey bent over the side of the tub, Harvey on his *belly* --

"Oh, look at you flushing. Look -- you're heatin' up all over, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"You got -- you want everything right now, yeah?"

Bruce presses *harder* against Harvey's sternum --

Harvey grunts, eyes slipping most of the way closed. "You can have it, big guy. You *know* you can --"

"*Yes* --" And Bruce growls and grips Harvey's shoulder, spinning him *before* he can help --

"Oh, *yeah* --"

"Press. Press your *cheek*..."

Harvey pants and immediately presses the whole of his body against the tile, *nuzzling* the tile and shivering until he settles his left cheek there -- "Like this?"

Bruce growls again --

*Squeezes* Harvey's shoulder --

Harvey *winces* --

No -- Bruce lets go --

"No -- hey, no, *hurt* me."

Bruce *grunts* -- and squeezes again --

"God. God, so *strong*, you just keep getting *stronger* --"

"For you --"

"For your *mission*, for -- God, *do* me --"

"Harv --"

"*Please*," Harvey says, and scratches at the tile, tenses and *flexes* -- and cries out when Bruce bites the back of his neck --

And cries out *again* when Bruce yanks down his briefs --

Bruce bites *harder* --

"Fuck, Bruce, *yes* -- no --"

Bruce pulls back and shoves his tongue in Harvey's ear --

"Nnh --"

"How. How much should I hurt you."

Harvey groans and shudders -- "I. Please. Please."

"Tell me. You must --"

"*Fuck* -- I." And Harvey drags his face against the tile --

He's flushed so *deeply* --

It's showing even beneath his summer-dark *skin* --

Bruce pants and squeezes his shoulder again --

"God -- *God* --"

Reaches between and squeezes his *scrotum* --

"*Hnh* -- oh -- *please*!"

"Brother..."

Harvey's eyes are squeezed shut --

Harvey's hands are balled into *fists* --

He gasps and opens his mouth, gasps and *moans* --

"*Tell* me!"

He opens his *eyes* -- but there is no focus, no --

He is already *powerfully* aroused --

Bruce *licks* his ear --

And Harvey *bucks*, wet skin squeaking against the tile --

He whimpers and *pants* again --

And Bruce squeezes harder. To -- to see --

"*Yes*! Ah -- ah, *God* --"

"Harv --"

"You're just so -- I'm not *weak* --"

"You're *strong*, Harv --"

"Not like you, God, not like *you*, big guy, and I need --" And Harvey shakes his head and spreads his legs wider, *scrubs* his cheek against the tile, blinks rapidly -- "Can't -- can't *see* straight --"

"Tell me what you --"

"You *know* what I need, you always -- please, *please*, God, I'll -- I'll *crawl* for it --"

"*Harv* --"

"You know I will, big guy, you know -- you know I'd *love* it -- *nnh* --"

And Bruce hadn't *meant* to grip Harvey's penis, but once he has it in his hand --

So long and *slim*, and Bruce is aching for it the way he *always* is at the touch, the sight --

But he's also aching for just this, this *vicious* squeeze --

Harvey *sobs* --

"My love. My -- I. I'll give you what you need --"

"Yeah, yeah -- please -- can't stop thinkin' of you puttin' it to the little guy --"

"He wanted me to take him *hard* --"

Harvey groans and *beats* at the tile -- "I want it -- I can *take* it harder --"

"Yes. Yes, you --"

"I *will* take it for you, take anything, absolutely -- fuck me, just fuck me --"

"*Yes* --"

"*Please*, Bruce, I'm already -- already clenching up for you --"

Bruce feels himself twitch *hard* -

He's groaning and *stroking* Harvey's penis --

Harvey whines the way he *always* does when the only 'lubricant' for his penis is water, when the rhythm *judders* --

"I've got you --"

"Yeah, I'm yours, all yours --" He pushes up on his toes --

"*Down*, Harv --"

"*HNH* --"

And Harvey is twitching in his hand, shuddering and flushing even darker --

"Empty, so *empty* --"

Bruce growls --

He'd meant for that to be a *word*, but --  but it's enough to move quickly, to let go of Harvey for only *just* long enough to retrieve the lubricant, slick his fingers --

"*Spread* yourself --"

"God, *yes*," and Harvey's body is perfect, so --

His shoulders are so much broader than they were when he was fourteen, the musculature of his back so much more *complete* as he reaches --

As he *opens* himself* for --

For Bruce's *touch* --

But he wants to hurt. He --

Bruce grips the back of Harvey's neck with one hand and pushes in with two fingers immediately --

"*AH*!"

Bruce shudders and moans --

Moans *more* for the feel of Harvey clenching again and *again* --

And thrusts.

And thrusts --

Harvey sobs and *shakes* --

Bruce thrusts *harder* --

Harvey lifts his right foot -- and brings it down *hard*, splashing --

"Harv --"

"Don't -- God, don't stop --"

Bruce thinks the pressure he's using on Harvey's neck must be *bruising* --

But Harvey only shudders and starts to rock, to *move* for him, move into every thrust --

"Beautiful..."

"Yours --"

"You. You sound so *strained*, Harv --"

Harvey's laugh is an explosion of breath -- "You're doin' me, you're -- God, big guy, you're makin' me *take* it --"

Bruce pants and squeezes *harder* for a moment --

"God, *yeah* --"

"*Harv* --"

"*Anything* -- *everything* -- God, fill me up, work me over, freaking -- freaking *use* me --"

"Never --"

"Please --"

"*Harv* --"

"*Please* --*UNH* -- oh, fuck -- *fuck* me --"

"Like this."

"Like -- oh, God, you're gonna make me *come* --"

"*Always*, Harv," and Bruce keeps working his prostate, crooking his fingers *cruelly* --

Harvey *kicks* the side of the tub --

"Be *careful*."

Harvey sobs -- "Can't -- can't fucking --"

"Then. Then be *still*."

Harvey cries out, throwing his head back -- but he doesn't ejaculate. He --

"You're close."

"Yeah -- yeah --"

"You want. You want my penis."

"So *bad*, God, I -- do you want me on my knees? I'll do it, I *want* it --"

"I want you right where you *are*, Harv!"

"Then -- oh, God -- oh, God, that's *three* --"

"For *you*," Bruce says, and he's frowning, shuddering and --

His heart is pounding and he *aches* --

And Harvey is sobbing on every breath, sobbing and nodding and *shoving* himself back onto Bruce's fingers --

"Harv. *Harv*."

"Such -- so -- *please* --"

"Are you *ready*."

Harvey cries out again --

Sobs and *shudders* --

"*Answer* --"

"Fuck me, *fuck* me, *fuck* --" And Harvey *shouts* when Bruce pulls out --

That was too *fast*, too --

But he wants to be hurt, wants --

Bruce's own boxers slip down his legs easily enough, but he has to turn away from the stream to slick his penis, his *aching* --

"Please. Please. God, please, big guy, please, I need it so bad, so freaking *bad* --"

"*Harv* --"

Harvey *sobs* again and *yanks* his cheeks wide, bends his head then *shoves* his cheek back against the tile -- "*Please* -- *hnh* -- oh -- oh, yeah, please *hold* me --"

"Your. Your hip."

"You can *bruise* me, bruise me right -- ah, *fuck*, you're not waiting, you're not *waiting* --"

Bruce *freezes* with the head of his penis inside --

"*Don't* wait!"

"Oh -- *Harv*," but he's *shoving* in as he's speaking --

He's pushing --

So *deep* --

Harvey's mouth drops open but no *sound* comes out --

"Harv. *Harv*."

Harvey nods and squeezes his eyes shut --

Clenches around him and they groan together --

Clenches again --

*Again*, and Bruce *can't*. He grips Harvey's hips and holds him still unnecessarily, he *grinds* in --

"*Bruce*!"

"My. My *love* --"

"Had your -- your hands on my hips all *morning*," and Harvey laughs desperately, *breathlessly* --

"You wanted *this*."

"More. More, do me, please -- you *know*."

He does. He --

He knows Harvey always moans just like *this* for the feel of Bruce pulling most of the way out *slowly* --

He knows Harvey *shudders* for Bruce's pauses --

Which usually last much longer than *this*, much --

Oh, but he won't stop, he won't --

He'll give Harvey this rhythm, give them both this -- this *pleasure* --

"*Bruce*!"

This *ride*, Harvey would call it a *ride*, perhaps because it's just this smooth --

Because Bruce is *forcing* it to be this smooth, forcing --

He feels so perfect, always so perfect --

"*Brother*."

Harvey is *straining* against Bruce's grip, but Bruce *can* bruise Harvey's hips. No one will see but Tim, no one will *question* the finger marks --

Bruce digs *in* --

Harvey moans and *shudders* --

Bruce feels himself break out in new sweat, sweat he wants to rub all over Harvey's *skin* --

It's *wasteful* to have it washed away --

He needs so much *more* -- and perhaps that's why he's shortening his thrusts again, *speeding* them as he presses closer --

"Bruce --"

Closer --

"Crushing -- ah, God, so *big* -- *AH*!"

More dangerous to bite Harvey's ear like this, less *deniable* -- but it feels so right to hold Harvey with his hands *and* his teeth, to grip harder and *harder* --

To smell *his* sweat and tears under the sweet and mineral scents of the water --

To hear his grunts and *cries* as they become higher, more desperate, more pained and more *desperate* --

Everything within Bruce is *climbing* --

No, rushing --

No, *tumbling*, because this is *disorienting*, wild, heavy and *dizzying* --

Always --

*Always* --

Bruce *tickles* the soft flesh between his teeth with his tongue and Harvey bucks --

*Screams* ---

Shudders and clenches over and --

Oh, it's random, so --

So *hard* --

Bruce bites down *harder* --

More tears roll down Harvey's cheek --

Harvey is shaking so much, so *violently* --

It seems almost *cruel* to release his ear, to lift Harvey onto his toes just enough that every thrust --

Every thrust makes Harvey *howl* and beat at the tile --

He is --

He is wordless and *lost*, and for a moment Bruce can't think, can't --

The moment *lasts*, because Harvey is so vocal in this moment, so --

There's no control, at *all*, there --

Bruce *must* be hurting him --

It's what he *wants*, but he's wild, so *wild*, and Bruce only wants to hold him down, force him to *perfect* stillness until he --

No, *not* until he calms again, not --

Bruce snarls and releases Harvey's right hip --

"Nuh -- *no* --"

"*Take*," Bruce says, tugging Harvey back from the wall and gripping his penis again.

"*Ah* -- *please*!"

"You're. You're much. More slick..."

And Harvey is nodding *frantically*, already working himself between Bruce's fist and his penis, already making Bruce feel like a machine, a mechanism gone free, a -- some sort of fleshly *prison*, something that can move and do and *force* even as it sweats and flexes and *aches*.

He is the instrument of Harvey's pleasurable *torture* --

And he knows precisely how to make it worse. He --

He licks the back of Harvey's neck --

"Unh --"

He squeezes Harvey's left hip hard enough to hurt *both* of them --

"*Yeah*!"

And he strokes Harvey's penis *slower* than his thrusts, forcing enough of himself away from the pleasure, the need, the --

He builds *control* in himself until he can work Harvey's penis in precisely the same way he'd done it the *first* time --

("Oh -- oh, big guy, that's -- that's *real* good...")

And Harvey sobs for him again --

("Jesus, that's -- I can't think -- please don't stop!")

Harvey shudders and doesn't *stop* --

("Please!")

Harvey screams and clenches hard enough to *make* Bruce squeeze, make Bruce growl loudly --

Too loudly -- he misses Harvey's first *whimpers* as he begins to ejaculate, as he --

Oh, but he's sobbing again, now, shaking and *sniffing* even as he pumps into Bruce's fist, spatters the wall, slicks Bruce's *hand* --

"*Beautiful*," Bruce says, but it's truly a groan, truly --

His body is *ahead* of him, insisting that there is no need for anything but the very *thinnest* veils of control --

He's pushing his slick hand into Harvey's *mouth* --

He's muffling Harvey's -- Harvey's *screams* --

He can't stop --

He can't *slow*, because this is what his body had been waiting for, this *permission* as Harvey loosens as much as he *ever* does --

Harvey sucks Bruce's fingers and Bruce hears himself *bellow*, sound echoing ludicrously --

Oh --

But every shudder --

Every *buck* as Harvey tries to match a rhythm which doesn't *exist* --

So --

"*Brother*," Bruce blurts, and Harvey sucks harder, clenches and makes Bruce shout again, bellow and shove, drive, *slam* --

Too much, too *much*, but it all feels so wonderful, so --

And Harvey is *nodding*, *humming* --

His brother is so *strong*, so --

And one day, Tim will be just this strong. He could have both of them, one after the other, wear himself out to *nothing* but a limp rag of joy and satiation --

So much warmth --

So much *warmth* -- and heat, raw and *painfully* shocking when Harvey *bites* Bruce's fingers --

"*Yes*, Harv --"

When Harvey *growls*, Bruce *spasms* -- and it doesn't stop. It doesn't ---

He bites harder and Bruce can't thrust properly, can't -- can't *angle* himself --

He's spasming again and *again* --

And then Harvey reaches back and *rakes* Bruce's buttocks with his short nails, and there is a moment of *fire*, a shuddering *wave* that leaves him rigid, sweating and *rigid* as he ejaculates --

As Harvey growls *triumphantly* and *sucks* his fingers once more, licks him --

Bruce can't --

There's so *much*, and he can't feel anything of himself save those parts which are touching Harvey, buried *inside* Harvey --

So --

So much *fire* --

He's always wanted to *burn* --

And motion comes back to him with a snap which leaves him feeling untethered, loose, graceless and moments from a fall, *loose* -- needy. He wraps his arms around Harvey's chest and thrusts once --

"*Big* guy --"

Again --

*Again * --

"God -- God, yeah, I *feel* you --"

"Harv. *Harv* --"

"I got you, big guy, just -- just keep going --"

"I need. It *hurts*."

And Harvey coughs a laugh, shivers -- "Is it a *good* hurt?"

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

"Oh, brother, I -- yeah," Harvey says, and strokes Bruce's arms, his sides, his working hips -- "How much do you wanna experiment?"

"I want -- I *need* to give you what you want --"

"You did. You *really* did," Harvey says, shuddering again --

Wincing and dragging his face against the *tile* again --

"I don't -- you can stop now."

"But do you --"

"I do," and Harvey turns enough to show Bruce a rueful smile. "I'm gonna wanna sit down in front of people today and tomorrow, after all."

The image of Harvey fully-dressed -- perhaps in one of the beautiful deep brown suits Mother has always agreed made Harvey look even more attractive --

He is not *thinking* about Mother --

But he is thinking of Harvey's expression *tightening* just so as he sits down on one of the chairs in the dining room --

Or perhaps in his Lexedes once they pick Tim up?

Would Tim notice the expression on Harvey's -- no. How *quickly* would he notice it, and when would he deduce the *reasons* for it? How --

Harvey sighs, long and *relieved*. "Okay, that's better, but where did you just *go*?"

Bruce blinks -- and blushes. He kisses Harvey's bruising ear. "To Harrison Terrace."

Harvey snorts. "*Horndog*. It'll be a *while* before you can do *Tim* like this. Or -- won't it?"

"He had stretched himself, but not that much. I was thinking. I was imagining testing his deductive abilities."

Harvey raises his eyebrows.

Bruce smiles ruefully. "Yes, I suspected that was a strange thing to do with the afterglow."

"I..." Harvey snickers and shakes his head before reaching up and back to smack the back of Bruce's head. "Let's work on that a little, hunh?"

"As you say," Bruce says, and kisses the -- thankfully small -- bruises on Harvey's neck --

"Mm -- oh -- God, I love -- wait, how bad?"

"Minor only. Though the one from my index finger will be above your collar."

"Damn. Well, I asked for it."

"Not." Bruce licks *around* the bruise in question. "Not in so many words --"

"Heh. But we  *both* knew --"

"Your throat. Your. I always want to touch you here," Bruce says, and breathes *hot* where he's licked --

Harvey moans -- "God -- always want you to --"

"My love," and Bruce *sucks* at the bruise --

Harvey moans more --

Clenches and *jerks* --

"Okay, Jesus, wait."

Bruce stops sucking and hums interrogatively --

And Harvey snickers. "I *know* what you're trying to do, you horndog, but we have *things to do*."

Bruce smiles against Harvey's throat --

Harvey *shivers* -- "Bast-- *asshole* --"

Bruce laughs softly and pulls back. "I'll behave. But you truly are quite desperately tempting, Harv."

"Oh, yeah, I know it. You men are all the same. Always takin' advantage of poor, defenseless --" And Harvey throws an elbow --

Bruce dodges -- and pulls out much too fast --

"*Jesus*, I didn't think that through," Harvey says, groaning and laughing at once --

"Oh -- are you all *right*?"

Harvey laughs *harder* -- but his knees buckle.

Bruce catches him and holds him close, kissing him and stroking him with his free hand --

Harvey is *wheezing* --

"Harv --"

"Oh, God, I can't believe I *did* that to myself --" And Harvey *snorts* -- "No, no, I gotta breathe. Hee."

"Yes, I think breathing would be --"

"Also -- please don't grow any bigger, big guy."

"I... hm."

"Okay, you can get bigger through the chest, maybe a little taller -- if you *must* --"

"Harv, I'm reasonably sure we're *both* still growing --"

"Big guy. Your dick? Is big enough."

"Is it -- "

"Oh -- damn. It's not too big."

"Will it --"

"It'll still be perfect if it gets bigger. I -- you know what, forget I just said the thing about you not growing."

"But --"

Harvey laughs painfully and turns in Bruce's arms, cupping Bruce's face and kissing him hard and -- much too briefly --

"Harv --"

"People as gorgeous as you are not allowed to be self-conscious. It's a *rule*."

Bruce frowns.

"Ah, big guy, you *know* all the Wayne-seeking missiles want you for other reasons --"

"I only want to be beautiful for you -- and for Tim. And... Mother." Bruce winces. "I would like to change that --"

Harvey covers Bruce's mouth with his fingers. "Nothin' wrong with wanting to be beautiful for the people you love, yeah?"

Bruce frowns more deeply --

"*Trust* me. You can be beautiful and not do a damned thing about it with *anyone*. I *promise* that's how it works."

Bruce nods --

And Harvey *pets* Bruce's mouth before moving his fingers. "You'd be perfect for me even if you were *twice* as big as you are now. It's just that my ass would be a little *frightened*."

"I don't want -- to hurt you."

Harvey raises his eyebrows. Pointedly.

"Hm. I suppose that was less than convincing."

Harvey grins and nods. Pointedly.

"It's only -- "

"They made fun of you for being so big. I know it. Kids are dumb and screwed-up little *monsters* sometimes. *Most* of the time. It's part of what made me fall for you so *fast*, so... God you were just so good, so kind and warm --" Harvey moans and kisses him again --

Again --

Bruce wraps his arms around him and makes it a better kiss, long and deep, soft and *warm*, the way he wants, the way they *both* want --

Harvey pulls back --

Harvey moans and kisses him again, pressing closer and touching him, almost seeming to *measure* him with his roving fingers --

To squeeze him and mark him out and *love* him, always --

Bruce moans and pushes Harvey back against the tile --

Harvey turns his head and *groans* --

"Oh, Harv --"

"Wait, wait --"

"I don't *want* to --"

"You gotta --" Harvey licks his lips and smiles crookedly at him. "You're perfect."

Bruce shakes his head --

"You're *perfect*, and you're always gonna *be* perfect, because it's not *in* you to be anything *else*. And -- you have to listen to me about this. Have to."

"Harv --"

"*Brother*."

Bruce moans. "*Always*. We -- there are times when it seems hopelessly *bizarre* that I have no memories of you from before Exeter --"

"*Ditto*. And -- and all those kids were jealous and scared, big guy."

"I don't want to scare -- the wrong people --"

"Sometimes you can't help that. Sometimes people are gonna be scared no matter what. And -- I think the little guy knows that pretty well, actually," Harvey says, expression turning thoughtful.

"You believe he understands the vagaries of the human fear response?"

"Maybe... maybe not like Dr. Feelgood or anything, but..." Harvey shakes his head. "He's spent a lot of time scared of a lot of things --"

"So have *I*, Harv --"

"Not like that. Not --" Harvey pulls back enough to stroke Bruce's chest --

Bruce deliberately takes *deep* breaths --

"*God*, yeah, do *that*."

"I'm not -- I'm not entirely unaware --"

"You *know* you work for me. Go with that," Harvey says, and grins crookedly again. "I want you more every *day*, big guy."

"Oh... brother, *yes* --"

"It's that feeling, isn't it? That sense that you can't really *express* how you feel about me because --"

"It keeps changing, and growing, and -- and *deepening* --"

"*Yeah*. And -- God, all your *hair* -- I -- I was saying something. Heh." Harvey leans in again and bites Bruce's lower lip. "I love you."

"I love *you* --"

"You'll never be anything but right for me --"

"*Brother* --"

"*Your* brother --"

"Tell me more about Tim's fear?"

Harvey blinks. "Uh. Okay." He frowns -- and then laughs. "Big guy -- I like this."

"This?"

"Us. The three of us. Even with the little guy still sleepin' the sleep of the innocent."

"You don't think he wakes up as early as we do?"

"I don't *know*. But we'll find out. And *he'll* find out how much he's with us -- anyway. He's scared of you, he's scared of me --"

"Oh -- no --"

"He's scared of *Janet* -- " And Harvey frowns again. "I don't know if he's scared of Thomas. I *know* he's scared of all the ways Thomas could screw up Tim's life just by saying the wrong word *to* Janet."

"And -- and Jack Drake?"

Harvey shakes his head. "No clue. Or -- no. *Most* of the time there's nothing in Tim's eyes, at all, when I bring up his 'father'. Other times... there's a whole lot of contempt."

Bruce winces. "I feel strongly as though I've been whining too much about Mother."

"Heh. Well, that's the funny thing, big guy -- I'm willing to bet all *kinds* of money *and* at least one date between my throat and your dick that Tim feels the *exact same way*, only in reverse."

Bruce opens his mouth -- closes it. "Hm."

"Yeah."

"But --"

"Think about it."

Bruce does, frowning and pushing Harvey gently into the spray. He washes Harvey tenderly and thoroughly, letting the back of his mind *fill* with Harvey's soft moans and sighs --

He --

He *considers* it --

He crouches and kisses the bruises on Harvey's hips --

Sucks them --

"Big guy."

"Hm. Of course. You're saying that we both have a tendency to minimize the pain we feel."

"Uh, huh."

"And, perhaps, to focus on the pain of those we care for?"

"Nothin' wrong with that -- as far as it goes," and Harvey pushes a hand into Bruce's hair and tugs.

"I don't feel... I don't *believe* I will ignore my own pain, brother. Not for this."

"Good. And we won't let Tim ignore his, yeah?"

Bruce nods solemnly. "He must understand -- he has every reason to hurt, and to -- are you quite sure --"

"We can't go get him, yet."

"I --"

"No."

"Perhaps... for lunch?"

Harvey wags his head from side to side and tugs harder --

Bruce stands --

"He's not in high school, yet, so -- no."

"Hm. It -- hm."

Harvey raises his eyebrows and starts washing him. "What's up?"

"I was about to mention the number of times Mother picked me up for lunch when I was in middle school. And then I... reconsidered."

Harvey bites his lip, nods --

"Your eyes are so bright when you laugh, brother --"

"I'm not laughing!"

"Brother."

Harvey snickers and leans in, kissing Bruce again before going back to washing him. "I have no *idea* how the hell she let you get as far away from her as *Exeter* -- but I'm glad."

"She told me that Jason had told her that my destiny was there, and that my life and sanity would be vastly endangered if I didn't go."

Harvey blinks. "Oh. Uh. Hunh."

Bruce smiles. "It made perfect sense to me the first time we kissed, brother."

Harvey colors -- "I can't *believe* you can still make me blush."

"I'm very happy I can --"

"Let's shower *faster*."

"As you say," Bruce says, and *helps* wash himself -- though it doesn't seem to make the process go any faster once Harvey begins moving Bruce's soapy hands where he wants them --

It's a wonderful shower in every way, and Bruce feels entirely renewed when they do, finally, turn the water off. They dry themselves thoroughly, dress in the kind of clothes Harvey calls 'rich boys on the make' and Bruce has always thought of as simply 'casual' -- though neither of them are wearing denim -- and head down to the dining room for a light breakfast and the newspapers -- and the telephone directory.

Harvey makes note of several likely properties in downtown Gotham while he eats his poached eggs, smoked salmon, and bagels, and Bruce makes note of the more prosperous-seeming realtors -- specifically the ones which give him no strange feelings of eagerness whatsoever.

Harvey finishes his breakfast with a large mug of the Kona coffee Bruce had introduced him to years ago -- always with a fair amount of cream and two sugars -- and Bruce has another cup of Lady Grey --

And regrets it, because the taste seems to *call* Mother --

No. No, he's being --

She always wakes up at this time --

She's coming closer --

And Harvey hooks his foot around Bruce's, tugging and pressing --

Offering support.

Bruce closes his eyes for a moment, and then nods to him.

Harvey smiles ruefully -- and then gives Mother a *wry* smile. "Morning, Mom. How are you?"

"I'm *very* well, thank you, Harvey," and she narrows her eyes at *both* of them --

She *studies* them, and she seems so --

So self-*contained* in her mauve-and-grey pantsuit with her long, white-streaked hair parted in the middle and flowing down over her shoulders.

She --

"Mother, you look beautiful this morning," Bruce blurts -- and blushes.

She inhales sharply -- and takes the last few steps closer to him, cupping Bruce's face -- and tapping Bruce's cheekbone. "Thank you, boychik," she says, and *searches* his eyes *avidly* --

*Darkly* --

Bruce doesn't *flinch* --

Harvey clears his throat. "Got a meeting for the Foundation this morning, Mom?"

Mother smiles, exposing small and even white teeth --

Bruce *shivers* --

Mother *strokes* his cheek -- "As a matter of fact, I do, Harvey," she says, and never looks away from Bruce's eyes. "You know those *ladies* *always* prefer me to look... harmless."

Harvey coughs a laugh. "Ah... you got a little ways to go there, Mom. Just to... let you know."

She blinks --

Narrows her eyes again --

And turns to Harvey at last -- and presses her hip against Bruce's shoulder.

Bruce breathes deep and -- doesn't moan, doesn't --

Chanel no. 22 and woman, sweetness, *Mother* --

"You don't think this color softens me, Harvey...?"

Harvey tilts his chair back and grins, raising his eyebrows. "Oh, you look soft all right, Mom. Soft enough to cuddle, even --"

"Really."

"Oh, yeah. You just *also* look like you're thinkin' about eatin' somebody alive," and Harvey tilts his chin down to look at her from under his lashes.

Mother -- colors.

*Harvey* narrows his eyes -- but only for a moment before he shakes himself like a dog. "Now if you want some tips on how to *really* look harmless --"

"You can help me, Harvey...?"

"Abso*lute*ly. Nobody's scared of me. Right, big guy?"

Tim is -- no. Now isn't the time for that. "Yes, Harv. You're quite soothing to be around --"

"And I'm *not*, boychik...?"

Bruce takes another deep breath, this time forcing himself to focus on the powerful scents of coffee and salmon -- "Mother, I often find myself *inflamed* when you're near."

She colors more deeply, lips parting --

"Now," Harvey says, and *rocks* his chair, "if that's the kind of effect you *wanna* have on all the ladies-who-lunch --"

Mother *snorts*. "Harvey."

Harvey winks at her and tips his chair back down onto four legs before raising his hands. "Hey, I don't judge. Eleanor Barrington-Smythe's looking good since she finally healed up from all that plastic surgery."

Mother... makes a moue. "*How* good."

Harvey shows his teeth... and cups at the air in front of his chest. Unevenly.

"*Harv* --"

"Hey, I think it makes 'em look more *natural*," and he waggles his eyebrows at Mother --

And Mother snorts and *giggles* --

Oh...

Oh, he's always loved --

And Harvey nudges Bruce's foot with his own. He --

Yes, they have roles to play. It doesn't matter that they had never so much as *discussed* this --
 
It doesn't matter that they are *both* aching and hungry in this moment --

Nothing matters but the strength they're building between them. The -- armor.

And so Bruce allows himself a smile only, and -- "*That* sound is harmless, Mother."

"Oh, is it...?"

"Oh, yeah. Makes you sound like a schoolgirl," and Harvey waggles his eyebrows again.

Mother hums and crosses her arms beneath her breasts. "Is *that* what you like, Harvey...?"

"Well... not too young. You get 'em too young and maybe you do more harm than good, no matter what you *intend*," he says, and meets her eyes steadily.

She lifts her chin slightly, and then turns back to him. "And how do you feel about young... girls, boychik?"

"I remain entirely unsure about how intimate I wish to become with any female, Mother, but... I believe with youth in *general* we must show great care."

"Have I..." She trails off and frowns. It's only a *slight* frown... but she's digging her carefully manicured nails into her own arms and wrinkling her suit. She --

Harvey nudges Bruce's toe again --

Bruce waits.

And waits --

Bruce sips his *tea* --

"I..." The frown on Mother's face becomes slightly deeper, but only slightly. "I'm not deaf to the messages you're both *very* gently sending me," she says.

"I'd say it was more of a plea than a message, Mom."

Mother laughs -- a brief explosion of breath followed by a hum. She... glitters at Harvey. "Have I been so terrible?"

Harvey shakes his head. "I can't actually answer that question, Mom. And -- you know that."

She frowns again, but this time the frown is vague, absent or distant as if there's a voice she can't quite hear, or --

Bruce doesn't know.

He --

"Mother --"

She holds up one small hand, stopping him easily, then curls her fingers in slowly, so --

Bruce wants to kiss them, to -- to squeeze them gently and bite them and feel them and push them away, *shove* them *away* --

Bruce shivers and *wants* --

She is *Mother*, and that --

Surely that must --

She turns and walks away, leaving --

"Mother..."

She pauses in the archway leading to the hall --

Harvey *shudders* in Bruce's peripheral vision --

She turns, smiling sweetly, brightly, and so beautifully -- "Have a *good* day, boys!"

And then -- she's gone.

Bruce frowns and --  his hands are shaking again. He sets his teacup down in the saucer, wincing for the clatter --

And Harvey blows out a breath that seems to *catch* itself on a whine before he covers his face with his hands. "Jesus, I'm covered in cold sweat over here."

"I. Harv..."

"I'm listening. And sweating. But listening."

"Harv, is she... troubled?"

Harvey -- freezes. And then drops his hands and *looks* at him.

Bruce licks his lips. "I... see."

Harvey nods slowly and covers his face again.

Bruce breathes until he can do so without smelling Chanel no. 22 anywhere save for within his memory --

Her hip had been so *soft* --

Her mouth --

Bruce's breathing is... unacceptably ragged --

"Big guy --"

"I believe. I believe I would like to leave this place. Now."

"We can make a few phone calls --"

Bruce stands. "We'll use pay phones on the street if necessary, but -- I've memorized the addresses of four likely realtors --"

"And I've got these townhouses right here," Harvey says, and shoves his small notebook in his back pocket as he stands. "Let's hit it."

They do, taking Harvey's Lexedes again -- they *will* be picking Tim up.

At noon, they're sitting in the office of Maribel Jenkins, a rotund and pleasant woman of middle years with a moderately conservative 'afro' and a complexion which works quite well with her very daring -- and tight -- bright orange pantsuit.

She is, apparently, the top seller for Pasquale Realty -- the second real estate agency Bruce had memorized, and the one which had listings for the highest number of properties on Harvey's list -- and nearly eighty percent of her smiles have reached her eyes.

Bruce is tentatively certain she is not a demon bent on vengeance, and she has a very charming gap between her front teeth.

Mother had told him, once, never to comment on such things unless the person was already your lover. He had been seven. He --

He is not thinking about Mother.

He is thinking about lunch at the pizza and 'sub' restaurant Harvey had first taken them to when they were fifteen, because it's only eight blocks from Pasquale, and they can leave the car parked where it is -- at least for the time being.

Harvey always prefers to stay parked for as long as humanly possible when forced to use the expensive private garages in downtown Gotham --

And, right now, Harvey is talking to Maribel about the need for their new home to be customizable. He is using words and phrases like 'home gymnasium' and 'modernization,' and 'immediate move-in' and is generally doing everything Bruce should be doing *himself* --

How long has Mother *been* troubled?

How had he never *seen* it?

Does she... does she need them? Would it be wrong to --

But Harvey claps his shoulder just then. "The big guy sleeps like the *dead*, but he's still gonna need a place that can be partitioned off *while* the work is being done, you know?" And he laughs easily, falsely --

Bruce chuckles on cue. "Yes, quite."

Maribel smiles at them. "Well, boys, I can show you some places which already *have* home gyms --"

"Not gonna work, Maribel, I'll be honest. We're both fitness *freaks*, and I'll guarantee that no one person's gonna have all the equipment -- or space *for* the equipment -- we'll need."

Maribel hums and flutters. "*Well*. If it's like *that*, we'll just have to find you one of the big old places built before the zoning laws kicked in," and she -- hoots. Conspiratorially.

Mother would never make that sound --

Harvey squeezes his shoulder very, very firmly -- and Bruce remembers that he's not thinking about her. That --

That he's *here*, and he's doing something for his *future*, and that he has brothers, wonderful brothers who wish to love and care for him and for each other --

("Some promises *have* to be broken.")

Bruce breathes, and forces his shudder to be only internal. He will --

He will talk to Jason about Mother. There is no one who knows her better, no one who has spent more time with her, with the woman she truly *is* --

Does he know about how troubled she is --

No. No. He will save his questions -- *all* of his questions -- for that conversation.

For now... he will practice compartmentalization.

He will --

He will smile openly at Maribel, and nod when her monologue on Victorian and Edwardian urban architecture calls for it --

Would Tim wear a pantsuit? The orange would be terrible for his complexion, but something in a grey, or even a deep, jewel-toned green...

Surely it would be less offensive than other traditionally feminine clothes? Many men wear such things -- though they're called 'leisure' suits for men, and are often quite tasteless, to Bruce's eyes --

Maribel's telephone rings --

"One moment, boys!"

"Sure thing, Maribel," and Harvey turns to give him a searching look --

Bruce smiles ruefully and nods, wishing for a sign for 'I'm all right now' --

But Harvey nods just as if he's seen it. He --

Harvey always sees to the heart of him. Bruce smiles more broadly --

Harvey shakes his head *minutely* --

And Bruce reminds himself to keep his desire to make love to Harvey on every possible occasion off his face --

"Oh. Ah.... Bruce? It's for you."

For a moment, Bruce's mouth is filled with the dark and *thick* taste of the Sister's saliva --

"It's your father," Maribel says, and attempts to smile encouragingly. It's not a very good attempt.

Bruce reaches for the receiver while sharing a look with Harvey --

And Harvey shakes his head and shrugs. This is precisely as odd as it seems.

Bruce brings the receiver to his ear. "Father, what seems to be the difficulty?"

"'The difficulty'." His father sighs. "Son, we must speak."

"Of course. I'm somewhat tied-up today --"

"I must ask you to meet me for lunch in my office at Wayne Enterprises today, son."

Bruce frowns. "This... is unlike you, Father."

"Yes, I imagine it must seem that way to you. Still and all, I expect to see you in no more than an hour. The conversation will hopefully be brief enough that Harvey can wait for you in the outer office."

Bruce lets his frown grow deeper. "Father, if the conversation is serious enough that it must happen immediately, then surely we should be having it as a *family*," Bruce says, and looks to Harvey --

Harvey is frowning, as well --

Maribel is *studiously* pretending not to listen --

"Bruce. I already spent half an hour of my day tracking you down. Please don't force me to waste any more of my time on irrelevancies."

"*Father* --"

"The conversation we must have is meant for the two of *us*. Who you choose to share it with *after* that is on your own head. One hour."

Father, Bruce does not say, it did not take me very long to understand why Mother does not love you. Bruce clears his throat, instead. "As you say, Father. Goodbye," Bruce says, and hands the receiver back to Maribel, who stares at it with an avidity which bears far too many reminders before hanging it up. "I'm afraid I'll have to leave for... an unknown length of time," and Bruce pulls the frown from his face by main force, smiling at Maribel and inclining his head. "Perhaps we can continue this tomorrow...?"

"Oh, of *course*, Bruce --"

"Hey, now, let's not get crazy over here," Harvey says, standing and cupping Bruce's shoulders. "I *know* what we need to look for in a place, yeah?"

"Of course --"

"And Dad *just* wants you -- for the time being."

Bruce narrows his eyes -- and nods.

Harvey smiles wryly. "I'm hearing you, big guy. *Loud and clear*. Take the car. I'll ride along with Maribel, get some more possibles on the list, and we'll meet up at Vincenzo's at... two?"

Bruce doesn't think he'll have much of an appetite by then, but -- yes. "All right. And... perhaps we'll pick up something for Tim to try, as well."

"Now you're talkin'. Get goin', brother. Maribel and I will hold down the fort," he says, and grins at her. "Right?"

"Sounds good to me, Harvey! I *like* it when my buyers are eager."

"I just bet you do," and he winks at her --

And she hums *speculatively* -- and then turns back to her papers.

Bruce wants to ask Harvey if he's quite all right with being alone with *another* amorous older woman, but he's laughing quietly and easily --

He is... all right.

And so Bruce will be, too.

The walk to the parking garage takes seven minutes. The drive -- in the precise opposite direction -- to Wayne Enterprises takes nearly another twenty-two, thanks to lunch hour traffic. A bicycle messenger leaves what *sounds* like a terrible scratch on the finish near the trunk, but seeing as how the young woman was working to avoid being hit by a taxi driver at the time, Bruce can't truly be upset about it.

He will, hopefully, be able to have it fixed before Harvey notices. He --

There is a very predictable moment when he pulls into the executive parking garage beneath Wayne tower --

When he parks Harvey's car and steps out into air that smells like car exhaust, fresh paint, and that indefinable *something* which has always meant Wayne tower to him --

("Your father's place of business, much like this manor, is at the confluence of many -- for lack of a better term -- lines of *power*. You are a very open and sensitive young man, Bruce. I would be *vastly* surprised if you *didn't* feel something.")

And Jason's smile had a wry *sadness* to it --

A sense of something unsaid, or, perhaps, not *quite* said --

Bruce frowns. He is nearly half an hour early for his appointment with his father, but he doesn't want to wait. Or, rather, he'd like to wait for a long time -- possibly *forever* --

He will not. He *cannot*.

He... is underdressed.

The rich blue -- Harvey has always liked him in this color -- button-down; simple tan chinos; and boat shoes were perfectly acceptable for searching for a new home. For walking into Wayne Enterprises...

Bruce shakes his head. It will have to do. His father -- never Harvey's, never *truly*, and Bruce will not allow himself to forget that -- had not left him enough time to stop back at the manor, and he must have had some idea of how Bruce would be dressed. Or... had he?

Bruce wears a suit more often than not when Harvey isn't present. His father wears a suit nearly every day, including during family vacations. His father... undoubtedly wishes Bruce would pick up the same habit. The same *obsession* with *correctness* -- no.

No, he will not go to his father angry -- more angry.

He will listen to what the man has to say. He will --

He will listen.

Bruce bends and looks himself over in the driver's side mirror as much as he can. In this, at least, he is presentable. He's still smooth *enough* from his shave five and a half hours ago, though he suspects that, in the future, the hints of shadowing on his cheeks and chin at this time of day will be much more severe.

They aren't for his father, but Bruce is already significantly more hirsute than he is --

He'll have to shave before going out at night, unless heavy beards become the fashion for men again, which frankly seems --

Like something his mind would use to distract him from what must be done. He takes a deep breath, readjusts the mirror, straightens his clothes minutely, and begins the walk to his father's suite of offices.

When Jonah Wayne was alive, Bruce's father kept offices on the first floor -- the CEO's suite built and decorated by Bruce's *great*-grandfather nearly a century ago. Those offices are empty now, as Bruce's father had chosen the heights of the tower...

For appearances?

Out of a desire to look down on his employees? To stand on their backs? His father has always had a keen sense of what was proper for the world, as well as a sense of what was proper for *him*. The fact that the two things were not always *quite* the same is one of the reasons why Bruce had *rejected* his father so early in his childhood.

There is...

Of course, when one is wealthy and powerful, one must work harder to ease the way for others who are not -- *that* makes perfect sense. But the idea that his name, his *blood*, marks him out as something inherently greater, inherently special... or. Not that.

Not quite that. His father has nothing but disdain for the bigoted, and even for the hopelessly classist. It's only...

It's only that, beyond the 'legacy' -- a legacy, as near as Bruce can tell, of corporate rapine and ill-advised manipulation of the powers living *under* Gotham -- which Bruce is expected to uphold, there is something in his father which demands *submission* from all who come to him, from all who come *before* him.

When Bruce was a child, he had felt no great need to stand *against* his father, and so their relationship had been... smooth enough, if never precisely as warm as Bruce would've liked. Now...

Bruce frowns -- and realizes that he was already frowning, that he was walking through the halls of Wayne Enterprises all but *scowling* --

He *fixes* that, but he's already on the eighty-eighth floor, and in the domain of the executive secretaries. All is hushed here -- even the sounds of typing and telephones ringing -- and, in truth, his milder, friendlier expression can impress no one but the artwork.

He doesn't even know who he should apologize *to* --

He'll have to do better. He can't simply run *over* people when he's feeling emotionally troubled. That would be --

That would be the same behavior -- or. Would it? *Has* his father been troubled in those ways?

How would anyone *know*? And --

It certainly wouldn't excuse his behavior in the past *or* present. He had *cheated* on Mother, and then made a child with the other woman when he had told Mother that he didn't want to make a child with *her*, and *then* refused to treat that child with even the... the *scraps* of emotional solicitude that he and Harvey had been given. It's *unacceptable*.

It can't possible be correct by *any* worthy definition --

And he's frowning again. The difference is that he's frowning *at* Elspeth, who has been his father's primary secretary for fifteen years. She --

"Bruce...? Are you all right?"

She is a kind, efficient woman in her *early* forties.

She has long, dark hair; large, light eyes; and a distinctly petite frame. She looks like *neither* Mother nor Janet to *him* -- Elspeth's features have, in general, despite her Scottish name, far more in common with the southern Mediterranean than with anywhere else, but...

"Oh, you don't have a *cold*, do you, Bruce? Those summer colds are the *worst*," she says, and opens her top left drawer to reveal the truly impressive collection of vitamins and other, less scientifically *useful* nostrums that not even his father had been able to turn her against.

Bruce smiles ruefully -- and quickly. "No, Elspeth, I'm all right, truly," Bruce says, and pushes at the air in what he hopes is a soothing gesture.

She frowns suspiciously --

"I was... thinking of lunch. And how much of it I have not yet eaten," and Bruce pats his stomach and lets his smile be somewhat crooked.

"Oh! Oh, you can't do *that*," she says, and opens her top *right* drawer and pulls out half of a *sandwich*.

"Elspeth --"

"Now, Bruce, you're still a growing boy! I *know*! My *own* boys are still growing and they're twenty-three and twenty-one!"

Elspeth's 'boys' are six feet, eight inches tall and six feet, ten inches tall respectively. Elspeth's husband is a former professional basketball player who has always been, according to Elspeth herself, somewhat nonplussed by Elspeth's decision to continue working for Thomas Wayne...

("But honestly, Bruce, your father *needs* me!")

Bruce has wondered, more than once, if Elspeth believes *all* men are helpless... but not more often than he has *felt* helpless around her. The sandwich seems to have turkey, onions, tomatoes, romaine, mayonnaise, pepper, and, curiously, mushrooms. It smells wonderful.

She is -- brandishing it. "Take it!"

"I --"

"*I* know your father's a *grumpus* today, Bruce. You shouldn't face that on an empty stomach!" And her whisper would carry to any *number* of people... if his father *allowed* that many people to work up here. As it is, it's merely a mother's stage whisper, and --

"Perhaps a bite."

She beams at him glowingly. "Make sure it's a big bite, now!"

"I can't take your food, Elspeth --"

"Nonsense! I forgot that today is roast beef day in the cafeteria, and I *always* like to fill up on that."

He has, personally, seen her eat eight slices of it at a time -- he nods, takes the sandwich, and bites generously. It's just as delicious as he thought it would be -- the turkey was clearly roasted recently, and with a combination of herbs he'd like to ask her about at a time when he isn't --

"*There* you are," his father says, backlit and looming in the doorway of his office. "Bruce, if you're done stealing food from my employees, will you kindly *join* me?"

Bruce, with his mouth full, cannot point out that he is *still* twenty minutes early for their appointment.

Nor can he point out that his father is being unconscionably *rude* --

He chews evenly and steadily -- the way his father had *taught* him -- but the sandwich is tasteless in his mouth now. It --

He hands the uneaten portion back to Elspeth, who is blushing and giving him a *worried* look --

He nods at her, uses his handkerchief to dab at the corners of his mouth, refolds it --

His father makes an impatient *sound* --

Bruce does not narrow his eyes. He tucks the handkerchief away, nods to Elspeth once more, and walks into his father's office.

The light is almost blinding, at first -- his father believes in the health benefits of working by natural light as much as is possible -- and so Bruce gives himself a moment to adjust --

His father closes the door behind him. "Your mother spoke to me this morning."

In other families, Bruce thinks, those words would not be so strange, so *ominous* -- "Yes, Father?"

His father narrows his eyes at him. "I have no great objections to you making a home in Gotham proper," he says.

"Your expression and tone belie that, Father," Bruce says, and straightens his posture minutely.

"My expression --" His father turns toward the windows and breathes almost raggedly for a moment -- "Perhaps I should begin with those things which I *do* object to."

Bruce narrows his own eyes -- no. "Perhaps you should."

His father shudders -- stops and looks at him *darkly*. "Did you ever plan to inform me about your adventures outside this *dimension*, Bruce?"

That -- Bruce blinks. He truly hadn't --

"I believe I will take that as a 'no'. Perhaps you'd care to tell me *why*?"

"I..."

"Any reason at *all* would, at the very least, give me something to *work* with, Bruce."

Bruce inhales -- but does not allow himself to rear back. "You never wish to know anything -- at all -- about that which intersects with Mother's relationship with Jason Blood."

His father's expression darkens *dramatically* --

"Father, if your blood pressure --"

"My *blood* pressure -- is only somewhat elevated, and that is wholly due to emotion."

"We both know that such sensations can be deceptive --"

"I. *Checked*, Bruce."

"As you say --"

"*How* did your being kidnapped by a *demon* --" His father inhales sharply, exhales *slowly*, and then begins evening his breathing with a somewhat ruthless efficiency.

Tim can do that more skillfully --

Bruce *waits* -- no. No. "Mother used Jason's power --"

His father holds up a hand. Imperiously.

It --

It should not make Bruce so *angry*. His father was clearly worried about him, and that is his right *as* a father. The fact that this is entirely unfamiliar --

The fact that this feels *wrong* --

Surely it has more to do with the fact that Bruce spent far less time in physical danger than other, less bookish children than it does with anything else? That must --

"Bruce."

"I am listening, Father."

"What you are telling me is that you were kidnapped because of some sort of *game* your mother had played with her lover --"

"No, Father. It wasn't like that."

His father raises an eyebrow. "Bruce. I understand your -- natural, as far as it goes -- inclination to defend your mother --"

"Forgive me for interrupting, Father, but I believe you are about to come to a grave misunderstanding."

There is --

There is something so *dark* in his eyes --

But it's only there for a moment, and so Bruce can only wonder if he is imagining things. He shakes his head. "Father, I do not claim to know all -- or even most -- of what Mother and Jason do to amuse themselves --"

"I *strongly* suspect you know more than could *ever* be *correct*."

Bruce frowns and --

("You can ask me *anything*, boychik..."

"Oh, Mother, thank you! I --"

"*But*... I might direct *some* of your questions to Jason."

"Because it would be more correct?")

And she had laughed *cruelly*, flashing her even white teeth and rolling over onto her stomach on the bed. She had reached down to tap the bridge of his nose --

("Because some things are too *tempting*, boychik.")

And -- he hadn't asked.

He hadn't --

He had been *thirteen*, and he'd wanted to *know* -- he remembers this so *clearly* --

But he also hadn't wanted to know anything of the kind. He never --

Always --

Bruce *frowns* --

"Well, Bruce? What *misunderstanding* --"

"Father... Mother's motives are not always --"

"Low? Dark? Sexual?"

Bruce shudders and --

And he doesn't *hug* himself, but --

"I wonder. I wonder *very* much what *prompted* her to call me this morning, Bruce," his father says, and begins to -- not pace. *Stalk*. He pauses by his desk, and the smile on his face --

It's not a *smile*, at all. It's a baring of *teeth*. It's --

"It's a fascinating question -- to me, anyway. What could *possibly* make Martha -- *your* mother -- breach the wall she had so carefully and *thoroughly* built between us? It could, of course, simply be her... oh, I suppose we *could* just call it *capriciousness* --"

"Father --"

"-- but we know better than that, don't we, Bruce? You're not a child anymore. Surely, you must have *noticed* --"

"Don't -- don't."

His father raises an eyebrow -- and *then* looks at him. Looks *down* on him for all that Bruce is a full two inches taller than he is now -- "Bruce."

"That -- it isn't relevant."

"Really? Then you're saying something *else* caused her to *betray* your secrets, son? Because let's be frank -- that's *precisely* what she did."

"She --"

"A *vigilante*, Bruce? *That's* why you aren't attending Princeton right now? Or *Yale*. Where you could *be* with your -- brother," and his father's expression darkens again --

And Bruce feels something *settle* within himself, something -- "Did you have something you wished to say about *that*, Father?"

"About your choosing to devote your life to becoming a costumed *criminal* --"

"No," Bruce says, and -- does not clench his fists. "Not that."

His father blinks and stares at him in consternation -- and then his mustache twitches -- and then he laughs. "Oh, Bruce. Did you plan to make a stand for incest today?" He waves a dismissive hand. "I imagine you *would* like to make this conversation about your entirely positive relationship with your brother, as it speaks *reasonably* well for both of you, despite the fact that it would *ruin* this family if you were any less discreet than you are --"

"He is my love --"

"And you, undoubtedly, are his. Yes, yes. It will surprise you not at *all* to know that I *sincerely* hope that Harvey will hurry up and fall in love with a *woman* -- it *will* happen, Bruce, so begin preparing yourself now -- so that you can *both* begin acting like the people you *should* be --"

"There is a *nobility* in love which rises *above* --"

"Petty concerns like publicity and stock options? Perhaps. Certainly, the *poets* your mother enjoys so much would have it so. But you're *presumably* going to want to have the *money* to pay for the home you'll be sharing with your brother --"

"Brothers, Father. Plural."

The darkness takes his father's gaze again --

He is *tense* --

And Bruce is unsurprised by that. He nods. "You were correct, Father. We do have much to speak about."

"Timothy Drake --"

"He much prefers 'Tim.'"

"*Timothy* Drake is *not* your brother, Bruce."

Bruce raises an eyebrow. And waits.

His father holds his gaze steadily, evenly --

*Shamelessly* --

Bruce takes a deep breath and nods again. "You have been incorrect, Father --"

His father raises a hand. "We were speaking of your mother."

"We've been speaking of any number of things --"

"What did you do that made her decide to betray you, Bruce. Tell me."

Bruce frowns. Slightly. "Was that an *order*, Father?"

His father... looks at him.

Bruce shakes his head. "I am fully aware that nineteen years must seem almost painfully young to you, Father, but I will not be treated like a child."

His father breathes deeply --

*Flushes* again --

"Tell me about your mother. *Please*."

Bruce raises an eyebrow -- but that had satisfied the *letter* of his request. He nods. "You remember the Harris Wellington... incident?"

His father blinks. "How... no, go on. I remember very well what happened."

"There was a demon involved named Nemen -- or the Brother. Because he didn't stop Mother from freeing Wellington's captives, the curse Wellington placed on him was causing him to die slowly and in great pain. Mother killed him quickly."

His father's jaw... works.

"Are you looking for another way to blame her, Father?"

"One of the things your taxes will pay for -- when you have an income of your own, that is -- is the Gotham City police force, Bruce --"

"*Father*, they had done *nothing*! For *years*!"

His father turns away. "She might have alerted the media --"

"Did you care for any of the victims yourself, Father --"

"*Yes*," he says -- and that was almost a snarl.

"Then you *know*. There was no more time to be *wasted*!"

His father covers his face for a moment -- then laughs and drags his hand down again. "It is the prerogative of the teenager to have no conception of his mortality. Certainly, *I* didn't."

"You -- were worried about me."

"*Bruce*. There was a battle to the death in my *house* with a *demon* over the life of my only -- "

"*Father*."

He inhales sharply. "Forgive me. I... misspoke."

Bruce nods once, but -- "I'm afraid I don't believe that, Father."

"Then we must add it to the *list* of things -- why did she betray you?"

"No, Father."

"'No'?"

Bruce nods. "That is a matter between Mother, Harv and myself --"

"*Harvey* is involved?"

Bruce doesn't *frown*, but -- "He is a part of this family."

"And I am not?"

Bruce... doesn't speak.

His father's jaw works once more -- and he turns to walk to his chair. He doesn't sit, though. He stands facing the window with his left hand resting -- no. He is *squeezing* the back of the chair with his left hand, and he is facing the windows.

He is... tense, once more. In truth, he had never relaxed -- and.

And Bruce must endeavor to be fair, at the very least. "I would never have chosen to worry you --"

"I wonder, then, just what sort of *vigilante* you will choose to *be*, son," but he doesn't turn around. He --

"A *trained* one," Bruce says, and -- he manages to keep *most* of the growl out of his voice --

"Ah, so you *will* be furthering your education...?"

"Yes, as a matter of --"

"What schools, Bruce? *Where* will you choose to study? Who will you pay to teach you the 'skills' you must learn for this... endeavor?"

"You need not be so dismissive --"

"Answer. The question."

"And I will not respond to your orders."

His father squeezes the chair *harder* --

Bruce raises an eyebrow -- no. No.

"Please answer the question, Bruce."

"As you say. I've chosen dojos where I can learn the beginnings of what I must learn about karate and aikido. Additionally, Tim has given me the name of a gymnasium where I am quite confident that I will be able to learn a great deal about more Western styles of fighting."

"Timothy -- how does he -- no. Go on. *Please*."

"That was more of a *demand* -- but all right. I have been conditioning my body extensively to prepare for this, as well as for the other things I must learn. I have given a large amount of thought to places I can go to learn what I need to know about acrobatics --"

"Acro--" And he finally turns around to glare at him, gripping the chair with *both* hands. "Bruce, you're larger than *I* am!"

"Very true, Father, but, time and again, it has become clear that the most successful vigilantes are the ones with wide and varied skill-sets. And... there is more."

He... gestures Bruce to continue. Peremptorily, but still.

"I have been studying methods of detection, criminal psychology, photography --"

His father -- growls.

"Father."

"Why. Tell me -- *kindly* tell me *why*, Bruce."

("Uh... you want to... seriously?"

"More... more than anything -- no, that isn't true."

"Okay? You want something else more than that, big guy?")

And Bruce had smiled ruefully and reached for Harvey's strong and beautiful hand. They had only begun making love two weeks before, and every moment like that one was one of fear and *wonder* --

Just as every moment when Harvey smiled and *clasped* Bruce's hand --

("Go on, you can tell me. I *want* you to tell me.")

-- had been a greater wonder. Something --

Something beyond --

("There is nothing, Harv. There is -- I want nothing else."

"I -- oh. I mean -- at all?"

"Yes."

"Not -- I mean, I wanna be a lawyer more than *anything*, but there's still a little part of me that wants to walk on the moon like every *other* kid wanted to five years ago, you know?"

"I... you wanted to be an astronaut?"

"Uh. Yeah? You *didn't*?"

"No, Harv. Only... only a vigilante. A hero."

"Well... wow. Okay. Why?")

And -- his father is staring at him with nothing resembling patience, nothing resembling the welcome and acceptance he had always received from Harvey, from Mother --

From Jason --

From *Tim* -- if he had been wise enough to accept it. But that...

The world is not always a welcoming place. The world is not always kind, or loving, or accepting. The world --

"You don't *have* a reason, do you."

Bruce closes his eyes -- for a moment -- and smiles. "That isn't it, Father."

"Then what is it?"

"The simple realization that you will dislike my reasoning. I have never wanted to make you unhappy."

"That's very kind of you, son, but, ultimately, irrelevant."

Bruce inclines his head. "Yes, a little thought would have allowed me to realize that you would say something like that --"

"We must always strive to --"

"'Use the intellect with which we were provided.' Yes, Father, I know. You have my apologies for allowing my emotions to get the better of me for a moment, though I'm quite sure you'll find them as -- ultimately -- irrelevant as everything else."

His father rears back -- slightly. The dark thing seems to *flutter* behind his eyes, and there's a part of Bruce which only wants to respond *physically* --

No. That can't possibly be --

Bruce shakes his head once. "It's rather simple, Father: One, there are any number of criminals -- human and otherwise -- who the legal system, as it stands now, is ill-equipped to handle without the extra-legal help of vigilantes --"

"Of which there are already --"

"Please allow me to finish, Father."

Narrowed eyes --

A *long* pause --

A moment -- stretched and somewhat *impossible* -- in which Bruce is helplessly aware of the *physical* distance between them. Five paces seems simultaneously ludicrously far for two people who are *related* to each other and far too *close*. Seems --

Bruce can't imagine getting any *closer* --

*Ever* --

And the breath his father takes is almost *ragged* -- "Continue. Please."

"Very well. One, the vigilantes are necessary already. Two, there are more superpowered -- or simply powerfully armed and armored -- criminals every day --"

"Bruce -- no. Please. Continue."

"Three, the Justice Society -- and the few unaffiliated vigilantes like Jason Blood -- while powerful and effective, are, to some extent, limited. Vigilantes like Hour-Man, Wildcat, and Black Canary -- and possibly others, I have not studied them in as much depth or with as much *success* as Tim has -- are growing older. There will come a time when they are *too* old for the lifestyle... assuming it does not simply kill them."

His father narrows his eyes again -- but gestures for Bruce to continue.

"Four, the earliest lesson I remember you teaching me -- one of my earliest memories full *stop* -- was that each of us must struggle and strive to achieve everything we *can* achieve -- *wait*, Father. Please."

His father *grips* the chair -- but his head is tilted in just the right way that the sunlight throws a glare over the lenses of his glasses. "Go on."

Bruce nods. "I have the physical, intellectual, emotional, and, thanks to you and Mother, the *economic* resources to be a truly effective vigilante, and thus live up to the spirit of that lesson -- which is something I have wanted to do since I was two years old."

"Are you blaming me for this, Bruce?"

"No, Father. I am thanking you. But I am also not yet finished."

"Then by all means, continue."

"As you say. Five is the reason you will dislike the most, but I'm afraid that it is the reason which is closest to my heart --"

"Your mother approves of it."

Bruce blinks. "That has nothing to do with it, Father. We have, in fact, never discussed it."

His father frowns in confusion --

And Bruce realizes that his father doesn't know -- has never known -- how *much* information Mother is privy to -- or how. "Father --"

"*Blood* told her."

"That was my assumption --"

"Has that... *individual* encouraged you?"

This time, Bruce can't stop himself from raising an eyebrow. "You sound as if you're asking if he's *molested* me, Father --"

"*Has* he?"

"No. And I would think that, if you truly considered that a possibility, you would have spent more *time* with me."

"Is *that* the reason, Bruce? Revenge? Post-adolescent rebellion? You were always a bit slow in terms of childhood phases --"

"No, Father. If you give me a chance, I will *tell* you the reason."

His father breathes raggedly again, *rapidly* --

His knuckles are *white* on the chair --

And then they are not, and his breathing is *close* to normal once more. "You have my apologies for that loss of control. Perhaps you can understand why I would be less than sanguine about my son choosing an *illegal* and *life-threatening* vocation."

"Father... I have come to believe that those are not your reasons for objecting. Or, if they are, that they are not your *primary* reasons."

His father smiles -- coldly. "I imagine you don't. But go on, Bruce. We can touch on all of that... later."

They hold each other's gazes for a long, painful moment that leaves Bruce feeling as though he has laid himself out over broken *glass* -- no. He will not be excessively dramatic. "I want it, Father. It is the only thing I have ever wanted for my adulthood. As a child, I would tell myself that such things were for larger-than-life fictional characters and physical paragons I would never be able to approach. As I grew older and the Justice Society gained more members -- and the number of independently-operating vigilantes grew larger -- it became more difficult to scoff at myself. I assure you that I did try, however.

"Additionally, I threw myself into my studies -- everything I was asked to learn for school and everything that seemed even remotely interesting. Sooner or later -- often later, because, yes, I *can* be quite slow about some things, Father -- everything I found interesting proved to have some connection to vigilantism. Every attempt to guide myself away from my dreams -- dreams which grew tantalizingly closer with every further inch of height, or milestone of strength or speed -- wound up guiding me closer, instead. Eventually, I surrendered to the inevitable. I..." Bruce laughs quietly and shakes his head. "You have never done anything so crass as to *sneer* at someone else, Father, but... you've never had to. 'Presence is not everything, but it can be *many* things.' Yes?"

His father only nods.

Bruce laughs again. "I used to wonder -- extensively -- how I would feel about vigilantism had I had anyone to speak with about it -- and no, I am still not blaming you. I might have spoken to Mother, after all. I told Harvey about it not long after we began making love, having realized that there was nothing I did not wish to trust him with. This was not long before --"

His father holds up a hand. "I do not need... those details."

"As you say, Father. I told Harvey. I knew, by then, that his practicality, his earthy *sanity*, was rock which could be built upon. I knew that he would try -- with all of himself -- to talk me out of it."

"But you were wrong."

Bruce frowns. "Do you truly know him so ill, Father? Of course he tried to talk me out of it. He tried for our entire high school career -- and somewhat beyond. The only thing which stopped him was the beginning of my focused conditioning."

His father is... silent for that.

Bruce nods again. "I didn't think this would need to be said, but... I have every intention of doing my duty to both the company and the Foundation. I will need to travel outside the country for a time, but I will be returning regularly, and my calculations suggest that the length of time required will not be especially different from that which would be required by university and graduate school. I have, as you know, already educated myself extensively about the day-to-day requirements of running --"

"I forbid you to do this."

"Father --"

"I -- I have forbidden you nothing over the years, Bruce. Not association with your clinically mad mother and her shameless perverse -- and *possessed* -- lover, not your highly catholic studies, and not your *devotion* to *incest* --"

"But you would forbid me this," Bruce says, and nods thoughtfully. "Shall I say what we both know I'm thinking, Father?"

His father's knuckles are white again. They --

"Shall I speak about the size of the Kane fortune... and the amount of it which is *already* in my name?"

"Your mother could take it away in a fit of *pique*! *All* you need do is upset her as much as you did this *morning*!"

"Father. I need only say that *you* wish me not to do this."

His father does not growl again, but it seems as though he *wishes* to --

"Father, I do not wish to engage in -- in *gamesmanship* with you. We've never *had* a substantive emotional conversation before. We can -- please, let us take this opportunity to --"

"Bruce. Please take a moment to look at this from my perspective."

"Your perspective has always been... cold."

"There are uses for such things. Even for -- vigilantes."

Bruce swallows and nods, but -- "There is a fundamental problem with this thought exercise, Father."

His father pinches the bridge of his nose, turning away -- "Please tell me what it is, son."

"I do not know you. I do not..." Bruce shakes his head. "I remember every lesson you ever taught me, every -- every *aphorism*. I know precisely what you believe to be correct in terms of the behavior of both physicians and upper-tier executives. I know what foods you enjoy, what fashions you prefer, and I even have a *faint* idea of what sort of music you approve of, because I remember you playing Mozart while teaching me the rudiments of mathematics when I was two. Was I more agreeable then, Father? I *enjoyed* our times together --"

"Your mother... had not claimed you."

"I... what?"

His father shakes his head. Once. "You're saying that you do not know me well enough to look at this matter from my perspective."

"Yes. But --"

"Your mother," he says, turning around again and *sitting* in the chair, "allowed me far more time with you before you were... personable." He waves a hand. "Before your personality began to develop in notable ways. She would keep you with her for your feeding times, of course -- and far beyond -- but she allowed me to teach you when she had her meetings, or when she wished to be alone with Blood."

Bruce frowns. "And then she... stopped?"

His father smiles -- at his desk blotter. "Do you not remember telling me you preferred spending time with her?"

"I -- but. Father, I was *three*. I *also* preferred eating cake for breakfast."

His father's smile -- slips.

And Bruce feels something inside him move, something shift and turn and *yaw* --

Something --

Something he doesn't quite *understand*, but. It *towers* within him. It has its own gravitational *pull*.

And it stinks of regret. "Father..."

His father -- shudders. And continues to -- no. His hands are shaking. His --

He folds them together. He --

There's a vein *throbbing* in his forehead --

"Father.... I think... I think we've done this badly *wrong*."

His father inhales sharply and *clutches* his hands together. "You. You don't know me."

"Please. I... perhaps we could *fix* that --"

"What. Would you like to know," he says, and -- he's still staring at his blotter.

Bruce would like, very much, for his father to *look* at him, for his father to meet his eyes so they can --

Perhaps... it would be too much to ask in this moment.

Bruce takes his own deep breath. He -- "There is something... there is a question I have always... no. It would be a lie to say that I have always wanted to ask this question. The truth is that the question has... *lurked* in the back of my mind for years. Perhaps... perhaps I mean that it has 'festered' there --"

"Janet."

Bruce swallows. "Yes."

His father nods and -- continues to stare at his blotter. "I... must ask you to be more specific. Because I do not know *you*, either."

"As you say, Father. She is entirely aesthetically pleasing, of course -- if not quite so beautiful as Mother. She is intelligent, and driven, and successful. However, she is also habitually unkind, *obviously* mercenary in terms of every relationship of hers that I have observed, dishonest, and, as I have recently learned, a source of near-constant fear and approbation to her only child. *Your* --"

"Timothy Drake is *Jackson* Drake's son --"

"*Father*. What do you gain by this dishonesty? This -- this *charade*? If ever I *doubted* Tim's parentage, that doubt was *erased* by the fact that the demon who *kidnapped* me *tasted* our relationship in Tim's spilled blood!"

Another pause --

His father's hands are *clamped* together --

"*Please*, Father!"

"I will not discuss this with you, Bruce."

This -- he can't keep his hands from clenching into fists --

He can't keep himself from glaring *incredulously* --

"What," his father says, *calmly*, "would you like to know about Janet?"

For a moment, Bruce can understand -- *clearly* -- the concept of 'seeing red.' But --

The moment passes, leaving only guilty exhaustion in its wake, when Bruce remembers his own behavior toward Tim over the years. His own *failures*. It --

"We have both been incorrect, Father," Bruce says *quietly* --

And he knows it's the tone more than the words which makes his father shudder again, makes him look almost *panicked* --

"Yes, please talk to me about --"

"Ask. About. Janet."

"Father--"

"Or let us end this conversation."

Bruce rears back, shaking his head --

But his father is looking at him steadily now, or -- no. He's using the light from the windows to throw glare on his lenses --

His knuckles are still *white* --

"I. I would like to *understand* you, Father."

"Then you must ask questions --"

"But only those you approve of?"

His father takes a slow, deep breath -- and then smiles gently. "The rules of proper conversation still apply, Bruce. Whether or not we wish them to."

Bruce -- shakes his head --

"Bruce --"

"Why." Bruce swallows *bile* -- "Why did you choose her over Mother." He knows -- better than he's *ever* known -- that it isn't the correct question.

And his *father* knows that it isn't the correct question --

That it's *irrelevant* --

But he only smiles more gently and shakes his head. "It wasn't a question of that, Bruce. It was *never* a question of that. I met Janet just after you were born, and the attraction was... well. You have found many ways to tell me, today, that you are old enough to understand such things."

"It was a question of lust."

"Not purely so. While I am a human male, and, twenty years ago, was far more subject to hormonal *tides* than I am now, I was still a responsible *enough* adult. My relationship with Janet Drake -- Janet Evans, then -- would not have begun were she not brilliant, amusing, and entirely fascinating on emotional levels, as well."

Bruce -- swallows again. "You... fell for her."

His father narrows his eyes, tilting his head *slightly*...

"You would not put the matter that way."

"I... say, instead, that I knew from very early on in our acquaintance that I wished to have her in my life for an extended period of time. She is *not* the perfect human being... but surely you are *also* old enough to know that such a creature does not exist...?" And his father's mustache twitches slightly with a smile he is not allowing fully onto his face.

"Yes, Father. I am aware. Just the same --"

"Just the same, you find her flaws more... problematic than your mother's. Yes?"

("Oh, boychik, promise me! *Promise me*!")

Bruce frowns and turns aside --

And his father inhales sharply. "Or do you? Son, if you were to tell me what happened --"

"You would have a weapon to use against her," Bruce says, to the carpet -- no. He looks up and meets his father's gaze. It's possible now that he has leaned in enough that the glare is no longer shielding his eyes. "You -- the prospect of that makes you honestly eager."

His father frowns and leans back slightly. "I would not say --"

"No, I imagine you would not," Bruce says, straightening his posture.

"Bruce."

"Father. Will you advise Janet to abort her current pregnancy?"

A darkness -- and his father leans back and uses the glare once more. "She is not as young as she once was, and, now that abortion is legal throughout the country, she can have the procedure without leaving the state. I believe it would be, by far, the most reasonable solution."

"Even though the child... is not yours."

"I have one biological child, Bruce, and he is you."

Bruce -- does not grind his teeth. "You... don't feel that it would be overstepping your place?"

His father sighs. "It isn't the most appropriate arrangement, but I have been Janet's physician of choice since nineteen-sixty, Bruce. It is, in fact, my place."

Bruce shakes his head. "How..."

"Yes?"

Bruce frowns and shakes his head more *firmly* -- he stops. He considers. "Is it..."

"I'm listening, Bruce," his father says, and his *tone* is entirely reasonable --

But Bruce knows him -- somewhat -- better now. "I cannot help but wonder if it's a question of control, Father."

His father raises an eyebrow. "Control has always been very important to me, son. Leslie has told me, more than once, that she considers it to be my greatest weakness," he says, and -- laughs.

Bruce nods slowly. "Would you choose the *appearance* of control over... over something more honest?"

His father *flexes* his fingers. "It would depend on the subject in question, Bruce. There are times when appearances trump -- *must* trump -- everything else... and I see that this displeases you," he says, and laughs softly again. "You may find that your idealism, while commendable --"

"Will prove dangerous. Yes, Father, I am... aware of this."

"Are you?"

Bruce pulls his hands behind his back to hide their clenching, to hide the physical realities of the new knowledge he's building, the new *feeling* -- "Yes, Father. There will not always be room for high ideals on the street. However... I find myself unsure about something."

"If I can help, I will. Though my objections remain."

Bruce inclines his head, and shutters his expression the way he's seen Mother do so many times --

The way Harvey does in *front* of Mother --

The way *he* does at the parties --

Bruce believes he can *feel* his father narrowing his eyes, but --

But. "Father... I believe you have grown accustomed to the trappings of control."

Another laugh. "These things *happen*, Bruce."

"I believe that this is true even beyond Wayne Enterprises and your practice --"

"It's certainly not true for my *family*."

"This angers you."

His father raises an eyebrow. "I am only human, Bruce."

"I wonder... I cannot help but wonder where your anger is directed, Father."

His father *lowers* his eyebrow, and for a moment there is no expression on his face whatsoever.

So be it. "I cannot help but wonder if your need for control expresses itself in ways --"

"Which could be construed as 'inappropriate', Bruce...?"

("And let's just say your father's *tastes* weren't always to my liking, boychik...")

"Perhaps, Father. But such things, I have learned, can have their place --"

"So they can --"

"-- when offered with love and respect."

This time, it isn't a smile which causes his father's mustache to twitch. It -- Bruce knows that.

He clenches his hands into fists behind his back. "I also cannot help but wonder if your attraction to Janet isn't based on the idea that it is... meet to take your... frustrations --"

"Stop. Right there."

Bruce does. And raises an eyebrow.

His father laughs, but it --

It's so *dark --

"Bruce. She had some of the same questions. Once."

"Only once?"

His father narrows his eyes -- but only for a moment. "Are you questioning my sexuality or my capacity for care?"

"I believe you know the answer to that question, Father."

"I see," his father says, and nothing else. The silence stretches between them, broken only by the tick of the clock and the sounds of their breathing.

They are both working very, very hard to breathe evenly.

They are both failing, to a certain extent.

And, after a long moment, his father sighs. "Which would you prefer, Bruce? That I would care honestly and deeply for a woman you -- clearly -- loathe? Or that I would use such a woman in ways that pleasured us both for the sake of my emotional equilibrium?"

"The former, Father. It is, by far, the more correct choice."

His father spreads his hands. "Then you are in luck --"

"I'm afraid I can't believe that."

His father blinks. Once.

Bruce continues meeting his eyes.

"Bruce... are you asking me to *prove* my feelings for her? How on earth would I do that?"

"It would be a fair beginning --"

"Timothy Drake. Is not. My son."

Bruce -- closes his eyes. He knows how the next conversational gambit will end, given what has come before.

He knows how it *must* end.

He -- he must see it through. "And the current pregnancy is no responsibility of yours."

"Correct."

"Mother knows about Jackson Drake's vasectomy, Father."

"And she told --" He cuts himself off and shakes his head once. "As you should know, that procedure is notorious for its tendency to reverse itself."

"I am aware of this, Father," Bruce says, and thinks of Harvey's rueful smile --

Harvey's care --

Harvey's *protection* of him... "*Mother* is aware of the fact that Janet forces Jackson Drake to have the status of his vasectomy checked every three months, Father."

And his father... folds his hands together again. Uses the *glare* again. He --

A part of Bruce is only begging, *pleading* with his father not to say --

"My relationship with Janet is what a certain sub-section of the youth of today would call an 'open' one, Bruce. Are you familiar with that term?"

Oh, Father... "Yes, I am."

"Certainly, you have never seemed to grow desperately morose when Harvey has chosen to spend his time with a woman."

"No, Father. Are you..." He can't. He --

"Yes, Bruce?"

Bruce clenches his own hands together. "Are you saying you are not sure who Tim's father is. And -- who the father of the current embryo is."

His father looks at him. Only -- only *looks* at him --

Bruce *knows* the plea is in his *eyes* --

"We live in the *twentieth* century, Bruce. If a woman wishes to make a family with someone with whom she is not otherwise involved? That is *her* prerogative."

"You are incorrect, Father."

"Come now, Bruce, now is not the time for hidebound --"

"Not -- your politics, Father," Bruce says, wincing and -- no. No. "Was there anything else you wished to discuss with me?"

For a moment -- *just* a moment -- the panic returns to Thomas' expression, and Bruce feels something like hope, something --

Something like a *chance* that he will try to reach out to him, to -- to bridge the *gap* between them --

But then his father's expression closes, and there is nothing -- "Do you have any intention of listening to reason about your... choices?"

"Not to the sort of reason you could approve of, I'm afraid."

"You are aware that, should your identity become compromised, *all* of your loved ones will be endangered?"

"Yes, Father, I am. It will not be compromised."

"You are a public figure, Bruce --"

"And I will be more of one as time passes. I am aware of this, Father. I have already begun researching steps which can be taken to separate my future vigilante identity from my civilian identity."

His father takes a shuddering breath. A *pained* breath.

There is a part of Bruce which only wants to *ease*, to -- to somehow *erase* --

"It is a strange and terrible thing to have no control whatsoever over one's family, even when one's family insists upon embarking on paths which can only be considered wildly dangerous and actively mad," his father says, quiet and low.

"Every family is made up of individual people, Father, with individual needs and --"

"Drives, Bruce...? Yes, I am aware of that," his father says, unclenching his hands and waving the left dismissively. "I was raised to believe that the worthiest individuals in a given family yoked themselves to the family's purpose for the greater good *of* the family."

"I have already stated --"

"That you will 'do your duty,' yes. I do wonder what that will mean when you're too obviously bruised to chair a board meeting --"

"Even executives occasionally have ski accidents and the like, Father."

His father laughs somewhat painfully. "Bruce. One of your better qualities has *always* been the fact that you're a remarkably *poor* liar --"

Bruce raises a hand.

His father blinks. "Yes?"

Bruce looks down for a moment, gathers himself, looks up, and smiles gently. Openly. "I do not respect you less after this conversation, Father," he says, and smiles more broadly.

His father flushes hard -- and shudders. "I see. I believe this conversation is over."

"Yes, I believe you are correct, Father," Bruce says, dropping the smile and turning to go. He pauses before opening the door. "But I will be spending more time with *both* of my brothers, Father --"

"I am aware of the activities you enjoy with your... brothers. Your continued discretion is -- vastly -- appreciated."

Bruce... feels no need to flush for that. Or for this: "I will also be a part of my new sibling's life, Father."

"I will have no part in your delusions, Bruce."

"No... I suppose you will not. Good day," Bruce says, and walks out the door, closing it firmly behind him and turning to look for Elspeth --

She has left her 'out to lunch' sign decorated with the two moderately demented-looking and bohemian tabby cats on her desk. She is, undoubtedly, enjoying her roast beef. He leaves her a quick note thanking her for the sandwich, and then he leaves, greeting everyone who meets his gaze and doing his level best to chase away the cold, the bile, the --

The *wrongness* --

He will lead as right a life as possible. He will --

He will work to show care to all of his loved ones, and to everyone else he *can*. He will *touch* the world -- he will not simply seal himself *above* it --

And he will do it all because *he* needs to, because it's part of who *he* is, part of what makes him who he is. He will not -- not *lord* it over others if he can at all help it --

He will not set impossible rules for others to follow, and, if he sets any rules, at all, he will not *break* them. Not unless the rules change for *everyone*.

He will be *better* than his father -- and not just because it's the correct thing to do. He will do it because it's who he was *made* to be by the people who *truly* love him -- including Mother.

She is angry with him *now*, but --

But he thinks he knows how he can improve that. And that is precisely what he will do.

His time sense tells him that it's nearly two-fifteen when his brief conversation with Karen Chen in Research and Development begins to wind down, and so he borrows her telephone book and calls Vincenzo's from the laboratory's reception area.

It takes five minutes and the promise of a sizable order to get the woman who answers the telephone to *give* the telephone to Harvey, but --

"Big guy, everything okay?"

"Not... entirely."

"I'm wincing over here. I -- what do you need?"

Bruce smiles ruefully, and breathes deeply as he feels tension he wasn't even aware of *holding* flow away. "You. Always."

"Well, that's something we can *work* with. Where are we meeting up?"

"I... perhaps I can pick Tim up and bring him there? If you don't mind continuing to wait."

"Not even a little. I'm gonna get me a big plate of manicotti so the waitress stops givin' me the stink-eye and then I'm gonna read the funny pages. *Slowly*. You can tell me -- *us* -- all about the fallout when you get here. Sounds good?"

"Excellent, truly --"

"Well, all right. Do you know how to *get* to Tim's school?"

"I was planning to look it up and call."

"*From* WE?"

"Hm. There's a temptation to answer that question with a certain -- and, one hopes, charming -- innocent dimness..."

"But maybe you and Dad were talking about that, too?"

"Oh, yes."

Harvey snorts and coughs. "Ah, Jesus. No wonder you were shut up with him for all this time. All right, look. The school is on Eighty-Eighth and Park -- practically on top of Grant. You can't miss it, and? It's the only middle school there."

"All right. Thank you, Harv --"

"You're *welcome*," Harvey says, and laughs a little more. "God, big guy..."

"Yes?"

"Ah, no, I'll say it later."

I need you -- "I... have my own things which need to be said at another time."

"I'll just bet. School day ends *promptly* at two-forty-five, big guy. Get going."

"As you say. We'll meet you soon."

"Uh, huh. Over and out," Harvey says, and Bruce can hear him thanking the woman behind the counter for the use of her telephone in the moments before she hangs up.

Bruce says his goodbyes to Karen Chen and her team members -- they're working on military-grade body armor which many, many parts of Bruce find frankly fascinating --

Perhaps Tim would enjoy touring these laboratories, himself.

Perhaps he would come up with further *ideas* --

And 'mentoring' has a long and noble tradition -- though one which has fallen off dramatically within Bruce's so-called peer group. It need not be suspicious, or even *uncomfortable* for -- the father who, truthfully, belongs to none of them, at all.

Bruce feels some of the happiness he'd slowly been rebuilding within himself fade rather -- dramatically. He's frowning again, and the only thing which can be said in his defense is that he's in the garage again, and no one can *see* him making this awful face. It --

Surely his family can make a better *showing* for itself -- no. His brothers can, and do, and *will*. His brothers will rise above, and will teach him how to *help* them do that, and how to do it in turn.

Bruce nods decisively as he slips into the driver's seat of the Lexedes, and feels -- better. More focused.

Even a numinous goal is a goal, and --

("Ah, big guy, there is *nothing* numinous about love. Not this kind."

"You... find it tangible?"

"You *don't*?")

And Harvey's expression had been incredulously amused, but there had still been doubt *beneath* it, and perhaps a little *fear*.

They had still been *fourteen*, and Bruce --

("Oh... Harv. I've wondered. I've wondered  if, perhaps, I were imagining things."

"'Things'?"

"The feeling -- the warmth you bring me. The sense of being held, even when you're not near --"

"The feeling. The feeling like everything's gonna be just fine, big guy?"

"Oh -- no matter *what*!"

"That -- I think that's what love *is*, big guy, and --")

And Bruce had kissed him, of course, because he'd *had* to --

Because they hadn't *been* brothers, yet -- not officially -- and Bruce hadn't had the *words* for it --

Hadn't been *brave* enough --

He will show this to Tim, tell him --

He will *teach* this to Tim, and have Tim teach *him* the brotherhood Bruce had disdained before --

Or something else *entirely* --

They will -- they will find a way to love, and to share love, and to be *honest*, and *open* with each other *always*. They --

They are more than what they were made.

Mountainview Day School bustles with *quiet* activity at two-forty-five, but there's a gradual increase in noise and something Bruce wishes to call 'normalcy' as the seconds and minutes pass.

Boys call out to each other raucously and toss balls and other small, presumably harmless missiles. Girls laugh -- somewhat -- more decorously and point and gather in groups. Bookish children move toward the edges of groups. Persecuted children move *further* toward the edges of things -- they are as obvious to Bruce now as they were during his own school years, as they are the only ones who work so assiduously not to be noticed --

No, that's not true. There is Tim, and his silent and *swift* progress toward a group -- a *pack*-- of the larger boys who are moving away from campus and in on a smaller boy with thick glasses and an ill-fitting uniform --

Bruce steps out of the car --

But Tim has already forced himself into the center of the pack. For a moment, Bruce can see nothing, at all --

He moves toward them as quickly as he *can*, ignoring the indignant honks and yells of the parents who wish to take his parking spot --

And then one of the boys cries out and falls --

And another jerks and seems almost to *flail* to his knees --

And another punches out wildly in the moment before he seems to *fly* backwards --

And the other two boys stop and merely look at Tim, who appears simultaneously innocent and unruffled and utterly dangerous. Bruce knows, now, that he *must* be *close* to a 'ready position' --

Bruce can't see it. He can't --

He can see nothing but the fact that Tim doesn't need *his* help -- and that the nameless, persecuted boy is staring back at Tim in wonder... from a full and *safe* block and a half away.

The other two boys in the pack raise their hands and back away.

Two of the boys who had fallen do the same -- but the one who had cried out makes a threatening gesture.

Tim shows his teeth... and makes a *come-on* gesture. It --

Bruce adds it to the list of things he will be sketching. For now... he clears his throat.

The boy who'd threatened Tim is at least six inches taller than Tim is and some forty pounds heavier... and very clearly distressed by Bruce's appearance. Overall, Bruce trusts Tim to handle such things far more than he trusts *himself*, but --

But there is amusement in Tim's eyes as he makes an 'after you' gesture.

Bruce frowns as thunderously as he can at the boy. "Did you have something you wished to say to my brother."

"Your. Uh. Tim doesn't... have..."

"Yes. He. Does," Bruce says, in his deepest, most commanding voice --

And the boy mutters something about needing to go before running off in the same general direction as his pack.

Bruce hums --

And Tim sighs a laugh. "That was... a fantasy," he says in a voice which barely rises above a breath.

Bruce blinks and turns back to Tim. "I --"

Tim shakes his head. "The green Lexedes, yes?"

"Yes, but --"

"Later. Or -- at least *in* the car?"

Bruce closes his mouth and nods, and they make it to the inconveniently -- though not strictly illegally -- parked car just as an irate gentleman Bruce vaguely recognizes from the less-fashionable groupings at one of Mother's galas begins pounding his fist on the hood.

He stops as soon as he sees Bruce's face, blushes the precise color of the pepperoni Bruce sincerely hopes to be eating *soon*, and begins babbling apologies. Bruce waves him off with a nod -- the bicycle messenger had done more damage -- and slips into the driver's seat as Tim takes the passenger seat.

Tim sighs again and smiles, small and *bright* --

"Brother..."

And he looks at Bruce from under his long, straight eyelashes. "You should probably... pull out."

"I feel strongly that that shouldn't have been so arousing to hear."

"Hnn. Well... I'm sorry?" And Tim buckles his seatbelt.

Bruce buckles his own and starts the car, weaving it through the terribly disorganized -- and actively dangerous, considering the number of young people running out between the cars -- traffic. "I like -- I would like to see you this happy every day."

"Well, simply give me several annoying and/or actively terrible people to be violent with --"

"Do you... do that often?"

"Hnn... no. Today was the first time. I -- I probably shouldn't. But they were harassing Gunther far more viciously than usual..." Tim shakes his head. "It was obvious that they were going to do *something* better suited to the pages of Lord of the Flies than to a day school as determinedly *genteel* as Mountainview. Something had to be done."

Bruce nods. "And you were wise enough to wait until you were off school property. I often failed at that when I was your age and younger," Bruce says, and --

He can feel Tim looking at him. Studying him.

"Please ask."

"I've thought... I knew about the fights you used to get into."

Bruce nods once -- no, he can offer information. "It seemed... I believe I have always been... violent."

"I -- yes. I think so, too. I mean -- for myself," and Tim is blushing --

"You -- I wanted to see you this morning."

Tim laughs. "I was talking to my *mother* this morning, Bruce."

"Oh... are you all right?"

"I am, yes. Blood was... helpful."

Bruce blinks. "He... enchanted your mother?"

"Is that strange? He did it without... *seemingly* without a second thought. And I'll be attending high school here in Gotham, and I'll have... a fair amount of freedom. More freedom. I have to admit, I *was* disturbed by Blood's rather *cavalier* attitude about it, but it was better than continuing to be interrogated and insulted about my -- and your, and Harv's -- sex life, and -- well. I'm not complaining."

"Perhaps... you should," Bruce says, and pulls onto Grand Row, where the traffic is no less *intensely* crowded, but where there are, at least, fewer young children.

"About Blood? Because I don't think I *can* complain about *my* mother anymore -- ah. Not that I want to say anything against --"

"Mother attempted to seduce Harvey and me this morning."

"Oh -- ah."

"Our father summoned me -- and *not* Harv -- into his office this afternoon to... 'call me on the carpet' about the kidnapping, my plans for the future, my overall failures --"

"Wait. What. Ah."

"Mother was, apparently, upset enough by our rejection of her advances that she felt the need to... inform our father about my plans for the future. All of my plans."

"That's... extremely problematic. I -- Bruce, I'm so sorry --"

"No, I --" Bruce shakes his head. "We both have... have *difficulties*. I wish... I wish for you to tell me about the problems you've had with your mother, and -- and with Jackson Drake and our father, as well --"

"They don't *compare* --"

Bruce takes his right hand off the steering wheel and rests it on Tim's lean thigh. "They do. They... those pains have shaped you, and changed you, and changed the way you view the world."

"Of course, but --"

"But there is no... hierarchy of suffering. Or..." Bruce frowns thoughtfully. "Perhaps there is, for such things as the difference between being shot and being punched, but I believe that, metaphorically, we have both been shot *repeatedly*, brother."

"No, I --"

"Brother... you need never minimize the hurts you've been caused. You... please, share them with me."

Tim frowns and stares down at his own thighs, or -- at Bruce's hand?

"Do... should I move it?"

"A part of me only wants to... to *bleat* about how this would allow you to *glide* past all of the pain *you've* caused me."

Bruce lifts his hand --

But Tim covers it with his own and *squeezes* it against his thigh. "It's not. I know it's not that," he says, and his voice is low, strained --

"Brother... I would hear everything, including --"

"Including the pains of mine with your name on it. I know."

Bruce frowns again. "Do you?"

Tim laughs painfully. "Yes. And no."

Oh... "May I apologize --"

"No."

"Then --"

"You -- you may do... other things? Yes, I think that's the best way to put it," Tim says, tilting his head back and breathing raggedly --

"Please tell me --"

"Coming to my rescue whether or not I need it. That was -- mm," and Tim smiles *brightly* despite the pain still *audible* in his breathing --

"Oh... truly?"

"You shouldn't do that all the time. Or... often."

"No. I -- only when you signal me in some way, of course --"

"Harv... does he let you...?"

"Very rarely. And... his signal is nearly identical to yours. He knows. He knows how much I crave --"

"The chance to be protective?"

"*Yes* --"

"I... ah." And Tim blushes. "It was your turn."

Bruce shivers. "Brother..."

"I -- anyway. I'm not going to *have* any more problems with my mother, assuming Blood's spell holds...?"

"His spells always do, but --"

"*But* -- but I don't think he'll feel the same drive to enchant... your mother."

Bruce squeezes the steering wheel too hard --

He's also squeezing Tim's *thigh* -- he stops that --

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

"No. You have nothing to apologize for, Tim. It's only... I was thinking, for a moment, that it would be pleasant to have... a guarantee."

"Of... your mother's good behavior?"

Bruce nods.

Tim strokes Bruce's hand. "Perhaps. Perhaps I should be inviting you and Harv to *my* house more often...?"

"I would join you anywhere, brother."

Tim shivers. "I am. I'm not. I -- spent all day thinking about you. Both of you. My exam performance is going to be exceedingly poor if this keeps up."

"Will it?"

"Ah... well. Probably not, no."

Bruce nods.

"The point remains --"

"Harv wouldn't let us come get you for lunch."

"Ah."

"Do you think --"

"Yes. I mean -- it would've been... questionable. I'll have more freedom in high school. That is -- I'll almost be *expected* to *take* more freedom."

Bruce nods.

"I... what were you... thinking about?"

"Holding you. Speaking with you. Showing you..." Bruce shakes his head. "The words seem inadequate. I wanted to continue building our brotherhood. We *both* wanted that. To *teach* you of ourselves, and to have you teach *us*."

"... oh."

"Is that... wrong?"

Tim laughs and turns toward his window. "Ah... no? But it makes me feel *extremely* shallow about how much time I spent thinking about... making love."

Bruce means to exhale -- but it comes out growled. It --

"Oh -- Bruce?"

"Harv... Harv and I made love this morning, Tim."

And Tim licks his lips. "You... you do that more mornings than you don't. Yes?"

Bruce nods. "He wanted me to be... rough with him --"

"Nnh -- ah. Where are we going? Now, I mean."

Bruce blinks. "To Vincenzo's. An Italian restaurant with very good pizza and 'sub' sandwiches, though Harv prefers --"

"All you really had to say was 'not somewhere we can make love, Tim,'" Tim says, and laughs painfully again. "God, I -- ah. Possibly... we can change the subject?"

"I want you very badly --"

"I want *you* -- and Harv -- and -- ah. Still. Please."

Bruce nods slowly. "Did you have a pleasant day --"

Tim snorts. "Okay, not that. *How* rough?"

"Tim --"

"Please. Please," and Tim pushes his fingers between Bruce's, squeezes Bruce's hand and makes it seem too large, too hirsute, too --

"You're beautiful, and I -- perhaps we could postpone our meal? And... I'm not sure how much searching for suitable apartments Harv was able to do while --"

"Please -- or. Do you not... want to tell me?"

Bruce grunts -- "I want you to know *everything*. I -- he wanted me to *hurt* him, Tim --"

"Oh. God --"

"To -- I gripped the back of his neck with my left hand while I was taking him with my right --"

"H-hard."

"Yes. On both counts. He has. He is bruised."

Tim moans and grips himself through his pants with his free hand, moans and bites his lip and turns *away* --

"Tim..."

"Did you -- no. Did you ever *stop* hurting him?"

Bruce licks his lips. "I'd like to know which answer would arouse you more."

Tim shakes his head. "It -- it depends. Please."

"I stroked him... relatively gently."

"Oh..."

"But I was taking him roughly at the time, Tim. With my penis --"

A high, *sharp* noise --

"Tim --"

"I -- I hurt too much. For you to fuck me again."

Bruce sighs and strokes Tim's thigh, dragging Tim's hand with his own --

"Today. Just -- oh. Bruce, I want -- I want it."

Bruce growls again. "I want to please you --"

"Would you. Hurt me?"

"Tim. I. I feel. Please let me give you an orgasm."

"What? I -- *now*?"

Bruce nods. "You could... cover your lap with your jacket."

Tim *bucks* -- "God -- we -- you're *driving*."

"I'm quite good at... doing more than one thing at a time..."

Tim moans, and seems to be trying to look in every direction at  *once* --

"You don't find -- I believe that's somewhat *more* suspicious --"

"Oh -- God, you're right," Tim says, and nearly *throws* himself back against the seat --

And then leans forward, unbuckles his seatbelt, and shrugs off his jacket --

"Thank you, Tim --"

Tim laughs, high-pitched and *incredulous* -- it's almost a *giggle* -- but --

"How would you feel about the opportunity to give Harv an orgasm if he were powerfully aroused by the things you'd said?"

"I -- oh. But --" He shakes his head.

"Tell me --"

"It -- or you. It could be -- I would be.... equally thankful -- please," Tim says, covering his lap with his jacket and -- judging by the sound -- unzipping his uniform trousers.

It -- "*Thank* you," Bruce says, tugging his handkerchief out of his pocket and reaching beneath --

Tim groans for the barest *touch* -- "Please --"

"How should I --"

"Show me -- please show me!"

Bruce squeezes Tim firmly -- but not roughly --

"Oh --"

And he starts to stroke, slowly and *appreciatively* --

"Oh, *fuck*. *Bruce*!"

"This is how I stroked him, Tim," Bruce says, and swerves around a very full bag of trash which has been left in the middle of the road. There's nowhere to park for long enough to retrieve --

"Please! I mean -- I mean --" Tim moans and arches --

"Tell me."

"You --  you were *fucking* him at the time!"

"Very hard. Very... he was holding himself spread for me --"

"*Nnh* -- oh, *God* --"

"Would you do that for me --"

"*Yes*!"

"Would you..." Bruce licks his lips and squeezes *gently* --

"*Please*!"

"We were in the shower at the time, Tim..."

"We -- we already made love in -- I've seen -- "

Bruce squeezes again --

Tim sobs and *slams* his head against the seat -- "Bruce. *Bruce* --"

"Even in glimpses, even solely in my peripheral vision, you are beautiful. Would you let me wash you again?"

"Yes!"

"Would you let me take you with my tongue --"

"*Yes* --"

"-- tonight?"

Tim groans and bucks --

Thrusts into Bruce's fist in no rhythm, at all -- until he finds one that is rough and perfect, *needful* --

"Tim..."

"Yes. Yes. Please, Bruce..."

Bruce stops the car at a red light -- and pedestrians are crossing in front of them. Tim is flushed and dazed --

He is not focusing on anything, at all.

He -- "Slow down, Tim."

Tim *whimpers* --

Shudders and *tosses* his head --

"We are being... obvious."

Tim gasps -- and stops thrusting, stops *moving* -- no. He is shuddering, shaking all over --

"Good -- very good, Tim --"

Tim whimpers and nods. His eyes are still not focusing on anything in particular, but he can *hear* Bruce --

And feel him.

Bruce begins stroking faster, squeezing gently on every *other* upstroke --

"*Bruce*!"

"I want your pleasure, Tim..."

"You --" Tim laughs breathlessly, *brightly* --

A *tear* rolls down his left cheek --

"Oh, *God*, Bruce, it's so -- it's so *good* --"

"I would have my every touch be this good for you, Tim --"

Tim *sobs* --

"*Brother*..."

"Please. Please -- or -- faster? I don't know, I don't know --"

"It's all right," Bruce says, and increases the speed of his stroke as the light turns green --

As he accelerates and *aches* --

"I *want* you, Tim."

"You. You can have --" And Tim moans and tosses his head, licks his lips and begins to buck again, to *arch* --

"You can't control yourself."

Tim *sobs* and slams himself back against the seat --

"It wasn't a criticism --"

"I can. I can --"

"I don't *want* you to --"

Tim cries out and sniffs, shudders and *writhes* --

"Yes, give me this, Tim. Give me your *pleasure*."

"Yours, it's -- oh, *God*, Bruce --"

"This? A tease for your meatus?"

Tim whimpers and nods *frantically* --

And so Bruce shifts his grip so that he can use his thumb, so that he can *torment* with his thumb --

"Ah -- ah -- *ahn*!"

"*More*, Tim!"

"I can't -- I --" And then Tim *shouts*, arching off the seat --

Bruce shifts the handkerchief and squeezes *hard* --

And Tim screams as he ejaculates, pumping into Bruce's fist over and over again --

*Giving* himself --

And Bruce has to remind himself not to pull over --

Not to drive into the nearest alley and *bury* his face against Tim's groin --

Not to do anything more suspicious than *this* -- but.

"Tim..."

Tim whimpers and collapses against the seat. He --

Another tear rolls down his cheek and Bruce -- must. He folds the handkerchief one-handed, tucks it in his right hip pocket, then swipes the tear from Tim's chin with his fingertips --

"Oh -- Bruce..."

He sucks his fingers and moans for the salt, for the sense that there's so much more he can *have* --

And Tim moans, too, blushing and shaking his head as he straightens his clothes. "That was. Ah. Thank you. Very much."

Bruce withdraws his fingertips out of his mouth and comes to a stop at the next red light. "You may have that of me --"

"Not -- *not* any time."

Bruce frowns, but nods. "There will be training, and school for you --"

"And -- Harv."

"I want... if we could all be together --"

"Not -- every time. It -- ah. I mean. It would be... very pleasant. To say the least," Tim says, and laughs -- though perhaps more at himself than at any joke. "Logistics works against it. As it did today."

"True. But --" He shakes his head. "We would've picked you up together had our father not been so..." Bruce brings both hands to the steering wheel so he can squeeze it as hard as he wishes to.

"Bruce...?"

"I'm --" No. "I'm not all right," Bruce says, and drives when the light turns green.

Tim *starts* to reach for him -- and stops himself. He --

"Please."

"I -- I. I don't really know... how. Ah. How to offer comfort. I mean... in serious ways. I don't..." Tim laughs painfully again. "I've asked Harv to talk to me about his childhood, but I have no idea what -- what I'd *do*..." 

Bruce nods. That makes perfect sense. "I assure you that any efforts you made would be appreciated. By both of us."

"You don't -- I'm not -- I'm not *nice*, Bruce --"

"Your heart. Your heart is filled with love."

"I -- of course it is --"

"Please," Bruce says, and reaches for Tim with his right hand again. "Let me see it. Let me have it."

Tim pants. "Oh. Just -- like that?"

Bruce nods dumbly -- no. "It's -- it's the best thing. I promise you."

Tim moans again and *grips* Bruce's hand, lets go and strokes it, grips it again, lets go again and strokes Bruce's *forearm* -- "You -- you could tell me -- something --"

"There is a pleasure in knowing you want to touch me --"

"And in knowing I don't know *how*?"

"In feeling you teach yourself, brother. There is..." Bruce shakes his head. "All of those touches are welcome."

"*Equally*?"

"Mother's touches often made me feel like a favored... pet. Jason's touches were always *warmly* distant. Harv's touches..."

"Please tell me," Tim says, and seems to settle on stroking Bruce's wrist and forearm -- *with* the grain of Bruce's hair, despite the fact that he cannot *see* it.

"I like that."

"Oh -- good. But --"

"Harv's touches make me feel loved. Desired. Welcomed. Accepted. As though... as though there could be more than one home for me."

Tim shivers. "Yes. Yes. He -- yes."

Bruce nods. "Sometimes..." He shakes his head again. "Lately, I've begun to think that the home he offers is far, far better than the one I grew up in."

Tim's smile quirks. "I can't imagine why."

Bruce laughs quietly. "Indeed. We'll be at the parking garage soon, and then we can walk to Vincenzo's. Have you ever been?"

"No, but I look forward to trying it. Even though I'm somewhat worried about the fat content."

"Your metabolism must be quite fast..."

Tim sighs. "And I'm trying to gain more weight. I... I'm somewhat neurotic about my diet. My sensei is a nutritionist, and has crafted a very *exact* diet for me that I tend to stick to."

"Oh -- if you don't want to --"

"No -- ah. No. I've been explicitly ordered to cheat on that diet sometimes," Tim says, blushing and turning away -- "She's noticed the neurosis and... worries."

"You're beautiful, and you've proven yourself to be *amazingly* fit --"

"And I'll be even more fit tomorrow, and the day after that, and -- so on. And maybe this meal will help me reach one hundred and twenty pounds before I turn fourteen."

"Is that your goal?"

"Ah... sort of?" And Tim turns back to him and smiles ruefully in Bruce's peripheral vision. He never stops stroking, and -- "I try not to make... hard and fast goals of that sort. The disappointment is... painful."

Bruce nods thoughtfully. "Thank you for telling me."

"You... we can stop talking -- will you tell me what... he said?"

The tone, the hesitation -- Tim is asking about their father. He... Bruce frowns.

"You -- obviously don't have to --"

"I would like. I would like to wait until the three of us are together. I would like for us to be a family, even though our parents seem determined to do everything in their power to keep that from happening."

"Oh... all right."

"Thank you."

"It's only..."

Bruce waits for Tim to finish as he takes the ticket from the parking attendant, but... he doesn't.

Bruce parks on the third level, in the shadows of two pillars --

And Tim sighs. "I would very much like to fellate you."

Bruce *grunts* -- but. "That... that was less --" He shakes his head. "I can't tell whether or not that was honest."

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose -- but only for a moment. "It was. Entirely so."

"Tim..."

"It's just that the desire, in that moment, was far more intellectual than emotional or physical," he says, and smiles at Bruce ruefully.

"Is that... possible?"

"Yes...? Ah. It is for me? Does it seem very strange?"

"Yes, but... everyone has always told me that *I'm* very strange, so I cannot say with any certainty whether *you're* being strange in this moment."

Tim bites his lip and nods, turning away --

Bruce cups Tim's chin and turns him back to face him. "Please."

"Bruce?"

"You started to say something before, brother."

"I... often do..."

"I believe this was important to you. That makes it very important to me."

Tim closes his eyes -- squeezes them shut.

"Oh... brother..."

"It sounds... it sounds like." He opens his eyes again. "Did you talk with him about me?"

"Yes."

Tim winces. "I -- see."

"I wish --"

"I can guess -- what you wish," Tim says, and smiles ruefully. "Let's... go be a family?"

Bruce cups Tim's face with both hands and leans in to kiss his forehead, and his chin, and his soft mouth. "You will always be my brother."

"Certainly, we'll always share DNA --"

"Brother."

"I -- right. I was going to be... open. With you. Wasn't I."

Bruce pulls back enough to meet Tim's eyes. "Please."

"You... are not our father."

"I will never be him."

"I was... I was supposed to grow into his... clone, I suppose. That's what my mother wanted for me."

Bruce frowns... but it makes sense, given what little he knows of Janet. It's just that it makes their father's refusal to offer Tim *anything* of himself even worse.

"You... could respond... to that?"

"I have come to believe that our father has little to offer us in terms of setting an example to follow, brother."

"Because of the things he said. About me."

"And because of other things, as well."

"Let's -- go," Tim says, but he doesn't pull away, or stiffen --

Bruce leans in again and kisses him softly, as warmly as he *can*. He opens Tim's mouth with his own and breathes his breath. He licks into Tim's mouth and tastes what *must* be the earliest stages of tears. He moans, and pulls back *slightly* -- "Brother."

Tim whimpers. "I -- yes. Yes?"

"Let us be your home."

Tim *moans* --

"Please --"

"Bruce, you -- this is. You have to realize how *sudden* --"

"I fell in love with Harvey in moments. You... you gave me years of chances, Tim. I'm catching *up* --"

"Yes, well, *I* need to catch up, *too*!" And Tim pulls back and gets out of the car, throwing his jacket on gracefully and walking toward the exit --

Bruce locks the car and follows him. "I've pushed too hard."

"No --"

"Yes."

"Stop *arguing* with me," Tim says, and walks faster.

Bruce matches his stride --

Tim *growls* and *runs* down the stairs --

"You -- the restaurant is --"

"To the *right* once we get to street level, yes, I *saw* it."

"Tim... should I let you and Harv eat alone?"

Tim makes a sound like he's been *hit* -- and crouches on the landing, covering his face with his hands.

"I... I don't want to *force* myself on you --"

Tim *sobs* --

"Oh, Tim --"

"I know what he said! I know exactly what he fucking *said*!"

Bruce swallows -- and crouches, as well. "He was. He was unworthy --"

Tim laughs *derisively* -- and uncovers his face. "But he's still *your* father, isn't he? He's still -- he'll *always* be --"

"Tim... today was the first emotionally substantive conversation we've ever had."

Tim rears back. "I -- what?"

Bruce smiles ruefully. "He told me, today, that Mother 'claimed' me when I was three years old. That a remark I made *when* I was three -- specifically, that I preferred spending time *with* Mother -- was enough to make him... turn away from me."

"But... that's *ridiculous*! And -- and *pathetic*!"

"I believe there's a certain degree of bathos to it, as well. He was, at that time, fully adult, a physician with the respect of his peers, *and* the president of the largest company on the Eastern seaboard. And the fact that a three year old punctured his -- his *ego* --"

"Was enough to make him... is that *why* he got my mother pregnant?"

Bruce shakes his head. "I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that question --"

"No. No, I know it, and it's not --" Tim sobs again --

*Growls* again --

And stands, dusting himself off unnecessarily. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Bruce says, standing as well --

"It isn't --"

"It truly --"

"Stop *arguing* --" And Tim growls again --

Pinches the bridge of his nose and *paces* the small landing --

Bruce backs up onto the steps --

"Where are you *going*?"

"I... away?"

Tim glares at him again. He looks incredulous, young, sad, amused, exasperated --

"Guide me, Tim. Please tell me how I may make this easier for you."

In an instant, everything is gone from his expression save for the *youth* --

Bruce wants to *hold* him --

And Tim raises his hands to his face again --

Lets them drop like a marionette's --

Three more tears fall --

"Bruce..."

"I'm listening."

"Bruce, I'm. I've been. Ah. Very. Lonely."

Bruce swallows. "Brother..."

"I don't think I know how... not to be. Lonely."

"I. I would like to teach you."

Tim nods, but it doesn't seem connected to what Bruce had just said, or to Bruce's presence, at all. He is other-focused, and there is something worn within him --

Something young and *ancient* at once --

And Bruce can't not think of Harvey, of the bruises on his face and body, of the rage and pain and *fear* in his eyes that first day back from Christmas vacation --

The hate and *hurt* --

("Just *leave* it, Bruce!"

"I... I can't --"

"Yes, you fucking *can* because I'm fucking *telling* you to!"

"Harv... Harv, please, you can be angry with me, you can... you can *curse* me, but please, please just tell me what *happened* --"

"No! Get -- get the hell outta here! I don't wanna see you! I don't -- get *out*!")

And a *part* of Bruce had flinched and run --

A part of Bruce *could* only flinch and run -- but. Jason had spoken of destiny, and *Harvey* had spoken of love -- before the two of them had separated for that awful vacation.

Harvey had *taught* him love --

And Bruce could only drop to his knees --

("What -- what are you -- get *out*!"

"Harv, I... I'm begging you."

"Don't you -- don't you fucking -- I don't want you, I don't need you, I don't -- don't -- *please* --")

And Harvey had begun to cry; hoarse, wracking sobs that shook his whole *body* as Bruce shuffled closer and *clutched* him --

As Harvey all but *fell* on him --

And told him everything.

In *this* moment --

As Tim begins to *shake* once more --

Bruce goes to him, pulls him into his arms, limp and uncomplaining --

Not warm enough, not *ready* enough --

But Bruce can hold him, and stroke him, and kiss his temples -- "Brother. I love you."

The keening sound Tim makes is so *soft*, so --

Even in this -- this *echo* chamber --

Bruce holds him more tightly -- no. Bruce lifts him --

"Nuh --"

Holds him with one arm under his buttocks and urges him to wrap his lean, strong legs around Bruce's waist --

"Bruce --"

"*Please*."

"God -- I --" And Tim makes the keening sound again, but does it, and wraps his arms around Bruce's neck as well, presses his face to Bruce's *shoulder* --

"Oh, yes, brother --"

"Don't -- oh, God -- oh, *God* --" And the hold becomes a *clutch*, arms and legs and *teeth*, and Tim -- weeps.

Every sob that came before was just a lead-in to this, to --

Oh, it's just as hoarse as *Harvey's* tears, but Bruce is ready for them, Bruce can hold on, and whisper his love, his acceptance, his welcome, his -- his *promises* --

Bruce can hold *on* --

And, for a time, the keens grow frighteningly *loud*, forceful and *hopeless* --

"Brother, I will not let you *go* --"

"I want -- I want --" But the rest is another keen, and another --

And Bruce knows what Tim wants, knows...

He'd thought, when he was fourteen, that there was no one he could hate more than Lester Dent. Now...

Now, he knows that true hatred requires the intimacy of knowledge, a *moment* to meet the object of your hatred's eyes and see everything you would never -- if you had the *choice* -- *be* --

"I will never leave you, brother," Bruce says, and continues to hold Tim, to *keep* him and wish, with all of himself, that there was no stain on *his* love, that he had never *been* his father. But...

Perhaps it can be enough that he will work hard for all of his *life* to never sink so low again, to make *amends* --

How had he ever thought he was *worthy* enough to be a hero *before* -- no, no, he must ask those questions later.

For now, he will hold his brother, and love him --

He will kiss his tear-stained cheek and *love* him --

And listen to him struggle to even his breathing once more. He --

"Brother, you need not --"

"I need. I need this."

Bruce strokes Tim's back. "Every moment you weep in my arms is a gift."

Tim makes a choked noise --

A more *desperate* choked noise because of all the phlegm --

Oh, dear. His handkerchief is... stained. But Tim is *coughing* --

"Brother, do you have a handkerchief of your own?"

Another choked noise --

"Oh... are you laughing?"

This sound is more of a *honk* --

"Hm. Perhaps you wouldn't *mind* using my handkerchief?"

And Tim pulls back enough to show him red-rimmed eyes which nonetheless... sparkle.

"Oh... beautiful," Bruce says, and kisses Tim *while* pulling the folded handkerchief from his pocket ---

Tim kisses him back *softly* -- and then leaps nimbly out of Bruce's arms --

"Brother --"

He takes the handkerchief and turns away, wiping his face and blowing his nose -- and snickering. Extensively.

Considering the *strength* of Tim's sadness, Bruce can't help but wonder if the laughter is somewhat hysterical, but --

("Ah, big guy, sometimes *all* of it has to come out. Tears, laughter, curses -- everything.")

And Harvey had smiled ruefully --

("I think maybe I proved *that*?")

You've proved everything, always, but -- "My arms already miss you, Tim."

A *wet* snort -- "Oh, God. Ah." Tim blows his nose again. "Your *arms* were starting to shake with *fatigue*, Bruce."

Bruce frowns. "They truly weren't --"

Tim waves a hand without turning to face him. "Exaggeration for effect."

"As you say. But... I would hold you --"

"I can't. I can't be held any longer right now."

"Not... by me?"

Tim stiffens, and then turns to smile at him ruefully. "By anyone. I don't suppose you have a back-up handkerchief?"

"I'm afraid not. Perhaps... we could get napkins?"

"The worst of the mucus is dealt with. I'm just going to wipe tears all over the lining of my jacket," Tim says, and does just that. "I -- I really am sorry for --"

"Please don't ever apologize for your emotions, Tim."

Tim frowns in obvious irritation.

"A gift," Bruce says, again.

The frown becomes more serious.

"Perhaps... you could imagine --"

"Holding Harvey in my arms? I -- yes. I could. Are you going to tell me *he* never wanted to apologize for *his* emotions?"

"He did, yes. But he allowed me to convince him otherwise, and, in truth, it was a lesson he already knew."

Tim frowns again, but this time the worry is more clear than anything else.

"Tim...?"

"Is it... you're going to tell me that this is... one of those things people with at least one loving parent just know, aren't you? That... that it's *normal*."

Bruce smiles ruefully. "And healthy, brother."

"Oh -- but how would you *know* what was *healthy* -- oh, I didn't say that. I didn't *say* that --" and Tim refolds the handkerchief and shakes his head, turns away -- "Maybe. Maybe I should just get my backpack and take the train home."

"Please don't."

"Bruce, I'm just -- I think I'm just going to keep saying ridiculous, terrible things -- I'm *sorry* --"

"I would like to hug you again --"

"*Why*?"

"Because I love you, and because you see clearly --"

"I do *not*! I don't -- I don't understand *any* of this --"

"That's a lie, Tim," Bruce says, closing the distance between them and moving in front of Tim --

Tim looks down at the *ground* and *pants* --

Bruce tilts his head up. "Tim. You understand so much of this that it's tearing you apart. It's *hurting* you *badly*."

"It -- I -- please."

"Share it, brother. Share it with us. It's *better* when pain is shared, I *promise* you."

"I don't. I don't want to cry any more right now."

"Brother --"

"Please. Let me. Let's -- let's walk? To the restaurant. And then... we can eat incredibly unhealthy food. And then, once I've shocked my emotions into submission with pork, milkfat and carbohydrates, we can speak more. All right?"

Bruce frowns -

And Tim shivers and turns his mouth against Bruce's palm. It's more pressure than a kiss, but it feels wonderful, just the same. "I promise. I -- I promise. Please."

"As you say --"

"And -- you won't let me -- *antagonize* you and Harvey. Right?" And Tim looks up at him with a plea in his eyes.

"I don't think you --"

"I could. I really --"

"Tim... some of the things Harvey said in the depths of his hurt were truly hurtful. Even... hateful."

Tim frowns in *confusion*. "*Harv*?"

Bruce nods. "It was, in truth, another lesson. We both understand much about how emotional pain can twist one away from one's natural inclinations --"

"And if one is *naturally* mean and -- and otherwise --" Tim frowns deeply and looks down -- but doesn't pull away from Bruce's hand.

Bruce strokes him. "I've felt your passion, brother. Your love and *compassion* --"

"It's not -- it's not enough --"

"It *is*. Let us show you."

Tim pants again --

Another tear falls -- and Tim wipes it away before Bruce can.

He nods and looks up. "You -- promise me you won't let me -- ruin this?"

"Do you truly fear --"

"Yes."

Bruce frowns and nods. "We will hold you in our hearts, brother --"

"*Please* --"

"And if -- if we *need* to, we will ask you to give us... privacy," Bruce says, and feels *sick* --

But Tim sighs in *relief* -- and smiles. "Thank you."

Bruce swallows. "You're welcome," he says -- and promises himself that he will never let Tim feel unloved, unneeded --

"I -- shall we?"

Bruce nods, and they walk -- briskly -- to the restaurant. Tim blinks and narrows his eyes once they're in the sun, so Bruce moves to shade him --

And Tim smiles up at him gratefully. Beautifully --

"Sometimes I'm grateful for my size."

"You should be grateful *all* the time."

"So Harvey says. I still feel -- painfully -- the awkwardness of my early adolescence."

Tim frowns and pauses to let a woman with a stroller pass --

Bruce pauses, as well --

"I never saw that."

"I drilled myself mercilessly before every party, Tim. Alfred was a great help -- and his reflexes saved many objets d'art from my hopeless clumsiness. Mostly, I forced myself to move slowly."

"Decorously."

"*Carefully*," Bruce says, and smiles at Tim. "Have you always been graceful?"

"I... haven't had any particularly serious growth spurts yet. There are some advantages to that."

Bruce nods thoughtfully. "Do you have any idea how tall you *will* grow?"

Tim smiles wryly. "Not very. Our father was quite clear about the fact that he doubted I'd reach the average height for American males."

"Hm. Which is?"

"Approximately five feet, eleven inches, as of nineteen-seventy-five. Our father believes that that number will be over six feet *well* within our lifetimes... and that, judging by the length of my femurs, I will grow at least another seven inches, but possibly not more than that."

[Note: No, this wasn't the actual average American height, but I've always thought that people are much taller in the DCU than they are elsewhere.]

Bruce... shivers.

Tim frowns and stares at him as they walk -- "You find that *arousing*," he says in an accusing whisper.

"I'm... sorry. But yes, I do."

"I'm still not *female* --"

"No, you are not. I... Harv has taken me to see many martial arts films. The most skilled practitioners are often rather... compact."

Tim's expression is *suspicious* --

And Bruce smiles ruefully. "I've also enjoyed... moving you."

Tim colors immediately, which Bruce can't help but see as a hopeful sign --

"Tim..."

"I... have enjoyed that, too," Tim says, and he seems both flustered and *annoyed* --

"Tim?"

And then he laughs. "You -- have too much power over me."

"I... what?"

"It's not -- I... ah. I never really considered how much a relationship -- no, that's not true," Tim says, and stops at a busy intersection.

Bruce doesn't say anything as other pedestrians surround them and seem to *strain* to cross despite the fact that there are any number of cars passing *quickly* through the intersection --

Tim smiles at him *wryly* --

But Bruce can only give him his hunger, his desire, his curiosity --

Tim blinks and blushes more deeply --

And then the light changes and they can walk again, put space between themselves and the other pedestrians --

"It's -- it was one thing to imagine being wholly in Black *Canary's* power... but."

Bruce nods. "And the question of mutuality?"

"It's not -- oh. Ah... hm." And Tim laughs and shakes his head. "Let's just say it's difficult to believe in and leave it at that --"

"What must I do?"

"I don't *know*, Bruce. I -- I'll tell you. If I come up with anything."

Bruce nods. "I love you."

"And I... I... feel so much. It scares me -- ah. Wow, that's really *weak* --"

Bruce cups Tim's shoulder and squeezes it --

"Don't -- don't *reassure* me --"

"I'm afraid I must. While Harv has given you nothing but the best of himself, I have failed you time and again in the worst ways possible --"

"You're my *brother*."

"Oh... Tim. Hearing you say that makes me..." Bruce laughs at himself and at the highly public nature of their location. "Perhaps you can guess?"

Tim snorts and blushes. "I -- yes. I feel. I feel I should work faster."

"Every moment with you --"

"Is a gift? *Bruce* -- but you're just going to say something *extremely* logical about Harv that will make me face things about how I feel about *you* -- faster is better."

"*Better* is better, brother," Bruce says, and squeezes again.

Tim growls. "I never -- I've never wanted... to make anyone wait for me."

Bruce sighs. "I don't feel especially... neglected, brother."

"I. No?" And Tim looks at him from under his lashes --

There is so much *worry* in his eyes --

Worry and *hope* --

Bruce smiles. "No. I promise."

Tim inhales shakily. "Then... I'll hold you to that. And you'll tell me --"

"Yes," Bruce says, and sets a part of his mind to the question of how to say such things as gently as possible, as carefully and *softly* --

Tim nods. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. We're here."

"Oh -- oh. Right." And Tim smiles at him ruefully, conspiratorially, *happily* --

"Brother..."

"Ah... your brother. And Harv's."

Bruce smiles helplessly and follows Tim into Vincenzo's, which is, as usual, significantly more dimly-lit than Bruce expects it to be. The stonework is beautiful, though, and the murals on the ceiling are cheerful enough to excuse both the lack of light and the relative lack of artistic skill.

Bruce greets the -- unfamiliar -- woman behind the counter and orders his and Harvey's usual pepperoni, sausage, mushroom, extra cheese, and onion pie --

"Oh -- my."

"I assure you, Tim, your sensei will be quite proud of how well you've managed to cheat on your diet," Bruce says, and turns his attention back to the counter woman. "Please make that an extra large."

She continues to eye him darkly -- she undoubtedly remembers his promise of a *large* order -- so Bruce clears his throat, scans the menu at speed --

Harvey has already *had* his manicotti --

"Is there anything in particular you would like, Tim?"

"Ah... all of this is... just order your favorites?"

"As you say. We'll also take a large order of the garlic bread -- with cheese, please -- "

Tim makes a small *distressed* sound --

"-- and a large sausage and pepper 'sub' with grilled onions -- and cheese --"

Tim *coughs* --

"-- and an order of the fried cheese."

The counter woman gives him a *grudging* nod.

Tim is staring at him incredulously --

"It's all quite good, Tim, I assure you."

"I -- all right? All right --"

"Hey, there you are," Harvey says, and waves at them from their usual booth in the dimmest, darkest corner of the restaurant. "Get over here, will ya? I'm down to the *Classifieds*."

Bruce hums and smiles --

And the brightness of Tim's expression is enough to make something loosen within Bruce, make something *ease*. They join Harvey --

"C'mere and sit next to me, little guy. You gotta give Bruce room to *expand*, considering how much he's about to eat."

"Ah -- all right. It did seem... do the two of you always... order... that much?"

Harvey grins. "From this place? Absolutely. We're growing boys," and he pokes Tim's biceps. "And so are you. You didn't eat a big lunch, did you?"

"I -- no --"

"*Good*. This place is the *best*. If they delivered out to Bristol, you'd have to roll us outta the manor every day."

Tim hums. "If you say so."

"What? You don't like Italian?"

"I believe our brother prefers to eat more traditionally healthy foods, Harv."

"Aw, that's all well and good -- and you have no *idea* how badly we both craved fruits and veggies and *fresh* fish after eating that slop up at Exeter every day for months -- but you *gotta* get some of this in you sometimes."

Tim smiles up at Harvey through his lashes -- "I... plan to indulge myself."

"Well, all right. Also, what took you guys so long, hunh? You both look a little -- ah, Jeez, *without* me?"

Tim blushes --

And Bruce hums again. "It was... something of an imperative."

"*Horndog*. I should kick you both outta my booth. My *lonely*, *empty*, *untouched* booth," and Harvey mock-glares at both of them.

Bruce laughs quietly -- but Tim is looking down at the table. Tim is --

"Hey, hey, what's that about, little guy?" And Harvey cups the back of Tim's neck. "You okay?" And Harvey looks to *him* --

Bruce reaches across the table to cover Tim's hand with his own. "Brother... if you would like to speak now --"

"I -- really wouldn't," Tim says, and laughs. "I want -- I just want... to have fun."

Harvey looks back and forth between them -- and then blinks. "Maybe... maybe the two of you started talking about what went down with Dad?"

Bruce nods, and Tim does, too, but -- "Brother... I believe I would like for you to refer to him the way you think about him."

Harvey winces. "*That* bad?"

"Yes."

"Then -- I can do that, yeah, but first we gotta make sure --"

Tim shudders and glares at the table. "It seems. It seems wasteful to be upset *now*."

"Oh, c'mon, little guy --"

"I understand, brother. I've always wanted my time with Harv to be happy. I've never wanted to... cast a gloom."

"*Yes*," Tim says, and looks up, looks between them --

Lingers on Harvey's concerned look --

"I -- I want -- and. You're smiling at me ruefully now," Tim says, and frowns at Harvey. "Are you about to say something about my emotions being a gift, *too*?"

Harvey snickers and coughs -- and nods.

"*Damn* it -- but. I did... know that was going to happen," Tim says, and looks down at the table again.

"Look at it this way, little guy: either you can get out all the crap that's upsetting you now and let us help you move *past* it, or --"

"I can let it fester in me and *help* me cast a pall. A gloomy pall."

Harvey tilts his head to the side and grins. "Are there other kinds?"

Tim's expression is *painfully* sour for a moment --

And then Harvey's hand is beneath the table, and Tim closes his eyes and -- relaxes.

"Oh -- what?"

"Harv is... petting me."

"I believe I'd like to know where, for future reference," Bruce says --

And Tim laughs and blushes. "It's just -- my leg. My thigh. His hand is... it's very firm petting. And he knows. I suppose he knows he's welcome."

"I could just be a pushy asshole," and Harvey grins and waggles his eyebrows.

Tim laughs again -- and looks up. "Are you *ever*?"

Harvey wags his head back and forth. "Sometimes. And sometimes it just depends on who you ask. Mostly... I needed to make sure you could feel me right then. Right *now*."

"I -- always want to."

Harvey grins. "My little brother."

"And -- Bruce's," Tim says, smiling ruefully... and touching the toe of Bruce's shoe with his own.

Bruce smiles and strokes Tim's hard, well-worked knuckles --

"So whaddaya say? Get all the poison out while we wait for the victuals?"

"Victuals -- ah."

"So maybe I watched too many Westerns when I was a kid. Horses always seemed *extremely* cool."

"They -- have you ever... ah?"

Harvey smiles ruefully and nods at *him*. "We went riding one day. The horses smelled funny, kept dancing away every time I tried to get *on* one, and, whenever I turned around? Tried to eat my hair."

"I believe it was the pomade you used --"

"Bruce. We're not doin' it again."

"As you say, brother." And --

Tim is laughing -- quietly, but still.

"It's like that, hunh? Fine. Just for that?" And Harvey turns to Bruce. "Draw him in a full riding habit. *With* jodhpurs."

Tim coughs -- "Oh -- wait --"

Bruce hums. "I believe I know just the colors to use. Thank you, brother."

"*No* one looks good in those --"

"And *you* will be immortalized in them, little guy," and Harvey grins. "Better start gettin' used to it now."

Tim narrows his eyes -- "Fine," he says, and turns to Bruce. "Sketch Harvey as a centaur."

Bruce blinks --

Harvey *chokes* --

"As anatomically *correct* a centaur as possible."

"I -- hm. I suppose he is as wise as Chiron..."

"*Big* guy --"

Tim hums and smiles. "In fact, an entire series of Harv as figures from Greek mythology --"

"Hey, now --"

"You'll have to age him down for Ganymede --"

"Ah, Jesus, Tim, he's thinkin' about it now!"

"I can tell," Tim says, and shows his teeth in a smile which is actually somewhat *evil*, but --

"Big guy, c'mon now, *work* with me --"

"It's only... I believe it could help me immensely with my figure work, as well as with fabrics. You know I've had difficulty with draping."

Harvey stares at him somewhat woundedly -- and then turns to Tim. "You know you *have* to give up the goods *now*, don't you?"

Tim blinks -- and blushes again --

And laughs.

"All right, yes. I can -- I can do that. But I think... Bruce should talk about what... he said. First."

Bruce can see that Harvey is moving his hand under the table --

"And... you can pet me like that... whenever you'd like."

"Good to know, good to know... but you *are* gonna talk to us, right?"

Tim smiles ruefully. "Yes. There's something -- Bruce said something -- yes. I have something I need to say to both of you about... him. But... not quite yet."

Harvey nods. "Okay. You get the floor, big guy. What *did* he want?"

"Mother was upset enough about our... rejection of her --"

Harvey winces. "You gave the little guy background on that?"

"Ah -- yes, he did. But I didn't need... much."

Harvey winces more deeply. "I guess not. Considering. Okay, keep going -- wait. She told on us. She *told* on us? To *Thomas*?"

Bruce nods. "She told him about the kidnapping -- though not about the exact circumstances of it --"

Harvey laughs somewhat derisively -- "Keep going."

"She told him about our plan to move out -- which he said he had no problem with, but I'm no longer sure whether I believe him about that -- and she told him about... my plans for the future."

"What the --" Harvey shakes his head and blows out a breath. "So... damage control? What's the *upshot* here?"

"As of now, he is fully aware that he has no ability to control my -- our -- lives, and... we seem to have come to something of an agreement to... not speak. At all."

Harvey winces again. "Because somewhere in there you were talking about the little guy."

Bruce nods and turns to Tim -- but Tim is looking at the table again with a hard smile on his face. He hasn't moved his hand away from Bruce's, though, and that is, Bruce thinks, the best possible sign. "He refused to admit he was Tim's father."

"Christ. I -- you gave it to him in so many words and everything?"

"Yes. Repeatedly. He also refused to take responsibility for Tim's mother's current pregnancy, despite having *told* me..." Bruce shakes his head. "It was... he was... terrible."

Harvey looks wounded again. "What kind of -- what did he *say*? How did he explain -- did he even try? We *know* that Jack Drake had the vasectomy."

Bruce turns to Tim again --

And this time Tim looks up. The hard smile is still on his face, and now Bruce can see that it's an *old* smile, as well -- "He said... something about how his relationship with my mother wasn't exclusive. Yes?"

Bruce shudders -- and nods.

"Oh. Oh, for Christ's sake --" And Harvey moves his hand from under the table and wraps his arm around Tim's shoulders. "I'm so *sorry* --"

"I'm all right --"

"You're *not*."

Tim laughs -- "All right, I'm not. But I'm also not surprised," he says, and pushes until Harvey lets go of him.

"Tim --"

"I just -- I have every intention of letting both of you hold me at some point -- soon -- when we're in a private place. But if I let you do it now, I'll almost certainly... I'll break down again."

Harvey frowns. "That's -- that's why your eyes are a little red?"

Tim smiles ruefully. "Yes. And why Bruce's shoulder is damp. And why his handkerchief needs to be *burned*."

Harvey slips his hand under the table again. "I'll wait. I'll -- maybe tell us some about not being surprised? Because *I'm* kinda surprised over here, and I'm willing to freakin' bet Bruce was."

"Yes. Though, eventually, I came to guess what he would say."

Tim nods. "I --"

"Wait one second," Harvey says, and the counter-woman -- who is scowling once more -- brings them their bread and fried cheese.

They thank her for it --

She glares at them indiscriminately --

She leaves.

"Okay, *now* talk. And eat. Seriously, talk with your mouth full," Harvey says, and tears off a hunk of the bread.

"I'm... reasonably sure I can't do that," Tim says, and stares at the food with wide, intimidated eyes.

Harvey pushes the bowl of marinara sauce closer. "Dip everything in this. Trust me."

"I... do... all right, I'm just going to -- I'm going to eat for a moment," Tim says, and also takes a piece of the bread, dipping it dutifully in the sauce and taking a *cautious* bite.

He blinks --

Chews rapidly --

Swallows -- "Oh. That's... ah. That's frighteningly delicious. Actually."

Harvey grins. "It sure as hell is. Some of it's the fact that they bake the bread fresh every day, some of it's the fresh basil I've *seen* them pulling in from their kitchen garden... the rest of it's just a great freakin' mystery. Eat more. And try the cheese, too, because otherwise Bruce'll eat it all."

Bruce frowns. "I did plan to save some for Tim, brother --"

"I know, I know, I'm *playing*."

Bruce nods and dips his -- third -- cheese stick in the marinara. As usual, they have a rich and *thick* creaminess to them which meshes well with the thin, crumbly breading and the -- somewhat -- heavy spices --

Tim has already finished his piece of bread.

Bruce pushes the cheese closer --

Tim looks *pained* --

"*Mangia*, little guy."

"Does that mean 'eat' in Italian?"

"Yep, and that's about all the Italian I know that isn't food or a curse, so consider your education over for the day," Harvey says, and *puts* a stick in Tim's hand.

Tim sighs, dips it, takes a bite, looks even *more* pained --

"Oh, you don't like it --"

Harvey snickers. "Yeah, he does. He's just *upset* about that. Go on, double-dip. We'll all be sharing -- more -- germs later, anyway."

Tim dips again --

And for several moments Bruce can only watch Tim eat. With thought, it *is* clear that his responses -- the frown of concentration; the quick, neat bites; and the *faint* glare -- *are* all signs of pleasure, and that's too wonderful *not* to pay attention to, too *right* --

Harvey snickers and nudges Bruce's shin with his toe. "You eat, *too*, big guy!"

He can do that. And he does.

It takes bare minutes before they've finished the bread and cheese, and then Tim takes a deep breath and dabs at his mouth with a paper napkin, shaking his head.

"What's up, little guy?"

"I see a heart attack in my future if we come here more than once a month... but I'd like to come here at least once a month," he says, and smiles ruefully.

Bruce smiles --

And Harvey grins. "Well, all right. Victory? Is ours. Now back to the --"

"Right. He spends time with me every time he... visits my mother. Between fifteen and forty-five minutes every time. And... that's fairly often. It occurs to me that that means that I've probably spent more time speaking with him in the past several years than *either* of you have," and Tim raises an eyebrow.

Harvey opens his mouth -- and looks to him.

Bruce shakes his head. "He says nothing of any consequence during family meals... and sometimes he says hardly anything, at all."

"*Often* he says pretty much nothing. Martha runs the show during meals. *Always*. But -- what do you get from him when he... visits?"

Tim smiles wryly. "Small talk. Polite discussion of my schoolwork and the handful of... ah... *approved* interests that my mother has drilled me into knowing enough about *to* discuss. The... casual, polite, and *correct* affection of one well-bred executive for the well-bred child of another well-bred executive."

Bruce and Harvey wince *together* --

"Jesus, little guy. That -- and he never... breaks character?"

"Not once," Tim says, focusing on the much-denuded bowl of marinara and tracing his index finger around the rim -- and then he shakes his head and looks up. "Before today, I always had hope that he would -- someday. Not *much* hope, as these things go, but *some*. I don't anymore." He sucks his finger.

"Brother, I'm so sorry --"

Tim holds up a hand. "I -- let's please save that for later? There is... more I have to say."

Bruce frowns and nods --

And Harvey nods, too. "Just remember that we're here, little guy."

"I -- no. I was going to say that I couldn't forget that, but that's not true. My mind could make me forget that very easily, I think..." And Tim frowns *thoughtfully* -- and shakes his head again. "I'm going to try very hard to keep that from happening. And. And you're both going to help me."

"Damned right."

Tim nods once and looks up to meet Bruce's eyes. "What made me lose hope before all of this was the fact that I realized, years ago, that *whatever* went on between him and my mother behind closed doors wasn't... enough. Not enough to change the way he related to me even when anyone that brilliant would surely be able to see how much I *wanted* there to be change, and not enough to change the way he related to *her* whenever there were witnesses -- *any* witnesses. He was never rude or *cold* to her, of course -- that wouldn't be correct, at all -- but he was also never anything but an *associate*. Even when surrounded by people who knew the truth about them. Even at times when my mother was *upset* about something...

"Anyway. I knew, on a deeper level, that he would choose correctness -- his version of it -- over anything else. I knew he always *would*, that there would be -- *could* be -- nothing that could shake him from that. A part of me still imagined warm conversations and... and *hugs*, and other kinds of openly affectionate filial touching happening between the two of *you* and him -- it helped feed my jealousy and resentment *and* my hope for the future -- but it was just a part."

Harvey frowns. "The rest of you knew better."

Tim nods. "I... I've spent a long time observing people. My mother taught me the rudiments of it -- and beyond -- when I was still a toddler. Our -- *he* taught me even more, when I phrased it as a question a younger executive would ask an older one. I taught *myself* more, because. Because I was *lonely*, and watching people can be a lot like. Like having --" Tim growls and shakes his head --

"Brother --"

"Little guy --"

"Wait. Just -- keep waiting. Okay?"

Bruce swallows and nods.

"You -- you'll always have me, little guy. Just -- hold on to that for now."

Tim smiles ruefully at Harvey. "I -- yes. All right. I will. And... and I'll just say this: I understand it. I understand *him*. I know -- I *think* I know what makes him... the way he is," and Tim turns to frown at the table again.

Bruce covers Tim's hand again. "I'd like to know."

"Ditto."

Tim takes a shaky breath --

Another --

"Control. It's -- I try to control everything I can about myself, because that's -- it's what -- it's *comfortable*. And I tell myself that it will be useful in the future, and that's even true, but the real truth is that I can't actually stop it, anymore. I control the way I walk, and what I eat, and how I breathe, and how I present myself to others, and what I wear, and how I -- everything. Just... just *everything*. I have *rules* for all of those things, and some of those rules..." Tim swallows. "I don't even remember making them up. I -- they're still important. To me. They're the most important --" He shakes his head again and tugs his hand away from Bruce's --

"Brother --"

"It's too much. Right now --"

"Is it a rule, little guy?"

"Yes. Yes. And I've broken it -- so much --"

"It's a *good* rule to break --"

"I *trust* you," Tim says, and he's almost *pleading* with Harvey -- "Oh, Harv, I trust you more than anyone in the *world*, but I, it hurts, and I'm afraid, and I. Let me break it *later*."

Harvey frowns and searches Tim. "You won't run from me?"

"I *can't* -- I can't. Please."

Harvey nods slowly. "All right. I'll hold you to that."

Tim smiles, and it seems so *fragile* on his face -- he nods. And then Tim turns to *him*. "I trust you, too, Bruce. More -- so much more than I want to. And that -- it breaks more rules. So *many* more --" Tim laughs painfully. "I just -- I want to -- part of me *admires* him for being so *good* at this. I mean, his rules, his -- his *devotion* to his rules -- it's just another way of *being* obsessed with control. Right?"

He and Harvey nod together --

And Tim nods, too. "And -- and once you understand that, the rest comes really easily. At some point, in late October or early November of nineteen-sixty-four, he *lost* control with my mother. And -- and whatever else happened that day -- this would all be *different* if it had been an accident -- he failed to use a condom. My mother would have, of course, eschewed birth control entirely in a blatant and *predictable* attempt to have more of an attachment to -- to *him*. He knew that, but he still failed. He still broke a *rule*. And there were consequences. He --"

"Real men *deal* with the consequences of their actions, little guy," Harvey says, frowning hard. "They *own* it, they --  look, if it somehow turns out that me sixty-nining with the realtor today was enough to get her pregnant? I'm for *damned* sure taking care of *my* kid."

Bruce blinks.

Tim blinks --

Bruce opens his mouth --

And Harvey blushes. "I -- uh. I kinda needed an older woman today. A *nice* older woman. And she has -- she has that gap between her teeth. I like that."

"I... see?" And Tim stares at Harvey.

Bruce licks his lips. "Was she... enjoyable?"

"God, yeah, big guy. And I'm pretty sure she's gonna think *real* damned positively about us now. But that's neither here nor there," Harvey says, and turns back to Tim. "He did wrong by you. You can understand him all you *want*, but we *both* thought he was a better man than this, and the fact that he *isn't* is screwing us up a little."

Tim crosses his arms over his lean chest --

*Hugs* himself --

"*Brother* --"

Tim immediately sets both hands down flat on the table. "I... I'm his failure."

"Ah, Jesus, little guy, *no* --"

"To *him*. I mean -- I mean to him."

Harvey searches Tim. "*Not* to you? Not even a little? Because I *know* how thoughts like that can run."

"I don't hate myself. I don't -- I'm going to be a hero one day, and I. I think I'll do well, and people will... will respect me, and want to... be with me --"

"We want you *now*, brother," Bruce says, and reaches to cover Tim's right hand --

Tim pulls it back --

Bruce winces. "I'm sorry --"

"No -- no. I'm. It's never been difficult to imagine being sexually attractive, but not... otherwise attractive. And I don't actually have to look at either of you to know what expressions are on your faces -- I really wish I hadn't just said that," Tim says, and his laugh is *close* to a sob --"I'm so sorry --"

"Bruce, tell Lila that we want the rest of our food to go."

"As you say," Bruce says, and stands.

"No, no, I'm fine -- I mean. Unless you want --"

"We need to be alone with you now, brother," and Bruce tries to *will* the knowledge of that, the *feel* of that into Tim --

"Someplace warm and quiet and maybe a little dark."

"Somewhere... at least somewhat ours."

And Harvey nods --

And Tim *swallows* and nods --

Bruce goes to the counter. Lila seems no happier about their leaving than she was about their presence, but she does thank Bruce for the tip. Bruce carries the food in his right hand and cups Tim's right shoulder with his left --

Harvey cups Tim's *left* shoulder --

They walk down the street *quickly* --

"Ah... you don't think..." But Tim shakes his head again.

"Please tell us, brother."

"We'll listen to *anything*."

"It's not --"

"*Anything*."

And Tim laughs. "All right. I feel like I'm in the process of being... ah... perp-walked."

Bruce blinks --

And Harvey coughs and snorts. "You *are*. For the crime of... uh... help me out here, big guy."

"He's been horrifically attractive."

"Oh, God, yeah. And also -- also really huggable."

"Egregiously so."

"Never seen a case this bad in my life, really. And I've been living with *Bruce* for five years -- heh. That got a smile."

"And a blush. I'm very fond of the blushes."

Harvey sighs. "We should probably -- probably -- be less fond of the blushes, big guy."

"Do you think so?"

"It's kinda pervy. Back me up here, Tim."

"I'm not entirely sure how much blushing Lolita *did*... but."

Bruce nods. "I see. I don't believe I'm fetishizing your youth, brother, but I must admit that it's possible."

"Exactly, so we should probably quit it."

"Ah... can you? Either of you?" And Tim looks back and forth between them --

Bruce shares a look with Harvey --

And Harvey snickers and grins. "Not even a little. But I think I'm gonna run screaming every time someone who even *looks* younger than me blushes in front of me from now on. Just in case."

"Oh, but Harv --"

"No way, no talking me out of this one, big guy. I've got all the thirteen-year-old lovers I *need*," Harvey says, whispering --

"It's not that I want more --"

"Hnn. You're both tempting me to parade my more exciting classmates in front of you."

"Ah, Jesus, *why*?"

"For the sake of science, of course."

Bruce blinks. "That's quite cruel, brother."

*Tim* blinks. "I -- it's too much --"

"It is *not* too much," Harvey says, and *shakes* Tim by the shoulder. "Tell him, Bruce."

"Oh, I was merely surprised. And aroused. I think I'm going to sketch you into a lab coat."

"And spike heels."

"I --"

"That's not very practical for a laboratory environment, Harv."

"Yes, *exactly* --"

"*But* you weren't thinking practical thoughts, big guy."

"That doesn't --"

"Very true. I imagine the right sort of goggles could be quite fetching, too."

"You're losing me now, big guy."

And *both* Harvey and Tim are staring at him --

Bruce frowns. "I've always thought Doctor Mid-Nite's goggles were very attractive and stylish."

Harvey shakes his head.

"I think... ah. Well, they're more practical than anything else, Bruce."

"Many practical things are --"

"Not those, big guy."

"Hm. Perhaps you'll see my point when I've finished my sketch."

Tim blinks -- "You've already started a sketch with me in goggles?"

Harvey snickers. "Bruce, how many sketches of Tim have you started full stop."

"Forty-nine."

"You -- when do you have *time*?"

"He doesn't sleep as much as normal humans do, little guy. It isn't just special occasions for him. Six hours is where he maxes *out*."

Tim's expression seems *wracked* with consternation --

And Harvey ruffles Tim's hair before moving his hand back to his shoulder. "We'll wear 'im out together," he stage-whispers.

And -- Tim blushes again.

Bruce smiles and squeezes his shoulder gently.

They walk the last two blocks in silence, and Harvey solves the 'problem' of the stairwell being too narrow for three men abreast by throwing Tim over his shoulder --

"What -- *Harv*!"

-- and jogging him up the stairs.

Bruce hums and follows them --

"I'm not -- I'm not *meat*!"

"Definitely not, little guy. I never buy this much meat at once."

"You didn't buy *me*!"

"I would, though. I'd spend *all* of Thomas Wayne's money for a brother like you."

Tim blushes *deeply*, biting his lip and seeming utterly *derailed* --

And so it seems like a better time than most to tuck a lock of Tim's shoulder-length hair behind his ear --

"Oh -- Bruce --"

"Do you prefer your hair this length?"

"No! I hate it! I only keep it this length to look innocuously fashionable."

"It's quite beautiful --"

"Yeah, but it doesn't suit him. He should have hair like a Fed."

"I'm not -- I'm not a *Fed*!"

Harvey pats Tim's posterior and stops on the third-floor landing --

"Northwest, Harv --"

"Got it," he says, and starts jogging again. "Anyway, you're *not* a Fed, but you'd look dangerous and sexy and *older* if you wore your *hair* like one."

"I -- oh."

"Sketch it for him, big guy."

"As you say --"

"And -- heh." Harvey stops by the car. "Which of us gets little brother?"

And Bruce's arms -- ache. But -- "Brother..."

"Ah. Ah. I... presume you're talking about which of you will ride in the back seat with me and, presumably, cuddle me until the blushing causes me to have a stroke?"

"Got it in one, little guy," and Harvey sets Tim on his feet --

Tim straightens his clothes in a series of quick, economical motions -- "I just don't think -- I mean. I'm going to get *used* to this."

"Uh, huh."

Tim frowns at Harvey. "I -- and then it will *stop*. That's -- that's how --"

"It'll be harder during the school year, and when Bruce has to go to train God knows where -- but once we get your mother situated --"

"She -- ah. Blood enchanted her into... listening to me. She wasn't precisely agreeable, but she did... agree. To everything."

Harvey blinks and looks to Bruce --- but then shakes his head. "No, no way he'll ever enchant Martha, unless it's to keep her from walking off a damned cliff. But... maybe Thomas?"

"We could... ask?" But Bruce can't truly -- "It would, for my tastes, be... wrong. If it were not something which could unlock emotions which we frankly cannot be sure *exist*."

Harvey winces. "And there's that." He blows out a breath and turns back to Tim. "My point is this -- it'll be trickier and *rarer*, little guy, but it won't *end*."

Tim takes a shuddering breath. "I. I. I think..."

"Please tell us, brother."

Tim squeezes his eyes shut.

"It's okay, little guy. *Whatever* you want --"

"Please -- let me comfort one of you soon. Or both of you. I promise I've been paying attention to all of this, all of the *techniques* -- ah. Please. I would like. I would like to... sit with Harv. For. For now."

Bruce nods once. "Then I will drive --"

"I'm sorry, Bruce --"

Bruce presses his fingers to Tim's soft mouth. "You've given me much today, brother. I am more than capable of waiting for more."

"I." Tim shivers again and kisses Bruce's fingertips. The look he gives Bruce from under his lashes is a *full* thing, deep and --

And *promising* --

He kisses Bruce's fingertips a second time before stepping back -- and allowing himself to be pulled in Harvey's arms.

Bruce opens the door, unlocks the rest of the doors, and slips into the driver's seat, giving himself a moment to only listen to the soft sounds of Tim and Harvey getting comfortable in the back seat --

"Oh... yeah. Right there. Mm. How's that?"

"Ah... problematically wonderful, considering the fact that you're *cradling* me --"

"I'd let Bruce do this for me every *day* if I could, little guy. And I'm pretty sure Bruce wishes *I* were bigger at least sometimes --"

"I more often wish that I were smaller, brothers," Bruce says, and starts the car. "There is nothing quite like being... encompassed."

"I suppose there is something *womb*-like about it --"

Harvey snickers. "Yeah, okay, we'll find you a nice girl sometime."

"Ah... how much older was the realtor?"

"Maribel Corinna Jenkins... is fifty-six years young --"

"Oh my God. What -- *what*?"

"She hardly seemed a day over forty-five," Bruce says, and pays the attendant before pulling out into traffic.

"Are you -- I -- all right, there are *rumors* about you with older women --"

"But not that old?" Harvey snickers more. "I *usually* don't go much over thirty-five or so, but... ah... well..."

"*What*? She was that beautiful? She wore Egyptian musk? She --"

"Brother, do you like Egyptian musk?"

"Yes, I find it incredibly arousing, which makes me wish *fervently* that Jack Drake would stop buying it for his favorites just before dumping them."

Bruce winces. "I'm sorry --"

"No -- no. I'm sorry. I didn't meant to -- ruin the mood --"

"You didn't, little guy. We can go back to mocking my sex life *any* time now," Harvey says, and Bruce can see him squeezing Tim closer in the rearview mirror.

"I -- " Tim's laugh is pitched somewhat high --

He colors --

"It's just -- she's almost old enough to be your *grandmother*!"

"Oh, yeah. And her tits -- Jesus, they had to be an F-cup."

Bruce blinks. "Truly, brother? They didn't seem --"

"Minimizer bra. Real underwear architecture there, especially combined with that panty-girdle thing. It took twenty minutes just to get her *naked*."

Tim giggles again. "But you were determined."

"You're damned right I was. She looked good, she smelled good -- normal perfume only, though -- she *smiled* good -- better smiles than the ones she had when we were *just* talking business, big guy."

"Oh, that's a relief."

"Uh, huh. Anyway, we rolled around on her office floor for a little while, I convinced her to skip her post-screw smoke in favor of some post-screw screwing --"

Bruce coughs. "Harv."

"Did I mention needing a nice older lady today? Because I think that should be stressed. And underlined. And circled. And freakin' *italicized*."

Tim hums. "Did *she* cradle you to her bosom?"

"Damned straight. I had a *moment* when I wondered if she was, you know, a titty demon sent to smother me --"

"Harv."

"-- *but*. It worked out fine. *And* she showed me *three* great townhouses which we will absolutely check out as a family *tomorrow*, but I'll be shocked if you don't pick one of 'em, big guy."

Bruce smiles helplessly. "I trust you, Harv."

"And that? Is just one of the many things in this car that's the best thing ever."

"Ah. That... that's terrible math."

"*True*, but some things are better than math. Back me up here, Bruce."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Harv," Bruce says in his most bland and artificial voice --

And Harv *and* Tim snicker for it.

Bruce hums in satisfaction. "You enjoyed 2001, as well, Tim?"

"Yes! Oh -- though. The book is better."

"So everybody says," Harv says, and that sound -- he has kissed Tim somewhere. Perhaps the top of his head. "Maybe this summer we'll get around to reading it."

"I have a copy -- but of course you'll just buy two of your own. Ah -- never mind."

"Hey --"

"Perhaps... I vastly enjoy borrowing other people's books, Tim."

"Oh. You do?"

Bruce nods. "Especially... do you ever... take notes?"

"Yes, I -- ah. Not *in* the books. I keep... notebooks."

Bruce hums. "Perhaps you'd loan us those, as well?"

"They're not -- the notes aren't especially --"

"The notes are your *reactions* to the story, yeah?"

"Well -- yes, Harv, but --"

"And maybe some questions, too? Things smart, thoughtful guys like us could start conversations about?"

Tim is silent for a moment -- "I... suppose they are. At that."

"All right, then. And I love that smile."

"I certainly hope so -- oof --"

"You know we're gonna beat the shy outta you, right?"

"With your *penises*?"

Bruce considers as he turns onto Gotham River Drive, which will take them to a hopefully un-congested Sprang bridge -- no. "Would that work?"

"I -- Bruce."

"Serious question, little guy. We gotta be efficient about these things, after all."

"Do you?"

"Oh, yeah. Because *you* like things that way. And so do we, when it gets right down to it," Harvey says, and Bruce looks up into the rearview mirror -- yes, the smile on his face is as bright and wonderful as the one in his voice. He can't quite see Tim's expression --

And Tim's sigh is both long-suffering and somewhat disgusted. "You probably *could* make me entirely shameless just by continuing to make love with me the way you have been."

Harvey snorts. "And that's a bad thing?"

"Some of us would like to believe --"

"It is not strength to hold yourself against love, brother."

A pause --

"Judging by the *pinched* expression on Tim's face... I'd say we just tripped over another rule, big guy."

Bruce nods. "That is... logical." 

"I don't -- want. To be pinched."

"Breathe it out then, little guy. Try to relax a little. Remember how much you *like* this position --"

"I -- really do. I like. I love. You're my brothers."

Bruce breathes, and tries to scent his brothers on the air --

"We really are, Tim. Always."

"Yes, brother."

"I'm not -- I'm going to try. To be -- to be happy," Tim says, and shifts --

Bruce can't quite tell *how* --

"Like this, little guy?"

"Ah -- yes, please."

"Okay," Harvey says, and there's the sound of him kissing Tim again. "You can be other things, too. Everything you feel is okay."

"Whenever you *do* feel it, brother."

"I think -- I mean -- you've both been very clear about that."

"So go with it, hunh?"

Tim hums. "I -- I'll try. All right?"

Bruce frowns -- and does his best to keep it internal. He knows --

He believes he knows what Tim needs, right now.

"Anything you say, little guy," Harvey says, and Bruce knows that Harvey knows, as well.

Bruce drives, and they speak of inconsequential things. It turns out that Tim has already done most of his homework for the day, and that Harvey has some few photocopies of the listings of the more promising properties he'd viewed. Harvey opens the pizza and insists that Bruce start picking off the slices of pepperoni --

"He *loves* those, little guy. Here, you try --"

"I can see the *fat*!"

"That's the best *part*."

Tim likes the pepperoni, as well. There's hardly any traffic, at all, once they make it to Worth, and they make tentative plans to see an action film the next weekend. To him, the film sounds wildly unrealistic and somewhat ecstatically violent in *problematic* ways --

"Ah, that's what's *good* about it, big guy! Nothing could ever *happen* like that."

"Hnn. I think you might be 'jinxing' the world, Harv," Tim says --

"Oh, Jesus, don't even *start* that, Tim. Not until the JSA is *good* and rested up."

"*Blood* seemed... or. No, I can't say whether he seemed rested or not. I know Etrigan hurt him --"

"Then he was quite weak, brother. Usually, they can't hurt each other, at all," Bruce says, and takes the back streets into Bristol.

"Oh... I. Hm. Do you know how much... energy? It would've taken for him to enchant my mother?"

"No clue, little guy. Bruce?"

Bruce frowns and shakes his head. "All I can be sure of is that, at his most powerful, he can enchant with his will. Beyond that, he needs a gesture -- or more than one. Beyond *that*, he needs his voice. And, beyond that, he needs his... effluvia."

"He... used his blood."

"Then, yes, he was at the end of his abilities, I believe."

"Then -- I wish he would've *waited* --"

"He probably thought there was no time to lose, little guy. She was really going after you, yeah?"

"I -- yes. But I'd rather he'd focus his attentions on saving the *world*."

"I think we *all* would, but -- I dunno. He's also gotta do what he *wants* to do sometimes. I mean, everyone has to or they go crazy. Crazier. Craziest," and Harvey snorts. "You know what I'm saying."

"I'm... not sure how I feel about being on his to-do list," Tim says, and *sounds* unsure, but... not about that.

"Brother...?"

"I... there's something... else. There. I'm not sure."

The sound of another kiss. "We'll figure it out. For now... go with the fact that he's probably resting up -- or charging up, or whatever the hell he does -- *now*."

Bruce... smiles ruefully. "I find I hope he's devoting at least some of his energies to... calming Mother."

Harvey snorts and coughs -- "Oh -- Jesus. Strike that moment of hysteria from the record."

"As you say --"

"I... ah. How much do the two of you *know* about your mother's relationship with Blood?"

"Uh... wanna field that one, Bruce?"

"It's quite possible you know more than *I* do, brother --"

"See, I don't think so. She flirts more *openly* with me, and so does Blood, but not more *often*."

"Oh -- God. Could we forget I asked that question?"

"No, brother, it's a perfectly valid question. I... I know that Jason loves Mother very much. Perhaps more than anyone else currently living. I know that they *make* love quite often, and that they don't stint on the use of intoxicants -- both natural and supernatural in variety. I know that they've walked between dimensions, though I can't be sure what in particular that has done for their romantic relationship. I know that they've occasionally invited others to share their bed, people of many different genders and species --"

"Oh, God. Ah. They... told you? All of that?"

"And probably a lot *more* than that, little guy. And -- mostly Martha, yeah?"

"Yes. And, of course, I had many questions when I was younger."

"But not now?"

Bruce shakes his head. "I find... I find that there is much I wish I did *not* know, now, brother."

"Ah, big guy..."

"It's all right, Harv --"

"It's *not* --"

"It truly is," Bruce says, and pulls onto the drive leading to the manor's main garage. "There are, after all, many parts of myself which remain grateful to have such a caring mother. A *sharing* mother."

"I... Bruce..." And there is hesitation in Tim's voice.

Bruce never wants that. "Please tell me, brother."

"It's... that wasn't... convincing."

Bruce frowns and parks the Lexedes next to the Accompli. He considers. He -- "I sounded... dishonest?"

"More sarcastic, big guy."

"A little... cruel," Tim says, and sits up. "I... wouldn't have said anything --"

"It was familiar," Bruce says, and winces. "I'm sorry --"

"No, it -- it wasn't aimed at me --"

"And it *was* aimed at someone who richly *deserves* it, big guy."

For once. Bruce winces harder and shakes his head. "It happened -- I wasn't *thinking* about it."

"It's *understandable* --"

"It's unacceptable," Bruce says, unbuckling his seatbelt and turning to face his brothers, who are still close, but not -- quite -- cuddled together. "Thank you, Tim."

Tim smiles ruefully. "You're welcome? I... that wasn't supposed to be a question," he says, and reaches to touch Bruce's shoulder. "What do *you* need?"

Bruce shivers -- "You. Both of you. Your guidance, your knowledge... your affection and desire. Everything about yourselves you *can* give me. I am... I am greedy."

Tim licks his lips -- and reaches to stroke Bruce's mouth, instead, to *press* against Bruce's lips --

Bruce lets his eyes slip most of the way closed and kisses Tim's fingertips once, again --

Again and again --

"I -- I'd like -- to comfort... you..."

"You are," Bruce says, and cups Tim's hand in both of his own, presses it to his *cheek* --

"You... but of course you'd make this look simple, too," Tim says, and laughs quietly, *ruefully* --

"He does that, little guy. You just gotta get used to it," and Harvey strokes Tim's back --

"I suppose I do," Tim says, and leans in *nearly* smoothly -- there's a slight hesitation at forty degrees -- to kiss the left corner of Bruce's mouth.

"Brother... another?"

Tim smiles and does it --

Bruce pushes a hand into Tim's hair --

"Oh -- wait," and Tim pulls back. "Ah... upstairs? In... one of your bedrooms?"

"As you say --"

"*Absolutely*," Harvey says, and opens the back passenger door. "We'll bring the food with us and just hope Al doesn't catch us."

"He -- would get angry?"

"Alfred never becomes angry," Bruce says, and kisses Tim's hand one more time before gathering the food and stepping out of the car --

Tim steps out, as well --

"What he *gets* is *snippy*," Harvey says, and leads them toward the service entrance.

"I would say... more *concerned* about our eating habits, brother."

Harvey snickers. "I'd say something about him liking Tim better than us, but -- heh. He cooks *French* food, little guy."

"Oh -- God. Ah."

"Yeah, you're screwed. *Deliciously*," and Harvey opens the door and holds it for them --

"Brother, if we *tell* Alfred about Tim's eating preferences --"

"I will be *well* pleased," Alfred says, from an exact three paces away from the door. He's dressed impeccably -- as always -- has his hands folded in front of him, and is ignoring the food so studiously that he may as well be sneering.

"Ah. Good afternoon, Mr. Pennyworth," Tim says, and offers his hand.

"And to you, Master Timothy," Alfred says, and shakes Tim's hand briskly and correctly. "I must insist, however, that you call me Alfred."

"I -- all right, Alfred. Please call me Tim."

"Indeed, young sir? As you say," and Alfred inclines his head. "I believe you were discussing your dietary choices?"

"It -- I would be more than willing to eat anything you chose to prepare for --"

Alfred raises an eyebrow.

"That is to say... my nutritionist and sensei has prepared a diet for me with a great deal of whole grains, fresh fruits and vegetables, fresh fish, lean meats, and dairy products. That... ah. That's what I usually prepare for myself at home."

Alfred's hum is pleased. "Very good, Master Tim. I believe I will be able to prepare dishes you will find suitable."

"Oh -- please don't go to any trouble --"

Alfred raises an eyebrow again.

Tim swallows. "I... would appreciate that. Thank you, Alfred."

"You are quite welcome, young sir," Alfred says, and continues not to look at the food Bruce is carrying.

Bruce doesn't *cringe* --

Much --

And Alfred hums. "Dinner will be served at *seven* this evening, sirs, with respect to how you've spent your afternoon."

Harvey winces. "Uh -- that's. That's good, Al. Thanks."

Alfred inclines his head and turns to Bruce. "Master Jason and I had a brief but... instructive discussion this afternoon, sir."

"Oh... yes?"

"Yes. While he did not ask me to *detain* you... I believe he wishes to speak with you at your earliest convenience."

Hm. "I wish to speak with him, as well. Do you know if he is... with Mother?"

Alfred's expression turns sharp --

*Hard* --

And then he almost seems to *fold* his emotions beyond a bland and helpful air of *service*. "I cannot say with any great degree of certainty, Master Bruce, but I believe that it would not be *untoward* for you to seek him there."

"As you say --"

"Al." And Harvey is -- staring at the floor. *His* expression is hard --

Hard enough that Tim reaches out to rest his hand on Harvey's arm *tentatively* --

Harvey *shudders* --

"How may I be of assistance, Master Harvey?"

"You -- how much do you and Blood... chat." Harvey doesn't look up --

Alfred doesn't change *expression* -- but. His gloved hands twitch. Once.

Bruce frowns. "Alfred?"

Tim looks back and forth between them with *sharp* curiosity --

And Alfred closes his eyes, and doesn't open them again before saying: "I consider Master Jason to be... an ally. He has been a great help with... certain projects I have undertaken with all of myself --"

"I think." Harvey frowns more deeply, shakes his head, and looks up at Alfred. "I need you to be more specific, Al. You -- you know everything that goes on in this house. *Everything*."

Alfred shudders once -- and opens his eyes. "As you say, sir. You have... you have all passed through a crucible. Perhaps more than one," he says, and takes a deep, slow breath. "I must beg your pardon for what I am about to say, sirs."

"You have it."

"Yes, Alfred, please go on."

And Alfred turns to Tim --

Tim shakes his head -- and stops. "I -- all right. You -- please say everything which needs to be said."

Alfred's nod is nearly *militaristic*. "Mister Blood and I first discussed the nature of what we felt to be our duties -- our *vocations* -- some weeks after my father's death, when I realized that your father expected me to simply pick up where *my* father left off... despite the fact that your father was filially *useless*, married to a woman who habitually *flirted* with her young and *troubled* child, and that they *both* chose to live in a manor house which was positively infested with supernatural creatures which could only be described as actively *malignant*. Mister Blood could not tell me whether my father's death was *due* to those creatures, but he *did* tell me that my father had refused his protection.

"He asked me not to do the same. He asked me to stay, and to help him do what he could to ameliorate the almost ludicrously *Gothic* situation for young Master Bruce, because there was only so much *he* could do as the lover of the young sir's mother. I informed him that he had a moral duty to do far more than he *had* been doing. He informed me in turn that his only moral duties were to his own heart. We argued -- at length," and Alfred clenches his hands together not unlike their father had --

But then Alfred relaxes himself with deliberate care and looks at each of them in turn before nodding.

"We argued over the course of a night. Mister Blood did not then -- and does not now -- have any compunctions about using the morality of others against them. When I pointed out the *depths* of manipulation to which he had sunk, he merely smiled sadly at me, congratulated me on being an honorable young *man*, and continued to *work* on me."

Harvey shudders. "And you gave in."

"Just so," Alfred says, and looks at each of them in turn again before smiling wryly. "I will not say I have *never* regretted it -- I am a man of honor, but I am still a *man* -- but I have *not* regretted the opportunity to watch you all grow, and grow strong, and bold, and honorable, in turn," and he turns to Tim once more. "I look forward to being able to see you without the veil of distance between us, Master Tim."

"You -- watched me? *Why*?"

"It would be tempting to say something else insulting about your father at this time, but I have already allowed myself far too much latitude in that respect; and, additionally, it would not be honest. No, Master Tim, the simple fact of the matter is that Mister Blood brought you to my attention some years ago with a request that I do what I could to heal the breach between you and Master Bruce." Alfred frowns then, and turns to *him*. "I confess that I remained at a loss as to how to do such a thing, when it seemed that even Master *Harvey* could not."

"I didn't *try*. I should've --"

"*I* should have, sir --"

"Both of you -- neither of you should take responsibility for my *failures*," Bruce says. "*Please*."

"Maybe not, but --"

"Master Bruce. I have built my *life* on 'taking responsibility' for you," Alfred says. "The fact that I have not *succeeded* in the task..." He shakes his head. "You are all doing *quite* well now without my help. There is a strange and *frightening* freedom on my horizon... but that is neither here nor there." He turns back to Harvey. "Was that a sufficient answer to your question?"

Harvey winces. "I'm... thinking of all those times when you've just kind of appeared before Martha could do... anything."

Alfred's smile quirks. "How curious. *I* am thinking of all of the times I have *failed* to do so."

"Al --"

Alfred raises one hand. "Please, sir. I neither require nor desire your reassurances in this matter. It is enough to see you all growing closer, and righting the innumerable mistakes which have been made in your rearing. Now. Was it a sufficient answer?"

"I -- yeah --"

"Ah. I have a question," Tim says, and frowns thoughtfully.

"Yes, Master Tim?"

"What... what's the difference between 'Master Jason' and 'Mister Blood'?"

Alfred's smile is... secretive. *Private* -- until it isn't. He hums a laugh. "There are several answers to that question, young sir. One: 'Master Jason' is a part of this household, with the rights and responsibilities thereof. 'Mister Blood' is an occasionally welcome outsider. Two: 'Master Jason' is one of my charges, however... ironically. 'Mister Blood' is my sometime ally and the object of my most *sharp* resentment. Three: 'Master Jason' is someone of whom I've grown quite fond. 'Mister Blood' is someone who I will never, ever fully trust. Four: 'Master Jason' is a terrible joke between two old men with very little affection for your father. 'Mister Blood' --"

"Is a *worse* joke between two old men who rather enjoy playing games with *formality*," Jason says, and smiles at Alfred from the doorway leading into the hall.

Alfred sniffs. "It is *not* a game, Mister Blood."

Jason raises an eyebrow --

Alfred purses his lips --

And Jason laughs and bows with a flourish. "As you say, of *course*, Alfred. I haven't the *faintest* clue what I was thinking," and he turns to look at Bruce and his brothers -- "Young men. *Capital* to see you all again... but."

"You'd like to speak with me alone," Bruce says, and hands Harvey the pizza and the bag with the rest of their food. "I'm at your disposal."

Jason's smile is wry and gentle. "I'd rather be at *yours*, Bruce. Well. I promise to be brief."

"I... don't."

Jason raises an eyebrow at him -- and then nods. "As you will. If you will all excuse us?"

Alfred inclines his head --

Tim steps closer to Harvey --

And Harvey jerks his chin at him. "We'll be right next door in my room, big guy."

And that... "Perhaps... you could go to Tim's room, instead?"

"My -- but --"

"Oh, it's *absolutely* your room now, little guy. And it *will* be until we move out."

"I --"

"And, perhaps, for some time after that," Alfred says, and gives them all a *stern* look. "*Seven* o'clock."

They nod their agreement -- and go their separate ways. And it feels like an *exceedingly* separate way once Jason gestures and the hall in front of them seems smudged and unreal.

"Jason...?"

"Follow me *precisely*, Bruce. Do *not* turn left or right, and do *not* look back."

"I -- as you say," Bruce says, and steps into... shadow. At least, that's how it seems. The darkness is both visually complete and tangibly insubstantial. It seems *desperately* unreal, though Bruce could not say, with any degree of certainty, what would make it seem *more* real.

Still, it only lasts for five paces before he and Jason are in a large, rectangular room lit by wall sconces which seem to have been only *slightly* altered from the days when they would've held torches. There are, in fact, smoke stains on the walls and ceiling which aren't completely covered by the many tapestries and -- full seemingly to *groaning* -- bookshelves.

The floor is covered with a rather riotous profusion of rugs. All of them are quite tasteful and beautiful, but there are at least a dozen different artistic styles on the top layer alone, and some of the rugs seem older than the *manor*.

Bruce tries to walk carefully as he looks around --

"No need for *that*, Bruce -- though I would appreciate it if you were to take off your shoes." *Jason* is barefoot -- there is no sign of the boots he was wearing -- and wiggling his long toes on the fraying edge of a Persian.

Bruce nods and crouches to remove his boat shoes and socks, setting them near the door. Barefoot, the older rugs feel even older than *that*, gaining a texture not unlike suede in some places, and not unlike hemp cord in still others.

Of course, some of the rugs could *be* backed with hemp --

"You know... I do believe you're the first person I've brought in here to *ever* spend this much time focused on the rugs."

"They're quite fascinatingly *old*, Jason."

"And?"

Hm. Bruce smiles and looks up to meet Jason's dark eyes. He's taken one of the two comfortably-battered-looking armchairs near the unlit stone fireplace; his legs are crossed at the knee, and there is an unlit clove cigarette between the fingers of his left hand.

"Do tell..."

"I'm rather terrified by the prospect of looking more closely at anything else in this room, Jason."

Jason makes a moue... but there is a soft and *welcoming* amusement in his eyes...

Bruce sighs and moves to join him. "May I?"

"Please do. It wasn't especially easy to find chairs of this sort which were designed with taller people in mind, but I did my diligence for a *reason*."

Bruce sits down. "Are many of the Justice Society members quite tall?"

Jason raises an eyebrow. "Green Lantern and the Flash are. The rest... average. The chair was for *you*, Bruce."

"I... but. You must have purchased this chair --"

"Fifteen years ago. Sometimes I am... precipitous," Jason says, and steeples his fingers. "Eager, too."

"How did you know I *would* grow so tall?"

"Well, for one thing, dimensions with yous in them tend to be filled with irritatingly tall people just in general --"

"I... what?"

Jason laughs. "In *many* dimensions *my* height is average, Bruce. Or even taller than average."

"*Truly*?"

"You need not seem *that* shocked."

"I -- oh. I'm very sorry --"

Another laugh -- and Jason waves a hand. "You're forgiven. And you're a tall, vast *bear* of a man in *every* dimension I've peered in on -- whatever else you are."

"I... don't suppose there are taller, vaster --"

"Bearier?"

"Hm. Yes, please ignore that question for being ridiculous."

But Jason's smile is soft again. "There's a young man growing up in Kansas -- he's sixteen at the moment -- who will, assuming all goes well, eventually be *somewhat* larger than you are... as well as being a great friend to you and your brothers."

Bruce brightens helplessly. "Would you tell me more of him?"

"I'll tell you the important things: He is an alien who looks entirely human, save for the rather daunting *perfection* of his form. Many Bruces find this desperately suspicious, but, truly, it's through no fault of his own --"

"You find him to be beautiful?"

"Oh, yes. *Very* many people do. He has a certain... hmm... cheerful innocence? Homey friendliness? Gentle kindness?"

Bruce frowns. "But... *you* find him to be beautiful."

Jason laughs softly and drags the tip of his tongue over the edges of his teeth. "He's also, as I've said, quite perfect physically. Breathtaking. *Every* time I see him in his adult form, I wind up wanting to plaster armor all over him and shove a great, big sword into his hand. Not that he'd need *either*."

"He is powerful."

"Mm-hmm. Strength, speed, stamina... and all sorts of other things. Eventually, if things move in this dimension as they have moved in many others, various people will in *turn* be moved to worship him as a god."

Bruce -- blinks. "I... don't like that."

"Neither will he -- if all the lessons his adoptive human parents are currently teaching him take. But... he is being raised by *very* American people of a particular stripe you *would* like: he believes in freedom, and he would never interfere."

"He is... your ally in other dimensions?"

Jason inclines his head. "But *mostly* yours. In some... I daresay he becomes another brother."

Bruce blushes. "That would be... I find that I would like a large family."

Jason smiles sharply. "I *think* that could be arranged... if, perhaps, not in the ways you're imagining."

"How do you mean?"

"The JSA will not know quite what to make of you and Timothy once the two of you make your debut. While you will -- undoubtedly -- model yourselves after them for the *most* part..."

"There will be... changes. Yes, that is true. I've begun to wonder if their attempts to carefully regulate the amount of violence they offer to *all* of the criminals they face is the correct approach."

Jason raises an eyebrow. "Do tell."

"I have not thought this through to the extent I wish to, Jason, but..." Bruce frowns and shakes his head. "The problem of recidivism is quite great, especially with their more powerful enemies. I... have you ever been tempted --"

"To murder them with malice aforethought? Of course," and Jason lights his cigarette... somehow.

Bruce doesn't catch it. "They refused to allow it."

"Mm-hmm," and Jason takes a long drag, then very deliberately blows large rings which seem to *bind* him -- for a moment. "They've made it quite clear that I would be listed among their enemies if I did anything of the kind."

Bruce shakes his head again. "Some of those people have, in their turn, been responsible for *dozens* of deaths."

"And they likely will be responsible for far more by the time all is said and done," and Jason smiles wryly again. *Fondly*. "The JSA may very well recoil from you, Bruce."

"Oh -- no --"

"Yes. And *part* of it -- in their minds, anyway -- will be your youth. What they *perceive* as your youth."

"I -- hm. I am not sure of their ages, though I believe Tim is."

"Black Canary is the youngest... at thirty-eight. The rest of them have a full generation -- or more -- on you and your brothers."

"And that... will make a difference."

"Just so."

"I must... Tim and I *must* try not to *antagonize* them --"

"To be sure, I would not recommend that. But... more than that, the two of you must remain true to your *own* visions and beliefs."

"Have you... scryed?"

"On that topic in particular? Not recently. But... I don't have to. You and Timothy -- and Harvey, in other ways -- move and *shape* the dimensions you inhabit. You must not chain yourselves down."

"But... I would think --"

"That you should chain yourselves more?" Jason looks thoughtful and wags his head as he takes another drag, holding the smoke within himself for a time before exhaling slowly and somewhat dramatically -- oh. The smoke forms a complex dragon -- faintly Chinese in appearance -- in the air as the world fills with the scent of cloves and other spices.

Bruce smiles and hums. "I remember you doing that when I was a child. I could never quite convince myself that I couldn't *hold* your creations if I simply tried harder."

Jason laughs. "And you tried very, very hard," he says, and smiles. "You were adorable. And *odd*."

"Was I very different from other children?"

Jason waves a hand. "The concept of 'childhood' -- as you know it -- is quite, quite new, Bruce. It's only *very* recently that people have begun treating their children as anything but oft-conveniently smaller and weaker adults. I would be vastly surprised if your father wasn't raised that way. Your mother certainly was... to the extent that she was raised, at all."

Bruce... winces --

"But we do not have to discuss them yet," Jason says, and takes another drag. He holds this one only briefly before exhaling in a roughly horizontal line --

And the smoke forms into small figures trudging -- that cannot truly be called a 'walk' -- into what seems to be a *mine*.

"I... child labor."

"For a very, very, *very* long time it was simply called *labor*, you know."

Bruce nods. "Yes, I... my perspective must be hopelessly modern."

"I quite like it. But... from *my* perspective, this vast and *mostly* Western experiment with allowing children most of a generation to learn and *play* and grow and *play* and *play* before sending them out to earn a living is *bizarre*. And it has led to some marvelously bizarre *things*."

"The student movement?"

"Yes, that, but, in my experience, people given *enough* freedom will almost always start to agitate for more no matter how old they are."

Bruce blinks. "I... believe I need to study that."

Jason smiles. "Feel free," and he takes another, longer drag. He --

"Where is the ash?"

Jason chuckles -- and the smoke forms the monsters from Where the Wild Things Are --

"Oh -- very good --"

He inclines his head -- and points with his free hand to a large, shallow bowl on the desk which is some six paces away... with a neat pile of ash in the center.

The answer, as ever, is 'magic,' but. "You will use the ash for a ritual?"

"I haven't decided, yet. But -- 'waste not, want not.'"

"Very true --"

"Children love different things than adults do, for different reasons. The same is true for their hates. A child's faith can create -- and has created -- new *deities*. The loss of a child's faith can bring worlds crashing *down* -- and it can happen in an *instant*. A child can be *innocent* -- and while *some* adults can manage that feat, *they* have to work for it. A child's sexuality can be singular and pure -- assuming it exists in any way which can be measured -- and, while adults *can* corrupt it for their own use, there is a certain spark, a certain physical-spiritual *power*, that remains until the child is *pubescent*... and sometimes even beyond. A child can be made to weep with ludicrous ease, and made to laugh even more easily than that. A child... well, there's more, but I think you take my point?"

"Children are... fundamentally different from adults. In ways you never expected?"

"Oh, yes. Despite my *long* life and *years* of observation. It took mass -- relative -- wealth and *leisure* to create the sort of freedom in which 'childhood' could thrive." Jason takes two quick drags, then exhales a spiced *mist* which extinguishes the 'cherry' on the end of the two-thirds denuded cigarette. A twist of his fingers -- it's gone. "While there had always been the occasional pampered son or favored daughter, one couldn't really *count* those, as they were most often raised without equals of any kind."

"True childhood requires companionship?"

"If not *that*, then the promise of same... I *think*. *You*... were odd."

Bruce smiles ruefully. "I'd had my suspicions."

"Oh, Bruce. If you *hadn't* grown up terrifically odd -- with the influences and *pressures* surrounding you -- I would've been forced to assume you were a changeling."

Bruce would like to laugh at that -- he believes his brothers would -- but... he stares at the dry and undoubtedly well-seasoned wood in the fireplace, instead.

And Jason sighs. "She regrets what she did today, you know."

Mother... Bruce swallows and nods.

"She... well. I couldn't convince her *not* to make the call to your father, but it did not take long to impress upon her the *meaning* of what she had done."

"What... what, precisely, did she say. To him."

"That doesn't bear repeating... save for one sentence: 'Do you know what *your* son is doing?'"

Bruce -- inhales sharply.

"I see I don't have to --"

"She denied me."

"For a moment, only."

"She -- she said she would never..." Bruce frowns and *grips* the arms of the chair so that his hands will not shake.

"There is... a hollow space within her heart --"

"You have never been able to fill it."

"No," Jason says, and there is a *gentle* smile in his voice --

Bruce can't make himself look up to see it --

"You have, though. For extended stretches of time."

Bruce shivers. "I don't... I don't want this."

"Then you never have to take it," Jason says, and his voice is calm and sure, *steady*.

Bruce takes a shuddering breath --

Another --

*Another* --

"Never, Bruce."

He -- he looks at Jason, and meets his eyes. He --

He forces himself to *think* --

And a blush takes his face immediately. "This... is why you chose not to make love with me when I was thirteen."

Jason raises an eyebrow -- and laughs softly. "Let's say it was *one* of the reasons why."

Bruce shakes his head. "You knew she would... want to see it."

"I knew she would *demand* to *share* it."

"And you... do not deny her."

"No, I do not."

"Because you love her."

Jason inclines his head.

"Even though --" But Bruce does not need to ask that question. Even if his brothers didn't care for him, at all, he would still need to do what they wanted him to do, so long as it didn't hurt someone innocent --

He loves *them* -- and --

And. "I desire her."

"I did not think you would survive your adolescence without that... popping up, as it were," and Jason smiles ruefully. "You're moving out, though."

"Yes."

"You need never --"

"Jason." And Bruce frowns. He can't -- he frowns --

"I am listening, Bruce."

"Would you. Would you prefer it if I were to shut her out of my life."

"No."

Bruce takes a shuddering breath -- "Please tell me why."

"Because neither of you would be happy with that solution."

"Why. Why do you think that I..." But Bruce can't finish that sentence. He can't --

He can only *stare* at Jason --

His hands are shaking *anyway* --

"Oh, Bruce... does it help, at all, to know that she is just as helpless to *you*?"

"She -- she isn't."

"She is. She could not..." Jason shakes his head. "It is, of course, wildly inappropriate to say the *least*. She is your *mother*, and, as such, should never have put you in the positions she has put you in. Hold to that. *Hold* to that."

"I... am trying. But tell me more."

Jason nods. "I will. I will answer all of your questions -- well. She was never truly happy when you were unhappy, and, thus, she has never been *happier* than she's been for the last five years --"

"When I have had Harvey."

"Just so --"

"Her interest -- her interest is prurient, Jason."

"Her interest is prurient as *well* as being other things entirely. It... I can show you --"

"I don't --" Want to see. Bruce frowns and turns back to the fireplace. He --

He has always wanted Mother's happiness, and her happiness in *him*.

She's so beautiful, and her smiles are radiant, bright and sharp and wise, as avid as a bird's -- but.

"How long has she been troubled, Jason."

Jason sighs softly. "I cannot answer that question with *exactitude*, Bruce --"

"Longer... longer than you've known her."

"Yes."

"Longer than her marriage to my father."

"I believe so, yes."

Bruce nods and wishes for a fire to watch, patterns to study, to *desire* to grasp --

But he'd learned that lesson when he was two, and Mother had wept over his reddened fingers --

Her tears had stung in so many *ways* --

But then Jason had given Mother something small and blue to eat --

Jason had whispered something in a language that made Bruce's *mind* feel blue --

And Mother had stopped weeping and immediately started singing the feeding song, even though it wouldn't be time for that for hours. Bruce was hungry instantly anyway --

And her milk had *tasted* blue in the minutes before Bruce had fallen asleep. He'd woken up in his crib completely healed, though with a strange and fascinating and *thick* layer of dead skin on both hands.

He --

She'd spent time with him every *day* -- for *hours*, even when she had work to do for the Foundation.

She'd smiled for his earliest sketches, and suggested things to help him practice.

She'd hugged him when he was lonely and promised to never *leave* him.

She'd danced for him --

Bruce shudders and turns back to Jason. "What do you want for -- what would you advise I do about Mother."

Jason smiles wryly. "Those are two very different questions... with very different answers."

Bruce takes a deep breath and nods. "Please answer both."

"As you will. My *advice*... is that you get out of Wayne Manor as quickly as possible and never come back, that you cut off *all* ties to your parents -- you have more than enough money to make your own way, and there will be even more when you're twenty-five, no matter *what* Martha and Thomas choose to do -- and that you join your brothers in seeking *intensive* therapy. Tell *all* the secrets to some wise and brilliant young alienist with a lot of patience and a strong stomach, and do your best to lead long, healthy lives in the daylight. As much as is possible. I have my doubts about Timothy, but I think you and Harvey could do quite well, and perhaps even acquire wives and children."

Bruce... stares at Jason.

Jason spreads his hands. "You did ask."

"So I did. What of your desires?"

"I want you to move out of the manor as soon as humanly possible... *after* you allow your mother to apologize to you for breaking faith. I want you to use every last *dime* you can get out of your parents to build -- with Timothy -- a vigilante *nation* --"

"What?"

"There *will* be others, Bruce. Most of them will be younger than you are -- and some of them will be *significantly* younger -- but you *will* have the emotional, intellectual, physical, and *fiscal* resources to train them and *raise* them --"

"But --"

"Bruce. There will *be* a need."

Bruce draws back. "You -- know this."

Jason nods once.

Bruce shivers. "I -- please go on."

Another nod. "I want you to visit your mother... fairly often. We could, if you'd like, arrange it so that there would always be a third party present... but you are not the same young man you were last week -- or this morning, for that matter. She has less power over you, and *you* have more control. With those facts in mind, I believe you could continue your relationship with a great deal of pleasure for both of you --"

"Do you." Bruce frowns and forces himself to continue to meet Jason's eyes.

Jason smiles gently again. "A part of me is afraid that, were you to ever make love with her, she would never welcome *me* to her bed again. That part would like for you to have even *more* control, and would *happily* cloak itself in the trappings of mainstream morality if it helped the medicine go down any more *efficiently*."

"Jason, I would certainly never *take* her from you! I didn't want that even when I was -- when I was more ignorant."

"Innocent."

"Perhaps. I --" Bruce shakes his head. "I would never --"

"You would not be the only one in the relationship, Bruce," Jason says, and smiles again, steepling his fingers.

"She... she is so faithless?"

Jason closes his eyes and takes a deep breath -- and then opens them again. "She has made me no promises, Bruce. And I sincerely doubt that she ever will."

Bruce frowns. "She made my father promises --"

"And she bore him a son; remains married to him; presents herself at his side *every* time society demands such a thing; and never, ever lets the world know one single thought in her head about how she truly feels about him. She will live with him until the day he dies. She will carry *his* name until the day *she* dies. The rest..." He waves a hand. "Dross."

"I wish... I wish better for you."

"And I for you, Bruce. But... we can have something *quite* good *enough* -- I think."

Bruce nods thoughtfully, leaning back in the chair and crossing his own legs. He --

He lets himself think, and imagine a world -- a life -- where Mother is a presence for tea and cakes, for decorating advice, for hugs and *casual* flirtation that they'll *both* know will never go anywhere. A life where Mother is... his mother?

Could that happen? Ever?

He doubts it, but he could *live* that way. It wouldn't be a *terrible* lie. It might, in fact, be a *helpful* lie, a lie that sets ground rules and *boundaries*. When he was a boy -- a lonely and *odd* boy -- boundaries were just another refusal, another way to be *cold*. Now...

Oh, but...

Is he being ungrateful?

Is he... could it be a matter of him being *spoiled* by what he has with his brothers?

Mother was there for him when *no* one else was --

Jason hums. "About that rather *thunderous* frown on your face..."

"I... there is... guilt."

"About...? No, let me guess: You feel that you owe your mother more than you wish to give her."

"I *do* --"

"You do not. You have spent your *life* living, in *large* part, for her. The fact that you found such things enjoyable does not make them less than what they *are*, Bruce."

"And does not make the end of such things less *painful* --"

"For both of you," Jason says, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward with his hands hanging between his knees. "You must live *your* life now, Bruce. By all means keep her *in* it... but do not let her *own* it."

Bruce frowns again --

"Bruce --"

"How. How, Jason? *How* do I let her *go*?"

Jason smiles wryly. "I *could* be wrong, but I believe you have *two* brothers --"

"I mustn't bury myself in *them*!"

Jason coughs *falsely* --

"Oh -- *Jason*!"

"I'm *very* sorry. It's just that that was a *lovely* straight line -- well. To be *serious*... trust in Timothy to set boundaries for the two of you, and learn from him."

"And... not Harv?"

"Harvey would give his life and soul for you a thousand times over if he could. I daresay Timothy would *like* to feel that way about someone, but my observations of the assorted Timothys in the multiverse suggest that such things are beyond him."

"He's hardly cold! And -- he's very loving --"

"Oh, yes. You'll get no argument from me *there*. As a matter of fact, the time may come when your younger brother will find himself madly in love with *several* people -- it's happened many times, after all -- but... not the way Harvey loves. And *not* the way *you* love."

"It... seems wrong to talk about him this way."

Jason shows his teeth. "Because the way you love is the *best* way, Bruce...?"

Bruce -- blushes. "I... hm. I didn't -- hm. I suppose I did imply that. I believe I'm going to have to... think about that."

"Yes, *do*. In the *meantime*... love the people who would never, ever hurt you -- even if you rejected *their* love for a time."

Bruce nods, uncrossing his own legs and resting his hands on his thighs. "I want her to be happy, even without me."

"I promise to do my best. I *also* promise that she has, over the past twenty years, learned any number of ways to make *herself* happy."

"She... didn't know how before then?"

"From what she has told me -- and from what I have scryed -- she seemed to have *mostly* known ways to forget her *un*happiness."

"How much do you know about her childhood?"

Jason shrugs. "A fair amount. Judith Kane was loving, but died young -- almost certainly thanks in *some* way to Edward Kane. Edward Kane decided that he wouldn't make another heir -- that he would, instead, marry Martha to the most suitable male to come along -- and so spent Martha's childhood grooming her to be... bait. He chose her companions with that in mind, and her schooling, and her tailors... everything. When he couldn't find anyone he liked better by the time she graduated from high school, he settled on your father. Jonah Wayne, however, demanded a college graduate for a daughter-in-law. Martha was duly packed off to Radcliffe, and there she began fine-tuning the lessons she had already learned about easing her pain.

"She was not told that her marriage had already been arranged. She..." Jason shakes his head and lifts his hand to tick off points. "Alcohol; recreational drugs; equally recreational lesbianism; long, late nights at jazz clubs --"

"Is -- *is* Mother bisexual?"

"Oh, quite... but you must understand that she is of a generation which... well. I doubt she'll ever *admit* it. Or even allow herself to fully *understand* it."

Bruce frowns again. "That... is difficult to understand."

"Yes, I imagine it is for a boy from *your* generation." Jason laughs and shakes his head again. "Do you know... I've scryed futures when there are openly homosexual heads of *state*."

"Oh -- but that's wonderful!"

"Mm-hmm. And *powerfully* odd to the squire in me who rather likes taking it up the fundament from that one *gentle* knight with the seemingly endless supply of sheep grease, and who knows -- *knows* -- that *homosexuals* are the *devil's agents on earth*."

"I... hm."

Jason laughs brightly. "And? There was *nothing* odd about *either* aspect of my point of view at the time. Nor for hundreds of years before and after."

"I believe I take your point."

Jason hums and leans back, crossing his legs again. "I thought you would. In any event, your mother --"

"Wait -- please. I have a question."

"Go on."

"I've always wondered if I should be calling you... Iásōn."

"Bruce."

"No?"

"I am ancient. I am *not* Greek."

"Then -- Guthlac?"

He sighs. "As pleasing to the ears as your *excellent* pronunciation of that *is*... my *name* is Jason Blood. It has been for *quite* a long time, and I expect that it *will* be for a long time yet to come."

"As you say. But..."

"Yes, Bruce?"

"What does it mean to you?"

Jason turns toward the fireplace -- which blazes suddenly, and shows a trireme full of happy companions  --

A compactly muscled man lifting what can *only* be a fleece high --

That same man falling to his knees in grief and guilt and horror --

And then the fire is gone and Jason is smiling at him wryly. "I chose the name Jason because it suited the prima donna in me to be known as a *flawed* hero, and it was a much more *subtle* name than Hercules or Gilgamesh..."

"And the surname Blood?"

Jason smiles with teeth. "Because I believe in truth in advertising."

Bruce hums. "As you say --"

"But -- it *is* my name now, which means that both aspects of it mean both more and *less* than their original components. It has always, *always* pleased me to be Jason to you."

Bruce smiles. "You always will be."

Jason tilts his head to the side. "What a wonderful son you would've been to parents who could *be* parents."

"Even with all of my oddness?"

"*Good* parents cope with such things *without* running away to their mistresses *or* needing to have their milk enchanted away from them."

"I... feel strongly that I shouldn't ask the question that is coming to mind."

Jason laughs softly and folds his hands on his knee. "Probably not, no."

"She breastfed me until I was four."

"She did, yes."

"That... is strange?"

"Oh, yes. In this day and age."

"Hm."

"Though..."

Bruce laughs and rubs at his temples for a moment. "I believe I would like to hear something... positive... about that."

"Being as how lactating women are something of a *kink* of mine -- shagging wetnurses at a young, impressionable age will *do* that -- I follow the news about such things."

"I... yes?"

"Your rather phenomenal health and *size* may be, at least in part, *due* to the lengthy breastfeeding."

Bruce raises an eyebrow.

Jason shrugs again. "The studies are ongoing."

"Hm."

"Yes?"

"I wish... that I were not thinking of Mother's breasts."

"Would you like me to help with that?"

Bruce blinks. "You... could?"

"I cannot change the way you feel about her -- at all -- but I can build something of a detour within your mind. It wouldn't redirect *all* of your thoughts. You would need a spirit-mage for that, and none of the ones *I* know are powerful enough -- or not-*evil* enough -- to make it *work*. But... your most *focused* sexual thoughts about her could be... turned aside."

"I... don't understand why you didn't do this *before*, Jason."

"You were doing it for *yourself* quite handily, Bruce. And... I do *try* not to do this sort of thing to people I like."

"It's dangerous?"

"It's... the wrong sort of meddlesome?" Jason laughs again and shakes his head. "It is an odd and often pointless morality, considering how *very* often I dabble my fingers in the business -- and the *minds* -- of others, but it is mine."

"What... where is the difference for you, Jason? What *makes* one wrong and one not?"

And Jason's smile is old --

*Hurt* --

"Or... we need not speak of --"

"We do, Bruce. We *truly* do," Jason says, breathing deep and *gripping* his knee for a moment -- and then relaxing his hands. "I have watched people I loved fall into *pits* of their own devising, Bruce. Pits of pain, of suffering, of fear and *trauma*. If they had faced their fears and pains -- if it had been *possible* for them to face those things without further pain -- or without months and years and *decades* of the sort of slow healing and growth which is never *guaranteed*..." Jason frowns into the distance and closes his eyes -- no. He *seems* to close his eyes, but, when he turns, it becomes clear that they are still open *enough* to catch the light. "I can make such things easier, sometimes, and I often choose to do just that. I can... I can *speed* things, so that the people I care about can *leave* the pits within their souls *faster*. Do you... well. The way I phrased that *demands* that you understand it. That you *agree*," and Jason laughs somewhat derisively at himself.

"Jason..."

He waves one long-fingered hand. "A moment, Bruce. When I was involved with Morgan, I spent a great deal of time hiding truths from myself. Truths about her, truths about Mordred, truths about the Round Table, truths about myself and what I was *becoming*... et cetera. In the end, all of that hiding led to a very large number of good people dying terrible deaths -- and to me sharing my soul with a demon who loathes me *just* as much as I loathe him... for all that we respect one another well enough. Do I need to continue?"

Bruce shakes his head. "Because denying the truth cost you so much, you refuse to do it anymore. And... it would feel like hurting a friend to help that friend hide the truth from himself."

"Precisely. Which is not to say that I *don't* do it. I am not *consistent*. I have taken traumatic memories from Harvey and *inconvenient* memories from Timothy --"

"'Inconvenient'?"

"Oh, yes. I can tell *you* all sorts of things about the future without you losing your focus on the *present*. Timothy... has been waiting for the future for a very long time."

Bruce frowns. "But... why would a focus on the future *hurt* Tim?"

Jason's smile is -- quiet, not private. Still *old* -- "Let us say... that Timothy's priorities could be shifted away from his desire to be a hero *now* to his desire to learn as much as humanly possible about the multiverse and the space-time continuum so as to manipulate it -- and bring him closer to a place where *he* can have a large, loving family."

Bruce frowns again, but -- "Even... even Harv had a loving mother for a time."

"And Timothy did not."

"Jason, I don't want to keep him from *love*."

"You won't. You will merely keep him in his *own* time, and on his *own* path... which will, if I have anything to do with it -- and I plan to -- involve a great deal of both happiness and love."

"It... is not wrong to have to wait for things to happen at their proper times."

"Just so."

Bruce nods. "I will keep that duly in mind."

Jason smiles at him fondly, *warmly* -- "I know you will."

"And -- I will keep my thoughts as they are."

"You *don't* have to --"

Bruce raises a hand. "I will not ask a friend to go against his own morality, or his own heart."

"Oh -- Bruce. Promise me you'll let me dress you up in plate armor *someday*."

Bruce blinks. "If... you'd like?"

"I *truly* would. And I promise to use the *softest* wool for the padding, and then we can find you a truly *magnificent* destrier to ride --"

"Do... people still *breed* warhorses?"

*Jason* blinks. "*Don't* they? Why would they *stop*?"

"I... would think the march of military progress --"

"Which *your* family has paddled their filthy little hands in --" And Jason is frowning... thunderously.

"I'm sure that... specialty breeders..."

"Horses are *wonderful* animals, you know."

"Yes, they can be quite intelligent --"

"And *loyal*. And *wise*. And -- they smell so much *better* than most humans -- do you know what we used to *do* to people who abused horses?"

"I... imagine it wasn't pleasant --"

"No, it was *not*," and Jason crosses his arms over his chest and scowls.

"Mother... Mother said you owned horse farms --"

"I *do*. *Several*."

"You could... breed destriers of your own? Perhaps from... hm. I... actually know nothing about the breeding of horses."

Jason gives him a withering look.

"I'm sorry."

Jason's scowl grows dark enough to shadow the *room* -- no, those are actual shadows creeping toward them from places Bruce can't quite *see*.

"I -- Jason." Bruce gestures.

Jason blinks again. "Oh -- Hecate's jiggly tits. One moment," Jason says, closing his eyes and inhaling --

And inhaling --

And inhaling all of the shadows.

They shiver *together* --

And then Jason opens his eyes and smiles ruefully. "Terribly sorry. Horses are... important to me."

"It's quite all right. I've often wondered what it would be like to have a companion animal --"

"*Get* one."

"Harv is terribly allergic --"

"Get one which will not *cause* allergic reactions. A Sphynx cat, as an example."

"Hm. Is their fur --"

"Nonexistent."

"Is... I... hm."

"Some people find them hideous. I find them rather beautiful, in a faintly alien way. They're rather rare and somewhat expensive, but you *are* staggeringly wealthy."

"I'll have to ask my brothers --"

"Of course. But I think *both* of your brothers would appreciate someone small, intelligent, and inclined towards purring and being petted."

"As you say. Why don't you -- but. You have your horses."

"All forty-three of them. Forty-four when Gemma foals sometime next week," Jason says, and smiles proudly.

"I would like to visit with them sometime."

"Then we'll do just that."

"Do you... ride them?"

"The ones who enjoy that sort of thing. Mostly I overfeed them, curry them until my arms are numb, and make sure that they're happy and comfortable."

Bruce nods and frowns. "That last is the most frightening aspect of the whole thought exercise."

Another fond smile. "The animal in question *will* tell you what she or he needs, Bruce. You simply have to be open to it."

"And you're speaking of a non-magical openness."

"Oh, yes."

"Hm. I suppose we'll see," Bruce says, and smiles back -- and realizes that he feels... better.

*Cleaner*.

"I -- thank you, Jason."

Jason raises an eyebrow -- but inclines his head with another smile. "You're quite welcome."

"You have been..." Bruce stands and offers Jason his hand. "I don't know what my life would have looked like without you."

Jason hums and stands as well, gripping Bruce's forearm. "I have some ideas about that... and you *usually* manage to do all right for yourself, sooner or later."

Bruce returns the gesture, shivering internally for the dry and *ominous* heat he can feel even through Jason's clothes. "I find I doubt that."

"*I* find that you don't have *nearly* enough faith in yourself. Perhaps your brothers will change that."

"I... Jason."

"Yes?"

"Were you ever attracted to me? Sexually, I mean."

Jason's expression is *sour*.

"Or -- I could rescind that question --"

"*Yes*, Bruce, I was attracted to you then and I am attracted to you now. I also *quite* enjoy breathing oxygen, having orgasms, and saying mean things about your father."

Bruce coughs into his free fist. "I... see."

Jason laughs and pulls him into a hug. "Come here, you vast mountain of a boy. I love you very much --"

"Oh -- you've never -- I mean --"

"Shh," Jason says, and kisses Bruce's cheek. "Some words are dangerous to say... sometimes."

Bruce squeezes Jason -- tightly. "I love you, too, Jason. Thank you for everything."

Jason grunts -- "You're welcome, as I've said --"

"I want -- to keep saying it."

Jason hums... with some degree of strain. "*I* want to *breathe*."

Bruce winces and relaxes his grip. Somewhat. "I'm sorry --"

Jason pulls back and cups Bruce's face with both hands. "When your mother wishes to summon me, she pricks her finger and bleeds into a bowl of wine. I've told her countless times that that's not *necessary*... well. *Call* me. Day or night. I do not sleep."

Bruce shivers again and nods. "I will. And... visits?"

A grin. "I'd love to... though your brothers may prefer you visiting *me*."

"I --"

"Shh," and Jason presses two hot fingers to Bruce's mouth. "You may come to be glad of the privacy of this place, Bruce. And... what happens here -- everything that happens here -- *stays* here."

Bruce inhales sharply -- and knows Jason can see everything in his eyes by the way his grin widens.

"Yes. Think of *that*," he says, and moves his fingers.

"I will."

"And *do* continue to make phrases like that sound like the most *dire* of threats."

Bruce winces --

"It's *arousing*. Ask your brothers."

"I trust you."

"You... probably shouldn't," and Jason's smile turns wry. "But I'm glad that you do. Let's get you home."

"I --" Bruce shakes his head and leans in to kiss Jason softly, *wetly*. He uses what Harvey has taught him of kisses meant to promise love -- *more* love -- for later --

He shivers *hard* when Jason slips his tongue into his mouth --

He *cups* Jason's waist, not grips -- and then grips it anyway when he finds himself kissing a sharp, wet smile. He -- "Jason..."

"Bruce. Words cannot express... well. They never truly can, can they?" And Jason touches just the *tips* of his fingers to Bruce's forehead --

"What --"

And then something happens which feels similar to what Bruce has always imagined being the clapper of a bell would be like: stunning, vibratory, and all-encompassing. There is no *sound*, but his knees are buckling --

His mind is --

His *spirit* is shaking --

"*Jason* --"

"Shh, it's over..."

And -- it is. Bruce licks his lips and stands straight again. "Would you... tell me?"

"*Now* you can, if necessary, summon me with blood and wine. Or any other spirit, truly -- but I'll be cross if you try to use *any* sort of ale."

"All... right?"

"It was the *only* option save for water which *would* give you the dribbly shits if it wouldn't simply kill you. For *generations*."

"That... is... vivid."

"And I believe I'm somewhat giddy," Jason says, and laughs... for a while.

Bruce raises an eyebrow.

"It's only... I *told* your great-great-grandfather that the fact that his line was cursed to *functional* madness of one sort or another --"

"I -- what --"

"It's why the California Waynes refuse to have anything to do with you. I'll tell you the rest another time," Jason says, gesturing -- and putting a smudge on the air. "In any event. I told him that it didn't mean that *all* the future Waynes would be terrible. *He* was skeptical -- he already rather hated your great-grandfather *and* your grandfather, and I must admit that he had a point -- but I had *faith* --" Jason *giggles* --

Coughs --

And sobers himself. "Well. Now there's you. Never change, beautiful boy. Never change, and I will *always* be at your side -- and at the sides of your doubtless marvelously psychotic children."

"I -- don't plan to --"

"Shh. Remember, follow me *precisely*."

"Yes, Jason," Bruce does -- and finds himself in the hall outside of Tim's bedroom. "Oh... not Mother's?"

"She's not quite ready to offer apologies without other sorts of offers entirely. She will be, though -- and she will then find *you*."

Bruce breathes deeply and nods. "As you say."

Jason smiles at him fondly again. "Do give my regards to your brothers...?"

"I will."

"*Very* good. Now I believe I'll go remind your mother of... other sorts of things," he says, and blows Bruce a kiss. "Until later."

Bruce inclines his head, and turns to knock.

*

May 1979

The first thing Tim does when they get up to his room is look around -- and around -- the place like maybe the Secret Service or G. Gordon Liddy had been wandering around planting bugs.

Harvey *wants* to tell him to relax a little, but it's not like Martha doesn't have a magic mirror, and it's not like being in this house isn't making *him* feel a little paranoid, too.

So. He looks under a few lampshades.

He lifts the mattress.

He checks the doorframe --

"Oh -- God, I'm being ridiculous --"

"Yeah, but you're doin' it in *company*, so everything's copacetic, little guy," and Harvey winks at him from behind the shower curtain --

"I'm not even sure if it's *possible* to make listening devices that waterproof. Or -- no, I believe it is, but they would lose a great *deal* of pick-up, and then you'd need first-class audio-filtering technology to edit out the sounds of water, squeaking tile -- everything."

Harvey blinks at Tim. "Okay?"

Tim blushes. "I've... thought about this. Some."

"Bugging crooks you can't just beat confessions out of?"

"And -- for long-term operations. For the crime *families* and more entrenched gangs."

"I hear ya, little guy. The Feds don't pony up *half* enough cash for that kind of thing."

"Oh -- but. One hears about --"

"The ones they *do* pay for," Harvey says, stepping out of the shower and lifting the cover of the toilet tank. "And anyway, you knew that they weren't taking care of the problem."

"I did, but..." Tim shakes his head and crouches to check the under-sink cabinets. "I suppose I just thought that they weren't doing the job *well*."

"Nah. When the Feds go in for something like this? They usually go hard," and Harvey checks the gauzy little curtains, the windowsills --

"Yes?"

"Uh, huh. Manpower, tech, tangible *and* intangible support. Say what you want about Hoover -- and *everyone* knows the guy was a real asshole -- but he turned the FBI into a real powerhouse. They get things *done*... when they actually come in to do what *needs* to be done."

Tim frowns and stands, obviously thinking hard.

"Yeah, little guy?"

"I would think... perhaps we, as a country, need to fund the FBI more? Give them the *resources* to help cities like Gotham?"

Well... Harvey waggles his head a little.

"No?"

"I'm a little leery of that, little guy, and here's why: You start pushing more and more power and responsibilities onto the Feds as opposed to making it possible for the *locals* to do the necessary -- and that's exactly what you're talking about, make no mistake -- and they start *taking* more. And then the locals lose even *more* funding, and the ability to make *any* kind of difference on their own. Now you're maybe thinking 'well, hell, they lost their chance,' and I hear that, I do, but there are things locals can do that Feds *can't*."

"Intangible things?"

"And tangible things, too," Harvey says, cupping Tim's shoulders. "You relaxing a little?"

"Ah -- always with you."

Harvey grins. "I love you."

"You -- you and Bruce find that so easy to *say* --"

"Nah. We find it easy to *mean*. It took a lot of *work* for me to be able to say it the right way."

"There are... wrong ways?"

Harvey looks at Tim from under his lashes --

And Tim blushes. "Of course there are. I -- yes. A lack of sincerity would be terrible -- ah. Please go back to what you were saying before?"

"Absolutely. But cuddle up with me some?"

A *deeper* blush --

Harvey grins and *massages* Tim's shoulders --

"Oh -- of course you can do that," Tim says, laughing softly and shaking his head. "God, Harv, I --"

"I know, I know, I'm perfect in every way --"

"You *are*!"

"Little guy. I lie, I omit things --"

"To *protect* the people you love!"

"I'm kind of a whore --"

"There's nothing wrong with sharing physical affection!"

Harvey blinks. "No, hunh?"

"*No*!"

"So maybe you're gonna have a couple-few boyfriends and girlfriends when it's all said and done?"

Tim blinks. And swallows. "I've -- thought about it."

"Yeah?" And Harvey starts walking Tim out of the bathroom and toward the bed.

"I mean -- of course it's strange."

"I've heard of all kinds of people making it work, though."

"Yes. In *porn* magazines --"

"Nah, in real life, too. One thing about balling college girls -- and older women in a college *town* -- is that you get to hear about some seriously *liberal* arrangements."

Tim frowns and sits on the side of the bed, working off his shoes and socks --

Harvey gets his own shoes and socks off, thinks about it, then strips down to his briefs --

And watches Tim get a little... hung up. It makes Harvey feel like the hottest thing on two legs -- in good ways. *Great* ways, because he knows how much Tim likes who he *is* --

"I like -- I love the way you look at me, little guy," Harvey says, and his voice is a little hoarse to his own ears --

"You. You must be used to it," Tim says, and *drags* his gaze back up to Harvey's eyes from his belly.

Harvey grins and *scratches* his belly. "I'm not close to *anyone* up in New Haven, little guy. The way they all look at me up there... it doesn't matter. Maybe it *should* -- *probably* it should, and I'm actually gonna *try* to start having conversations with the women I ball -- but for now it doesn't. This is better."

Tim swallows and kind of *plucks* at his button-down. "I'm glad."

"I'm glad for you," Harvey says, and strokes Tim's cheek --

Tim's nostrils flare -- just a little.

"You uh... you gonna strip off for me?"

"Would you -- you'd like that."

Harvey grins wider and nods *slowly*.

"I. I'd still like to talk... more."

"Fine by me."

"I mean -- I mean... before," and Tim frowns *hard*, really --

"Hey, are you beating yourself up -- no, what am I saying, of course you are," and Harvey sits down next to Tim and wraps his arms around him. "I'm older, but I'm still a teenager, little guy. I get *ahead* of myself, and -- yeah. We *both* wanna prove to you that we want you for more than just your body, okay?"

"It's -- I'm being ridiculous --"

"No."

"I'm not even --"

"You're hot. *Trust* me on this, okay?" And Harvey pulls back enough to cup Tim's chin and tilt his face up a little. "You're *pretty*, just in general, but you've also got that lean little body that's *all* muscle -- heh. You're hot enough *personality*-wise that I can *distract* myself from how hot I think you are *physically*... which is pretty much one of the few things keeping me sane right now," and Harvey smiles ruefully. "Okay?"

Tim blinks at him --

*Searches* him --

"You -- don't want to be attracted to... people my age."

"Would *you* if you were my age?"

"I --" And Tim blinks like a *revelation* has just hit him, which is pretty much the cutest --

Harvey kisses his forehead. "Yeah, think about *that*. 'cause you *are* gonna be my age, and who knows *what* the thirteen-year-olds are gonna be like then."

"Ah... far away. Hopefully."

Harvey snorts and squeezes Tim. "There ya go. You can keep everything on as far as I'm concerned --"

"No -- no. I'll be more comfortable --"

"Will you?"

Tim gives him a wry and *knowing* smile -- "I will. Because I'm not going to let myself freak out around you any more today."

"It's allowed --"

"Good to know. Let go."

"Heh. You're the boss," Harvey says, letting go and scooting further back onto the bed. He folds his hands behind his head and looks up at the ceiling -- oh. "I was saying -- what was I saying?"

"Any number of intelligent -- ah. Start with what the local police departments can do that the FBI can't," and Tim goes back to stripping off.

"Okay, sure. First off? They can *know* you. Joe Fed might have a dossier on you a mile thick, but Johnny Beat-Cop *knows* you. He knows what you *get* at your favorite sandwich place -- not just which one it is. He knows *why* you cheat on your girlfriend -- not just that you do it. He knows you cheat on your taxes and occasionally knock over parking meters -- and he'd *dearly* love to beat you over the head for that a little, and he absolutely will if he ever catches you at it -- but he knows in his *bones* that you would never, ever pull a gun on anyone, or beat on someone who didn't start beating on you first, or even rob a convenience store. And *that* means that he's not gonna waste your time or the taxpayers' money bracing you for any crimes like that."

"Oh -- yes, I see."

"Figured you would. Anyway, Johnny Beat-Cop knows pretty much all the bad-actors in the neighborhood -- and the good-actors, and a lot of the people in between. *That* means that he's not only able to save time and money on the things that *need* to be investigated and brought to the D.A.'s office, but also that he's able to clear *some* things up without *needing* to get official about it --"

"I --"

"I hear you, little guy. This is Gotham, and the thing about Johnny Beat-Cop is that he's probably more bent than a damned paperclip, which..." Harvey sighs and shakes his head a little, thinking about all the *different* protection rackets in the neighborhoods he hung around in as a kid.

The Greeks here, the Italians there, the blacks there, the Polish there... and the cops *everywhere*. Just -- everywhere.

Gotham needs so damned *much*, and sometimes --

"Harv...?"

Harvey reaches for Tim before he can think about it -- and Tim is right there, pushing up close against his side and holding on, holding tight --

"I'd like it... if you told me."

"I like *this*," Harvey says, squeezing Tim hard, stroking his side to his lean little hip --

"So do I. But --"

"But it's your turn to do some comforting. I hear you, little guy. I just -- it's this: sometimes I think about all the time I'm *not* spending on getting my law degree and I just. I feel like part of the problem," and Harvey smiles ruefully. "I know that's freakin' ridiculous. I know I'm just a guy --"

"You're more --"

"I want it, Tim. I want the D.A.'s office more than I want *anything* else. Sometimes I think I'd give *up* just about anything to *have* it, to have the *chance* to turn this city *around*," and Harvey frowns and just --

He shakes his head --

He holds Tim *tighter* --

"I'm here," Tim says, stroking Harvey's chest and *focusing* on him.

Harvey can *feel* it -- but. "I don't know what I'm talkin' about, little guy. I don't know -- I'm terrified to really say 'I'd do anything for this,' because this is a world full of *dark* freakin' magic, and maybe... maybe I'd have to prove it. And that fear --"

"It's human --"

"It makes me feel -- even *more* -- like I'm part of the problem. Because I can't make a stand --"

"Harv..."

Harvey swallows and -- stares at the ceiling a little more. Blinks back the things he's not thinking about --

The things that make him --

"So maybe. Maybe I wanna be good enough to be a hero, too."

Tim squeezes him *hard*. "You are."

Harvey smiles ruefully. "I should be able to be like the two of you. I should be able -- Bruce is gonna leave the *country* for God only knows how long, leave *us*. And you will, too."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "He's not exactly going *tomorrow*, Harv."

"No, but --"

"He is, in fact, making a point of doing everything he *can* do -- learning everything he can *learn* -- here, first."

"I'm hearing you, but --"

"And -- are you saying you wouldn't go to the other side of the world if it was the only way for you to learn what you needed to learn in order to become the District Attorney?"

"Of course I would --"

"But it's 'easier' for you to do what needs to be done, so it means less?"

Harvey opens his mouth -- closes it and turns to look at Tim.

Tim looks right back -- and then smiles ruefully. "How am I doing so far? I feel... belligerent."

Harvey laughs a little helplessly, lifts his free hand, and pinches two fingers together. "Beating me over the head with logic *works*, though."

"I'd rather... gently massage the logic into you."

"I hear you, I do, but sometimes that just doesn't *take*."

Tim hums, pleased and *obviously* amused, and strokes Harvey's cheek. "I suppose I'll just have to keep being brutal, then."

"It suits you, little guy."

And Tim narrows his eyes a little and looks *predatory*, looks --

"Is that the face you're gonna wear when you're beating the crap out of bad guys?"

"I --" The blush is *serious* just that quickly, and Tim looks away -- but looks right back before Harvey can *turn* him back.

"There ya go --"

"I... ah. I learned that expression from Black Canary."

Harvey grins. "Man, I gotta say, I've always liked my women taller and darker, but you're makin' me change my mind a little, here."

"Hnn. Touch her and feel my wrath."

Harvey *coughs*. "So maybe you're a *little* possessive?"

"Of... a woman three times my age who only knows me as the diminutive middle school student who buys yellow roses for his 'girlfriend' once a week, yes."

Harvey snickers. "I'm sure she recognized the burning passion in your eyes."

"Oh, yes. Especially since I never did *anything* to hide it. At all."

"Heh, yeah, that kinda thing just isn't your *style*. But -- wait. She's a *florist*?"

"She owns Serenity Flowers, on the East side. Her scent is... incredible. All the time."

"Jesus, I'll bet," and Harvey tugs on Tim a little --

"You -- I can't actually *get* closer to you, Harv."

"What -- oh, damn. I was actually trying to get you to climb on top of me. Heh. Sorry about that."

"Oh -- no, it's all right --"

"I mean, I was just gonna keep talking --"

"Yes, and -- wait, do you have *Bruce* climb on top of you?"

"All the time. Air is for when I'm *alone*."

Tim -- giggles for him. That's just --

Harvey grins because he *has* to, waggles his eyebrows and tugs a little more --

"I'm -- going to pretend I didn't make that sound, and -- " And Tim climbs on just like that, straddling Harvey's hips and setting his palms down flat on Harvey's chest. "Like this?"

"God, yeah. Though I'll take your hands anywhere, little guy."

"You -- wanted another brother."

"I *had* one. I just wasn't taking nearly enough *advantage* of that fact," and Harvey waggles his eyebrows again.

Tim *tries* to give him a sour expression, but it's just not working even a little --

"I love that, too."

"Me not being able to control myself around you?"

"Hell, yeah. Control is for when we're old and grey and *boring*."

Tim gives him the eyebrow.

"Yeah? What's that for?"

"You had sex with a woman in her *fifties* today, Harv."

"So?"

"I suspect she had more than a *few* grey hairs."

"Well... yeah --"

"*And* she was probably *menopausal* --"

"Didn't slow her *down* any --"

"Do you really think *you'll* slow down?"

"Heh. *Yes*. Because my dick will stop *working* the way it does now. Women are *different*."

Tim gives him the eyebrow *again*.

"What? I *swear* they are --"

"I would like to make a wager with you, Harv."

"Uh oh. You know gambling's illegal in this part of the state, little guy. I don't wanna have to do this, but I *will* turn you in."

Tim *coughs* a laugh -- "Harv."

Harvey grins and bounces Tim a little. "Go on, what kinda bet are we talkin' about here? And remind me to cry a few *bitter* tears on you about what my old man used to get up to at the race track with the utility money."

That makes Tim blink and *blanch* a little --

"No, no, it's okay. So long as you don't expect me to walk into a casino or a race track with you? We're good. The casual stuff is *fine*. Just like how I can have a glass of wine or a shot of rum here and there."

Tim searches him *hard* --

So Harvey takes Tim's hands in his own and squeezes them, brings them to his mouth and kisses them -- "I promise."

"You -- recovered quickly. Before."

"I did, yeah. Mostly what I did is push the bad thoughts aside for another day."

"Oh -- *Harv* --"

"Easy, little guy, easy. *Every* time you or Bruce talk me off that cliff? It gets a little harder to climb back on."

"I want to *help* you --"

"What do you think you're doing right now?"

"Bringing up bad memories!"

Harvey smiles and shakes his head.

"*How* --"

"Easy: *You're* not blowing money we need or even *joking* about doing that. You were just making a *reference* to betting -- and making a bet between us that's all about love and fun and all the *good* things between us, yeah?"

"Yes, but -- hm."

Harvey raises his eyebrows.

Tim frowns -- but it's the *thoughtful* kind of distant and hard. "Is it... I'm thinking of the use of dead virii to vaccinate people against the live versions of same."

"Uh... yeah? I used Bruce *mercilessly* to help me through the science stuff at Exeter, little guy."

"You were his *co-valedictorian*!"

"And *everything* I learned about science was all about Bruce and *nothing* about the professors, who were terrible. I'm telling you, I would be glad to get you out of going there *just* for the sake of getting you a decent education. But -- no, go on. Dead viruses. Vaccinations."

"I'm -- I'm using something harmless --"

"To make me safe from something *harmful*. Okay, okay, I hear you. I thought you were about to start on immunology or something, little guy, and I gotta be honest -- it wouldn't have been pretty over here."

"Well -- it's a kind of *emotional* immunology, isn't it?" And Tim squeezes Harvey's hands. "If we can... can *surround* your bad memories with the good *versions* of things -- you're shaking your head. No?"

"It's... I think it might work for *some* people? The world's full of all kinds, after all, but..."

"Not for you."

Harvey smiles ruefully. "I got a *real* bad habit of building walls between myself and the things I need to face down and deal with. I would just use all the good stuff to *hide* from the bad. And that's no good."

"How... how do you *fix* an... issue? How do you make yourself... better?"

And that's a *damned* serious question, so -- Harvey nods. "Okay, in a lot of ways, I'm the wrong person to ask, because I know just enough about myself to know I've been doing it *wrong* --"

"I -- I'll take that, too --"

Harvey smiles. "My little brother. Okay, first off? One thing I know you *have* to do is actually talk about all this stuff with someone you trust -- and not just because it takes weight off *your* back, but because...?"

"It helps the people you love feel better. Feel -- useful."

Harvey can *feel* his smile quirking on his face --

"I... didn't say that correctly --"

"No, you said it correctly for *you*, and that's who we're talking about now, yeah?"

"I'm... very strange. Aren't I."

Harvey twists his hands free of Tim's and cups Tim's thighs, instead. "You're less weird than Bruce."

"*Dadaists* are less weird than Bruce, Harv."

Harvey -- bites his lip. "I like weird? That's not a question. At all. I mean, if you *wanna* go and normal yourself up --"

"Is that even *possible*?"

"Politicians do it every damned day, little guy."

"They *pretend* to --"

"If you tell a lie every day, to every person you meet -- including yourself --"

"It becomes real? If *that* were true, I'd have Jack Drake's *DNA*."

"I'm willing to bet that *most* of the time, in Thomas' mind, you *do*. Or at least someone's DNA who isn't *him*."

That gets him a *bleak* look --

"Aw, little guy --"

"No -- no. I don't actually have more to say about that. Not -- right now."

Harvey frowns. "You sure about that?"

"Yes. Tell me -- more about lies?"

Harvey searches Tim a little --

Strokes him a little *more* --

"I promise -- I promise to talk more. When I can," and Tim's giving him a *soulful* look, giving him --

God, giving him *everything* --

Harvey nods and squeezes Tim's waist. "Okay. Just remember that I *always* wanna hear from you, okay?"

Tim smiles ruefully. "All right."

"All right. Lies -- you tell a lie often enough and you really do start to *believe* it. No matter *how* far-fetched it is. And you don't even have to look at politicians to see it happening. Look at those poor people down in Guyana last year. Look at abused kids. Hell, look at people who are just *dating* the wrong people. All of 'em -- *all* -- are telling themselves at least one big, fat *whopper* of a lie, and some of them have been doing it for so long that they can't even see the edges of it, anymore.

"Me... well, I was telling myself a lot of damned things about how I relate to women and how I relate to Martha in particular. I *could* still see the edges of those lies -- see them clearly enough that when Blood started peeling them back, I could go with him without *too* much in the way of kicking and screaming -- but that has nothing to do with me being better than anyone else and *everything* to do with me just not having had the *time* to make the lies really *solid*. Get me?"

Tim frowns at him. "Isn't it... you mentioned the Jonestown mass murder/suicide, and I suppose you were thinking about other cults, too?"

"Oh, yeah. *Nothing* like a cult to fill a kid's -- or an *adult's* -- head with lies. Sometimes freedom of religion is a *problem*."

"But... if we were to try to legislate how people negotiate their faiths --"

"I know, I know -- it can't be done. But we can damned well keep people like Jim Jones from taking in kids who'd be better off in a group home -- even a *bad* group home -- and we can build *more* group homes and make the existing ones *better*. We can also tighten up custody laws, pump more money into the Family Court system so that each and every at-risk kid gets *actual* attention from a social worker who is a) paid enough, and b) has time to learn everything going on in that kid's life -- how did I get to talking about *this*?"

Tim smiles at him -- warmly. Just --

Harvey sighs. "Right. It kills me a little, you know?"

"Tell me?" And Tim covers Harvey's hands on his thighs, strokes them a little...

"Even if I do everything right, even if I pass *all* the tests with flying colors and ride my name and everything else into the D.A.'s office... there'll still be a whole hell of a lot of things I won't be able to do a *damned* thing about."

"I... think that's true about everyone, Harv. Everyone who tries to improve the world, I mean --"

"Yeah, yeah, it is. But it still makes me wonder about *my* dreams. Like maybe I should be aiming higher, should be thinking about getting into the D.A.'s office... and then *using* it to climb the ladder. *Thomas's* grandfather --"

"Was governor, yes." And Tim raises an eyebrow at him. "And it's entirely possible that the New Jersey political climate twenty or so years from now will be much more accepting of politicians having... culturally outré lovers than it was in the late nineteenth century."

Harvey snorts and -- "Ah, Jesus. I saw those old papers in on microfiche. They actually used the word *Negress* --"

"So they did."

"I -- you gotta wonder if there are any brown Waynes running around these days. Considering."

Tim smirks. "I would be... less than shocked. Considering."

"Heh. Yeah. Old Sorrel Wayne *absolutely* paid his mistress to disappear after all that controversy."

"We hope."

Harvey blinks. "Uh -- Tim."

Tim raises an eyebrow at him.

"Hey, we don't *know* the guy was an asshole. Maybe he was *enlightened* about cheating on his wife and fathering his hypothetical mixed-race bastards."

"Hnn. It's *possible* that I have a limited amount of faith in... Waynes."

"Gee, I wonder why," Harvey says, and reaches up to chuck Tim's chin. "All *I* can say is that the Waynes *I* know best are pretty damned great... so maybe I got a little more faith than you."

Tim blushes for him again --

Just a *little* --

And Harvey can't help but grin for it, *need* for it, reach up and stroke it and *appreciate* it --

"Should I call you Bruce?"

"Not until I grow another two inches... and another two inches."

Tim snorts and coughs --

"Heh. And *you* had a bet for me," Harvey says, and strokes Tim's cheekbones.

"What? Oh -- yes. Assuming we live to reach our fifties --"

"Hey, hey, don't talk like that --"

"Harv. We're *both* going to lead *dangerous* lives --"

"And we're *both* gonna lead those dangerous lives as safely as *possible*," and Harvey works up a little glare. "I don't care *how* much Bruce begs for it, little guy -- no fighting crime in corsets and heels."

Tim snorts again --

"I mean it, now --"

"Harv."

"*Sometimes*, if you promise to be *really* careful, you can go out in a nice, conservative pantsuit --"

"Harv, I can break two of your ribs with one blow."

"Maybe -- *maybe* -- an ankle-length skirt and a nice silk blouse --"

And Tim strikes, but he does it to *miss* -- whereas Harvey's roll is *absolutely* meant.

"Gotcha, little guy."

"Hmm. So you do. What are you planning to do with me?"

Harvey pulls on an exaggeratedly thoughtful face --

Watches Tim's eyes just *sparkle* --

And he can't help but grin for it. "I think I'll probably just have to keep you, little guy."

"Prisoner?"

"Oh, yeah. I made sure all the places Maribel showed me had *roomy* basements. We'll give you plenty of milk for vitamin D. You don't need sunlight."

"*Very* generous."

"I know, I'm perfect like that," and Harvey strokes Tim's lean arms until he can grip his wrists --

"Oh -- ah."

Damn -- "Too much?"

"Not... not a bad too much --"

"But a 'too soon' too much?"

Tim's frown is *dark* --

So Harvey kisses his forehead and moves his hands to Tim's shoulders, kneeling up. "My dick can wait for you, little guy."

"It seems -- I don't want you to wait. To have to wait."

"Because it seems -- no, you tell me. Why?"

Tim shakes his head, frowning even harder --

"C'mon, little guy, just spit it out for me. Anything. I need -- I need it all, you know?" Harvey smiles ruefully and squeezes Tim's shoulders. "*All* of us spent the first fourteen years of our lives lonely and fucked-up."

That makes Tim inhale sharply --

Give him the *wide* eyes --

Harvey keeps the smile on his face and nods. "Yeah. That."

"I just -- I promised."

"What did you promise? *Who* did --"

"I promised myself. That I would. That I would always make the most of my time with you. Because -- it was so limited."

Harvey winces. "No more. No more, okay?"

"I'm -- looking forward to believing that --"

"My bed's gonna smell like you, little guy --"

"And -- Adon?"

Harvey blinks -- and laughs. "You and Bruce. That crap always makes me feel like the gayest thing since Lex discovered paisley."

"Oh -- what -- Lex *Luthor*?"

Harvey raises his eyebrows. "You saying your mother *doesn't* have a dossier on him?"

"She -- she's working on one --"

"Yeah, I guess no one really *expected* him to already be running LuthorCorp -- and you can't *tell* me Lionel Luthor's death wasn't shady --"

"You -- think he killed his *father*?"

Harvey smiles wryly. "Yeah. And I think he'd been *planning* it for years. He's a cold, scheming, *smart* *asshole* -- don't even think about letting Bruce tell you different --"

"Bruce likes him?"

"*Bruce* wants in his tight leather pants --"

"He wears leather *pants*?"

That -- Harvey frowns and pokes Tim's nose a little. "Don't get hot for him."

"I -- I barely know what he *looks* like --"

"Skinny, weird, and bald all over."

And now Tim is blinking and looking *thoughtful* --

"Hey, stop thinking about it!"

"Okay! I'm sorry! I'm sure he's horrible and has a micropenis!"

And Harvey *wants* to keep scowling -- but mostly he wants to giggle and snort. So that's what he does.

"Yes? No?"

"He's actually pretty hung," Harvey says, and grins.

"Did -- I always thought people *didn't* look at each other in communal bathing environments."

"Oh, that's what people *say*. But -- and remember this, because it's a life lesson for the *ages* -- people are lying *assholes*."

Tim hums. "You can say 'bastard' just as often as you want to."

"I --" Okay, so he's blushing a little. "I *thought* I was covering pretty well --"

"Oh, you were. But I *sensed* a powerful desire to use it --"

"So maybe you're a Jedi now?"

Tim waves a hand. "This is not the painfully issue-laden teen you're looking for."

Harvey snickers and smacks Tim --

Gets blocked --

Smacks at him again --

Gets *blocked* again --

Goes for a tickle --

Gets --

"Okay, why is my *hand* numb?"

"Because I didn't want to be tickled," Tim says, and *looks* at him.

"Uh."

Tim keeps looking --

"Okay, am I gonna have to explain the concept of *rough-housing*?"

Tim blinks. "Is that -- you -- oh."

*Harvey* does some looking while attempting to shake out his poor buzzy, needle-y *hand* --

And Tim blushes. "Um. I'm sorry. I was... ah..." And those are the *big* eyes, the ones that can't really be faked, at all, because Tim's also tense as hell and *worried* --

"You're forgiven."

"But --"

"Tim. I *know who your parents are*. You're forgiven."

Sour look -- "I don't want to blame them for *everything* --"

"So don't," Harvey says and tries massaging his hand instead. "Just blame 'em for the stuff that's *definitely* their fault. Like how they fucked you up so bad by the time you were *five* that you couldn't even figure out how to make *shallow* friends. Because -- let's see if I can guess this one --"

"Harv --"

"You were supposed to practice being a businessman on them. Playing Doctor could get you into trouble these days -- it sure as hell got *Thomas* in trouble -- "

"Oh, God, that's -- *Harv* --"

"*You* were supposed to watch and analyze and figure out what made all your classmates *tick*. Yeah?"

"I..." Tim smiles ruefully. "You're assuming I wasn't supposed to do the same thing with the teachers and administrators?"

"Ah, little guy --"

"Lex Luthor is *gay*?"

Harvey stops massaging his hand and stares at Tim.

"He's the president of a Fortune 500 company! This is *news*!"

Harvey *glares* --

"Please? Please tell me? I *promise* I won't have sex with him, and if I do, I won't enjoy it." And Tim actually gives him a *winsome* look  --

"That's impressive."

"Thank you," Tim *simpers* --

"*That's* freakin' *horrible*."

"Yes, I imagine it was," Tim says, and hums smugly. "Answer the question?"

"And if I don't wanna?"

"Then I assume -- rightly -- that you only love me for my body --"

"*Hey* --"

"And that you'll be done with me as soon as I *displease* you --"

"You --"

"And -- ah -- that you'll toss me aside like... dirty underwear."

Harvey raises his eyebrows, crosses his arms over his chest -- it feels *exactly* as weird with a numb hand as he thought it would -- and *looks* at Tim.

Tim sighs and folds his hands on his chest. "Yes, it was a weak finish. I haven't had enough time to study our brother's innate gift for the dramatic."

That -- Harvey coughs. And wags one of the fingers he can feel. "Some of us *like* that drama, little guy."

"Oh, I find it incredibly tempting and -- and *breathtaking*. It's just also *alien*. I think Bruce is capable of more tonal shifts when he's feeling pleasure than my mother is capable of expressions, full stop."

Harvey snickers. "She -- damn, little guy."

Tim smiles ruefully. "I'm... working on having a few more than that."

"You *do*."

"*When*?"

"All *day*, little guy. And -- heh. *Really* when we're all making love."

"I -- oh," Tim says, and looks thoughtful instead of blushing.

There's *something* about that that seems more ominous than adorable, but Harvey can't think of what it might be --

"I wonder if *that's* the appeal for -- our father. I wonder if there's, somehow, an entire *range* of emotional responses which only come out when --"

"Whoa. Whoa there."

Tim blinks. "Oh. That -- hm. Yes, all right, I'm leaving that question alone. For -- forever."

"*Thank* you," Harvey says, and blows out a breath. "And -- no one -- and I do mean *no* one -- ever saw Lex hook *up* with a guy at Exeter. He flirted, he teased, he blew kisses, he got up way too close, he put up sexy posters of David Bowie, he wore makeup, he wore platform *boots*, he pretended he was Oscar freakin' *Wilde* --"

"Ah."

"-- and he got more pussy than *anyone*... other than me. Heh."

Tim blinks rapidly, and Harvey thinks he likes this thoughtful look a *lot* better than the other one. It just feels *safer*, somehow.

Even with him thinking about freaking *Lex* --

Harvey keeps his sigh internal and starts working on his poor hand again. He thinks it's getting better, and he's got some ideas about how to get the little guy back -- when he's least expecting it --

"You're saying his homosexuality was an act?"

Harvey raises his eyebrows. "I don't know him well enough to know that, little guy."

"But --"

"Heh. Okay. You want my educated guess. I hear you. I... think *he* thinks it was an act. And I think it came too naturally to him for it to be *completely* an act."

"But you can't say how much... or." Tim frowns again. "Do you think he was... pretending with women?"

Hunh. "How much of this is you questioning yourself?"

"Ah... a lot? Apparently, I'm a lot more homosexual than I thought I was," Tim says, and smiles ruefully.

Harvey blinks. "Oh... hey. Hey. We can talk about that --"

"And we are! And -- we'll talk more. From... oblique angles?"

"Or head-on --"

Tim makes a pushing motion. "It's -- it's a little intimidating. To think about."

"But if it's messing with you --"

"Only... ah... theoretically?" Tim smiles again. "I don't feel any conflict whatsoever about being attracted to you, and wanting to do everything possible *with* you, and, in terms of Bruce..." He shakes his head. "My conflict there is wholly emotional, crumbling rapidly, and has nothing to do with his *gender*."

"It's... other guys? *Theoretical* other guys."

"Yes. Though... ah. I probably wouldn't feel conflicted about Wildcat, either."

"Even with the *whiskers* -- what am I saying, you *have* a couple of those in your bedroom," Harvey says, and stops massaging long enough to poke Tim's nose a little. "Just tell me they're not part of the kink?"

Tim gives him a *sour* look --

"Okay, I'll take that as an answer --"

"*Thank* you --"

"And the other stuff --" He shakes his head. "Just talk to us however you can, okay?"

"How... how did you... know? About your bisexuality?"

"Heh, me? It was always right there. I don't even *remember* not bein' hot for guys and girls."

"But -- Bruce is the only -- I mean. Except for me. Right?"

Harvey grins a little. "Bruce gets a little jealous."

"Oh -- you. You limit yourself to women for him?"

Harvey pinches the fingers of his working hand together. "But it's not a big deal. I didn't really think I *needed* another guy before you looked at me -- heh. Like that."

"I -- oh. But --"

"It was enough to look at 'em, appreciate 'em, point 'em out for Bruce to sketch into weird clothes and positions..." Harvey shrugs. "I always kinda thought... I don't know. That I'd be a one-guy, one-girl kinda guy."

"I'm not wearing makeup for you."

Harvey snickers. "Bruce's birthday --"

"No."

"*Mean* little brothers don't ge--"

"Would you like to know how to make your hand stop tingling?"

Harvey opens his mouth and closes it right back up again. "I'll... be good?"

"Hnn." Tim sits up and -- jabs him. Right in the *shoulder* --

"*Hey* -- oh. Hunh."

"You're probably going to bruise. I'm not perfect at that, yet."

"Fine. Just fine." And Harvey jerks his chin at Tim. "What about you, hunh? When did you figure out you wanted guys, too?"

"It wasn't... I've been fascinated with the JSA all my life, Harv. Puberty... didn't really change anything."

"But -- no other guys, at all? Regular guys, I mean?"

Tim smiles wryly. "Do you count as a 'regular guy,' Harv? Because *Bruce* doesn't."

"Heh. Okay. You need *older* guys."

"Yes, I think so --"

"Be *careful* with that, little guy," and Harvey wags a finger at him. "A lot of older guys --"

"Are -- terrible. In a lot of different ways," and Tim smiles ruefully. "I know. It's... another reason why I didn't look very closely at that... aspect of my sexuality."

Harvey bites his lip. "You *are* pretty careful just in general, aren't you."

"Yes. I -- well, I try. It can be... difficult. Around the two of you."

"I never want you to be careful with me," Harvey says, and takes Tim's hands --

"Oh -- then I *won't* --"

"No, not that, little guy. I *need* you to be *just* as careful as you need to be. No matter *what* *I* want. Get me?"

"Harv -- you're being perfect again."

Harvey shakes his head. "I'm just being your brother, little guy. I need you to be okay, and okay with *us* -- and I know exactly how easy it is to *stop* being okay when you *start* trying to push all your fears and doubts aside --"

"Instead of... working through them."

"Exactly," and Harvey squeezes Tim's hands. "Let's eat some pizza, yeah?"

"Oh -- it's *cold*!"

"It's *incredible* that way. Trust me."

And Tim gives a *suspicious* face.

"Hey, would I lead you astray? For anything *but* lots of sticky gay sex?"

"I --" Tim snickers and sits up. "Pizza, then. But if I'm deconditioned for my next spar --"

Harvey kisses him. Not hard, not *pressuring* --

Just a kiss, nice and easy and maybe a *little* sleazy, because his dick is talking to him --

And he *knows* Tim's dick is talking to *him* --

Tim hums into the kiss and gives it right back, and when Harvey opens his eyes, he can see that Tim is smiling a little, really warming up for it --

But not trying to feel him up, yet --

And not even trying to move his hands a *little*.

Harvey can keep waiting. Pizza. Fresh basil is *probably* an aphrodisiac, right? Considering what *Bruce* is like every time they eat it --

Tim pulls back and nips Harvey's lower lip.

"Yeah, little guy?"

"I... ah. Do you think we could..." And the blush on Tim's face looks just this side of freakin' *deadly* --

"I'm thinking we *can*, little guy. Just tell me --"

"It's... ah. I liked... I liked it when you were... touching me while we were eating."

Harvey blinks -- and then thinks about all the time Tim *didn't* spend on his mother's lap, or in a pile of kids working their way through a pile of cheap cheese pizzas -- he bites his lip and nods --

"Oh -- God, don't pity me!"

"No, just sympathy, I swear. I missed cuddle-time for eating like crazy when I lost my mom, you know?"

"I. Are you sure --"

"And you're not bringing up bad memories. Just tell me how you wanna be positioned, okay? Bruce and I do this all the time, and I *always* love it."

Tim bites his lip and smiles at him with his eyes --

*Shines* at him --

"Maybe... if you would sit against the headboard and I could... sit between your legs?"

"Perfect -- though I'll get crumbs on you --"

"I... ah. I think I can handle that. Especially since I have faith in your ability to... take care of them later."

Harvey grins and gets in position, snagging the pizza box closer. "Yeah, hunh?"

"I'm... feeling much better."

"*I*... am glad to hear that."

Tim hums and snuggles right up, shifting so that Harvey's hard-on is pressed to the small of his back. "You feel... very good."

Harvey kisses Tim's temple and pulls out a couple of slices. "You feel fantastic, little --"

And *that* --

"Is that Bruce's knock?"

Harvey grins. "Uh, huh. Do the honors, little guy?"

Tim hums and presses just a little closer to him -- "Come in!"

And Bruce is right there, looking them over and smiling eagerly, *happily* --

And a part of Harvey can only be *stunned* that it's working this well --

And a part of Harvey can only be *grateful*, grateful for everything, but especially for having two brothers who *can* put aside enough of what's come before to smile *honestly* at each other --

Bruce is stripping, *too* --

They can have this.

They're in the *process* of having this --

And they're damned well gonna keep it.

Harvey wraps his free arm around Tim's chest and squeezes, taking a bite of his *perfectly* room-temperature pizza, and letting his jaw ache for the spices and for the smile that won't freakin' *quit* --

This is the good stuff.

*

June 2000

Tim pauses the playback on the image of himself stroking Harvey's thigh somewhat *sneakily*. Bruce wouldn't have been able to see him doing it, but he would've absolutely seen Tim's shoulder working, would've known by the look on Tim's face --

By the quality of the *smile* on Tim's face --

"Aw, we were just getting to the good parts!" And the expression on Dick's face -- pleading, sly, knowing, thrilled, *game* -- is not so different than the sorts of expressions he had worn as a thirteen-year-old -- once the grief had begun to pass.

"Not really. All we did the rest of that day was talk and eat. Though the night was rather more exciting."

"*Well*?"

Tim smiles one of his more annoying smiles --

And Dick sticks his tongue out at him.

In *this* moment, Dick is beautifully, casually, and *easily* naked on Tim's bed. He is already nearly as dark as he ever gets, despite it only being June and despite the family's generally nocturnal existence. Dick and Cassandra *both* have a habit of waking themselves mid-morning and going to sleep on the roof --

Dick's dozens of scars are pale and shocking against his darkly-olive skin, save for the gunshot wound high on his left biceps, which remains faintly purple despite the fact that it's five years old now. The bullet had nicked -- and cracked -- his humerus ---

Dick had spent the seven weeks he'd needed to heal all but *vibrating* --

Right now, Dick is stretched out on his stomach beside Tim, idly kicking at the headboard with his bare feet and braced on his elbows with his hands folded together. Dick is --

Dick has been in this position for nearly forty minutes, and sometimes Tim is positive that this -- more than size, more than skill, more than *anything* else -- is the true difference between thirteen and twenty-four. It's as much of a gift as everything else has been about Dick, and so Tim gives himself over to stroking Dick's back, and buttocks, and the backs of his thighs --

Dick sighs. "I feel like I should be purring."

Tim smiles and strokes the crease between Dick's left buttock and thigh. "I have no objections."

"Bruce *said* you guys had a cat way back when. Did he really get one after Blood told him to?"

"He adopted a seven-year-old Sphynx whose previous owner had died suddenly, named him Hercules, and they proceeded to give each other any number of neuroses."

Dick snorts. "You guys should've *helped* him!"

"Believe me when I say we did our best. Hercules was a very kind and affectionate cat when not being stared at or studied from not-quite-afar-enough, and Harv and I often tried to cuddle him in an instructional manner."

"But Bruce didn't *get* it?"

Tim hums and traces a firm spiral at the small of Dick's back --

"Oh -- do that again --"

Tim obliges Dick --

And Dick sighs again, dropping onto his face and stretching his shoulders in ways *only* Dick can. But --

"Be careful --"

"Of the slash on my trapezius, I know. I don't want stitches. I especially don't want *your* stitches, Uncle Brother."

Tim shows his teeth. "It's important to make sure the wound is completely closed... and neat."

"It's *important* not to be jabbed with a needle forty zillion *times*."

Tim's *scratches* the small of Dick's back. "You've been spending more time with Stephanie."

Dick stops stretching and rests on his elbows again before wagging his head back and forth in a somewhat truncated dance. "I got her to admit she *likes* it here. *Better* than she's liked any other place she's lived."

Tim hums. "Did you."

"Uh, huh. And I think that makes me the winner and cham-peen, Uncle Brother."

"I think you must be correct... but."

Dick sighs. "She's not *here*. I know. *Did* you guys have a good patrol?"

Tim spares a moment to fill his mind with memories of Stephanie in flight, using tricks learned from Barbara -- and none of the ones learned from Tim.

Of Stephanie's deep green trunks riding up *slightly* as she unleashed kicks learned from Dick and Cassandra -- and none of the ones learned from Tim.

Of Stephanie's savage smiles as she used Bruce's and Jay's punches -- and none --

Tim sighs. "She is... still very angry with me."

Dick winces. "She -- can hold a grudge, all right."

Tim smiles ruefully. "So can I. I'm considering seeing if the things which tend to work on me do anything for her."

Dick raises his eyebrows.

"Abject begging, shameless manipulation, *exposure* --"

Dick *leers* --

"*Not* that kind, Dick."

And Dick sighs. "Yeah, okay, I don't actually think it would work on her, anyway. I mean, she *likes* me most of the time and she still always makes me wear clothes unless we're practically in the *middle* of making love."

Tim frowns.

"I think... I think Cass knows the answer to that question you're thinking, Uncle Brother."

Tim winces and nods, scratching at his -- always -- light stubble. Cassandra will keep that secret until such time as *she* feels it's time for Stephanie to share it. And then she'll *make* Stephanie share it. But -- "Perhaps I shouldn't pressure her, at all."

"I don't know about *that*. I mean, she *likes* it when I'm, you know, myself."

"You're also -- technically -- one of the children."

Dick sticks his tongue out at him. And wiggles his ass.

"Case in point."

"Okay, yeah, I'm hearing you," Dick says, rolling closer -- and onto his back. He's only partially erect, and so the scar one of Ivy's Feraks had left on his pubis when he was fifteen is merely pale, as opposed to livid.

Ivy -- and it's impossible to think of the being she's become as Isley at this point, and Tim isn't sure if that's a failing or *not* -- had very nearly died that night --

And she has, generally, stuck to grand theft and the sort of ecoterrorism she knows full well that Tim's family can *sympathize* with since then. She --

How *will* she react to Jay's powers? Will she... feel them in some way? She is *of* the earth at least as much as she's human, now --

Or. Is she?

Tim frowns and rests his hand on Dick's chest --

Dick covers it with his own. "Are you anywhere I can follow...?"

"I... am thinking about Jay's powers. And Ivy."

Dick blinks. "Okay? Oh... hunh. I guess she *might* stop wanting to kill him really hard?"

"Or... he might have some degree of power *over* her."

"*That* would be useful," Dick says, and wriggles, twists -- he's sideways on the bed with his head on Tim's lap. "Though we probably shouldn't get *too* into mind control, Uncle Brother."

Tim sighs --

Dick snorts and jabs him just above the bruise he'd acquired over his lower left ribs. "No being tempted for that."

"It is, in fact, my job to think of every possible use for all of your skills and abilities, Dick."

He blows a raspberry.

Tim raises an eyebrow --

Dick wiggles his tongue while doing the same with his eyebrows and *ears* --

Tim grips Dick's throat --

"Bleh -- mm. Um. Mm. Hi," and Dick smiles at him *hotly*. "Have I mentioned that I missed you? Because -- I missed you."

"You were the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen," Tim says -- blurts, really --

Dick's smile gets hotter. "I know. I remember your eyes -- and Bruce's."

They had gone to the circus together with the explicit plan to watch the Flying Graysons perform, and, if they were truly as incredible as their press suggested, to go to them with the offer of a large amount of money. There was *always* more to be learned -- even though, by then, they had been on the street for years.

They --

They'd caught sight of Dick before the show and *followed* him like the perverted stalkers they *were* --

Dick had *caught* them -- and had stolen Tim's watch and Bruce's wallet before they could catch him in turn --

He'd juggled them along with red, gold, and green balls --

He'd laughed --

("I don't *do* threesomes, guys.")

And they had stammered and stared, *tried* to deny --

Dick had *giggled* --

("Then why *are* you following me?")

And Bruce had hummed and looked to *him* --

And Tim had tried *exceedingly* hard to think of a *lie*. He'd had one on the tip of his tongue -- something weak but *partially* true about seeing Dick's triple back-flip for the children gathered by the cotton candy stand and wanting more --

But Bruce had smiled at Dick *warmly* --

("Because you are a staggeringly beautiful young man. I'd like to sketch you --"

"Naked?"

"Hm. Yes, but I don't think that would be appropriate.")

And Tim had pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think of ways to control the *damage* from this --

Dick had still been *juggling*as he giggled --

("If you... would tell us your name --"

"*He* doesn't want to know my name.")

And Dick had nodded to him --

And --

"There was... a moment."

"Yeah, Uncle Brother?" And Dick... rubs his throat against Tim's hand helpfully. Hopefully.

Tim shifts his grip to one which pinches off the arteries --

"Oh... that's dirty. And *mean*. What moment?"

"There was a moment when I thought we could get away from you with merely some embarrassment and... problematic ambiguity."

"You mean if my parents hadn't been killed?"

Tim nods once.

Dick frowns thoughtfully, breathing -- somewhat -- uselessly... "I... maybe? At *first* you were just as I-want-to-eat-you-alive as Bruce was, but then you *weren't*. And it was even believable enough that I thought I'd just misread you. But when I *said* something like that --"

"I asked you how old you were."

Dick snickers. "In the most obvious way *imaginable*. I went back to thinking you guys were just *attractive* pervs."

"I couldn't... there was no part of me, in that moment, which could accept you believing yourself undesired."

"Even though you knew that my self-esteem wasn't exactly in trouble...?"

Tim smiles ruefully. "I was already --"

"Comparing me to your own inner child. I -- you were the same age I am now."

Tim nods again.

"That's -- wow. That's actually a little *scary*, Uncle Brother." And Dick is starting to flush slightly, pupils dilating...

"Tell me why."

"Well... maybe I should already be as hardcore --"

"You are. And if you roll your eyes for that I will not give you an orgasm."

"*Yee* -- okay, fine. At the very least, I should be better at looking at kids and figuring out what they're good for. What they can *do*."

"Many of us never manage that, at all."

"Like *most* of the JSA, I know. I... um. Mm. God, I. I can't really... think..."

"Then don't."

And Dick's penis twitches for that, Dick arches and moans --

"Good boy."

"Your -- nnh. It's just -- I *never* thought that -- that Impulse kid would work *out*."

"Hnn. Neither did the vast majority of the community."

"*You*. *You* knew --"

"I may have simply been lusting for him," Tim says, smiling and stroking down to Dick's small, gold nipple rings with his free hand.

Dick gurgles -- "Oh -- God. I don't actually. Have to do that. Oh. I feel so... nnh..."

"Yes?"

"I think -- uh. How long before I pass out?"

Tim smiles more broadly. "Perhaps we should find out."

Dick *moans* -- "I want. I want to be *here* when you fuck me --"

"Oh, you will be," Tim says, and *tugs* on the rings --

"*Please* -- oh..." Dick goes somewhat *limp* --

Tim releases the pressure, and tugs hard on the rings until Dick is gasping, oxygenating himself at speed --

"Oh -- *God* --"

"Shh, keep breathing..."

"Brother... Uncle Brother --"

"*Breathe*."

Dick whimpers and arches again --

And breathes.

And breathes.

And takes *shuddering* breaths when Tim twists the rings back and forth and back again.

"Good boy. Beautiful... mm. I remember when you came home with these."

Dick gasps -- and giggles. "I thought. I thought you guys were going to *beat* me."

"Perhaps we should have," Tim says, and scratches down to Dick's groin, splits his fingers with Dick's penis -- "It's so strange that you've finished growing," Tim *blurts* --

Dick *snorts*. "*Thanks* --"

"You know what I mean."

"I *do*. And it's not *better*, Uncle Brother --"

"Tell me how the needle felt," and Tim *grips* Dick's penis --

"*Unh* -- uh. It felt -- dirty. Hot -- literally hot, I mean --"

"Roy heated it?"

"No, I --" Dick licks his lips and pushes into Tim's fist. "Please. Please."

Tim starts to squeeze rhythmically. "Tell me."

"It -- an illusion. I just -- I thought I was -- burning --"

"Did you wince...?"

A breathy laugh -- "Yeah. When my *dick* twitched so hard I thought I was *twelve* again."

"What did you say to make Bruce touch the rings properly?"

Dick shivers and opens his eyes -- his pupils are still blown. "Please --"

"Shh. Answer."

"He -- I -- I begged. I -- begged and backed him up against a *wall* --"

"Did you."

"I -- rubbed up against him. My chest --"

"And you kept begging."

"So -- much -- please, Tim --"

"What do you want."

"*Something*. Or -- God, no, just -- oh, fuck, *fuck*, I love your hands --"

"As an aside, there is no one in my life with hands more arousing than yours."

"*Oh* -- then let me *touch* you --"

"Mm. Perhaps I will. But tell me what you want."

"You, you, just -- let me *give* you --"

Tim squeezes Dick's penis *hard* --

Dick cries out and tosses his head on Tim's lap --

"You want to please me."

"*Yes*!"

"You want to... mm... join the parade of family members dragging me back out into the light...?"

Dick laughs and pumps, twists and cups Tim's hands, strokes and molests using *all* of his calluses --

"Yes...?"

"Uncle Brother... it's my *turn*," and Dick is smiling, still, but it's hard on his face, almost --

No, none of Dick's smiles are truly *dark*, but this one --

This is perhaps the smile which made Clark start speaking about Kryptonian myths with Dick --

Made Clark --

("I just... there's Jay now, and he's different and great at *once*, and... I *feel* more like a Nightwing than a Robin now, guys.")

And Dick had been smiling ruefully, openly, warmly --

Dick had almost certainly been ready, willing, and *able* to keep him and Bruce from *murdering* Clark --

("It's --I have a few designs for the uniform --"

"Do you."

"Oh -- Bruce --")

And Tim had held up a hand and somehow, somehow managed to keep himself from snarling *or* begging --

("You told us... you told us that being Robin would keep you close to your mother."

"It did! It -- I think. I think, maybe, Nightwing will let me be closer to my *father*.")

And that had made *both* him and Bruce shudder --

And Dick had winced --

("Okay, I get that that's -- a bad word for you guys...")

He'd shaken his head and come close, *pulled* them close to him until Bruce couldn't keep himself from clutching at Dick's hip and Tim couldn't keep himself from winding Dick's hair around his *fist* --

("Please, Dick."

"Oh, boss, I'll never -- you know I'll never leave, right? You *both* have to *know* that!")

And Tim had *searched* Dick, studied and -- *yanked* on his hair --

("Not *ever*, Tim!"

"It... perhaps... if you. It might be *best* --"

"*Shut* up, Bruce --"

"Tim, we mustn't -- we mustn't hold Dick *back* --")

And Tim had pulled Dick down into a kiss --

Tim had *slapped* Bruce's hand and forced it to stay curved around Dick's hip --

("I want... of course I want -- oh. Dick...")

And Tim hadn't needed to look to know that Dick was using his hands *somewhere* on Bruce, that he was being *convincing* --

And here, in this moment, Dick is dragging his trapeze calluses up Tim's forearm in a hard line --

Dick is smiling at him *sharply* --

"Dick --"

"Who was it this time?"

"You. And your promise to never leave."

"*Which* promise --"

"Hnn. When Bruce and I were making asses of ourselves about your choice to become Nightwing."

Dick sighs and twines his fingers with Tim's, forcing Tim to squeeze him *viciously* -- "Oh -- ow  -- mm. I miss that ridiculously long hair I had sometimes."

"So do I."

"You *never* missed an opportunity to use it against me in spars --"

"I still loved it. Especially when you were wearing nothing *but* your hair and whatever jewelry Bruce talked you into."

Dick snickers. "I'm still not your *harem* boy, Uncle Brother."

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind," Tim says, twisting his hand free --

"Oh, no --"

"Hands and knees."

"Oh, *yeah*," and Dick *flips* himself onto his hands and knees with the kind of exuberance which *shouldn't* be matched with perfect grace, but, with Dick, always is. He bounces *while* flipping his shoulder-length hair out of his face --

He grins and wiggles his ass --

And Tim spares a moment to wonder why *he* wasn't already naked before he stands on the bed and strips --

"Yes yes yes --"

"Shh."

"Oh, God, I know, Tim, I know, but I haven't had your dick in *weeks*!"

"And if I was planning on just giving you my fingers...?"

"Only Roy gets to do that, and only because he *beats* me first."

Tim shivers and kneels naked behind Dick. "Should I do that more often, Dick...?"

"Um. Uh."

"Think about it," Tim says, and spreads Dick *wide* --

Dick groans -- "Oh -- oh, Uncle *Brother* --"

"You feel me looking at you."

"*Seeing* me."

"Knowing you."

"What. What I've been *doing*."

Tim smiles and spreads Dick's buttocks as wide as he can --

"Oh fuck --"

"Does it hurt...?"

"Stings --"

"You've been letting other men hurt you."

"Nn -- I need -- and Babs, too --"

"Bad boy. Maybe I *should* make you wait..."

"Please don't! Please, Tim --"

"Shh," and Tim licks around Dick's hole *slowly* --

Dick whines and *shudders* --

Tim licks again --

Again even *more* slowly --

And the whine becomes hungrier, comes with a full-body *shudder*...

And Tim knows what he wants. What he needs in *this* moment. "Stay right there."

"Yeah -- yes, Uncle --"

"Shh."

Dick grunts and shakes his hair down over his face as Tim stands off the bed --

Shakes it back over his shoulders --

Whimpers and shifts on his knees --

"Be still."

"*Unh* -- okay. Okay, I can do that --"

"And quiet."

"God -- *mm*." And that's the sound of agreement from behind bitten lips, the sound of *acquiescence* --

Dick has given so much and has only ever wanted to give *more* --

("You *know* how it is, alternate papi."

"Do I...?")

And Roy had leaned back against his big, powerful bike, spreading his legs just so and tilting his head back to show that he *wasn't* wearing Kal's collar -- or, rather, that Kal had hidden it under Roy's skin for reasons of his own, leaving Roy free to... advertise.

("Hungry is better than casual. Needy is better than hungry --"

"And 'desperate' is better than anything...?")

Roy had grinned and cupped his groin --

Roy had squeezed himself and *started* to bend his neck just for *that* --

For his *own* touch --

Roy... had known exactly what Tim wanted.

("Stop."

"Nnh -- yes, papi.")

Dick has never been casual with him, but *desperation* is something --

Something that doesn't quite *happen* when all of that hunger and need is right there for the asking --

*Always* right there for the asking --

From the time he was *thirteen* --

("I *hate* being alone!")

And --

("Please? I know you guys both want to and so do *I*!")

And --

("Please please it's so much better than *crying*!"

"You *must* cry, beautiful boy --"

"Oh, Bruce! After! I promise! Just touch me and I promise I'll do *anything*!")

They had not lasted. They --

They had not lasted and they had not *pushed* Dick -- not in this way.

Not until Roy had begun doing it as a matter of *course*.

("He's right *there*, papi.")

And the smile on Tim's face is more than a little savage as he pulls the restraints, the plug, and the -- simple, leather -- cock ring out of his now-unprotected-by-problematic-parent-related-neurosis toy compartment. Perhaps he'll replace the wingback chair with one of Gilda's sculptures.

He *is* right there --

He is willing and *ready* --

("*Always* for you, Uncle Brother!")

And sometimes it seems as though he *forgets* that he'd named Tim that as a joke --

("Okay, if Bruce is supposed to be my *father* --"

"Only -- only if it's what you *desire*, Dick --"

"You *adopted* me!"

"I -- but -- I would never --")

And Dick's glance had been *withering* --

And Bruce had been wise enough to quiet himself, wise enough to sit back and let Dick pace between them --

*On* the table --

("*You're* Bruce's brother."

"I am."

"But you're only eleven years older than me!"

"Very true."

"I don't think that makes you 'Uncle' material.")

Bruce had wanted -- badly -- to point out that he was only *sixteen* years older than Dick. That much was obvious in the tension in his shoulders, the wideness of his eyes --

Tim had rested his hand on Bruce's forearm --

Bruce had gritted his teeth and nodded --

And Dick had been --

Dick had been beautiful as he stared down at both of them from on high, as he planted his fists on his hips and lifted his chin --

("You're Uncle *Brother*.")

And Dick had held his straight face --

And held it --

Until Tim and Bruce had raised their eyebrows, at which point he had seemed to explode in snickers and giggles and cackles, folding in on himself --

Jumping --

Falling to the table and *rolling* --

It was the first time he had *truly* laughed since the night they had met. Neither of them would have *dreamed* of stopping him, of -- leashing him.

Perhaps that's another reason why it had taken them so long to do things like this?

It's certainly a more *flattering* reason than 'crippling failure of imagination.'

Tim smiles to himself and makes sure that Dick is restrained *firmly*. By the time he's cuffing Dick's left ankle to the bedpost, Dick is shaking. Not heavily, but steadily.

The order to be still?

The order not to speak? Both?

Tim leans in and bites the back of Dick's right thigh hard enough to leave a *very* good impression of his teeth -- and a lasting bruise --

"*Mm*!"

-- and then he catches Dick's penis mid-twitch and rings it tightly. Dick immediately pumps into his fist four times, but --

"It's curious, Dick. You know that won't get you anywhere in particular..."

Dick squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip *harder* --

"You know that I will, in fact, make you suffer for it..."

Dick nods *vigorously*.

"So that *is* what you want from me...?"

Another nod -- a headshake. And a pleading look.

"Stop biting your lip."

Dick pants and moans, *stretching* toward him --

"You are... indescribably beautiful. It drives me up a wall that Bruce can consistently find ways *to* describe your beauty --"

Dick shakes his head *vehemently* --

And Tim raises an eyebrow. "And perhaps I should only worry about what's natural for me to say?"

An equally vehement nod --

Tim strokes Dick's swollen lower lip. "You may speak again -- but only to answer questions. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Tim."

"Why the confusion before?"

"I want -- " Dick licks his lips. "I want to suffer *for* you. Not just from you." And Dick's smile is rueful enough --

"You know exactly how I want to respond to that. Don't you."

"Well... it's not *quite* martyrdom? Ish?" And Dick's smile is winsome and soft, loving, hopeful -- "I know what you *like*."

He does.

They *all* do --

But Dick was the first one who forced Tim to admit that 'pubescent' was another way of saying 'old *enough*.'

Dick was the first one --

Dick is the one here *now*, and he's already pulling at the restraints. Already --

Fighting.

Tim hums and pulls back out of view --

"Oh, don't -- *ahn* -- oh fuck -- *fuck*!"

*Just* three slaps for his scrotum, which, now that Tim is paying attention... hm. "What did you do for Barbara."

"I -- I -- I stripped!"

"Slowly?" And Tim caresses Dick's scrotum with his left hand and tries to judge the swelling beyond 'mild.'

"Yes -- too slowly --"

"Was there music?"

"Um -- ah -- I'm pretty sure it was from a Bollywood musical she would never actually admit to watching."

Tim laughs and hums. "What else did you do for her."

"Naked dancing -- also slow -- please --"

"Shh," and Tim squeezes Dick's scrotum *firmly* --

"Oh, *God*, I want --  *ow* -- ahn -- oh, *yes* --"

"Shh."

"Mm-hm, mm-hm!"

Tim laughs softly. "She filmed you."

Dick nods and tries to push back into Tim's hand --

"Did she let you watch yourself...?"

Dick shakes his head -- "Nn -- I don't -- I don't like --"

"Oh... very true. You've never enjoyed that."

"No, Tim," Dick says, hanging his head --

"You don't want to disappoint me."

"Never -- please --"

"Shh. What else. After the dancing."

"She -- she has... um. Stocks."

For a moment, there is confusion. But the moment passes. "Did she let you see her."

"No, Tim. I --"

"Shh." And Tim *scratches* Dick's scrotum --

"*Hnh* --"

"Did she hurt you badly?"

"Just. Just my sac, Tim --"

"Did you want more."

Dick moans and strains -- he's struggling to press close to Tim far more than he's struggling for more contact for his genitals.

He is --

Tim growls under his breath --

Dick moans again and *shivers*, *yanks* against the arm restraints --

"*Answer*."

"God -- I wanted -- we decided to save me for you."

Tim feels himself flush --

Feels himself bend and need and -- not bite. Dick isn't Jay.

He scrapes his teeth down the center of Dick's spine --

Dick shivers and pants --

Tim *licks* his way *up* Dick's spine --

"Yes -- yes yes --"

"Did you. Want. More."

"*Yes*! And *no* -- *oh* --"

Tim kisses the back of Dick's neck *almost* the way Bruce would. Bruce would make the kiss slower, and more gentle --

More *wet* --

Bruce wouldn't suck quite this hard --

Bruce wouldn't mark so *soon* --

And Dick is already writhing under him, already moving and *enticing* --

Tim pulls back --

"Please!"

"Seduction..."

"Mm?"

Tim laughs -- but, in truth, the close-mouthed sounds had been agreed to years before, in moments no less heated than this one. "I wonder where you learned it."

"Mm --"

"Answer," and Tim kisses Dick's shoulder blades, and his deltoids, and the numerous scars over his obliques --

"Um -- um. I don't know?"

"Surely you have some ideas," and Tim moves to the small of Dick's back. Dick isn't nearly as sensitive there as Tim is, but --

"Oh -- oh, Tim --"

"Answer."

"Mm -- I -- please --"

Tim *grips* Dick's scrotum --

Dick *wails* --

And Tim shudders and closes his eyes, breathes and --

And holds --

And *holds* --

"Please please PLEASE!"

"You know what to do."

"Oh -- *God*, Tim, I just -- I just -- I need it so much, I need to be touched, I'll do anything -- you know I'll do anything --"

"And you learned what people wanted?"

"It was --" Dick groans and pants, shudders --

"Keep. Talking."

"It was in their *eyes*! It was always -- you always *melted* for me --"

"When."

"When I was *silly* or -- or extra needy, extra -- oh, God, you like the same things *Roy* likes --"

"He's a man of excellent taste..."

And Dick giggles and pants, snickers and *whimpers* -- "Oh, Tim, Tim, *please*!"

"You're sweating for me..."

"Yes!"

"You're hurting for me."

"*Always*, I'll do it -- it's *yours* --"

"Would you grow your hair again...?"

"*Yes*!"

Tim shivers and releases Dick's scrotum --

"*Fuck* --"

"Don't do it."

"You -- you *want* --"

"I want everything of you. But especially your continued healthy existence," Tim says, sitting back on his heels and checking the battery in the vibrator that fits in the plug --

"I'm *better* than I was at nineteen --"

"And you'll be better than that... if you live. Only grow your hair if you desperately need to."

"I --"

"*Dick*."

"*Fuck* -- I mean yes -- yes, Tim."

"Good boy."

Dick moans and arches his back, lifts his ass --

"You want me to fuck you."

"Please. Please, hard --"

"I'll think about it," Tim says, slicking the plug perfunctorily and shoving it in --

"*UNH* --"

-- and turning on the vibration.

"Oh -- oh -- *oh*!"

"So you *didn't* peek while I was collecting the toys."

"Not -- enough -- oh, Tim..." And Dick licks his lips and grinds his hips at nothing, flexes and tugs at the sheets...

Tim takes a deep breath and moves to sit back against the headboard again, putting enough pressure on the restraint on Dick's right wrist that he has to lift that hand slightly.

Dick gives him a *pleading* look --

"Tell me more about 'melting.'"

"I don't -- what?" And Dick licks his lips and tries to push closer --

Tim shakes his head and smiles. "When else do I melt for you, little brother. When do you *see* it."

"When I'm -- sad --"

"Mm. Very true. And?"

Dick shudders and frowns -- "I. I can't concentrate --"

"Do it anyway."

Dick groans and licks his lips again, penis twitching once --

Again --

"You. You..."

"Yes, Dick...?"

Another pleading look. "I want. I want to *suck* you --"

"You can't."

Dick *grunts* --

"Answer the question," Tim says, raising an eyebrow and crossing his legs at the ankle.

An *anguished* look -- and a laugh, breathless and *hungry*. "*This*, Uncle Brother. When. When I'm *losing* it."

"You'd say I'm melting...?"

"Not *enough* -- but. It's starting."

Tim... licks the backs of his teeth and meets Dick's gaze. "It's in my eyes."

"It's -- a burn."

"But not a melt...?"

Dick fights the restraints with a sudden -- desperate -- violence, yanking at them and growling, shouting --

Banging the headboard against the *wall* --

And getting absolutely nowhere. These cuffs don't tighten when one fights them -- that sort of thing is dangerous in this family -- but only Bruce is strong enough to break the cords, and he *wouldn't*. Dick *could* use his flexibility to get out of the cuffs... but only if he were *indifferently* tied.

Tim would never, ever do that.

Just as he would never, ever dream of *blinking* while Dick struggles like this. It must be a burn, it --

He *feels* hot, *dry* and hot, despite the sweat on his throat and chest and back --

Dick is growling and *whimpering* --

And there are times when Tim has wondered if it would be better for his lovers if he were to be *more* cold, more...

More distant or *unaffected*...

Kal has been known to eat grapes while being fellated.

Diana has been known to conduct diplomatic negotiations -- over the phone -- while having the soles of her feet licked clean. Not by *him*, but it was entirely fascinating to watch.

It --

He could... eat?

Or... smirk?

Some would say the smile currently on Tim's face -- he can *feel* it -- is perfectly terrible. Covetous and -- and *evil* --

Dick kneels up as much as he can, straining hard, tendons showing in his arms and shoulders and neck --

He throws his head back and *shouts* --

He shudders and shouts *again* --

His *eyes* are squeezed shut --

He's not getting the *effect* of Tim's burning -- or is he? Dick has always been so *intuitive*. For a long time Tim had wondered if *he* had magical powers. He didn't -- he *doesn't*.

He was a staggeringly incredible boy, and he is a staggeringly incredible *man*.

And the vibrator has only one -- vicious -- speed.

Tim licks his lips and -- "*Down*."

Dick jerks and *whines* --

"*Now*."

Dick drops onto his *elbows*, hair hiding his face --

Tim can't take that. He gathers Dick's hair and pushes it back behind his ear, giving himself the sight of Dick's flush --

The way Dick *winces* every time a shudder *wracks* him --

"Beautiful."

Dick turns his head to beg with his eyes, to plead so *eloquently*...

And Tim knows this smile is no better than the other when Dick moans and moves to nuzzle Tim's hand, to kiss and plead *that* way.

The shudders keep *coming* --

"Will you scream if I touch your penis, little brother...?"

"Yes, Tim."

"Then do so," Tim says, shoving three fingers of his right hand into Dick's mouth and *gripping* Dick's penis with his left --

Dick's scream is wetly *incoherent* --

And the next one is worse --

And the next one is *worse*, because Dick is licking Tim's fingers, trying and *failing* to suck as Tim strokes --

And strokes --

And shifts to give Dick the stroke he'd *taught* them when he was a boy --

A beautiful and *needy* boy --

And Tim doesn't feel dry, anymore. He feels like he's sweating more for every scream, like he's leaking more pre-ejaculate every time Dick's penis twitches in his hand --

He feels tight and slick and his *own* kind of needy, and there is only *one* thing he'll be able to do... soon.

Perhaps when the *muffled* buzz of the vibrator finally drives him --

Drives him --

He's growling again, fucking Dick's mouth with his fingers --

Dick is trying to *swallow* them between screams --

And there are tears --

There are --

("I'm *pretty* sure you're not supposed to make thirteen-year-old boys cry when you fuck them, Daddy.")

And Barbara had been stripped down to her -- armored -- bra, panties, and socks --

Barbara had smelled of sweat and leather and other people's *blood* --

("Hm. What about sixteen-year-old girls...?"

"*Those* only cry tears of... exertion, of course."

"If you're quite sure.")

And Barbara had showed her *teeth* --

Perhaps just the way she had when she'd had Dick in her *stocks*. Perhaps --

And Tim wants to ask what else she'd done, wants to *know* --

But Dick is leaking all over his hand, Dick is shaking and *sobbing* as he screams --

And there are things Tim wants more. Things Tim --

"I *need* you."

Dick nods and arches, offering himself perfectly, *completely* --

Going *down* on Tim's fingers --

Sobbing and *lunging* when Tim takes them away --

"Shh. Soon."

Dick bites his lip and nods, spreads wide enough to overbalance *anyone* else --

But he is Dick, and his body is perfection, grace, beauty --

Tim spanks him *hard* --

Dick throws his head back and *gasps* --

Tim spanks him again and Dick whimpers --

Again and Dick gasps again, sobs and *rolls* his hips into the rhythm of Tim's strikes before Tim knows what it *is*. His mouth is open and he's flushed *dark*. He's --

He's *ready*, and Tim is, too, and the only excuse for this --

The only *possible* excuse --

"You always want *more*," and it's an accusation --

But Dick *smiles* as he cries out, as more tears roll down his cheeks --

Tim spanks him harder, *faster*, and Dick meets him for every strike, meets him and cries and *shouts* --

Struggles with his upper body and *gives* with the rest of himself --

Struggles *harder* --

"*Dick*."

"*NNH* --"

And he drops again onto his elbows --

Drops further onto his *face* --

And moves for him --

And *moves* for him --

And Tim is expecting to growl again, but he can't say he's especially *shocked* by the fact that there's something of a groan to it, too, something -- "Now," he says, and grabs the flared base of the plug. He can't make himself give any more warning than that, and he can't manage *slowly*, but he can manage a steady pull, something that allows *room* for the way Dick is still grinding --

Still *clenching* --

Tim will *have* that --

And Dick screams when the plug is out --

Whimpers just as Tim turns the vibrator off --

And Tim pours the STARslide directly onto his penis, stroking himself and hissing, growling like an animal and wanting now, wanting more, wanting *now* --

He *won't* untie Dick -- not even so he can spread himself -- and the frustration of that is making him brutal with himself, lubricant or no --

He will not wait. He --

There *are* differences between thirteen and twenty-four, and one of those differences is *experience*. The question of *ease*.

*Bruce* couldn't do this --

Couldn't line himself up with no further preparation and push --

"Yes!"

And push --

"God, *yes*!"

Bruce *wouldn't* --

"*AHN* --"

But he has to, *has* to, because Dick is the only little brother he has, Dick taught him so much, gave him --

Gave him *this*, because Tim is already riding him, already making -- making a *space* --

Feeling everywhere Dick *wasn't* stretched --

"Nnh -- nnh -- *Tim*!"

"No. *Words*," Tim says, and grips Dick by the hair --

Yanks his head back while he screams in *shock* --

But isn't there a laugh in there, too? A sense of --

Of *knowing* --

("Of *course* Bruce wouldn't ever say anything like that! He's the *nice* one!"

"... and I am?"

"The *mean* one.")

And Dick had giggled and pointed at him --

Perhaps at the frown on his face --

And then he had flipped backwards onto his hands and *run* down the length of the hall, weaving easily between the pieces of Gilda's early statuary they'd purchased and giggling *more* --

But perhaps, in this moment, the laugh is only in Tim's imagination. Perhaps he is --

Fooling himself --

Growling and *shoving* himself in --

And *in* --

"*MM*!"

"That's. That's just right, Dick --"

"Mm! Mm-mm-- *HNH* --"

"You're. Mm. You're right. I should torture you this way, too. I should... *nnh*. Be *still*."

Dick gasps --

*Yanks* against the restraints --

Tim *grips* Dick's hair and turns his hand so that he can dig his knuckles in against the back of Dick's neck --

And then he *shoves* Dick down --

"*MM*!"

"Just... take it," Tim says, thrusting faster, *harder* --

Dick grunts and *shudders* --

Grunts again and *clenches* --

And possibly that *shouldn't* make Tim growl again as he forces Dick's *face* against the bed --

Shouldn't make him do everything in his power to *punish* Dick's prostate --

His screams are *muffled* --

Like --

Like his --

Tim feels *himself* shudder and yanks Dick's head back up, needs -- "I changed my mind. Work. Your. *Ass*."

"Mm! Mm! MM!" And it takes Dick a moment --

It feels --

Every *missed* cue feels --

Tim is snarling and *pulling* on Dick's left nipple ring --

He switches hands so he can get to the right without letting go of Dick's hair for more than a moment, without losing --

Losing himself --

And they *both* start grunting when Dick catches his rhythm, when Dick works himself so perfectly, so *brutally* --

For *him* --

They're shaking --

"Mm!"

-- the bed --

"MM!"

Shaking all over, shaking him, and he needs, he's so close, he's so hungry, so hot and needy, he's always *been* needy --

Dick *knows* --

They *all* know --

They're his *family* --

And it feels like instinct to rip the cock ring free --

To *slap* Dick's penis when he calls Tim's name --

To do it again when he *apologizes* --

And then Dick is screaming again, clenching hard enough to make Tim bite his own *tongue* as he comes, ejaculating before Tim can move his *hand* --

So he keeps it right there, stroking and *jerking* Dick through it, deliberately off-rhythm until Dick loses his grace, his perfection --

Until Dick *falls* onto his stomach and groans --

And gives Tim an excuse he didn't actually need to fuck him into the mattress. Just --

This push --

This --

This *force*, and working his arms under Dick's shaking shoulders is better, *holding* him by his shoulders is better, comforting, needful --

He won't stop --

He won't *stop*, because Dick is still *trying* to work his ass for him, still --

Even though he's whimpering and *crooning* --

Even though Tim had taken his *words* --

"Good -- *good*," but the rest of that is a snarl Tim can't do anything with but bury in Dick's throat --

Bite and hold --

Bite and *rut*, because Dick's clenches are making his vision blank, making his mind *stop* --

His body *won't* --

He needs --

"*You*," and that's more of a snarl than a word, more --

Tim bites again and shifts his angle just enough --

Just --

"*Mmmm*..."

Just enough that every clench grips him like a hand, like -- like a perfect --

So perfect --

He's thrusting even *harder* --

Dick turns his head to show a *smile*, lazy and -- and full --

And Tim isn't ready for the clench that makes him all but *bark* --

Isn't ready for the way it *lasts* --

He -- he has to be causing so much *pain* --

But Dick is only smiling, only --

Dick is taking him --

The way he always --

"Mmm...?"

Always --

"*Dick*," and there's blood in his mouth from this bite --

And Dick is *wiggling* his ass --

And there's a moment when Tim's eyes are *about* to roll back in his head when he promises himself at least one night when they're *both* ringed --

A moment when he's *smiling* as he *bites* --

And then there's the real burn, the fire that takes everything he is --

Everything --

He's shouting and *clutching* at Dick --

He's fucking Dick *brutally* --

And it seems that the light answers everything, answers *for* everything --

It seems that the heat *must* be shared, given, always given --

He *loves* --

So *much* --

Black --

*Black* --

And Tim gasps himself back *to* himself for the metal-shear taste of blood in his mouth --

And the sound of Dick humming "La donna è mobile."

Tim licks his lips. And considers.

Dick continues to hum.

"Do you... miss Bruce?"

"Mmm?"

Oh... right. Tim laughs at himself and licks a trickle of blood from Dick's throat. "Speak."

"Mmmm... about?"

Tim feels his face heating with the *force* of his smile -- no, the need behind it, the *emotion* -- "I love you."

Dick wags his head back and forth --

And bounces -- despite Tim still being *inside* him --

And hums something Tim suspects is from a cartoon about mutated salamanders --

"Dick."

"Hee hee. I love you, too, Uncle Brother. That was -- wow," and Dick turns his head in a somewhat owl-like fashion to grin at him. "Feel better?"

"Immensely."

"*Good*. That means you'll untie me, right? Right? Right?"

Tim growls and *flexes* his softening penis --

"*Ee* -- or. Or? Something?"

But Tim feels himself -- overfull. In need --

In need of something more than *this*.

He kisses the back of Dick's neck and lets himself shiver, lets himself *feel* --

There's so much --

"Tim?"

Tim shakes his head and kisses Dick again, and again --

He keeps doing it until he feels something like whole again, or -- not that. He never felt *shattered* -- not with Dick. But...

"I'd *really* like to hold you right now -- *oof* -- but I can go with you holding me! Especially like that." Dick sighs and relaxes into Tim's *clutch*. "But -- are you okay?"

"I love you."

"Is that what's messing you up right now? Or... is it... bad?" And Dick tries to turn his head even more, but some things are impossible even for him.

Some things --

He's so --

Tim is so *full* inside, and it's not passing, not *leaving* him --

He doesn't want it to leave.

He --

"Tim --"

"It's not bad."

"O... kay? You're kinda worrying me, Uncle Brother."

"I'm... repressed."

"Yes...?"

"I think I need to."

"Yes?"

"I think I'm going to stop that. To a certain extent."

Dick blinks. "You -- really?"

"I think... I think my emotions aren't really giving me a choice about the matter."

"Are you... um. I think if you're going to have a breakdown, you have to untie me."

Tim laughs, and it doesn't sound like one of *his* laughs, at all. It's -- it's thick, and low --

Oh, he's crying. He's... crying?

Is he sad? No.

Is he... upset? No.

Is he --

"Oh, *Tim*!"

"I'm all right."

"You are not!"

"I'm happy, Dick."

"You're -- what?"

Tim squeezes Dick --

"Oh, do that all the time, but *what*?"

Tim eases his grip. "I'm going to pull out. And untie you."

"Okay, bad with the good, but what --"

"I'm happy. And I realize... I realize that that hasn't been true... that I've been keeping it from myself, even in the moments when it would've been most..." Tim shakes his head. "Breathe."

Dick does so immediately, even and practiced and perfect.

Tim doesn't try his usual trick of breathing in time -- the tears won't let him -- but he can pull out slowly, and carefully --

"Oh -- mm. God, you should be fucking me all the *time*."

"I love you," Tim says, and opens the restraints as quickly as possible --

"Oh, I love you I love you --"

And Tim lets Dick tackle him, lets him roll and push and *move* them until Tim is more or less on his side of the bed and Dick is more or less on top of him. And their legs are... braided. "Dick."

"Tell me -- tell me about the happiness?"

Tim strokes Dick's swollen mouth, beautiful mouth --

Dick wipes Tim's tears away --

They *smile* at each other, *into* each other --

And then Dick blinks. "You -- you're feeling it more. Everything?"

Tim shivers. "I think so, yes. I... don't know how long it will last --"

"Let's go for *forever*!"

"I..." But why protest that? Why fight *anything* that feels this -- this *human* and *alive*? Tim takes a deep breath and uses all of his strength to pull Dick against him --

"Oh, *God*, yes!" And --

It's possible that he'd need a diagram to figure out how to detach himself from Dick at this point.

Perhaps he'll have Stephanie make one... later.

Sometime when Dick isn't kissing Tim everywhere he can reach --

"-- and it's good, it's always so *good* to feel things, even when it hurts --"

"Dick --"

"-- connects you to everyone and every*thing* --"

"I --"

"-- always *wanted* that for you, worried about you, so cold and alone --"

"Never with --"

"-- *live* like you --"

"Stay with me tonight," Tim tries, and raises an eyebrow.

Dick arches close and licks the skin beneath Tim's eyes. "I am never leaving you. Ever."

"Dick."

"If it takes you teasing me *bloody* and *reaming* me to get you to really feel things -- I'm. Um. Willing to make the sacrifice?" And Dick beams, bopping his head back and forth.

Tim raises his eyebrow higher.

Dick waggles *his* eyebrows --

And Tim remembers the first time he'd seen Dick do that *after* they'd all made love --

Remembers the *relief* he'd felt that Dick could still tease -- still feel that *confident* -- even with bruises on his hips and the inescapable knowledge of the taste of semen. Somehow -- it was all right.

"Tim...?"

"I believe I'd like to try to sleep... like this."

"Oh, God, it's my birthday --"

Tim kisses Dick gently, cupping his face with one hand and reaching to turn off the bedside lamp with the other.

The controller for the machine is rather more difficult to grasp while making love to Dick's mouth, but Tim manages it, shutting the machine down and tossing the controller in the half-open drawer before rolling Dick onto his back --

Dick struggles --

Tim pulls back --

"The *other* position, Uncle Brother!"

Tim laughs and shivers, *needs* -- "Of course," he says, and rolls back over immediately --

And Dick takes his place half on top of Tim with joy and speed.

The *other* lamp is still on...

But Tim doesn't care.

He puts himself to sleep to the feel of Dick's steadily softening kisses, the sound of Dick's increasingly random murmurs --

He tries to hold on to something about socks and glitter --

He lets it go.

He sleeps --

He dreams of warmth and the sense of things moving beneath surfaces, heartbeats and tides and beings of darkness and emotion --

Beings that reach and *demand* --

He dreams of taking them all, *breathing* them all *in* like Jason Blood until he's filled, until he's moving, too --

He's always wanted to move --

He'd *known* that when he was --

Motion --

The catch is instinctive, as is the force he uses on the wrist in his grip --

"*Yow* --"

Stephanie. Tim opens his eyes and *then* loosens his grip --

Stephanie winces -- and covers it with a glare. She's going to be fifteen in three months, and she is a very impressive five feet, five inches tall and one hundred forty-five pounds. She *doesn't* gain new muscle at the same speed Jay had at her age, but it seems that way.

Feels that way.

Her dark blonde hair is pulled into a ponytail Bruce would describe as 'cruel' and Tim thinks of as 'tempting.'

She's dressed in a loose -- eggplant -- t-shirt and faded sweatpants that were once, he believes, indigo.

She is -- still glaring.

"Stephanie."

"*Well*? Are you gonna talk to me or *not*?"

Tim opens his mouth --

"Mnuh -- oh, hey, no, cuddles!"

Tim strokes Dick's hair with his free hand. "I have to speak with Stephanie now, Dick."

"Mmm. Naked? Because --"

Stephanie tries for a kick to Dick's thigh --

Dick catches her ankle and frowns tragically --

"Let me go!"

"Steph --"

"*Now*!"

"No kicking when I'm getting my cuddles!"

Stephanie growls -- "Fine!"

Dick frowns more worriedly and lets her go --

She shifts on her feet --

And Tim takes the opportunity to check her pulse, which is fast and -- somewhat -- unsteady. "Stephanie --"

"You -- you let go, too!"

Tim does so immediately, sitting up *as* Dick rolls away from him --

"And put some clothes on!"

"That can absolutely be arranged," Tim says, standing and moving to the bathroom door, where his robe is hanging. He can feel Stephanie staring at everything and nothing --

"Steph --"

"I don't wanna talk to you right now, Dick."

"But --"

"I'm not mad at you!"

"That's good, but --"

"Leave me alone! And stop frowning like that! And -- oh, hurry *up*, Tim!"

"I'm going to wash my hands. You're going to tell me *where* you would like to speak."

Stephanie crosses her arms over her chest -- and *then* remembers that her breasts are much larger than they were whenever she had first began making that gesture. She crosses her arms under her breasts and taps her foot like Barbara. "I don't know where."

"That's fine," Tim says, and steps into the bathroom. He washes his hands -- and arms, and face -- quickly and thoroughly --

"You can brush your damned teeth, too."

Tim smiles at her. "Thank you very much."

She nods instead of snarling, which is a *very* good sign. Still, Tim brushes quickly, as well, and eschews mouthwash for the time being.

She lets him rest a hand on her -- tensed -- shoulder --

But then she shakes her head and pulls away. "Let's go to the kitchen," she mutters, and walks out.

Tim's time sense tells him that it's eleven-thirty in the morning on a Saturday. He usually prefers to sleep until at least one on Saturdays, but...

Dick smiles at him ruefully. "Cuddle time over, Uncle Brother?"

"For now."

Dick sighs and nods. "It was good, though. Better -- just better."

Tim feels that *fullness* again -- "For me, as well."

The rueful smile *becomes* a beam -- and Dick is in motion --

Dick is wrapped around him --

Dick is kissing him and squeezing the *breath* out of him, smiling down at him -- "Forever?"

"Every moment."

Dick purrs and wriggles against him, rubbing his -- thicker -- stubble against Tim's. "I love you!"

"And I you. Wish me luck?"

Dick pulls back and salutes him, instead.

Tim smiles and shakes his head, ignoring the flush --

Letting it be on his face, letting it --

If he can *have* it --

He lets Dick stroke his face and takes the wonder on Dick's for his own, as well.

And then he joins Stephanie in the kitchen.

She's pulled out the flour, sugar, salt, eggs, milk, butter, and hazelnut oil -- and she has an *exceedingly* mean look on her face.

Tim smiles helplessly. "Of course," he says, and pulls down the metal mixing bowls, and begins to work.

"I don't know why you didn't go to a magic-user in the *first* place," she grumbles, and throws herself down into one of the -- sturdy -- kitchen chairs.

The *first* chairs they'd purchased for themselves in the late seventies were lovely things, if somewhat fragile in design. Bruce had loved them, Harvey enjoyed their tastefulness, and Tim had been thrilled to have the chance to help *pick* them. They had reupholstered them twice over the years, and the chairs had seemed perfectly suited to stand the test of time.

And then Dick had come to live with them in nineteen-eighty-nine.

By nineteen-ninety, the chairs were firewood. 

These are much more --

"*Well*?"

Tim hums as he sifts the flour. "I was frightened."

"Of --"

"Of facing you. All of you."

Stephanie growls.

"I'll elaborate," Tim says, and checks the flour belatedly -- no, it isn't stale. "Well before Star Sapphire threw me into that wall, a part of my mind had begun, for lack of a better term, *picking* at the rest. Picking at my *past*."

"And -- what? Your freaking adolescent *angst*?"

"In a word? Yes. A part of me knew that I was in no emotional condition to deal with any of you without breaking down --"

"Everyone needs to do that sometimes!

"Agreed," Tim says, and adds a pinch of salt and the teaspoon of sugar. "But I was too much of a coward --"

"To do what you make us do all the *time*?"

"Yes --"

"*Fuck* you!"

Tim smiles and prepares to sift the dry ingredients together. "I'm better now."

"You -- you made us *wait* for you!"

"Yes --"

"You said you'd always *be* there!" And her voice --

There's a *quaver* --

"Stephanie --"

"Don't you freaking *dare* stop cooking!"

Tim takes a deep breath and resifts the dry ingredients --

And keeps resifting them --

It's --

He thinks he can *feel* her --

"And don't mess my crepes up!"

"No," he says, and sets the dry ingredients aside. He cracks the eggs in the other bowl the way Alfred had taught him, and uses the Batman to keep the tremor out of his hands. He --

He sniffs the milk -- it's perfect. He measures it, pours it in with the eggs, and begins to beat them together.

Stephanie isn't saying anything.

Stephanie is breathing *roughly* --

She *hurts*, *more* than the others --

His *family* --

"Stephanie --"

"It's not the same."

"No? What isn't?"

"It's not -- everyone *else* was fine, and they were all right there, and it's not like -- it's not like I was *lonely*."

Tim closes his eyes. "I'm glad."

Stephanie doesn't say anything. For -- too long.

Tim --

The egg and milk mixture is correct. Tim begins working in the flour mixture, slowly and carefully and steadily. He turns --

Stephanie is staring at the -- mostly -- clean kitchen floor with her arms around her waist --

"Are you -- does your stomach --"

"My stomach doesn't hurt," she says *dully*.

"Stephanie..."

"You could..." She bites her lip and looks up with the beginnings of a brave smile. "Why are your crepes good when everyone else's suck?"

Tim smiles ruefully and holds up the bowl. "This. You can't use an electric mixer. You can't mix too slowly. You can't mix too quickly. You can't --"

"You have to be anal."

"Yes --"

"*Really* freaking anal."

Tim smiles a little wider and raises an eyebrow. "I memorized Alfred's exact speed, arm angle, and wrist angle."

Stephanie stares at him.

"You could --"

"Shut up."

Tim hums and keeps mixing. In another thirty-five seconds, he'll add the second-to-last portion of the dry ingredients. For now, he keeps stirring, adjusting the angle of his elbow to catch a bit of flour which had stuck to the side, then bringing the angle back to the correct forty-eight degrees --

"I trusted you."

Tim -- breathes. "I know. And I'm sorry."

"I trusted -- I let you *fuck* me, Tim!"

Tim looks up into her eyes. "Every chance you've given us to make love --"

"Shut *up*!"

Tim closes his eyes, nods, and goes back to stirring -- no. He adds the portion of salted, sugared flour; *then* goes back to stirring --

"God, I can *tell* you're not changing the angle -- you're so *weird*!"

"Always," Tim says. "I've always been --"

"You can't -- you *left* us. You left *me*!"

Does it mean that he's a better person that no part of him wants to protest that? He hopes so. "Yes."

Stephanie bites her lip and nods, staring at the floor again. "Everyone -- everyone treated it like it was just you being *hurt*. Being -- being *cranky* because you were hurt. Like cranky people desert everyone they love for *weeks*!"

"Would you tell me what you thought --"

"I didn't *know* what to think! I knew you weren't -- weren't *using*, but I still..." Stephanie frowns at the floor and shakes her head. "I still... thought about it. Dreamed about it."

"Your mother... deserted you --"

"All the freaking *time*!"

Tim winces and nods. "I --"

"You're not my freaking *father*!" And Stephanie stands up and *jabs* a finger at him. "Get that through your head *now*!"

"I'm not your father. I'm --" No one's father. But.

He can't --

He can't tell that lie, anymore. He shakes his head and turns back to the crepe mixture --

No, it's time to add the last of the dry ingredients. He does that --

"*What*?"

"One --" Moment. But he doesn't actually need to gather himself for anything but lies he doesn't want to *tell*. He breathes and smiles at her as he stirs. "I was going to say something about being no one's father --"

"You're a lying *bastard* --"

"Yes. But -- not to you. Not to my family. Not anymore."

She frowns at him suspiciously, but --

"I will never be Dick's father -- as opposed to his brother and uncle. I will never be Barbara's father -- as opposed to *her* brother and occasional Daddy. I am Jay's -- other -- father when he allows it, and the same is true for Cassandra --"

"*Not* for me!"

Tim inclines his head.

"Not -- not *ever*!"

"All right."

"I don't *screw* relatives!"

"That's definitely the healthier --"

"Shut *up*!"

Tim hums and sets the bowl down on the counter, then pulls out the thick-bottomed melting pan they use for both butter and chocolate. And *then* discovers that the only butter in the house is salted. Hm. He hasn't helped with the shopping in much too long.

Well, he can add extra fruit or chocolate sauce to Stephanie's crepes. She tends to prefer a large amount of whatever topping she chooses just in general --

"Is the butter wrong? I made sure we got the brand you always get!"

Oh -- "I usually use unsalted --"

"*Damn* it --"

"It won't hurt the crepes," Tim says, and cuts a pat of the butter into the pan. "You *may* want to use more sauce."

"Oh. Are you sure?"

Tim smiles at her. "I'm sure."

She nods, then sits down and shifts on the chair. "I'll remember for next time," she says, gruffly.

"All right --"

"Would you."

"Yes?"

She growls, low and menacingly.

Tim blinks -- and watches the butter.

"Would."

"Yes?"

Another growl, and she kicks the table hard enough -- "Ow."

"You probably shouldn't --"

"I want you. To teach me how to do those," she says, and sounds like she's asking him to teach her how to flay herself. With a dull knife that's been dipped in a sewer.

He doesn't say that. "I'd be happy to."

"You -- you have to eat 'em even if I mess up."

"That's fair," Tim says, and stirs the melted butter into the batter.

"Even -- even if they're *rocks*."

"Lingonberry preserves can make anything --"

"You have to eat 'em *plain*."

Tim raises an eyebrow at her.

She scowls at him *blackly*. It makes her look approximately ten years old. It makes --

"I love you, Stephanie."

She recoils dramatically. She --

Tim hums a laugh and plugs in the electric griddle which Stephanie had *also* taken out. He pours on the oil and waits for it to heat. He -- "As an aside --"

"Fuck you!"

"Or I can stop talking."

"You can't just -- just *say* that!"

Tim turns around and cups the edge of the counter. "The next time I leave you without word or explanation will be when I'm *suddenly* killed, Stephanie. You are..." He shakes his head. "You were so beautiful in your home-made uniform and military-grade body armor. You filled me with -- so much emotion. Fear for your life. Hunger for your body. Joy for the violence you didn't even try to bank. *Belonging*. I *knew* you would be a member of my family --"

"I'm not your freaking --"

"*Wait*," Tim says, and raises an eyebrow again.

Stephanie inhales sharply and rears back -- then nods.

"Thank you. I repressed all of that emotion, of course. I did my level best to... shear it off, leaving only the basics. The *foundations* of what I felt -- and what I needed from you. I did that with all of you, and it allowed me to move through my own life like a ghost, like..." Tim shakes his head again. "I can tell you why I did that to myself. Why I grew up like that *despite* having the two best brothers *anyone* could have --"

"I *know* why. Bruce screwed you over for your whole *life* before Harvey made him deal, and your parents sucked, and everyone else sucked, too. It's not -- it's not freaking *rare*."

Tim smiles ruefully. "Perhaps not. And perhaps I overreacted."

"You --"

"Wait."

Stephanie growls and crosses her arms under her breasts again.

"I'm almost done. I promise," Tim says, and inhales... yes, the oil is hot enough. "I was going to say -- never try to make these without either a much higher-quality stove than we actually have --"

"The stove is *great*!"

"It's better than most. But it still doesn't heat with perfect evenness -- unlike this griddle," Tim says, and spoons on the batter.

"So buy a better stove!"

"If you'd like."

"I don't. I mean. I can't cook *anything*, *anyway* -- go back to what you were saying before!"

Tim turns back to face her. "Essentially, I shoved all of my pain and *resentment* into a box and shoved the box into a dark corner. And then I called myself healed, and told myself that the fact that I could provide affection when desired was proof of that healing, and that the *cold* that ran through me all the time was just... necessary. I -- no, there's more to that," Tim says, and narrows his eyes slightly in thought. "I told myself that there was no difference between the Batman's need to be cold and my own. I told myself that in order *for* the Batman to be cold *enough* --"

"You had to freeze?"

"Precisely," and Tim smiles ruefully. "All of my lovers have found ways to tell me, over the years, that my ability to be cold to *them* was appreciated. It's just that all of them have *also* found ways to tell me that my tendency to be cold to *myself*... was not. Until now, I believed that this conflict was proof of the world's tendency to be unfit to the tasks which needed to be done --"

Stephanie snorts. Loudly.

Twice.

"Oh -- uh. Tim."

Tim smiles sharply. "Yes, I believe you get the gist. One moment," he says, and turns the crepes. It will only take a minute for the other side to get to the shade of golden-brown Stephanie likes best. He turns back around. "I've spent the past twenty-two years marveling at my brother's capacity for drama and self-delusion... and ignoring my own."

"So... you're fixing that now, right?"

"Oh, yes. In part because it's the right thing to... but mostly because I have no choice in the matter."

She frowns. "What does that mean?"

"I can't hide from my own feelings anymore, Stephanie. I believe I'm going to have to teach myself how not to blush again. I... I am full. And it hurts. And it's the best pain I've ever felt."

She bites her lip. "For -- your children."

"All of you."

"Stop freaking --"

"Stephanie. Even if you never have a single filial emotion towards or about me, you will be able to do nothing about the feelings I have for you."

She sneers at him.

Tim feels the flush rising -- and smiles. "Get your plate."

In the end, Stephanie eats six crepes to his two, smothering hers in the strawberry jam she never allows them to run out of. It's tempting to simply *watch* her pretend not to be overfull, but, by then, Dick, Jay, and Dog have joined them in the kitchen, and Tim decides to make another, larger batch.

After that...

After that, Dick forces Jay and Stephanie to stretch for a full forty minutes before moving into their more serious training, and Tim makes a concentrated attempt to commune with Dog.

It goes well right up until Dick and Jay begin sparring, and Dog begins *herding* Tim over to the mats despite Tim's best efforts to avoid it.

Eventually, Jay looks up -- and winces. "Uh. Sorry, man. He wants you to stop the fighting."

Tim looks at Jay.

"He... he doesn't... uh. Well, I kinda promised him I'd take it easy after last night --"

Dog barks and paws at Tim's legs. Emphatically.

Jay smiles sheepishly. "It's just, you know, I pulled that muscle in my back again --"

"Did you."

"It feels *better* now. I took a bath and everything."

Dick blinks. "You *hate* baths when Bruce isn't there."

"Yes, I fucking *do*, but Dog got in with me, so, you know, we had fun."

Dog paws at Tim more. There's a distinctly ominous noise when his -- impressive -- claws impact on Tim's -- thankfully -- armored jock.

Jay sighs. "Aw, Dog, c'mon --"

Dog looks at Jay with -- yes, that's reproach in his large, liquid eyes.

Dick snickers and blows Jay a kiss before jogging over to the uneven bars.

"*Damn* it --"

"You have a choice today, Jay."

"Low-impact conditioning or hit the world's creepiest magic shop, yeah, I hear you. Lemme go put on another three layers of clothes." Jay says, and glares at Dog. "You're gonna hate this *just* as much as I will, you know."

Dog licks Tim's thigh -- and begins herding Jason toward the elevator.

Tim resists the urge to shower and moves to spot Stephanie on the weights, since he can *see* her increasing the amount of weight she's supposed to be lifting. But --

But.

She can do it, if not with complete ease.

Her upper body strength *will* outstrip Barbara's within the next six to eight months, if her increases in strength continue at the same pace. Cassandra's...

Cassandra's are frankly immeasurable, because *Cassandra* is capable of fakir-level physical feats if given *enough* seconds -- *seconds* -- to meditate first.

Tim lets himself drift on a fantasy of Stephanie outstripping his *own* upper-body strength --

Stephanie's punches and strikes becoming as devastating as --

"Where -- where'd you freaking *go*?"

Tim smiles down at her and strokes her knuckles on the barbell. "Violent places."

She snorts --

Pants --

"Bar down; even your breathing."

She sticks her tongue out at him, but does it.

Tim nods and looks her over. Her forehead is clear -- no tension from pain.

No tremor in her arms or hands from fatigue.

Hm. "Why do you think your breathing slipped?"

She inhales on a five-count, then exhales on the same. "Um. I. I kind of... had breakfast."

Tim raises an eyebrow.

"Before breakfast, I mean."

Tim blinks. "You mean --"

"I couldn't *sleep*, okay?"

"What..."

"Cereal."

"Well, that's not --"

"A whole box."

Tim blinks again.

She scowls at him again.

Tim licks his lips. "Was it --"

"It was the Honey Oat Almond Berry Cluster Granola Puffs, all right?"

Tim had eaten a bowl of that, just to see why it was worth approximately five dollars a box, and why they went through eight boxes a *month*. It was delicious, and it left him feeling as though he would never be hungry again. If he's remembering correctly, he'd taken a three hour *nap* that day --

"Shut *up*!"

"Stephanie --"

"SHUT --"

"*Stephanie*."

She glares at him *while* pouting, but --

"How close are you to projectile vomiting?"

She breaks out in a *hard* sweat -- and winces.

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I -- I didn't know you *would* make me the crepes --"

"And you couldn't sleep."

"You were -- I was stressed. Out," she says quietly. And with a far more *chastened* air than she should ever have. She --

"Up," Tim says, stepping back --

"Yes, Tim," and she stands immediately, hanging her head and peering up at him through her thin and curling lashes.

Tim pulls her in for a hug. Carefully. He kisses her temple, and he strokes her back --

He doesn't squeeze her.

He doesn't squeeze her.

He --

She burps... dramatically. *Ringingly*.

He pats her back --

"I'm not *five* -- gih -- urk. Um. I'm not. Gonna yell. Anymore."

"Perhaps for the best," he says, and squeezes her *gently*. "Hit the mats."

"Tiiim --"

"It is very, very odd to hear that in a *quiet* voice -- hit the mats, anyway."

She nods somewhat dejectedly and goes.

He watches for a few minutes to make sure she doesn't try any *dynamic* stretching --

And then he moves into his own routine. He runs around the gymnasium until his body tells him he's hit four miles, and then he deliberately runs another two laps, because four weeks of inactivity had deconditioned him *just* enough that his body has become a liar.

Thankfully not much of one.

He hits the weights then, unsurprised to see that he'd lost about ten to fifteen pounds across the board. He'd been at his own maximum -- and beyond -- before the Star Sapphire incident --

What *is* he going to do to her?

He hadn't allowed himself to *think* about it before now, but...

But.

She's in prison now. Specifically, in the *Slab*. There aren't many places where Tim has *fewer* friends.

But.

Ophelia Marcus has made any number of objectively terrible choices -- including responding to a loss of grant money and university support by testing the mutagens she'd developed to help the disabled on *herself* even though they hadn't even made it through *animal* testing, and responding to her new metahuman abilities by taking up crime as the Cheetah.

Still, she had *never* wanted the money she stole for anything but further experimentation -- and she had never once forced anyone *else* onto her assorted... slabs.

Tim smiles.

Marcus has been in Slabside for the better part of two years now. He *might* be able to use the judicial *pull* of the League to get her out... or get her into the Slabside infirmary, which is something she might appreciate even more.

And, in return... well.

It's entirely possible that he shouldn't be thinking about siccing a supervillain on Hal Jordan's ex, but --

It's equally possible that Jordan should have better taste in women.

And if he can make Marcus into the sort of *quiet* ally Quinzel is whenever she's med-compliant and invested in keeping Ivy from making *fatal* mistakes --

Tim hums and keeps working, letting himself sink into something like *half* of a meditative state, and stays there, even when Dick comes to spot him. He focuses on planning the night's patrol around a Jay who will be, at the very least, deeply annoyed; a Dick who will want to stay close; and a Stephanie who will almost certainly grow queasy even when the food-scents are pleasant.

He's had far, far worse prospects --

The elevator alarm chimes to warn them that someone is accessing it from upstairs --

"Do you think Jay is back already, Uncle Brother?"

"Jason won't let him go until sunset," Tim says, setting the barbell down before stroking Dick's thigh and standing --

And the monitor shows the elevator in its entirety. Barbara has her left arm in a sling and a new and rather unflattering short hairstyle that speaks -- eloquently -- of fire. Cassandra has a black eye and a *dented* cheekbone which will need the help of Clark's nanites. Bruce appears unharmed, but is staring worriedly down between the women at --

A small, amber-skinned girl with brown eyes, a buzz-cut, a stud in the right side of her nose, *two* black eyes, and the sort of scowl even Stephanie would have to work for.

The bruises make it *somewhat* difficult to be sure --

"Um. Wasn't Bruce supposed to be bringing home a *son*?"

-- but the eyes, skin, mouth, and cheekbones mark the girl as Talia's child. The jaw, already-broad shoulders, and ineffable *presence* -- "Jason did say there were magic-dampeners in use," and Tim gestures Dick to follow him.

"Enough to make him make *that* big a mistake?"

"Apparently. Though it's possible that they missed a fraternal twin. I --"

"*Tim* --"

"I'm sorry. I'm --" Tim laughs softly and smiles at Dick ruefully. "I have a *niece*."

Dick's expression softens -- and that is all the warning Tim gets before Dick is wrapped around him and coming close to overbalancing them *both*. "You're still happy!"

"Very much so --"

Dick kisses him firmly --

*Deeply* --

*Rewardingly* --

And Tim is aware of the girl being introduced to Stephanie, though he doesn't quite catch her name. The tone of her voice is quite gruff and low, though that's clearly at least a little artificial. Her accent is, like Talia's, British Received Pronunciation with a certain overlay of the Arabian peninsula in timbre. She --

Dick snickers into his mouth and bites his lip, tugging it between his teeth as he pulls back.

Tim offers another rueful -- and, by necessity, crooked -- smile.

Dick *releases* his lip. "I still get you for patrol tonight, Uncle Brother."

"Hmm. I think that can be arranged," Tim says, and rubs circles into the bowls of Dick's hips --

"I am *not* a *girl*!"

That... was his new niece. Tim shares a look with Dick, who manages to keep his shrug behind his eyes before stepping back. Tim *pats* his hips and turns to face... his niece, who is glaring up at a confused-looking Stephanie with her small-fists clenched and her nostrils flared.

Cassandra is using *every* gesture they have -- and some she had made up herself -- for 'calm down,' but is aiming them at Stephanie --

Who looks even more confused.

"You will apologize this *instant*, Brown!"

"Uh... why?"

"I have *informed* you of your error! Your insistence on playing ignorant is most -- most unbecoming!"

At its -- most? -- passionate, his niece's voice is high and almost fluting, though she -- ? -- is still obviously trying to lower and roughen it. Tim considers trying to guess his niece's age, but --

No. *Talia* is, at five feet, seven inches tall and approximately one hundred forty-five pounds, an 'average' size for a woman, but his niece's shoulders...

She -- if she is --

No, Tim isn't going to do this to himself anymore. He steps close and squeezes Stephanie's shoulder. "Excuse me. I didn't hear your name."

"I require an apology from Brown!"

Tim raises an eyebrow. "Because she referred to you as female?"

"*Yes*!"

Well. That answers -- some of -- that question. And Barbara, Cassandra, and Bruce, are looking more worried from behind the... boy -- and very much like --

No, Bruce is signing --

'-- not have this conversation now. DO NOT.'

Tim blinks -- and inclines his head before turning to Stephanie. "Go on."

"Uh. Sure?" She turns to -- Tim's nephew. "I'm sorry, Damian. I'm... not used to... um. Anyway. I won't make the mistake again."

"See that you do not!" And -- Damian is actually trembling with an emotion which *could* be rage, but could also be something much more difficult for a young boy to stand.

It's time for distraction. Tim gestures Stephanie to go back to stretching and offers the boy his hand. "I'm --"

"You are Timothy Drake. You are the illegitimate son of Thomas Wayne and Janet Evans-Drake. You are... the *other* Batman," Damian says, with an expression which does not miss a sneer by very much. "You will tell me why you continue to use Jackson Drake's last name even though you have claimed your birthright," and Damian crosses his arms over his chest -- are his breasts bound? Have they not developed yet? -- and lifts his square chin.

Tim raises an eyebrow. "You won't shake my hand?"

"It is a gesture of respect, Drake, and you have not yet earned mine."

Tim -- hums. "As you say... though, as my nephew --"

"I do not believe in affording people respect solely due to accidents of birth!"

And what of *your* 'accident of birth', Damian...?

"I request that you answer my question immediately!"

"Was it a source of curiosity for your mother?"

"You will not speak of her!"

And -- Barbara, Cassandra, *and* Bruce are making pleading gestures. Considering the fact that Damian is nearly *vibrating* at this point --

Tim inclines his head again. "Very well. I keep Jackson Drake's name because it would be an act of spite against a dead man to take the Wayne name. Thomas never wished to accept me as his son while he lived --"

"Because you were unacceptable?"

Tim smiles. "Because my *existence* was unacceptable. As a person, Thomas often found my company rather more agreeable than that of his other sons."

Damian rears back --

Frowns --

And turns to Bruce. "Is this true, Father?"

Bruce reaches out to touch Damian's face --

Damian stiffens immediately --

Bruce drops his hand. "My apologies, son --"

"You have nothing to apologize for, Father! You may, of course, touch me whenever you wish to do so!"

Tim... can't actually raise his eyebrow any higher. He looks to Cassandra --

She nods once, grimly.

He looks to Barbara --

She slips her arm free of the sling and makes a complicated gesture which would make little sense to anyone who had not crafted their own noose, looped it around someone's throat, and then yanked until that person was dangling above a drop.

Damian frowns at her. "Who do you wish to hang, Gordon?"

At a guess... the other side of Damian's family. The fact that Barbara winces rather dramatically confirms it well enough --

And Damian's frown grows... vicious.

Tim pulls Barbara close. "Fill me in later. Call... Prime about your and Cassandra's injuries."

"Anything you say," she says, with a rueful sort of *relief* in her voice, and then she and Cassandra leave Tim with Bruce and Damian.

Damian's expression as he watches the women go...

Bruce cups Damian's shoulder and squeezes, very clearly forcing himself to ignore the rigid tension. "Little one. Please do not look at your family that way."

"They are not my --"

"If you cannot make them into your family..." Bruce shudders, once. "If you cannot do that, then I am not sure I can make you into *my* family."

Damian freezes even harder and glares at the space over Bruce's right shoulder --

Tim blinks rapidly and tries to *will* Bruce to look at him --

It doesn't happen. It --

But. "Bruce. How many of Barbara's and Cassandra's injuries are due to Damian?"

Bruce's smile has a *pained* ruefulness -- but it is still aimed at Damian. "By some definitions... all of them. By the definition I suspect you mean... too many."

Tim frowns at the boy --

His *nephew* --

He doesn't *appreciate* people who injure his *family* --

He -- "Damian... tell me how old you are. Please."

Damian grinds his *teeth* --

And Bruce tightens his grip on his shoulder.

"I am twelve years old, Drake. Father, will you answer --"

"I will not say that Tim never lies, little one. Such things are often necessary for the Mission. However, he has told you no lies today."

"Nor will I tell any lies to *any* member of my family unless *strictly* necessary," Tim says --

And that makes Bruce look at him --

*Search* him --

Tim smiles ruefully. "I've had something of a... revelation, brother."

Bruce breathes -- and stares at him unblinkingly. "I'd like for you to tell me about it."

"I will," Tim says, and turns back to Damian. "Was there a reason why you set out to maim the women who came to help you?"

Damian's mouth is a hard, unwelcoming line as he stares over *Tim's* right shoulder. "It was necessary that they be tested, Drake."

Bruce squeezes Damian's shoulder again --

Damian shudders, expression crumpling for a hallucinatorily *fast* moment before settling into a *blank* mask -- "Yes, Father?"

"*Why* was it necessary that they be tested, little one?" And Bruce meets *his* eyes again --

Yes, Tim will pay attention to this answer --

"I have already --"

"Answer. Again."

Damian shudders *again* -- stiffens and straightens his posture, lowering his hands to his sides and lifting his chin even higher. "Yes, Father. The intelligence I have received over the years has suggested strongly that your chosen allies are unacceptably weak. They have not been trained as I have been --"

"By whom were you trained."

A twitch of a frown -- and the mask returns. "Primarily by the League of Assassins, as you know --"

"Continue to answer the earlier question."

"Yes. Yes, Father. I have been... it is important to observe the strengths and weaknesses of potential enemies from as close a distance as possible, and that is what I set out to do."

And that... is almost certainly *precisely* as ominous as it should be. "By what methods, Damian?"

Damian doesn't glance toward Bruce's face... but it very much seems as though he wishes to. And then he swallows. "While Father engaged Grandfather in battle, I allowed Gordon and Cain to believe that I wished to be... rescued by them. Once they had been... lulled, I pretended to be taken by one of Grandfather's slaves. I urged the man to take me to where their numbers were greatest --"

"Forcing Barbara and Cassandra to fight a war of attrition to get you back, yes, I see," Tim says, and turns back to Bruce. He doesn't *have* to ask Bruce if he's sure about this aloud -- he knows that Bruce *isn't*.

But...

Twelve years old.

Raised and trained by Ra's, Talia, and the League of Assassins.

Twelve.

Obviously inclined toward *pleasing* Bruce -- and, perhaps, him... though only due to his blood.

*Twelve* --

Vicious, conniving, disrespectful --

Frightened, issue-laden, bristling with rage --

Barbara is vicious and conniving.

Dick's issues include a tendency to lose the thread entirely when left *alone* too long.

Jay was a twelve-year-old hustler with a history of slashing his johns with a hunting knife he'd stolen from *another* hustler.

Cassandra *murdered* people with her *bare hands*.

And Stephanie...

Stephanie is Stephanie.

And he is *himself*, for that matter.

Tim meets Bruce's eyes again and gestures for 'intimidation.'

Bruce immediately moves to brace Damian, removing his hand from his shoulder and loosening his stance belligerently.

Tim loosens his own stance --

And Damian nods once before slipping into a -- Krav Maga -- ready position. "I am ready to be tested --"

"When did you first identify as transgender?"

Damian stiffens dangerously --

And Bruce strokes firmly down the bridge of Damian's nose. "Broken."

"I --"

"Answer the question," Tim says.

"I am *not* a freak! I am a boy, and that -- that is all that matters!"

Tim doesn't bother to raise his eyebrow -- especially since Damian attacks with speed and grace --

And surprising power, considering his small size. He attempts to break Tim's ulna with a kick --

Tim blocks and spins --

He attempts to strike for the place near Bruce's left nipple which is scarred *most* deeply --

Bruce blocks and drops him carefully, though not especially gently --

Damian rolls --

And Tim pulls his stomp only at the last moment. "Stop. At least two of your ribs are broken."

"I can and have fought through such injuries," Damian insists.

"Good to know," Tim says. "Whose decision was it to raise you as a boy."

Damian snarls and lunges --

And Bruce pulls his kick only once his toes impact with Damian's chin. "Your jaw is broken. Answer the question."

Damian looks back and forth between them -- and favors his 'injured' left side as he scrambles back and gets to his feet again. "I *am* a boy --"

Tim throws a flurry -- and Damian is exactly fast enough to block a solid third of the hits, and exactly *trained* enough to block them *well*, but -- "I've hit your broken jaw and nose, and opened cuts over both eyes --"

Damian spits at him --

Tim dodges -- and smiles. "Perfect, considering how much blood would be in that spittle. But..."

Damian looks -- and notices Bruce's fist sitting just beyond his peripheral vision. "I --"

"Several of the small bones in your ear are broken. You're effectively deafened and stunned. Answer the question, or be forced to listen to us draw our own conclusions."

Damian frowns *woundedly* for a moment -

Bruce opens his fist. "Little one --"

"You know *nothing*! You -- you are both ignorant and overconfident, and if you do not learn the -- the errors of your ways, then you will -- will --" And then Damian growls and stands at attention. The way his simple t-shirt is twisted over his torso --

His breasts, however large they may be, are bound.

Bruce nods once. "Your mother hid your biological gender from your grandfather from the beginning. Ra's has been obsessed with the production of a 'suitable' heir for hundreds of years, and, while he is fond of your mother, her gender has always marked her as a failure."

Damian says nothing.

Bruce looks to *him* --

And Tim nods. "While most people who desire *that* form of immortality generally set out to find all sorts of people with whom to share their genetic material, Ra's is something of a... stickler, when it comes to romantic relationships. He has *had* no romantic relationships since the one with your grandmother ended before he could father a son. He spent a century doing his version of grieving -- and I would never think to judge such a thing harshly, considering how *I* go about grieving. Bruce?"

"After that, he focused on finding a suitable mate for your mother. He decided on me --"

"You -- you are by far the superior specimen --"

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "By your grandfather's reckoning, yes. However, I find the way he judges such things to be actively loathsome when not simply depressing and dull."

Damian rears back and flushes --

Glares --

And pulls his mask back on seemingly by sheer force of will. He focuses his gaze between Tim's and Bruce's shoulders. "Continue, Father. If you wish to do so."

"I do," Bruce says, and crosses his arms over his chest. "Because I gave your grandfather no encouragement in his numerous schemes, he resorted to other means to gain my alliance. He had meant to save your mother's charms as a reward for my good behavior, but instead he chose to use her as bait."

A briefly sickened expression -- gone.

"She became attracted to me both physically and emotionally --"

"She loves you!"

Bruce shakes his head once. "She loves your grandfather very much, and admires and respects him even more than that. When it comes to me... she is in love with the man your grandfather wishes me to be."

"Your potential is *limitless*, Father!"

"My potential is with the family I love, Damian. The family I have chosen. The family which has given me joy, and love, and warmth, and safety, and the perfect beauty of physical love --"

"Mother would give you all of those things! More!" And there is no mask on Damian's face at all, anymore. His eyes are wide and pleading and he is *straining* toward Bruce without moving more than his upper body -- and then only by a few inches.

He's acting as though he's chained to the *floor* --

It makes Tim's *arms* ache --

And Bruce is already reaching for Damian, already cupping his face -- "I would not hurt you, little one, but I believe I must be honest with you --"

"I *never* want you to lie to me, Father!"

"Were there many lies, little one?"

Damian inhales sharply and tries to pull away --

"Stay with me. And answer the question."

"Some -- you *know* that lies are sometimes -- necessary --"

"I do, yes. But not in this moment: I find your mother to be very beautiful, and, more than that, very attractive --"

"Then --"

"However. Her moral code is the same as your grandfather's, and I could never stand with such a lover at my side."

Damian's expression crumples --

He flattens his affect --

It crumples again --

He *flattens* it again --

Bruce begins to pull Damian into a hug --

"No! No, you will not -- I do not require -- you are not -- I would like to be allowed to be free of this touch, Father."

Bruce frowns and looks to *him* --

And Tim remembers... many, many things about being an adolescent. He nods.

Bruce steps back.

"Thank you, Father. I apologize for -- for not being able to respond... in the ways you wish me to respond," Damian says, staring at the floor and straightening his clothes.

"It's all right, little one. It is, however, my hope that you will allow us to share physical affection soon. I feel... cheated of you."

Damian stiffens and freezes once more -- and then looks up to stare at Bruce. "I do not understand, Father."

"Your mother told me nothing of your existence, Damian."

"I -- I was not ready, before. I was not fully trained, Father. I'm *still* not fully trained --"

"You were my son, and I would have wished to be there for your birth, your growth, your education, and, yes, your training. I... Tim."

Tim nods. "Our father was present for practically none of Bruce's childhood, Damian. It is a wound."

Damian lifts his chin. "Children must learn to live independently, Drake. They must not *harass* their parents unnecessarily, lest they grow weak and their parents grow resentful --"

"No," Bruce says.

"I... Father?"

Bruce smiles ruefully and lifts his hand -- he doesn't touch Damian's cheek. "There is nothing correct about that statement. Not from a psychological standpoint, and not from a personal one."

"I have studied psychology --"

"Not enough. It is... where you will begin your training with me," Bruce says, and his voice grows more steady and sure as he speaks. "You will learn everything."

Damian blinks rapidly and flushes darkly. "Yes, Father. Of course. Thank you for giving me the opportunity --"

"You will obey *every* order you receive from me, Tim, Barbara, Dick, or Cassandra -- or you will *immediately* explain to the person giving you the order why you *cannot*. You will *respect* the wishes of Jay and Stephanie, and you will treat them as *you* wish to be treated."

The flush grows *darker* --

"Do you *understand*."

"Yes, Father! I do!"

"You will begin your training by confirming the following: Talia hid your anatomical gender from Ra's."

Damian -- shudders. "I -- you. I'm not --"

Bruce growls --

And Damian *snaps* to attention. "Yes, Father. She thought it. She thought it... best."

Bruce looks to *him* --

Tim takes a deep breath. "Ra's punished you both when he discovered the ruse."

Damian shudders, shadows *filling* his eyes -- "Yes, Drake."

Tim thinks about what he knows about the *blend* of cultures Ra's has taken for his own... "He forced you to pierce your nose."

Damian reaches for his face -- then *yanks* his hand back down to his side. "Yes, Drake."

Bruce looks like he's ready to *beat* Ra's to death -- he takes a shuddering breath. "You need not continue to wear --"

"Grandfather wishes me to wear this and so I will! Father."

Bruce winces and nods. "You were allowed to wear neutral clothing and keep your hair short because of your training."

"Yes, Father. He. Grandfather knows you approve of strong... females."

Where to even *begin* -- no. *Bruce* is going to begin with psychology. It's not the sixties, seventies, eighties, *or* nineties anymore -- teaching Damian psychology and forcing him to internalize the lessons *will* allow for some degree of progress --

*Is* he transgender? What do questions like that even *mean* when you've been actively *punished* for being born with the 'wrong' body?

When you've been told that you're a *failure* because you were born 'wrong'?

It is, perhaps, *past* time for *his* Batman to do something permanent about Ra's *and* Talia.

For now...

For now, Bruce is explaining to Damian that he can wear whatever he wishes to for training, so long as it's practical; that he will not be joining them on the street for the foreseeable future; and that he will be sleeping in the bedroom next to Jay's.

Tim...

Tim had saved that one for Helena, as it's large and gets a great deal of light --

Helena is never going to live with them, and it's time to air the bedroom out. Tim taps Bruce's shoulder, gestures 'up' and goes -- after first checking on the children --

Dick is leading Stephanie in guided meditation on the mats --

And Clark -- who had managed to get in without triggering *any* alarms, *again* -- is injecting something pink and glowing into Cassandra's neck. Nanites.

Barbara is already rubbing *her* neck, and her face and hands have a faintly silvery glow --

They'll be fine.

Clark smiles and waves at him.

Tim hums and waves back, and takes the stairs for the sheer joy of having two functioning knees.

He's really going to have to be *very* nice to Jason... whenever the man decides that the tease should end.

For now, he opens the windows in their -- last -- guest room --

Spares a moment to wonder how they would even go *about* convincing their neighbors to move, should it become necessary for the 'floating orgy house' to expand --

Changes the linens to fresh ones --

Dusts --

Sneezes for most of a *minute* --

They really need to dust more often.

The front door alarm chimes while Tim is blowing his nose, and he pushes the Georgia O'Keefe print -- it's possibly one of the reasons *why* Helena won't move in with him -- aside to reveal the monitor --

And Harvey, using his key to get in. He's dressed for court -- according to *Tim's* schedule he should be in the middle of presenting his *deeply* damning case against the Ironbound Slasher, but --

Harvey closes the door behind him and looks straight into one of the cameras. "Okay, which one of you is gonna stop bein' creepy *first*?"

Tim hums and hits the intercom. "I'm straightening the guest room, Harv. Come up?"

"You got it, little guy," Harvey says, hanging his light trenchcoat on the rack and setting his fedora above it.

Tim tosses the dirty tissues and considers pulling out the vacuum. The carpet *looks* clean -- the only family member who ever came in here on a regular basis was Hercules, and he mostly hid under the bed to get away from *Bruce* --

He crouches and pats at it, trying to gauge how *much* dust puffs up versus how much he really doesn't want to vacuum --

"If you killed anybody in here, I *don't* wanna know," Harvey says, grabbing Tim by the collar of his t-shirt and tugging until Tim stands and turns into the hug --

"Hnn. Noted. Don't look in the closet."

"*Which* closet?"

"Yes," Tim says, and kisses Harvey lightly, warmly --

Remembers how long it's *been* --

And makes it a better kiss, a *deeper* kiss, because Harvey is the brother who always tried to make it better for him, always tried to make Tim's world happier, more loving, *brighter* --

Harvey hums in surprise -- and kisses him right back, cupping the back of Tim's head with one hand and *gripping* Tim's hip with the other.

God --

*God* --

Tim smiles because he has to, because it feels like something within him is straining, pushing and swelling and *feeling* --

And Harvey grins and gives him six --

Ten smaller kisses, soft and affectionate. Tim gives every last one of them back. He --

"Harv..."

"Yeah, little guy?"

"Thank you," Tim says, and lets himself flush as much as he wants, as much as he needs --

Harvey raises his eyebrows.

"For everything. Absolutely --" Tim shakes his head. "*Starting* with being yourself and... never ending."

"Hey, now, what's got you sounding like our brother?"

"Oh... the time machine I built when you told me to get a hobby --"

"You --"

"-- I used it to look in our pasts -- all of our pasts --"

"What --"

"-- and I -- finally -- faced several salient facts about myself and my... deeply horrible issues --"

"Uh."

Tim smiles ruefully. "Suffice it to say... I'm feeling a lot better. A lot stronger and... I suppose a certain sort of person would say that he felt more in touch with himself."

Harvey frowns and bites his lip. He is... very clearly thinking about where to begin.

Tim leans in and kisses him again. "I'll tell you everything --"

"Little guy -- okay. Okay. Important questions. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Did Blood scramble you?"

"His healing hurt enough to make me scream... but no."

Harvey frowns more deeply -- "Am I leaving that?"

Tim nods.

Harvey sighs and nods, as well. "All right. Did the *time* machine scramble you?"

"Only emotionally, and only in positive ways."

And -- he strokes Tim's face, and his mouth -- "I was worried sick about you, little guy. I couldn't -- you know I was all wrapped up with this case --"

"I know. And speaking of --"

"The Slasher -- even the *Herald* reporters are having trouble using his given name these days -- got hold of the bailiff's billy club and beat his attorney unconscious about an hour ago. I'm hoping like *hell* we don't have to deal with a mistrial."

Tim winces. "Gotham can't afford that --"

"In so *many* damned ways --" Harvey shakes his head. "We're all off until further notice. Bruce told me you were comin' out of your world-class funk before he left for -- where the hell did he *go*?"

"To pick up his son. His biological son, that is."

"His. What?"

"Ah... that's another long story --"

"Give me -- *what*?"

"We just found out about Damian's existence a few days ago. He's the result -- somehow -- of *safe* sex Bruce had with Ra's al Ghul's daughter... hm. That was actually *fourteen* years ago. She saved the semen for at least a year."

Harvey looks... pained.

Tim laughs. "You're off. I'm not patrolling for another six hours. Drinks?"

Harvey stares at him for another long moment.

Tim reaches up to cup Harvey's shoulders. "Bruce will be in the gymnasium with Damian --"

"*Why* -- who the hell names their child *Damian*?"

"Supervillains. The others will be --"

"Busy. For a while. I hear you. I --" Harvey squeezes his eyes shut and seems to be counting --

Praying? It's difficult to be sure. "Harv..."

He opens his eyes and gives Tim a *stern* look. "You're gonna get me tipsy *right* now, little guy."

"Excellent choice. Let's go," Tim says, and leads Harvey out of the guest -- out of *Damian's* room and back down the stairs.

The study is the least-used room in the house, save when Harvey and Gilda visit. It's the room for the adults to be together, to drink and laugh about things which happened when everyone else in the house was either a toddler or nonexistent. The children respect that -- for all that neither he nor Bruce had made it an order *or* a request --

It's another reason to be full, to *hurt* with the need to touch all of them, love --

What will he do when he falls for Damian? *How* will that *work*? What --

"You, my diminutive brother-friend --"

Tim snorts. "Harv."

"*You* look like you want to float away *while* interrogating someone. With a *knife* to their throat," and Harvey throws himself back on the extra-long, extra-broad dark leather couch and smiles at him.

"That... sounds like a fascinating expression," Tim says, and fixes them both -- stiff -- drinks. Rum and Cain-a cola -- always kept cold in the small refrigerator under the bar just in *case* Harvey visits -- for Harvey, straight gin for him.

"Oh, it is, it is. You look a little like a religious fanatic, actually."

"Ah... that sounds less fascinating than *upsetting*."

"Heh. Nah, you're still you and I'm still me, little guy. The happier you are, the happier I am. C'mere."

Tim does just that, sitting down and pushing himself back against Harvey's chest before knocking back half of his drink.

"Hey --"

"Damian is anatomically female."

"What."

"Talia -- Ra's daughter -- raised him -- he thinks of himself as male -- as a boy, and *told* everyone, including Ra's, that he was a boy."

"Jesus freaking --"

"Because Ra's... believes women are fundamentally inferior."

"Oh, well that's just peachy," Harvey says, and takes a long drink. "How *is* the kid?"

"A mess, frankly," Tim says, and smiles ruefully. "And trained exceedingly well by the League of Assassins."

"So... you're saying my nephew is a killer?"

"Almost -- no, I won't dance around the matter," Tim says, and cups Harvey's raised knee. "If a person has been trained by the League of Assassins, they've either committed murder at *least* once... or they're dead, themselves."

Harvey shudders. "Too young. Too damned -- but. You turned Cass right around."

"She did much of the turning herself. I'm not so sure Damian will do the same."

"Damn. Are you *sure* about this?"

Tim smiles ruefully and tilts his head back. "I'm sure we have to try."

"Yeah, you couldn't exactly leave -- him --"

"Learn not to hesitate on that."

"Right, right. You couldn't leave him."

"No. And... we're going to give him options. No matter what, he *will* learn that he does not *have* to grow up to be a supervillain -- or even a killer."

"*Even* a -- heh." Harvey kisses the top of his head. "I love you, you scary little bastard."

"And I love you for every time you didn't turn away from me, even when you wanted to."

"Yeah, well, you're my *only* little brother, little guy. It took me a while to figure that *out*, but I'm not always an idiot --"

"You're never --"

"Hey."

Tim smiles and brings Harvey's free hand to his mouth. He kisses knuckles with scars so faded they're nearly invisible -- "Yes...?"

"Tell me how you feel. Tell me -- no. You *weren't* this happy when we were kids, were you. Not even once me and Bruce learned how to talk to you."

"No, Harv, I wasn't. I didn't know how to be."

"Ah, God, I'm so sorry we couldn't --"

"It *wasn't* your fault *or* Bruce's, Harv. And -- it wasn't even mine. Not really. I just needed to have certain things *beaten* into me, and..." Tim shakes his head. "I didn't know how to *ask* for the beating, or even how to let myself look like I *did* need it."

"*Let* yourself -- damn. I can see it," Harvey says, and nuzzles the top of Tim's head. "You needed the Brat Pack?"

"I needed *their* confusion, and *their* pain, and *their* questions. Not just because it feels wonderful to *answer* all of that, but because --"

"It highlights all the same stuff in your head. And -- where does the time machine come in?"

"Hnn. Figuring out our parents. *All* of them."

Harvey sighs and takes another drink. "I *wanna* say something about good riddance to bad rubbish... but I can't say *I* didn't get a whole hell of a lot out of figuring out *my* stack of parents."

"Exactly. Though... I did it in an extremely problematic way."

"More problematic than the time machine in -- it's in your bedroom, isn't it."

"Yes. And yes."

"Do I wanna know?"

Tim smiles and *sips* his gin, wondering if Jason will find the taste of it in his mouth reminiscent of Martha...

"And *that* smile gives me all the answer I need. Are you *sure* Bruce and I didn't screw up with you?"

Tim laughs and rubs the back of his head against Harvey's shoulder. "Positive."

"Because --"

"Harv."

"I'm *willing* to go back to 'seventy-nine and start over --"

Tim snorts and turns enough to *look* at Harvey. "*Are* you?"

"Ah, Christ, no. Do you have any idea how *close* Bruce and I came to balling Martha?"

"Well... yes, actually, I do."

"... oh."

Tim hums and pats Harvey's knee. "I was very proud of and impressed with you both for how you did handle her."

"Uh. Okay? And... this is *why* Bruce knew all the details of that conversation I had with Blood before the kidnapping, isn't it. Including the stuff *I* didn't know, anymore."

"Yes. Though, to be fair, I believe some of the information came from private conversations he'd had with Jason over the years."

"Jason. *Jason*. You -- Tim. Are you -- no."

"Yes."

"*Jesus*, little guy, just because he healed you doesn't mean he gets to take it out in *trade* --"

"That's *not* why. Mostly."

"*Tim* --"

Tim laughs again and turns enough to kiss Harvey's jawline. "I'm kidding. And... I learned a lot more about him via the use of the time machine. I am... deeply intrigued. And fond."

"And that's *enough* -- ah, who am I kidding, of course it's enough for you. I *swear* I thought I'd always be the whore of the family."

Tim grins. "I like to think of it as... picking up the baton. And stroking it. Firmly."

Harvey snickers. "Asshole. C'mere and kiss me again, will ya?"

"With pleasure," Tim says, and does just that, humming for the heat of high-quality alcohol in their mouths and the heat of brotherhood, love --

And *Bruce* hums from... perhaps five paces away. "Brothers. I will never grow weary of this sight."

Harvey breaks the kiss and waggles his eyebrows. "Personally? *I* will never get tired of all your kids bein' *downstairs*, big guy. Get *over* here."

"As you say," Bruce says, and moves with speed and easy grace to the floor in front of the couch, where he kneels. "I left Damian studying with Stephanie, who needs the background in psychology herself, Tim. Did you tell Harv --"

"The basics," Tim says, and strokes Bruce's stubbled cheek with his thumb.

"Just enough to spin my head around, big guy. *You* tell me the rest."

"Of course --"

"But -- heh. Later," and Harvey cups Bruce's other cheek --

"Mm. As you say," and Bruce turns his head to the left to kiss Tim's thumb, and to the right to kiss Harvey's palm.

And then he leans back and strips off his shirt --

And Tim and Harvey set their drinks down.

There will be time -- and, undoubtedly, *need* -- for them later.

end.




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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