Two Plus Two
by Te
February 1, 2005

Disclaimers: No one and nothing here is mine.

Spoilers: Vague references to various episodes of GK/TNBA,
but mainly spoils Batman Adventures v1 #33 and Gotham
Adventures #3. Timeline: Distinctly nebulous.

Summary: Tim *isn't* jealous.

Ratings Note: NC-17.

Author's Note: Justin Thomas is a giant, glaring, love-filled
shout-out to pre-Crisis Jason Todd. The fact that he exists
concurrently with the giant, glaring, love-filled shout-out
to *post*-Crisis Jason Todd (otherwise known as toon!Tim
Drake) is something I was physically incapable of ignoring
for long.

As for the ages herein... well, let's face it -- the ages in
toonverse are even more vague and inconsistent than they
are in comicsverse, especially when considered with the
art. The Tim who is apparently sixteen in Batman
Adventures v2 is neither drawn nor portrayed with any
great difference from any other toon!Tim. (In fact, he's
*smaller* than some.) Ergo, I feel no compunction with
putting him at ~15 here, with Justin at ~17.

In other words: Down the rabbit hole we go!

Acknowledgments: To Jack, LC, Livia, and Prop for
audiencing and encouragement. To Mary for encouraging
this sort of behavior.


He's not jealous. That would be... *really* stupid, for one,
and also pretty damned lame. So. He's not jealous.

Bruce *can't* work with him every night. It's not practical,
and there's no reason for it -- especially since Babs and
Dick are around, and especially since there *are* some
things the Batman should do alone, as opposed to with

He's -- mostly -- convinced of this.

After all, if he spent all his time convincing people why
it was a bad idea to underestimate *him*, then, well,
eventually? He wouldn't get to see the surprise on all
those broken, bleeding faces. And that would *suck*.

So, he's not jealous.

It's just that when Bruce *is* off without him? It's just
not too much to ask for it to be League business, or, at
the very least, special creepy Bat-business.

As opposed to *this*.

And Tim *could* take some time to congratulate
himself on finding Bruce when he doesn't want to be
found -- he's *pretty* sure Bruce didn't want to be
found -- and he will.

Later. For now...

He joins Bruce in the tree, testing the branch to make
sure it'll hold both of their weights before settling in
to his own crouch. The light's on in the window, so he
doesn't really *have* to fold his cape around himself,
but he does anyway.

He's good. He's stealthy. He's *practical*.

And he already knew whose house this was before --
he knew it once he'd managed to track Bruce to this
freaking *neighborhood* -- but it's still really...

It's still fucking *really* when the kid appears in the
window in his freaking Grey Ghost pajamas. Jesus.

And Bruce? Still hasn't said a word.

"You know," he says -- in a *whisper*, even. "Isn't he
*my* age?" He's a little older, actually.

Bruce is silent.

"I'm just... I stopped wearing my *Batman* pajamas
when I was *nine*." Mostly.

Silent, silent. The kid -- Justin freaking *Thomas* --
is doing something with his action figures.

It takes way too long for Tim to relax, especially
considering the fact that the Robin figure isn't getting
kicked or punched in the face or anything like that, and
anyway it's just a damned action figure.

And Bruce... Bruce is just *watching*.

Tim *doesn't* sigh.

Inside, the action figures get arranged in slightly
different positions than they were in before. The Robin
one is right next to Batman, now, and the Nightwing
and Batgirl ones are sort of almost holding hands.

The Grey Ghost one -- "Wait, does he *sleep* with
that one?"

Bruce doesn't say *anything*.

"Oh, come on, that's just *weird*."

Not that Bruce has a whole shrine in the Cave
*devoted* to the Grey Ghost or anything. Not that
Bruce is a giant obsessive *freak*. Nothing *like* that.

Tim sighs this time. He kind of has to. "You totally did, too,
didn't you."

"Mine was made of metal."

Totally not a 'no.'

"So... are you actually going to *tell* me what the deal is
with this? I mean, unless the little fanboy --" Justin's
*only* a little taller than he is. "-- is actually starting up
a gun-running ring or something. I *may* have missed
something --"

"When you did your own... investigation?"

Bruce is actually smiling. *Laughing*. At *him*.

And Justin is placing his hat -- his big, stupid, floppy
*hat* -- on the rack -- how many seventeen year olds
have freaking *hat* racks? And slipping into bed with
a smile. Bruce may or may *not* be blinking behind
the cowl.

Tim raises an eyebrow behind his mask. And waits.

"Yes, Robin?"

Still *laughing*. Fine. "You know," he says, in the voice
he uses for nosy teachers and guidance counselors
when he wants them to step *back* -- and blush.

It makes Bruce stiffen *just* the way he's supposed

Heh. "I could dye my hair..."

Bruce *grunts*, and stiffens even more.

Victory: Tim Drake.


Mostly a victory.

Because, well, the thing about Bruce is that he only pretends
to have *shame* about things when Bruce-Wayne-socialite
is supposed to. The Grey Ghost shrine *could* just as easily
be in the Manor as the Cave, he dresses up like a giant
*bat*, and they've spent a good *hour* of Bruce's birthday
watching Justin Thomas do his little Justin Thomas things.


"You totally knew I was the one who'd get sent to find you
and drag you back home, didn't you?"

"Perhaps I knew you'd *be* the one to find me."

Right. Tim gets comfortable on their branch. And it really
is *their* branch now. Sometimes, when Tim dreams of
Justin -- which is totally not fair -- all he can see is a
square of warm yellow light surrounded by brick.

Sometimes Justin is beside him on the branch, and talking
about evil-doers in precisely the same way he does in his

Well, in the oldest entries.

The *latest* ones are a lot less like ancient radio scripts,
and Justin almost manages *not* to sound like a giant
obsessive freakboy with Grey Ghost pajamas -- and a
*hat* -- and also a shelf full of action figures when he
gets into flamewars on the message boards about the
place of vigilantism in modern society.

It's entirely possible Bruce hasn't read the weblog. You
never can tell where he'll draw any given line.

Or, well, *Tim* can't.

Justin is sewing something black and shiny which is
probably a cape. He has pins between his lips, and,
yes, he has the hat on.

Tim considers and rejects asking Bruce what he might
have done if Batman hadn't gotten in the way of Bruce
Wayne's relationship with Veronica Thomas. Because all of
that had happened long before *he* ever met Batman,
and because Tim has other dreams, sometimes. Which
are even more disturbing than the Grey Fanboy.

Who is, right now, leaning in over his monitor, reading...
Tim tilts his head. Looks like e-mail.

It's been a few days since Tim has checked the kid's
accounts, but he's willing to bet it's from the SCA list.

"How much time," Bruce says. It's a question, just a quiet

And Tim knows what the question is about. All of it. "If
we're not back *home*-home in another forty-five minutes,
Nightwing goes back to his loft, and Batgirl starts giving
Alfred suggestions on how to make you suffer for the
next two weeks." Ninety minutes and Nightwing calls in
with his *own* suggestions.


Bruce drops, easily, to the ground.

Tim follows.


It's a question. A serious one, even, because it sort of
dances all *around* a lot of the questions Tim has never
asked himself.

Not to mention the ones he's done his best to *pretend*
he's never asked himself.

There's the woman -- pretty, nice rack, smart (degree from
Hudson in English Literature), down-to-earth. She's a
couple of years older than Bruce, but still well within the
age-range *Tim* has been able to figure for "women
Bruce will totally fuck up with."

She's... she seems nice.

She knocks when Justin's door is closed, and she has a habit
of bringing him little treats and asking him how his day was
and also giving hugs. She looks like someone who smells
nice, and sometimes Tim kind of wishes he'd gotten close
enough to her that day in the bank to find out.

If she seems more, well, *motherly* than Bruce's usual
type, then, well, it makes sense. And she *isn't* the only
single mom he's gone for. The fact that *Matches* tends
to meet the single moms more often doesn't really mean
anything, as far as Tim's concerned.

He knows *exactly* how limited and *inaccurate* Bruce
Wayne's life is, after all.

So, there's the woman. And there's also Justin.

And, yes, he's jealous. He's just not altogether sure *why*.
Because, if anything, these times they spend together in
the Thomases' oak (and the times, like now, when Tim is
alone) are actually kind of...

Well, okay, they're frustrating, and disturbing, but Tim's
gotten used to both of those things. There's a different
*quality* of frustrating and disturbing when it comes to

He may not get all the answers he wants -- assuming he
asks the questions out loud -- but Bruce would never...

There were questions he'd learned to never ask his Dad,
or almost never. You never asked what dinner was going
to be unless Dad was flush. Unless you *knew* he was.
You only asked about Mom if Dad was flush *and* sober.

Like that.

There's a difference to the way Bruce doesn't always answer
questions, and Tim doesn't really have *words* for it. Just
a... just a kind of *safe* feeling.

And it's not that he doesn't *still* feel safe.

It's just that it's pretty easy to see what Bruce does when
he looks in Justin's window at night, and all the things Bruce
isn't *letting* himself see, too.

Like how Ms. Thomas has six identical flannel nightgowns
for winter, and many, many more lighter things, prettier
things, for summer. Like how when she leaves the window
open and you're, say, lurking in the *elm*... sometimes
you can smell her.

She does smell nice.

So. A ready-made family which Bruce doesn't get to have,
as opposed to the one he already *does*.

And never mind... *any* of the other things. He *knows*
how much Bruce loves Alfred, and Dick, and Babs. It's not
*like* that.

It isn't.


He has to pause, a little, once he's inside.

There's the fact of it -- it's been years since he's broken
*in* anywhere when he *doesn't* have any official,
Robin-has-to-do-this reason, and randomly picking locks
at Brentwood because he can, and because it's fun to
watch the rich boys freak out about who may or may
not have seen their weed stashes and porno

But that's just... that isn't what's making him pause.

It's the *smell*. And how it's good, and warm, and a little
nose-twitchingly familiar. It smells, more than anything
else, like Alfred's work space.

The *one* spot in the whole Cave which never smells like
motor oil or electronic equipment, as opposed to like
stage makeup and about a million different kinds of glue
and fabric. Like a crafts store, maybe, though Tim's never
really been inside one of those.

Another something for Bruce to... appreciate about this kid.

And he's...

Well, he's not really sure *why* he's here, beyond the fact
that he's done going through Justin's weblog twice --
*and* all the links which aren't broken -- and the only
thing he's learned about the SCA people is that they think
Justin's a freak for being obsessed with the forties, as
opposed to the Renaissance era, or even the 1800s like
Civil War re-enactors.

There's only so much he *can* learn without, well, being

And it doesn't matter that it's an excuse designed to justify

He knows Bruce doesn't want him in here.

He knows Bruce *wouldn't* want him in here.

And, when he hears Justin's footsteps on the stairs -- the
mother has a more stately kind of pace -- he really doesn't

He picks up the Robin action figure and tosses it from
hand to hand, and -- stops.

He hadn't noticed before, but...

"Oh. Oh God."

Tim reflexively beats back the urge to jump at the sound of
Justin's voice and turns the Robin figure in his hands --

"You're -- oh God."

"Close the door," he says, mostly absently, and --

"Right, okay..." There's a click, and -- "Uh. It's closed.

It takes another moment to figure out just what it *is*
which is throwing him about the figure, but that's just
because Justin had done a really good *job*. The standard
figures available don't look much of anything *like* he
does. This one...

"I... it took a while. To fix the jaw-line."

Tim holds it up to the lamp, and... there. A few tiny scratch
marks not entirely smoothed over with flesh-colored paint.
"Good knife-work," he says, because he really can't think
of anything else.

"Thank you! I..."

'Flesh-colored' is kind of inaccurate and optimistic, really. He
hears Justin moving, of course, and feels him, but it's still
something of a surprise to see Justin's hands move into view.
Reaching for the figure.

*Justin's* hands are... they look precisely as soft as they
should, though he probably has calluses a lot like Alfred's
on his fingers.

*Justin's* hands are, well, flesh-colored.

Tim resists the urge to hold on to the figure and lets Justin
take it out of his hands.

And he looks up, and... there he is. Biting his lip, being
annoyingly slightly taller, and staring at Tim with his eyes
so wide it looks almost painful.

It's pretty *much* reflex to smirk. "Hey, Justin."

And Justin... *blushes*. He's fair, so of course it *should*
be pretty dramatic, but...

He's pretty sure he's never seen *Babs* blush like that.
Including that time when he caught her sniffing a spare

"Um. Hi."

The smile is really *just* as dramatic, and it makes Tim
think of the approximately seven years he's spent going
to Bruce's dentist since moving in with him, and it makes
Tim think very seriously about punching Justin for no
reason at all. He takes a step back, instead.

"So... I... why -- can I do something for you?"

And that's... that's a really good question.

Justin looks... the thing is that he's *dressed*. Jeans, a
t-shirt, a baseball cap with a bat on it -- his mother had,
maybe, made him take it off when he came in the
house -- sneakers. But it doesn't really matter, because
the look on his *face*...

His eyes aren't quite so wide, but they're *on* him.

And Tim knows, just that quickly, that maybe the next time
he and Bruce play stalk-the-Justin they'll be watching him
modify the Robin figure even more.

And it shouldn't feel quite so *important* to know that
Justin isn't staring any more than *he* is.

"I mean... I..."

It's funny to watch. *Interesting*, really. Because Justin
is stammering (as much as he *should*), but he's also...

"Well. You're *Robin*."

There's a look in his eyes which makes it easier, for once,
to *see* him as someone a little older. Even though Tim
isn't quite sure what it is. "I am," he says, and forces the
smirk to stay on his face. "And you're..."

He doesn't need to say anything else. Not really. He lets
his gauntlet skate lightly over the pictures and articles
Justin has collected on Batman. On all of them. Once
upon a time, he would've been jealous.

The newsstands which tended to carry the really good,
*glossy* magazines were also the ones which were
harder to steal from.

And his father had *hated* it when --

"I... yeah. All of you are so... well. *You* know."

It makes him freeze inside, a little. Even though Justin can't
possibly know why.

"Oh... is it... does it bother you? I mean, sometimes my
mother says that I'm a little obsessive, but --"

"It doesn't bother me," he says, and it comes out too sharp.


Tim isn't sure. He's *almost* sure that it was just sharp
enough, that he was going to... that he was going to make
Justin *understand* something.

Possibly it would've helped if he'd understood it first.

And he knows exactly what smile is on his face by the way
Justin's staring. Like he can't decide whether to get more
red for his Robin figure's mouth or just ask him what's
going *on* in his head.

Dick looks at him like that fairly often, actually.

It's easier to look down, and take off his gauntlet, and...
yeah. Tim flexes his hand, and wipes it on the cape to get
rid of some of the dampness, and...

It's strange. He doesn't really remember the last time he'd
spent a lot of time in the sun, other than when Mr. Lucas
periodically remembers that Brentwood *has*
expensively-maintained athletic fields.

He doesn't really remember the last time he'd even
*thought* about it. He's paler than Justin.

"Hm. I wonder if I should get a different color for the Robin
figure's skin --"

Tim blinks behind the mask and *looks* at Justin.

And gets another blush. "I mean. Well. It has to be

"Sure it does," Tim says, and slips the gauntlet back on.
He doesn't know why he's here at all.

Justin takes a step forward. And another, and... stops.

Probably because Tim is narrowing his eyes enough for it
to show, but still. "You weren't this skittish around Batman."
Not even *after* that crap with the fear gas.

This expression is really *very* interesting, stuck somewhere
between ruefully amused and something a little...

Tim isn't sure, because Justin isn't looking at his *face*
anymore. It's just a little... a *little*, and Tim has his hand
on Justin's jaw before he realizes he's *moving*.

"Oh --"

"Tell me," he says, and it's a reflex to smile to soften it, even
though his smiles tend to make people...

Blush. "You're not Batman."

Tim snorts. "Yeah. He's *taller*. And wears a lot more

"Your gauntlets are -- they feel like his. Um."

"How do *you* know that?" He really didn't mean to say
that. He *knows* Bruce -- *Batman* -- had saved Justin's
life before. Just like --

"I -- Robin, you're hurting --"

He hears himself make a *noise* as he lets go, and that's
even worse. Though possibly still not as bad as catching
Justin's face with *both* hands --

It's not a kiss. Not really.

When Tim kisses people, he usually waits a little before
biting, because some people don't *like* that, and he
generally makes an effort to be polite.

When he kisses people, it's because he *wants* to, and he
doesn't want to kiss Justin. He doesn't.

Not when Justin opens his mouth and moans, and not
when he closes those wide, shocked eyes --

When Tim kisses people, it's a lot more like *this*. Nice
and slow at first, and *almost* as hard as he likes, because
he wants them to *know* he's not just another boy, not
just any --

The noises Justin is making into his mouth aren't really
moans at all. They're a little too loud for that, a little too
directed. They're *words*.

Tim swallows back a growl and pulls away. "What is it?"

"I..." It takes a moment for Justin to open his eyes. When
he does, they're *amused*, but also a little too wide.

Shocked. "Well?"

"Um. Some of the questions my mother has been asking
me about the boys in school make a lot more *sense*

He doesn't want to laugh. He really...

Justin laughs *with* him. "Yeah, I... Robin. Did you want..."

It's easier to just kiss him again, even though it shouldn't
be. Even though it makes no *sense* that it should be --

No, it does.

If he *kisses* Justin, he doesn't have to listen to him
stammer, or think about what it means that Justin's more
afraid of *him* than he is of Batman.

Then again, he's pretty sure Batman never shoved the kid
against a wall and licked his tongue. The part of him which
*isn't* sure is wrong, and stupid besides.

Bruce has never been in this room, and Bruce doesn't know
how soft Justin's mouth is, or that he tastes like *milk*, or
that his fingers are strong enough for Tim to *feel* them
when Justin grabs his wrists. And that's.

He can't swallow back this growl, because Justin is strong
enough to *hold* him, but he doesn't know *anything*
about how to move him, and it's... it's a little...

Tim doesn't know. He doesn't *know*.

But Justin squeezes harder when Tim kisses him harder,
when he lets his tongue move a little faster, slick and good
and maybe he's using his tongue more like a *knife* than
anything else, but Bruce doesn't let him *use* knives on
the street.

And it's making Justin stagger a little, even though Tim's not
really giving him enough room for that.

And his hands are spasming on Tim's wrists, and the noises
are *just* moans.

Soft and desperate and maybe just a little hungry.

When Tim pulls back this time, it's... it's better.

The expression on Justin's face... it looks like his own

And when Tim rolls his hips forward and *shoves* --

"Oh -- *fuck*."

Just... just like that.

He doesn't need to twist his wrists free and cup Justin
through his jeans to know it, but it's *better* to feel it. All
that heat and --

"Justin." The *twitch* of his dick, and -- yeah. Another
moan, and Tim can't *feel* it through the gauntlet, but
when he brings his hand back up between them...

"Rob -- Robin..."

He *tastes* good, too. Which is still *annoying*, but it also
matters a lot less when Justin's expression shifts to
something a little darker, and maybe even just as fucked-up
as Tim *feels* inside.

He sees the shove coming, but doesn't try to block it. It's
better to just bite his own fingers through the gauntlets,
and take one *more* step back, and wait --

Because he doesn't know if this is the way Justin kisses,
either, but it's good.

*Better* because his fingers are still in the way, because
Justin coughs and groans and Tim knows it's because he's
*tasting* himself.

Because the window is still open.

"I don't..." Justin's breath isn't really *milky* at all, anymore.
Just hot, damp and *hot* against Tim's mouth.


And Justin's laugh has a few too many notes, but it's still
kind of *sweet*.

Tim drags his wet fingers over Justin's bruised-looking
mouth. Over his cheek. And when Justin smiles... it's not
really at *him*, at all. At least, Tim doesn't think it is.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he says, like maybe he's
just offering it to the rest of the universe. As if saying it
somehow makes *some* part of this better. Like he knows
all he *needs* to. And the window is still open, and Tim
doesn't look. He doesn't have to, because he knows all he
needs to know, too.

And then Justin drops to his knees, and it's the easiest thing
in the world to brush his hands aside, out of the *way*, so
Tim can shove his shorts and tights down just enough --

"Robin," Justin says, and cups his hips. Justin's hands are big
enough -- bigger than *his* -- that his thumbs hit him just
*right* through his jock. And --

"Justin --"

He's groaning, and he doesn't -- he can't --

Justin's *smelling* him, and rubbing his cheek against him
like maybe the action figure is going to be *exciting* when
Justin's done making all the modifications. Like Justin's
*learning* him, or just...

No hesitation. Not really. Just those soft fingers between
Tim's jock and his skin, and then his jock is out of the
way, *too*, and there's *just* enough light in here for it
to catch in Justin's eyes.

Justin's weird, wide eyes, and -- "*Fuck*, Justin --"

Don't, he was going to say, but that doesn't make any sense,
and he can't remember if it ever *did*. Justin has one hand
around the base of Tim's dick, and the other on his thigh.
Rubbing, squeezing --

*Feeling* him, and it's there in his touch and it's there in his

Too much --

Too fucking *much* like his own. That *look*. Because the
kiss on the head of Tim's dick comes with a *smile*, and it
doesn't really matter that it's a real one. That isn't the

Tim can't keep from *pushing* with his hips, needy and --
*hungry*, and --

"Yeah -- just..." Tim can't close his mouth and he *won't*
close his eyes, and the whole thing... yeah. He *gets* the
smile. "Justin, you have a *sweet* mouth."

And one of them moans, and Justin sucks and -- it's him.
*He's* moaning, and Justin's lips are wrapped around him
tight and *perfect*, and Tim shoves one fist in his mouth
and grabs Justin by the hair with the other.

Sweet -- sweet and hot and *perfect*, and Justin's tongue
is rubbing at the underside of his dick, feeling him *that*
way, too, and Tim doesn't blink until Justin does.

And when he opens his eyes again...

It doesn't feel like being learned at all, anymore. It just
feels like another way to fuck, or maybe *be* fucked,
because there's something meaningless about the snap of
his own hips, about the entirely *useless* grip Justin has
on his hip.

It's all about that... that fucking *look*, and the fact that
Tim would be groaning much too loud if he didn't have
his fist in his mouth, and the fact that when Justin moans
around him, Tim *knows* he's saying 'Robin.'

Too --

Too *good*.

And Justin's hair makes him want to take the gauntlet off,
and the flush on Justin's face has nothing to do with
blushing anymore.

It makes him.

It makes him want to be *naked*. More when Justin --
finally -- closes his eyes and shoves *his* free hand
down into his pants. He's hard again, and not really
jerking himself off.

Just rubbing himself, pressing in the same rough rhythm
Tim's using on his *mouth*, and he --

He knows that, too.

Tim closes his own eyes and just --

Just --

It's not the coughing which brings him back. He doesn't
know where 'back' *is*. It's the feel of Justin pulling off,
and how the cough doesn't really feel like what he's
feeling at all, and it doesn't matter that it doesn't make any

There's something too fucking *raw* about the way Justin's
wiping Tim's come off his mouth with the back of his hand,
about the way he flips it to cough -- and didn't he just have
to be polite, *too*?

Laughing into Justin's mouth probably isn't helping, but
Justin kisses him back. And curses when Tim sucks a little
on his neck. Just --

He won't leave marks.

*Justin* doesn't have a cape which makes things like that
reasonable. But there's something too fucking hot about
the feel of his Adam's apple moving against Tim's mouth.
And something hotter when Tim can get his hand on
Justin's shoulder, when he can feel how it's still *working*.

"God, Robin --"

Hoarse and *low*, and Tim licks his neck, and his mouth,
and his own come off Justin's cheek before shoving him

And he usually has a *little* more finesse about stripping
people, but even though Justin gasps when Tim shoves up
his t-shirt and starts petting, he *also* arches right up to
help when Tim yanks on his jeans and shorts.

Wet and *sticky* and --

"Oh -- oh fuck *Robin* --"

"Mm-hm..." He wonders how much Justin curses, on a
general basis. The weblog is pretty clean, but then he
*does* link to his mother's alumni group. It's a tough call.
He wants...

"*God* --"

"Curse more," Tim says against Justin's navel.

"Wh -- *what*?"

Tim grins and grabs Justin's hips, holding them down against
the floor and looking right into Justin's eyes. "I said --"

"Fucking *God*, Robin, just -- just jerk me *off*."

That works. And he'd *considered* taking the gauntlet off,
but --

"Fuck -- *fuck* --"

Really *no*. He adjusts his grip a little and braces his other
hand so he can kind of sprawl *over* Justin a little.

"God -- do it... please harder --"

Of course. Of... *God*. "I'm gonna suck you, too, one
day --"

"R-Robin --"

"I'll do it hard and you'll come right down my *throat*."

"Oh -- *fuck* --"

"*Exactly*," Tim says, and squeezes. Nice and hard and...
it's different, again.

Different and strange, even with Justin moaning and
fucking up into Tim's fist, even though it's good, and hot

It's the window, and the fact that Tim knows, from
experience, that someone outside could see *everything*.
It's that, and...

And *Justin*.

And he has to say it.

"You know. *Batman* likes you, too, Justin."

"Nn -- I -- what --"

"Told me *all* about you," he says, and it's a lie, but it
also isn't. Bruce *could've* hidden those reports a little
better. Bruce *knows* --


His eyes are so *wide*, and Tim can't... "Should I tell him
about *this*?" He doesn't know how he feels about his
voice, about the fact that he sounds *young* to his own
ears, young and maybe exactly as fucked-up and *needy*
as every little noise Justin's making now.

Louder when Tim bites his ear.

*Better* when Justin comes all over Tim's gauntlet.

He lets Justin go when the moans turn a little whimper-y,
sits up, and leans back, resting on his heels and licking his
fingers clean again. And he watches, and waits.

Even though he isn't really sure what he's waiting for.

Not Justin's rapid blinks. That isn't --

"Did you... were you *serious*?"

-- quite right. Tim sucks and pulls his fingers out of his
mouth, making sure the popping noise is the kind which
carries. Maybe right out a *window*. "I don't joke about
Batman." Just *to* him.

Another blink, and then Justin just looks *curious*. "I...
will he be mad?"

Good, *good* question. Really just --

"Robin --"

"At you? Probably not."

Justin frowns. "But --"

Justin's eyes go wide when Tim pushes his fingers in his
mouth, but it's just surprise, and it only lasts a second before
he's sucking. That soft *mouth*. Tim shoves a little,
probably too hard, and Justin chokes and moans and Tim
thinks about fucking him.

About *getting* fucked.

And then he pulls out. And waits.

Justin gives him a really *narrow* look and licks his lips.
"You... you're kind of..." He waves a hand.

*Tim* can think of a few words that might fit there, but...

Justin laughs, softly. *At* him.

Maybe it doesn't matter. "I *do* like you, Justin."

"You don't have to sound so *shocked* about it."

Tim grins, and shrugs.

Justin sits up a little, bracing himself on his elbows. "And
you're... you're not really a *kid*."

Tim grins a little wider. "Are *you* shocked? You're older
than I am, but not by *much*. And you're not very..." Tim
lets himself trail off. It's one of the good, small things
about this life. About *being*... this. There are so many
really *sweet* things about looking someone up and down,
about having someone right down there on the *floor*.

Naked and messy and... really kind of *his*.

And Tim knows Justin knows it. Because... Because *he'd*
know it, too.

Justin takes a deep, shuddery breath, right on cue. "I'm not
very *what*?"


And that gets him another blink... but it also gets him a
slow smile. A *nice* smile. "Were you planning on...
*doing* something about that, Boy Wonder?"

And that's just --

That's *just* right, like his hands around Justin's wrists and
the curl of Justin's long, soft fingers and his wide open eyes
and his wide open *mouth*.

"Yeah," Tim says. "I *am*."

There's a flash of *something* in Justin's eyes Tim can't
catch, but it doesn't matter. Justin *arches* under him,
flexible and lean, and he's looking at Tim like he knows
*exactly* where Tim's eyes are behind the mask, and he's
smiling like he understands everything Tim really *doesn't*.

Or maybe like it doesn't matter if he understands at all, and
he says,


And... yeah. He kind of *has* to grind a little, even though
he *doesn't* have time for anything else tonight.

"Robin..." Because Justin grinds right *back*. And --

"I was serious," he says, again.

Justin breathes deeply, but doesn't say anything. And
doesn't stop looking.

He won't, either. "*Do* you want Batman to know?" No,
that isn't it. That's not the *real* question. "Would it get
you *off* if he knew this?"

A small sound, high and --

"If he knew what you tasted like. What sounds you made
when someone -- when *I* touched you?"

Justin's... Justin's almost panting, and he *does* look
away -- to the wall. *His* shrine, not the window, and Tim
squeezes his wrists.

"*Tell* me."

Looking at him again, at him and -- "Would it get *you* off,

*Into* him. God, just... Tim squeezes Justin's wrists one
more time and *moves*, leaping back and off and --

Loving that little gasp.

"Yeah... it *would*," Tim says, and starts fixing his uniform.
His jock's going to be *unfortunate*, but... it's not like that's

"Then... then do it."

It's good that he doesn't have to look to do this, that his
hands know the motions to get the belt seated right, and his
tunic over the shorts, and his cape just right. Because he
really can't look away from Justin right now.

"*I'm* serious," he says, and sits up a little more, until his
t-shirt falls from where Tim had bunched it in his pits.

It doesn't really cover *anything*. And... "Yeah?"

"Tell him. I... I want you to, Robin."

Call me 'Tim,' he doesn't say. He *can't* say it, and he
knows the look on his face is probably even more fucked-up
than it's been all *night*, but... but it just makes Justin
stare at his mouth. Tim licks his lips.

Justin licks his, too.

"Then I will," someone says, and knowing it was *himself*...

Doesn't really mean anything at all. Tim shakes it off
internally and forces himself to walk. The window is still
open, still waiting.

The night is *black* outside, and Tim knows it isn't empty.
It's just that all the light *inside* has fucked his night-vision.
But it's... safe. "See you around, J," he says, and leaps.


The surprise isn't that Bruce catches him and pretty much
*drags* him back to the car once he gets back into the
*real* city.

The *surprise* is that it had taken that long. Tim had
actually managed to bust up two drug sales and a mugging.

Tim buckles his restraints and settles in. They're not headed
back to the Cave -- unless Bruce is taking a *really* different
route -- and the signal isn't up. Tim has no real idea
*where* they're going, really.

But that's not new, either.

He shifts a little, and makes a note to scrub off a *little* the
next time he fucks someone before getting back into the
suit. At least Justin had swallowed. The alternative --


It's a tougher question than it should be, but this isn't one
of the times when Bruce will let him get away with a shrug.
"I got obsessed."

Bruce is gripping the steering wheel hard enough to make
it creak.

"I still am."


It's the voice which means 'look at me,' even for times like
this one, when it doesn't matter that the car's autopilot is
the best in the world, because Bruce is *not* going to take
his eyes off the road. Tim looks at him, and waits.


And waits some more, and -- stops. He didn't see the move
coming, but the back of Bruce's gauntlet is on the back of
his cheek. Slick black knuckles stroking him like...

Tim already knew that his gauntlets felt just like Bruce's. It's
just that knowing is a little different now. Bruce doesn't say
anything else, but... he knows Bruce needs *him* to.

Whether or not Bruce *knows* what it is.

"Robin," Bruce says again, and it *is* Bruce. Just Bruce.

So Tim gives him as much Robin as he can: "Don't worry,
Batman. I'll be good."

Bruce's hand pauses on his cheek for just a moment.

And then it starts again. Nice and slow.