Chapter 1: oneshot
This Batman is nothing like Timâs own. Heâs all big brown eyes, too-complex armor, andâŚhe grins. When does Batman ever grin? Tim feels way too far out of his comfort zone, not that he minds at all. The guy is pretty handsome, despite not having blue eyes.
Robin leans back a bit on the edge of the plain skyscraper the duo have taken residence on for their conversation. Where are all the gargoyles in this Gotham?
âTell me again,â Bruce doesnât even brother to use the gruff Batman voice.
âIf it doesnât make sense the first five times, it probably wonât make a difference this time.â
âYouâre right, Iâm just curious. Youâre his partner?â
âWhat? You think he should have never allowed me to be a part of his mission?â Tim scowls at the man.
âBatman doesnât need a partner.â
âThatâs what he said, then he realized he *did*. Not that *you* do.â He raises a gauntleted hand, making his point. âI mean, it seems to me, youâre doing perfectly fine with your tank, and your grainy Batvoice.â
âWhy does everyone think itâs a tank?â
âHow couldnât they? Itâs not exactly a subtle vehicle.â
âWhat does he drive?â
âA car. A really menacing car. But, itâs not a tank.â
Brown-eyed Batman frowns, and yeah, itâs still nothing like *his* Bruce.
Batman looks away for a bit, his cape swirling around his crouching figure.
âDo you also do the thing where you go out with women and the whole thing is just *fake*?â Robin says it out of nowhere.
âWhat else am I supposed to do?â
âMaybe you do need a sidekick. Then you have an excuse for not having a date. At least youâll be with someone *enjoyable*.â
âHe does that?â
âAll the time. He just drags me along as an excuse for *everything*. It means he can get away from the parties sooner.â
âHe really--â
âDoesnât like being Bruce Wayne,â Tim finishes. âHe likes sitting down in the Cave, practicing, checking up on the gangs, working on his tech, testing me. He doesnât have fun. Ever. Though I have gotten him to smile a few timesâŚreally smile. And maybe chuckle.â
God, Bruce realizes him and his alternate have more in common the more Tim talks about him. He wonders if the Alfreds are like that, too.
âIs he a good father?â
Tim shifts uncomfortably, Bruce can tell itâs kind of a sore subject. âHeâsâŚsomething. Heâs not exactly a pro at the parent game, though you think he should be after raising two kids.â Batmanâs about to say something, âThey were Wards. Donât worry.â
âAnd you?â
âHe adopted me. DickâŚthe first Robin, wasnât exactly cheery about it in the beginning. Jason doesnât like me.â
âDo you like your life?â
âI love being Robin. Iâm still not sure how I feel about being Tim Wayne.â The teen lowers his head, wraps the black and yellow of his cape around his torso. âItâs tough. You have it easy right now. Just wait till youâve been doing *this* a few years. The longer it is, the harder it gets.â
Bruce doesnât really understand what the kid means by that. He shifts a bit closer and thinks about it.
~&
Tim Drake-Wayne (god, he still canât believe that) shouldnât be here. Not in his loft, not in his Gotham or his Earth. Tim explains the whole thing like heâs a pro at it, and Bruceâs head is already spinning, too many words, too manyâŚeverything.
He takes another drink of his coffee, watches the brightly colored teenager over the rim of his glass. The teenâs blue eyes are focusing on yesterdayâs issue of the Gotham Gazette, beautiful blue eyes.
Bruce slams down the mug harder then he meant to, Tim looks at him, grins a bit then goes back to his reading.
This needs to endâŚwhatever it is, Bruce doesnât understand anything about it, he just wants the kid to go back to his Gotham and his oh-so-perfect Batman.
No, he doesnât really mean that.
Not as harshly as that. Tim probably misses his Bruce, they are partners and family after all.
Bruce tries not to focus on that.
âSoâŚ,â Timâs staring at him again, and Bruce realizes he doesnât really have anything to say. He clears his throat and hears Tim get up, coffee mug and all.
The teen walks towards the spectacular view of Gotham, runs his free hand, still gloved in tight black leather, against the large pane of glass.
Bruce watches him for a moment, then decides to follow. He slides his hands into the pockets of his black slacks and stands behind the teenage sidekick.
âI donât like it,â Tim says absentmindedly.
âDonât like what?â
Robinâs looking at him from the glass, eyes slightly wide, and so blue without the white-out lenses blocking out the color. âThis Gotham. Itâs too different. Unfamiliar.â
âSometimes, unfamiliar things can be good.â
Tim turns around and Bruce thinks maybe heâs too close, but the teen doesnât twitch, just looks up into the manâs eyes, âOnly if you know how to use them.â
âWhat did you mean earlier?â Bruce blurts it out, doesnât mean to, and Tim almost flinches.
âBy what?â
âThe harder it gets.â
âMaybe youâllâŚâ Tim pauses and sidesteps out of the manâs personal space, makes his way towards the counter where they were before.
âWhat?â
Tim sighs and places his mug onto the marble countertop. âItâs nothing.â
Timâs getting more confusing after each conversation, and Bruce is still a bit lost by the whole fiasco. The teen seems a bit distant, unlike any other person Bruce has met. Heâs a little bit like Raâs in the way he likes to speak in riddles and subtleties and subtext.
Bruce sighs and continues to look out into Gotham.
He doesnât want to look anymore.
~&
Tim canât brood in the corner down in the bunker, thereâs too much light, so he just leans against the Tumbler, cape skirting around his ankles.
Bruce knows Tim can understand why the man would rather be down here at times like this. He continues his work at the small console, doesnât bother to look at his house guest.
âYou know,â Tim interrupts, âthere was a time Bruce moved into his own loft in Gotham. The manor wasnât destroyed. But he thought that if he moved into the cityâŚbeing closer to the people he swore to protectâŚwould be better.â
Bruce doesnât have anything to say about that. If the manor was still standing he wouldnât be here right now, in some secret underground bunker, in the lightâŚwith Tim.
âHe later decided to move back into his parentâs home.â
âDid he retract his statement?â
âI donât know,â Tim says, âI wasnât around him then.â
Timâs really starting to confuse him. Itâs like the kid knows everything about his Bruce, even everything before his time as the manâs sidekick. He doesnât question it.
He turns around and Timâs perching on one of the Tumblerâs wheels, perfectly content, and looking comfortable. He shifts his head, watches Bruce slide his hand from the keyboard, listens to the hum of the super computerâs fans.
Bruce walks towards him, Tim shifts off the tire, leans with one booted foot on the ground like heâs half pin-up instead of half bird, and lets Bruce back into his space.
âThat thing you said about unfamiliar thingsâŚâ He pauses, hesitates, pouts for a short moment, then runs a gloved hand over Bruceâs cheek. âIs this what you meant?â
Bruce should back awayâŚgrab his wrist, remove his handâŚanything to get Tim away. Make Tim understandâŚ
He canât.
Thatâs what he tells himself, but Timâs still looking at him with curious wide eyes, warm leather against the manâs cheek.
âI donât--â
âYou do.â
~&
When Bruce manages to get them back to the loft without a panic attack, he wants to congratulate himself. But instead, he finds he wants to be in Timâs space again, and run away back into the night dressed to nines, find a purse snatcher, rapist, and take his *frustration* out on them.
But he wonât.
He canât.
It shouldnât matter. Itâs not like Tim is meant to stay here. It was some great cosmic fluke. And yeah, it all started off nice and friendly, but the further the night has progressedâŚBruce doesnât know what the kid means by any of it. Bruce doesnât know why the teen is looking at him with those blue eyes.
Why canât he put the domino back on?
Tim hoists himself up onto the countertop, doesnât take his eyes off Bruce, whoâs all dressed in black, trying to blend in with the shadow that is too out of reach for the light.
âBruceâŚâ
Itâs the first time Tim has actually referred to *him* as being Bruce, actually said his name all night. Itâs almost scares the man, because, yeah, now he can see that itâs all way bigger then anybody ever thought it was.
âStop it.â
âWhat?â
âBrooding. Itâs not very becoming for billionaire playboys.â
âIâm not--â
âI know.â
âI still donât understand.â
âThen stop *trying* to understand.â
Tim says it like itâs the simplest concept in the world, like by saying it, Bruce will just do it.
But he doesnât.
He canât.
Not when Tim shouldnât be here, sitting on the kitchen counter in his loft, eyeballing him, talking to him like he has all the answers, though maybe the answers arenât completely right.
He can hear Timâs two-toned cape shifting on the counter; he looks up and realizes the teen has abandoned it to walk towards the man.
Tim puts his hand on Bruceâs cheek again, smiles, and steps as close as he can.
âCan we get back to that thought about unfamiliar things?â
The point where BruceâŚran away. Though not quite, because Tim is back right where he was before, waiting for Bruce to actually *make* the point. And, yeah, heâll probably never have a chance like his again. He never will, even though he feels closer to Tim in a night then he has with some people in years.
The teen removes his hand, and opts for removing his black leather gloves, complete with matching scallops like on Bruceâs costume. Tim throws them to the floor, curves his palms on Bruceâs neck.
âHey, didnât I say that was unbecoming?â
Bruce allows his hands to find Timâs waist, draped in red, the bottoms of his hands sitting on the top of his utility belt.
âTimâŚâ
âWe donât need words, if you donât want them.â
He kisses Tim because itâs the simplest thing thatâs happened all night. Simple, like the red of his suit, and the slight blush on his cheeks.
~&
Tim leads like he knows what heâs doing, must know, because heâs so sure about the whole thing. Heâs sure to lay his belt away from them, starts undoing his suit, a less tedious process then it is for Bruce. He has to get up to slip off the body suit. Then he crawls back over to the man, eyes slightly lidded.
Itâs the first time Bruce has had someone here in his bed, a bed he hardly ever finds himself in.
He finds Timâs hips again, scarred in a few places, notices a distinguished mark across his throat, rubs a finger against it.
âFunny you went for that one.â
Tim watches him, straddling his thighs. He can see the questioning in Bruceâs expression, but just says, âitâs a long story, and oh, no words.â Tim grins and leans forward onto Bruceâs chest kisses him lightly, fingers the hem of the manâs shirt. Bruce gets up enough, Tim can slip it off of him, then get his hands onto the manâs barely scarred chest.
It scares Bruce that Tim has so *many*, but itâs none of his concern. He kisses the teen again, wraps a hand around his waist and flips them over onto the white of the comforter. Tim laughs a bit, works on Bruceâs pants, grins when he gets them undone, lays speechless when the man gets them off.
Tim kisses him hard, wraps himself up in Bruce, drags a hand through his almost-perfect hair, groans against the manâs lips then smirks and comes back for more.
Bruce canât stop skating his hands over the teen, dark scars a perfect contrast to the milky color of his skin.
Itâs all become so simple with Tim leading his hands down slowly and finding the perfect spot to make the teen arch and moan.
Tim bites down on his lip, draws Bruce up closer by the nape of his neck. He lets the man take over; he places Timâs arms above his head bites down at the crook of his neck. Letâs Tim ride it out till he rests his head against the white pillow case, wraps his legs tighter around Bruceâs waist, urges him further.
~&
Bruce is awed by how well their bodies fit together, like two puzzle pieces. Tim groans but doesnât break their vow of silence, stays as close to Bruce as he can, lets the man flip them, over and over again, to perfect contact.
Tim lies open mouthed against the manâs collarbone, whimpers again with the next movement, grazes his hand past a suture on Bruceâs lower back. The man almost loses his way, kissing down Timâs body, finding all the points that make him twitch with pleasure, almost moan out Bruceâs name.
The teenâs stomach is already wet from the both of them, Bruce doesnât let it become an obstacle, licks his way down Timâs abdominals and kisses his tiny belly button. Tim giggles and places his hands on Bruceâs head; heâs at that point again where the laughter turns into moans and whimpers when Bruce turns away from him, grabs the bottle of lube thatâs waiting to be used again.
Tim lets him, Tim lets him do anything he wants, just consents silently to the manâs needs. He knows Bruce has been without this for too long, just like his own Bruce, who sits silently in his sanctuary, doesnât desire this sort of thing.
But he can already see that the sex has evened Bruce out, heâs less tense then when they started the thing hours ago. Bruce manages to smile against Timâs sticky skin in his inner thigh where a particularly nasty scar is, the man is almost tempted to ask how the teen got is, but heâd rather watch Timâs mouth fall open again when Bruce does that thing with his fingers.
Bruce realizes the point has been made by the next time he makes Tim curl up, post-orgasm. The teen has his eyes closed, breathes heavily against the too-expensive pillow covers, listens as Bruce finishes up.
The man curls up next to him, kisses the nape of his neck and draws him in closer. Tim shifts, lets them lay chest to chest, kisses Bruce one last time, and falls asleep curled up in his arm, head resting against his chest.
Tim is beautiful when he sleeps, like the pain of the world doesnât matter.
He sleeps silently, shifts a few times, Bruce finds the teenâs lips pushed against the side of one pectoral. He wraps his other arm around the teen, drifts off because it all seems too simple.
~&
The bed doesnât feel warm anymore by the time Alfred brings in breakfast.
âGlad to see you in bed this morning, Master Wayne.â The older man places the tray down on the nightstand, watches in confusion as Bruce gets up and looks in every part of the room like heâs lost something. Maybe his mind, because he canât find the person he went to sleep with.
âMaster Wayne?â
âWhere is he, Alfred?â
âWho, sir?â
âTim.â
âExcuse me, sir?â
â*Tim*, AlfredâŚ*Tim*.â Bruce tries not to get that hint of annoyance in his voice, but the teen is missing.
âSir, you did not wake up with anyone in bed, nor did I see traces of anyone else in the loft.â
Bruce runs a hand through his hair, mussed from sleep and last nights eventsâŚif they even happened.
âHe was here, Alfred. I went to sleep with him, I talked with him all night. I took him to the bunker. You canât tell me *no one* was here.â Bruce closes his brown eyes and sighs about the situation, but then hurriedly checks around the floor. No Robin costume. He checks the bed for proof of their deeds. There, the sheets are practically ruined.
âHow do you explain the *bed* then?â
âSexual tension, sir?â
âYou think Iâm making it all up.â
âWell, sirâŚIâm not really sure *what* to think.â
âYou think I would make up a *boy* out of thin air, and ruin my own sheets?â
âMaster Wayne, I do not know what your fantasies are, the only proof I can offer is that no one has been in this loft except *you* and *me*.â
Bruce huffs, feels defeated, turns his head and notices something black peeking out from under a pillow. He quickly grabs it and raises it up from Alfred to see.
âThis is Timâs. He left it.â
âSir--â
âIt really did happenâŚ,â Bruce looks intently at the lenses of the mask, the sharps points of the domino and cradles it a bit closer to his chest. âI donât understand.â
âMaster Wayne, youâve completely lost me. Now, I donât know what *that* is, but it--â
âIt doesnât have to make sense, Alfred. It simply *is*,â Bruce interrupts.
âSir, I donât know what you mean.â
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