always with the Dick jokes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
irrelevant) wrote2010-03-14 07:36 am
irrelevant) wrote2010-03-14 07:36 am
Entry tags:
ficlets: Batman Beyond, Justice League animated, DC comics
Unbroken
Matt, Terry, Max, Bruce | PG | ~1850 words
Notes: General spoilers for Batman Beyond. I’m not sure I buy into JLU: Epilogue as anything more than a really screwed up AU, but the fact remains that Matt McGinnis is a fearless, awesome little twip. I had to write this.
He’s thirteen when he figures it out, and then he wonders where his brain’s been for the last five years. Terry even told him once. Said it flat out: “I’m Batman.”
Matt remembers laughing. Because how do you believe something like that when it’s your jerk big brother telling you?
Short answer: you don’t.
Longer, more complicated answer? You don’t until said brother’s been living away from home for three years, and then he comes back for a week after spring finals and you get a good look at him for the first time in what feels like twice that long.
And now there’s this stranger in Mom’s living room with Terry’s hair and suck-ass taste in clothes, and—and something… else. Something Matt knows has been there for a long time, he just hasn’t looked straight at it before. But now he is looking and thinking about what he’s seeing, which is a lot more height than Dad ever managed plus some serious muscle. A smile that really isn’t a smile, because around the eyes… yeah. He doesn’t look too long there.
And suddenly he’s thinking about how Terry’s at Gotham U. Didn’t leave town for college, but he still moved out of Mom’s place right after high school—like, the week after. Started living with Mr. Wayne full time, and seriously, who wants to move in with a freaky, way old geezer when they’re eighteen?
He thinks about how Terry wasn’t around much even before that. He remembers how pissed off and hurt he was about it, especially that one summer…
It was a bad year. Terry quit working for Mr. Wayne twice that year.
Matt sits down with his laptop and defines parameters for his best search program, then turns it loose on the news archives. After that, putting everything together is easy. So is sticking a transparent, water-impervious tracer to Terry’s skin. He made it himself, tested it on his best friend. Geo still doesn’t know he followed her around for a week, and he’s going to keep it that way.
Finding the right radio frequency with his modified p-comm is harder, but hey, somebody in this family has to do the geek thing. Terry’s going for a double in business and criminology, and wow, like that’s not another enormous tip-off.
Bruce freaking Wayne. Matt rolls his eyes. He’s crouched on the WE roof (no Powers in there anymore), searching with tech-enhanced eyes and ears. Highest building in the city, and thanks to Terry, he’s got an in.
Terry’s going to live to regret that. Unless he decides to drop Matt down a really deep hole. When your big bro’s Batman and works for (Matt’s ninety percent sure) the first guy to fill the suit, anything’s possible.
Signals, voices and static. He’s got a steady stream of them running past his left ear, then someone who sounds mostly like Terry says, “—the Hayward Station exit. I’ll be right on top of you.”
Matt locks the frequency in and someone else says, “En route. Watch your back. These twips had lasgun air support last time.”
Her street name is Bluejay, although Matt thinks the original bluebird was called Nightwing. He was also a guy. This one…
Her voice is deeper than normal, almost a growl, but he knows Max Gibson when he hears her. If he didn’t already know about Terry he might not, but since he does? Way easy.
The line goes silent. He watches the blip that’s Terry move across his screen. A new voice says, “Base to B and J. This frequency is compromised. Rerouting.”
Old, old voice, deep and rough, and it’s a voice he knows, even if he hasn’t heard it that often. Over the comm it sounds like the total absence of light and all the night terrors a kid without a dad will ever have. Matt mutters, “Shit,” and twists the bud out of his ear before the high-pitched whine can take out his eardrum.
Says it again, “Shit,” flips his laptop closed and swings himself into the access chute, and he didn’t think the old man would nail him so fast. Reminds himself to never underestimate the real Bat ever again. Snickers because he’s got a pretty good idea of the look on Terry’s face if Matt ever said that within his hearing.
Even—or maybe that’s especially monster buildings like this one have fire escapes. He left Gen’s airbike on the fiftieth floor landing. If he can just get there—
The access chute drops him into the auxiliary stairwell. He rides the wide, spiral banister down to exit fifty, flies through the door, and, “Hey!” he’s caught. Scruffed, and Bluejay/Nightwing/Max is standing in front of him with her arms crossed, and he doesn’t need to look behind him to know who’s got a grip on his neck.
He hears Terry suck air, sharp and surprised. Max’s stance falters, her arms falling to her sides. She says, “Matt?” Like he’s the last thing she expected. Last thing she needs.
Matt says, “Shit,” for the third time this evening. He gets the feeling it’s not going to be the last.
--
It’s a cave. No, really. A Cave, complete with capital freaking C, an army of small, shrieking bats, and three big scary ones. Well, two of them are trying to be scary. One of them couldn’t be anything else if he tried.
Wayne is standing over him—make that looming over him, and Matt’s always thought the word seemed kinda melodramatic, but it’s like Mom says: there’s a time and place for almost everything.
Wayne looms and scowls. Matt glares back and hopes he looks halfway badass instead of sulky. Then Wayne says, “What do you want?” and Matt… blinks.
He says, “Huh?” Because he—
Doesn’t know, but—
Wayne’s eyes are burning a hole in him. This is the Batcave and you don’t lie in the Batcave, not even to yourself.
He can’t stop himself from looking. Red and black and gold pulling at his brain and his eyes, and it’s only a quick glance, but he knows Wayne catches it.
Maybe he didn’t have a plan when he left the apartment. Maybe he didn’t know what he wanted. Maybe.
“Bruce,” and it’s been a long time since Matt’s seen his brother this pissed. “What the hell are you doing?”
Wayne turns his scowl in Terry’s direction. Matt breathes a little easier. Wayne says, “I’m making him think, McGinnis. There wasn’t a lot of conscious thought involved in anyone’s actions tonight.”
Terry goes red around the ears and shuts his mouth. Max’s cheeks get slightly darker. Wayne turns back to Matt. “What do you want?” he asks again, and Matt… isn’t going to lie.
“You know,” he says, and jerks his chin at the Case without breaking eye contact. “I want that.”
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Terry jerk forward. Sees Max’s automatic lunge. And Matt has to look because watching Max shove Terry up against a rock wall then hold him still with her arm over his throat is totally schway.
The old man is watching, too—jeeze, his smirk really is kind of evil—so Matt refuses to feel guilty.
“No,” Terry growls. He jerks against Max’s hold and she slams him back into place. “You don’t get him, too.”
Oh yeah, he almost forgot. That’s why he’s spent most of his life trying to annoy the crap out of Terry. Because Terry’s freaking annoying. “What are you, my brother or my mother?” he says, and he’s glad Max’s suit is up to the job, because the Cave is basically a really big hole in the ground, and Terry’s looking really tempted.
“Both of you knock it off,” Max says, and now she sounds annoyed—there’s more than enough to go around. “How about we all calm down and discuss this like rational human beings instead of chest-thumping he-men. And by we I mean you.”
“There’s nothing to discus,” Terry snarls. “Matt’s going home, and he’s not coming back here.”
Matt snorts, “Says you,” and Max makes a pissed off sound and shoves Terry back again, and then Wayne says, “Enough.”
And that’s kind of… it.
Wayne says, “Let him go, Gibson. McGinnis, stand down.”
It’s obviously killing him, but Terry does it. He says, “You’re not going to throw a thirteen year old kid out on the streets—”
“You’re right,” Wayne interrupts him. “I’m not.” He looks at Matt. “You do what I tell you when I tell you to do it, without hesitation. Disobey my orders once and you’re out.”
“Got it,” Matt says. And wow, does he ever.
“Matt.” Terry sounds like—like that guy from Greek mythology. The immortal one who had his liver eaten by eagles or something, and it happened every day because, you know, immortal, and his liver kept growing back. The look on his face is—it makes Matt’s stomach do this weird clenching thing.
“I want this, Ter,” he says on a rush. “I can do it, I know I—” and Terry reaches out and grabs him, and it’s been a long, long time since he’s done that.
“I know you can do it,” he says into Matt’s hair. “I… it’s not about that. I don’t want you to think that just because I do this, you have to.”
“Pffft.” Matt shoves Terry away and grins at him. “You’re so dumb. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t have followed you.”
“We’ll discuss that later,” Wayne says, and Matt’s brain goes uh-oh. “Right now, you’re going home, and you—” he looks pointedly at Terry and Max— “have patrol.”
Max throws up her hands. “Thank you, god. I need to burn up some adrenalin before I crawl back through my window.” She walks past Matt and Terry on the way to her bike, flicking Matt’s forehead as she goes. “See you tomorrow, twip. Fyi, I’m gonna be tossing your butt around a lot. Get the kid some good padding, B.”
She flicks her lenses down, swings her leg over her bike and guns it.
Terry pulls his cowl back on. “Guess I’d better get him back, first.”
“Go. I’ll take him,” Wayne says.
The cowl looks not happy, but Batman says, “Fine. Stay out of the explosives, brat.”
The batplane’s backwash whips Matt’s hair around his face, vibrates the stone floor beneath his feet. A flight of bats screeches by overhead.
“I’m going to make you better than he is,” Wayne says. “I don’t want your death on his conscience.”
Matt swallows. Hard. His vision is red-black-gold, and Wayne is a voice in a cave. He says, “Good,” and meets Wayne’s eyes.
Wayne looks at him for a long moment before nodding once, curtly. “Let’s go.”
Matt trails Wayne up the stairs, glancing back once. The gold R is sharp against black and red. Dangerous. He wants that.
“Matthew?”
There’s a door at the top of the stairs. It’s open and Wayne is standing in a pool of lamplight. Matt starts climbing again.
He’s not Robin. Not even close. But he will be.
Seeing and Believing
Batman/Flash | NC-17 | ~770 words
Notes: DCAU Justice League, vague spoilers for A Better World.
Summary: “I think he likes you.”
He can’t say he wasn’t warned. Told and then shown. Tacit understanding can’t erase visual memory.
He could have done… something. Instead, he handed the others over without asking and didn’t let himself wonder. There was no point. No conclusion is foregone, even if you have all the intel.
He had it. Has it. It doesn’t matter.
The rest of them are lying to themselves right now, this second of this day, and they’ll keep doing it every second of every day that comes after. He can’t. The cowl on the other side of the wormhole was him, or one possibility of him, and that other world—
Other, not better. His other knew that before what was left of Luthor’s laptop finished cooling. Sometimes, knowing changes nothing.
Sometimes it changes everything.
Because it could (should) be his hand twisted in sweat-damp red hair. His other hand gripping one prominent hipbone, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise flesh that moves too fast for almost anything to leave a mark, right before he slides them down and in and pushes in. Makes Flash arch and hiss. There are finger-shaped bruises everywhere, which means they're… wanted.
Allowed.
There are no scars on Flash’s skin. No marks other than the fast-healing bruises and bites the other has left and will leave. Dig of teeth and fingers into skin stretched tight over lean muscle and bone, and Flash moans, and the sound is as unrestrained as Batman’s always—
In his head, the suits are always there. Black and grey and red, skin showing white where leggings are pushed down and body armor shoved up. Gauntlets instead of hands holding red-covered wrists down hard against a hard surface.
Fantasy rooted in reality. He’s never allowed himself anything else. For him, there can’t be anything else.
Apparently, at least one version of himself can not only imagine more but take it, have it, and there is nothing one-sided in the clench of long legs around narrow hips, skin pressing, sliding slickly against skin. There is nothing covering that skin but saliva, sweat and semen.
Flash never stops moving. He pushes up into the other’s hold and his hands are restless the way the rest of him can’t be, shoved, pressed down into the bed, his body bent to fit another’s shape. Fingers flex then grip, and his mouth is open, he’s—
Batman cuts the sound. It’s unnecessary.
Jesus, Batman, just fuck me, god, please—
It’s the first time he’s regretted being able to lip-read, but that’s unnecessary as well. Because the other is pulling away, pulling his fingers out of Flash’s body and lining the head of his penis up and pushing…
Inside.
The heat of it. Human life accelerated into something not entirely human. He can almost feel—
Sweat is clammy glue adhering the inside of the cowl to his skin, and if he could make himself do it he would close his eyes.
He can see every internal clench in the stutter of hips that aren’t his. Perspiration drips from dark hair onto Flash’s chest. Batman licks his lips and tastes… himself. Tang of salt and heat, bitter in his mouth and the other is licking his own sweat from Flash’s skin, tracing Flash's nipples with his tongue and he never stops or slows, sucks and bites new bruises into Flash's skin while he fucks his way into him like fucking him the only thing that matters.
One hand shoved down between them, wrapped around Flash’s penis and jerking harder, faster than anyone but a Speedster would want. Pre-come slick and messy, he can almost hear the wet slap of it and he sees Flash’s mouth open under the other’s, sees the shape of god, please Flash’s need and Flash is shaking, vibrating, coming all over the other’s hand and himself.
Two fingers slide through the mess, smearing clean skin up Flash’s throat to his mouth and pressing, and Flash opens eyes and looks at the other, opens his mouth and sucks the fingers in deep.
Batman's faults are legion, but narcissism isn’t one of them. He’s never wanted to know what he looks like when he comes. He doesn’t want to know now.
Sometimes knowing makes all the difference.
In the Cave’s computer, there’s a file. He downloaded it from another, matching computer a dimension or so away. He has the wherewithal to build, if necessary.
What constitutes necessity? Whose necessity? To what end?
The sun is afternoon hazy in Flash’s bedroom. No. Wally’s bedroom. There are no cowls or costumes, and no shadows.
Batman terminates the feed.
Jason/Tim | PG | 415 words
The kid is scrawny and tiny and all eyes. He stands quietly beside Bruce and stares at the floor, and lets Bruce do what Bruce has to do to get him away from the child services freaks.
Jason slouches in the doorway watching Bruce work his bullshit magic. He watches the kid sway a little, then catch himself before anyone else notices.
"Oi," Jason says, just loud and obnoxious enough to get their attention.
Bruce frowns--his confused Brucie oh-that-kid-ha-ha frown. "We're a little busy here, Jay--"
Jason says, "Yeah, I get that, and so does Tim. We're just gonna go sit in the limo until you guys get your shit together."
The frown is edging towards Bat territory, but the kid is looking at Jason like he's the kid's personal savior. Bruce looks at the kid and sees what Jason saw.
"Okay, tiger, you win," Bruce says, and gives Tim a push in Jason's direction. "You kids play nice, now."
"Whatever." Jason rolls his eyes and pulls Tim out of the room. Alfred is waiting in the limo out front, doing a crossword; he unlocks the doors and Jason pushes Tim inside then slides in after him.
He wants a cigarette. Like, really bad, but after Bruce found his last stash he promised he'd quit. So. Something to put in his mouth, anything... "Hey Al, we got anything to drink in here?"
"There is water and juice in the bar, Master Jason. Master Timothy, are you quite well?"
Jason looks up from scrounging, and Tim is--he's a Tim-shaped ball on the seat, face tucked into his knees, arms wrapped around his legs. "I got this one, Al."
Alfred says, "Very good, young master," and picks up his crossword.
Jason sits down next to Tim. He says, "Hey, c'mere," pulls him out of his ball, and wraps his arms around him. Tim turns into Jason and burrows into him. Startled, Jason says, "Hey," again, but Tim's got a grip. He's not going anywhere.
Jason frowns at the top of Tim's head. Pets him a little. "You're okay," he tells him, "I got you."
Tim nods. His cheek is pressed against Jason's chest. Jason kind of likes the way it feels. He's never had a brother before. Dickhead doesn't count.
Jason holds on to Tim and drinks his water. He relaxes into the limo's deep cushioning. He hooks his legs around Tim so he's a Tim cocoon, and waits for Bruce to come take them home.
Jason/Tim | PG-13 | 331 words
He doesn't want to make noise, but having glass removed from your skin a piece at a time with a pair of needle-nosed pliers makes it difficult to stay quiet, and Todd is enjoying this a little too much. Tim's only comfort is that Todd took the brunt of the explosion; he looks worse than Tim feels.
"Almost got the little bitch."
Tim bites down on the inside of his cheek and squeezes his eyes shut. He quickly opens them again when the world spins a nauseating circle behind his closed lids.
Todd yanks another piece free and tosses it. He grins at Tim: "Suck it up, kid. You can't pass out until you do me back."
Tim clenches his teeth against the feel of his skin shredding. "Wouldn't miss it," he grits out. "For the record? I think I'm going to like it."
"No pain, no gain," and Todd's grinning and Tim groans because that was stupid and cliche and Todd is both those things and worse.
Todd picks Tim's hand up and frowns at it. He pulls a long sliver out with his fingers, but, "Got some splinters shoved in there tight. Hold still." Then he leans down and his mouth is open against Tim's palm, and his tongue--
"What are you doing?"
Slick, wet prod, a hint of teeth and Todd lifts his head and spits something out. It lands with a dull tinkle against the bunker floor. "Best way to do these." He smirks up at Tim, and his eyes are still shielded by the red domino, but Tim knows they're blue and girl-pretty and full of Todd's enjoyment of Tim's discomfort. "Don't worry, baby bro--I won't make you do this for me."
Another smirk and he bends back down over Tim's hand. Tim stares at the wall over the top of Todd's head and tries not to squirm. It's been a long night already.
It's only going to get longer.
Matt, Terry, Max, Bruce | PG | ~1850 words
Notes: General spoilers for Batman Beyond. I’m not sure I buy into JLU: Epilogue as anything more than a really screwed up AU, but the fact remains that Matt McGinnis is a fearless, awesome little twip. I had to write this.
He’s thirteen when he figures it out, and then he wonders where his brain’s been for the last five years. Terry even told him once. Said it flat out: “I’m Batman.”
Matt remembers laughing. Because how do you believe something like that when it’s your jerk big brother telling you?
Short answer: you don’t.
Longer, more complicated answer? You don’t until said brother’s been living away from home for three years, and then he comes back for a week after spring finals and you get a good look at him for the first time in what feels like twice that long.
And now there’s this stranger in Mom’s living room with Terry’s hair and suck-ass taste in clothes, and—and something… else. Something Matt knows has been there for a long time, he just hasn’t looked straight at it before. But now he is looking and thinking about what he’s seeing, which is a lot more height than Dad ever managed plus some serious muscle. A smile that really isn’t a smile, because around the eyes… yeah. He doesn’t look too long there.
And suddenly he’s thinking about how Terry’s at Gotham U. Didn’t leave town for college, but he still moved out of Mom’s place right after high school—like, the week after. Started living with Mr. Wayne full time, and seriously, who wants to move in with a freaky, way old geezer when they’re eighteen?
He thinks about how Terry wasn’t around much even before that. He remembers how pissed off and hurt he was about it, especially that one summer…
It was a bad year. Terry quit working for Mr. Wayne twice that year.
Matt sits down with his laptop and defines parameters for his best search program, then turns it loose on the news archives. After that, putting everything together is easy. So is sticking a transparent, water-impervious tracer to Terry’s skin. He made it himself, tested it on his best friend. Geo still doesn’t know he followed her around for a week, and he’s going to keep it that way.
Finding the right radio frequency with his modified p-comm is harder, but hey, somebody in this family has to do the geek thing. Terry’s going for a double in business and criminology, and wow, like that’s not another enormous tip-off.
Bruce freaking Wayne. Matt rolls his eyes. He’s crouched on the WE roof (no Powers in there anymore), searching with tech-enhanced eyes and ears. Highest building in the city, and thanks to Terry, he’s got an in.
Terry’s going to live to regret that. Unless he decides to drop Matt down a really deep hole. When your big bro’s Batman and works for (Matt’s ninety percent sure) the first guy to fill the suit, anything’s possible.
Signals, voices and static. He’s got a steady stream of them running past his left ear, then someone who sounds mostly like Terry says, “—the Hayward Station exit. I’ll be right on top of you.”
Matt locks the frequency in and someone else says, “En route. Watch your back. These twips had lasgun air support last time.”
Her street name is Bluejay, although Matt thinks the original bluebird was called Nightwing. He was also a guy. This one…
Her voice is deeper than normal, almost a growl, but he knows Max Gibson when he hears her. If he didn’t already know about Terry he might not, but since he does? Way easy.
The line goes silent. He watches the blip that’s Terry move across his screen. A new voice says, “Base to B and J. This frequency is compromised. Rerouting.”
Old, old voice, deep and rough, and it’s a voice he knows, even if he hasn’t heard it that often. Over the comm it sounds like the total absence of light and all the night terrors a kid without a dad will ever have. Matt mutters, “Shit,” and twists the bud out of his ear before the high-pitched whine can take out his eardrum.
Says it again, “Shit,” flips his laptop closed and swings himself into the access chute, and he didn’t think the old man would nail him so fast. Reminds himself to never underestimate the real Bat ever again. Snickers because he’s got a pretty good idea of the look on Terry’s face if Matt ever said that within his hearing.
Even—or maybe that’s especially monster buildings like this one have fire escapes. He left Gen’s airbike on the fiftieth floor landing. If he can just get there—
The access chute drops him into the auxiliary stairwell. He rides the wide, spiral banister down to exit fifty, flies through the door, and, “Hey!” he’s caught. Scruffed, and Bluejay/Nightwing/Max is standing in front of him with her arms crossed, and he doesn’t need to look behind him to know who’s got a grip on his neck.
He hears Terry suck air, sharp and surprised. Max’s stance falters, her arms falling to her sides. She says, “Matt?” Like he’s the last thing she expected. Last thing she needs.
Matt says, “Shit,” for the third time this evening. He gets the feeling it’s not going to be the last.
--
It’s a cave. No, really. A Cave, complete with capital freaking C, an army of small, shrieking bats, and three big scary ones. Well, two of them are trying to be scary. One of them couldn’t be anything else if he tried.
Wayne is standing over him—make that looming over him, and Matt’s always thought the word seemed kinda melodramatic, but it’s like Mom says: there’s a time and place for almost everything.
Wayne looms and scowls. Matt glares back and hopes he looks halfway badass instead of sulky. Then Wayne says, “What do you want?” and Matt… blinks.
He says, “Huh?” Because he—
Doesn’t know, but—
Wayne’s eyes are burning a hole in him. This is the Batcave and you don’t lie in the Batcave, not even to yourself.
He can’t stop himself from looking. Red and black and gold pulling at his brain and his eyes, and it’s only a quick glance, but he knows Wayne catches it.
Maybe he didn’t have a plan when he left the apartment. Maybe he didn’t know what he wanted. Maybe.
“Bruce,” and it’s been a long time since Matt’s seen his brother this pissed. “What the hell are you doing?”
Wayne turns his scowl in Terry’s direction. Matt breathes a little easier. Wayne says, “I’m making him think, McGinnis. There wasn’t a lot of conscious thought involved in anyone’s actions tonight.”
Terry goes red around the ears and shuts his mouth. Max’s cheeks get slightly darker. Wayne turns back to Matt. “What do you want?” he asks again, and Matt… isn’t going to lie.
“You know,” he says, and jerks his chin at the Case without breaking eye contact. “I want that.”
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Terry jerk forward. Sees Max’s automatic lunge. And Matt has to look because watching Max shove Terry up against a rock wall then hold him still with her arm over his throat is totally schway.
The old man is watching, too—jeeze, his smirk really is kind of evil—so Matt refuses to feel guilty.
“No,” Terry growls. He jerks against Max’s hold and she slams him back into place. “You don’t get him, too.”
Oh yeah, he almost forgot. That’s why he’s spent most of his life trying to annoy the crap out of Terry. Because Terry’s freaking annoying. “What are you, my brother or my mother?” he says, and he’s glad Max’s suit is up to the job, because the Cave is basically a really big hole in the ground, and Terry’s looking really tempted.
“Both of you knock it off,” Max says, and now she sounds annoyed—there’s more than enough to go around. “How about we all calm down and discuss this like rational human beings instead of chest-thumping he-men. And by we I mean you.”
“There’s nothing to discus,” Terry snarls. “Matt’s going home, and he’s not coming back here.”
Matt snorts, “Says you,” and Max makes a pissed off sound and shoves Terry back again, and then Wayne says, “Enough.”
And that’s kind of… it.
Wayne says, “Let him go, Gibson. McGinnis, stand down.”
It’s obviously killing him, but Terry does it. He says, “You’re not going to throw a thirteen year old kid out on the streets—”
“You’re right,” Wayne interrupts him. “I’m not.” He looks at Matt. “You do what I tell you when I tell you to do it, without hesitation. Disobey my orders once and you’re out.”
“Got it,” Matt says. And wow, does he ever.
“Matt.” Terry sounds like—like that guy from Greek mythology. The immortal one who had his liver eaten by eagles or something, and it happened every day because, you know, immortal, and his liver kept growing back. The look on his face is—it makes Matt’s stomach do this weird clenching thing.
“I want this, Ter,” he says on a rush. “I can do it, I know I—” and Terry reaches out and grabs him, and it’s been a long, long time since he’s done that.
“I know you can do it,” he says into Matt’s hair. “I… it’s not about that. I don’t want you to think that just because I do this, you have to.”
“Pffft.” Matt shoves Terry away and grins at him. “You’re so dumb. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t have followed you.”
“We’ll discuss that later,” Wayne says, and Matt’s brain goes uh-oh. “Right now, you’re going home, and you—” he looks pointedly at Terry and Max— “have patrol.”
Max throws up her hands. “Thank you, god. I need to burn up some adrenalin before I crawl back through my window.” She walks past Matt and Terry on the way to her bike, flicking Matt’s forehead as she goes. “See you tomorrow, twip. Fyi, I’m gonna be tossing your butt around a lot. Get the kid some good padding, B.”
She flicks her lenses down, swings her leg over her bike and guns it.
Terry pulls his cowl back on. “Guess I’d better get him back, first.”
“Go. I’ll take him,” Wayne says.
The cowl looks not happy, but Batman says, “Fine. Stay out of the explosives, brat.”
The batplane’s backwash whips Matt’s hair around his face, vibrates the stone floor beneath his feet. A flight of bats screeches by overhead.
“I’m going to make you better than he is,” Wayne says. “I don’t want your death on his conscience.”
Matt swallows. Hard. His vision is red-black-gold, and Wayne is a voice in a cave. He says, “Good,” and meets Wayne’s eyes.
Wayne looks at him for a long moment before nodding once, curtly. “Let’s go.”
Matt trails Wayne up the stairs, glancing back once. The gold R is sharp against black and red. Dangerous. He wants that.
“Matthew?”
There’s a door at the top of the stairs. It’s open and Wayne is standing in a pool of lamplight. Matt starts climbing again.
He’s not Robin. Not even close. But he will be.
Seeing and Believing
Batman/Flash | NC-17 | ~770 words
Notes: DCAU Justice League, vague spoilers for A Better World.
Summary: “I think he likes you.”
He can’t say he wasn’t warned. Told and then shown. Tacit understanding can’t erase visual memory.
He could have done… something. Instead, he handed the others over without asking and didn’t let himself wonder. There was no point. No conclusion is foregone, even if you have all the intel.
He had it. Has it. It doesn’t matter.
The rest of them are lying to themselves right now, this second of this day, and they’ll keep doing it every second of every day that comes after. He can’t. The cowl on the other side of the wormhole was him, or one possibility of him, and that other world—
Other, not better. His other knew that before what was left of Luthor’s laptop finished cooling. Sometimes, knowing changes nothing.
Sometimes it changes everything.
Because it could (should) be his hand twisted in sweat-damp red hair. His other hand gripping one prominent hipbone, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise flesh that moves too fast for almost anything to leave a mark, right before he slides them down and in and pushes in. Makes Flash arch and hiss. There are finger-shaped bruises everywhere, which means they're… wanted.
Allowed.
There are no scars on Flash’s skin. No marks other than the fast-healing bruises and bites the other has left and will leave. Dig of teeth and fingers into skin stretched tight over lean muscle and bone, and Flash moans, and the sound is as unrestrained as Batman’s always—
In his head, the suits are always there. Black and grey and red, skin showing white where leggings are pushed down and body armor shoved up. Gauntlets instead of hands holding red-covered wrists down hard against a hard surface.
Fantasy rooted in reality. He’s never allowed himself anything else. For him, there can’t be anything else.
Apparently, at least one version of himself can not only imagine more but take it, have it, and there is nothing one-sided in the clench of long legs around narrow hips, skin pressing, sliding slickly against skin. There is nothing covering that skin but saliva, sweat and semen.
Flash never stops moving. He pushes up into the other’s hold and his hands are restless the way the rest of him can’t be, shoved, pressed down into the bed, his body bent to fit another’s shape. Fingers flex then grip, and his mouth is open, he’s—
Batman cuts the sound. It’s unnecessary.
Jesus, Batman, just fuck me, god, please—
It’s the first time he’s regretted being able to lip-read, but that’s unnecessary as well. Because the other is pulling away, pulling his fingers out of Flash’s body and lining the head of his penis up and pushing…
Inside.
The heat of it. Human life accelerated into something not entirely human. He can almost feel—
Sweat is clammy glue adhering the inside of the cowl to his skin, and if he could make himself do it he would close his eyes.
He can see every internal clench in the stutter of hips that aren’t his. Perspiration drips from dark hair onto Flash’s chest. Batman licks his lips and tastes… himself. Tang of salt and heat, bitter in his mouth and the other is licking his own sweat from Flash’s skin, tracing Flash's nipples with his tongue and he never stops or slows, sucks and bites new bruises into Flash's skin while he fucks his way into him like fucking him the only thing that matters.
One hand shoved down between them, wrapped around Flash’s penis and jerking harder, faster than anyone but a Speedster would want. Pre-come slick and messy, he can almost hear the wet slap of it and he sees Flash’s mouth open under the other’s, sees the shape of god, please Flash’s need and Flash is shaking, vibrating, coming all over the other’s hand and himself.
Two fingers slide through the mess, smearing clean skin up Flash’s throat to his mouth and pressing, and Flash opens eyes and looks at the other, opens his mouth and sucks the fingers in deep.
Batman's faults are legion, but narcissism isn’t one of them. He’s never wanted to know what he looks like when he comes. He doesn’t want to know now.
Sometimes knowing makes all the difference.
In the Cave’s computer, there’s a file. He downloaded it from another, matching computer a dimension or so away. He has the wherewithal to build, if necessary.
What constitutes necessity? Whose necessity? To what end?
The sun is afternoon hazy in Flash’s bedroom. No. Wally’s bedroom. There are no cowls or costumes, and no shadows.
Batman terminates the feed.
Jason/Tim | PG | 415 words
The kid is scrawny and tiny and all eyes. He stands quietly beside Bruce and stares at the floor, and lets Bruce do what Bruce has to do to get him away from the child services freaks.
Jason slouches in the doorway watching Bruce work his bullshit magic. He watches the kid sway a little, then catch himself before anyone else notices.
"Oi," Jason says, just loud and obnoxious enough to get their attention.
Bruce frowns--his confused Brucie oh-that-kid-ha-ha frown. "We're a little busy here, Jay--"
Jason says, "Yeah, I get that, and so does Tim. We're just gonna go sit in the limo until you guys get your shit together."
The frown is edging towards Bat territory, but the kid is looking at Jason like he's the kid's personal savior. Bruce looks at the kid and sees what Jason saw.
"Okay, tiger, you win," Bruce says, and gives Tim a push in Jason's direction. "You kids play nice, now."
"Whatever." Jason rolls his eyes and pulls Tim out of the room. Alfred is waiting in the limo out front, doing a crossword; he unlocks the doors and Jason pushes Tim inside then slides in after him.
He wants a cigarette. Like, really bad, but after Bruce found his last stash he promised he'd quit. So. Something to put in his mouth, anything... "Hey Al, we got anything to drink in here?"
"There is water and juice in the bar, Master Jason. Master Timothy, are you quite well?"
Jason looks up from scrounging, and Tim is--he's a Tim-shaped ball on the seat, face tucked into his knees, arms wrapped around his legs. "I got this one, Al."
Alfred says, "Very good, young master," and picks up his crossword.
Jason sits down next to Tim. He says, "Hey, c'mere," pulls him out of his ball, and wraps his arms around him. Tim turns into Jason and burrows into him. Startled, Jason says, "Hey," again, but Tim's got a grip. He's not going anywhere.
Jason frowns at the top of Tim's head. Pets him a little. "You're okay," he tells him, "I got you."
Tim nods. His cheek is pressed against Jason's chest. Jason kind of likes the way it feels. He's never had a brother before. Dickhead doesn't count.
Jason holds on to Tim and drinks his water. He relaxes into the limo's deep cushioning. He hooks his legs around Tim so he's a Tim cocoon, and waits for Bruce to come take them home.
Jason/Tim | PG-13 | 331 words
He doesn't want to make noise, but having glass removed from your skin a piece at a time with a pair of needle-nosed pliers makes it difficult to stay quiet, and Todd is enjoying this a little too much. Tim's only comfort is that Todd took the brunt of the explosion; he looks worse than Tim feels.
"Almost got the little bitch."
Tim bites down on the inside of his cheek and squeezes his eyes shut. He quickly opens them again when the world spins a nauseating circle behind his closed lids.
Todd yanks another piece free and tosses it. He grins at Tim: "Suck it up, kid. You can't pass out until you do me back."
Tim clenches his teeth against the feel of his skin shredding. "Wouldn't miss it," he grits out. "For the record? I think I'm going to like it."
"No pain, no gain," and Todd's grinning and Tim groans because that was stupid and cliche and Todd is both those things and worse.
Todd picks Tim's hand up and frowns at it. He pulls a long sliver out with his fingers, but, "Got some splinters shoved in there tight. Hold still." Then he leans down and his mouth is open against Tim's palm, and his tongue--
"What are you doing?"
Slick, wet prod, a hint of teeth and Todd lifts his head and spits something out. It lands with a dull tinkle against the bunker floor. "Best way to do these." He smirks up at Tim, and his eyes are still shielded by the red domino, but Tim knows they're blue and girl-pretty and full of Todd's enjoyment of Tim's discomfort. "Don't worry, baby bro--I won't make you do this for me."
Another smirk and he bends back down over Tim's hand. Tim stares at the wall over the top of Todd's head and tries not to squirm. It's been a long night already.
It's only going to get longer.