Fic: "Hapless Sons"
I'm trying to work on -- *wanting* to work on -- two of my WIPs. (This one and this one, for those of you playing the home game.) So of course I wrote another, unrelated story, in its entirety, this afternoon.
::facepalms::
I blame Te, for asking a question that led to this. And jamjar for inspiring the question.
Contains content that may not be appropriate for all readers. Also contains giant woobie.
Hapless Sons
He knows it's late. He'd done a partial patrol in the City before (giving in and) driving (home) to Gotham. So, expecting to arrive at the Manor not long before dawn, he'd made the drive in civvies, his costume in a duffel slung over the back of the bike.
Now the bag is on the bed in (what used to be, once upon a time) his bedroom, and he's heading down the (*The*) stairs. Alfred keeps his old room as freshly-aired and dust-free as if Dick still lived here, only the lack of yearbooks from later than the year he'd graduated or any current music giving away that the room was now more a (monument, a) museum piece than anything. These stairs are much the same, for all that they *are* used daily; there's never bat guano on them, or even dust, despite all the stone that's been ground away down here over the years.
So it's easy for his descent to be soundless, even though Bruce usually -- somehow -- hears (or senses) him if he's already down in the Cave.
A laugh echoes up from below. Jason. Well, he can't pretend that's surprising. Back when he was Robin, he'd often be at work alongside Bruce till nearly dawn, too, even on school nights.
He rounds the last curve of the stairs, and stops, one foot hanging above the next step.
Bruce is in the big chair by the main computer. He's in the suit, the cowl pushed back, and Dick can see (can't not see) that the tights and trunks are pushed down, too, just enough to expose--
Jason is in (*on*) Bruce's lap. Bare legs spread, and Dick can tell the shorts are somewhere else, because he can see the pale curves of the kid's equally (obscenely) bare ass around the dark shadow of Bruce's still-gauntleted hand. His other hand is on Jason's shoulder; both of Jason's hands are clenched in Bruce's hair.
Bruce is pulling Jason into his lap (over and over) in time with flexes of his thighs that shift him almost off the chair's seat. Jason's legs are flexing, too, and his arms, his whole body, working with Bruce's movements -- not against them.
That's something. Dick doesn't know if it's better or worse, but it's something.
Jason's head shifts, or both of theirs do, and there's a faint wet *smack* like a kiss ending. It's Jason's jawline against Bruce's mouth now, and the kid laughs again, head tilted back, and pants, "oh, *yeah*, yeah." Bruce grunts, and even at this distance it's no sound Dick has ever heard him make (just imagined it, so many)--
He nearly falls when he tries to get both feet on solid ground, his body having forgotten it was on a staircase.
He doesn't (can't) look back down across the cave.
It's weirdly tempting (in a way he doesn't want to examine) to try to make noise as he goes back upstairs. And pointless, on top of impossible. Alfred does his job too well, Dick has been trained too well, they all have their roles (functions) in this life.
When he gets back to the study and closes the clock behind him, (he's surprised that) his hands are steady (and by how much he's sweating). The room is empty. (He's alone.)
He's alone.
On his way (to his room, not his room anymore) to pick up his duffel, he meets Alfred, coming in the opposite direction. Alfred (looks at him for just a moment -- but it's enough, and he doesn't know whether it's worse that Alfred knows that *he* knows now or that Alfred must have known already -- and) only asks, "Would you care for a light breakfast before your drive back, Master Dick?"
Getting the food down (even keeping it down) won't be a problem. It's just that he knows he won't (enjoy) taste any of it, and that would be a disservice to Alfred's cooking.
But it will make Alfred (think he's made Dick) feel better.
"Sure, Alfred," he says. "Thanks."
At least there will be nothing for either of them to explain while he eats.
end.
Title from taken from "Love Not" by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton, courtesy of bartleby.com.
Thanks to Te and Mary for audiencing; and, to borrow a phrase from cereta, elynross made this better.
Happy early birthday, Jason.
other DC-comics-based writing by Jack
fanfiction by the Jack (all fandoms)
::facepalms::
I blame Te, for asking a question that led to this. And jamjar for inspiring the question.
Contains content that may not be appropriate for all readers. Also contains giant woobie.
Hapless Sons
He knows it's late. He'd done a partial patrol in the City before (giving in and) driving (home) to Gotham. So, expecting to arrive at the Manor not long before dawn, he'd made the drive in civvies, his costume in a duffel slung over the back of the bike.
Now the bag is on the bed in (what used to be, once upon a time) his bedroom, and he's heading down the (*The*) stairs. Alfred keeps his old room as freshly-aired and dust-free as if Dick still lived here, only the lack of yearbooks from later than the year he'd graduated or any current music giving away that the room was now more a (monument, a) museum piece than anything. These stairs are much the same, for all that they *are* used daily; there's never bat guano on them, or even dust, despite all the stone that's been ground away down here over the years.
So it's easy for his descent to be soundless, even though Bruce usually -- somehow -- hears (or senses) him if he's already down in the Cave.
A laugh echoes up from below. Jason. Well, he can't pretend that's surprising. Back when he was Robin, he'd often be at work alongside Bruce till nearly dawn, too, even on school nights.
He rounds the last curve of the stairs, and stops, one foot hanging above the next step.
Bruce is in the big chair by the main computer. He's in the suit, the cowl pushed back, and Dick can see (can't not see) that the tights and trunks are pushed down, too, just enough to expose--
Jason is in (*on*) Bruce's lap. Bare legs spread, and Dick can tell the shorts are somewhere else, because he can see the pale curves of the kid's equally (obscenely) bare ass around the dark shadow of Bruce's still-gauntleted hand. His other hand is on Jason's shoulder; both of Jason's hands are clenched in Bruce's hair.
Bruce is pulling Jason into his lap (over and over) in time with flexes of his thighs that shift him almost off the chair's seat. Jason's legs are flexing, too, and his arms, his whole body, working with Bruce's movements -- not against them.
That's something. Dick doesn't know if it's better or worse, but it's something.
Jason's head shifts, or both of theirs do, and there's a faint wet *smack* like a kiss ending. It's Jason's jawline against Bruce's mouth now, and the kid laughs again, head tilted back, and pants, "oh, *yeah*, yeah." Bruce grunts, and even at this distance it's no sound Dick has ever heard him make (just imagined it, so many)--
He nearly falls when he tries to get both feet on solid ground, his body having forgotten it was on a staircase.
He doesn't (can't) look back down across the cave.
It's weirdly tempting (in a way he doesn't want to examine) to try to make noise as he goes back upstairs. And pointless, on top of impossible. Alfred does his job too well, Dick has been trained too well, they all have their roles (functions) in this life.
When he gets back to the study and closes the clock behind him, (he's surprised that) his hands are steady (and by how much he's sweating). The room is empty. (He's alone.)
He's alone.
On his way (to his room, not his room anymore) to pick up his duffel, he meets Alfred, coming in the opposite direction. Alfred (looks at him for just a moment -- but it's enough, and he doesn't know whether it's worse that Alfred knows that *he* knows now or that Alfred must have known already -- and) only asks, "Would you care for a light breakfast before your drive back, Master Dick?"
Getting the food down (even keeping it down) won't be a problem. It's just that he knows he won't (enjoy) taste any of it, and that would be a disservice to Alfred's cooking.
But it will make Alfred (think he's made Dick) feel better.
"Sure, Alfred," he says. "Thanks."
At least there will be nothing for either of them to explain while he eats.
end.
Title from taken from "Love Not" by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton, courtesy of bartleby.com.
Thanks to Te and Mary for audiencing; and, to borrow a phrase from cereta, elynross made this better.
Happy early birthday, Jason.
other DC-comics-based writing by Jack
fanfiction by the Jack (all fandoms)