Something In Common Part 10
Title: Something In Common
Part: 10/?
Authour: JSherlock
Fandom: Batman Begins
Pairing: Bruce Wayne / Jonathan Crane
Rating: PG-13 for mention of sex.
Warnings: None for now.
Beta: Slarti
Disclaimer: I do not own anything that belongs to DC and Time Warner/AOL
Summary: The tension has been building ever since Jonathan went to work for Bruce, and now, things come to a head.
PART X
Fuck. The harsh crack of the last syllable resonated through Jonathan’s head, dying away with a note of finality.
Of course, it described perfectly what he’d like to do to Bruce, who was showing off to great advantage what he had learned in his travels. The complex kata of some exotic martial art flowed across the mat in the centre of the room, Bruce’s body a mere instrument of Art’s will.
You’re drooling.
Jonathan wiped his mouth the with back of his hand unconsciously. Ensconced in a shadowed corner of the gym, he’d long given up pumping iron. At best, it was tedious, at worst; he felt he would rather pull out his own teeth without anesthesia. He had instead lapsed into speculative thought. Engrossed in thinking about how he could politely absent himself when Bruce wanted to take him out on ‘dates’, they got more and more absurd - even to the point of feigning illness or going to Arkham, he gradually became aware that there was someone else in the room. He focussed back on reality only to see Bruce pull off his t-shirt and drop it next to his shoes.
Jonathan stared in blank shock as he fidgeted uncomfortably in the narrow seat of the machine designed to bulk up the arms. Fuck me. Trying to make as little noise as possible, and moving so as not to attract attention, he slowly slid his body out from behind the weighted bar. He looked up as he went around, but Bruce was introspective - probably focused in an inner mind space.
With a yelp and a sharp clank of jangled weights, he fell heavily to the floor, his foot caught between the legs of the machine.
Milk it good, Johnny-boy.
“You all right, Jonathan?” Bruce said, seeming to appear at his side.
“Yes,” Jonathan hissed. “Nothing’s broken except my pride, I think.” He freed his foot, keeping hunched over.
“Let me see,” said Bruce, pushing Jonathan to sit back. Jonathan looked directly into his eyes when Bruce paused and dragged his eyes to his face. “Does this hurt?” He asked clinically squeezing Jonathan’s ankle.
“No.” Jonathan tried to pull his foot away, but Bruce just gripped it harder.
“This?” Bruce rotated the foot around.
“My foot,” Jonathan stressed, “is fine.” He yanked it harder wincing in pain.
“So I see.” Bruce agreed with a small smile and let go. He stood up slowly and helped Jonathan to stand. Without missing a beat, Jonathan leaned against him, wrapping and arm around his bare waist, taking as much weight off his foot as possible.
“You’re not shy, are you?”
Shrugging he replied, “There’s really no point. Men are unluckily built to be rather obvious about their thoughts on the subject.”
“I can’t disagree there,” Bruce said, holding Jonathan closer. Jonathan looked at him quizzically. “Let’s get you to the kitchen.”
They made their way to the sun-filled kitchen where Bruce deposited him in a chair and put his foot up on another one. “I’ll get an ice pack,” he said, rummaging through the freezer. He came back, wrapping one in a towel and placed it so that it sagged over the whole ankle. He crouched, holding it in place. Jonathan quirked an eyebrow, but sat back, returning a nice view, grinning to himself that Bruce was in fact, sneaking glances.
Well, well, well. Now this is an interesting development.
For once, Jonathan did not say anything to himself, agreeing.
“So…” Bruce said then cleared his throat.
“Yes, Bruce. Gay as a lord.”
“Ah.”
The kitchen clock ticked away the seconds as they fell into an awkward silence. Bruce moved the icepack fractionally, shifting his weight. Jonathan watched the splay of muscles under his skin, noticing for the first time the myriad of bruises that patterned over his torso. He leant forward to look at them.
“Get polo mallets thrown at you often?” He asked, tracing the trail of bruises lightly with his fingertips. Bruce shivered and went still. Jonathan took his hand away.
“I’m a terrible horseman, bad seat and everything. I get thrown a lot, and if I fall suddenly and I’m in the way - well, I have been whacked on a number of occasions.” Bruce shrugged.
“I see.” Jonathan tapped his fingers on his thigh in thought.
“You can come watch a practice if you’d like. I’m the in-joke of the team.”
“Really? Bruce Wayne - suave gentleman - bested by a mere horse? I accept, since such a rare sight is not to be missed.”
“Good. Thursday is the next practice.” Bruce said distractedly, eyes riveted on Jonathan’s fingers. Noticing this, Jonathan danced them slowly up his thigh.
“I think my ankle is sufficiently numbed,” he said.
“What?”
“My ankle.” Jonathan said slowly pronouncing each syllable with care.
“Oh - yes.” With a jerky motion, Bruce stood up and took the ice pack off. Jonathan stood up and put his weight on the foot.
“You have the magic touch, Bruce.” Jonathan stepped closer. “Thank you.” He reached out and ran his hands up Bruce’s arms, and down his chest. Bruce caught his hands hand held them tightly, the ice pack dropping to the floor.
“Wait.”
“You’re not wearing a shirt, and a body like yours needs to be touched.” He wriggled his hands enough to be able to lightly run his nails over Bruce’s nipples, and looked up at him.
“It does make it more interesting.” Bruce breathed, non-plussed at Jonathan’s forwardness. After a moment of hesitation, he leant forward and kissed him gently. When Jonathan ran his tongue over his lips, he gently pushed him back, dropping his hands. “I can’t,” he said.
“I know.” Jonathan slipped away through the kitchen door.
Cold shower or you will combust.
1 2 3 4 4.5 5 6 7 8 9
Part: 10/?
Authour: JSherlock
Fandom: Batman Begins
Pairing: Bruce Wayne / Jonathan Crane
Rating: PG-13 for mention of sex.
Warnings: None for now.
Beta: Slarti
Disclaimer: I do not own anything that belongs to DC and Time Warner/AOL
Summary: The tension has been building ever since Jonathan went to work for Bruce, and now, things come to a head.
PART X
Fuck. The harsh crack of the last syllable resonated through Jonathan’s head, dying away with a note of finality.
Of course, it described perfectly what he’d like to do to Bruce, who was showing off to great advantage what he had learned in his travels. The complex kata of some exotic martial art flowed across the mat in the centre of the room, Bruce’s body a mere instrument of Art’s will.
You’re drooling.
Jonathan wiped his mouth the with back of his hand unconsciously. Ensconced in a shadowed corner of the gym, he’d long given up pumping iron. At best, it was tedious, at worst; he felt he would rather pull out his own teeth without anesthesia. He had instead lapsed into speculative thought. Engrossed in thinking about how he could politely absent himself when Bruce wanted to take him out on ‘dates’, they got more and more absurd - even to the point of feigning illness or going to Arkham, he gradually became aware that there was someone else in the room. He focussed back on reality only to see Bruce pull off his t-shirt and drop it next to his shoes.
Jonathan stared in blank shock as he fidgeted uncomfortably in the narrow seat of the machine designed to bulk up the arms. Fuck me. Trying to make as little noise as possible, and moving so as not to attract attention, he slowly slid his body out from behind the weighted bar. He looked up as he went around, but Bruce was introspective - probably focused in an inner mind space.
With a yelp and a sharp clank of jangled weights, he fell heavily to the floor, his foot caught between the legs of the machine.
Milk it good, Johnny-boy.
“You all right, Jonathan?” Bruce said, seeming to appear at his side.
“Yes,” Jonathan hissed. “Nothing’s broken except my pride, I think.” He freed his foot, keeping hunched over.
“Let me see,” said Bruce, pushing Jonathan to sit back. Jonathan looked directly into his eyes when Bruce paused and dragged his eyes to his face. “Does this hurt?” He asked clinically squeezing Jonathan’s ankle.
“No.” Jonathan tried to pull his foot away, but Bruce just gripped it harder.
“This?” Bruce rotated the foot around.
“My foot,” Jonathan stressed, “is fine.” He yanked it harder wincing in pain.
“So I see.” Bruce agreed with a small smile and let go. He stood up slowly and helped Jonathan to stand. Without missing a beat, Jonathan leaned against him, wrapping and arm around his bare waist, taking as much weight off his foot as possible.
“You’re not shy, are you?”
Shrugging he replied, “There’s really no point. Men are unluckily built to be rather obvious about their thoughts on the subject.”
“I can’t disagree there,” Bruce said, holding Jonathan closer. Jonathan looked at him quizzically. “Let’s get you to the kitchen.”
They made their way to the sun-filled kitchen where Bruce deposited him in a chair and put his foot up on another one. “I’ll get an ice pack,” he said, rummaging through the freezer. He came back, wrapping one in a towel and placed it so that it sagged over the whole ankle. He crouched, holding it in place. Jonathan quirked an eyebrow, but sat back, returning a nice view, grinning to himself that Bruce was in fact, sneaking glances.
Well, well, well. Now this is an interesting development.
For once, Jonathan did not say anything to himself, agreeing.
“So…” Bruce said then cleared his throat.
“Yes, Bruce. Gay as a lord.”
“Ah.”
The kitchen clock ticked away the seconds as they fell into an awkward silence. Bruce moved the icepack fractionally, shifting his weight. Jonathan watched the splay of muscles under his skin, noticing for the first time the myriad of bruises that patterned over his torso. He leant forward to look at them.
“Get polo mallets thrown at you often?” He asked, tracing the trail of bruises lightly with his fingertips. Bruce shivered and went still. Jonathan took his hand away.
“I’m a terrible horseman, bad seat and everything. I get thrown a lot, and if I fall suddenly and I’m in the way - well, I have been whacked on a number of occasions.” Bruce shrugged.
“I see.” Jonathan tapped his fingers on his thigh in thought.
“You can come watch a practice if you’d like. I’m the in-joke of the team.”
“Really? Bruce Wayne - suave gentleman - bested by a mere horse? I accept, since such a rare sight is not to be missed.”
“Good. Thursday is the next practice.” Bruce said distractedly, eyes riveted on Jonathan’s fingers. Noticing this, Jonathan danced them slowly up his thigh.
“I think my ankle is sufficiently numbed,” he said.
“What?”
“My ankle.” Jonathan said slowly pronouncing each syllable with care.
“Oh - yes.” With a jerky motion, Bruce stood up and took the ice pack off. Jonathan stood up and put his weight on the foot.
“You have the magic touch, Bruce.” Jonathan stepped closer. “Thank you.” He reached out and ran his hands up Bruce’s arms, and down his chest. Bruce caught his hands hand held them tightly, the ice pack dropping to the floor.
“Wait.”
“You’re not wearing a shirt, and a body like yours needs to be touched.” He wriggled his hands enough to be able to lightly run his nails over Bruce’s nipples, and looked up at him.
“It does make it more interesting.” Bruce breathed, non-plussed at Jonathan’s forwardness. After a moment of hesitation, he leant forward and kissed him gently. When Jonathan ran his tongue over his lips, he gently pushed him back, dropping his hands. “I can’t,” he said.
“I know.” Jonathan slipped away through the kitchen door.
Cold shower or you will combust.
1 2 3 4 4.5 5 6 7 8 9