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“Okay, B, look at me.”
Obedient, Bruce leans back against the couch, and slowly, with difficulty, tilts his head up, so Jason can shine a small flashlight into his eyes. Jason watches closely for a reaction, but the pupils remain visibly dilated.
Still, there's no reason to worry yet. Bruce is lucid enough, and, from what Jason's has observed, the only things affected by Ivy's pollen are his balance and coordination. Jason has already administered the antidote; it should kick in any time now.
Jason sighs, turns off the flashlight, and glances over at his modest living room. Good thing that he remembered about this safehouse when one of Ivy's plants started shooting miniature thunderbolts at them and they had to make their escape, fast. Trudging all the way across Gotham to the Cave with their comms fried out and an incapacitated, swaying Batman holding onto his shoulder didn't seem like the smartest idea at that moment.
Yeah, bringing Bruce here was the best he could do under those circumstances.
“Right.” Jason clears his throat, pockets the flashlight. “You should feel better in a few minutes. I'll get you some water, how about that?” He pauses, and his cheeks flush under Bruce's unwavering gaze. Even glazed over, those eyes haven't lost any of their intensity. Jason swallows again, silently cursing his nervousness, and says, “Don't worry, I'll let Alf know that you're here. Guess he won't be too happy about that whole clusterfuck with Ivy.”
He starts to turn away – and this has nothing to do with fleeing, he tells himself, and trying to avoid more of those awkward stares and silences – when Bruce's fingers wrap around his wrist, effectively stopping him in his tracks.
It's a loose hold, one that he could shake off with ease, but the shock of it, the unexpectedness of Bruce's rough, gauntleted hand touching the delicate skin is enough to make Jason blush even harder, and his breath stutter in his breast.
What the hell is wrong with me, he scoffs at himself.
It's not like he hasn't gotten used to working with Bruce again. Sure, it's all new, shaky, and they still tiptoe around each other, but they are on speaking terms, and overall get on pretty well, all things considered. And, because there's usually no touching involved, Bruce's proximity doesn't have this weird, overpowering effect on Jason.
Now, though, Jason is rooted to the spot, staring wide-eyed at Bruce. Jesus, he's all jittery and flustered like some schoolboy with a crush. How pathetic is that?
He should say something, put a stop to whatever it is that's unfolding between them.
But before Jason can gather up his resolve, Bruce is shifting closer, his movements oddly languid, devoid of the usual hard, brisk effectiveness. He tugs at Jason's wrist, and Jason stumbles forward, knees hitting the edge of the couch, until he ends up standing between Bruce's splayed legs.
Then, Bruce loops his other arm around Jason's waist, bends his head, and buries his face against Jason's stomach.
“Thank you,” he says, and the deep, gravelly cadence of his voice sends a small shiver down Jason's spine. “For taking care of me.”
The words rumble through Jason, and the thin fabric of his undershirt is such a flimsy barrier that he can feel the movements of Bruce's lips with an acute, white-hot intensity. A thought flashes through his mind – he really shouldn't have been so quick to strip off his body armor.
At a loss, he glances down at the closely cropped black hair, at the Batman's cowl bunched around Bruce's neck.
A cuddly Batman.
What the hell.
“Yeah, well, that's what we're supposed to do,” he says, and gives Bruce's shoulder a clumsy pat. “Take care of each other, I mean.” After a moment of hesitation, he lets his fingers trail up, to brush them gently against Bruce's nape. “Um, I really should call Alf and – “
In an instant, the arm around his waist tightens like a steel band.
“Please, don't go,” Bruce whispers. “Don't leave me.”
Oh, fuck.
Alarm bells start ringing in his ears, because now it's clear that he's vastly overestimated how in control Bruce truly is. And yet the raw yearning in Bruce's voice still manages to make him blink in surprise and spark a surge of warmth in his chest.
“Missed you,” Bruce continues, in the same low, urgent tone. “Missed you so much, Jason.”
One hard yank, the grip on Jason's wrist inexorable, and Jason's flailing, pitching forward, to land straight into Bruce's lap with an undignified yelp.
He stares at Bruce in shock. “B! Old man, this is …”
The rest of it dies in his throat when he meets Bruce's eyes. They aren't hazy anymore; instead, they are sharp and focused. And all of that intensity, all of the undisguised emotions reflected in them are directed at Jason alone.
“Jason,” Bruce says, and brings Jason's hand to his cheek. He nuzzles into Jason's palm, eyes falling shut, his features, normally so stoic and inscrutable, relaxing into an expression of pure bliss. Jason doesn't resist; he can only watch, lips parted, as Bruce lays a soft kiss on the inside of his wrist.
“Don't want to ever lose you again.” Bruce releases Jason's wrist, only to reach out with both hands to frame Jason's face. The wonder and tenderness in Bruce's gaze as he studies Jason are almost too much to bear.
To have this, to have Bruce looking at him like that ...
Every one of Jason's guilty fantasies is finally coming true, heaven and hell rolled together into one.
And none of it is real.
Jason turns his head away, ashamed.
“No,” Bruce says, and gently tilts Jason's face back to his, forcing Jason to look him in the eye. “Don't hide from me.”
Jason swallows, shakes his head. “It's the pollen, Bruce,” he whispers. “You have to – “
He shudders as Bruce's finger lands over the bow of his upper lip. “It's not the pollen. Not the part that matters, anyway.”
You don't mean it, he thinks, desperate.
It's not possible.
But Bruce is still touching him, sliding his palms down to Jason's shoulders. It's unhurried, as though Bruce has to reacquaint himself with Jason's body and meticulously catalog all the changes, test the solidity of Jason's muscles, find out how broad Jason's shoulders have become.
And then it's not so innocent anymore; Bruce makes a frustrated noise, fingers clenching on Jason's undershirt.
“You're so ...” he trails off, his breathing ragged. A curse escapes him, demonstrating that, despite clinging to the shreds of his iron self-control, he's teetering on the brink, ready to fall. Abruptly, he yanks his hands back, tugs at the gauntlets, his movements jerky, shaking with impatience.
Once his hands are bare, he grabs at Jason and hauls him close, fingers digging into the meat of Jason's shoulder.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, craning his neck and setting his mouth to Jason's throat. “So beautiful.”
His teeth graze the straining tendon, and Jason can't stifle a moan. It feels too good, the pain adding a heady spike to the pleasure. He trembles, as Bruce's lips follow the path down, lingering at his Adam's apple to suck a bruise into the tender skin.
“Please, Jason,” Bruce whispers, hoarse, and Jason's face burns at how absolutely lost and undone he sounds, as if he's utterly at Jason's mercy.
Still, even as Jason cups the back of Bruce's head and arches his own neck, eager to feel more of that hot drag of Bruce's lips all over his skin, he tries to make Bruce see reason.
“You're not in your right mind,” he says between gasps. “You're going to regret this when this shit wears off.”
“No,” Bruce replies. He grasps the hem of Jason's undershirt, and slowly draws it up. “No. Jason, I need you.” The words tumble out against Jason's throat, punctuated by more kisses and bites, heated and heavy with want. “Being with you, seeing you like this. I will never regret this. Never.”
Sappy, foolish words, yet, like everything that Bruce has said so far, they are getting to Jason, hitting dangerously close to those parts of himself that he keeps tightly leashed, all the impossible dreams, all the shameful things that he wants from Bruce.
You will never regret this?
He cradles Bruce's jaw, the pressure of his fingers enough to make Bruce stop kissing his throat and look up at him.
Jason stares into those blue eyes, lets a sad smile curl his lips.
“Liar,” he tells Bruce, before he bends down and presses his mouth to Bruce's. Better him than Bruce to cross that final line, better him to take the brunt of the blame and deal with the inevitable fallout.
But Bruce kisses him back, hard, as though to prove a point, shoving his tongue between Jason's lips with such force that it almost knocks Jason's head back.
It's hungry and demanding, leaving no room for doubt. Nostrils flaring, Jason retaliates, tightening his grip on Bruce's jaw, biting and sucking at Bruce's tongue and lips, letting Bruce taste all of his frustration and want.
Fuck you, you bastard.
Bruce smiles into the kiss, one hand still at Jason's shoulder, the other roaming down over Jason's exposed chest and abdomen. His fingers grope and scrape, possessive and greedy, trying to mark every inch of Jason's skin.
But then Bruce slips his hand lower, pauses, uncertain, at Jason's belt buckle.
Jason tears his mouth away from Bruce's. “Yeah,” he growls at Bruce. “Do it.”
And because they are already going to hell together, he reaches down, fingers fumbling over Bruce's armor, until he finds hidden clasps and catches. He rips at them, uncaring, almost dizzy with his need to touch Bruce.
Finally, Kevlar and leather give way, and he closes his fist around Bruce's cock. It's hot, pulsing with blood, solid and hard, just like the rest of Bruce, and Jason has to grit his teeth to hold his own lust at bay.
Bruce gasps, his breath heating the side of Jason's face.
It's a beautiful sound; Jason gazes down at Bruce, transfixed, his attention drawn to the warm blush dusting Bruce's sharp cheekbones, the stormy blue of Bruce's eyes, to the way those stern lips are all red and shiny from Jason's kiss.
It's a ruse, though, this picture of surrender. Bruce's eyes glint in silent warning, and then it's Jason's turn to make an embarrassing noise, as Bruce tugs open his belt and zipper, and, oh, god, yes, takes his cock in hand.
Everything narrows down to this sensation, to Bruce touching him, the strong, calloused fingers working his length. Jason rises to his knees, cants his hips up, seeking more.
“Like that,” he rasps. “Don't stop.”
Bruce listens, keeps on stroking with firm, even pulls. Suddenly, he changes the angle, shifting his body up, and then their cocks are right next to each other, almost touching. Jason reacts immediately, moving with Bruce, adjusting his grip. It's awkward at first, their rhythm sloppy, before they manage to line their cocks up together.
Jason gives a choked off sob at how perfect, how dirty this feels. Root to tip, his cock is trapped against Bruce's, blood pumping through both of them in rapid bursts. The precome is leaking from the flushed heads, easing the glide of his and Bruce's fingers.
So close, so unbearably close.
Rough, fast, they rub their palms up and down their shafts, building an even more brutal, relentless pace. It's a race now, and heavy tension is already pooling low in Jason's stomach, just waiting for that final spark.
“Bruce,” he snarls.
Bruce surges forward, clamping his teeth against the side of Jason's neck. Sweet, wonderful pain, and it's enough to push Jason over the edge. Now, now, now. He throws his head back, opens his mouth on a groan, his cock spasming in the tight circle of his fingers, laced together with Bruce's.
Bruce follows right after, with a growl of his own, hips snapping up in one desperate, powerful thrust. He comes all over Jason's hand and his own, in long, thick spurts, and some of the droplets land on Jason's stomach too.
Bruce clasps the back Jason's neck, vise-like. For one moment he holds on, fingers clenched tight, then his grip slowly relaxes.
Exhausted, bright colors still spiraling behind his eyelids, Jason drops his forehead to Bruce's shoulder. Their chests rise and fall, brushing together. Jason opens his eyes into slits, glances down at himself, at the the warm, sticky mess slowly cooling on his skin, dripping down over his abdomen.
The white streaks of come, stark against the black of the Batman's suit are an even more surreal sight.
Fuck.
Arousal and panic wash over him, as he stares and stares, his mind a complete blank.
What the fuck have they done.
Jason flinches back, but Bruce doesn't let him get away. Instead, he kisses Jason's temple, his cheek, the corner of his lips.
“I've already told you I won't regret this,” he murmurs, eyes still dazed with pleasure.
“Liar,” Jason replies, but his voice is unsure, barely above a whisper.
Bruce smiles at him, soft and a little sad. “Guess I'll just have to convince you some more, then.”
Without another word, he covers Jason's mouth with his own.
Liar.
But Jason still sighs into the kiss, still leans into the heat of Bruce's body.