All Robins Are Sluts

Jason near dribbles his Whiskey Sour all down his front, when an incredibly dapper silver fox slides into the seat next to him at this posh as fuck bar, mostly salt with very little pepper, bags under the eyes looking profound and also very soft. The man goes oomph quietly under his breath, winces like this agitates his hip, and looks over to smile a little helplessly, a little beguilingly, at Jason, eyes a hazy blue like there's cataracts that need addressing (or a hand-tinted set of contacts that need disposing of).

God aloud, all of this insane SFX makeup and Bruce's fucking cologne is still the fucking cologne Jason had fucking bought the second fucking year he'd lived at the Manor. Jason? Is salivating, and is possibly nearer death than he's ever been.

"This was the only empty seat," Bruce, insane, says, voice a little raspy and soft. "Hope you don't mind being saddled with me, son."

Okay. Jason's not going to pass out for all the blood rushing out to his dick, he will not be embarrassing himself in this situation, won't fumble Bruce (the unfumbleable). "I don't mind," he says, failing completely to sound suave on account of the gallon of spit he's got in his mouth. "I wasn't waiting for anyone."

This has Bruce raising a silvered brow. "Lucky me, then. Let me thank you." He calls for the bartender and asks for one of what Jason's having.

When it arrives, he reaches for it before Jason can (okay), and puts it in front of Jason (okay), and very very uncasually rubs his thumb against the rim, slow and lingering like he'd really rather be doing it to Jason's mouth instead (Christ Alive). "There you go," Bruce says. "I'm Bruce," and he holds his hand out for a shake.

This is problematic, since Jason wants it in his mouth. "Uh, hi." He shakes it, as calmly as possible though he knows his grips strength goes up 20 pounds when Bruce somehow does something highkey sexual with his thumb on join between Jason's first two fingers. "Jason."

Bruce pulls away, smiling, and it's the same smile in spite of every else that's different, and Jason's going to Fucking Die For Real (again). "Nice to meet you," Bruce says earnestly. "Tell me about yourself, son."

-

It's a couple hours later and Jason's very light-headed. Bruce keeps getting his drinks, which is fine. He keeps, like. Almost finger-fucking the cups, which unfortunately is also fine. He keeps being paternal in a way that's almost condescending if it wasn't so insanely hot, steadying hand at Jason's back when Jason had wobbled a little overmuch in the midst of telling a humdinger of a story, even though Jason's not inebriated.

Even though Jason's the most sober he's been all night, because Bruce keeps getting them bar snacks and had started getting virgin(!!) versions of drinks by round 3 because Jason actually fucking hates the loss of control associated with being drunk, which is very Bruce, without breaking character and acting like he's setting Jason up to be taken advantage of, which is also very Bruce.

Bruce is presently looking upon him with warm, kinda demeaning fondness, big hand on Jason's thigh, which is what's making him big dizzy. The hand never rises higher, but when Jason hits a joke just right or sneaks in a tidbit about a closer call than he'd disclosed on a mission report, it tightens, and.

It's so late it's early in the morning, and Jason's in such such dire fucking need. He doesn't grab Bruce's hand, feeling weirdly shy when that is NOT a feeling Bruce commonly elicits in him. He does, tentatively, brush up against Bruce's fingertips on the common ground of his thigh in his nicest pair of slacks. "Think I'm calling it a night, old man." He breathes in the cologne that's gone a little soft and round in this quiet warmth. "Gonna, uhm. Stagger off home."

Bruce's hand catches his, and the fucking freak has laid down liver spots and silvered arm hair, and the fucking freak is rubbing Jason's trigger finger (that tends to ache a lot on account of having been broken the most on account of how Jason doesn't practice trigger safety as many times as people smash his gun out of his hand). "Didn't think you'd need to retire before me," Bruce says, low and warm and a little mean. "Do you need help getting home, Jason?"

Jason's got stars in his eyes, and he usually likes (needs) more control but a hopeless desire to be cared for is definitely a massive contributing factor to his daddy kink (extra old edition), and Bruce is offering and they both have the night off, and.

Jason tips forward out of his bar stool like he's too drunk to keep upright, rests his cheek on Bruce's shoulder (padded to look more rounded jesus fucking christ) and rests his lips against a starched collar. "Think 'm gonna need more help than that." He shifts a little, just enough so they're making the barest sliver of eye contact. "D'you know of someone who's up for taking care of me tonight, Mister Wayne?"

And Bruce doesn't need to break character, because the man's stayed undercover on two separate occasions of intergalactic torture, but he does because he simply wants to, to duck down and brush an easy kiss on Jason's cheek. "Of course," Bruce says, cool and confident and entirely like his regular self. "Of course I do, son."

And then his hand on Jason's thigh migrates to tuck neatly, proprietarily under the waistband of Jason's nicest slacks, like a sleazy old man's got these land rights, so close but not quite skin on skin, and Jason.