#brucextim

Title: Have a good rest

Rating: PG (Fluffy fluff U w U)

Characters/Pairing: (Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake - BruceTim) 

Word Count: 278

Summary: Either way He was exhausted, way too tired to leave the cave and go up to his room actually. 

Other Notes: For YoungWolfing O w O!

http://bruce-and-tim.tumblr.com/

I should just join my dash, right?  :3

BruTim, mostly for me, but for everyone else who enjoys the psychoanalytical aspect of it too.

We should all give our IDs a hug every now and then.

Fic: "Meet Me Again" Fandom: DCnU, Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake - read the relationship any way you want. Rating: pg Word Count: ~ 1,200

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"You told me you were looking at colleges."  Batman slides through the window, slides in with the the shadows of the cars as they pass along on the other side of the glass; in and out, in and out. 

Tim honestly isn't sure how Bruce got the window open... but he's Bruce and sometimes it's best not to think to hard about what Bruce is and is not capable of doing.

There is no other light in the hotel room -- Tim had extinguished all of them - no.  He had never even turned them on when he walked into the room.  So all he has for light are the flashes of the constant, banal traffic that seems to breed like rabbits in southern California.

Tim is on the left side of the bed, the side furthest from the window and he's curled in on his side.  Cold drops of water from his damp hair are cooling on his skin, his face and neck.  The material of the generic hotel towel that he's wrapped in is stiff and starched and bleached, but he has wrapped himself up in three of them to stop the bleeding of the three inch laceration to his side.  The dermabond and his own blood-clotting mechanism is doing it's job, but he'd rather not bleed on the bed. 

The bathroom already looks like a crime scene as it is. 

It's Batman's face, cape and cowl and white stoic lenses in one flash of light and then, by the next, he's looking into Bruce's blue eyes and that wrinkle that becomes its most pronounced when the man is trying to hide his worry.

It warms the insides of Tim's stomach, makes him feel like he's melting all over.  Tim smiles softly, lips turning up so the corner of them hit the side of the pillow.  "I'm multitasking.  I visited Stanford the other day --found the campus to be a bit sprawling."

"Side effect of growing up in Gotham City, New Jersey?"  A large Bruce-shaped shadow gets thrown over him as the man steps closer and closer to where Tim is lying down.

The man's large form blocks most of the flashes of light now so Tim sighs and closes his eyes for a second, "Yeah." 

He misses home.  He misses Gotham.  He might be the only one to ever think that sentence with affection.

"So, what is Bruce Wayne doing in California, anyway?"  He

"Since when does Bruce Wayne need an excuse to fly into LAX?"  Calloused fingers, two of them, the middle and the index finger find Tim's carotid artery and press and hold. 

To Tim's blood-depleted body he feels a little like a pinned butterfly.  The kind that his parents had in giant glass shadow boxes in their offices.  M. Peleides, the thinks as Bruce counts the pulses of the fluttering artery.

"Wrong continent, I think, Tim."  Bruce mumbles back, still pressing and mentally counting.

The blue in their wings reminds him of Dick, who doesn't actually wear blue anymore, "How *is* Dick?" But the correspondence is always there to him anyway.

Bruce muffles an amused snort, "We will shelve the question of how you get from a South American butterfly to Dick Grayson for now." Fingers lift off his neck and Tim is free again.  If it didn't hurt to move, of course.  "He's fine."

Tim sighs and catalogs this touch in his mental database.  The man has taken off his gauntlets, so it's technically skin on skin.  There was the brief drag of finger pads on along the curve of Tim's jaw - Tim catalogs that as well, past his eyelashes and underneath his eyelids. 

Ozone that follows Bruce in from the streets, clings to his skin and his suit -- he smells it grow stronger as Bruce leans in and pinches the skin on the back of his wrist.

"I'm dehydrated."

"Yes - I can see that."  Bruce pats his wrist just once and stands from the bed.  "Who are you checked in under, Tim?"  Bruce sighs and moves further into one of the shadows so that Tim feels alone once more. 

It makes him unnecessarily sad.  Tim's feelings aren't logical and it makes him a little crazy.  "Arthur Dent."  Tim mutters out before he turns his face into his pillow.  He doesn't want to watch Bruce go. 

"Really, Tim?"

"42."

Bruce hums and Tim hears the rustling, the flutter from Bruce's caps and cowl unhooking and the groan of the kevlar-blend material being removed.  These things are silent still, but Tim can hear them in the shadows; can see the man in his mind move and go through these motions just as if they were in the cave.

It's so familiar that it stirs up... things in his chest.  Makes him nostalgic for something he can't quite put his finger on...

"Hello, I need to place an order for room service."  Bruce had crossed the room, naked from the waist up, and was speaking quietly into the phone on the desk. 

He's half pealed out of the Batsuit.  The arms fall around his waist pointing to the ground.  Tim can almost see the gauntlets tucked into the boots next to the bed.  Tim can definitely see every scar on the mountain that his Bruce's back.  They almost reflect in the dark room, with minimal light. 

"I understand that the kitchen is closed, but surely you can do something.  I'll make sure you are compensated accordingly -- yes.  As much eggs, scrambled is fine, and turkey bacon as you have.  And I need two bottles of PowerAide and two bottles of flat water... Yes.  Room 2021 - Mr. Arther Dent.  Yes.  Thank you, Sarah, you've been most helpful."

Bruce hangs up the phone and Tim must be losing time because when he blinks again.  Bruce is completely out of the suit.  It lies abandoned on the floor, hidden by the bed and shadows.  And he feels Bruce's skin slide against his own.

And it feels.  New.  Like home.  Like a missing puzzle piece sliding into place.

It feels like a million different things.

They all get caught up in Tim's throat and the only thing he can choke out is, "Bruce."

"Shh."  Bruce presses his chest up to Tim's back, slides an arm of his narrow waist and keeps his hand on Tim's pulse point at his wrist.  "We can talk about it later.  Just get some rest, Tim."

"But-"

"Shh."  He can feel his hair move on the top of his head from where Bruce breathes into it. 

He's never been this close to Bruce for this long.

"Just rest, son."

Bruce’s hips slam up for a final time and his hands on Tim's waist press him down and still.  Bruce freezes and Tim's eyes roll back in his head as he feels the man spill warmth deep inside of him. Another minute, as Bruce takes a shuddering breath, Tim lifts his damp cheek from the smooth surface of the executive desk. He's disoriented  and his lungs burn as he catches his breath and... Oh.  The keyboard is askew, the documents not under his sticky palms are decorating the floor. Bruce shifts his hips, "You really shouldn't work so hard, Tiger."

-fin (100/100)