wingedfreak | days in the circus

Gotham City is in standing water. It laps up in basements and first floors, gnawing steadily at the foundations of the city. He acknowledges how lucky he is that the Wayne Tower was built industrial, as he's reminded every day that he comes back to the cave and peels out of the wet suit after long hours of pulling people out of rotted buildings. Still, the stone floors still boast up to four inches of water when it rains. He's lost a databank that will need to be rebuilt from the ground up. The set up has been moved upstairs, where light mold is already nipping into the plaster. It will have to go somewhere else soon, so that the scheduled maintenance crew doesn't trip over it.

He can't think of where it will go yet. He's tired. His self-preservational instincts were long gone weeks ago, and now that Alfred is home (easily winded and heavily medicated, yes, but home), Bruce finds he can't be bothered to decide what needs doing for his own good. At least, not till Dory wakes him up fussily, yanking curtains open and chittering about the mess in the master suite. He strains to puzzle out what she's talking about (it's dusty, just dust it, who cares?) until she mutters something about Satanica and he realizes what mess she means.

Riddler's mess. Renewal's mess. He feels more tired for realizing.

His parents' room had been untouched for years. The memory of it feels like a dream, as does most of the long week that led Bruce to vandalizing it with his research. All the fanatical zeal that had come with him into the room then is gone, though, and he can't help feeling silly when he goes in just before sun down and sees just what Dory complained of. It looks like a klatch of cooler-tipsy teenagers has been here. Bruce leaves only a few seconds after he enters, opting to prepare first with coffee with Alfred in the kitchen, a few pointers on how to scrub spray paint off of the wood floors, and the appropriate cleaning supplies.

The crew isn't supposed to come yet, Bruce notes to himself as he applies a paste along the paint marks. It must be later than he thought, and the crew is coming tomorrow. Maybe he's lost track of the days. Maybe he's more of a mess than he thought just yesterday. Two days ago? Earlier today? Bruce fumes over collecting his documents and sorting them on his parents bed--but the annoyance sharpens to alertness when he hears an unfamiliar footfall echo up the hall. Heavy, quick, steady--young and probably male. Not the snappy sound of his quiet staff or Dory's shuffle, not Alfred's cane-assisted lumber. It can't be tomorrow already...

A glance out the window tells him that he's right: it's only mid-evening, well past the time anyone should be stopping by for work. Drifting into the door frame, Bruce bends his head down the dark hall to listen. The steps meet Dory's a floor lower, a corridor down. He can't pick out the words, but the voice is distinct and strange to this house. At this time of night, after all of this mess, the idea of strangeness in his house is unacceptable. Bruce doesn't bother with the lights as he slips (silent, shoeless under his sweatpants) into the hall. He wants eyes on the interloper before they get eyes on him.

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[ He takes the look and the touch as an invitation, nodding in to pull another kiss off Dick's mouth, just one. ] When did it start to disappear?

[ There's a sound in the back of his throat, one Bruce pulls with the kiss. His eyes drop to Bruce's mouth, then up to stormy eyes again. ]

Don't know. [ Perhaps it was never there to begin with. ]

Bruce. What does this mean to you? Like, [ A hard swallow, his fingers tangling in dark hair to keep Bruce in place. ] Are you just helping me out right now?

...I'm helping you right now. [ Ground out after staring back at Dick too long. His eyes narrow minutely, mouth arranges around his thoughts in little mechanical ticks. ] But not just now. I'll always help you.

I would do anything you wanted. [ Given time to understand it, sit with it, process it. The finer points escape him right now, but there must be something to say for his boldness in not doing calculations before talking. ] Isn't that obvious?

[ a breath quivers out and he holds those unrelenting eyes. it turns out, he's been trying so hard to get what Bruce doesn't know how to give, too busy pushing away when he doesn't get it that he's missed how obvious it really is. Bruce would do anything for him. And what else could he ask for besides that?

Maybe he's falling for it, but his eyes warm, the chocolate melting as he presses another kiss to Bruce's mouth. ]

No. [ quietly said, patience winding through the tone of dry humour. ]

You know... [ His legs part as he slides his hand down the shape of Bruce's side to draw him in. ] You can count on me to help you, too. If you ever want that.

[ The scent of soap and antiseptic pulls Dick in to taste Bruce's jaw, until he says quietly near the shell of his ear, ] If you...ever want me. Like I want you.

[ The tricky thing is, Bruce can barely identify want. He feels it like a bolt feels rust milling between its threads. Years of disuse add discomfort and grit to the familiar, natural curve of it. He wanted once, half his life ago, but that boy disappeared. He wanted again, painfully, before Selina slipped out of his hands, leaving a little give for the next person to put pliers to his heart. He counted on having at least another decade to prepare.

[ And then there was Dick. So soon. And Bruce still isn't sure what to call it when he can see Dick's pulse chirruping in his throat and it hurts from the back of his tongue to the bottom of his gut--but sure. Maybe that's the name for it. That might be it, with the way it soothes everywhere that they connect. Bruce follows him in, heavy in the arrow of his hips, weight for both their benefit. ]

I want you. [ He says plainly. His palm wraps Dick's throat, gently and firmly pushes him back against the bed where Bruce and look at him. ] Is that clear enough? I want you.

Yeah. [ Even on a good day, Dick doesn’t know what to do with the look in Bruce’s eyes, with how revealing they can be. He doesn’t look away, only drinks in the feeling of such plain words, such a plain look. ]

Good. [It’s purred as a hand drags all the way up Bruce’s spine until there’s no more space between them, until Dick can press into a desperate, open-mouthed kiss. ]

So good.

[ His other hand guides Bruce’s grasp on his throat until it’s nestled between his parted thighs. ]

You’re the only one…who makes it quiet like this. 'S always been you.

days in the circus

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