Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The warehouse had once been a textile mill. You could still see the outlines of old machinery on the walls, the ghosts of bolts and pulleys. But recently the place had been reborn, dressed up in the cheapest glamour money could buy.

Colored spotlights sliced through the haze of smoke and dust, turning the cracked concrete floor into something almost theatrical. Girls in sequined bras and skirts the size of napkins wove through the aisles with trays, balancing bottles of whiskey and rum in real glass cups. Their heels clicked against the floorboards hastily laid to cover bare concrete. To the uninitiated, it might almost pass for legitimate nightlife. To Bruce, it was window dressing.

The smell gave it away: sweat, grease, cigarette ash ground into the floor.
Bruce followed Maroni and the other men toward a roped-off section near the cage.

The shipping magnate’s voice boomed, too loud for the room, already half-drunk.
“Now this, this is Gotham, Wayne. You want to know the city, you don’t look at your towers. You look here. Men in the dirt. Nothing faked. Nothing sterile.”

Bruce offered him a practiced smile and a nod, the kind that could pass for agreement without ever committing to one. He let himself be guided to a leather-upholstered chair, already worn and sticky with heat, and accepted a tumbler of scotch pressed into his hand by one of the girls. He lifted it, swirled the amber liquid once, and tasted. Decent, actually. They wanted this place to feel expensive, even if the walls told another story.

The cage at the center of the floor rattled as two men finished a brutal exchange. The crowd surged, bills fluttering in the air before changing hands. The referee raised the victor’s arm, and the loser stumbled out, his nose a ruin of blood.

Bruce leaned back, his eyes moving without much interest. He’d been to fight nights before. But this was theater. Violence wrapped in spectacle, dressed up enough for Gotham’s men of power to feel dangerous without leaving their comfort zone.

The house lights dimmed. A microphone screeched. The moderator slipped into the cage, a wiry man in a tuxedo shiny with sweat. His voice rose with a practiced rhythm, theatrical, selling drama as though the steel mesh were Madison Square Garden.

“Ladies and gentlemen! For your main event this evening—two fighters, one cage, one victor. Place your last bets, hold onto your glasses, and get ready for the fight you’ve been waiting for!”

The crowd roared. The floodlights buzzed brighter, cutting through smoke.

“First, entering the cage… standing at six foot even, weighing in at one-sixty-nine pounds, with a record of fourteen wins and five losses… Gotham’s own, the breaker of jaws, the king of the cage… Eddie ‘Jaw Breaker’ Gonzales!”

Music thundered through the speakers, heavy drums, bass deep enough to shake the scaffolding. A broad man strode out from behind the curtain, flanked by handlers in matching tracksuits. He grinned, soaking in the noise, slapping the steel mesh as he entered the cage. His body was thick with muscle, his movements casual, arrogant. The crowd shouted his name, bills changing hands already.

Bruce’s gaze was steady. Gonzales moved like a man who expected to win. He’d seen that walk before, in fighters and businessmen alike. Confidence that tipped toward complacency.

“And his opponent… fighting out of the East End… standing at five-nine, weighing in at one-fifty-six pounds, with a record of five wins and three losses… let’s hear it for Jason Todd!”

The music shifted. Lower, darker, something with a sharp edge of defiance in the riff. The crowd erupted, half cheers, half jeers.
Jason stepped out from behind the curtain, barefoot, his shoulders held taut like wire. Two men came with him, one barking in his ear, the other clapping his back too hard, rough encouragement that looked more like ownership than support. They pushed him forward, not gently.

Jason peeled his shirt off as they walked, tossing it aside without a glance, leaving only fight shorts that hung low on his hips. His body was lean but bruised, crisscrossed with old scars that caught the light. He didn’t raise his arms or play to the crowd. He looked straight ahead, his jaw locked.

Bruce felt the air change around him, though he couldn’t have said why.
No stance yet, no technique to study, just a young man climbing into a steel box against someone bigger, stronger, more experienced.

Bruce couldn’t place it, not yet. He only knew that for the first time that night, he wasn’t thinking about the dirt around him, the fake luxury displayed, the deals waiting in the morning, or the way Maroni was crowing beside him. He was watching Jason Todd.

The bell cracked and the cage door slammed shut behind them. Gonzales came out grinning, broad shoulders rolling as if the match were already his. Jason met him head-on, too straight, too raw, and the bigger man pounced.

The first punches were blunt instruments, crashing into Jason’s guard, forcing him back. A hook snuck through, snapping Jason’s head sideways; another slammed into his ribs with a dull thud. He grunted, teeth clenched, chin ducked, arms folding in tighter. The boy wasn’t countering yet. He was absorbing.

The crowd howled. Bruce watched the way Jason’s knees bent, not from panic but calculation. A pause, a measure of the rhythm. He’d seen it a lot before in sparring matches at the gym and in tournaments years ago: the difference between someone drowning and someone counting seconds underwater.

Beside him, Maroni laughed, full and guttural. “Kid’s a punching bag,” he said, slapping the armrest of his chair. He leaned toward Bruce, his cologne pungent, mixing badly with the stink of sweat and beer that hung over the warehouse. “Look at him. Takes a hit, doesn’t fold. That’s worth money in this town. Fellas like Gonzales, they burn out quick. Too much show. Todd? He’s got grit.”

Bruce swirled the amber in his glass, eyes never leaving the cage. “Grit only matters if you know when to stop bleeding and start thinking,“ he said evenly.

Maroni barked out a laugh, clapping his knee. “Spoken like a man who doesn’t know the odds. You’ll see. The kid’s tough, he’ll bleed for the crowd. That’s what they pay for.” He leaned closer, voice thick with liquor and triumph, and shouted across the noise, “Come on, Todd! I got good money on you! Don‘t make me look stupid!”

Jason seemed to have caught part of it. He flinched. Just a flick of his eyes toward the roped-off section, toward Maroni’s big meaty hand gesturing in the air. That heartbeat of distraction cost him. Gonzales drove a straight right into his jaw, snapping his head back. Jason staggered, almost fell. The crowd exploded with laughter and shouts, the sound like an ocean crashing all at once.

Maroni bared his teeth in a grin. “See? That’s what I mean. Gets knocked, but he ain’t glass. He’ll keep swinging ‘til you drag him out on a stretcher. Reliable.”

Bruce kept his gaze forward, jaw set. Reliable wasn’t the word he’d have chosen.
Jason recovered fast, too fast for someone his age and experience amd weight with that much force against him. He spat a ribbon of blood to the side and came in low, ducking Gonzales’ hook and throwing a short, mean punch into his ribs. Not elegant, not polished, but enough to make the bigger man grunt and stumble half a step.

The bell rang. Round over.

Jason walked back to his corner, shoulders rolling with the stiffness of impact. He lowered himself onto the stool, chest heaving. His handlers came at him in a rush, not with care but with impatience. One shoved a bottle at him; water spilled down his chin and chest, most of it wasted.

Another slapped him across the shoulder as if to jolt him awake, before barking orders at him, Bruce couldn‘t hear.

There was no ice pressed to his side, though the bruise already darkened the skin above his ribs. No clean towel, no soft word. Just cursory gestures, brusque orders. Efficient in the way one checks a horse’s hooves.

Bruce leaned forward slightly, studying. He’d seen tons of good corners: methodical, almost tender in their focus. This wasn’t that. The neglect wasn’t blatant enough to register to the crowd, but it stood out to him. The little things left undone. The absence of concern where concern should have been automatic.

The bell rang again, and Jason stood. Gonzales lumbered forward with the same easy arrogance he‘d started the first round with.

But this time Jason struck first. A jab, fast and sharp, splitting the air. Then another. Gonzales’ grin faltered as one caught his cheek, snapping his head back. Jason darted aside, footwork scrappy but alive, landing a kick low to the thigh that made a hollow, meaty sound. The crowd roared, some in surprise, others in delight at the sudden surge.

Bruce leaned in. There was intelligence in the shift. Jason had learned something from the first round: Gonzales was overcommitted. Too hungry for the big finish, he left spaces. Jason wasn’t polished, but he was trying to read those spaces now.

Still Gonzales barreled through another jab, caught Jason around the waist, and drove him into the mat. The cage rattled. Dust puffed up where sweat had darkened the canvas. The bigger man rained down blows, heavy and wild. Jason curled, legs thrashing, then managed to snake a heel under Gonzales’ hip and twist. For a moment, impossibly, he reversed, scrambling to his knees then and shoving free. The crowd bellowed.

Jason’s chest heaved, blood smeared across his mouth, sweat making his skin shine under the harsh lights. He kept moving, circling. Gonzales chased, annoyed now, throwing wild hooks. One landed.

Jason reeled, stumbled back into the fence, arms up. Gonzales pressed, forearm grinding into his face, fists digging into his ribs.

Bruce felt his own jaw tighten, an old phantom ache in his ribs answering each blow. He‘d bruised a rip, not only once, during a fight, but this was different. This was survival layered over pain, a boy using every ounce of cunning just to stay standing.

The bell cracked again.

Jason dragged himself back to the stool, every step marked by stiffness. His corner closed around him with a kind of restless impatience. Their words came hard and fast, swallowed by the roar of the crowd.

No towel to wipe the sweat that stung his eyes. No cool weight of ice for the bruise flowering dark across his ribs. One shoved a plastic bottle into his grip, more than half-empty now, condensation long gone, probably lukewarm.

Jason tugged out his mouthguard, the sound lost in the roar, and took a swallow. He swished, spat onto the floor. The liquid came up pink-red, pooling at his bare feet before soaking into the canvas.

Bruce watched the ritual with a tightening jaw. Corners were meant to be a sanctuary, a breath between storms, a place where strategy was rebuilt in fragments of sixty seconds. A proper corner protected a fighter, kept him functional, preserved what strength he had left.

This was no sanctuary. What he saw instead was neglect. They weren’t caring for him; they were pushing him back into the cage with the bare minimum. Enough to keep the show running, not enough to keep the boy whole.

Jason Todd was being driven, not protected. Treated like the outcome didn’t matter as long as he bled for it.

Jason hunched forward, forearms braced on his thighs, sweat dripping from his jaw. Blood slid from his split lip and fell in slow beads between his feet. He stared down at it for a breath, then lifted his eyes, not toward his corner, not for guidance, but outward. Toward the crowd. Toward Maroni.
The older man was laughing, drink in hand, cigar clamped between two thick fingers as he gestured, boasting to the men around him. Not watching the boy. Not seeing the bruise that spread dark beneath Jason’s ribs.

Jason eyes flicked again and this time, they caught Bruce. For a moment, the noise of the crowd seemed to fall away. Jason, bloodied and breathless, and Bruce, dry glass forgotten in his hand. The boy’s expression was not a plea, not even a challenge. Just a flash of awareness, like he had recognized something in Bruce’s face, a man watching, not wagering.

Then the bell rang again. Jason, bruised and stubborn, slipped the mouthpiece back between his teeth with a grim efficiency, jaw clenching around it. He stood on his own, legs steadying beneath him, and raised his fists. His stance wasn’t clean, but it was unbroken.

Bruce felt the shift in the air before the fight resumed. The boy was battered, yes, but not bowed. And that resilience, misused as it was, was the kind of thing that couldn’t be taught.

Across from him, Gonzales looked fresher, cocky, pacing with loose energy, smirking like he could already taste the win.

The crowd rose with the tempo of the music, a pounding bass that seemed to shake the cage itself. Sweat and smoke thickened the air. Bruce shifted forward on his chair, eyes locked on the younger fighter.

They met at the center. Gonzales struck first, heavy jab, right cross. Jason’s guard came up too late. The punch clipped his cheekbone, snapping his head sideways. He staggered, his knees buckling for a fraction of a second, but he didn’t fall.

The cage vibrated with the eruption of the crowd. Jason came back wild. He drove Gonzales against the mesh, reckless, with a flurry of punches, sloppy but fast, the kind that forced Gonzales to cover up. Fists thudded against arms, ribs, shoulders. Then Gonzales surged out, catching Jason around the waist.

They slammed to the mat. The breath rushed out of Jason’s lungs. Gonzales was heavier, stronger, pinning him with brute force. The crowd roared approval, chanting Gonzales’s name. Bruce’s jaw clenched.

Jason struggled under the weight.
“Stay down, kid!” Gonzales barked, teeth bared, sweat flying from his mouth.

Jason writhed beneath him, caught in the hold, and for a moment it looked like it was over. Gonzales rained short, punishing punches down at his head and shoulders. Each one landed with a sickening thud.

Jason absorbed another blow, body curling under the impact, but something inside him lit. Jason twisted, found leverage where none should have existed. He shoved upward with his hips, rolled hard, and suddenly they were reversed, Gonzales on his back, Jason straddling his torso, fists hammering. Blood - his own, Gonzales’s - it didn’t matter anymore, sprayed across the mat, metallic in the air.

“Finish him!” someone howled from the crowd. Jason’s right hand smashed into Gonzales’s jaw again and again, each strike weaker than the last, his own body failing him even as he tried to end it. Gonzales’s arms flailed, then stilled.

The ref dove in, pulling Jason back before he could throw another punch. The bell rang. The fight was done.

Jason staggered to his feet, chest heaving, sweat and blood streaming down his skin. there was no triumph in his face. Only exhaustion. His eyes swept the crowd once more, unfocused.

His corner stormed the cage, all grins and backslaps. One seized his wrist, yanking his arm into the air, parading him for the cameras as though Jason were a trophy, not the one who had earned the win. Another shoved a smile onto his own face, shouting over the crowd as though they had anything to do with it. Jason’s head lolled slightly as the announcement thundered overhead.

“Your winner - by technical knockout - Jason ‘Todd’!”

The crowd erupted again, a chaotic mixture of cheers and curses, money changing hands in fast, furtive exchanges. Maroni pounded his chair, laughing through a plume of cigar smoke.

Jason’s corner hauled him toward the gate, still shouting, still smiling. Jason moved under their pull, legs unsteady, mouthpiece jutting awkwardly from split lips.

The cage door slammed behind them.
Bruce remained in his chair, glass untouched on the table.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

Around Bruce, the warehouse came alive with the frenzied aftermath of the fights: men celebrating wins, bemoaning losses. The floor stank of spilled beer and sweat, of money made and lost. Beside him, Maroni chuckled, broad shoulders shaking, cigar smoke curling thick in the air. “See that? Kid’s a scrapper. Thought he was done in the second, didn’t you? Hah! Surprised us all.” He slapped Bruce’s shoulder, leaving the scent of tobacco and leather in his wake.

Bruce didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the path where Jason had disappeared, the boy’s unsteady frame swallowed by shadows and handlers.

Then he turned, polite mask back in place. “Surprised, yes,” he said evenly. “Though I can’t say I’m impressed by the way his corner treats him.”

Maroni barked out a laugh, flashing teeth stained dark by smoke. “That’s how these boys get sharpened. Coddle ‘em and they break. Push ‘em and they fight.” He lifted his glass, swallowed deep, then gestured for Bruce to rise. “Come on, Wayne. Let me introduce you to a few of the folks who keep this little circus rolling. Sponsors, trainers, movers and shakers. Not the kind of people you meet at your galas, but they make this city hum all the same.”

Bruce stood smoothly, jacket settling around his broad frame. “Lead the way.”

The two men wove through the throng, past ringside tables stacked with empty glasses, past the leering men congratulating themselves over wins earned on someone else’s pain.

Maroni was in his element, shaking hands, trading laughs, boasting about “his fighter.” Bruce followed, eyes cataloging faces, noting allegiances, storing information in quiet corners of his mind.

A narrow hallway opened behind the cage, the air close, stripped of the music and the roar. The smell shifted here, less alcohol, more sweat, antiseptic, and blood. Maroni moved with the easy swagger of a man who owned the space, chatting with a cluster of handlers in tracksuits, his laugh echoing off the peeling walls.

Bruce’s attention drifted. Down the hall, just a few meters away, Jason sat on a battered folding chair, shirtless, hunched over himself. He was alone for the moment, corner men lingering further down, distracted in loud conversation.

Jason was bent forward, elbows braced on his knees, dabbing at his face with a crumpled towel. Blood smeared across his jaw, his knuckles raw and swelling. He spat into a bucket at his feet, the sound harsh in the quiet. His ribs rose and fell in shallow, uneven pulls.

Bruce’s gaze caught and held. The young man was wrecked, but there was no complaint in him, no cry for help. Just silent endurance.

Jason must have felt the stare. His eyes lifted, meeting Bruce’s across the hallway. Recognition flickered there—not of Bruce Wayne maybe, but of the man he had glimpsed cageside, watching him differently than the rest.

For a beat, neither moved. Then Jason gave a crooked half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His voice was hoarse, roughened by blood. “What? You back here to gloat? Watch the freak show off-stage too?”
Bruce stepped closer, measured, his shoes silent on the concrete.

“I‘m not seeing a freak here. You fought good, lad.“

Jason huffed a laugh, bitter and sharp. He leaned back in the folding chair, though the motion made him wince.
“Yeah? You don’t exactly look like a guy who knows a left hook from a nine iron. What’s your angle, suit?”

Before Bruce could speak, voices cut through the hallway, loud, booming.
Maroni rounded the corner first, cigar glowing, laughter rolling from his gut. “There he is! My boy, the champ!” His words echoed, smug and heavy. “You‘ve made me a load of money tonight!“

Behind him waddled a shorter, stockier man in a tailored overcoat with a gaudy tie, Oswald Cobblepot. His smile was wide, toothy, wrong. His eyes, cold and sharp, skimmed Jason the way a butcher might look at meat on a slab.

Cobblepot’s hand landed on Jason’s shoulder, possessive, heavy. “Good boy,” he murmured. “Took your hits, gave it back. That’s what I like to see.” He leaned over him, voice dropping lower, slick. “And now, you’ll earn the rest of your keep.”

Jason didn’t flinch, didn’t fight the words. He only went still, his earlier spark shuttering.

Cobblepot turned to Bruce, arms spreading wide in a mockery of hospitality. “You’ve got good taste, Mr. Wayne. You kept your eyes on him, I noticed. Don’t worry, you don’t need to be coy. Jason here is…” a pause, his grin widening “…available. Tough as nails in the cage, soft as silk out of it.”

Maroni barked a laugh, smoke spilling between his teeth.
“Told you, Wayne. Worth every penny. That boy bleeds, and the crowd eats it up. Off the mat? He’s even more valuable.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. He studied Jason, bruised, bloodied, staring at the floor as if this humiliation was routine.

Cobblepot leaned closer to Bruce, lowering his voice like he was offering a business secret. “Why don’t you take him tonight? He’ll keep you entertained. Best return on your money you’ll get in this place.” His stubby fingers tapped Jason’s jaw, tilting it just enough for Bruce to see the cut above his eye, the swelling lip.

Bruce’s eyes hardened. “He’s in no shape for … certain activities.”
Cobblepot’s grin sharpened, snake-like. “Ah, I see. Not your fancy. That’s fine. He doesn’t have to be everyone’s cup of tea fresh out of the ring. Give him a few days, and he’ll be polished back up, right as rain. Then you can take your pick. How’s that sound?”

Bruce glanced at Jason again. The boy sat pliant now, silent, not resisting, as if he’d already accepted that his body would be promised away one way or another. His silence screamed louder than any words.
Bruce straightened, his expression unreadable.

“No.” Bruce’s voice cut through the stale air, cool and unbending. “I’ll take him tonight.”
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to pause. Cobblepot’s beady eyes blinked, then gleamed with oily satisfaction. A chuckle bubbled up from him, smug and mean, a sound that carried the satisfaction of profit.
“That’s more like it,” he drawled, patting his own chest as if he’d orchestrated this inevitability. “Knew you’d come around. A man like you always does.”

Beside him, Maroni burst into laughter, heavy and booming. The scent of whiskey hung on his breath as he leaned across and slapped Bruce on the back. “See? Told you. Knew you couldn’t pass him up. Kid’s a prize in and out of the cage. That’s real stock you’re buying into, Wayne. Rare stock.”

Bruce absorbed the gestures with the patience of a man who had been living among vipers long enough to wear their bites without flinching. He kept his gaze steady on Jason.

The young man sat slouched, arms hanging limp at his sides. Sweat streaked dirt and blood down his face, dark hair plastered to his forehead. There was no bravado, no defiance in his face. Just that hollow, tired look, the gaze of someone who had already learned there was no use in resisting.

Cobblepot’s stubby hand snapped down onto Jason’s shoulder. The fingers dug into the muscle, mean little claws disguised as a pat. “All right, boy,” he said, sly amusement curling in his tone. “You heard the man. Go clean yourself up, pack your bag, get ready to show Mr. Wayne a good time. Don’t make me regret putting you in such… fine company.”

Jason stiffened beneath the grip, but only for a breath. Then he nodded once, quick, and pulled away without a word. His footsteps were uneven, a limp he tried to disguise, as he moved toward the lockers.

The moment he was out of earshot, Cobblepot turned, fishing a small leather-bound notepad from the inner pocket of his coat. His stubby fingers flipped it open with a flourish, a salesman ready to tally a deal. “So, then,” he asked, voice low, businesslike. “How long you want him? Hour? Two? Half a night?” His lips spread into a grin that showed too many teeth. “Or are we talking the whole night? Premium arrangement, that.”

Bruce’s expression didn’t shift. “The whole night,” he said evenly. “If he’s available.”
Cobblepot’s grin widened, smug satisfaction deepening the creases around his mouth. “Available?” He barked out a short laugh, shaking his head. “For you, he’s always available. Whole night, then.“ He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hiss that reeked of smoke and cheap aftershave. “You’ll see, you’re getting your money’s worth.”

Maroni, still half-drunk on whiskey and victory, raised his glass in a mocking toast. “He’s a goddamn investment. Kid don’t break easy.“

Bruce said nothing, though inwardly his jaw tightened. Moneys worth. Stock. Investment. Words that stripped Jason down to nothing but function, to flesh leveraged against money.

The sound of footsteps interrupted. Jason returned, slower this time, dressed down in gray sweats and a threadbare red hoodie that sagged against his narrow frame. The hood was pulled forward, shadowing his face. Old trainers scuffed the floor, the soles worn flat. A duffel bag hung from one shoulder, the strap cutting into his collarbone. He stood near, waiting, silent, practiced.

Cobblepot’s eyes raked over him, and with a sudden, sharp movement he reached out, yanked the hood back, and cuffed him across the side of the head. The sound cracked in the quiet space. Jason flinched, but didn’t recoil. His face snapped to the side, hair falling across his cheek.

“Christ,” Cobblepot muttered, shaking his head in theatrical disgust. “Look at you. Slouching around like gutter trash. When you’re with a client like Mr. Wayne, you dress better. You hear me? You show some respect. He’s not paying to see you sulk in rags.“

Jason’s eyes flicked upward, just for a second. Not to challenge, not to protest, but to acknowledge. Then they dropped again, to the floor. His voice was low, muted. “Sorry.”

Cobblepot smirked, satisfied, and gave the boy a final shove toward Bruce. “Good boy.”
Bruce’s gaze lingered on Jason, who stood there in silence, the duffel bag hanging heavy at his side. He said nothing. Neither did Jason. But Bruce thought, fleetingly, that silence told more of the story than any words ever could.

Cobblepot tucked the envelope into his coat with the self-satisfied air of a man who had already spent the money. Maroni lingered, rolling his cigar between thick fingers, smoke curling upward in lazy ribbons. His gaze slid to Jason and back to Bruce, a grin spreading slow and mean.

“Have fun with that one, Wayne,” he said, tone dripping with amusement. “Boy’s got a gift for pain. Takes it like he was born to. You don’t even have to hold back, he just opens up under it. Beautiful thing to watch.” His eyes lingered on Jason.

Jason’s jaw clenched, just barely, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t respond. His hood hung loose at his back, the fabric stretched and crooked where Cobblepot had yanked it down. He didn’t pull it up again.

Maroni’s laugh followed them down the hall as Bruce steered Jason away. The bag bounced against his hip as the two of them headed toward the exit.

Outside, the night air was sharp with oil, damp asphalt, the faint tang of rust. The warehouse glow spilled weakly onto the street, but Bruce’s car was impossible to miss where it waited at the curb.

A lime-green body, sleek as a blade, curved in predatory lines under the streetlight. Chrome caught the glow, throwing it back in clean flashes.

Jason slowed as they approached. His gaze slid sideways, not quite openly, skimming along the hood, the rims, the stance of the machine as if by accident. The corner of his mouth twitched, then smoothed again before it could turn into anything else.
Bruce pressed the fob. The car unlocked with a quiet click, lights flaring once.

The boy slid into the passenger seat without a word, duffel thudding at his feet. He sat stiffly, bruises making themselves known now that the adrenaline had bled away. Bruce settled into the driver’s seat, the leather sighing under his weight. The engine came alive with a smooth roar, controlled and perfect.

Jason’s eyes flicked to the dashboard, the gauges, the glow of the console. His hands stayed in his lap, clenched tight, but his gaze lingered in sidelong glances. Bruce noticed. But he didn’t remark on it.

Instead, he adjusted a dial with a casual flick, and the seat heater hummed to life beneath Jason. Warmth bled slowly through the fabric of his sweats, sinking into muscle and bruise. Jason shifted once, as if startled by the change, then stilled.

They drove in silence, Gotham spilling past in fractured neon and shadow. Jason didn’t speak. Bruce didn’t push. But as the car purred beneath them, and the warmth sank deeper into bruised muscles, Bruce saw the way Jason’s posture shifted, hands loosened in his lap, no longer balled tight into fists.

Bruce drove with the ease of habit, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting lightly against the console. Jason sat wordless in the passenger seat, his bag at his feet, the hum of the heater and the faint warmth from the seat soaking into bruised muscle.

The silence held all the way to the tower.
Bruce pulled into the private garage beneath the Gotham Towers complex. Polished concrete gleamed under strip-lighting, the air tinged with the faint bite of oil and ozone. The car’s engine gave a final purr as it shut down, echoing faintly against the high ceiling.

The other cars gleamed under the lights—sleek, foreign, each one worth than the other. Jason didn’t comment, only attempted at tugging his hood lower, a gesture of habit before remembering it had been pulled back already. The movement faltered mid-gesture.

Bruce stepped out, coat falling into place around his frame, and Jason followed, duffel slung over one shoulder. His trainers squeaked faintly against the concrete as they crossed to the elevator.

The doors slid open to a space lined with brushed steel. Bruce swiped a keycard, pressed a button, and the elevator hummed upward. Jason leaned against the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed for a moment as if the weight of the night had caught him all at once. When the doors parted again, it was onto silence.

Chapter Text

The penthouse stretched out in sharp lines and shadow, floor-to-ceiling glass spilling Gotham’s skyline into the room, steel and glass softened by muted lighting. Modern art lined one wall. A decanter of something amber glinted on a sideboard. The air smelled faintly of cedar and polished leather.

Jason stepped up behind Bruce, damp hair catching the city lights. His eyes flicked once over the space, quick and assessing. He didn’t linger on the art, the electronics, the furniture. But his gaze caught on the ceiling height, the stretch of glass, the way the city burned at their feet.

His trainers squeaked faintly against the polished floor. He crouched, unlaced them, and set them neatly by the wall, lined heel to toe, careful, deliberate. It was the kind of small gesture that spoke of someone used to keeping himself unobtrusive.

A hole in his right sock showed the pale tip of his toe, pressing through. Jason noticed it too, he shifted his foot back slightly, as if to hide it.

The silence between them stretched. Bruce could feel the weight of it, not uncomfortable for him, but heavy on the other man.

Jason cleared his throat. “You want me to leave these here?” He tipped his chin toward the shoes. His voice was rough but even, not the rasp of someone uneducated, more someone out of practice speaking casually.

“That’s fine,” Bruce said. Then, softer, “You can make yourself comfortable here. It’s just us.”
Jason gave a small nod, not looking directly at him. “Appreciate it.” His eyes flicked toward the hallway. “Is there a bathroom I can use?”

Bruce pointed with a slight incline of his head. “Down that way. First door on the left.”
Jason shifted his bag higher on his shoulder. “Won’t take long.”
“Take as long as you need,” Bruce said. “If you’d rather shower, freshen up, do it.”

For the first time, Jason looked at him directly. His eyes were sharp under the bruising, measuring. Then he gave a brief nod. “Thanks. I’ll be quick.”

He disappeared down the hall, door closing quietly behind him. Bruce stayed where he was, near the window. He could still hear the echo of the cage in his head, the crowd’s roar, the way Jason had kept standing long past reason.

Fifteen minutes passed. The water shut off.
When Jason returned, his hair was damp, darker now, pushed back in uneven streaks. The shower had stripped away the blood and sweat, leaving nothing to blur the damage. His face was rawer clean, the bruises bloomed purple-black. Soap hadn’t been gentle, the shallow cuts along his cheekbone and lip looked angry red. His arms, bare now under the thin shirt, were marked with bruises old and new, some yellowing, some angry red.

Jason stopped just inside the living room, shoulders squared but posture careful, as though waiting for instruction.
Bruce gestured toward the couch. “You can leave the bag there. Sit, if you like.”

Jason obeyed, hesitating just a fraction before lowering himself onto the edge of the sofa. He set the duffel against its side, then leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands laced loosely together. Bare feet curled slightly against the rug.

Bruce leaned back in his chair. “Something to drink?”
Jason looked up at him quickly.
“I… no booze for me tonight,” he said after a beat. His voice was polite, but there was a tension underneath, as if he expected Bruce to force a drink on him.
“I don’t … mix well.“

Bruce only inclined his head. “Good. I wouldn’t have given you alcohol either way. You’re nineteen.” He let the fact sit between them. “What do you want? Water? Juice? Coke?”

Jason blinked. The faintest ripple of surprise passed over his features, gone as quickly as it came.

“Water’s fine.” His voice was careful, measured, as though even the choice of a drink might be judged.

Bruce stood and crossed to the fridge, retrieving two chilled glass bottles. Condensation slicked his palms as he set them down with a pair of tumblers. He poured one and slid it across the table. The water was sparkling.

“Thank you,” Jason said, voice softer now, quieter. He sipped, then added, awkward but almost reflexively, “It’s good. Sparkling. Better than tap.”

Bruce allowed himself the faintest curve of a smile. “That’s the point.”
Jason shifted, settling the glass between his palms. He didn’t gulp, though his throat worked hard after each small sip. He glanced once toward Bruce, as if to confirm there was no expectation tied to the drink, then focused back on the water.

Bruce poured his own, watching the boy over the rim. He could see the discipline in Jason’s posture, the way his sentences were measured, his manners precise.

“Long night,” Bruce said, finally breaking the silence. His tone carried no judgment. “That shower must’ve felt better than it looks.”
Jason gave a quick huff, the ghost of a laugh. “Yeah, well. Soap stings worse than Gonzales did, but it’ll pass.” He glanced down at his arms, then back up. “It’s… good to feel clean, though. Thanks for that.“

Bruce studied him a moment. Then: “You should eat. What do you like? I can have the concierge send something up.”
Jason shook his head at once. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll be fine.”

Bruce tilted his head. “You don’t like to eat after a fight?”
Jason’s mouth quirked, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “Don’t usually get offered a menu.” He looked down at his hands, flexing them.

“Then I’ll order a variety,” Bruce said. “Something will appeal.”
Jason’s brows drew together faintly. “That’s really not necessary.”
“It is,” Bruce said evenly. “You fought tonight. You burned through everything in you. No one comes out of that not hungry.”
Jason exhaled softly through his nose. He didn’t argue again. Instead, his eyes flicked up to Bruce’s, cautious, almost curious. “You talk like you’ve been there.”

Bruce held his gaze a moment, then simply said: “Everyone takes a beating somewhere along the way. Some of us more than once.”

That made Jason’s expression shift, just a little, like the young man didn’t quite believe him, but hadn’t expected the answer either.

Bruce leaned back in the armchair across from him, the leather sighing under his weight. He picked up the phone at his side and dialed the concierge, voice steady as he requested a spread.

When Bruce hung up, Jason’s gaze dropped again. He cleared his throat. “You don’t have to … uh. We can… you know. Get on with it. You’re not paying to have dinner with me, right?” His voice was low, almost flat, but there was something beneath it - a trace of practiced behavior, the kind that came from too many nights like this.

Bruce let the words sit a moment before answering. “I’d rather talk first,” he said simply.

Jason’s head lifted slightly at that, wary eyes searching his face. He didn’t trust it, Bruce could see that, but he didn’t push either.

Bruce angled his glass, watching the sparkling water swirl against the crystal. “That was a good fight. Hard fight. You’ve taken harder?”

Jason gave a short, dry huff that might have been a laugh. “You could say that. Gonzales isn’t the worst I’ve had.” He rubbed the side of his jaw, wincing when his fingers brushed the swelling. “At least he fights clean. Some don’t.”

“Your corner didn’t seem interested in keeping you on your feet, though.” The words slipped out before Bruce could stop them. His tone stayed casual, but he saw Jason stiffen.

“Nah,” Jason said quickly “Doesn’t matter anyway. I‘m better on my own in there.“
A soft chime broke the tension. The elevator. Jason flinched at the sound before relaxing again, eyes flicking toward the hall.

The scent hit first. Rich, layered aromas: saffron and truffle, roasted garlic, ripe mango, seared tuna kissed with sesame oil.
The cart held more food than two men could eat in a night.

Silver domes lifted to reveal jewel-like displays: wagyu beef carpaccio fanned paper-thin over chilled plates, glistening with olive oil; lobster tails split and arranged over ice, claws cracked for easy reach; figs drizzled with honey beside curls of prosciutto; a tower of French cheeses with wedges cut to expose their veins; tartlets crowned with caviar; a bowl of pomegranate seeds that caught the light like rubies. At the center, a platter of miniature tacos filled with butter-poached shrimp, garnished with microgreens.

Jason’s eyes flicked over the spread, fast, almost furtive, but they lingered just a moment too long on the tacos, the sheen of the carpaccio. He didn’t lunge, didn’t even shift forward, but Bruce caught the betrayal of hunger in that pause.

When the door closed and they were alone again, silence lapped back in like a tide.
Bruce gestured toward the table. “Enjoy.“

Jason hesitated. His hands flexed on his knees. Bruce filled his own plate with a bit of everything, thenu speared a slice of cheese, ate it, set the fork down with care. Then gestured again. “Go on.“

Jason moved like a man approaching a trap, reaching out with careful fingers. He chose a single taco.

The first bite was small, tentative. The second larger. By the third, his reserve slipped. He chewed hard, swallowed fast, then reached for a cluster of grapes, pulling them from the stem with quick, efficient motions.

Bruce said nothing, only watched. Beneath the guarded posture, beneath the manners, Jason was starving. It wasn’t just hunger in his gut, it was something sharper, deeper. He ate like someone who didn’t know when the next meal would come.

The boy caught him watching and slowed, setting the food down, wiping his fingers on a napkin as though ashamed. “Sorry.“

“You don’t need to apologize,” Bruce said quietly. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Eat. As much as you want.”

Jason searched his face, looking for the trick maybe. Whatever he found - or didn’t - was enough to let him reach for the food again, slower now, but still eating with the desperation of someone who hadn’t allowed himself this in too long.

Bruce sat back, glass in hand, and let the young man eat. Behind every bite, every swallow, he saw the same thing he’d seen in the cage: someone too used to enduring, not enough used to being kept whole.

He noted the bruises, the dark blooms on his arms and along his jawline. He could imagine the aches that hadn’t been touched by the shower, the muscles still screaming from the fight.
“You burned a lot of energy tonight,” Bruce said, his tone casual, almost conversational. “Your body’s going to want it back.”

Jason nodded, chewing slowly, eyes flicking to Bruce again. “Yeah. I guess I didn’t notice until now how hungry I am. Thank you… for ordering this.”

Bruce allowed a quiet moment to settle between them, letting the young man take another bite. He watched how Jason handled the small plate of tacos, how the colors of the figs and prosciutto reflected in the boy’s careful eyes. He didn’t push, didn’t hover, only observed, giving the kid some space.

The silence stretched, filled by the subtle noises of chewing, the faint clink of crystal against glass, the distant hum of the city. Bruce could feel Jason relaxing, ever so slightly, as if the act of eating in a calm space, unhurried, was foreign and yet necessary.

When Jason set down the plate, hands resting on his knees, he offered a small, almost shy smile.

Bruce inclined his head. “If you want more later, it’s all here. Help yourself anytime.” He pushed the cart gently aside, clearing the space between them.

Jason’s shoulders stiffened again. He looked at Bruce, then down at his own hands. “I—uh… should probably…” He trailed off, words unspoken but implied.

Bruce’s breath caught, a protest forming, but dying before it reached his mouth. He’d told himself he wouldn’t. That this night was meant to be a reprieve.

Yet Jason sat there - bruised, wary, and devastatingly young but also lean and handsome and damn interestig - and Bruce felt the sharp twist of want beneath the weight of guilt.

Jason seemed to take the silence as permission. He shifted forward, moving to the floor in front of Bruce, careful even in his weariness. His hands came up, hesitant, not trembling, but measured in a way that betrayed long practice.

“Jason…” Bruce’s voice was low, warning and plea all at once. But the younger man only looked up at him then, eyes steady despite the bruises, as though this was the one thing he understood how to give.

And Bruce - Bruce, who should have been stronger - felt his resolve fray.
He told himself he would be gentle, careful of the split lip, mindful of the bruises. That restraint, in its own way, was mercy. But as Jason leaned closer, Bruce knew the truth: this wasn’t mercy. It was weakness.
And he let it happen.

Bruce closed his eyes briefly, letting the sound of Jason’s measured breathing fill the space. He knew the night could go many ways. He knew the younger man could be harmed if he misstepped. And yet… the pull of his own weakness was undeniable.

Bruce opened his eyes, and the weight of the moment settled between them. Neither moved, neither spoke, but the silence carried the heat of desire, restraint, and the fragile, unspoken understanding that something had shifted.

Jason quickly undid the buttons of Bruces slacks. The sudden rush of cool air against heated skin made Bruce’s breath catch, his cock swelling as Jason drew it from the confinement of his trunks.

The quiet of the penthouse pressed in around them. Jason shifted slightly on the floor, careful, measured, as if testing the space between them - and testing Bruce, before opening his mouth and licking at the head of Bruces cock, swirling his tongue around it.

Bruce’s hand twitched against the armrest, caught between command and refusal, instinct and restraint. He should have stopped this before it began, he knew he should, but the weight of gravity itself seemed to hold him down.

Jason licked again, slower this time, then slid lower, covering him inch by inch, as though determined to map the entirety of him with saliva. The wet stroke of tongue was maddening. Bruce’s cock hardened fully, throbbing in the younger man’s mouth, his veins tight with need.

Jasons tongue kept stroking him as he slowly sank more of Bruces length into his mouth. That battered mouth wrapped around him with devotion that Bruce hadn’t expected. Blue eyes glanced up only occasionally, but every time they did, it ripped through him like a blade. The contrast of that bruised face and that eager mouth made Bruce’s gut twist with want.

Bruce released a small, low groan. The hum of the city bled through the glass, a thousand lights blinking against the night, but in here, there was only the ragged cadence of Bruce’s breathing, and Jason’s careful rhythm. Bruce felt himself pulled toward sensation, toward heat, toward the ache of indulgence he knew he shouldn’t allow.

His hand lifted, hovered in the air, then settled gently against the back of Jason’s head. The young man didn’t flinch. Jason leaned into the touch as though he wanted it, moved with precision, like a man who’d done this before and wanted to prove it.

Bruce let his eyes fall shut. He should have stopped it.

He didn’t.

Heat wrapped around him as Jason sank lower, throat working. The lad was good, no gagging, swallowing around Bruces lenght just right. Bruce moaned, letting himself get lost in the sensation.

Bruce’s cock nudged the back of Jasons throat with each slow bob, and still Jason pressed forward, swallowing him down with ease that made Bruce’s jaw tighten, his self-control thinning by the second.

It felt exquisite, the suction, the slick pressure, the faint scrape of teeth dulled by saliva. Every movement sent a shock of sensation straight through him, pulling groans from his chest despite his effort to contain them.

His fingers tightened in Jason’s curls, not harsh, but urging, needing. Jason hummed low in his throat, the vibration rippling down Bruce’s shaft, and it tore a groan from him, raw, unguarded, dragged out against his will. His hips lifted, pushing deeper, until his cock buried to the hilt in slick heat. Jason took it, swallowed around him, his bruised face pressed close, blue eyes glancing up through his lashes with an intensity that snapped something in Bruce’s chest.

The pressure in his gut coiled tight, molten, unbearable. His vision blurred, heat prickling behind his eyes as the rhythm pushed him closer. The split of Jason’s lip caught faintly against him, a sting of roughness in the flood of slick pleasure, and that contrast unraveled him completely.

“Fuck,” Bruce groaned, voice rough, breaking apart. His hips jerked forward once, twice, and the tension snapped, release tearing through him.

Pleasure surged hot and violent, spilling into Jason’s mouth in heavy pulses. His cock twitched against the grip of throat and tongue, each spasm dragging another groan from deep in his chest. Bruce held Jason’s hair tight, his body shuddering with the force of it, as though the climax was stripping him raw.

Bruce’s hand loosened in Jason’s curls only gradually, his body still humming from the release, his cock softening against the warmth of Jason’s mouth. He drew in a breath, ragged, weighted, and forced his eyes open.

The sight nearly undid him more than the climax had.

Jason’s face tilted up toward him, bruises catching the lamplight, lip swollen. His blue eyes were wary and just a little wet, shimmering with something fragile that undercut all the practiced skill he’d just shown.

Kneeling there, hair mussed from Bruce’s grip, he looked too young and heartbreakingly wrecked.

Guilt surged, swift and cutting, as Jason wiped discreetly at the corner of his mouth. Bruce’s stomach twisted with it. He shouldn’t have let it happen, shouldn’t have pressed forward like that. Jason was bruised, raw, his evening had been anything but pleasant. The thought that Bruce had added to it made his chest tighten until he could hardly breathe.

But tangled in the guilt was something else. A tenderness, unexpected and fierce, threaded through him as he lifted his hand again, brushing back the curls that clung damp to Jason’s temple. His thumb lingered at the sharp edge of his jaw, then grazed the dark bloom of the bruise on his cheek with unbearable care. Jasons facial muscles tightened, his body still expecting blows long after the fight was done.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was Bruce’s breathing, the faint hum of the city bleeding through the glass.

Then Jason’s voice broke the silence, low and rough, threaded with both vulnerability and a kind of defiance:
“We… could take this to the bedroom. If you want.”

Bruce froze. His gut clenched. There was no coyness in Jason’s offer, no teasing smirk, only the quiet weight of a man offering himself, battered and bruised but unflinching.

Bruce’s hand lingered on his face, torn between pulling back and pulling him closer. Guilt pressed hard against his ribs, but so did hunger. The sight of Jason’s lips, swollen now not only from the fight but from Bruce’s cock, was enough to make him pulse with need all over again.

Bruce’s hand tightened on Jason’s bruised jaw, thumb ghosting over that swollen lip. He shook his head once, slowly. He should say no. He should be the one to draw the line, to shield Jason from the weight of what was happening. But those eyes - ice blue, ringed with fatigue and bruises - met his without wavering, and something in them called to him.

He stood, offering a hand. Jason hesitated, shadows flickering over his bruised features, before finally taking it. His fingers were rougher than Bruce had expected, calloused from training and fighting. Bruce pulled him up from the floor.

Chapter Text

Bruce led Jason to the bedroom, the sound of their footsteps muffled against the expensive carpet, the air charged and unsteady.

“How do you want me?” Jason asked when they entered the bedroom, his voice low.

The words cut through Bruce sharp. He reached out, sliding a palm against Jason’s jaw again, feeling the rasp of stubble beneath his thumb, the raw edge of that swollen lip.

Bruce’s other hand slid under Jason’s arm, pulling his shirt upward with care, revealing scarred and bruised ribs, faint purple bruises, and old marks that tracked the history of fights he’d endured. He let the fabric drop to the floor. One hand smoothed into Jason’s curls, guiding him back onto the sheets. For a heartbeat, Jason stiffened, shoulders rigid, blue eyes wide and unreadable.

Bruce lowered himself and slid his hands down to Jason’s dark sweats, tugging them gently lower, Jason’s chest rose in short, ragged breaths.

He wasn’t hard yet, his cock lay soft against his stomach, but the faint heat radiating from him, the way his muscles tensed when Bruce’s hands hovered, made Bruce’s own pulse spike.

He cupped Jason’s balls gently, rolling them in his palms, then stroked the base of his cock with deliberate, measured pressure. Jason’s breath stuttered, fingers pressing lightly into the sheets as if he were holding himself steady.

Bruce leaned down, brushing a kiss along the jut of the younger mans hipbone, flicking the tip of his tongue along the sensitive skin just above the hollow. Jason gasped, hips twitching subtly, and Bruce felt the tiny lift, the faint pulse that told him his body was responding. He stroked again, rolling his thumb over the perineum, fingers teasing lightly at the balls.

Bruce retrieved a condom from inside the nightstand and he slid it on carefully, the latex warm and snug against Jason’s length. Jason’s breath caught sharply, a startled inhale, but he didn’t pull away.

Bruce leaned down again, mouth closing over him with measured pressure. Jason’s hips twitched automatically, a small jerk, blue eyes widening.

He cupped Jason’s balls in one hand, rolling them gently between his palms, pressing and releasing with slow, teasing pressure.
The skin was soft and hot beneath his palm, trembling faintly with every flicker of tension that ran through Jason’s body.

Bruce let his other hand wander lower, fingers circling the tight ring of muscle with teasing patience. He eased one finger inside, the heat and grip of it closing around him, as Jason clenched for a second before relaxing his muscle.

Bruce’s mouth never left him, lips working steadily along his cock, tongue circling the ridge with deliberate pressure. He felt Jason twitch and pulse against his tongue, already hardening further.

He pushed deeper, adding another finger, stretching the taut muscle with slow insistence. Inside, Bruce curled them just enough to press against that hidden swell, that tender point that made Jason shiver. He lingered there, stroking with slow, deliberate precision, coaxing small spasms from the taut muscles of Jasons thighs.

Jason was hard now, fully so, his cock thick and straining inside Bruce’s mouth, the latex sheath holding him snug and smooth. Bruce doubled his pace, sucking him deeper, hollowing his cheeks while his fingers pressed and stroked inside him, mapping every tremor.

Still, Jason held himself back. Bruce could feel it in the way his hips jerked only halfway, the way his abs clenched against the surge but didn’t let it go. His whole body quivered like a bowstring pulled taut, his breathing sharp and ragged, as if he were bracing for the command to stop, to endure.

The realization slid over Bruce slowly, dawning in the way Jason clenched around his fingers, the way he seemed to resist the tide instead of surrendering. Jason was waiting for permission.

Bruce pulled back just enough to breathe against him, his voice low, steady:
“Relax. Come for me.”

Jason’s blue eyes widened, sweat shining at his temple, his lips parted as if he didn’t quite understand. Then Bruce drove his mouth back down, fingers pressing and curling deep inside, his free hand massaging Jason’s balls with firm, coaxing strokes.

That broke him. Jason’s whole body arched, a cry clawing up from his throat, hips bucking helplessly into Bruce’s mouth. His cock pulsed hard against Bruce’s tongue, spilling into the condom in violent, stuttering waves. His thighs shook, fists twisting the sheets as though he might tear them, his body straining against the force of his own climax.

Bruce kept him steady, stroking him through each convulsion, fingers inside still working him until the spasms began to soften. Only then did he ease his pace, mouth slipping away, fingers withdrawing with deliberate care.

Jason chest heaved, eyes wide and glassy, curls damp against his brow. For a moment he looked almost fragile, undone by the intensity he hadn’t expected.

Bruce sat back on his heels, watching the last tremors run through him, a quiet guilt threading beneath the hunger in his chest, because Jason hadn‘t espected to be given pleasure but to be made to withhold it. He had braced himself to be used, to be bent beneath someone else’s will. He hadn’t expected Bruce to coax him over the edge.

Bruce reached down, careful, and rolled the condom off him. Jason flinched almost imperceptibly when Bruce touched him on sensotive flesh. Bruce tied off the latex and rose silently.

Jason’s gaze flicked toward him, still glassy, almost wary again, like he was waiting for the next move. Bruce walked over to the kitchen and poured a tall glass of water, the rim catching the faint citylight when Bruce came back inside the bedroom.

Brucr pressed the glass. lightly into Jason’s hand.
“Here,” he said softly.

Jason pushed himself upright, slow and stiff, the faintest wince flickering across his face when bruised ribs pulled. He took the glass, fingers brushing Bruce’s, and drained it in long swallows. His adam apple bobbed visibly as the water went down.
When he lowered the glass, his voice was hoarse. “Thanks.”

Bruce inclined his head once, but his eyes lingered, on the bruises blooming across Jason’s ribs, the sharp pull of his breath, the weight sagging his shoulders despite his attempt to square them. Bruce was a horrible man. A horrible, weak man.

The silence stretched a beat too long. Jason licked his split lip, set the glass carefully on the nightstand, then drew in a breath that sounded halfway between resolve and resignation.
“So…” He drew the word out, tone rasped but edged with sly humor. “Now that the rest period’s done, are we calling that a warm-up, or do I need to stretch for round three?”

Bruce’s gaze caught him in that moment, the slant of his shoulders tightening, the faint crease at the corner of his brow. The boy’s words weren’t invitation so much as expectation, drilled in deep. He thought the night wasn’t finished - that this was only an interval, and soon Bruce would demand more.

“You’re tired,” Bruce said at last, voice low but firm enough to cut through the air, finally acting like the damn adult in the room.
But Jason only gave a short huff that might’ve been a laugh, though it carried no real humor. “Yeah, well. You paid for the whole night. Be a shame if you didn’t get your money’s worth.”

His grin came quick, sharp, almost convincing, if not for the shadows under his eyes, the faint tremor still running through his legs, the way his chest pulled tight with every breath against bruised ribs.

Bruce didn’t look away. His voice stayed even, but there was iron under it. “I don’t measure nights in billable hours.”
Jason’s smirk wavered, then settled into something smaller, thinner. “Spoken like a man who’s never had to.”

Jason studied him sidelong, shoulders hitching in a subtle shrug. “So what then? You’re gonna tell me to ice my ribs and eat more protein? You’d sound more like a coach than a client.”

Bruce’s mouth curved faintly, almost a smile, though tempered. “If I were your coach, you’d already be benched.”
Jason tilted his head, amused despite himself. “Benched, huh?

Bruce’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re running on fumes. Any decent coach would’ve pulled you before you broke something that doesn’t heal.” A decent man wouldn‘t have become sexual with him, would have rather got him to rest and recover than to sucks each others dicks. Bruce drew a deep breath through his nose.

Jason huffed a small laugh, dry and tired. “Lucky for you I don’t have a decent coach then. Makes me more… available.” He leaned back against the headboard, shifting so his shoulder brushed the upholstery. His words had a careless edge, but his body betrayed him, the coil of tension in his shoulders, the way his hands rubbed restlessly at his knees.

Bruce studied him a long moment, then rose, stripping off his slacks and dress shirt with unhurried precision. He crossed the room in only his trunks, dimming the lights until the glow of Gotham beyond the glass cut sharper than the lamps inside.

Returning, he peeled back the comforter and inclined his head toward the bed.
“Get under. Let‘s sleep.”

Jason hesitated, then obeyed and slipping beneath the covers. He lay on his side, back straight, muscles taut. Bruce slid in beside him, the mattress dipping under his weight, and the younger man went even stiller - coiled, like he was bracing for something.

Jason was naked still, his clothes left discarded where Bruce had pushed them aside earlier. Whether it was habit, preference, or some unspoken rule of making himself available, Bruce couldn’t tell. He didn’t move, giving Jason the space.

Jason shifted once. Then again. Small movements, as if he couldn’t find a position that didn’t ache. The sheet lay half-drawn across his chest, slipping where his ribs pulled tight.

The hum of the city filled the silence until Bruce finally spoke.
“I’ll drive you home, if you’d rather.”

Jason turned at once, sharp, his eyes catching what little light there was. “No.” The word came too fast, too hard, before he softened it with something that might have been a smile. “I mean … no need. I’m fine here.”

Bruce studied him, voice even. “You’d rather stay?”
Jason shifted closer, the sheet sliding lower on his hip, his mouth brushing Bruce’s chest in a quick, practiced kiss. “I can make it worth it your while, alright? However you want. However you like it. I’ll show you a good time - better than anyone.”

Bruce’s hand rose, pressing lightly against Jason’s shoulder. Not harsh, not domineering, just firm enough to halt the motion.

Jason froze beneath the touch, but only for a heartbeat. Then the grin returned, angled, sharp, easy, a flicker of mischief masking something sharper underneath, daring Bruce to push back.

“You want me to prove it? I can. Whatever you’re into, I’ll make it work. Promise.”
His eyes glinted with a mix of challenge and calculation, and the way he shifted his hip closer, deliberately letting the sheet slip, seemed like both invitation and test.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. He imagined how easily those words must have worked on other men, how many had taken that offer without a second thought. How many had taught Jason to read their appetites and bend to them, no matter the cost.

Whatever you’re into, Jason said. No limits, no terms. An open door for any appetite, no matter how brutal. And Bruce could imagine all too well how many men had walked through it without hesitation, men who wanted not warmth, but power. Men who took Jasons careless offer as license to bind, to bruise, to break. The thought left a sour weight in his chest.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. His mind betrayed him with a flood of images: Jason pressed down into rough sheets, gagged against his own split lip, shoulders straining under rope or handcuffs, his beautiful cock bound, his hole filled. To bruise, to bleed, to suffer indignity - and smile through it, because that was the job. Because someone had taught him that his body was a canvas for other men’s fantasies, however cruel.

The weight of it pressed like lead in Bruce’s chest. He knew what Jason was doing. He knew the boy was performing, seducing, selling the fantasy because that was safer than letting a client glimpse the truth. But he also knew how much damage lived behind those words, how much violence they could invite.

And worse: Bruce knew he wasn’t innocent either. He’d let Jason drop to his knees earlier. He’d sat while the boy swallowed him whole with that battered mouth, and worse, he had given in to the heat of it. He had taken the pleasure offered, even knowing it came wrapped in practiced obedience.

He’d given some back, yes - but that didn’t absolve him. He had still let the line blur, still let want drive him when he should have been the one to draw the boundary. He couldn’t pretend ignorance anymore.

“I’m into getting a good night’s sleep now,” Bruce said. He forced the words to carry a faint note of humor, soft enough to undercut the gravity without dismissing it. A simple statement, ordinary on its surface, but meant to tell Jason that the contract was void. That the offer didn’t have to mean what Jason had been taught it should.

Jason tilted his head, studying him sidelong.
Just for a breath, he looked younger, caught off guard. Then the mask slid back into place, the grin sharper now, defensive in its edge. “You’re really bad at this, you know.”

Jasons eyes flicked quick - up, then down, then back again - as though bracing for something harsher in reply. A cuff to the head, a backhand, the kind of answer he’d clearly learned to expect when his mouth got away from him. Just like Cobblepott had done earlier tonight.

Instead Bruce’s mouth curved slightly, though not unkindly. “Maybe I’m not playing the same game.”

The words seemed to throw Jason off more than a slap would have. His tongue darted over his split lip, automatic, nervous, and he studied Bruce with that same wary calculation he might’ve used sizing up an opponent in the ring. Like he couldn’t quite decide if Bruce was serious, or just setting him up for a harder fall. His body stayed angled close, his hip brushing against Bruce’s, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the coil underneath.

“You’re weird,” Jason muttered finally. He meant it to sound dismissive, careless, but there was a thread underneath, tight and uncertain, that gave it away.

The quiet stretched thin between them, long enough for the city hum outside to press in through the glass. Jason filled it first, with a sharp exhale that tried to disguise itself as a laugh. “Most people like to know they’re getting their money’s worth. I just make sure they do.”

His jaw clenched once before he added, lower, softer, “Keeps things smooth.”
Bruce’s brows lifted slightly, the faintest acknowledgment. “Smooth for who?”

Jason stilled, just for a second too long. Then his shoulders twitched in a shrug, feigned ease. “For everyone. Nobody likes complications.”

Jasons hand shifted against the comforter, palm flat, fingertips tapping a rhythm there. It looked casual, like he was idly burning energy, but it was off-tempo, uneven, betraying nerves.

Bruce let the silence stretch again, watching him. “Maybe I’m not like most people you know.”

Jason’s eyes cut back to him at that, sharp. His grin came quick, almost too quick, edged with something that wasn’t humor. “Yeah? Let’s test that. You hand over two grand for a night with some whore… and then what? You don’t even fuck him? Doesn’t exactly sound like money well spent.”

He tilted his head, smile flashing brighter, cockier, like he was daring Bruce to flinch, to take the bait and prove himself predictable after all. But the brightness didn’t reach his eyes.

Bruce didn’t rise to it. He met Jason’s gaze, steady, calm. “I paid for your time. What we do with it is up to us.”

Something flickered across Jason’s face at that, something sharp and fleeting, like the moment before a glass cracks under strain. He covered it quickly, forcing a low laugh that scraped the back of his throat. “Maybe. But nobody comes back for seconds if the first bite tastes flat.”

This time Bruce leaned in just slightly, not threatening, but enough to press the weight of his presence into the space between them. His voice was low, even. “And who’s keeping score? You? Or someone else?”

The question found its mark. Jasons gaze broke away from Bruce’s, dragging toward the window where the city glowed restless in neon and shadow. His jaw tightened, lips parting like he might say something, but instead he clamped it down, the thought swallowed whole.

When he turned back, the smirk was already in place again, brighter than before, forced into sharp relief. “Sure.“ He gave a shrug. “Regulars keep the lights on. Steady income, steady clients. People like that make life easier.“

Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly, steady on him. “Life doesn’t look easy for you.”
Jason barked a laugh that came too fast, too sharp. “You got a funny way of doing math. I’ve got a roof. Warm clothes. Food that isn’t from the trash. Tell me that’s not easy compared to a lot of folks out there.”

“You’re getting beaten half to death in cages,” Bruce said flatly. “And when you’re not, you’re offering yourself up to men who don’t care what they take from you. That’s not comfort. That’s damage.”

Jason’s grin twitched, too brittle at the edges. “Damage sells, believe it or not. Nobody’s really here to see who wins. They’re here to see who breaks prettier. The blood’s what keeps the lights on.”

Bruce’s gaze darkened. “You shouldn’t have to bleed for anyone’s entertainment.”

”Tell that to the ticket holders. Most of them like bruises, scars, the whole tragic backdrop - it’s a kink, trust me.” Jason says.

“You call it a kink,” Bruce said, voice tightening. “But what it is, is someone breaking you down until one day, there‘s nothing much left. I‘m truly sorry I took part in that.“

Jason’s jaw worked. He shifted, pulling the sheet up over his ribs like it was armor, though it barely hid the bruising. His eyes flicked toward Bruce, gauging, wary, then away again.

“Don’t act like you didn’t get it,” he muttered. “You were there too, watched the same damn fights.“ He tapped his split lip, a small, mocking gesture. “Guess you found your money’s worth, too.”

Bruce’s expression didn’t shift, but his tone did — quieter, heavier. “That what this is about? Quick money?”

“You think I’m rolling in it? You think I walk out of that ring with a fat stack?”

“Don’t you?“ Bruce asked.

Jason laughed again, but it was humorless this time, sharp with exhaustion. “Try about five percent. Maybe twenty if you count debts shrinking. Not that debts ever really shrink.“

“Debts to who?” Bruce asked, though he already thought he knew.

Jason’s laugh was rough, bitter. “You know damn well who. Cobblepott doesn’t forget a name that bleeds in his books. Funny thing about numbers: every time I make a dent, there’s suddenly a new tab.“

Bruce’s tone stayed calm. “Sounds like he found a way to keep you trapped. That‘s not a business deal but extortion.“

“Call it whatever you want. Doesn‘t change a thing about what it means for me.“

“If it’s not extortion: You could walk out.”

“And then what?“ Jason looked as if he wanted to say more but stopped himself just short of offering to many truth. “So yeah … regulars matter,“ he only said. “They keep the meter running.” The way he said it - quick, defensive, but too specific - betrayed more than he meant to.

His eyes cut back to Bruce, narrowing. “Clients don’t care about the math, they care about the service. And I’m damn good at service.” Jason leaned back, grin sharp again, but his leg bounced once under the sheet, restless, betraying the nerves his words tried to cover.

Bruce didn’t flinch. He only held Jason’s gaze, voice quiet but unyielding.
“You’re clever enough to know exactly how badly you’re being used. And stubborn enough to pretend you don’t care. That’s not the same as choosing it.”

Jason’s grin froze, thin and brittle. He stared at him for a long beat, then gave a sharp snort, dragging his gaze back toward the window. “We all make our choices. Some of us just don’t get as many good ones.”

Bruce’s eyes stayed on him, steady, unflinching. “Some people accept there are only bad choices. Others fight to carve out a few better ones. Which one are you, Jason?”
Jason’s grin faltered, a fraction, like a ghost of a younger boy under the mask peeking through.

“Depends,” he said finally, voice casual, like tossing a coin. “Maybe I’m the guy who’s just trying to keep his head above water.“

Bruce didn’t push further. He just let the silence sit between them, his gaze steady but not demanding. When he finally spoke, his tone had shifted, softer, threading under Jason’s defenses instead of battering against them.
“What do you need to get a good night’s sleep?”

Jason blinked. His grin faltered, then bent into something crooked, sly, a flicker of teeth as he leaned closer. “What, besides you and your dick keeping me busy half the night? That usually does the trick.” The joke landed flat. Even Jason seemed to hear the hollowness in it, because his gaze darted away almost immediately.

He shifted on the mattress, restless, the sheet pulling across his ribs. “...Ibuprofen wore off,” he admitted after a beat, quieter now, more matter-of-fact. “Kinda feels like my side’s on fire. So … maybe a couple of those. If you’ve got ’em.”

He hesitated, then nodded toward the window, voice dipping lower, less performative. “And … uh. Crack that open, maybe? City noise helps me knock out. Sirens, engines, people yelling - it’s my kind of a lullaby, I guess.” He tapped his temple, quick, like he was mocking himself for saying too much. “Don’t like it too quiet. Gets ... loud up here sometimes.”

Bruce rose without a word. Jason’s eyes followed him, sharp and wary. But Bruce only crossed the room, thumbed the latch on the window, and cracked it open. A rush of cool night air swept in, carrying the distant roar of engines, a sudden wail of a siren, and the low hum of the city that never truly slept. He let the sounds fill the room, the faint vibration through the walls, a rhythm that might help ease the tension coiled in the man beneath the covers.

Jason blinked, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking his mask. Bruce didn’t linger. From the bathroom cabinet where he’d stashed a small reserve, he pulled a sealed package of ibuprofen. He set it gently on the nightstand beside Jason.
He refilled Jason’s glass, condensation sliding fresh down its sides, before returning to the bed.

Jason’s blue eyes flicked to the pills, then to Bruce. Surprise passed over his features, almost disbelieving, as though he hadn’t expected to get what he needed without argument or negotiation.
“Thank you,” Jason muttered, voice low, almost inaudible.

He unscrewed the cap, taking two pills, then lifted the glass and drained half of it in a single, steady swallow. The tension in his jaw eased slightly as he set the glass down, back pressing lightly against the headboard now.

Bruce slid back beneath the covers beside him, careful not to crowd. The weight of the mattress settling around them felt grounding, a small reassurance in the restless night.

Jasons body still held that wired tension at first - leg bouncing once, shoulders drawn tight - but the edges dulled. The hum of the city sifted in through the open window, steady, hypnotic. Tires on wet asphalt, distant horns, sirens wailing somewhere far below. Gradually, Jason’s tapping hand stilled. Bruce’s gaze traced the subtle changes - the drop of his chest, the release of a coiled tension in the jaw and neck.

Jason finally lay flat, sheets pulled up to his shoulders, breath deepening into the measured, even rhythm of rest. His face softened in the glow of the city lights, bruises still faintly visible, but the sharp tension that had gripped him all night receding.

Bruce stayed still, listening to the city’s nocturne, attuned to the quiet rise and fall of Jason’s chest. The young mans breathing slowed further, the restless energy drained away, replaced by something fragile and whole.

Jason fell asleep. Bruce could hear it in the subtle shift, the moment his muscles finally unclenched, the twitch of a hand as it relaxed fully onto the pillow.

For a long while, Bruce watched, silent. The night outside hummed on, indifferent, but inside the apartment, there was a fragile peace. Jason was asleep, hopefully for a few restful hours. Bruce let the weight of that settle around him, letting himself sink into the mattress beside the other man, feeling the quiet and the rhythm of the city, as he closed his eyes.

Chapter Text

Jason surfaced from sleep with a start, disoriented. For a moment, the softness of the mattress confused him - the give of it under his weight, the warmth of the sheets, the faint smell of clean linen instead of sweat and the stale smell of old blood.

Then it came back to him. The fight. The crowd. Wayne’s eyes on him. Cobblepot’s hand on his shoulder. The deal. Cobblepotts hand closing around Waynes money. The billionaire’s cool, unreadable gaze.

And the fact that Jason had spent the night in Wayne’s bed.

The room was still dim, washed in gray light. The sun was just beginning to break the horizon, throwing long shadows across the floor. Wayne hadn’t closed the blinds last night, he’d left the city sounds seeping in for Jason’s sake. Jason had liked that more than he should admit.

He turned his head. Wayne was still asleep, dark hair mussed against the pillow, chest rising and falling in a rhythm steady enough to lull anyone else back under. Jason stared for a moment, then carefully swung his legs out from under the covers. His ribs protested, sharp pain blooming along his side, his face pulled tight where the skin split, his legs and arms sore down to the bone. Still, he managed not to wake Wayne.

He didn’t bother with clothes. What was the point? If Wayne woke, chances were he’d want him back in bed naked anyway. Just because the guy had chosen sleep over fucking him last night didn’t mean he wouldn’t want morning sex to square the ledger. Rich men were fickle like that.

Jason crossed to the duffel bag slumped against the couch in the living room and crouched, digging out his beat-up phone.
The cracked screen lit his bruised knuckles in pale blue. One new message.

Pickup. Nine. Training.

Jason’s lips pulled into a grimace. Two hours. That bastard. Usually, if he’d been sold off for the whole night after a fight, he got at least the day after to lick his wounds.

He was used to crawling back half-dead, catching what scraps of rest he could before being shoved into the ring again. But Cobblepott didn‘t know that Jason almost got a good 5 hours of sleep that night. He‘d called him in on the expectation that Jason had been fucked and used most night.

He thumbed the keypad, typed in Wayne’s address, and hit send. His fingers hovered afterward, a twitch in him tempted to add something sharp, something biting. A crack about Cobblepott working him like a mule, or how maybe he should try climbing in the ring himself if he wanted someone fresh on command. But Jason knew better.

Cobblepotts moods were mercurial, sharp as broken glass. On a good day, he found Jason’s lip amusing - tolerated it like a novelty, a dog that barked instead of rolled over. But when the switch flipped, when his patience ran thin, the price was steep. A backhand across the face. A docked cut. A punishment drill that left Jason’s ribs screaming for days. Sometimes all three.

Jason had learned the hard way that Cobblepott’s idea of discipline wasn’t about teaching - it was about reminding. Reminding him who owned the gloves on his hands, the roof over his head, the pills that kept his mother from seizing through the night. Every bruise came with the same message: Cobblepott owned his ass.

So he pocketed the phone, jaw tight, and swallowed the words down before they could get him hurt. He’d already bled enough for one week.

Jason pushed himself upright, every muscle complaining, and made his way to the bathroom. Took a leak, splashed water over his face until the skin stung. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. Swollen lip. Bruised cheekbone. Purple shadows blooming across his ribs, faint hand-shaped marks still ghosting over his shoulders. He tilted his head, smirked without humor. Nothing he hadn’t seen before.

When he came back out, Wayne was still asleep. Jason’s gaze caught on the pill bottle sitting on the nightstand. He hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek. His side burned, his arms throbbed, every step promised a rough morning once training started. Two more pills would take the edge off.

Would Wayne notice? Would he care? Or would it piss him off? The man had handed it over without question last night, like Jason’s comfort was worth something. But maybe that was just the game. Bruce’s version of keeping things interesting.

Jason sank onto the edge of the bed, head dropping into his hands. His ribs pulled, pain spiking sharp, and he let out a low curse. He rubbed his face, debating, eyeing the pills again. He didn’t want to seem greedy. Didn’t want to owe more than he already did.

He was still sitting there, shoulders hunched, when the mattress shifted behind him. Wayne stirred, breath deepening into something conscious. Jason froze, hand tightening in his own hair. He could almost feel the man’s gaze on the back of his neck, assessing, peeling away the mask Jason hadn’t managed to throw back on yet.

Jason’s jaw clenched. Any second now - he half expected the bark of a command, a shove back down into the pillows, some reminder of the deal they’d struck. Maybe even a sharp word about pawing through pills that weren’t his. He braced for it, chest tight. Instead, Bruce’s voice came, low and rough-edged with sleep. “You’re up early.”

Jason turned half over his shoulder. Wayne was awake, eyes open and steady, fixed on him. No sharp edge in his tone, no demand. Just a statement, quiet and even.

Jason huffed out a short, humorless laugh, scrubbing both hands over his face before glancing back. “Yeah, well. Some of us don’t get to sleep in till noon. Got places to be, people to disappoint.” He tried for a smirk, but it wobbled at the edges, weighed down by exhaustion.

Bruce’s gaze flicked briefly to the pill bottle on the nightstand, then back to Jason. “You’re in pain.” It wasn’t a question.

Jason’s mouth twisted. “What gave it away? The way I’m hunched over like an old man, or the fact that I was about two seconds from stealing your meds?” He said it like a joke, light and careless, but the glance he cut Bruce was sharp, waiting for the backlash. None came.

Instead of answering, Bruce swung his legs out of bed and crossed the room with a steady, unhurried stride. Wayne moved like a man who didn’t have to prove anything: pulling a clean T-shirt over his head, shoving his hair back with one absent hand, stepping into dark sweats instead of the pressed trousers Jason expected.

Jason tracked him from the corner of his eye, wary, half-expecting him to grab his phone or call Cobblepott’s man back to renegotiate the terms and get a discount after a disappointing night. Instead, Bruce picked up the bottle of ibuprofen, shook out two tablets into his palm, and set them down beside Jason along with the freshly refilled glass of water he’d carried from the kitchen.

“Take them,” he said simply, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Jason hesitated, the sharp comeback caught in his throat. He took the pills, washed them down, and muttered something that might have been “thanks.”

Bruce only nodded and Jason listened to the hum of Gotham’s streets waking up. Sirens wailed far off, the hiss of buses, the grind of delivery trucks. Jason’s shoulders eased almost imperceptibly.

Then, without preamble, Bruce asked, “How much time do you have?”
Jason glanced at him sharply, the mask sliding back into place. “What, before Cobblepott sends the cavalry? Hour and a half.” His mouth curved into a crooked grin, though his eyes didn’t follow. “So if you’re still set on getting your money’s worth, now’s the window.”

It was bait. An opening Jason had seen work a hundred times before. Except Bruce didn’t take it.
Instead, he straightened, voice level. “Then you’ve got enough time for breakfast.”
Jason blinked. “Breakfast.”

Bruce didn’t wait for agreement; he was already moving, pulling on a shirt as he headed toward the kitchen. “Come on.”

Jason sat there a beat longer, staring after him, caught between suspicion and disbelief. Finally, curiosity - or maybe just hunger - pulled him to his feet. He dragged on his boxers and his sweatpants from the night before, but left the shirt off because he wasn’t sure if Wayne would want something to oggle while having coffee and toast or whatever fancy shit someone like Wayne had for breakfast instead.

Jason padded barefoot after Wayne, and found him at the counter. Eggs cracked into a pan, bread in the toaster, the blender whirring with frozen berries and something green Jason couldn’t identify.

“You’re kidding me,” Jason muttered, leaning on the doorway, arms crossed. “You’re actually cooking me breakfast.”

Bruce didn’t look up from the pan. “You’re sore, your ribs are bruised, and you’ve been running on fumes. Protein, complex carbs, electrolytes - it’s not complicated.”

Jason barked a laugh, short and incredulous. “Christ. You really sound like a trainer, not a …“ He cut himself off, jaw tightening around the word. Client.

Bruce slid the plates toward them both, slid two thick glasses of smoothie into place and sat. He gestured at the chair opposite with the casual authority of a man used to people taking direction.

Jason lingered in the doorway a beat, tasting the normalness of it - the steam from the eggs, the hum of the fridge in the background - then dropped into the seat, eyeing the food like it might vanish if he touched it too fast. He picked up the fork, twirled it between his fingers, then finally dug in, after Bruce had his first couple of bites.

The food was hot, rich and grounding in a way he hadn’t realized he’d missed. The eggs were buttery and firm, the toast looked like wholegrains, and the smoothie gave off a cold, berry-sweet smell. Jason took a bite and felt something in him unknot; the groundness of the food hit him where his adrenaline had left a hollow.

Jason leg kept bouncing, restless. “You always do this for the kids you bring home?”

He didn’t even look up when he said it - just kept eating, like he expected the comment to bounce off or be ignored. Maybe even draw a laugh. But Bruce’s silence stretched a little too long. Jason’s eyes flicked up despite himself.

Bruce had stilled. He set his glass down carefully, fingers loosening from it as if the weight had grown heavier. When he spoke, his voice was low, steady, but the plainness carried something underneath.

Bruce’s mouth tightened, the barest flicker of something Jason couldn’t name. “If you were a child, I wouldn’t have done a damn thing of what we did last night. I’d have called child services before you even finished a sentence.” He let the words hang there for a moment. “Should I have?”

“No!” Jason blurted, too fast. “That’s not— hell, that’s not what I meant, man. I‘m nineteen not fucking nine.“

Bruce’s voice softened, but it lost none of its weight. “Good. Because I don’t mistake what last night was, or what it wasn’t. And you shouldn‘t confuse this either.“
Then, as if closing a door, he turned back to his plate. “Now eat your breakfast before it goes cold.” Bruce picked up his fork again, like the matter was settled.

Jason’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. He stared at Bruce, uncertain whether to laugh or to get angry. But in the end, he just ate.

The smoothie glass sat by his elbow, condensation dripping down its side. He eyed it suspiciously.
“What the hell’s in this?” he asked finally, swirling the purple-green sludge.

“Berries. Spinach. Almond milk.” Bruce sipped his own, unbothered. “Potassium, vitamin C, iron.”

Jason snorted, bracing for a horrible green mouthful - but the first taste surprised him. Cold, sweet, and more berry than lawn clippings, it hit the back of his throat with a pleasant tartness. He grimaced at himself for liking it. “Okay, not terrible,” he admitted, and the admission sounded small and reckless in his own ears. But Bruce just sat there, steady and composed.

“You always like this?” Jason asked suddenly. Bruce looked at him, a small, half-amused crease at the corner of his mouth. “Like what?”

“Nice. Calm. Making smoothies and giving TED talks about potassium.” Jason’s grin was sharp, testing. “Doesn’t exactly scream Gotham billionaire playboy. You’re screwing up the cover story, man.”

Bruce didn’t rise to the jab. “Maybe I don’t care what story people believe.”
Jason cocked his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. For half a second, it almost felt like Bruce was saying more than the words carried. He chased the thought off with another bite of toast.

The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the city through the open window. Jason tried to fill it with noise of his own. “Most guys, when they rent me out for a night, they want… I dunno. Something they can brag about. Rough it up, play out their kinks, leave me limping so they feel like they got their money’s worth.“

Bruce’s voice stayed level. “And how often does that leave you better off the next morning?”

Jason’s fork clattered softly against the plate. He hadn’t meant to let the crack show, hadn’t meant the question to hit that deep. His first instinct was to snap back: something biting, something cruel. Instead, he pushed the plate away, half-empty, and muttered, “Better off isn’t usually part of the deal.”

Bruce didn’t argue. He only slid the plate back toward him, steady, unrelenting. “Eat.”
Jason huffed out a laugh, low and bitter. “Pushy bastard.” Still, he picked up the fork again.

“Hour left.” Jason said, after taking a few bites, reminding himself more than Bruce. “Then I’m gone. Training waits for nobody.”

“You’re hurt,” Bruce said evenly.
Jason’s jaw tightened. “I’m always hurt.” He stabbed at the eggs. “Doesn’t change the schedule.”
For a moment, Bruce didn’t answer. Then, quiet, he said, “It should.”

Jason looked at him - really looked, for the first time since waking - and found no pity in Bruce’s expression, no judgment, just that steady, immovable calm. It made something twist in Jason’s gut, sharp and uncomfortable. He dropped his gaze to his plate, shoving down another bite of eggs so he didn’t have to answer.

The city outside roared with life, the day unfolding whether he wanted it to or not.
Jason rinsed his plate afterward out of habit, Wayne didn’t stop him, didn’t correct him, didn’t praise him either. He just let him. That threw Jason off more than anything.

Jason rubbed a hand over his face, the ache in his ribs gnawing, but the edge dulled now with the ibuprofen settling in. He hadn’t realized how heavy his eyelids felt until the silence between them stretched. Bruce was watching him.

“You could lie back down,” Bruce said finally, voice even. “Sleep a little more. The pills will work better if you do.”

Jason huffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. Last thing I need is to knock out cold and wake up two hours late. Cobblepott doesn’t exactly send polite reminders.” He tried to make it a joke, but it landed flat, the truth sitting too close beneath the words.
“I’ll wake you,” Bruce said. No hesitation, no caveat. “Plenty of time before you need to be outside.”

Jason blinked at him, caught off guard. He almost laughed, almost told him to shove it, but the bed had been warm and soft beneath him, and the thought of closing his eyes again tugged at something he couldn’t quite smother.

“Guess… couldn’t hurt to close my eyes for a minute. Just don’t let me crash too deep, yeah?” Jason’s voice carried that brittle edge between exhaustion and mistrust. Still, he rose, shoulders hunched, and followed Bruce back down the hall.

Jason hesitated at the edge of the bed, then dropped onto his stomach. His arms folded beneath his head, cheek pressed to the pillow.

He shifted once, twice, restless. His eyes stayed open, tracking the shadows on the wall. “Alright. Just … don’t forget, okay?,” he muttered, more to the room than to Bruce.

“You’ll be on time,” Bruce says, quiet but steady.

Jason let his eyes slip shut. His body resisted at first but little by little, he eased down. The background hum of Gotham filled the silence. Somewhere behind him, Bruce shifted, the faint scrape of a tablet case opening, fingers moving across glass. Working. Not watching him.

That was…strange. Almost stranger than if Bruce had pulled him close.
Jason tried to hold onto the tension, to keep alert, but the fight, the night, the dull ache in his bones all pressed down at once. He felt the exact moment he stopped fighting it - the inhale deeper, the ribs loosening, the dark tugging him under.

***

The city’s hum threaded itself through Jason’s sleep, a restless lullaby of sirens and engines that pressed against the edges of half-dreams. He hadn’t meant to drop so deep.

A hand on his shoulder brought him back. Light. Steady. Not a shove, not the impatient grip he braced for. Just steady pressure. He startled anyway, a sharp inhale pulling him upright, eyes snapping open.

Bruce’s face was the first thing he saw in the dim, pale wash of morning seeping past the window. Calm, unreadable but softer than Jason expected.

“It’s time,” Bruce said simply. Jason pushed upright fully, scrubbing his hands down his face as if he could drag the clarity back into himself. His ribs protested, muscles heavy and reluctant, bruises throbbing under his skin, but his head felt clearer than it had in weeks. He swung his legs off the bed, careful not to wince, and reached for his t-shirt, still crumpled where it had landed the night before.

By the time he made it to the living room, duffel slung across one shoulder, he was moving on autopilot. Red hoodie pulled over his head, laces tugged tight on his sneakers. The familiar rhythm of leaving, of stepping out before he could think too hard about what he was walking away from.

Behind him, Bruce’s voice cut through the rustle of fabric.
“Jason.”

He froze, half bent over his shoelaces, gaze flicking up warily.
“How do I see you again?” Bruce asked. His voice carried no hesitation. “Soon. Preferably.”

Jason blinked, thrown off balance. Because clients didn’t ask. They paid their money, took their fill, and if they wanted more, they booked through Cobblepot like everyone else. Jason knew the routine by heart: grin, seduce, perform, leave. If you were good enough, they came back. If you weren’t, they didn’t.

Jason had figured Wayne for the latter. Too clean, too controlled. The kind of man who tried something gritty once, out of curiosity, then decided he preferred his girls lacquered and smiling, or his boys sleek and practiced, not half-feral kids bruised from the ring. Not the kind of indulgence a billionaire made a habit of.

Jason thought about the night before, the way it had played out against expectation. The blowjob, sure. He’d delivered, like always. And Bruce had returned it, which was rare.

But then… nothing. No rough, greedy use until Jason was raw. No demands for more, no grip in his hair forcing his head down, no testing how much pain he could really take.

Instead Bruce had fed him twice, gave him pain relieves, even let him sleep. He hadn’t complained to Cobblepott. He hadn’t pressed for more. Hadn‘t let Jason seduce him again.

Jason had almost convinced himself it meant Wayne hadn’t really been interested at all. That maybe the billionaire had gotten his curiosity sated and realized it wasn’t his thing - fucking some half-grown, beat-up kid trying too hard. That Jason wasn’t worth the trouble.

And yet. Somewhere beneath the practiced cynicism, Jason realized he wouldn’t mind seeing Bruce again. Not at all.

He shoved the laces tight, sharper than necessary, sat back on his heels, and smirked to cover the flicker in his chest. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Any night, really.” He stood, swinging the duffel higher on his shoulder like a shield. “I’ll be working. Cobblepott’s bar. The Iceberg Lounge. You know the place.” The smirk cut sharper, defensive in its edge. “If you want another night - or just an hour or two - talk to the man himself. He’ll pencil you in.”

Bruce nodded once, gaze steady as if the decision had already been made long before Jason opened his mouth.

Jason looked away first. Adjusted the strap, rolled it into a shrug, and headed for the door. The city noise spilled in through the cracked window, louder now in the gray of morning.

Chapter Text

The Iceberg Lounge sat on the riverfront like a jewel with a cracked setting - expensive, gleaming, but glinting too sharp at the edges. Cobblepott liked to call it his crown jewel, a “respectable establishment” to the press.

Bruce knew better. It was a front - half bar, half strip club, the kind of place where Gotham’s new money and old crime blended without shame. Crystal chandeliers dangled above booths of faux velvet, their dim light washing the room in an amber haze. Liquor glowed like stained glass behind the bar. Music thrummed just low enough that deals could be struck in the shadows, and laughter too loud to be sincere spilled out from tables clustered near the stage.

The air smelled of cigars, perfume, and sweat. Girls in sequined outfits and men in sharp vests threaded through the room with trays balanced on steady hands, their smiles just convincing enough to sell the illusion.

Bruce sat in the corner, a vantage point that gave him the lay of the room: the exits, the muscle at the doors, Cobblepott himself watching from his gilded roost near the bar.

Jason moved through the haze like he belonged, though Bruce could see the stiffness in his stride. The bruises on his face were painted over well, but Bruce’s eye caught what makeup and dim light couldn’t fully hide - the faint swelling of the lip he’d split in the fight, the tightness in his ribs when he twisted too sharply to dodge a reaching hand.

The uniform - tight jeans, ice-blue v-neck, slim fake silk vest - was designed to sell allure, and Jason wore it like a weapon. He looked older in the dim light, sharper, but Bruce couldn’t forget the exhaustion in his posture that morning.

He wondered if Jason had managed another round of painkillers or rest between training and this shift. Judging by the guarded way he carried himself, likely not.

Jason found him almost immediately. He slid to the table with a practiced smile, tray balanced at his hip, and leaned just enough to sell the performance. “What’ll it be?”
His voice was smooth, casual, but Bruce noticed the flicker in his eyes. Recognition, quick and private.

He ordered a drink he didn’t care about, and Jason returned with it not long after, setting the glass down with a little flourish before moving on.

It wasn’t the last time Jason came back. Once, Bruce asked about the training Jason had been dragged to that morning. Jason gave him a dry snort, said something about “same grind, different bruises,” and rolled his shoulders like it wasn’t worth more than that. Bruce let it go, watching the way Jason disappeared into the tide of servers, the mask slipping back into place with each step.

But the night made it impossible not to notice. More than once, Jason was grabbed by patrons - fingers sliding too low on his back, hands curling at his hip as if ownership came free with the price of a drink. Jason didn’t flinch, didn’t show anything but a half-smirk and a deft twist of his body to slip free, but Bruce’s jaw tightened all the same.

And once, Jason followed someone out. A man in a suit, laugh too wide, hand pressed too firmly against Jason’s back as he steered him toward the darker alley behind the bar. Jason vanished with him, and when he returned fifteen minutes later, his hair was mussed, lips fuller, the edge of his shirt slightly untucked. He wore it like nothing, sliding back into the rhythm of the floor, but Bruce saw the faint stiffness, the way his eyes shuttered when they met his across the lounge.

Bruce sat back in the shadows, the drink sweating on the table, and kept his gaze steady on the boy trying so hard to keep his mask on.

Jason reappeared at Bruce’s table with the same casual air, tray balanced on his palm like it weighed nothing. He leaned, posture all performance for any watching eyes.

“Another drink?” Jason asked, tone neutral, professional. Bruce’s gaze flicked from the glass still sitting mostly untouched in front of him back up to Jason’s face. “No. But sit for a moment.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed, quick and instinctive, scanning the crowd as if to measure whether anyone had heard. His smirk tilted, brittle at the edges. “Not how this works. You drink, have fun, I bring you the good stuff and keep you entertained. That’s the gig.”

Bruce’s voice stayed low, steady, meant only for Jason. “How are the ribs?”
The mask slipped for half a second - the faint flicker of irritation, surprise, something raw. Jason shifted his weight, tray pressing closer to his chest.

“Still attached,” he muttered. “Haven’t punctured a lung yet, so I’d say we’re golden.”
Bruce didn’t smile. His eyes tracked the slight hitch in Jason’s breathing, the stiffness in his side when he straightened. “You need rest. Not this.”

Jason huffed a short laugh, humorless. “Yeah, tell Cobblepott that. He’s real big on rest.” He gave a quick glance toward the bar where the man himself held court, squat body wedged into a custom booth like a bloated bird of prey.

For a beat, Bruce considered. The boy’s defiance was sharp, but it was only armor - armor wearing thin. He let the silence hang until Jason shifted uncomfortably under it.
Then Bruce spoke, voice quiet, deliberate: “I want you again tonight.”

Jason froze, tray tilting just slightly before he corrected. His eyes flicked up, searching Bruce’s face as if trying to decipher whether it was a joke.

“Yeah? Guess I should be flattered.” The words had bite, but there was something else under it, a breath held.
Bruce didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His stillness said enough.

Before Jason could find a quip to fill the air, a bark of laughter cut across the lounge.
“Mr. Wayne.”

Cobblepott’s approach was deceptively casual, cane clicking against the polished floor, cigar smoke trailing behind him. He spread his arms as if welcoming an old friend. “Back again so soon? I’d say Gotham’s finest is developing a taste.”

Bruce rose slightly from his booth, offering only the barest nod in greeting. Cobblepott didn’t seem to notice the coolness; or, more likely, he didn’t care. He clapped a hand on Jason’s shoulder, the weight more grip than gesture. Jason flinched under it, almost imperceptible, but Bruce saw.

“I told you the boy was worth his price,” Cobblepott crooned to Bruce, his tone all charm, like a salesman pitching his best stock. “Young, quick, resilient—takes a beating, bounces back. Useful in the ring, useful out of it. Versatile product, you understand.”

Jason’s jaw locked, tray pressed tighter to his chest. His eyes slid down and away, expression carved into blank obedience.
Cobblepott didn’t look at him. “Same arrangement as last night?” he asked Bruce smoothly. “Cash, check, transfer, whatever suits your convenience. I’ll have him sent to your car whenever you want to leave tonight.”

Bruce’s fingers were steady as he slid the check across the table. Two thousand, the same as last night, his signature already set in black ink. Cobblepott didn’t so much as glance at the number; he tucked it into the inside pocket of his gaudy jacket like a man pocketing a receipt for groceries. The transaction was routine to him.

Then his eyes cut back to Jason. His stubby fingers tightened on the boy’s shoulder, pressing until the muscle jumped beneath his grip.

“And you—” His voice was all syrup and glass. “None of your sulking. No goddamn attitude. You smile, you behave, and you make Mr. Wayne’s night worth every cent, won’t you?”

Bruce watched Jason’s throat work, the smallest swallow before he wrestled it down. The smirk came a beat too late, too brittle at the edges.
“Sure, boss. Wouldn’t dream of disappointing.” The rasp in his voice told another story, one Bruce filed away.

“Cut your sass, boy.” Cobblepott’s hand gave a parting slap - more ownership than affection - before he turned back to Bruce, teeth flashing in a grin slick with cigar smoke.

Bruce inclined his head in answer, his expression mild. He gave nothing away. Cobblepott saw only the billionaire client: detached, pliant, a man who kept his appetites and his money clean.

Satisfied, the Penguin waddled off, cane clicking as he made for his gilded booth. A girl in sequins and red lipstick slid into his lap before he’d even lowered himself fully into the seat. She threw her head back, laughing at something he hadn’t said yet, while her hips started a practiced sway against him. The show was private, but Cobblepott had angled himself so the room could see. A performance, like everything else in here.

Bruce’s brow arched, a faint flicker of distaste he didn’t bother to hide. Jason noticed. He sidled closer, tray tucked under one arm, smirk tugging sharp at his mouth. “What? You thought the entertainment ended with the stage?” He tipped his chin toward the booth, voice dry. “That’s Act Two. Happens every night. Twice, if the old man’s feeling frisky.”

Bruce’s gaze slid back to him, steady, unflinching. “And you’ve been part of that performance.”

Jason’s grin widened, careless as a blade. “What can I say? I’ve got range.” He gave a mock little bow, only half an inch from insolent. “Cocktail server, cage fighter, lap dancer. You want versatility, I deliver.”

The joke landed with the ease of practice, but Bruce saw the glint beneath it - the exhaustion, the resignation, the way Jason tossed himself into the role before anyone else could shove him there.

Bruce didn’t give him pity. He didn’t give him outrage. He let the silence stand between them, weighty and unbending. Jason filled it the only way he knew how, lips quirking as he added, “Don’t worry. Tonight’s your turn. Front row seat, custom service.”

Bruce reached for his glass. The tonic had warmed, condensation dripping onto the napkin beneath it. He drained it in one swallow. When he set the glass down, his voice was calm, deliberate.
“I’d like to make it home now.”

Jason blinked, thrown for half a beat before his grin snapped back into place. “Yeah? Well, you’re the boss, boss.” He gave a quick half-salute with the edge of his tray. “Gimme five. I’ll change, grab my gear, and tell the old man we‘re cashing out early.”

Bruce watched him slip away, disappearing into the staff corridor. When he returned minutes later, the fake silk and painted smile were gone. He wore jeans a size too wide, frayed at the hems, and the same red hoodie from that morning, sleeves pulled over his hands. His duffel sagged at his shoulder.

He made straight for Cobblepott’s booth. The girl was straddling Penguin’s lap now, her hair spilling forward as she bent against his chest, sequins glittering in the low light. Jason hesitated only a second before stepping closer, voice lost under the thrum of bass and laughter.

Bruce couldn’t hear the words, but he saw Cobblepott’s face shift - annoyance first, then anger. His hand came up sharp, cuffing Jason across the side of the head. Jason absorbed it without flinching, head snapping only slightly from the blow.

For a moment, Bruce’s hand twitched against his thigh, the urge to intervene sharp and hot. He forced stillness over it. Not yet. Not here.

Then Cobblepott’s expression changed, sly amusement cutting through the anger. His grin spread, sharp as a beak, and he patted Jason’s cheek like a man soothing a dog he’d just kicked. He leaned in close, words lost to the music, before flicking his hand in dismissal.

Jason smirked in reply - quick, practiced, thin - and turned on his heel. He walked back toward Bruce, hoodie zipped halfway over a black shirt, duffel strap cutting across his chest.

“See?” he said lightly as he reached him, voice pitched high enough to carry over the music. “Told you I’d be quick.”

Bruce rose, and together they threaded through the haze of smoke and sequins toward the exit. Each step carried them further from the noise, until the heavy doors shut behind them.

The night air hit like a balm after the haze of smoke and perfume inside. Gotham’s skyline burned faint orange where the neon cut through the smog, the sound of traffic rolling across the riverfront. Bruce’s car waited at the curb, sleek and black, drawing stares even here where expensive toys weren’t rare.

He‘d picked a different car than last night, remembering how Jason had seemed interested for a second when he‘d seen Bruce lime green racer. He‘d wanted to indulge him.

Jason whistled low under his breath as Bruce opened the door. “You probably own, what, ten more of these tucked in your garage?” He hopped in, careful of the interiour, duffel thumping down at his feet.
Bruce followed, settling in the drivers seat. The door shut with a muffled click.

Jason leaned back, smirk cutting across his face. “So - round two, huh? Guess I didn’t scare you off after all.” His eyes glinted sideways, teasing. “Could’ve sworn you were the type to try once, get the guilt shakes, and go running back to your penthouse priest or whoever keeps your conscience clean.”

Bruce didn’t rise to it. His voice stayed steady, calm. “You don’t need to worry about that tonight.”

Jason’s brows arched, mock surprise flickering across his face. “No? Then what’s on the itinerary, boss? Candlelight dinner, maybe? Bubble bath? Netflix and chill?” His grin widened, deliberately suggestive. “I look real good in a towel, if you’re into that.”

Bruce’s answer was simple, unflinching. “Dinner. And rest. Just like last night.”

The words landed heavier than Jason expected. His grin wavered, faltered, then twitched back into place like a mask slipping. “You’re kidding. Again? Man, I gotta be losing my touch. Either that or you’re one seriously boring client.”

Bruce didn’t flinch. “You need recovery. Not more bruises on top of the ones you’re already carrying.”

Jason barked a laugh, but it came too sharp, too quick. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, eyes flashing toward the window where the city sped by. “You didn’t pay two grand - twice in a row - for me to suck you once and slum it at your place. So what’s wrong with you?”

The grin was gone now. His voice was lower, tighter, carrying something raw that the jokes had been masking all night. “Guys like you don’t throw money around for nothing. You wanted something. You still want something. So quit pretending like this is a fucking charity case.”

His gaze snapped back to Bruce, sharp, searching, daring him to flinch or lie. The streetlights slashed shadows across his face, painting the bruise at his lip darker, the exhaustion in his eyes deeper.

Bruce didn’t look away. His posture in the leather seat was relaxed, but there was no mistaking the weight in his eyes, steady and intent.

“You’re right. Two thousand dollars, twice, is not pocket change to most people. But to me…” he shook his head slightly, the corners of his mouth not quite turning into a smile, “…let‘s say it won‘t bancrupt me.”

Jason’s smirk faltered, suspicion flickering through his gaze. Bruce went on. “I saw you fight that first night. And I’ve seen a lot of fighters. Professionals. Men who train their whole lives. You’re…raw. Unpolished. But you’ve got something they don’t. Guts. Instinct.” His voice softened slightly. “And I liked you.”

That pulled Jason up short. He blinked, thrown off balance by the blunt honesty. “Liked me?” He let out a laugh, sharp and incredulous. “You barely know me. Unless you mean you liked the way I blew you—”

“No.” Bruce’s voice cut clean through, firm without being harsh. “I liked you. Not what you did. Not what you were trying to sell to me.”

Jason swallowed, throat tight. He tried to twist it into a grin, leaning back into his corner of the seat, the overhead light catching the bruises that ringed his cheekbone. “That’s…a hell of a thing to say about a some whore you picked up at the Iceberg.”

“I didn’t pick you up.” Bruce’s tone stayed steady, almost deliberate. “I bought you a reprieve. And I wanted to do it again. That’s all.”

Jason stared at him, caught somewhere between disbelief and something far more dangerous. Hope. His fingers flexed against the strap of his duffel. “So that’s it? You dropped four grand just to watch me eat your food and nap right next to you?”

Bruce didn’t blink. “If that’s what you want to call it.” He leaned back, gaze still steady, voice quiet but carrying a weight that settled into Jason’s bones.

Jason’s smirk didn’t come back this time. He looked out the window, the reflection of neon flashing across his eyes, and let out a breath that sounded suspiciously close to a laugh, but the edge was gone.

“Man,” he muttered, low, shaking his head. “You’re either crazy… or you’re the loneliest son of a bitch I ever met.”

Chapter Text

The elevator opened into the penthouse with its muted gold light and floor-to-ceiling windows cutting the skyline into glittering shards. Jason stepped in first, duffel bouncing off his shoulder, eyes flicking over the familiar sleek furniture like he still didn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch any of it.

“Shower’s yours,” Bruce said, setting his jacket over the arm of a chair. “Fresh towels are in the rack. Take your time. I’ll order us dinner.”

Jason’s head tilted, suspicious, like Bruce had just offered him a trap dressed up as courtesy. He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, shifting his weight. “You really going to do this whole room service bit again?”

Bruce glanced up at him, expression steady. “Unless you’d rather starve. Eggs and smoothie are practically the epitome of what I manage in a kitchen.“

Jason gave a half-snort, half-laugh and shrugged. “Don’t care. I eat whatever’s put in front of me.”

But Bruce didn’t let it go that easily. He set his phone on the counter, arms folding loosely across his chest. “Anything you actually like, Jason? Or am I supposed to keep guessing?”

The way he said his name - firm but not heavy, like it wasn’t just a line on a fight card or a curse spat from Cobblepott’s mouth - made Jason’s stomach twist. He shrugged harder this time, defensive. “Told you. Anything. You could hand me some PBJ and I’d gladly eat it.”

Bruce didn’t sigh, didn’t press. He just tapped the phone awake, thumb swiping deliberate. “Fine. Then tonight, it’s sushi. Dumplings. Seaweed salad. Kung Pao with Peanuts. A little of everything. If you don’t like something, don’t eat it. We’ll figure out the rest another night.”

Jason blinked, caught off guard by the quiet certainty of another night. He covered it fast, tugging his hoodie over his head with a crooked grin. “Careful, Wayne. Keep feeding me like this, I might start thinking you’re trying to fatten me up for something.”

Bruce’s mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Go shower, Jason.”

***

Jason came back from the shower with damp hair curling at his temples. The faint smoke and sweat from the Lounge were gone, replaced by the subtle, clean scent of Bruces soap.

Jason tugged the worndown red hoodie straight as if it could magically pass for something better, then gave Bruce a crooked grin.

“Sorry,” he said, gesturing at himself. “Not exactly runway ready. No sparkly thong or leather harness. Guess you’ll just have to suffer through me looking like this.”

The grin was sharp, flirty on the surface, but the flicker underneath was there, if Bruce looked closely. It asked the unspoken question: did he really want Jason in something cheap, glittering, degrading? Bruce wasn’t shocked; he’d already guessed that, yes, Jason probably had a handful of things like that tucked away in his duffel for “clients” who wanted more.

Bruce set a glass of water in front of him. “You don’t need anything but what you’re comfortable in.”
Jason tilted the glass in a mock salute before drinking half of it down. “Go on with that and i’ll start thinking you mean it, man.”

“I do mean it,” Bruce said simply.
For a beat, Jason looked almost thrown. His gaze dropped, thumb running over the condensation on the glass. Then he shook his head with a small huff, trying to reclaim the mask of indifference. “You’re a weird one. Usually, two grand gets me bent over something within ten minutes. Not showered, watered, and offered dinner.”

Bruce let the words sit, his gaze quiet, measured. “Would you rather I did?”
Jason blinked, caught off guard, before laughing once, short, sharp, too quick. “Whatever gets your kicks off,” he said, voice rasping slightly from the day’s exhaustion.

Just then, the doorbell chimed softly, and Bruce rose to open up. The concierge wheeled the cart in with quiet precision, lifting polished lids one by one until the table gleamed with color and steam.

The room filled with the heady aroma of ginger, sesame, and fresh fish as the lids were lifted. Steam rose in delicate curls from the bamboo steamers, carrying with it the promise of dumplings plump with shrimp and pork, their translucent skins shining faintly in the soft penthouse light.

Jason froze for a moment, staring, like he wasn’t sure if this was food or art. A lacquered platter displayed neat rows of sushi—salmon glimmering like liquid gold, deep red tuna, and pale, pearly yellowtail.

Each piece had been cut with care, the fish resting atop perfect pillows of rice, small curls of wasabi tucked beneath. Rolls, intricate and symmetrical, were filled with avocado, cucumber, crab, and tempura shrimp, their glossy nori wrapping tight and precise. Tiny dishes of pickled ginger, soy, and spicy mayo accompanied them like a silent promise.

Beside them sat a bowl of seaweed salad, slick with sesame oil, dotted with tiny flecks of chili. Another small dish held kimchi, red, pungent, sharp enough in scent to make Jason’s nose twitch.

Wooden skewers bore yakitori, tender chicken glazed with tare sauce, smoke-sweet and glistening.

A platter of chicken glistened beneath a scattering of golden roasted peanuts and flakes of chili. Beside it sat lacquered bowls of miso soup, steam rising in lazy curls, and a neat plate of tempura vegetables, the batter delicate, crisp, almost lacy; small bowls of edamame sprinkled with coarse sea salt and delicate parcels of rice cakes completed the spread.

Jason wouldn’t have known the name of half the dishes if Bruce hadn’t taken the time to explain everything.
He leaned back in his chair, eyeing the table like it was a trap. “Christ. This is… what, like three days’ rent? You got all this just for dinner?”
“It’s just food,” Bruce replied, tone calm, unbothered. He took his seat and picked up his chopsticks.

“Looks…real fancy.” Jason gave a small, humorless laugh, glancing at Bruce. “Not like the protein shake I’ve been surviving on since this morning.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “That so?”
Jason shrugged, faintly defensive, as if he hadn‘t even planned on letting that slip. “Yeah…“ He paused, a shrug that looked almost casual. “So yeah…maybe I’m a little hungry.”

Bruce gestured toward the nearest platter. “Start with whatever looks good to you.”
Jason hesitated, then picked up a dumpling, struggeling for a second with his chopsticks, holding it carefully like it might break. He bit into it and closed his eyes for a beat, letting the warmth and flavor hit his tongue. Soft dough giving way to a rich pork-and-scallion filling, heat flooding his mouth. He almost groaned but caught himself, swallowing quickly and covering with a crooked grin. “Alright. That’s… that’s pretty damn good.”

“You should try the sushi,” Bruce said, nodding toward the platter. Jason hesitated, chopsticks fumbling before he managed to get the piece to his mouth. The fish was cold, tender, impossibly clean on his tongue, cut through with the subtle tang of rice vinegar. He blinked, surprised. “Okay… that’s not half bad. Doesn’t even taste fishy.”

“That’s because it’s fresh.”
Jason smirked. “Fresh, huh? Didn’t think Gotham had any clean water close enough for that.” But he took another, slower this time, savoring it despite himself.

One by one, Bruce drew him through the dishes, tempura zucchini that shattered crisp in his mouth, miso soup that soothed with its salt and umami, skewered chicken lacquered in glaze that stuck sweet on his teeth and those insanely good spicy chicken peanut bites.

Jason was wary at first, taking small, polite bites, holding himself back even as hunger gnawed sharp and hot in his belly.
But Bruce was patient. Not coaxing exactly, just steady, eating himself, remarking evenly on what was in front of them, until Jason’s hesitation cracked.

Bruce nudged the plate of seaweed salad toward him and Jason didn’t argue. He chewed it down, surprised again by the crunch, the faint brine.

When his chopsticks reached for another dumpling, almost too quick, Jason caught himself and leaned back with a sharp laugh. “Shit. Haven’t eaten like this since… ever.” His tone was easy, flippant, but there was something raw under it.

Bruce studied him a moment. “Not much time for meals?”
Jason’s smirk tilted, defensive. “Depends.“

Bruce’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer, only gestured for Jason to take the last skewer. Jason raised an eyebrow but didn’t fight it. He ate, slower now, his body finally giving in to the comfort of fullness.
By the end of it, he slouched back in his chair, one hand over his stomach, smirk softer now, more genuine.

“Damn. Didn’t think…rich people food could be that good! Those dumplings? Holy shit. You could feed me just those for weeks and I’d be set.”

“You’re not set if all you eat is dumplings,” Bruce said mildly, sipping his tea.
Jason chuckled, shaking his head, damp curls slipping into his eyes. “See? Trainer talk again. Not client talk.” But his tone wasn’t biting this time. He looked almost … content. Full stomach, warmth in his chest he couldn’t quite name, and the strange, quiet weight of being fed without it being a bargain.

The silence that had settled between them wasn’t heavy. It had a rhythm of its own, quiet and steady, like the rest after a long spar. Jason tapped his chopsticks against his empty plate, restless even though he was full, like his body didn’t know how to sit still.

“Couch,” Bruce said finally, his voice low but carrying weight. “I want to put something on.“ Jason’s head snapped up, wary, the smirk tugging sharp across his mouth.

“What, you gonna put on porn? Make it a teachable moment?“ The laugh that followed was brittle, more armor than humor.

Bruce didn’t take the bait. “A documentary. About Shakespeare.”
Jason blinked. “… you’re kidding.”
“No.” Bruce stood, collected the remote, and turned on the TV. The title flashed across the screen: The Hidden World of Shakespeare’s Stagecraft; complete with a sepia-toned reenactment of Elizabethan actors wrestling with wooden props. The narrator’s voice was the kind of soothing monotone that could send most people to sleep in five minutes.

Jason groaned theatrically, flopping back against the couch cushions with his hoodie riding up a little. “Jesus, you’re really killing the mood.”
“That’s the point,” Bruce said, settling beside him with the same composed calm he carried into everything.

For a few minutes, Jason made a show of slouching, arms crossed, smirk tugging at his mouth like he was above it all. But then, slowly, his head tilted. The documentary shifted to an explanation of stage traps, hidden pulley systems that made “ghosts” rise from the floor. Jason’s lips parted just slightly, interest sparking in his eyes before he could mask it.

He leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees. “No way. They actually pulled that shit off? Like, in the sixteenth century? That’s… kinda badass.”

Bruce glanced sideways at him, expression unreadable but eyes warm. “It is.”
Jason caught himself, scoffed, and leaned back again, trying to bury the spark of fascination. But it didn’t seem to work. Another few minutes in, he was hooked again, muttering a quiet, surprised laugh when the narrator described audiences throwing vegetables at bad actors, or how the groundlings crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the pit.

“Guess assholes’ve been heckling performers since the dawn of time,” Jason muttered.

Bruce didn’t say anything. He let Jason watch, let the boy’s restless shoulders ease back into the cushions. Every so often Jason shot him a sidelong glance, as if daring Bruce to comment on how much he was enjoying it. Bruce never did. He only let the show play, the soft glow of the TV painting the room in flickering light, anchoring them both in a strange, unexpected peace.

Jason looked younger like this, the glow from the tv on his face, caught between full belly and fascination, almost lulled. His voice, when it came, was quieter. “Kinda wild. Whole world back then just… pretending. But everybody wanted it. Paid for it. Like it mattered.”

Bruce’s gaze lingered on him. “It did matter.”
Jason didn’t look at him, eyes still on the screen. But his mouth twitched in something close to a smile.

The documentary hummed on, the narrator’s voice a steady thread that made the apartment feel safer somehow. Jason’s head dipped once, then twice; the eyelids that had been sharp all evening grew heavy, the flicker of fight in them smoothed by the food and the slow wash of images on the screen.

Jason slouched deeper into the couch, one knee crooked, hoodie riding up, eyelids dragging lower with every blink. He fought it, rubbing at his face, then gave up and let his head rest against the back cushion.

Bruce’s voice cut through the quiet, calm and even. “It’s time to get ready for bed.”

Jason’s eyes cracked open, bloodshot blue locking onto him with lazy defiance. He smirked slow, sleep dragging at the corners of his mouth. “Gonna get off on me snoring while you grind away?” His tone was filthy, a crude jab meant to bite, but it came softened at the edges, slurred by exhaustion. “Could’ve said you had a sleepy-boy kink up front, would’ve saved us the Shakespeare lesson.” His smirk lingered, but the spark behind it was dulled, almost fragile.

Bruce didn’t react, only held his gaze. “I think your ribs will thank you for a mattress. You’ll be more comfortable there.“ A pause.
“If you’d rather have privacy, I can take the couch.”

That landed. Jason blinked at him, sharpness breaking for a beat, eyes widening before he could catch it. “Wait … you?” He let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You’d ditch your own damn bed so I can curl up alone like some spoiled brat? After you just paid out a stack for me to be here?”

Bruce only looked at him, calm and immovable, as if the words couldn’t stick. Jason’s gaze broke first. He looked down at his hands, at the little tremor in his fingers he hadn’t meant to show. His voice was rougher when he spoke again, lower. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.” He rubbed a hand over his face, hiding the heat that had crept into his cheeks. “I’ll take whatever’s offered. It’s more than I usually get.”

Bruce’s voice was steady, a quiet counterpoint. “You deserve more than the bare minimum, Jason. At the very least, a good nights rest in a sturdy bed, every night preferably.”

“You’re weird, Wayne,” Jason muttered, quieter now. “Rich guy like you, and you wanna play gentleman with me.”

Bruce inclined his head, almost the ghost of a nod, and stood. Jason trailed after, slower, quieter, the earlier bravado stripped down to something more fragile.

Tugging the hoodie down, Jason’s movements weren’t flirty swagger anymore - they were uncertain, boyish. Like he was stepping into water too deep and trying not to show he couldn’t swim.

Inside the bedroom, Jason’s gaze caught on the nightstand. The bottle of ibuprofen Bruce had handed him last night, was still sitting there, like Bruce had never entertained the idea that Jason wouldn’t be there again. Jason remembered the way the seal had cracked, the quiet patience with which Bruce had waited for him to swallow them.

“If it helps you sleep easier,” Bruce said evenly, following Jasons gaze to the pill bottle, “then you should take some tonight too.”

Jason hovered a moment longer before muttering something under his breath and reaching for the bottle. He tipped out two, dry-swallowed them, before Bruce could wait on him with a glass of water again.

When he finally glanced up, Bruce had already disappeared into the walk-in. Jason stood there, hands loose at his sides, listening to the muffled sound of drawers opening and fabric shifting. Bruce reappeared in pajama pants and a plain black t-shirt.

He opened the window, letting in the hum of the city, nonchalant, as if it was anything but a hardship to remember Jasond odd favorite lullaby.

Bruce moved without hesitation, folding back his side of the duvet with the same steady composure he seemed to apply to everything, like this was just another ordinary end to an ordinary day. Jason watched, wary. He lingered by the edge of the bed, thumbs hooked in the waistband of his jeans, unsure.

Last night, he hadn’t even thought about it. Bruce had stripped him down and Jason stayed naked because he hadn’t dared do anything else.

After Bruce’s mouth on him, he’d been sure the man would wake him later, rough hands and demands in the dark, pounding him until morning. But nothing had happened.

Maybe Bruce had gotten off on it in some fucked-up way. Maybe he liked the thought of a lean, bruised body naked beside him, available and pliant even if untouched. He tugged at the hem of his hoodie, awkward, unsure of how Bruce wanted him now.

He cleared his throat, words coming out edged with hesitation. “So… what do you want me in tonight? Naked again? Or …”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. He simply stepped aside, making room for him, and said, “You can wear whatever you want. Jeans, hoodie, pyjama, nothing at all. It’s your choice.”

That word choice landed somewhere raw. Jason swallowed hard, fingers frozen halfway through tugging his jeans down. For the first time all evening, he didn’t know what role to play - flirt, whore, fighter. He just stood there, suddenly young again, uncertain in a way that made his chest ache.

“If I keep the jeans on,” he muttered, voice low, “you’re not gonna get all pissy about dirt on your sheets?”

Bruce’s mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile but close. “I think I can manage.”

Jason gave a huff, trying to cover the sudden rush of heat in his face. He kicked off his jeans and slid out of the hoodie, leaving the t-shirt and boxers.

Nothing deliberate, nothing staged, just… as he was. It felt strange. Exposed in a way nakedness never had.

When he finally slipped under the covers, careful of his ribs, he lay stiff at first, waiting for the weight of a hand, the shift of the mattress, the inevitable take.

But nothing came. Only the quiet rustle as Bruce settled on his side of the bed, the faint scent of clean cotton, the even, grounding sound of his breath.

Jason exhaled, long and shaky. “You’re really not gonna…?” He couldn’t finish it, the crude words catching in his throat.

“No,” Bruce said simply, eyes closed. “Go to sleep.”

Jason’s eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, though they were already heavy.

His tongue worked against the back of his teeth. He wanted to say something, anything, to cut through the strange warmth seeping into his bones. He turned his head slightly toward Bruce’s silhouette.

“Y’know,” Jason murmured, voice rasping with sleep, “most guys, they’d be into it. Kid all fucked-out, half-asleep. You could… do whatever. No fight, no backtalk. Easy ride.”

The words were crude, deliberately so. A sharp little knife he tried to turn on himself, to drag them both back into familiar territory. His mouth twitched in something like a smirk, though his eyes were already fluttering shut. “Bet you’d like that, huh? Me mumbling your name while I’m drooling on the pillow …”

“Jason.”

Jason swallowed, throat tight, smirk faltering. He rolled onto his side, ribs protesting the movement, and burrowed into the pillow, half-hiding his face. “…Figured,” he muttered, softer now, words starting to blur. “Too much of a gentleman for that kinda shit.”

The sounds of the city flew in through the window and the faint, rhythmic sound of Bruce breathing beside him. Safe. Unmoving.

Jason’s body gave up first. His hand slipped against the sheet, fingers uncurling, and the last thought that flickered across his mind before the dark took him was that he didn’t have to stay awake, ready, waiting for shit to hit the fan. Not tonight.

He let go and sleep claimed him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

Jason woke to the weight of light on his face. Thin lines of it cut across the curtains and spilled over the bed, warm against his cheek. The air smelled faintly of city morning through the cracked window, a mingling of exhaust and asphalt warming in the sun.

For a second he lay still, disoriented by softness. The mattress cradled him, the sheets too clean, too smooth against his skin. His body didn’t know what to do with comfort like this, and panic cracked through the haze of rest before his mind caught up.

He shouldn’t still be here. He hadn’t meant to sleep this long, this deep - not here, not in someone else’s bed, not with a client next to

Him. His ribs gave a sharp throb when he jerked upright too fast, muscles locking in protest from the abuse of the fight and everything after.

Beside him, Bruce was already awake. Half-propped against the headboard, dark hair mussed in a way that made him look younger, but the set of his shoulders still all control. An iPad rested in one broad hand, the screen’s glow washing his face in sharp relief. Businesslike even in soft cotton: a plain black t-shirt that stretched across his chest, pajama pants loose at his hips.

Jason’s chest tightened. His gaze snapped downward before Bruce could look at him, scanning the floor for his clothes. Jeans in a heap by the side of the bed. Hoodie thrown somewhere near. His phone - his phone - he lunged for it, heart thudding like he was already in trouble.

The denim was cool under his fingers when he dug into the pocket. He thumbed the phone awake, breath held so tight it hurt. No missed calls. No new texts. The lock screen stared back at him, blank and merciful.

His shoulders dropped an inch. Maybe Cobblepott had figured it out: after a fight, two nights sold off, and a shift at the Lounge and training wedged between, Jason wasn’t good for much.

Bruce’s voice cut through the stillness, low and even, as if he’d been waiting. “Morning.”

Jason rubbed at his eyes, scrubbed the heel of his hand across his face like he could wipe the tension off. “Yeah.” His voice rasped with sleep. “Morning.”

He braced for what came next; the shift, the ask. Morning sex, or something like it. The usual. He could almost hear the words forming, some variation of get on your knees, or ride me while the sun’s still warm. His shoulders hitched tighter, waiting.

But Bruce only set the tablet aside, slow, deliberate. Turned fully toward him, gaze steady and looked at him with a thoughtfulness Jason didn’t know what to do with. Jason’s stomach dropped like he’d misstepped a stair.

“I’ve been thinking,” Bruce began, voice low and deliberate, the same tone he might use to outline a contract or a strategy. “About buying more of your time.”

Jason froze mid-shift, the sheets whispering against his skin. For a beat, his face was blank, then a grin slanted across his mouth, quick and sharp as a knife. “More? What, you planning some week-long bachelor party? A kinky rich-boy sleepover?” The laugh that followed was too fast, too loud, a shield he’d practiced until it felt natural.

Bruce didn’t so much as blink. “That’s not what I mean.”

Jason narrowed his eyes, testing for the angle, the trap. “…Then what do you mean?”

Silence hung for a moment, softened only by the hum of the city outside and the faint hiss of the heating system. “My PA has been insisting I take time off work for a while now. Says I haven’t slowed down in months. This seems like a good opportunity.”

Jason tilted his head, suspicion curling through him like smoke. “Time off? And you want me around for that? What the hell for?”

Bruce turned fully toward him then, gaze steady, clear as glass. “I want to train you.”

Jason blinked. “…Train me?”

Bruce nodded once. “Until your next fight. I want to see what you can do. With proper rest. With balanced meals. With someone who knows what they’re doing in your corner.”

Jason leaned back, eyebrows raised high, an incredulous laugh bubbling out of him. “Wait … who’s the miracle trainer you’ve got in mind? Some fancy black belt you keep on retainer for charity cases?”

Bruce’s grin deepened. “Me.”

Jason’s stomach flipped hard. He smothered it with a scoff. “You?”

“I’ve been training since kindergarten,” Bruce said evenly. “Multiple disciplines. Competitive, professional. Black belt, yes. And beyond.” His voice softened, almost gentling. “I watched you in that cage. You’ve got grit. Instinct. But nobody’s ever given you structure. Real training. Have they?”

Jason’s throat worked. He dropped his eyes, fingers tugging at a loose thread on his hoodie, the gesture boyish and restless despite his best effort to stay cool. “…That’s gonna be expensive as shit, Wayne. A night’s what? Two grand?” Jasons tone was light, flippant, but his fingers curled tight into the sheets at his side. “So two weeks…“ He did the math in his head. A full day cost more than a night, he knew that much. Even with a bulk discount, the number that landed in his mind made his throat tighten. Tens of thousands.

And even with the laughable cut that went to Jasons debts it would be a couple grand, more than he was able to pay back in a usual two weeks. And Bruce had been nice - so far. Maybe the following weeks wouldn‘t be to horrible. Not like when he was usually bought for days in a row.

“Money isn’t the issue.” Bruce said. Jason snorted, tried to ride it out. “Easy for you to say, Big Wallet. Me, I …“ The words died halfway. He heard himself almost slipping, almost spilling something he didn’t mean to. A crack had opened under his tongue, and he slammed his teeth down on it. But Bruce was watching, steady and unblinking, and Jason suddenly hated how warm the morning light felt against his face, how much it exposed.

He rubbed the back of his neck, skin hot under his palm, eyes darting toward the window where the curtains leaked daylight.

The city hummed faintly beyond glas, distant traffic, the occasional horn. His voice, when it came, was low and frayed. “There’s someone at home. If you buy me up for two weeks straight, I’d need to… I’d need to check in.”

Bruce reacted immediately. Not with the lazy, predatory shift Jason had learned to brace for in other men, but with something sharper - alert, protective. His whole attention pivoted like the rest of the world had dropped away. “Someone?” His tone softened, but his eyes narrowed. His next words landed heavier.

“Jason … are you leaving a child home alone while you work?”

Jason’s head snapped around so fast his ribs twinged. His eyes went wide. “What? No!” The laugh that ripped out of him was jagged, humorless, too loud for the quiet morning. “Christ, no. You think I’d …” He broke off, breath catching, then pushed through with a rough edge. “You think I’d leave a kid by themselves while I … while I’m out here? No way.”

Jasons voice dropped, rougher, like gravel dragged across cement. “Nah. It’s my mom.”

Bruce didn’t relax right away. His jaw was still set, eyes still cutting through him like he was trying to read every lie Jason had ever told.

So Jason kept talking, words tumbling out before he could stop them, softer now, raw in their edges. “She’s… not well. Some chronic crap. She needs me to check on her every couple days. Make sure she’s good.” He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, the taste of iron blooming faint at the back of his tongue. His eyes dropped to his lap and his hands twisted in the fabric of the sheet without meaning to, restless. “Cobblepott knows that. It’s my … he promised.”

It wasn’t supposed to sound like that - pleading. But it did. The words shook in the air between them, fragile, already too much.

There was pity on Bruce’s face, though he tried to hide it.

“Jason…” His voice caught, then steadied, quieter. “If I buy your time, it won’t interfere with that. You’ll see your mother as often as you need. No conditions. None.”

Jason froze. The quiet between them stretched thin, taut as a wire.

“…You serious?” His voice cracked on the edge of disbelief. “You’d pay Cobblepott all that just… just so I could eat dumplings, watch bad TV, and let you play Sensei Wayne in your penthouse gym?”

Bruce’s mouth tugged into that same faint, infuriatingly certain grin. “Yes.”

Jason’s smirk faltered, warred with something else in his chest. Vulnerability slid through before he could barricade it, leaving him staring at Bruce like he was looking at something impossible.

“…You’re fucked up, y’know that?” His voice was quiet. Shaky, even. “Most guys throw down that kinda money, they expect blood, sweat, and a whole lotta screaming. You’re over here offering me sparring lessons and room service.”

“And rest,” Bruce added. “Don’t forget that part.”

Jason huffed a laugh, shaking his head, but his eyes burned a little too bright.

***

Jason was still moving like the fight clung to his bones - slow, stiff, careful around the ache in his ribs. He stood near the window while Bruce set his phone down on the nightstand, the call with Cobblepott finished with the kind of quiet authority that didn’t leave room for debate.

“It’s settled,“ Bruce informed him. “You’ll be with me for twelve days. After that, Cobblepott expects you back in the cage friday night.”

Jason gave a short nod, like he’d just been handed a sentence. Twelve days. It should’ve felt like winning: no double shifts at the Lounge, no hustling between fights and back-alley deals, but the number sat in his chest like lead. Twelve days locked in someone else’s orbit. Twelve days of being observed, weighed, judged. No room to breathe, no cracks to slip through where he could just be himself.

He shifted his weight, ribs catching sharp under the movement. His his hands restless until his thumbs found their way into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers like he needed something to do with them. His eyes stayed down, fixed on the neat pattern of the rug instead of Bruce.

“Uh,” Jason started, then clamped his jaw tight. Swallowed. Tried again, softer this time, as if lowering his voice might make the ask less dangerous. “Listen. I should …” His teeth clicked together, frustration flashing before it dimmed back into hesitation. “I should check on my mom today. And grab some stuff from the apartment. Or tomorrow, if it’s better for you. Just… sometime soon.” The request landed brittle in the air, fragile as glass.

Bruce didn’t blink. “We’ll go now. Stop for breakfast on the way.”

Jason’s stomach twisted. He kept his eyes fixed on the rug, shoulders drawn tighter, words spilling quick and defensive. “I can take the bus. Don’t wanna waste your time.”

The apology clung to the edges of his tone, automatic, practiced. He braced for the snap-back - client logic, the kind he knew by heart. Your time’s mine, kid. You want out, you give something back.

Jason’s whole body angled inward against it, hoodie bunched under his fists like makeshift armor.

“It’s faster if I drive. You’re still sore. And whether you realize it or not, you’re favoring your left side.” Bruce‘s eyes flicked down, not unkind, to the line of Jason’s ribs beneath the hoodie. “A crowded bus isn’t going to help that.”

Jason’s chest tightened until it hurt. Heat climbed up the back of his neck, not the easy warmth of embarrassment but the hot, cornered kind that left no exit. He didn’t know what to do with the calm certainty in Bruce’s voice. Didn’t know how to answer a client who wasn’t threatening, or bargaining, or trying to pry his life open.

So he didn’t. He just nodded, quick and small, fingers curling around the drawstrings at his chest until the tips went white.

To him, it wasn’t kindness. It was an order. And he wasn’t about to argue.

Chapter Text

Jason gripped the paper bag in one hand, the cardboard cup carrier in the other, shoulders hunched as he climbed the narrow stairwell. The weight of it felt heavier than it should’ve, like he was smuggling something fragile through foreign territory.

The banister was sticky under his palm; he avoided touching it when he could. On the third floor, the hallway smelled like boiled cabbage and mildew.

His duffel hung from his shoulder, the strap biting into bruised skin, familiar and grounding. He shifted it closer, the zipper jingling softly with each step.

The door stuck like always; he had to shove it with his shoulder. The apartment was exactly as he’d left it, only worse. The curtains half-drawn, air stale with smoke and something sour beneath it.

The ashtray on the coffee table was spilling over: burnt-out filters crushed into one another like a graveyard. Plates crusted with old food shoved half-off. A sweet-chemical tang in the air that told him everything, even before he saw her.

His mom was on the couch, head tilted back, eyes half-lidded. Her hair was tangled, makeup smudged from days ago. Her arm dangled off the side, track marks visible against her skin, the skin itself thin and papery under the dim light. She looked peaceful in a way that wasn’t real, the kind of peace only needles bought.

Jason didn’t flinch. Didn’t curse or cry or storm. This was his normal. He dropped his duffel by the door and crossed to her, crouching, setting the bag gently on the table like it might break.

“Ma.” His voice was low, coaxing. Her eyes fluttered slow, unfocused, and then lit faintly at the sight of him. A smile, slow and slanted, pulled at her mouth. “Jay.” Her voice was syrupy with the high, slurred around the edges, but warm. “My sweet boy.”

Her hand lifted a little, wavering in the air before dropping again.

Jason swallowed hard, forcing a smile as he sat on the edge of the couch. “Yeah. It’s me. Brought you something good.“ He helped her up some and lifted the coffee cup, pressing it into her hand. “Here. Drink this. You need it.”

She obeyed, sluggish but compliant, sipping without complaint. He unwrapped one of the bagels and held it out until she took a bite. “Good, right? Fancy stuff. Bet you never had avocado on a bagel before.“

She mumbled something like thanks around her chewing. Jason sat beside her on the edge of the couch, watching until she’d eaten more than just a nibble, nudging the coffee back into her hands. “Promise me you won’t use again today, Ma. Just… don’t. Okay? Let this stick for a while.”

She nodded, too quick, too vague, eyes already glassy again. He knew better, but he needed to hear it.

“Where you going?” she asked after a pause, voice fragile, like she was a kid trying not to lose him. Jason’s throat worked. He kept his tone light. “Training. Work.” Not a lie, not really, but nothing close to the whole truth.

She reached for his wrist, her fingers cool against his skin. “You work too hard, baby. You’re all I got, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Jason whispered. “I know.” His chest hurt, but he made himself smile for her.

When she was distracted enough with the food, he slipped away to pack. Quick, efficient movements: a couple hoodies, jeans, boxers, socks, the worn gym shorts and T-shirts for training, he hadn’t managed to run them through the loundromat yet. Toothbrush, deodorant, razor - stuff he’d need for days away. He unzipped his duffel and reorganized the mess inside. Phone charger, old cracked phone, the scuffed briefcase he carried everywhere; he tucked them all back in their places.

His fingers brushed a paperback between the frilly thongs and the leather jockstraps Cobblepott had him carry around. The book spine was cracked. Pride and Prejudice. It was the one he always returned to when nights stretched long. He pushed it back in the duffel too and just before zipping it up, his gaze landed on his nightstand and the small wooden framed picture on it.

He picked it up carefully. Cliped edges on the frame, colors faded. A younger version of them stared back. Him : gap-toothed and wild-eyed, hair sticking out in uneven tufts, grinning like the world hadn’t yet taught him better.

His mom, arms tight around his shoulders, her smile soft and real, not blurred with chemicals. His dad, still lean and strong in his oil-stained coveralls, grease under his nails, sunburn on his neck. They’d been broke then too, he remembered the secondhand shoes pinching at his toes, the overdue bills shoved in drawers - but they’d been lighter somehow. Whole in a way they weren’t anymore.

Jason’s thumb traced the image of his mom’s face, back when she’d been more than the hollow shell on the couch. Back when she’d been just Mommy—sweet, stubborn, singing along to the radio while burning toast in the kitchen. Back when dad had still been home, short-tempered and strong-willed, but protecting them.

Jason slid it between his shirts, gentle as if it could shatter. He didn‘t know why he  packed it. He didn’t need a reminder of why he was doing this. He carried it in his bones.

Every bruise, every drop of blood in the cage, every night sold off - it all circled back to them. To his mom’s safety and her old hospital bills. Her drugs too, though he hated himself for that part, hated the way it kept her alive but also kept her hooked.

To rent paid just enough to keep a roof overhead, even if the ceiling leaked. To his dad’s survival behind bars, protection bought one dirty dollar at a time.

Cobblepott owned him, Jason fought in his cages, let himself be bought for nights, his body be used for some sickos pleasure all so his parents could breathe another day. His mom on the couch, track marks fresh, still calling him “her sweet boy” with love in her eyes. His dad sitting in a cell, kept safe only because Jason paid the right people to keep their knives sheathed.

He didn’t need the photograph to remind him. But he packed it anyway, because some days, he needed to see proof that once, even for a moment, they had been a family worth saving.

When he came back out, his mom was dozing again, crumbs on her shirt. Jason crouched down beside the couch. He leaned in and kissed her temple, light, like touching glass that could crack.

“I gotta go for a few days, Ma,” he murmured, voice rough. “I’ll be back soon. Couple days, tops. You need anything, you call me. Don’t wait, alright?”

Her hand lifted again, shaky, cupped his cheek. “My sweet boy,” she whispered, eyes glassy but soft with love. “Always taking care of me.”

Jason’s throat burned. He kissed her hand, pressed it back down gently against her chest. “Don’t use again today,” he tried again “Promise me. Please.”

She nodded, vague and slow. It wasn’t convincing, but it was all she had to give. She loved him, sure. But she loved the needle more.

Jason lingered, one hand braced on the armrest, as if he could hold himself there against the pull of both guilt and relief. Leaving her was like prying his own ribs apart. Staying was worse.

Finally, he straightened, slung the duffel back over his shoulder, and left as quietly as he’d come.

Bruce’s car waited at the curb. Jason adjusted the strap of his bag, squared his shoulders, and forced the mask back onto his face before he opened the door.

***

The car ride back was quiet, but not the sharp-edged kind Jason knew too well. It wasn’t the silence of someone waiting for him to slip, or the tight leash of a client measuring how much patience they had left. This was thicker, steadier, like the hum of the city outside, like Bruce could sit in quiet forever and not mind.

Jason sat with his shoulders hunched, hoodie pulled close, fists hidden in the kangaroo pocket. His jaw ached from how tightly he held it. He stared at the passing blur of buildings, ignoring the sting behind his eyes when his mom’s voice replayed in his head, all soft and slurred as she’d called him her sweet boy.

“Your mother okay?” Bruce’s voice came low, even. Not prying, just present.

Jason gave a sharp shrug. “She’s fine. Just…” He caught himself, words snagging, and bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t about to spill. Not about the ashtrays, the smell, the way her hands had trembled when she held the bagel. He forced his voice into something flat. “She’s fine.”

Bruce glanced at him briefly, then back to the road. “She liked the Bagel?”

Jason blinked, wary. “Yeah. Why?”

“Because it matters. She‘s your mother.“

Jason’s throat closed for a second. He grunted, like that ended the topic, but it didn’t feel like Bruce was going to use it against him. The quiet that followed was heavy, but not cruel.

When they pulled into the underground garage, Jason braced for some kind of instruction. A clipped command to straighten up, to move faster, to fall into line. Instead, Bruce only killed the engine, gathered his keys, and stepped out with the same measured calm as always. No rush, no edge.

Back upstairs, the penthouse greeted them in soft light. The curtains were drawn back enough to let the city’s brightness spill in, catching on steel and glass, on polished wood and leather. Jason hovered near the doorway, his duffel still slung heavy on his shoulder, waiting to be told what he was meant to do.

Bruce moved with quiet decisiveness, setting his watch on the chest of drawers in the hall. His jacket was already off, cuffs unbuttoned, the slow roll of fabric up his forearms so deliberate it made Jason’s chest tighten. Not from lust, exactly - though, remembering the blowjob Bruce gave him, there was that too - but from the sense of inevitability that followed men like Bruce Wayne. Men who could afford to own time, to buy silence, to command the air without raising their voices.

Jason cleared his throat, a nervous laugh snagging in it. “So… you want me to get changed? For training, I mean. Or…” His eyes flicked up, then away again, his tone dipping into that practiced, ugly kind of charm he’d learned to use like armor. “Or you want me some other way first?”

The implication hung heavy, unpolished, crude because it needed to be. He knew what he was, and what men wanted when they paid. Even with Bruce’s strange restraint, Jason could still read the hunger when it flickered in someone’s eyes. He’d learned survival in the way of feral animals: smell it, see it, anticipate it. Bruce might have dressed it in discipline, in distance, but Jason wasn’t stupid. Underneath all that self-control, there was appetite.

“Rest first,” Bruce said. As if Jason hadn’t spoken of sex at all. “Food after. Then we’ll do some light warm-up and stretching this afternoon.”

Jason opened his mouth to argue, because that was what he did, because he didn’t trust a man who bought him to really mean it, but Bruce’s gaze was level, calm in a way that disarmed the fight before it even started.

Jason swallowed the retort. Shifted his weight from one socked foot to the other. “Right,” he muttered, voice small now, stripped of bravado.

Bruce nodded toward the bedroom. “Go take a nap. On the bed. You’ll recover faster if you are kind to your body.”

Jason blinked. Clients didn’t usually have to tell him he could use furniture - he wasn‘t that far gone - but he realized with a jolt that without the permission, this time, he might not have dared.

Jason mumbled something that might’ve been acknowledgment and slunk toward the room. He moved with the clumsy hesitation of someone waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under him, then lowered himself down onto the mattress. The sheets still smelled faintly of clean linen and Bruce’s cologne, a warmth he hadn’t meant to notice.

He lay stiff for a long moment, listening for footsteps, waiting for some sign that Bruce had followed. But the only sound was the distant clatter of dishes in the kitchen.

Jason let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold. The ache in his ribs tugged when he rolled onto his side, facing the window. The city lay spread out in daylight beyond the glass, but the weight of exhaustion dragged his eyelids shut.

He hadn’t meant to sleep, but the last thing he remembered was the quiet hum of traffic bleeding through the glass, the faint warmth of the sheets, and the ghost of Bruce’s voice in his head.

***

When he woke again, the light had shifted, brighter and higher in the sky. The air smelled faintly of herbs and something roasted. His stomach clenched before his eyes even opened, the dull ache of hunger leading him to the kitchen.

Bruce was waiting. Not looming, not impatient. Just at the table with a tablet set aside, a plate of food set neatly across from his own. The smell carried across the room, greens fresh, sharp, something clean layered over the savor of grilled meat.

Salad, but not the limp kind Jason remembered from food banks or plastic clamshells. Crisp vegetables tossed with lemon and oil, strips of lean chicken seared golden-brown on top.

Jasons stomach growled before he could tell it to behave, a low and insistent ache that made his cheeks burn. He crossed his arms, too late to hide it, and his shoulders tightened like he could somehow will his body into silence.

Jason hated being this obvious, hated how hunger always betrayed him. A sharp, childish thing that never seemed satisfied by the protein shakes Cobblepott’s trainers shoved at him or instant noodles with canned corn, half a packet of hot dogs, maybe an egg if they still had any, stuff he tried to cook at home when he had twenty minutes before heading back out. Quick, cheap fuel.

“You’re up,” Bruce’s voice was even, warm. “I was just about to wake you for lunch.”

“Guess I beat you to it,” Jason says, dragging a half-grin into place. “Smelled too good to stay asleep. I think the chicken was calling me by name.”

Bruce’s mouth curved in a small, knowing smile. “That’s encouraging. Come sit.”

Jason obeyed, dropping into the chair. He picked up the fork and forced himself to take small, measured bites, not the wolfish hunger that always wanted to take over when he got real food in front of him. He hated looking desperate.

“You like it?” Bruce asked, settling into the opposite chair.

“…Yeah. Better than Cobblepott’s protein drinks, anyway.” He tried for a smirk to sell it as a joke, but the edges cracked, the effort showing through.

Bruce brow lifted slightly. “You get those often instead of a proper meal?”

Jason stabbed a piece of chicken, spearing it harder than necessary. “Sure,” he said, trying to sound offhand, like it didn‘t matter. “When I don’t have enough cash for real food. Or time to eat it.”

Bruce didn’t flinch at the honesty, didn’t dig at the scab. Just gave a slow nod, steady as bedrock. “You’ll have both here. Balanced meals and enough times to eat them.“

Jason looked down again, fork moving in small, deliberate motions. “Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Right.“

The silence after that stretched, thick but steady, and for once he didn’t hate it. But the question had been gnawing at him since the morning, since Bruce had made that call to Cobblepott without blinking at the number. Halfway through the plate, Jason’s fork stopped. His thumb dragged over the tines, restless. He didn’t look up when he muttered, low, rough around the edges:

“…Why are you doing this?”

Bruce didn’t answer immediately. He set his own fork down with slow, deliberate care and leaned back in his chair as if settling into something that couldn’t be hurried.

For a beat Jason watched the way Bruce’s jaw moved, the slight tightening at the corner of his mouth, small tells Jason had learned to read in other men and to use in himself. But there was none of the greedy flash he’d come to expect. His gaze was steady, unreadable, and that made Jason fidget harder.

“You paid a shit ton of money,” Jason pressed, sharper now, trying to make it sound like he didn’t care. “For me. For… all this.” He gestured vaguely, fork clinking against the plate. “You don’t want the usual. You don’t … You’re not …” His words tangled, frustration flashing hot across his face. He exhaled hard through his nose. “What the hell are you getting out of it, Wayne?”

Bruce’s jaw shifted, a tiny movement Jason wouldn’t have caught if he weren’t watching so close. “You fight like you’re used to being cornered,” Bruce said finally, voice low, even. “You take hits the way some men take breath. But you keep standing. You keep swinging. You’ve got instinct - footwork, reaction, an eye for distance - that most fighters only dream of. Grit’s part of it, yes, but there’s talent there, and drive. And that shouldn’t be wasted.”

Jason barked a laugh that had salt in it. “Grit. That’s what you bought?” The sound cracked; it was disbelief, cynicism, and a hurt that reached back into everything he’d learned to swallow.

Bruce’s eyes didn’t waver. If anything, they softened. “That’s what I want to invest in.”

Jason blinked, throat tight. The fork clattered as he dropped it onto the plate. “Invest. Christ. You make it sound like I’m… I don’t know. A stock.”

“You’re not.” Bruce’s reply was immediate. He leaned forward a fraction, the gesture small but intentional. “You’re a brilliant fighter. You move in a way that can be taught to be cleaner, smarter. You’ve got instincts and hunger. Twelve days isn’t enough to fix everything. But it’s a start. It’s enough to see what you can be with proper rest, nutrition, and technique.” He tapped the rim of his glass, then met Jason’s eyes full on. “I paid because I don’t like wasting potential. I paid because I think you deserve better than than protein shakes, slaps and exhaustion you‘ve been getting.”

Jason felt a thousand small things unspool inside him. Anger at how easy it was for someone to pay for his time, relief that someone might actually see more than the cage whore, shame that he wanted that recognition so badly it hurt. He had been sold and rented and bargained away so often the idea of someone investing in him felt dangerously like hope.

Bruce’s mouth softened into the faintest curve. “I want to train you, like I haven‘t wanted anything in a long time,” he said. “And I want to make sure you don’t burn out before you get the chance to find out how good you really can be.”

Jason let out a breath that might have been a laugh or might have been a sob. He didn’t answer with words. He only stared at the salad, then back at Bruce, and for the first time in a long time the barbed edges of his skepticism trembled.

Chapter Text

The elevator hummed quietly as it carried them down, Jason in his old gym clothes, feeling out of place beneath the high ceilings and pristine lighting. His sneakers squeaked faintly with every step, worn soles betraying their age in contrast to the polished marble of the penthouse hallways. He kept his hands buried in his hoodie’s pocket, shoulders rounded, as though bracing for an audience he hadn’t met yet.

The communal gym sprawled across half the floor, walls of glass spilling daylight across rows of gleaming machines and racks of weights. Chrome and mirrors everywhere. No chipped paint, no broken benches duct-taped together like at the fight gym. This place smelled faintly of filtered air and eucalyptus instead of sweat and old leather.

Jasons eyes lingered a second too long on the pristine boxing ring tucked into the corner before flicking away.

Bruce moved with quiet purpose, rolling out a mat, adjusting the bench incline, like he’d done this a hundred times without thinking.

Jason toed off his hoodie and dropped it on a bench, every movement screaming I belong here even when he didn’t believe it. His ribs tugged under the fabric of his shirt, the bruises still dark but fading. He rolled his shoulders like he was fine, like he could grind through whatever Bruce threw at him.

“We’ll start light,” he said simply, handing Jason a resistance band. Jason snorted, looping it around his hands. But he followed the lead, mimicking the stretches. His movements were stiff, ribs protesting every twist, but there was determination in the set of his jaw. Bruce watched, precise, correcting his stance with a touch to his elbow. His voice cut across the silence. “Breathe. Don’t fight it.”

Jason snorted, keeping his eyes fixed on the mat. “That’s kind of the point.”

“Not today.” Bruce straightened, his shadow falling over Jason. “You want to last twelve days, you start by not tearing yourself apart in the first twenty-four hours.”

Jason’s jaw flexed, words biting at the back of his tongue. He wanted to snap that he wasn’t weak, that he didn’t need coddling, but the truth was, he did want to last. He did want to see what he could learn in the next twelve days. If there was really any ounce of the brilliance in him that Bruce insisted to have seen in the cage.

So he let Bruce adjust his posture, guiding his arms into smoother arcs, holding his shoulders until they released.

Bruce set the pace, steady, deliberate, maddeningly controlled. No barked orders, just quiet instructions, the occasional correction in that low voice that carried weight without volume.

They continued with stretches, Bruce guiding him through each movement with the kind of precision that came from years of habit. Shoulder rolls, spinal twists, lunges that drew a tremor through tired muscles but never tipped into pain.

When they moved to balance drills - slow kicks, stance holds, small pivots that demanded focus - Jason found himself sweating harder than he would have during a spar. Core work followed: planks, crunches, small motions that lit up every bruised inch of his abdomen without quite crossing into agony.

By the thirty-minute mark, Jason’s lungs were burning. By forty-five, his ribs throbbed in that deep, warning sort of way that said stop soon, but Bruce had already slowed the rhythm before Jason had to ask. He handed him a bottle of water, cool condensation running down Jason’s fingers, and just said, “Drink. Take your time.” No countdowns. No demands. Just space and time to recuberate.

The hour had stretched longer than Jason expected. In the end he was damp with sweat, shirt clinging to his back, hair sticking to his forehead. But his ribs, miraculously, didn’t ache worse. His breathing evened out faster than it used to after Cobblepott’s so-called “conditioning sessions.” That alone, he admitted grudgingly, meant something.

He wiped his face with the hem of his shirt, catching a glimpse of the long line of scars across his ribs in the mirror—faint, ghostly reminders of other kinds of training. “So,” he panted, a crooked grin flashing through his exhaustion, “What now, coach? We doing rounds? You gonna show me how rich guys throw punches?”

Bruce glanced over from where he was coiling the resistance band. His expression was calm, maddeningly unreadable. “We’re done for today.”

Jason froze mid-breath, half certain he’d misheard. “Done?”

Bruce nodded once. “You did well.”

“I can go on,” Jason said quickly. His pulse spiked. The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “I’m fine. Ribs don’t hurt any worse than before. You give me another painkiller and I’ll be golden.”

“If you need the pain medication, you can have it,” Bruce said finally. “But training’s done for today.” He spoke it as a fact, not an order. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

Jason exhaled hard through his nose, the sound closer to a growl than breath. His chest rose and fell, sweat cooling on his skin, defiance warring with something smaller, rawer. Nobody had ever told him to slow down. Not Cobblepott, not the trainers who saw him as muscle to burn through, not the clients who liked him best when he was too sore to breathe. He was used to push past the pain.

His throat worked, trying to form another protest, but the words came out strangled. “You think I can’t handle it?”

“I think,” Bruce said evenly, walking past him toward the towel rack, “that you don’t know yet what your body feels like when it’s treated with respect.” He tossed a towel to him without looking back. “We’ll start teaching it tomorrow.”

Jason caught it clumsily. The fabric was soft, smelled faintly of cedar and clean cotton. He stared down at it, unsure if he wanted to throw it or hold on to it.

***

The elevator sighed up and the penthouse doors opened onto that same hush of curated quiet: less eucalyptus now, more citrus and something faintly metallic from the glass and chrome. The change was physical - the air felt cooler against Jason’s damp skin -  and psychological: the gym’s grit fell away the second the threshold closed behind them and the apartment’s hush settled over his shoulders.

Bruce glanced at Jason once, then toward the master bathroom. “You go first,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “You’re gross.”

Jason straightened as if offended, thinking maybe Bruce liked him bratty like that and let the corner of his mouth lift. “I worked for it,” he said. The stubborn little claim sounded smaller in the cavernous kitchen.

“All the more reason. Hot water will feel good on your muscles. Go,“ Bruce told him.

The bathroom was built for calm: slate tiles underfoot, a rainfall head that made the marble steam, a mirror that fogged so fast it erased the rest of the world. Jason closed the door and let the water take the smell of eucalyptus and sweat off him in a single warm wash. He stood under the stream and let his hands roam the places that still hurt - ribs, shoulders, arms - each bruise a map of the last weeks. The heat loosened the tightness in his breath; steam blurred the tiles until everything softened.

He scrubbed like he was trying to peel something off his skin - maybe he was. The soap foamed white between his fingers. For a moment he let his reflection break into nothing but water, and Bruce’s voice from the afternoon drifted back: Breathe. Don’t fight it. He let that happen.

Jason let the hand he’d been clenching unclench. He let the heat unkink the tension in his neck, let it pull the rigidity out of his shoulders, longer under the spray than he normally would have given himself.

When he stepped out, the bruises were still there, stubborn and present, but his breathing sounded less ragged in his own ears.

Jason padded back out in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, hair damp and heavy, the towel still smelling of cedar. Bruce was sitting at the kitchen island, iPad lit and flat on the marble, thumbs moving through a schedule or a notes app with deliberate taps. The soft blue glow lit his jaw. He looked up when Jason came into the room and set the iPad down.

“Your turn?” Jason asked, wiping his face with the heel of his hand.

“Yeah.” Bruce’s voice was neutral enough to be practical. He pushed back from the counter, draping his gym towel over a shoulder like something he’d done a dozen times. “You sit. Relax. Watch some TV while I use the shower.”

Jason’s mouth went quick, he let the wink come that had always opened doors before.

“Want me to keep you company? I’ll wash your back. Or whatever else you want.”

A half-joke, half-offer that carried the history of too many nights where humor was a currency and consent a blurred line.

Bruce glanced at him, one eyebrow up, and the corner of the island caught the light so that his face looked almost unreadable. Then his mouth twitched. “No.” The word was short, flat, final in the way of someone used to making decisions for other people. Then, softer, with a dry, parental lilt that scraped at Jason’s teeth: “Be a good boy and watch some television.”

The phrase landed somewhere between a tease and a command. Jason barked out a laugh that was half offended, half relieved, and his shoulders dropped in a way he hadn’t admitted to himself he needed. He opened his mouth to object, to say he didn’t like being talked down to, but the look Bruce gave him - equal parts patience and something like approval - shut the protest down before it formed.

“Fine,” Jason said, and it was the smallest surrender. “If the TV’s babysitting me, I want Shark Tank. Or whatever rich people watch to feel better about having too much money.”

Bruce gave him a one-second, almost-smug nod as he reached the bathroom door. “Of course you’d pick that one,” he said, voice low, amused.

Jason raised a brow. “What, you don’t like it?”

Bruce’s tone stayed mild, but there was a thread of humor under it, subtle but there for anyone paying attention. “Not my preferred form of entertainment.”

Jason smirked. “Yeah? You one of those guys who pretends he’s too intellectual for prime-time TV?”

Bruce huffed, the sound short and dry, almost a laugh. “It’s not Prime Time. Just Shark Tank. Too much posturing. Too much inherent drama. I get enough of that in the boardroom.”

Jason leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. “Oh yeah, must be rough. All those billionaires fighting over who’s got the bigger … uh, portfolio.”

Bruce gave him that long-suffering look that wasn’t quite annoyed. It was too calm for that, the sort of look adults used when they’d decided to like you despite your best efforts. “Language.”

Jason blinked. “Language? What am I, five?”

Bruce’s mouth curved just slightly. “Depends. Do you throw tantrums when you don’t get your way?”

Jason grinned sharp, leaning back. “Depends. You like that kind of thing?”

Bruce exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh. “You never stop pushing, do you?”

Jason shrugged. He never had a client withstand that many baits. Everyone else Jason knew would have already fucked him or slapped him around for the attitude.

He closed his mouth with a click of teeth, tongue pressing against his cheek in frustration.

“So what do you actually watch, then? Stocks? Weather Channel? A live feed of your company’s profits?”

Bruce’s voice stayed calm, unbothered. “Documentaries. Sports. Baking shows, sometimes.”

Jason paused. “Baking shows?”

“Helps me relax,” Bruce said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Jason barked out a laugh before he could stop it. “You’re kidding me. You unwind to people piping cupcakes?”

“Bread, pastries, cakes mostly.” Bruce’s voice carried a dry edge now, the faintest ripple of amusement breaking through his usual calm. “You’d be surprised how much technique there is to master.”

Jason stared at him for a long moment before laughing, an unguarded, surprised sound. “You’re kidding me.”

Bruce nodded once toward the couch, unruffled. “Sit. Rest. Pretend to relax, if you can‘t do it for real.”

Jason rolled his eyes, dragging his body off the counter with all the lazy bravado he could muster. He dropped onto the couch and arched a brow in Bruce’s direction, as if to ask: There. Happy now?

Bruce turned toward the bathroom. Softer now, teasing but not mocking, he said: “Good boy.”

Jason froze, the air catching in his chest. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh, scowl, or apologize for something he hadn’t done. It wasn’t used to aprroval, wasn‘t used to gentle teasing.

Jason covered the twitch in his expression with a muttered, “You’re a weird guy, Wayne.” It came out softer than intended.

Bruce didn’t turn around. He just gave a small huff of amusement. The kind that said he’d heard the comment and chosen to let it stand. Then the bathroom door shut with a hiss of air, and Jason was alone again.

Chapter Text

Jason tilted his head toward the bathroom, listening to the distant rush of water. He could picture Bruce there - slow, deliberate, unbothered - and felt something knot in his gut. The part of him that was wired to perform twitched, whispering that he should follow, offer something, be something. That’s what good company did. That’s how you kept someone’s interest.

But another thought, quieter, slipped through the cracks. Maybe Bruce didn’t want it. Maybe - and this was the strangest part - Bruce actually meant what he said. A brilliant fighter, talent and instinct, that shouldn‘t be wasted.

Jason didn’t believe that about himself. He was just stubborn and desperate enough to keep getting up when other guys stayed down. Desperation could look a lot like talent when you didn’t have the luxury of quitting. And in the cage and out of it, desperation was all he had. There was to much on the line for him.

He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at the black screen of the TV. Its reflection threw his face back at him: hair still damp, eyes too bright, a bruise along his jaw that refused to fade. He looked like someone who didn’t belong in a place this clean.

Jason picked up the remote and thumbed the TV on, watching the bright Netflix logo flare to life, the soft chime startling in the quiet.

The profile screen came up. Four icons blinked back: Bruce. Dick. Tim. Damian.
Jason froze. His brows pulled together. “The hell…”

Dick? Was that a joke? It had to be. He snorted under his breath. For a split second he wondered - stupidly - if Netflix even had porn. Maybe this was Bruce’s subtle way of categorizing preferences. Or maybe there was some private joke here, some rich-man humor he wasn’t in on.

The other names - Tim, Damian - could’ve been friends, flings, maybe other rent boys on Bruce’s rotation. Guys Bruce saw more than once. Guys who’d gotten to make themselves at home here.

The thought burned low in his stomach. Regulars. Was that what Bruce wanted out of him? To keep him in orbit, on call? Jason wasn’t sure if the idea sat closer to relief or shame. Bruce was strange, but he wasn’t cruel. He was good-looking, too - broad, put-together in a way that made Jason’s chest tighten. Jason wouldn’t mind being rented again, not if it meant nights like this - not even if there was fucking involved.
Would even be glad about it, if only because it didn’t hurt. If only because Bruce didn’t seem to want him to hurt.

He hesitated over the icons. Was there a right answer?

Clicking Bruce’s profile felt too personal, too intimate, like stepping into someone’s private space uninvited. Maybe Dick was safer. If this was some kind of joke, at least he’d be in on it.

So he clicked Dick.

But it really looked normal. Rows of neat, colorful thumbnails filled the display. No secret playlists. No Porn. Just… normal stuff. Glossy teen dramas, half-finished action series, something about a billionaire playboy with a dark secret that made him snort, and a ton of animated shows.

Cartoons. Some trashy reality show.
And then, almost absently, his thumb stopped on a baking competition.

He stared at the thumbnail for a long second, pastel frosting, people smiling too bright.

Bruce had said he watched baking shows. That had been real, hadn‘t it?
Jason smirked to himself. “Sure. Why the hell not.”

He clicked it. Equal parts to make the guy happy and to fuck with him, a petty act of rebellion.

The soft music started, strings and birdsong, and a cheerful narrator introducing the contestants with far too much optimism.

Jason leaned back, socked feet kicked up on the lengths of the couch, eyes half-focused on the screen as contestants piped icing and murmured about sponge texture. The air was warm. The sound of the shower ran steady in the background, almost blending with the TV.

Somewhere between one camera cut and the next, Jason’s shoulders started to loosen. He wasn’t sure when that had happened.

Bruce reemerged twenty minutes later, barefoot, hair damp and curling slightly at the edges, but still too composed for someone who’d just showered. He had traded his training shirt for a dark long-sleeve, the sleeves pushed to his forearms, and the smell of cedar and clean soap followed him like a quiet signature.

Jason hadn’t meant to drift, but the warmth of the room and the low hum of the TV had a way of disarming him. The baking show - something about buttercream consistency and sponge density - filled the air with a soft absurdity. Pastel aprons, genteel British accents, and people crying over cracked meringue. It was ridiculous, harmless and almost hypnotic.

His body was slack, legs splayed across the couch, one arm flopped over his stomach. His eyelids had dipped low, though he wasn’t quite asleep, just caught in that fuzzy in-between where his brain finally stopped scanning for danger.

When the voice came, low and calm, Jason still startled.
“You done sulking yet?”
Jason startled, eyes snapping open. His hand twitched toward the remote automatically, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. His muscles went taut, ready for reprimand.

“I wasn’t…“ Jason’s voice caught, and he looked up quickly, searching Bruce’s face for the tells: the narrowing of the eyes, the shift in tone, the sign that something had gone wrong and he just hadn’t realized it yet. “I wasn’t sulking.”

But Bruce didn’t look angry. He wasn’t looming. His expression was calm, even amused, like he’d just found something mildly endearing.

Jason blinked, uncertain if it was safe to believe that. He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, pretending to focus on the TV. “Just… watching your baking people panic about frosting,” he muttered. “Trying to follow orders.”

A small sound, part laugh, part breath, escaped Bruce’s chest as he came closer. “You actually put it on to show how well you can follow my rules?”
Jason shrugged, eyes fixed on the screen. “You said it helps you relax. Figured I’d try if it works for me to.” A beat. “Also figured it’d piss you off.”

“Unsuccessful on both counts,” Bruce said dryly. Jason risked a glance up. Bruce wasn’t leaving. He crossed to the couch instead, setting two glasses of water on the table before lowering himself onto the opposite end. The couch dipped, the air between them shifting and Jason felt it, that strange awareness that wasn’t danger but wasn’t exactly comfort either.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. On the screen, some middle-aged man was crying over a curdled custard while a gentle British narrator tried to soothe him with sympathy about “the perils of humidity.”

Jason snorted under his breath. “These people cry over cake. Real tears. Like … full breakdowns.”
Bruce leaned back, crossing his arms loosely. “You’d be surprised how much pressure a kitchen can hold.”
He gave a halfhearted smirk. “You ever make stuff like that?”

Bruce, toweling a last trace of dampness from his hair, shook his head slightly. “No. I tried once.” His tone was even, unembarrassed. “It didn’t go well.”
Jason turned his head, squinting like he couldn’t quite tell if Bruce was joking. “You failed at something?”
The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched
“Spectacularly.”

Jason stared at him for a second, as if trying to decide if it was a joke. When he realized it wasn‘t, he huffed another small laugh regardless, softer this time, quieter. “Guess even rich guys mess up.”
“I’d hope so,” Bruce said.

Jason leaned back slowly, stretching one leg out again, the other bent close to his chest. His knuckles - the skin split and scabbed from sparring - caught the light from the TV. The absurd pastels of the baking tent flickered across his bruises like some kind of cosmic joke. He traced the ridge of one scar with his thumb, not looking up.

“You really don’t get mad easy, do you?” he asked after a while, his tone caught somewhere between curiosity and disbelief.
Bruce turned his head toward him. “Why?”
Jason shrugged one shoulder, his eyes still trained on the screen, where a contestant in a bowtie was panicking over a fallen sponge cake. “Just… most guys would’ve told me to quit the attitude.”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, it was quiet. “I don’t mind your attitude,” he said. “You think fast. You listen. You test people, to find out which side the bread is buttered on. That’s not disrespect. That’s smart.”

Jason glanced at him, suspicion flickering behind his eyes like a reflex. Then, as though realizing there was no catch, no mockery, he looked away again. He wasn’t sure what to do with praise like this.

The absurd music from the TV filled the space between them. The judges were saying something bright and silly about cupcakes and frosting. The contestants were laughing, even the one whose cake had collapsed, all of them hugging it out. It felt very foreign, too soft for the kind of world Jason knew. He let it wash over him like static, sound and colors he could hide inside.

“Maybe I’ll stick with the cake show,” Jason muttered after a while, voice low. “People here screw up and no one hits them.”

For a long beat, the only reply was the quiet hum of the TV. Then Bruce’s voice came, soft, almost under his breath. “It should be like that in training, too.”

Jason didn’t look at him. He just sat there, jaw tight, staring at the TV’s glow until the colors blurred. His throat worked once, a hard swallow, and he told himself it was just the light burning his eyes.

***

The next thing Jason knew, the world was soft and heavy and warm. He blinked groggily, the light in the apartment dimmer now. City glow filtering through the tall windows, blue and gold smeared across the polished floors. The TV still flickered, murmuring in its strange, polite British rhythm.

He must’ve dozed off. Jason shifted a little, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. The couch was absurdly comfortable, cushions deep and clean, smelling faintly like leather and Bruce’s shampoo.

When his eyes adjusted, he realized Bruce was still sitting there. Exactly where he’d been before. One arm rested along the back of the couch, his posture loose but awake, eyes still on the television. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t switched it off, had only turned the volume down a couple tads.

Jason followed his gaze to the screen and frowned, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

The contestants were still making cakes - but not just cakes. Someone had apparently decided a life-sized peacock sculpted from sponge and fondant was a good idea. Another contestant was blowtorching a chocolate sculpture shaped like a dragon, which was now slightly melting at the tail.

Jason squinted. “What the hell…”
Bruce glanced at him, one brow lifting in mild amusement. “You fell asleep somewhere around the semifinals.”

Jason ran a hand through his hair, grimacing. “Guess I missed the part where they started baking animals.”
“They’re doing ‘mythical creatures’ this round,” Bruce said evenly. “The dragon’s tail collapsed about ten minutes ago.”

Jason let out a low, incredulous laugh, still half-sleepy. Bruce glanced at the screen, then back at Jason, as if the giant buttercream dog warranted no particular comment. “What do you want for dinner?”
Jason hesitated, blinking once before muttering, “I’ll eat anything.”

Bruce gave a slight, thoughtful nod. “What about steak and roasted vegetables? Potatoes on the side?”
Jason shrugged. “Sure. Sounds good.” He would’ve agreed to anything, and Bruce seemed to know it.

Bruce reached for the phone on the side table, speaking a few quiet words to the concierge downstairs - calm, efficient, like this was as normal as turning on a light. Jason sat there, trying not to look interested, staring at the fondant dragon on the screen instead.

Half an hour later, just as the contestants were presenting their impossibly perfect, gravity-defying 3D cakes, there was a soft knock. The concierge came and went with quiet precision, leaving covered trays and the faint smell of seared meat and rosemary.

Jason waited until the man had left before he moved. He followed Bruce’s lead to the dining nook - more glass, more marble, more expensive quiet - and sat when Bruce gestured. The food was simple but elegant: thick steak, golden potatoes, a medley of roasted carrots and green beans, everything neatly plated.

Jason tried to pace himself. He cut small pieces, chewed carefully, forced his throat to work at a steady rhythm. But after the first few bites, his body betrayed him. Bruce fed him well, third dinner in a row now, and breakfast and lunch too today - but Jasons body hadn‘t gotten used to trust it yet. And it shouldn‘t. He shouldn‘t.

Even if Bruce continued to spoil him with good meals for the next eleven days, he‘d be back to protein shakes and fast dinners after his next fight.

Still Jason’s stomach tightened, greedy for it, the salt and warmth making his hands shake just a little. He hated that Bruce might see. So he slowed down even more. Forced his grip to relax. Wiped his mouth with the napkin even though he didn’t need to. Looked up once or twice, tried to play it off as casual conversation.

“…this is good,” he said finally, aiming for offhand. Bruce didn’t call him out. Just nodded slightly, voice calm. “It’s from a small place down the block. I‘ve been eating out there for years.”

Jason cleared his throat. “So, uh. You always order like this? Concierge and all?”
“It’s convenient,” Bruce said simply. “Quality is consistent. And it saves time.”
Jason snorted softly, though he tried to hide the sound behind his glass of water. “Right. Heaven forbid Bruce Wayne wait in line at the deli.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched at the corner, but he sounded earnestly interested. “You’d prefer sandwiches?”
Jason shook his head, smirking despite himself. “Nah, this is fine. Not gonna complain about steak. Or potatoes. Or…” He trailed off, catching himself before he sounded too eager. He shoved another bite in his mouth to fill the space.

The TV still played in the background, the absurd brightness of the baking show somehow grounding the moment. Someone had made a unicorn cake that looked like it had survived a small explosion, and the judges were trying not to laugh.

Jason snorted before he could stop himself. “That thing’s a nightmare. Like a fairytale threw up and no one had the heart to clean it up. Looks like a My Little Pony massacre. You can see the trauma in the frosting.”

Bruce hummed, low in his chest. “You’re becoming quite the critic.”
Jason shrugged, eyes still on the TV. “Look at this guy - he‘s trying to smile like everything’s fine while his cake collapses behind him.“ He knew that feeling too well. Except for him, it hadn’t been a cake collapsing, it had been his whole damn life.

They finished dinner just in time for the finale of the baking show. The finalists stood behind their elaborate sugar sculptures, faces shiny with stress and hope under the studio lights. Jason watched through half-lidded eyes as the judges murmured about texture, balance, “emotional resonance” - words that didn’t seem like they should apply to cake.

When the camera panned to the winning creation, Jason couldn’t help it, he snorted. The victor had made a castle entirely out of cookies, complete with a chocolate moat and a dragon made of caramelized sugar.

“That thing’s gonna collapse the second they breathe on it,” he muttered. Bruce gave a small, quiet sound, almost a chuckle. Jason leaned back, watching the confetti fall on the grinning contestants. “All that work for something that’s just gonna get eaten. Kinda depressing.”

Bruce gave a quiet hum.
“Maybe it’s not meant to last. Maybe it’s just meant to mean something to the person who made it.”
Jason frowned faintly. “Even if nobody else gives a damn?”
“Especially then,” Bruce said.

Jason blinked, unsure how to respond. He turned back to the screen, where the bakers were hugging and crying, and tried to shrug it off. But the words lingered in a way he didn’t expect.

After the credits rolled, Bruce stretched, vertebrae shifting under the fabric of his shirt, and said, almost matter-of-fact, “We should get some rest. You’ve had a long day. You seem tired.”

Jason rolled his eyes, though the truth of it sat heavy in his bones. Sure, he was worn down, but he’d practically drifted off twice already today, and Bruce still cared enough to fuss about bedtime.

It was strange, almost laughable, given Jason’s usual routine: training half the day, crashing for an hour before the lounge, lucky to scrape together six hours if Cobblepott wasn’t pushing Johns or a fight wasn’t looming. On those nights, exhaustion was a currency he could never quite afford.

Jason followed him to the bedroom, barefoot and unsure. The space was dim, warm, the faint city lights painting slow shapes across the walls.

Bruce disappeared into the bathroom. Jason stood a moment, shifting his weight, unsure if he should wait, if he should start undressing, if Bruce expected that. His hand twitched toward the hem of his shirt before he caught himself and shoved both hands into his pockets instead. He shouldn’t be this jumpy. Bruce hadn’t given any signals all day, nothing, not even a look that suggested expectation. Still, his instincts hummed like a live wire: be ready, just in case.

He shook two pain pills into his hand, dry-swallowed them with the ease of habit, and sat back just in time to see Bruce emerge from the bathroom. He’d changed into plain pajama pants and a t-shirt, teeth brushed, movements steady and unhurried.

Jason went next. He had left his duffel in the bathroom earlier and traded his hoodie for a clean t-shirt, but kept the sweatpants on.

He ran the toothbrush over his teeth, did what needed doing. The fading bruise along his jaw, the cut at his lip and under his brow, circles under his eyes softened by exhaustion, features a little too young and too worn at the same time.

By the time he came back to the bedroom, Bruce was already sitting against the headboard, reading something on his IPad. Jason took the guest side and pulled the covers to his waist. The sheets were cool against his skin.

“Lights or no lights?” Bruce asked. Jason noticed he had opened the window before getting into bed again, letting the sounds of the city in.

Jason shrugged against the pillow. “I’m good with whatever.”
Bruce dialed the dimmer down to its lowest setting, leaving only a soft amber glow that blurred the edges of the room.

“You did well today,” Bruce said quietly. “You worked hard. You listened to my instructions.”
Jason shrugged into the pillow. “Yeah, well. You’re paying for it.”

Bruce made a low sound, not quite a sigh, not quite agreement. Jason shifted onto his side, resting his cheek against his forearm, studying Bruce in the low amber light.

Maybe Bruce was waiting for him to start it. Maybe this was part of the game, see if Jason would be proactive, if he could learn when to offer instead of waiting to be told. Clients liked initiative sometimes. It showed obedience and desire, two things that sold well.

And truth be told, Bruce wasn’t bad to look at. He was broad, solid, the kind of man whose weight would feel like certainty. Jason had done worse for money, much worse. If this was the part where Wayne finally decided to cash in, Jason could handle it.

He let his voice drop low, easy. “You know,” he murmured, his eyes catching Bruce’s profile, “you could have more than just someone who listens in the gym. I don’t mind… putting in extra work. Different kind.” Not crude, not too submissive, but threaded with suggestion, enough to tempt, if Bruce wanted to take it.

Bruce’s head turned, just slightly, eyes catching his. For a heartbeat, Jason thought he saw it, the flicker of something sharp, some pull in Bruce’s expression. Attraction, interest, maybe even hunger. The kind of look Jason knew how to answer.
But it was gone before he could pin it down.

And then Bruce exhaled, slow, deliberate, as if forcing the air out to steady himself. “No.”
Jason blinked, pulse jumping once. “No?”
Bruce’s tone softened, but stayed unyielding. “I told you: I won’t take from you again.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Not even if you offer it to make sense of what’s happening here.”

The words landed heavier than Jason expected, sinking deep. He didn’t understand why it stung, or maybe he did, and just didn’t want to admit it.

Jason’s throat tightened. He forced a crooked smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “What, not good enough for you?” he muttered, half under his breath, trying to claw back some armor.

But Bruce didn’t bite. “That’s not what I said.” His voice was calm, quiet, almost tender, which only made it worse.

Jason broke eye contact first, rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling until the shadows blurred. “You’re weird,” he muttered, quieter now, almost to himself.
Bruce’s breath hitched once, a ghost of amusement, maybe something sadder. “I’ve been told.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable this time. Just heavy. Thoughtful. The kind that settled over both of them like a truce.

Jason shut his eyes, trying to focus on the rhythm of Bruce’s breathing, steady and close beside him. He lay there longer than he wanted to, his body exhausted but his head buzzing. Waiting for the sound to change. Waiting for something to shift, the bed creaking closer, a hand, a demand, a reminder of how things worked.

Nothing came. And that, somehow, was stranger than anything.

He stared into the dark until his eyelids burned, trying to understand what game Bruce Wayne was playing.

Chapter Text

Morning came without the tug of expectation. No heavy hand at his shoulder, no pressure to “earn” his keep. Jason had half-prepared himself for it - the usual morning script, a blowjob to start the day or waking up to a dick pounding his arse - the kind of thing most clients liked.

But Bruce only moved through the early hours with that same strange composure as the day before, giving Jason space to wake slowly.

He had prepared breakfast again. Scrambled eggs mixed with something creamy and white, cheese maybe, alongside slices of toasted wholegrain bread. There was another one of those green smoothies.

It smelled faintly sweet, apples and coconut. Jason took a cautious sip, blinked, then muttered, “Didn’t know pureed salad could taste like dessert.”
Bruce’s mouth curved, almost-smile. “Spinach. Apples. Coconut milk.”
“Rich-guy health potion,” Jason muttered, but he drank it anyway.

Breakfast blurred by in a quiet rhythm that Jason didn’t hate. It wasn’t like with Cobblepot’s people, where silence meant you weren’t supposed to speak unless spoken to. This was different: a calm that felt, somehow, like permission to just exist and prepare for the day.

When they cleared the table, Bruce set a hand lightly on the back of Jason’s shoulder. “We’ll keep it light today. Focus on mobility. No strain.”

Jason groaned, but it was half-hearted. “Yeah, sure. Fancy rich-guy yoga? What’s next, incense and whale sounds?”
Bruce didn’t rise to the bait. “Breathing,” he said simply. “Balance. Stability.”

And that was exactly what they did in the gym downstairs: They started with breathing drills. Lying on his back, knees bent, palms resting light on his stomach. Bruce had him breathe through his diaphragm, slow and deep, expanding only what he could without pain. It felt stupid at first, but Jason could feel the tension in his chest loosen by degrees.

They continued with balance exercises, the kind of stretching Jasons trainer usually dismissed as a waste of time. Bodyweight flows, controlled movements that lit up muscles Jason didn’t usually notice until they screamed at him.

Bruce moved him on to standing balance drills: single-leg stands with arms extended, shifting weight from one foot to the other. Slow knee raises, hip rotations, calf raises.

Jason moved through each slow push, each shift of balance. One, one and a half hour passed like that: enough breaks to grab water, to breathe, but never with that grinding, soul-chewing burn Cobblepot’s trainers liked to leave him with.

His ribs didn’t scream, his body didn’t feel wrung out. Just used, worked in a way that felt… good. Almost good enough to forget he was being watched.

Except Bruce was watching. Always watching. Not with the hunger Jason expected, but with the calm intensity of someone cataloguing every angle, every limitation. Like Jason was both student and experiment, and Bruce meant to find out exactly what he could be.

Next where wall sits with his arms out in front, no weights, just body control. Jason hated how quickly his legs burned without the adrenaline rush of a fight.

“Good,” Bruce murmured once, almost to himself. “This is how you build control. You lose that, you get sloppy. You get sloppy, you get hurt.”

Jason huffed but dropped into the next drill anyway - some low-impact core work — standing rotations with a resistance band Bruce anchored to the wall, just enough to engage but not strain.

But by the third set, Jason’s arms trembled, sweat tracing the lines of his spine. He kept his eyes on the floor, jaw tight, trying not to give the satisfaction of a complaint. The burn in his chest wasn’t like Cobblepot’s drills. There it had always been about punishment, about grinding yourself into the ground until pain was the only thing that proved you existed. This was different. Hard, but clean. Like Bruce was trying to build something rather than break it.

“Tell me something,” Jason said, leaning against the wall as he caught his breath. “You always train this slow, or is this the billionaire version? Nice and gentle, so you don’t break a sweat?”

Bruce raised a brow, taking a sip from his bottle. “You seem to be sweating just fine.”
Jason grinned, running the back of his arm over his forehead. “Touché.”

Bruce gestured toward the bench by the wall. “One more round. Step circuits. Ten rounds. Smooth and controlled. No rush.”

Bruce made him alternate legs, shoulders relaxed, gaze forward. It was almost hypnotic, up, down, breathe, switch. His heart thudded steady but not wild. Sweat prickled along his back.

By the time they stopped, Jason wasn’t drained the way he was after Cobblepot’s sessions. He wasn’t dizzy or sick or desperate to collapse the way he usually was after Cobblepot’s sessions. Just… worked. Solid. He could still breathe without feeling like his chest might split open, and the ache in his ribs felt manageable.

He slumped onto the mat, arms braced behind him. “Gotta admit,” he said between breaths, “this doesn’t suck.”
Bruce crouched nearby, elbows on his knees, watching him with that same calm intensity. “That’s the idea.”

Jason snorted softly, glancing up. “Guess I’ll have to get used to luxury training.”
Bruce’s answer was simple, almost quiet. “You’ll have to get used to being treated like someone who matters.”

Jason looked at him for a beat too long , something unsteady flickering behind his grin, then looked away, pretending to fuss with his water bottle. “Yeah, well,” he said under his breath, “we’ll see how long that lasts.”

Bruce didn’t answer. He just gave a small nod, stood, and offered Jason a hand to pull him up.

***

Jason’s hoodie clung damply to his skin, a reminder of the work they’d just done. He trailed inside behind Bruce, the sound of their footsteps soft against the polished marble floor.

“Your turn first,” Bruce said once they stood in the hall. His tone carried no judgment, just the simple practicality of routine. “You’re the one who put the work in.”

Jason grunted something that could have been acknowledgment or complaint. He stepped inside the bathroom, letting the warm water wash the sweat and grime from his skin, letting the tension in his shoulders melt slowly into steam. He lingered under the spray, listening to the muffled sounds of Bruce moving around outside.

When he finally stepped out, hair damp and clinging to his forehead, Jason found Bruce sitting at the kitchen island, iPad glowing faintly in the afternoon light. “TV?” Bruce offered again, nodding toward the couch. “Or you could nap. Find a book. Whatever helps you wind down.”

Jason gave a vague nod, hovering in the doorway. The idea of a book tugged at him, a reflexive itch - nothing calmed his head quite like it - but he didn’t move toward the shelves. He could already hear Bruce’s voice in his head: that slight amusement, the dry surprise. You? Reading? The dumb-ass cage fighter whore who bled and sucked dick for rent money and debt repayments? No need to embarrass himself pretending to be something he wasn’t.

Except he wasn’t pretending. Not really. He’d eaten up the battered paperbacks he’d managed to grab at the dollar store over the years, folded spines, foxed pages, half of them classics he didn’t admit he liked. Jane Austen, Dickens, a torn-up copy of Wuthering Heights.

He loved how the words pulled at him, demanded patience, focus, made him sharper in ways fists never did. But Bruce Wayne didn’t need to know that. Bruce Wayne already had him pegged just as he should: halfway talented fighter, rent boy good at sucking dick, a little pet project to entertain the billionaire. But certainly not the kind of guy who’d curl up with a novel like it mattered.

So Jason let the thought die and flopped onto the couch instead, flicking through the Netflix menus without much intention, trying to look careless about it.

By the time Bruce returned from his shower, Jason was half-dozing, the smell of cedar from the towels and faint citrus from the soap mingling with the cool, filtered air of the penthouse. Bruce didn’t seem rushed; he merely checked in, offering a nod and a quiet, “How you holding up?” before settling himself nearby. Jason just shrugged and Bruce left him be, leaving the TV as background hum.

By the time lunch arrived, the silence between them had stretched into something not quite uncomfortable. The concierge rolled in the cart like a ritual: grilled salmon laid neatly over a bed of quinoa, kale, spinach, bright carrots sliced thin. Jason sat stiff at first, half expecting it to taste bland and fishy.

But the first bite shut him up. The fish flaked soft and clean, the greens still fresh with bite, the whole thing lighter and sharper than anything he usually got near. He ate with careful pace, not wolfing it down even though his body begged for it. He kept his posture level, his face neutral, like he wasn’t dying to scrape the plate clean.

Jason wondered if twelve days were enough to get used too food like that. He wasn‘t sure if he hoped for yes or no.

Bruce ate his own portion with the same measured quiet he did everything else. But Jason could feel the man’s awareness there, humming at the edges of the table. Watching, cataloguing. Not judgmental exactly, but present, steady, as though Jason’s reaction mattered more than the food itself.

Jason muttered finally, almost to the plate, “It’s really good, thank you for … uh getting a plate for me too all the time.” Then he shoved another bite in his mouth, trying to hide his unease at sounding to eager.
But Bruce only gave the smallest nod, like he’d expected as much. “It’s good for you. Fresh. Nutritious. Filling without slowing you down.”

Jason nodded. And for a minute, it was just the two of them, quiet but not empty, the muted city stretching out past the glass.

***

The afternoon slowed into something quieter, the weight of food sitting warm in Jason’s stomach, the penthouse carrying that same hum of soft domesticity he still hadn’t gotten used to. Jason figured they’d head back down to the gym, maybe wrap hands, maybe push for some sparring - whatever, something physical. But Bruce surprised him.

He set a sleek leather notebook on the table, a pen balanced neatly on top. Jason, slouched in his chair, eyed it like it might bite.
“What’s this?” he asked, voice flat.

“Your log,” Bruce said simply. “Recovery, training, observations. You’ll write what we do each day: how it felt, what worked, what didn’t. That‘s the foundation.“
Jason blinked, then huffed a small, disbelieving sound. “You serious? You want me to… write about it?”

“I do.” Bruce pulled up a chair across from him, posture easy but unyielding. “It’s part of training. The physical follows the mental. You can’t improve what you don’t understand.”

Jason frowned, staring down at the empty page. He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more: the request itself, or the fact that Bruce sounded like he actually meant it.

“Look, I’m not really the journaling type,” Jason muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s some rich-guy self-help shit. I fight. I bleed. I heal. That’s the schedule.”

Bruce didn’t flinch. “It’s part of the work. Training isn’t just muscle. It’s awareness. You’ll see more if you force yourself to put it on paper.”

Jason snorted, leaning back in the chair like it could shield him. “Yeah, sure. More like I’ll see how much of an idiot I sound when I try to spell out what’s in my head.”
“Let me be the judge of that,“ Bruce told him.“

“Come on, Wayne. This is a waste of time. Can’t we just, I don’t know, train? Hit something? Run drills?” Jason knew that he sounded like he was whining but he couldn‘t really help it. He wasn’t clever, wasn’t educated. He could throw a punch, sure, but ask him to “reflect” and he’d choke every time. If Bruce thought he was a brilliant fighter with grit and talent before, he‘d surely think differently after he read Jasons stupid notes. Better try to get out of it than make a complete fool of himself.

“You already did,” Bruce said, the pen sitting still on the counter like a challenge. “This is the other half.”

Jason picked up the pen, rolling it between his fingers. The weight of it felt strange. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d written anything longer than a grocery list or a message for Cobblepot’s runners. He glanced down at the first page - smooth, pale, untouched.

“What do I even put?” Jason asked finally. “’Today I sweated and didn’t die’? You want me to grade my mood too?”
Bruce’s mouth quirked faintly. “Start with the facts. What exercises we did. What hurt. How your ribs felt. Then add what you think it means.”

Jason let out a breath through his nose, half a laugh, half defeat. “You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not.” There was something immovable in Bruce’s calm, the kind of authority that didn’t shout to be obeyed. Jason hesitated, then bent over the page, the pen scratching in uncertain strokes. Morning drills. Breathing. Balance. Stretching. His handwriting was jagged, uneven, but it was legible.

Bruce watched in silence while Jason wrote, before speaking again. “At the end, I want you to add two things: your expectations, and your goals.”
Jason looked up. “For training?”
“For you,” Bruce said. “What do you want out of this?”

Jason scoffed automatically. “You mean besides not getting my ribs smashed in again?”
Bruce didn’t rise to it. “If that’s one of them, write it down.”

Jason’s fingers tightened around the pen. He didn’t like this. It felt like a test, one he couldn’t pass. Not because he didn’t know the answers, but because there were too many ways to get them wrong.

He thought about writing win more fights and sliding it back across the counter. About scrawling something crude instead, just to see if Bruce would take the bait. But the longer he stared, the more the quiet pressed in. The more his hand itched to fill the blank space, to set down the noise that churned inside him every time he pushed his body past the edge.

Jason bent his head again. The words came slow, uneven, like drawing something half-remembered.

I wanna get better.
Build Endurance.
Learn new techniques.
Hit harder. Be faster.
I don’t wanna feel like I’m one bad fight from being done.

He stared at it for a long time, chest tight. Then, smaller, almost an afterthought:

I don’t know if that’s a goal or just a wish.

Jason stared at the notebook, the pen heavy in his hand. The words he’d already written sat there in crooked lines. Safe goals, physical ones. Things that sounded like effort without showing too much of himself.

But the rest… the ones pressing at the back of his teeth, crowding the space behind his ribs… those he couldn’t bring himself to scrawl down.

There were some other goals he didn‘t dare wrote down. Nothing he could fix in twelve days either way.

Become good enough in the cage to get sponsors, not just scars.
Make enough money to not owe Cobblepot.
Prove he was more than a body people pay for - in or out of the cage.
Figure out what the hell Wayne actually wants.

He didn’t write them because once they left his head they’d be real. And real meant vulnerable. Real meant Bruce could read them, dissect them, mock them.

Jason could take a punch; he could take a broken rib and crawl back for more. But letting someone see how badly he wanted out, how much he craved proof he was worth more than bruises and debts? That was a different kind of wound, and one he wasn’t sure he could recover from.

Besides, none of it was something he could fix in twelve days. He could run drills until his lungs burned, let Bruce hammer technique into him until his muscles screamed. That he could control. But getting sponsors, cutting ties with Cobblepott, proving he was more than what people bought him for, those weren’t things you ticked off a list in under two weeks.

They weren’t goals, not in the way Bruce probably wanted. They were dreams. Dangerous ones. So Jason left them where they were safest: inside his head, where no one else could touch them.

When he finally pushed the notebook back, he mumbled, “Happy now?”
Bruce didn’t look at the page right away. He just studied Jason, the defensive line of his shoulders, the restless bounce in his leg, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing through his own thoughts.

“Good start,” Bruce said quietly.
Jason frowned. “That’s it?”
“For now.” Bruce stood, not taking the notebook away. “You’ll add more later. This is for you, not me.”

Jason’s brow furrowed, thrown by the phrasing. For you. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said that without sarcasm.

When Bruce turned to refill both their water glasses, Jason stared at the notebook again. The page wasn’t much, just a few lines of messy ink, but seeing it there, solid and real, did something strange in his chest.

He’d never thought discipline could look like this: quiet, methodical, asking him to think instead of just endure. It felt too soft, too vulnerable. But the structure of it, the order, the routine without Bruce judging him, telling him he was a dumb fuck up - it calmed something he hadn’t realized was thrashing inside him.

He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but part of him might be able to like it.

Chapter Text

Bruce noticed it before Jason said a word - the way the boy’s hands wouldn’t stay still, the small, restless steps by the window, the way he kept rolling his shoulders as if he needed to loosen something deeper than muscle. It was the same nervous energy he’d watched in the cage: an animal that moved because it had to, not because it wanted to.

Bruce had meant to keep the evening quiet: food, a little TV, a slow wind-down. But even in quiet, Jason was coiled, half-waiting for impact. Jason didn’t sit still easily. Sitting still felt dangerous. Movement fixed things for him.

“You’re restless,” Bruce said at last, not a question.
Jason gave a snort. “Guess I’m not great at sitting around doing nothing.”

“Looks like you could use some more exersize then,” Bruce said finally, easy and practical. No flourish, no dramatic offer; just a solution. “We’ll go down to the pool. A few laps. Then the hot tub. It’ll do your ribs good, loosen them, keep the bruising from stiffening overnight.”

“You finally decided you wanna see me with my shirt off?” The words landed crude, halfway between flirtation and defense, as if daring Bruce to admit what this really was. He leaned against the counter, voice dropping into something low and taunting: “Could’ve just said you wanted a show, Bruce. You didn’t have to pretend it’s physical therapy.”

Bruce didn’t flinch. “I want you to stop pacing holes into my floor.” He crossed to a cabinet in the bedroom, opened it, and pulled out a folded pair of navy swim trunks - the kind that probably cost more than Jason’s whole damn outfit. “These should fit.”

Jason took them like they might bite. “You just keep spares for guests?”
“Not exactly.” Bruce’s mouth tilted, barely.

Jason’s jaw worked. He’d been bought before, yes; he’d been told what to do and when. But the voice behind Bruced instructions were different: it held the same authority, but not the same appetite.

Jason’s smirk softened into something like compliance. He took the trunks from Bruce. “Fine,” he said, and there was no bravado in it now, only the small, stubborn acceptance of someone who’d learned to take what came and make the best of it.

The pool was as pristine as the rest of the building: clean, polished tile, soft lighting, Amber lights, throwing back a glow that made the surface look almost glassy. It smelled faintly of chlorine, but not sharp and stinging like the cheap community pools Jason had broken into as a kid.

The locker room was glass and stone and chrome. Jason changed quickly, tugging off his clothes and trying not to think about the fact that he was about to walk out half-naked. That‘s what he was here for. He should be lucky Bruce didn‘t want him to swim bare, to put on a show.

The swim trunks Wayne had handed him were clearly expensive, the material sleek and firm against his skin. They fit well: snug around his hips, snug at the legs, cut shorter than anything Jason would’ve chosen himself. They left most of his legs bare, muscle and scar on full display.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror and froze for a beat. The bruises stood out even sharper under the bright locker room lights : blotches of dull green and yellow crawling down his thigh where someone’s shin had landed hard, an ugly bloom spreading across his ribs, still swollen, the colors bleeding from deep purple into a sickly bluish green.

Jason pulled at the waistband, like that would change anything, and muttered under his breath, “Guess this is the show.” He didn’t linger. Mirrors were dangerous; they showed too much.

When he came back out, Bruce was already in the water, he swam in long, even strokes, the kind that looked almost lazy until you noticed how far he covered in a single pull.

Jason watched for a moment, jaw tight. There was power in the way Bruce moved, how his strokes cut the water with precision. It was control; deliberate, efficient, quiet. The kind of control Jason didn’t know how to have.

Jason eased into the water too, the cool bite shocking his skin after the warmth of the penthouse. It was almost medicinal. Every nerve ending sharpened and alive, the chill dragging out the tight coil in his muscles.

The first few laps were fine; almost easy, muscle memory kicking in from a few half-forgotten childhood summers. But soon Jason’s strokes slowed imperceptibly, at first almost too subtle to notice. He kept his head low, forcing his arms through the water, kicking hard, trying to maintain pace. He gritted his teeth and kept up lap after lap, counting the strokes as if they were victories.

Bruce was waiting for him at one end, an arm resting on the ledge. He didn’t look winded. Didn’t even look smug. Just… watchful.

“Your breathing’s off,” Bruce said quietly.
Jason wiped his face with one hand. “Yeah, well, so are my ribs.”
“Then stop pushing through it,” Bruce said. “Pain doesn’t make you better. It just makes you hurt longer.”

Jason gave a breathy, incredulous laugh. “Yeah, tell that to every guy who’s ever trained me.”
“I’m not every guy.”

Jason looked at him, really looked at him; at the way the light caught on his shoulders, the water sliding down his throat, the steady calm in his eyes. It wasn’t a boast. It was a fact. And for reasons he couldn’t explain, that made Jason’s pulse quicken more than any kind of arrogance would’ve.

“Yeah,” he muttered finally. “Guess not.”
“Just a few slower laps, then we are done for today,“ Bruce told him and Jason started swimming again.

Each pull sent a sharp reminder along his ribs, a throb that pulsed with every heartbeat. His breath came in ragged bursts, chest rising faster than it should, lungs burning despite the cool water.

Bruce was beside him in the lane, cutting through the pool with effortless control again, each stroke economical and precise. He glanced over once, just a flick of the eyes, and everything in Jason’s body stiffened. He didn’t want Bruce to see weakness, didn’t want to give him reason to think he couldn’t keep up. So he pushed harder, forcing strokes, forcing air into lungs that begged him to slow.

It didn’t take long before the facade faltered. Jason’s arm lagged in the water, and he misjudged a turn, splashing unevenly. His ribs protested sharply, and a low hiss escaped him. He tried to mask it, trying to drive through the pain, but Bruce caught it immediately: the subtle hitch, the uneven rhythm.

Bruce slowed, matching Jason’s faltering pace without breaking form, letting the water support his observation. Finally, when Jason’s next push barely carried him forward, Bruce cut the lane short, treading water beside him.

“That‘s enough,” Bruce said, calm, firm. There was no judgment in his voice, only quiet authority. “You’ve reached the limit.”
“I’m not done yet. Just a few more laps,” Jason panted. His kicks were sloppy, uneven; his arms trembled, wrists catching on the water in desperation. “I can … just … keep going.”

Bruce glanced at the uneven rhythm of Jason’s movements, the hitch in his shoulders, the tightness in his face that screamed pain. “You are done,” he said again, this time sharper. He reached out, not touching, just a hand hovering, guiding the pace. “Stop. Now.”

Jason’s chest rose and fell, sharp and jagged. “No. I’ve got this,” he snapped, frustration lacing his words. But even as he tried to push off the pool wall for another stroke, his body betrayed him. His right arm lagged, ribs pinched, lungs burning like they were on fire.

A low hiss escaped him and he faltered, water splashing in uneven bursts.
Bruce didn’t move aggressively; he didn’t grab or drag him. He simply mirrored Jason’s pace, closing the small gap with calm authority.

“Look at me,” he said, tone even, but heavy with insistence. Jason’s eyes flicked to him, chest heaving. The control in Bruce’s presence pressed down on him, impossible to ignore. “You’re done. You can’t go on. Not like this. You’ll injure yourself,” Bruce said. He let a hand hover near Jason’s arm, a subtle warning, not a shove. “You can’t cheat your body.”

Jason coughed, cheeks wet with splashed water, stubbornness warring with the fire in his lungs. “I… I can push a little longer …“
“No.” Bruce cut him off, firmer now, final. “You can’t. I won’t let you.”

Jason froze mid-stroke, chest heaving, fingers gripping the edge. He could feel every ounce of exhaustion in his limbs, the sharp throb along his ribs screaming at him to stop. Pride and pain warred violently, and for once, the argument in his head had no room to win.
“Damn it,” he muttered, voice raw but quiet.

Bruce climbed out, water sliding off him in clean, deliberate lines. He gestured toward the hot tub a few feet away. “Come on. It’ll help with the soreness.”

Jason followed, slower this time, his limbs heavy from the water and the ache still pulsing in his ribs. The heat hit him first; sharp enough to sting, then spreading until it felt like his bones had finally stopped shivering from the cold edge of adrenaline. He exhaled, a low sound slipping out before he could stop it, and sank deeper into the bubbling water.

Bruce was watching the city skyline through the tall windows; all glass and light, distant and unreachable. The man didn’t even look tired.

Jason’s eyes tracked the planes of his shoulders, the faint line of a scar disappearing beneath the water. Every part of Bruce looked controlled. Contained. The opposite of what Jason felt - a restless churn under the skin.

He waited for something familiar: the brush of a hand, an order pitched low, a shift in tone that made the air heavier. That’s how this usually went. But nothing came.

Bruce sat back, eyes closed, head tilted slightly against the edge of the tub. The amber light softened the planes of his face. He looked relaxed. That lack of predation landed on Jason like a physical thing.

“You always this calm?” Jason asked finally, voice cutting through the hum of the jets.
Bruce’s eyes opened, slow. He turned his head toward Jason, considering him. “Not always.”

Jason huffed. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Bruce’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Calm isn’t the same as quiet. You can learn to still the surface, even if the water underneath keeps moving.”

Jason tilted his head, watching him through the haze. “Yeah? Sounds like something people with money and time say.”
“Maybe,” Bruce said. “But control doesn’t come from money. It comes from knowing when to move; and when not to.”

Jason gave a short, incredulous laugh, head tipping back against the slick stone. “Yeah, sure. Easy to say when nobody’s swinging at you.”
Bruce’s eyes stayed on him, unreadable in the low light. “Especially then.”

The words were soft, almost lost under the hiss of the jets, but they carried a weight that made Jason’s pulse hitch. Especially then.

He wanted to scoff, to make it into a joke, but something in Bruce’s tone stopped him. There was no condescension there. No pity. Just a quiet certainty that made Jason feel strangely seen, and it unnerved the hell out of him.

Jason shifted, running a wet hand through his hair. The water slid off his knuckles in thin, rippling lines. “You ever lose it?” he asked finally. “All that control?”

Bruce’s eyes opened again, finding him through the steam. “I try to think. To take a breath before I act. But yes,” he said. “There have been times I’ve lost it.”

Jason nodded, watching the reflections of the lights tremble across the surface of the water. He didn’t push but something in Bruce’s quiet, measured tone made him want to ask more. Before he could, Bruce spoke again.

“I did that first night,” he said. The words were calm, but not casual. They carried weight. “With you.”
Jason frowned, glancing over at him. “What do you mean?”

He tried to replay that night in his head: the way Bruce had looked at him, the careful hands, the almost too-gentle tone. It hadn’t felt like losing control. Not compared to what Jason was used to. Bruce had been polite, patient even. No roughness, no force. Hell, Bruce had even reciprocated.

That memory still sat somewhere in Jason’s body; the shock of it, the quiet steadiness of someone taking their time with him.

It had been the best blowjob of his life - not that the bar was high. Most clients didn’t care if he came; some made a game of it, testing how long he could hold back or how many times he could come until he was shaking and raw. None of it was pleasure.

But Bruce had been different. Patient. Focused. Like he was learning something, not taking it. Jason had been allowed to breathe, to want, to finish - like it was something earned, not extracted. It had felt good in a way he hadn’t realized he’d missed.

And if Bruce ever wanted to repeat the occasion, Jason knew he wouldn’t say no. Not only out of obligation this time, but out of genuine, dangerous interest.

Bruce’s voice came quiet through the hiss and pulse of the water. “I’m not proud of that night,” he said. “What I did. I crossed a line. You shouldn’t have had to give me pleasure.”

The water hissed around them, the sound filling the pause like a breath neither of them wanted to take. Steam rolled gently across Jason’s face, clinging to his lashes.
“You paid for it,” Jason muttered, voice rougher than he meant. “That’s how this works.”

“It shouldn’t,” Bruce said simply.
The absolute certainty in his tone made Jason look at him again. Bruce sat against the opposite edge of the tub, shoulders broad and steady above the water, skin golden in the low amber light. There wasn’t a trace of arrogance in his posture; it was all restraint, quiet strength.

The heat caught on the curve of his throat, the line of his jaw, the slight movement of his chest as he breathed. He didn’t look carved by hardship or haunted by it. He looked settled. The kind of man who’d found his footing a long time ago and never quite lost it again.

Jason’s eyes lingered longer than he meant them to. His mouth had that calm firmness of someone who didn’t need to prove anything. And his eyes: sharp gray-blue, clear even in the dimness carried that same quiet certainty as the tone of his voice.

Jason traced faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, wet hair slicked back. Bruce was handsome. He looked away, jaw tight. It wasn’t supposed to matter. Not with clients.

“Look,” Jason said. “You didn’t hurt me. You were all nice about it. I really didn‘t mind.“
“That’s not the same as consent,” Bruce said. His tone was measured, like he’d already wrestled this thought in private. A lot. “When someone pays for it, your choices aren’t free.”

Jason’s mouth twitched. “You make it sound like I’m a prisoner.”
“Aren’t you?” Bruce asked. The words were quiet, but they landed heavy. Too gentle to be cruel. Too honest to be ignored.

Jason didn’t answer right away. His fingers traced the edge of the tub, water beading and breaking around his knuckles. “Maybe,” he said finally, the word almost lost to the hum of the jets. “But if I’d had the chance … if life was different…” He shrugged, the movement small in the water, a ripple breaking against the side. “If I’d had the time for casual? The energy?” He hesitated, then let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I’d still probably have ended up doing it. With you. Just for fun. You’re not exactly hard on the eyes, Wayne.”

Bruce went still. The faint hiss of bubbles was the only sound between them. Steam curled up between their faces, blurring the lines of distance, turning everything into slow motion. His gaze didn’t flinch; he simply watched Jason, and the weight of it wasn’t judgment.

“That doesn’t make it right,” Bruce said at last. It had the gravity of a man who’d built his life on principles and still couldn’t find a moral rule that made this simple.

Jason’s laugh came out short, quiet, almost hollow. “Right’s a luxury word, Wayne. I don’t get to use it much.” His voice faltered for half a breath, then steadied. “But you’re not the villain in this story. Not to me.”

Bruce didn’t argue. Just nodded once, letting the quiet settle again. The hum of the jets filled the space between them, steady and rhythmic, like the heartbeat in the quiet.

Jason let his head tip back, closing his eyes. The warmth seeped into him, loosening the ache in his ribs, the tension in his chest. He told himself it was fatigue, that the drowsy pull in his limbs came from the long day and the heat. But beneath it, something else pulsed slow and certain - want, maybe. Curiosity, definitely.

Chapter Text

The next morning unfolded much like the one before: calm, measured, the world outside still gray with the early hour.

Jason stirred as Bruce slipped from the bed, the soft rustle of sheets and the faint creak of the floor marking his exit. The space Bruce left behind was warm, faintly scented with clean soap and that quiet, grounding smell Jason was starting to recognize as him - cedar, something earthy.

The night had been ordinary in the best possible way: no rough hands, no whispered bargains. After the heat of the hot tub and the talk that had left Jason half-wired, half-drained, they’d both moved through the quiet motions of bedtime. He’d taken the pills; Bruce had cracked the window to let the city breathe in. And then nothing: no words, no tension, just sleep.

Jason couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept that deeply. When he stretched now, the movement pulled at his ribs; a dull, manageable throb instead of the sharp stab he’d come to expect. Progress. He yawned, ran a hand through his hair, and sat up slowly.

From the bathroom came the low, rhythmic sounds of Bruce’s morning routine. The soft rush of water, the scrape of a razor, the muted hum of a man already halfway into his day. Jason listened without meaning to. It was domestic in a way that felt almost alien.

By the time Bruce emerged, towel around his neck, Jason was sitting up against the headboard, rubbing at the sleep grit in his eyes.

“Morning,” Bruce said easily, the kind of greeting that didn’t expect anything in return.
Jason mumbled something halfway between a “hey” and a grunt, but his mouth quirked up all the same.

Breakfast was already half-prepared by the time Jason finished in the bathroom and shuffled into the kitchen. Bruce moved with quiet precision: cracking eggs into a pan, slicing tomatoes with the same focus he brought to training. The smell was clean and savory.

When Bruce finally sat, his plate looked like something out of a health magazine: two perfectly cooked eggs, bright slices of tomato glistening with olive oil, crumbled feta, and neat fans of avocado. A turkey breast sandwich sat to the side, edges aligned. Beside it, a tall glass of deep red smoothie, thick and speckled with tiny brown flecks. Jason eyed it warily.

“Berries and beetroot this morning,” Bruce explained. “Chia and flax have omega-3s and fibre for recovery and digestion. The yogurt adds protein and probiotics.” Bruce tapped a finger against his own glass. “Beetroot helps with blood flow and recovery; the berries are anti-inflammatory, and the seeds slow digestion so you get steady energy rather than a crash.”

Jason smirked, reaching for the glass. “Guess I’ll take your word for it, doc.” His grin was half deflection, half curiosity.

The smoothie was thick and tart, the beetroot giving it an earthy backbone that the berries brightened with tangy sweetness. The chia and flax seeds gave it an unfamiliar texture, tiny flecks catching against his tongue, not unpleasant but strange. Jason took another sip, slower this time. It wasn’t bad. And if Bruce said it was good for him, then he’d believe it.

He knew plenty of men who would’ve just pointed him toward a jar of protein powder or a loaf of cheap white bread and called it breakfast. Bruce hadn’t done that. He’d cooked. Real food, real effort; the kind that didn’t make sense for a man as busy or as rich as him. It wasn’t just generosity; it was intention. Jason didn’t quite know what to do with that.

He forked a bite of tomato, the olive oil slick and fragrant, the tang of feta cutting through the sweetness. The avocado was cool, smooth, almost buttery, balancing the salt. Each bite hit a little deeper than it should have, waking something he didn’t want to name: hunger that wasn’t only about food.

He hadn’t realized how empty he’d been until now. He hadn‘t been starving before, not really. He fed himself and relied on protein shakes and protein bars when he couldn‘t, but he was not used to being nourished. It was a strange distinction, one that made him slow down without meaning to, chewing carefully, like he didn’t want the moment to end too fast.

“You feel different this morning?” Bruce asked, folding a clean napkin, watching Jason with that calm steadiness.
Jason chewed, thinking about the last forty-eight hours; the drills that hadn’t aimed to break him, all that good food and the rest he was getting. He swallowed and shrugged. “Less like I got hit by a truck,” he said, the understatement carrying more truth than he meant to admit.

Bruce nodded once. “Recovery is as much about what you put in as what you take out. We’ll up it a bit today but still keep it measured: mobility, technique. Nothing that’ll set you back.”

Jason finished his sandwich, set the plate down, and for a second let himself believe that something in this; the food, the attention, the ordered steadiness might add up to more than a day’s comfort.

They finished breakfast in easy quiet; the kind that had started to feel less like silence and more like truce. The city’s hum had picked up outside, muted through the glass, but the penthouse still held a sense of separation, a kind of calm that made Jason’s chest ache if he thought about it too long.

When they headed downstairs, the elevator’s hum filled the space between them. Bruce had changed into similar workout clothes than the days before; black training pants, a long sleve compression shirt that did nothing to hide the definition beneath it. His movements carried that same precise calm he had when he cooked: no wasted motion, no hesitation. Jason caught himself watching, jaw tightening, because damn, if Wayne didn’t look like control made flesh.

The gym lights flicked on automatically, cool white over steel and matte flooring. The smell of rubber and faint disinfectant hit familiar; grounding. Jason rolled his shoulders, testing the ache in his ribs, and started stretching.

“Go slow,” Bruce said, voice even. He didn’t have to raise it; somehow it still carried.
Jason grunted something like agreement, lacing his fingers behind his head and bending gently to the side. The stretch tugged, but the pain stayed dull. A sign of healing. Bruce watched from a few feet away, arms folded, assessing the way a trainer would: not judging, just reading.

“You push through pain or you listen to it?” Bruce asked after a moment.
Jason snorted. “Depends who’s asking. You or Cobblepot?”

Bruce didn’t smile, but his eyes softened slightly. “Pain isn’t the enemy. It’s information. You ignore it, you break something that could’ve healed.”
Jason rolled his neck. “Yeah, well.“

Bruce started stretching then too, his instructions quiet, clipped, but patient. “Follow my lead. Don’t rush it. Let the muscle tell you where it stops.”

Jason mirrored him on the mat, rolling his shoulders, twisting gently through the ache. Bruce’s version of warm-up was almost meditative: slow, deliberate, every motion with purpose. It wasn’t the usual routine he got at Cobblepot’s gym, where warm-up meant jump rope until you nearly puked and then start hitting something. This was … different. Controlled. Respectful. He should note that down into that dumb little journal.

“Your ribs?” Bruce asked as they eased into light torso twists.
Jason inhaled carefully, feeling the faint pull. “Still tender,” he admitted, “but not too bad.”
Bruce gave a short nod. “Good. We’ll stay away from body shots, but I want you thinking about your center, about keeping it stable even when you move.”

Jason smirked. “You mean not flailing like a rookie?”
Bruce’s mouth curved just slightly; not quite a smile, but close. “Something like that.”
They moved into shadowboxing, Bruce watching closely. Jason worked through the motions: jab, cross, slip, roll. The rhythm came back faster than he expected, his body remembering even when his ribs protested. Bruce’s voice cut in, calm and precise.

“Your lead hand’s too tight,” he said. “You’re burning energy before you even throw.”
Jason loosened it, flexing his fingers. “You notice everything, don’t you?”
“It’s hard not to,” Bruce said. “That’s half the work: seeing what others miss.”

Jason barked a quiet laugh. “Guess that’s why you’re the boss, huh?”
Bruce ignored the jab, stepping closer. “Here,” he said, raising his own hands. “Watch.”

He demonstrated; fluid, efficient, his body moving like it had learned this language long before Jason first stepped into a cage.

Each punch landed with quiet precision, not brute strength but deliberate control. Watching him was hypnotic. His form was perfect; the kind that came from thousands of repetitions, from years of training built on discipline instead of desperation.

Jason caught himself staring. The way Bruce’s muscles moved beneath his shirt, the quiet authority in how he shifted weight from one foot to the other. It was more than just skill.

“You make it look easy,” Jason muttered, more to himself than anything.
“It’s not,” Bruce replied, not looking up. “It’s discipline. Repitition. You’ll get there.”
Jason rolled his eyes, but there was no bite in it. “Yeah, sure. Twelve days to turn me into a masterpiece.”

Bruce lowered his hands, finally meeting his gaze. “No,” he said. “Twelve days to remind you you’re more than muscle memory.”
The words landed heavier than Jason wanted them to. He turned back toward the bag before Bruce could see the flicker of something in his expression: surprise, maybe. Hope.

They moved to controlled bag work next: light contact, just rhythm and precision. Bruce stood close enough to correct his stance with a gesture, a word. Jason could feel the weight of his gaze, steady but not invasive. Encouraging

“You’re holding your breath,” Bruce said at one point, tone almost amused. Jason exhaled hard, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, you try doing this with ribs that feel like glass.”
“Breathing keeps you from breaking,” Bruce countered evenly.

Jason grinned, despite himself. “You’re full of motivational posters, you know that?”
Bruce gave the faintest shrug. “If they work, I don’t mind sounding cliché.”

They worked until Jason’s shoulders burned and sweat slicked the back of his neck, but it wasn’t the bone-deep exhaustion he was used to. Bruce had a sense of pacing, when to push, when to pull back. When to stop before breaking him.

When Bruce finally said, “Enough for today,” Jason leaned against the bag, breathing hard, watching as Bruce wiped his forearm across his brow.

“You train like you don’t even have to think about it,” Jason said after a moment.
Bruce’s eyes flicked toward him, mild curiosity in the look. “And you train like you’re running out of time.”

Jason froze for half a second. Then he laughed, low and rough, shaking his head. “Guess we both stick to what we know.”

Bruce didn’t smile, but something softened in his expression. “But maybe that’s the point of this,” he said. “Learning something new.”

Jason’s arms felt pleasantly heavy, his ribs warm rather than raw. It was the first time in weeks he’d ended a real session without wanting to curl in on himself. The shower after was quiet: hot water, muted tile, the smell of Bruce’s soap lingering sharp and clean in the air. Jason tried not to think too hard about that; about how everything here smelled like Bruce.

Lunch was simple. Bruce called it “throwing something together,” but even that came out looking deliberate: mixed greens, sliced avocado, crumbled feta, the last of the tomatoes glistening under a drizzle of olive oil. It was light but satisfying, and Jason found himself cleaning the plate before realizing how hungry he’d been.

When Bruce sat back with his glass of water, he glanced toward Jason. “We should restock,” he said. “Do you want to come grocery shopping or just order delivery?”
Jason blinked. He hadn’t thought about it; about grocery shopping, of all things. “Uh,” he said, rolling one shoulder, “Whatever’s easier for you.”

Bruce shook his head lightly. “Let’s go out. We’ve been cooped up here for a few days. You could use some fresh air.”
Jason froze for a heartbeat. The phrasing - we’ve been cooped up - hit him strange. He wasn’t used to people including him in their we. Still, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Fresh air sounds good.”

They drove down to the parking garage, the air cool and echoing. Bruce selected the same lime green car from the first evening. It smelled faintly of leather and something clean. Jason settled in the passenger seat, stretching his legs. Even the short drive felt freeing after days of marble floors and training mats.

The grocery store was high-end but not flashy, tucked into one of the quieter corners of the city. From the car to the entrance, the walk was short, but Jason still breathed deeper, the cold air sharp against his lungs.

Inside, the place smelled like herbs and coffee, and everything looked too clean, too arranged. Jason hesitated just a half-second at the entrance - not that he’d admit it - then followed Bruce in.

Bruce moved through the aisles with quiet efficiency, steering the cart with one hand, scanning items with the other. He wasn’t the type to linger or compare brands. He knew what he wanted and reached for it without hesitation. Fresh produce: apples, spinach, carrots, kale and tons of other fruits and veggies, nuts, seeds, berries, cartons of almond and coconut milk, a few containers of yogurt and cottage cheese.

They passed the meat section next, where the glass counters gleamed under white light and everything looked unnaturally perfect: fillets cut to identical size, chicken breast wrapped tight in plastic, salmon so fresh it still caught the shine.

Bruce moved with quiet purpose, reaching for the best cuts without ever glancing at the price tags. He compared texture, color, freshness, but never cost. To him, quality wasn’t indulgence; it was standard. Jason had known men who counted every dollar twice, and others who spent like money was a trick that might vanish if they stopped, but Bruce didn’t fit either. He just chose, calm and deliberate, like someone who’d never had to think about whether he could afford this weeks grocery cart.

Jason trailed a few steps behind, hands in his hoodie pockets, watching. It was strange seeing Bruce do something so ordinary. The man carried himself with the same calm assurance he did in the gym, as though even here - among apples and quinoa - he was entirely in control of his world. Like nothing in this world could knock him off balance. Jason couldn’t decide if he envied that or hated it a little.

Bruce added a loaf of dense, dark bread to the cart, then a package of wild rice and a stack of tortilla wraps with some marketing nonsense about more fiber, fewer carbs. He paused, scanning the shelves one last time before turning to Jason, resting a hand on the cart handle.

“Anything you want to add?” he asked. His tone was easy, not a challenge, just an opening. Jason shrugged. “Nah. I’m good.”

Bruce tilted his head slightly, studying him the way he sometimes did during training: that quiet, assessing look that seemed to read more than Jason said. “You sure? I’m not putting you on a diet, Jason. You’re already on the lower end of your weight class. No cuts, no restrictions. If you want something - soda, chips, ice cream - whatever it is, get it.”

Jason huffed a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not really a soda or sweets guy.” It wasn’t true. He liked sugar just fine. Used to walk past bakeries and let the smell cling to him like something he wasn’t supposed to have; warm, soft, temporary. But when you’d spent years counting every dollar or training on an empty stomach, indulgence wasn‘t really on the menu.

Bruce didn’t seem convinced. “You don’t have to restrict yourself too much,” he said, quiet but firm. “You get to want things.”
Jason blinked at him, caught off guard by the phrasing. You get to want things. The words sounded simple, but they lodged somewhere under his ribs, and he didn‘t knew what to do with them.

He cleared his throat, looking away. “I’m fine. You’ve been feeding me better than I’ve ever eaten. Can’t really top that.”

Bruce nodded, accepting it without further argument. He moved down the aisle then, the cart wheels squeaking rhythmically over the tile. Jason followed, pretending to study the rows of neatly stacked pasta, pretending not to notice how easy it was to walk beside Bruce, to match his pace. And somewhere between the eggs and the avocado, between the sound of their footsteps and the rhythmic squeak of the cart, he realized something unsettling:

He liked this. Not the food, not even the freedom - just this. The way Bruce’s presence seemed to steady the air around them.

Jason wasn’t sure what that said about him, or about what he was starting to want.

Chapter Text

Back at the penthouse gym, the rhythm of the day settled into a second set of training. Bruce had them stretch first again: slow, deliberate movements, the kind that demanded awareness more than strength.

They worked through balance drills, soft core engagement, long holds that burned not from intensity but from focus. Bruce moved beside him, calm and grounded, his corrections never harsh.
Jason followed, half out of habit, half because there was something in Bruce’s composure that made you want to meet it.
By the end of the session Jason’s skin gleamed faintly with sweat.

He felt looser, steadier. The kind of tired that felt earned, not drained. After another quick shower - Jason first, as usual - they regrouped in the living space. The late afternoon light stretched long and golden across the windows, soft against the polished floor. Bruce was toweling his hair dry when he said, almost offhandedly,
“How about dinner out tonight? Unless you’d rather stay in. Your choice.”

Jason froze halfway through rubbing the towel over his head. “Out? Like… out out?”
Bruce looked up, faint amusement in his eyes. “That’s generally what dinner out means, yes.”

Jason hesitated. His first instinct wasn’t excitement; it was unease. He didn’t know what a dinner “out” with Bruce meant, and worse, his stomach twisted at the thought of the bill. Even the takeout Bruce ordered through the concierge probably cost more than Jason made in a couple nights at the lounge.
“I can just grab something,” Jason said quickly. “Like, for myself. Doesn’t have to be a thing.” He tried to sound casual, but his hand rubbed the back of his neck, betraying him. “If you don’t mind me stepping out for a bit, I can find something real quick.”

Bruce’s brows drew together, confusion flickering across his face. “Why would you do that?”
Jason froze. “I just figured…” he trailed off, then forced a shrug. “You don’t have to feed me every meal, man.”

For a moment Bruce said nothing, then he leaned back against the counter, towel draped loosely over one shoulder.
“Jason,” he said evenly. “I want to. I enjoy sharing meals with you. And if I’m inviting you to dinner, that’s exactly what it means: an invitation. You don’t owe me anything for that.“ Jason catched Bruce’s gaze in afternoon light. “But if you‘d rather have some time for yourself, there are some good places nearby.“

Jason’s throat felt tight. He wanted to believe it, wanted to take it at face value, but years of transactions and strings made the words sound too clean. Too easy. He gave a little half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Alright,” he said finally. “If you’re sure, let‘s have dinner together.”

“You pick:” Bruce said. “In or out?”
Jason hesitated. He hadn’t been outside much since he’d been brought here. The idea of open air, even for a short while, pulled at him. And if Bruce wanted to go out, well; Jason could play along.
“Out,” he said. “Might be nice to get some air.”

Bruce nodded once, satisfied. “Good. I know a small quiet place with really good food, if you are up for italian?“
„Sure.“ Jason paused, uncertain. “You want me to, uh, dress a certain way?” Clients who took him out usually had opinions: tight shirts, snug pants, something they could show off or feel possessive about.

“Wear whatever you’re comfortable in,” he said easily. Jason changed into jeans - clean, but faded at the knees - and his least-worn long-sleeve shirt, still soft from too many washes. It wasn’t fancy, but it didn’t look bad. He grabbed a hoodie on the way out, just in case the evening cooled.

Bruce, when he emerged, looked effortlessly put together. Dark jeans, a fine-knit pullover that clung just enough to the shape of him, and shoes that were simple but unmistakably expensive. Even his watch gleamed understated luxury. He didn’t look overdressed; he looked like money worn comfortably.

The elevator ride down to the garage was quiet; the kind of silence that didn’t feel tense, exactly, just full of thoughts neither of them voiced. The car - another sleek, dark vehicle that smelled faintly of leather and Bruce’s cologne - purred to life with barely a sound.

They drove through the city in easy rhythm, traffic light enough that Jason could watch the passing lights blur across the window without having to fill the air with talk.
Gotham at night always looked cleaner from a car like this. Streetlights gold instead of harsh, people distant instead of desperate.

But Bruce didn’t pull right up to the restaurant’s valet like Jason expected. Instead, he parked a couple of streets away in a quieter area lined with trees and shops closing for the evening. “We’ll walk the rest,” he said, cutting the engine.

Jason glanced at him. “Didn’t realize rich people walked anywhere for fun.”
Bruce’s mouth curved faintly. “It’s a nice night. You could use the air.”

Jason didn’t argue. The air was crisp, the kind of cool that carried the faint tang of the river. Their footsteps echoed along the pavement as they made their way toward the restaurant; a long, low-lit building with glass walls, warm amber lighting, and the soft hum of conversation spilling through the door.

It was one of those places that pretended to be casual: reclaimed wood tables, hanging plants, open brick walls, but everything about it screamed curated comfort. The waiters moved with the polished ease of people used to catering to money.

Jason felt that familiar stiffness creep into his shoulders as they were led to a table by the window; one of those perfect little spots that managed to look private without being hidden.

The restaurant was warm and quiet, the clink of cutlery and low hum of conversation filling the air. The smell of baked bread and olive oil lingered faintly between tables. It was the kind of place where people came to linger, to be seen being relaxed.

The waiter - young, crisp shirt, practiced smile - presented them the menu. It was sleek and understated, all elegant fonts and Italian dishes that managed to sound both simple and expensive.

Jason glanced down at the pages but didn’t actually read. He set the menu down almost immediately, folding his hands on his lap. This was how these things went: the client chose, the client ordered, and Jason ate what was placed in front of him. It was easier that way. Less chance of getting it wrong.

He hated when they ordered wine, though; the bitterness, the dizzy warmth that crept up after a few sips. The loss of control. But Bruce wouldn’t do that. He knew Jason was underage. And he seemed to care about that shit. So getting drunk on dry wine, at least, wasn’t going to be an issue tonight.

When the waiter returned to take their drink orders, Bruce asked for a glass of red wine for himself and a tumbler of water for the table. Jason nodded slightly, expecting that to be the end of it. But the waiter lingered, pen poised, looking directly at him.

Jason blinked. “What?” He cringed. Shit. He didn‘t want to sound rude.
But the waiter was professional enough to ignore Jason acting like a damn brute.
“What would you like to drink, sir?”
It still took a beat too long for the question to register. The back of his neck went warm. “Oh … uh, water’s fine. Thanks.”
The waiter smiled politely and moved off, but Jason still felt the heat creeping up under his collar.

Across from him, Bruce was watching - the way he always did, like he saw things Jason didn’t want to show. Then he looked down at his menu again, expression unreadable.
Jason tried to follow suit, opening his menu again, pretending to read the lines even as his thoughts ran wild. Should he wait for Bruce to order? Pick something cheap? Something that made him look polite, not greedy? The food all looked expensive, when he checked out the tables around him without being to obvious about it. Looking down at the menu again, reading prices instead of ingredients, he realised that even the pasta dishes were priced higher than he usually spent on a week’s groceries.

He had no idea what Bruce expected, whether he should follow his lead and choose the same dish, order the cheapest thing, or just wait for him to decide. When Jason finally glanced up, Bruce was watching him again. There was something in his eyes; not pity, not judgment, just an understanding that made Jason feel strangely raw.
“Get whatever sounds good to you,” Bruce said quietly. “Entree and main, preferably.”

Jason nodded quickly, though his chest ached with something strange. Gratitude. Confusion. He wasn’t sure. “Alright,” he murmured. “Sure.”

He looked down again, still pretending to read, but the truth was he’d already decided he’d just pick something safe. Pasta, maybe. Can’t go wrong with pasta. Not even stubidly overpriced pasta.

Still, as he traced his finger down the neat list of dishes, a strange thought pushed through the noise; that he’d gotten used to this. The regular meals. Training that didn’t leave him limping. Sleep that wasn’t broken by noise or pain.

He wondered how long it would take for the crash to hit after this; after the twelve days were up, after he went back to Cobblepot’s meal replacements and whatever cheap shit he could stretch for himself and his mom; after Bruce stopped looking at him like that.

As Bruce spoke to the waiter, who‘d just placed their drink order on the table, his voice low and even, Jason found himself watching the way the man’s tone shifted; calm, certain, respectful without effort. He didn’t need to command attention; it came to him naturally, the way air fills a room. Bruce ordered sea bass with grilled vegetables.

Jason caught himself wondering, for the first time, what it would be like if this wasn’t temporary. If the man sitting across from him, with that steady voice and that calm that didn’t waver, were the one holding his debts instead of Cobblepot. If this strange, careful rhythm of days could just keep going.

Jason thought, he wouldn‘t mind. He told himself it wouldn’t be worse. Hell, maybe it’d even be better. At least Bruce probably wouldn’t make him fight with bruised ribs or a not even half-healed split lip just because the crowd wanted blood. He seemed to care about this kind of shit. About people coming out in one piece, about training being something more than punishment.

Sure, he’d take the same hits, follow the same orders; maybe even warm the same beds, if that’s what Bruce wanted. The thought flickered up and burned quick, shame and practicality tangled tight. Debts needed to be paid, and Jason had long learned there were only a few ways to do that. Jason was nowhere near good enough in the ring to keep ahead of the interest without selling his body.

But Bruce seemed like a fair man, a kind man. Maybe he’d let Jason choose which clients to take and which to avoid. Maybe Bruce might even get him better fights with a higher winners fee. Maybe, Jason thought for a second, Bruce wouldn‘t take as large a cut from Jasons earnings as Cobblepott did, offering Jason the chance to truly pay his debts back faster than new ones accumulated.

But Jason knew better than to even hope for it. He knew the difference between safety and a loan. Between a man’s decency and a man’s attachment. Bruce didn’t care - not like that. He had his little project: train the cage whore, fix the broken fighter, return him polished.

Jason clenched his jaw around the thought. Fool.

He felt the weight of the room again: the hush of the restaurant, the low murmur of voices, the faint metallic chime of cutlery meeting porcelain. The air smelled faintly of lemon and charred butter, a thousand miles from the damp reek of locker rooms and cheap whiskey. The candlelight was soft and gold, catching on the edge of Bruce’s watch, the clean lines of his shirt.

When the waiter turned to him, Jason cleared his throat, forcing the tension out of his voice. “Uh… the salad to start,” he said, like he hadn’t picked the cheapest entree on the menu by instinct. “And the bolognese.”
The waiter smiled, scribbling quickly before heading off.

Jason let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his shoulders sinking back against the chair. His pulse was still quick, a leftover from thoughts he shouldn’t have had, hopes he shouldn’t have touched. He took a sip of water just to have something to do with his hands, and watched the reflection of the candle flicker in the glass.

They made small talk. Easy stuff. Safe stuff. The kind of conversation Jason could run on autopilot if he had to.

He knew how to do this part. Lean in just enough to look interested. Let his mouth tilt like he was amused before the punchline even landed. Ask the right question at the right time so the other person could hear themselves talk and think it was a conversation. Make them feel like they were the most interesting thing in the room.

It worked. It always worked. Most clients ate that shit up. Some needed it more than others. Guys who mistook attention for connection, who puffed up under the smallest bit of interest. Jason could play that game all night if he had to. Smile, nod, laugh in the right places, let his voice drop just enough to feel personal. Doesn’t mean he liked it.

Half of them bored him out of his mind. Same recycled stories, same self-important tone, like they were reading off a script no one else cared about. Jason usually just coasted through those, gave them what they wanted and counted down until it was over.

The other half made his skin crawl.

Bruce didn’t fit either box. Which made him harder to read. Jason caught himself doing it anyway: tilting his head just slightly, letting his expression open up, giving those small cues that usually pulled people in. A half-smile here, a quiet yeah? there. Habit. Muscle memory.

Bruce didn’t lean into it. Didn’t ignore it, either. Just… let it be, like he was giving Jason the chance to just act like a damn normal young man and not a trashy cage whore he was taking out to dinner.

Weird. And then there was the conversation itself. Italy. Rome. Jason had expected the usual when his clients talked about their vacations. Big boats, fast cars, city penthouses, beautiful young man and woman, nice beaches and expensive drinks - the kind of shit people bragged about because that was probably the only thing that made them out.

But Bruce didn’t do that. He talked about streets, about how the city felt. The heat baked into the stone, the way the crowds moved, how some places looked like they hadn’t changed in a hundred years.

Jason found himself paying attention. Like actually paying attention. He leaned back in his chair without thinking about it, tension bleeding out of his shoulders bit by bit. His brain didn’t drift off like it usually did. Didn’t start counting cracks in the wall or people in the room.

“…it’s still there?” Jason cut in, brows pulling together slightly. “Like … not rebuilt. The actual thing?”

The question slipped out before he could rethink it. He stilled right after, jaw tightening a fraction. But Bruce just glanced at him, that faint, almost private smile touching his mouth again.

“Yeah,” he said. “Still there.” And then he kept going, adding onto it like Jason hadn’t just asked something borderline stupid.

Jason huffed under his breath, dragging his thumb along the side of his glass. Rome. Ancient ruins still standing. Shit older than Gotham by a mile. He’d read about stuff like that. History, old architecture, myths. There was a lot of interesting stuff to learn about.

Bruce didn’t laugh. Didn’t brush him off. Didn’t act like Jason asking questions was some kind of joke. Didn’t act like he was.

Jason glanced up again, quick, like it didn’t matter.
“The Colosseum,” he said, giving a small shrug like he wasn’t actually interested. “That’s the big arena, right?” he asked. “Like … qfights and shit?”

There was a beat, just long enough for Jason to brace, out of habit. People usually did one of two things when he swore like that in places like this: either got weirdly into it, or got condescending real fast. Copplepost would just slap him for it, right at his head, just once, but it usually bought the message home.

Bruce did neither.
“Gladiators, mostly,” he said, tone steady. “Though it was more complicated than just fights. Politics, spectacle, control. It wasn’t just about violence. It was about what the violence meant.”

Jason leaned back a little, eyes narrowing, not in suspicion this time but in thought. “Figures,” he muttered. “Dress it up, make it look important so no one calls it what it is.”

Bruce’s gaze flicked to him. Attentive.
“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Something like that.”

Jason huffed softly through his nose, gaze dropping to the table. His fingers traced the edge of his glass again, slower this time.
“Still,” he added, quieter, “kinda crazy it’s just… there. Like that. People built it that long ago and it didn’t just fall apart.”
Bruce nodded once. “A lot of it’s damaged. But the core structure is still there.”

Jason tilted his head, thinking.
“…you ever go inside it?” he asked. “Or is it one of those look-don’t-touch things?”
“I went inside,” Bruce said. “Walked the upper levels. You can still see where the crowd would’ve sat. The scale of it: it’s different when you’re actually there.”
Jason let out a low whistle under his breath. “Bet it is.”

There was a pause, but not the awkward kind. Not the kind Jason usually had to fill.
Bruce didn’t rush him. Didn’t steer the conversation back to himself, didn’t expect Jason to perform his way through it.
He just… stayed there with him. Watching. Listening. Like he actually wanted to hear what Jason had to say next.

Jason shifted slightly in his seat, something in his chest pulling tight in a way he didn’t quite like.
“…you travel a lot?” he asked, glancing up again.

“A bit,” Bruce said. “When I find the time. It’s worth it.”
Jason snorted softly. “Yeah.“ He‘d never even been out of Gotham, really.
“If you ever get the chance,” Bruce said, “you’d probably like it.”

Jason blinked at that. Like it was a real suggestion. Not a joke. Not some throwaway line. Bruce wasn‘t treating him like someone who wouldn‘t get it.

Jason looked down again, jaw working for a second before he covered it with a shrug.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Maybe.”
His voice had gone quieter, but strangely he didn‘t want their conversation to end. And when he glanced back up this time, there was no practiced tilt to his smile, no careful calibration of expression.

“…you read about that stuff before you went?” he asked. “Or just winged it?”
Bruce leaned back slightly, considering. “A bit of both. I like knowing what I’m looking at.”

Jason nodded, almost automatically. “Yeah. Makes sense.”
He hesitated, then added, a little rougher, like he was trying to sand it down before it came out too soft, to engaged.
“Better than walking around not knowing what the hell you’re seeing.”

Bruce’s mouth curved again, faint but genuine. “Exactly.”
And that was it. No weird look. No shift in tone. No moment where Jason felt like he’d said too much, or shown too much. Bruce didn’t treat him like something to use. Just sat across from him, talking about old buildings and dead empires like Jason had every right to be part of that conversation. Like he was worth the time.

Jason swallowed, slow, and reached for his water just to have something to do with his hands.
“…sounds pretty damn good,” he said under his breath.

The entrees arrived just then. Jason’s salad shined bright with olive oil and lemon, Bruce’s roast beef glistening under a drizzle of something green and expensive-looking.
Jason kept his focus on his plate, chewing slow, like good manners might make up for everything else he wasn’t.

They ate quietly for the first few minutes, the soft clink of cutlery filling the space between them, until Bruce said, “You‘ve gone quiet.“
“Yeah. Sorry about that” Jason said under his breath. “Habit, it guess? Most guys like to hear themself talk more than the whore they bought.“ Jason shrugged. “Gotta prove they’ve got something to say to match the suit.”

Bruce’s mouth curved, faintly amused. “And what about me?“
Jason looked up at him then, meeting his eyes just long enough. “Dunno. Almost seems like you‘re interested in the shit I have to say.“

The words came out easier than he meant them to, heavier than they should’ve been. He looked away, stabbing at his salad as if that could take them back to small talk. But Bruce’s expression didn’t shift; quiet, thoughtful, like he’d caught the meaning under the words and chose not to press.

The pasta came out steaming a while later, the smell wrapping around Jason before he even looked up. His fork paused halfway to his mouth. The pasta smelled exactly right: tomato, basil, the slow sweetness of onions cooked down until they disappeared. It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

Jason blinked at the plate, the steam ghosting up against his face, and for a second the candlelight and polished cutlery blurred into a different kitchen altogether. A dented pot, cigarette smoke curling from the counter, a radio humming out of tune. His mother, humming along to the song, wooden spoon in hand.

He blinked hard, fork pausing midair. The restaurant noise dulled. The candlelight caught the shine of oil on the surface of the sauce. His chest tightened; that sharp, traitorous ache that came whenever memory hit too close.

Bruce’s voice pulled him back. “Something wrong with it?”
Jason shook his head. “No. It’s good. Really good. Smells like…” He stopped himself, shrugged, pretended to focus on the plate. “Smells like something I haven’t had in a while.”

Bruce tilted his head, the same patient, even look he used when Jason slipped his guard during training; curious without pushing. “Used to be a favorite?”

Jason gave a short, crooked laugh. “Yeah. My mom used to make pasta like this. Sort of.“ He smiled faintly, eyes still on his plate. “We didn’t have all the fancy stuff. Mostly canned tomatoes, dried herbs. Sometimes a bit of hamburger meat if it was on discount. A bit of ketchup for the taste.”

He finally took a bite, chewing slower than the salad before. The heat spread slow and heavy in his chest; not comfort exactly, but close enough to hurt.

Bruce leaned back slightly, studying him with quiet interest. “You said she’s sick, right?”
Jason’s fork froze. “Yeah.” He tried to sound casual, but the lie came out too sharp. “Something chronic. Been that way for a while.”

Bruce’s gaze softened. “You take care of her.“
Jason shrugged like it was nothing, like it didn’t cost him sleepless nights, extra shifts, tons of arguments with Cobblepott, hours of extra training, and the twisting worry that sat in his gut every time he opened their door and wondered if she’d still be breathing.

“When I can. She… forgets to take care of herself, you know?,“ Jason said. “Gotta make sure she eats, takes her meds, pays the bills, doesn’t… overdo things.”

Bruce didn’t answer right away, and the quiet stretched just long enough for Jason to start wishing he’d said less. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, gentle in a way Jason wasn’t ready for. “That’s a lot to carry at your age.”

Jason gave a short laugh; not bitter, just worn. “Someone’s gotta. It’s not like there’s a list of volunteers waiting to help.”
Bruce’s eyes lingered on him, calm and steady. “You’ve been doing that a long time?”
Jason shrugged his shoulders, eyes tracing the rim of his plate. “Nah.” The word came out small.

Bruce hesitated, then asked, “Does she know what you do?”
Jason’s hand froze halfway to his mouth. His pulse kicked. He looked up, eyes sharp.
“What do you mean?”

Bruce’s expression didn’t change. “For work.”
Jason’s jaw flexed. “She knows enough.”
Bruce didn’t tell him to explain, didn’t push, but the weight of his gaze said he wasn’t buying it.

Jason sighed, giving in just enough to fill the space. “She knows I fight. Knows I work at Cobblepott’s bar. Close enough, right?”
Bruce’s gaze stayed steady. “Close enough for who?” The question landed heavier than it should have. Jason stared at the flickering candle between them, at the way the flame bent in the water glass, warping into something smaller.

“For her,” he said finally. His voice was low but firm. “She doesn’t need the rest.”
Bruce nodded once; the kind of nod that meant I hear you, but I don‘t agree.

Jason looked down at his plate, fork idly pushing through the last bits of pasta. “She used to be better, you know?” he said, almost to himself. “Worked double shifts, still came home smiling. Made pancakes on Sundays. Sang off-key to the radio while she cooked.”
A faint, helpless smile flickered and died at the corner of his mouth. “She was funny, too. Used to make up bedtime stories for me. Whole worlds, right out of her head.”
He went quiet for a moment, eyes far away. “I used to think if I got good enough - at fighting, I mean - if I started winning and brought home real money, it’d fix things somehow. That I could buy her better meds, a better place. That it could go back to how things were before my dad got taken in.”

Jason gave a low laugh, no humor in it. “Guess I was wrong about that.” He exhaled slowly, the air leaving his chest like he’d been holding it for too long. He leaned back in his chair and glanced out the window. The city lights bled together in the glass; red and gold streaks, blurred and unsteady.

When he looked back, Bruce was still watching him. The candlelight caught the faint silver at Bruce’s temple, the clean lines of his jaw.

For a while, neither spoke. The space between them filled with the quiet scrape of plates, the low hum of conversation from nearby tables.

When the waiter came to clear their plates, Jason was watching Bruce over the rim of his glass. He didn’t know what to make of the man; how he could sound so steady, so certain, like nothing in the world could shake him. And still be kind, attentive even. It almost felt like he cared.

Bruce nodded toward the menu. “You want something sweet?”
“Dunno,“ Jason chewed, swallowed, and tried for a smirk that didn’t quite hold. “I don‘t really do sweet.“

Bruce gave him a look - mild, knowing - and for a second, Jason remembered the grocery aisle, remembered lying about the same thing. He felt the back of his neck warm.

He glanced down at the table instead, at the white tablecloth so spotless it looked unreal. How the hell did anyone keep something that clean? He shifted his glass an inch, careful not to leave a ring.

“You and your clean meal plans,” Jason said after a moment, half teasing, half deflecting. “Not sure how dessert fits in there.”

Bruce’s smile was faint, not mocking. “Balance is part of it. You push hard, you refuel. Sometimes that includes something sweet.” He paused, tone even, unbothered. “Besides, sugar helps recovery after training. Replenishes glycogen.”

Jason looked up, startled by the calm practicality of it; like Bruce wasn’t trying to coax him, just stating a fact. He took another sip of water, slow, deliberate. Manners were easier than honesty. They gave his hands something to do when his head got too loud.

Jason swallowed, the air feeling heavier than it should. “You saying that as my trainer or my client?”
Bruce’s eyes flicked up. “Does it matter?”
Jason let out a breath. “Yeah. Kinda does.”

His tone stayed even, but his shoulders had gone tight. He could feel the muscle in his jaw ticking. The question shouldn’t have mattered; but it did. Because if Bruce was the client right now, then there were rules. Rules Jason knew.

He dropped his gaze, tracing the edge of his napkin with one finger, smoothing a wrinkle that wasn’t really there. If a client wanted to play with chocolate and whipped cream, he had to make it look like fun. Smile, moan a little, make them feel like they were giving him something he wanted, like they were indulging him by hand feeding him strawberries, having him lick the juice from the fingers and suck their chocolate covered dick. That was the job.

Jason usually was good at reading his clients, find out what they wanted. How they liked to be looked at, liked to be touched. How to make himself seem easy, pleasant, worth the money.

Maybe he should have reached across the table, touched Bruce’s wrist, smiled in that way that always worked on men like Bruce Wayne. Men that needed to be desired before they acted on their kinks, men who needed the illusion of want and consent more than they needed control. Because Bruce had power and he had control and he didn‘t need a trashy fight-whore like Jason to make him feel like the one in charge.

Jason had been dumb to let his guard down. Bruce might be decent, might play mentor for a few days, but at the end of it he’d still be the man paying. Jason should’ve known better than to forget that.

The candle flickered, the little flame catching the edge of Bruce’s watch, flashing gold. Jason’s chest tightened; reflex, instinct. He picked up his glass again just to have something to hold.

Bruce looked thoughtful. “Then as your trainer,” he said. “You’ve been running on fumes for weeks. You can afford to enjoy something.”

He’d already been halfway back into old reflexes, ready to shift into whatever version of himself the man across the table wanted. Clients who took him out to dinner like this, liked easy charm; they liked to be seen being wanted by some young thing on their arm. He knew the script by heart: how to laugh just right, how to fill the air before silence turned heavy. But Bruce didn’t seem to want any of it. It seemed like he didn’t want the act.

Instead, he said something as ordinary as you can afford to enjoy something, and it left Jason completely unmoored.
He sat back a little, searching Bruce’s face for the angle, the condescension, the smirk, the quiet expectation. There was none.

Jason chewed the inside of his cheek. When he spoke, it wasn’t the clever line he’d meant to give. It was the truth, scraped raw.
“You’ve probably paid more for dinner than I make working a whole week or two at the bar.”

Bruce didn’t seem to care about the prices. “Worth it.”
Jason frowned. “For what?”
“For good food,” Bruce said simply. Then, after a pause that carried more weight than it should have: “And good company.”

Jason stared at him, the candlelight throwing gold against Bruce’s jaw, soft shadows under his eyes. Jason felt that stupid warmth crawl up his throat, too close to shame and something else he didn’t have a name for. He took a sip of water, his pulse loud in his ears.

He looked away, pretending to focus on the window; on the smear of city lights melting against the glass. His reflection looked young, tired and out of place. And across from him sat Bruce Wayne, solid and certain

Jason exhaled through his nose, voice rough when it finally came. “Maybe I could eat some dessert.”
Something flickered in Bruce’s eyes; approval, maybe. Or just quiet satisfaction.

“They have the best Chocolate cake here. You want to try that?” Bruce asked, his tone as even as ever, like it was no big deal to drop twenty-five bucks or more on a piece of cake for some whore he picked up from the cages. Jason hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure. Yeah.“

The waiter came and went. The lull that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. More like the air had settled, heavy but calm.

When the plates finally arrived, Jason had to blink. The cake looked unreal: a small, dark dome sitting in the center of a beige plate, ringed with a thin pool of glossy berry sauce. A few shards of almond krokant were scattered on top, glinting under the candlelight like amber glass. The heat from the cake had already started to melt the scoop of ice cream beside it, a slow white river sliding toward the sauce.

Jason cut into it, the fork sinking through the thin crust and into the molten center. The chocolate spilled out in a slow, velvet flood, catching the light, smelling rich and faintly bitter. He took a bite and for a second, his brain just… stopped.

It was stupid, really, how good it was. Warm and dark, edged with salt, sweet without being cloying. It hit something deep in his chest; the kind of simple pleasure he couldn’t remember he‘d ever had sitting across from a client.

Bruce didn’t comment, just dug into his own piece of cake, but he didn’t break the quiet. He merely gave the smallest, knowing smile, slight but unmistakable, as if he understood the weight behind Jason’s enjoyment; that this was more than cake, more than sweetness. For a moment, Jason let himself simply taste it, the warmth, the richness, the indulgence, and the quiet approval from the man across the table.

Chapter Text

The penthouse held a different kind of quiet after dinner; soft and full, like the air itself had settled. The city’s hum came muffled through the windows, headlights bleeding through the blinds in stripes of gold and white.

Bruce crossed the room and sank into the armchair with a quiet exhale. The lamplight caught in the silver at his temples. Jason hovered for a second, uncertain. He’d been in a dozen penthouses and hotel rooms - places where men like Bruce Wayne turned the world off for a night - but this didn’t feel like any of those any more.

Jason sat on the far end of the couch, still half-expecting to be told to leave or undress or get on his knees and suck Bruces dick.
Instead, Bruce handed him the remote, tv already set on Bruces Netflix account.

“Find something,” Bruce said, voice low and even. “Whatever you want.” Jason turned the smooth plastic in his hand. It felt stupidly heavy, too normal. He flipped through the Netflix menu, each flick of his thumb punctuated by the faint click of the remote and the changing glow from the screen washing over both of them; blue, white, blue again.

Bruce leaned back, one arm draped along the couch’s edge, watching without watching. The kind of man who looked comfortable anywhere, like gravity obeyed him differently.

Jason lingered on Sherlock. The thumbnail showed Cumberbatch mid-sentence, coat collar upturned like he owned every shadow in the frame. Jason hesitated, thumb hovering. He’d never actually seen the show, but he’d heard of it; and he knew Sherlock Holmes, of course. He’d started reading one of the books once, back at the city library, but when he went back a few days later to finish it, someone had already checked it out. By the time it came back, he’d moved on to something else. That was usually how it went: things didn’t stay long enough to finish.

“My son loves that one,” Bruce said, voice low, conversational. “Used to watch it on repeat every year.“
Jason’s head turned before he could stop it. “You’ve got kids?” The words came out too fast, too sharp. Stupid.

He should’ve shut up. He didn’t ask clients about their lives. He didn’t care about their wives, their husbands, kids. Didn‘t care about who waited at home for them, while they fucked him. That wasn’t his business, wasn’t part of the transaction. He didn’t care.

He didn’t care if Bruce had kids waiting somewhere. Didn’t care if there was a wife, smiling tight, pretending not to smell the cologne that wasn’t hers.

Bruce nodded once. “Three sons.”
Something small and mean twisted in Jason’s chest before he even knew it was there. “Your wife’s not missing you while you play house with me for twelve days?”

The words came sharp, defensive; an instinctive strike before Jason could even think about it. He regretted them the second they landed, pulse jumping in his throat. That tone used to earn him backhands. Or worse. He tensed automatically, shoulders drawing tight, gaze fixed on the glowing rectangle of the TV like it might shield him.

But Bruce only sighed. A low, steady exhale that sounded almost… tired.
“I don’t have a wife, Jason.”
Jason shrugged, eyes glued to the menu screen. “That‘s what they all say.”

He didn‘t care. He didn‘t.

But he wanted to ask everything: what she was like, what the kids looked like, how they sounded when they laughed, if they called when their dad was late. He wanted to know what it felt like to walk into a house that felt safe, to have someone waiting who noticed you were gone. Someone steady. Someone who didn’t need saving.

He couldn’t understand how people could have all that - something good, something whole - and still throw it away for a stranger in a bar. He’d give anything to have his own family back: his father out of prison, his mother clean, sober. Safe.

Bruce’s gaze didn’t waver. Jason could feel it; steady, assessing, maybe even a little sad. Like Bruce knew every unspoken thing in the room and was polite enough not to name it.

Jason couldn’t tell if it was envy or anger that twisted under his ribs, when he looked at Bruce. Jason had built his whole damn life around paying down the chaos his parents had left behind, piece by piece, every bruise and late night another kind of down payment. Loyalty wasn’t supposed to waver. Love wasn’t supposed to rot.

But men like Bruce didn‘t seem to care about loyality or love, picking up whores while their spouses and children waited for them at home.

“My oldest, Dick, lives in Bludhaven,“ Bruce said suddenly. “He’s twenty-five now. Tim, the one who loves Sherlock, is nineteen. He is in Metropolis for college. And my youngest, Damian, lives with his mother in Dubai. He’s twelve. Visits during school breaks.“ Bruce’s gaze met his. “I’m not neglecting anyone at home by being here.”

Jason didn’t answer. The words hung in the space between them, slow and heavy. On the TV, the next show previewed in flashes of white and red; a crime scene, a violin score swelling beneath dialogue. The light painted Jason’s reflection on the window: a tired face, too young and too used up all at once.

“Twenty-five, huh. How old are you?”
It slipped out before he could catch it. Another line crossed. Another question he shouldn’t ask.

He braced himself for Bruce’s anger. Clients didn’t like being reminded they were older. Didn’t like being seen as anything less than timeless, desirable, powerful. You didn’t tell a man paying for your company that he looked like some old geezer.

Bruce didn’t even blink. “Forty-two,” he said easily. Then, with a half-smile that softened the line of his mouth, “Only my youngest is biological. I‘m a big advocate of adoption.”
He said it lightly, like a joke, but there was warmth under the humor; something steady and unashamed.

“Good for you, I guess,” Jason muttered, turning his attention back to the menu on the screen. His thumb hesitated on Anne with an E. Bright colors, old-fashioned fonts: a girl with red braids staring up at a sunlit sky. He knew it was lame. Too earnest, too gentle for the kind of man he was supposed to be. But something about it tugged at him.
It reminded him of the paperbacks he’d scavenged over the years; Austen, Brontë, the worlds of women writing women’s hearts.

Bruce’s voice cut softly into his thoughts. “Want to watch that?”
Jason’s hand stilled on the remote. He shrugged one shoulder, then shook his head quickly. “Nah.” He could already hear how it’d sound: a stupid cage fighter watching some flowery period drama about a lonely orphan. Pathetic.

“Didn’t think you’d be into girly shit,” he added, forcing a grin that didn’t quite make it to his eyes.
Bruce hummed softly, not rising to the bait. “You’d be surprised.”

Jason didn’t know what to do with that; the ease in Bruce’s tone, the lack of mockery. So he did what he always did when the air got too close.

He scrolled on, landing on a WWE Unreal documentary with John Cena. Now that, Jason thought, Bruce might actually appreciate. The rhythm, the technique, the showmanship… he imagined Bruce evaluating it silently, the way he did with fighters.

“Maybe this,” he said finally. “Seems more your speed.”
“Mine?” Bruce asked, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Jason didn’t look over. “Yeah. You know. Grown-up version of fight night.”
Bruce chuckled, low and warm. “If that’s what you want.”

Jason didn’t answer. He hit play. The opening credits rolled and the room filled with the sound of cheering, the roar of a crowd swallowing everything else. On the screen, fighters moved through blinding lights, bodies colliding in controlled chaos. Jason leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He told himself the noise helped; that it made it easier not to think. But he could still feel Bruce beside him: calm, present, the heat of him steady through the space between them.

Jason focused on the screen. A fighter bled from the eyebrow, red streaking down to his chin. A medic came in with a flashlight and gauze, lifting the man’s chin, holding up a finger for him to follow. The crowd was still howling; hungry, restless, like they could smell the blood and wanted more. Jason knew how those stares felt.

He watched the fighter’s pupils track the medic’s hand. A beat later, the guy shook his head like a wet dog and shoved the medic away, springing back into the ring.

Jason huffed, a quiet, disbelieving sound. “What a joke. Nobody with a concussion acts like that.”

Bruce made a low humming sound; agreement wrapped in amusement; the kind of noise a man made when he’d already come to the same conclusion.

Jason’s lip curled faintly. “They make it look brutal, but it’s not real.”
Bruce’s head tilted, his attention half on the TV, half on Jason. “You’ve got a good eye.”

Jason shrugged, still watching the flicker of bodies and light. “Everyone knows it: Wrestling’s theater. All the cues are there: the way they pull the kicks, the delay before they hit the mat. It’s all timing. Angles.” He lifted one shoulder in a loose, defensive motion. “They sell pain, but none of them bleeds right.”

Bruce’s gaze didn’t waver, he just studied Jason in the quiet, the light from the TV cutting blue across his face. “Doesn’t make it easy,” he said finally.

Jason’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Didn’t say it was easy.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the glow from the screen catching on the faint bruises still ghosting across his knuckles. “Just fake. Scripted hits, rehearsed falls. They know exactly when the bell rings, who wins, who gets to walk out on their own feet. Real fights aren’t like that.”

A flicker of something - pride? respect? - moved behind Bruce’s eyes. “No,” he said. “They’re not.”

Jason smirked faintly, a thin, brittle thing that carried too much history to be real humor. “Real fights don’t look good. They’re fast and ugly. Somebody always goes down too quick, and worst case, the other guy still leaves limping. Nobody walks out with perfect hair.”

There was a pause, full of the hum of the TV and the sound of distant rain against the windows. Then Bruce said, quietly, “You’d know.”

Jason turned his head just enough to meet his gaze. A smirk tugged at his mouth, automatic, a shield. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”

But the words landed heavier than he meant them to. His voice lingered a second too long in the stillness, and for a breath, he wished he hadn’t said anything at all. But the curiostity won out. “You ever fight? For real, I mean. Not charity boxing or some fancy dojo class.”

Bruce’s expression didn’t change, but something in his shoulders shifted; just a fraction, like a man stepping into familiar terrain. “A little,” he said.

Jason scoffed. “That’s a rich-guy answer.”

Bruce’s mouth curved. “A little more than a little, then. I trained in jujutsu first. Later … karate, Muay Thai, a few others.“

Jason turned his head fully now.

“I was small and shy. First grade, I got cornered after school. Took a black eye home and didn’t want to go back the next day.” He let that sit, then added with a tight, private half-smile, “My mother put me in classes to stop me coming home with new bruises.”

Jason pictured it: a kid, crisp uniform, face pink and raw, learning to turn panic into technique. It didn’t fit the image he had of Bruce Wayne, and that made Jason look longer. The air conditioner hummed. The city’s noise outside felt like static, the pause between two rounds.

“So you started because you got hit, and you stuck with it because… what? You liked to hit people instead?” Jason said, the barb half joke, half a test.

Bruce’s gaze flicked toward him, steady and faintly amused. “Jujutsu teaches leverage over strength. How to use another man’s force against him. It teaches you to read balance and timing instead of trying to overpower. I didn’t need to be taller than the kids mocking me. I just needed to be smarter.”

Jason huffed under his breath, the ghost of a grin. “Figures. You’d be the kid who turns a playground fight into a physics lesson.”
Bruce’s mouth lifted at one corner. “Maybe. But once I started, I didn’t want to stop. I was good at it. Better than anyone expected. The discipline fit me. I liked the precision, the quiet. Jujutsu’s about efficiency, not dominance. Every movement means something. Every mistake teaches you.”

Jason gave a skeptical snort. “You make it sound poetic.”
“It is,” Bruce said, tone soft but certain. “I never wanted to be violent. I just wanted to understand what scared me. If you know how to fight, you stop running from shadows. You face them.“

Jason leaned back against the couch arm, listening, half-shadowed by the flickering TV. The crowd on the screen roared again; pre-recorded, hollow noise.

“There’s something beautiful in getting every movement exactly right,“ Bruce continued. “No waste, no noise, just control and intent. That‘s something I really liked.“

“So after jujutsu,” Jason said, glancing sideways, “you just… collected belts like trophies?”
Bruce smiled faintly, a brief, knowing curve of his lips. “Something like that. My parents encouraged me to explore anything I cared about. I trained in other disciplines: karate, taekwondo. Later, after my parents died, muay thai, aikido, a little krav maga when I got older. I wanted to understand how each filled a gap the other left.”
He leaned back, thoughtful now. “By my twenties, I was competing internationally. I had years of practice, trained with different teachers, experienced different philosophies.“

Jason smirked faintly. “Of course you did. Rich guy flies around the world to fight people for fun.”

Bruce didn’t take the bait. His tone stayed even. “For growth,” he corrected quietly. “You learn a lot about people when you fight them: how they think, how they break, how they recover.”

Jason looked at him longer this time, the sarcasm fading like dust settling after a punch. “You still compete?”
“Rarely.” Bruce’s eyes softened. “These days I do it more for grounding than competition.”

Jason hummed under his breath, something between admiration and disbelief. “You really don’t do anything halfway, do you?”
Bruce glanced at him, smile barely there but unmistakably warm. “Neither do you.”

That earned the faintest twitch of a grin from Jason, quick and self-conscious. He looked away first, pretending to study the glare of the TV on the glass. “So how many black belts are we talking, exactly?”
“A couple.” Bruce’s tone was mild, but the small spark of amusement behind it was impossible to miss.

Jason turned back, squinting at him. “Come on, Wayne,” he said, voice dipping into mock complaint. “Don’t hold out on me.”
Bruce tilted his head, letting the beat stretch before giving in. “Five. Muay Thai was the last one I earned.”
Jason blinked once, his expression shifting; surprise first, then something closer to fascination. “Five?”
He let out a low whistle. “Man, you could probably K.O me in 10 seconds flat.“

Bruce raised an eyebrow but didn’t bother to answer. Black belts in five different diciplines. That wasn’t just impressive. It was almost unreal. The kind of thing you read in articles or see in documentaries about people who’ve built their entire lives around one craft.

Jason tried to imagine the years behind that number: the hours, the bruises, the drills until muscle and mind blurred into one. It wasn’t about wealth or access; no amount of money could buy that kind of precision, that drive, that out of this world talent.

That took devotion. The kind that came from inside, from something you couldn’t fake or inherit.

And Bruce… he wore it so quietly. Like it was just another part of him. No bragging, no ego, just quiet certainty. Jason found that harder to look away from than he wanted to admit.

“What’s that even look like?” Jason asked after a pause. “Five black belts. Do you just wake up one morning and think, yeah, I’ve mastered gravity, might as well move on to the next one?”
Bruce’s smile deepened, faint but genuine. “It looks like a lot of hours on the mat, a lot of bruises, and a few broken bones. Mostly, it looks like patience.”

Jason’s brows drew together, a faint crease forming between them. Patience. He wasn’t sure he’d ever had that; not the luxury of time, not the space to make mistakes and learn from them. For him, fighting had always been survival

After a few seconds, he smirked, covering the ache behind the thought. “Bet you’ve got some crazy moves up your sleeve.”
Bruce’s eyes glinted faintly. “Some.”

Jason’s grin grew, reckless and young for a moment. “Teach me one. Something real cool.“

Bruce looked at him for a long second, head tilted slightly as though weighing the request. There was something almost fond in his expression now; something warm and patient, the kind of look Jason wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of.

“Now?“ his voice threaded with that soft humor that Jason was beginning to recognize as teasing.

Jason met his gaze, defiant in the way only someone secretly eager could be. “Yeah. Come on. Don’t act like you don’t want to show off a little.”
That earned a low, genuine chuckle. “I don’t need to show off.”

For a heartbeat, Jason thought he’d refuse. That this would be the moment Bruce pulled back, set another careful line between them. But instead, Bruce rose from the armchair in one fluid, unhurried motion. It wasn’t dominance, not even display; it was control. Precision wrapped in calm.

Jason watched him stand, eyes following the movement like he couldn’t quite help it. The way Bruce’s balance shifted - quiet, grounded - wasn’t something you could fake. Every inch of him knew where it was supposed to be.

Bruce moved to the open space in front of the couch and turned, hands loose at his sides. The light from the TV cut across his shoulders, painting him in soft flashes of blue and white.
Then, voice low but steady, he said, “Stand up.”

Jason stood, palms rubbing against his thighs like he was shaking off the nerves. He wasn’t scared exactly, just keyed up; exited.

“Relax your stance,” Bruce said softly, almost teasing again, but before Jason could make the first move, Bruce shifted. It wasn’t a step, not an obvious motion; it was a pivot of his hips, a subtle adjustment of his weight, and a brush of his hands along Jason’s arms. He moved closer, the shift almost imperceptible, and for a second Jason thought nothing had happened - until his wrist was caught.

The next move was invisible until it was too late. Jason’s balance vanished. His knees bent instinctively to catch himself, but Bruce was already there, redirecting him, turning his own momentum against him.

In one breath, Jason was on his feet; in the next, his back was pressed against Bruce’s chest, his arm folded harmlessly but completely trapped. His shoulder joint was locked in a way that felt impossible; firm enough that Jason couldn’t move without pain, but so carefully controlled it didn’t actually hurt.

At the same instant, Bruce’s other arm slid along Jason’s back, fingertips finding precise points on his torso to control balance. Jason felt his feet shift instinctively, trying to find leverage, but Bruce had already adjusted his own stance, countering every micro-movement with minimal effort.
“Wait - what…” Jason began, heart racing, and realized he couldn’t move freely.

He could feel Bruce’s breath against the side of his neck, calm and steady. “See?” Bruce murmured, his voice near his ear. “All timing. You don’t overpower; just wait until they give you the opening.”

Jason tried to shift his weight, test the hold, but every motion he made just brought him tighter into it. Bruce had predicted every escape before Jason even thought of it.

“How…” Jason started, the question breaking out half-laugh, half-awe.

Bruce’s reply was a quiet hum. “Timing,” Bruce murmured, voice calm and amused. “Balance. Every reaction you make is already anticipated.”

Jason struggled again, trying to test the hold again, but it was no use. His elbows, shoulders, and even his ribs - bruised from weeks of fights - were positioned so he could barely shift without giving Bruce leverage. Every instinct in Jason told him to fight harder, but Bruce’s technique nullified strength. Not brute force, but physics, leverage, and perfect placement.
Jason’s eyes widened. Bruce didn’t even touched him hard… and he couldn‘t break free.

“You’re fast, strong,” Bruce said, his voice low, eyes gleaming with faint amusement. “But technique beats power. Timing beats impulse. Awareness beats agression. You’re good, Jason… but you’re still reacting.”

Jason’s pulse jumped; not just from being immobilized, but from the way Bruce’s chest was almost brushing his, the control in his hands, the subtle warmth of proximity. He could feel the difference immediately: Bruce wasn’t just stronger or faster; he was perfectly precise. Every weight shift, every small adjustment of the grip was calculated, effortless, flawless.

Jason realized, with a quick flash of awareness, that Bruce was being careful. His touch against Jasons half-healed ribs was steady but never pressing where it would hurt. The hold terrifyingly effective, yet gentle enough to respect his bruises.

Jason swallowed hard, admiration flooding through him. He’d fought his whole life relying on speed, endurance, raw aggression and here, in front of him, was a man who could neutralize all of that without a single strike, without forceful intimidation. It was insane.

Bruce tilted his head, just enough to catch the fascination in Jason’s eyes. “And the more you practice,” he added softly, “the less you rely on strength. It‘s all technique and the other person moves exactly where you want them.“

Jason’s chest rose and fell faster, not just from the hold, but from the weight of that calm, confident, impossibly skilled presence. He wanted to move, wanted to resist, but a part of him didn’t. A part of him liked the way Bruce’s hands guided him, how precise, how controlled, how completely unshakable he was.

For a moment, they stayed locked like that: standing, close, the noise of the wrestling documentation still running in the background. Jason could feel Bruce’s energy, his patience, his teasing smugness and he realized, with a jolt, that he’d never felt anything like this before.

Jason’s chest was still heaving from the hold, his pulse thrumming in his ears, but something inside him snapped. The closeness, the warmth, the feel of Bruce’s hands guiding him so precisely. He turned and leaned in the second Bruce losened the hold, almost instinctively, pressing his lips to Bruce’s.

The contact was soft at first, a testing brush, but Bruce responded immediately. Not stiffly, not pulling away, but matching him, letting the kiss linger just long enough to make Jason’s head spin. He could feel the strength in Bruce beneath the calm, the subtle control even in their closeness. Bruce wasn’t overpowering him, wasn’t dominating the kiss, he was guiding, keeping it balanced.

Jason’s heart leapt. His own hands moved to Bruce’s chest almost unconsciously, gripping lightly, wanting more, daring more. But before it could deepen, Bruce shifted slightly, just enough to break the kiss with a slow, deliberate pullback.

“Hmm,” Bruce murmured, voice low, carrying a quiet amusement that made Jason’s stomach tighten. “That,” he said, almost lazily, “is what control looks like.”

Jason’s breath caught; he wasn’t sure if Bruce meant the hold or the kiss. Maybe both. Bruce took a small step back, the motion smooth, composed. His voice was calm again, but still the glint of amusement threaded through it.

Bruce’s brow lifted, his expression unreadable except for the faint trace of a smile. “I’m saying you rely on momentum. You move before you think. You let instinct drive before you decide where you actually want to go.”

Jason tilted his head, defiance sparking again; the same kind that made Bruce smile instead of scold. “And you never do?”
Bruce’s smile deepened, small but dangerous. “I didn’t say that.”

For a second they just stood there, studying each other. Not student and teacher, not a client and his whore; just two men testing the space between trust and temptation.

Jason’s chest was still rising fast, his pulse wild against the quiet.
Bruce didn’t move farther away, though; he just watched, gaze steady, thoughtful.

Jason broke the silence first, a crooked grin pulling at his lips. “That was one hell of a lesson.”

Bruce’s answer came after a beat, calm, easy, and threaded with quiet amusement. “If you liked that,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting, “we’ll have plenty of fun the next few days. I’ll show you how to win your next fight, kid.”

Jason snorted softly at the word kid, though his grin lingered. “Yeah,” he said, voice low, almost rough. “Guess I’m gonna hold you to that.”

Bruce’s answering smile was small but unmistakable: a look that promised more lessons, more challenges, and something neither of them was quite ready to name.

Chapter Text

The city outside was still half-asleep, a pale mist softening the skyline into muted blocks of slate and pearl. Inside, the penthouse held that held-breath quiet - the gentle hush of good insulation and an expensive HVAC system exhaling in even measures.

Bruce stepped out of the en-suite with the economy of someone who had moved through years of habit. His hair was still damp; a towel hung over one shoulder. He wasn’t dressed to impress: a plain, tight black long-sleeve that outlined the planes of his torso, loose training pants. But there was an authority in the way he filled the doorway. No posturing, no show. Just a calm that had been worked into him so thoroughly it might as well be bone.

Jason had been half-awake for a while, drifting in that gray space between vigilance and sleep. He’d slept a little deeper than most nights.

Jason sat up when Bruce appeared, the sheet slipping from his shoulders. He rubbed at his eyes, the motion slow.

“Good morning, Jason.” Bruce’s voice was low but even, more rhythm than greeting. “Get ready for training. I’ll make breakfast. The morning’s young. We’re going to get a good head start.”
Jason nodded, pushing the sheet away. The air hit his bare shoulders, cool and sharp enough to remind him of every bruise he’d collected over the last weeks.

He stretched a little, winced when the pain under his ribs flickered like lightning under the skin. It faded just as quickly, leaving behind the dull throb he’d learned to move around.

He shuffled toward the bathroom, one hand absently pressing against his side. The mirror caught his reflection briefly - the bruises already yellowing at the edges, his eyes still half-shadowed with sleep - before the steam blurred everything out.

The shower was quick, functional. Hot water over sore muscles, mint toothpaste cutting through the taste of sleep, the routine comfort of soap and clean skin. He dressed in the second pair of training pants he‘d packed.

Jason rummored through his duffel, looking for a shirt, that wasn‘t to smelly yet. He made a mental note to ask Bruce later if he could run a load - or, if that was too much, maybe duck out to a laundromat nearby.

When he came out, the air smelled faintly of banana and cinnamon. Bruce was already in the kitchen, sleeves pushed to his elbows, setting two bowls on the table. Steam rose in gentle curls from each.
Jason hesitated in the doorway for a second before sitting down. The oatmeal looked… good.

“Oats with banana, walnuts, pumpkin seeds, chia, flax,” Bruce said, sliding one bowl toward him. “Keeps blood sugar steadier than those protein powders you had at Cobblepott’s.”
Jason gave a short huff, halfway between disbelief and amusement.

Still he took a cautious spoonful. The oatmeal was warm and dense, the banana soft against the crunch of the nuts. A slow, earthy sweetness instead of the artificial kind. It hit his stomach like a steadying hand.
“Seeds and nuts for calcium,” Bruce continued, the words coming out measured, almost professorial. “Magnesium for recovery. Fiber for blood flow. The oats stabilize glucose, the fat slows the spike. Keeps your energy constant.“

Jason swallowed, a little embarrassed at how quickly the bowl was emptying.

“It‘s easy to make. Mix it the night before, and it’s ready by morning,“ Bruce explained. “You can eat it hot or cold, top it with all kinds of seeds, fruit or nuts.“

Jason looked up. There was something grounding about the simplicity of it all: food, sleep, training. No games. No manipulation. Just routine. “I could get used to this.”

Bruce met his eyes briefly, then glanced at his bowl. “That’s the idea,” he said. Another spoonful, calm, methodical. “Your body believes what you repeat. Let’s teach it good things.”

When they finished, Bruce slid both bowl in the dishwasher, and Jason followed him into the hall without needing to be told. The elevator hummed as it slid down; the city blurred past in reflected strips of glass and concrete.

Jason kept his hands in the hoodie pocket he’d worn the last couple days, thumbs finding the old cracked screen of his phone like a habit. He told himself he’d text his mother after training. It had been a couple days. She didn’t call when she was using, and she didn’t call when she was trying not to. Silence meant nothing. Silence meant everything. Maybe he’d ask Bruce later; today, or tomorrow; if he could go see her.

The doors parted on filtered air and a faint trace of eucalyptus. The communal gym sat in careful symmetry, just like the day before: polished chrome, orderly racks, mats that looked new enough to squeak underfoot. The light was soft and indirect, the kind interior designers called “wellness”. A far cry from the rattle-boned warehouses Jason knew, where duct tape kept the corners down and the floor remembered everyone who’d bled on it.

Bruce tossed Jason a fresh water bottle and an elastic wrap. “For your ribs,” he said. “Support without compression. You need feedback for what we’ll be doing today.”

Jason nodded, pulling his hoodie off and tossing it onto the bench. His skin prickled against the cool air. He wrapped himself carefully, watching how the fabric stretched under his fingers. Tight enough to stabilize, loose enough not to hurt.

Bruce watched, arms loosely folded. Not hovering. Not indifferent. A kind of attentive neutrality that made room for competence. When Jason tucked the end and tested a breath, Bruce gave a single, satisfied nod.

He tipped his chin toward the mat. “Warm up. Ten minutes.”
Jason moved. Band walks, shoulder cars, slow hip hinges, the sequence already living in his body from the last few days.

He kept his breath measured, in through the nose, out through parted lips; let the rhythm smooth the small jerks out of his movements. The room’s quiet sharpened around him: the soft tick of a wall clock, the faint whisper of the HVAC, the rubber hush of the mat beneath his feet.

When the timer on Bruce’s watch buzzed, he stepped onto the mat beside him, easy and exact, as if readiness were simply his default state.
Jason rolled his shoulders once more, shook out his hands, and met his eyes.

They started slow: stance work and balance drills that felt almost insulting until Jason noticed how quickly they punished laziness. Bruce circled him once, gaze mapping angles, not judgments. “You keep your center too high,” he said, tone calm, precise. “Every punch you throw, you leave an opening in your ribs. I could break your balance with a breath.”

Jason smirked. “Yeah? You sure about that?”
Bruce didn’t answer. He stepped in, fingertip brushing Jason’s wrist, hips turning a fraction;nothing theatrical. The floor slid under Jason an inch, just enough for his center to wobble and his knee to whisper a warning before he caught it. His eyes narrowed.
Bruce’s mouth ticked. “That’s what I mean.”

Jason exhaled through his nose, a touch of frustration leaking through his focus. “You’ve gotta teach me that one.”

“I am,” Bruce said, moving behind him. His voice went low and even, the register that doesn’t push, just guides. Two fingers at Jason’s scapula, a palm light at the floating ribs, a nudge at the heel. Not corrections so much as invitations, every touch carrying intention. The smallest shifts rearranged everything: suddenly his feet printed tripod instead of panic; his hips found the line; his shoulder stopped leaking power.

Minutes blurred into measures. Weight transfer drills, then guard work at half-speed, then the same patterns with a metronome’s insistence: feel it clean, then feel it quick. After an hour Jason’s shirt clung to him, sweat ribboning from hairline to jaw, forearms buzzing. Bruce had the faint sheen of effort at his temples and otherwise looked like a man on his first cup of coffee.

When Jason’s form began to fray, tiny tells only a practiced eye would catch, a drifting elbow, a heel that forgot its anchor, Bruce lifted a hand. “Break,” he said. “Sixty seconds.” A bottle appeared in Jason’s palm without discussion. “Walk, don’t sit.”
Jason paced the long edge of the mat, rolling his shoulders while the city’s pale light threw quiet bars across the floor.

He drank; the first swallow felt almost too cold against his throat, a clean shock that reset his breathing.

“Again,” Bruce said when the minute slid by.
They went harder. Not reckless; just tighter, faster, every rep shaved of slack. Pressure without panic. Enough heat to keep Jason’s nerves bright without tipping him into scramble.

“You’re overcommitting,” Bruce observed, circling with that unhurried predator calm. His voice stayed even, edged with challenge. “You throw your center of gravity away every time you strike.”
Jason scowled. “Yeah, well, maybe that’s because someone keeps sweeping my legs out every time I blink.”

Bruce’s mouth ticked, approval, amusement, both. “Then stop blinking.”

Jason lunged, this time already hunting the counter. Bruce moved a heartbeat earlier than sight: clean geometry: pivot, redirection, balance. The floor met Jason’s shoulder before his brain caught up. He hit, rolled, and came up laughing on a breath that burned. Damn five-time black belt. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Bruce stepped back and offered a hand. “You’re improving,” he said simply. “You lasted longer.”

Jason took it, let himself be hauled up. The grip was steady but unforced; not a display of strength so much as a transfer of balance, a reminder of where the ground actually was.

They went again. And again. Rounds blurred: not just sweat and impact, but rhythm. Jason’s instincts sharpened, the raw speed slowing into something deliberate. Reflex became reading; flinch became choice. By the time Bruce lifted a palm for a break, Jason’s shirt clung to him in dark maps, breath sawing, hands braced on his knees while the room pulsed at the edges.

Bruce handed him water, once again. “You’re learning to breathe,” he said. “That’s half the fight.”
Jason drank deep, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You make it sound like meditation.”
“It is.” The faint smile returned, brief, grounding. “Controlled movement under pressure: that’s all fighting really is.”

Jason let his spine find the wall, shoulders settling one vertebra at a time as he slid down. The quiet between them had changed; not awkward, not charged, just aware. The kind of silence earned by work. Bruce crouched beside him, towel slung over one shoulder, forearms resting loosely on his thighs.

“You’re improving faster than I expected,” he said after a beat. “You adapt well.”
Jason glanced sideways, breath still heavy. “Guess I had a good teacher.”
Bruce didn’t answer. His eyes slid to Jason - steady, assessing - and, unexpectedly, softer. Outside, sunlight caught on the window glass, washing the mat in pale gold.

Jason was drenched in sweat, lungs still burning from the sparring session. His ribs ached faintly from Bruce’s careful but relentless pressure, his muscles humming with fatigue, when from next to him, his phone vibrated softly beneath the heap of hus hoodie.

He reached into the crumpled hoodie on the bench and fished it out. The cracked screen stuttered awake; spiderweb glare slicing through his reflection - and then the text sat there, blunt as a fist.

Cobblepott: Training fight. 5 PM. Hall. You clear it with Wayne or I call him myself.
His pulse lurched once and then went heavy, like his heart had added weight plates without warning.
He stared long enough to hope the words might blink into a different shape. They didn’t.

Cobblepott never pulled a him mid-booking. It was bad for his reputation, worse for business. If Cobblepott was messaging now, it meant one of two things: he was bored, or he was losing patience.

Jason’s thumb hovered over the screen, and for a split second, he thought about ignoring it. Pretending it never came through. But Cobblepott didn’t tolerate silence. Not from him.

He swallowed. The ghost of Bruce’s earlier hold still lived in his shoulder; clean leverage echoing through tissue. He cleared his throat. “Hey,” he said, voice rougher than he meant.

Bruce glanced up from adjusting the edge of his sleeve, attention snapping over like a lens finding focus. “Something wrong?”
Jason worked his mouth into a half-smile that felt like it belonged to someone else. “Nah. Just - uh…” He coughed, aimed for breezy and missed. “I… got a training fight lined up. Cobblepott wants me there at five today.” He showed a little teeth; eager, he hoped, not cornered. “Figured I should check with you first. Make sure it’s… okay.“

A small shift crossed Bruce’s face, almost nothing: his eyes narrowing a fraction, the line of his jaw settling. Not suspicion so much as thought. “You want to go?”

Jason shrugged, the movement tight where it should’ve been loose. “Yeah… I mean… sure. It’s good training, right? Practice for the real thing.” He jammed the phone back into hoodies pocked like that could make the message less real.

“You sure, kid?“ Bruce asked.
Jason felt the air tighten, and his grin faltered a little. “It’s nothing big. Just part of the deal. I can handle it.”

“Part of the deal,” Bruce repeated, slowly.
“Yeah.” Jason shifted his weight, trying for swagger. “You know how it is. Gotta show up, throw some punches, make the boss happy.”

Bruce didn’t answer. The quiet he left wasn’t cold; it was dense, as if he’d set the silence down between them on purpose to see what it weighed.

Something in Jason’s throat tightened. The mask snagged on a frayed edge and his voice rasped before he could sand it smooth. He blew out a breath, eyes skittering off Bruce’s and finding the safe neutrality of the floor. “Please don’t make this a thing, okay?” The words slipped quick, unplanned, a tell. “You can… you can come watch if you want. Just … just don’t tell him no. It’ll only make it worse.”
That last part slipped out before he could stop it.

Bruce’s jaw flexed, just barely. “Worse how?”
Jason froze, realizing what he’d admitted. His stomach dropped.
“I just meant…” he started, the words tripping over themselves. “It’s just - if I don’t show, he’ll…” He cut himself off. His throat felt too tight to finish the lie. But the truth would be worse.

Jason looked up, finally meeting Bruces eyes again. There was no judgment there; only quiet understanding, dangerous in its gentleness.

Jason’s pulse jumped. The quiet was heavy, almost as if Bruce were weighing not just the fight, but the stakes behind it; the debts, the threats, everything Jason wasn’t even saying.

So Jason leaned in a little, instinctively trying to fill the space, to turn the moment back into something familiar: transactional, simple, safe. His voice came out rougher than he wanted. “I can… make it worth your while if you want to come watch. During the fight, and after.”
Bruce’s eyes softened immediately, the tension in his shoulders dissolving into something quieter. He folded his hands, elbows braced on his knees, voice steady. “You know I don’t need that,” he said, low, deliberate.

Jason’s chest tightened. He nodded once, looking down, pretending to check the wrap at his ribs, though his hands stayed still.
“So…” he said after a beat, voice quieter now, stripped of the earlier bravado. “You’re saying… I can go?”

“I’m not going to stop you,” Bruce replied. His tone didn’t shift, didn’t waver. It carried a weight that wasn’t permission so much as promise. “But I’ll be there.”

Jason’s breath hitched. Relief flooded through him first - cool and immediate - but underneath it something hotter bloomed, something close to disbelief. He let out a small laugh that wasn’t really laughter, more the body’s way of releasing tension. “Yeah? You’re coming?”

Bruce leaned back, uncrossing his arms, gaze steady. The calm in his voice was layered; measured authority with an undercurrent of quiet intent. “If you’re in that ring, I’ll be there.”

Jason swallowed hard. There was something in Bruce’s tone: not command, not even protection, exactly. Just… certainty. Like Bruce had already decided to stand between him and whatever waited at five o’clock.

Chapter Text

The training hall sat behind a row of abandoned storage units on the East End. If was one of those buildings that looked condemned from the outside but somehow still pulsed with life after dark.

The brick was flaking, the windows filmed with grime, and a crooked floodlight hummed over the doorway, casting a sickly cone of yellow onto the wet concrete. The sign above was a ghost of white paint and missing letters: Cobblepott‘s Athletic Club.

Bruce parked the car beside a stack of rusted oil drums. The sound of faint music, bass-heavy, unpolished, more vibration than melody, leaked from inside. It wasn’t the first warehouse he’d walked into, but it was the first where he could feel rot in the bones of the place. The kind of decay that didn’t come from time but from people.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of sweat, metal, and cheap disinfectant. A few overhead lights buzzed, turning the haze into pale streaks. The hall was smaller than the fight arena from a couple nights ago. It was more intimate, more dangerous in its closeness, none of that new-money finesse.

It was cold, damp, and claustrophobic in a way Bruce’s own training spaces never were. The walls were patched with old posters and duct-taped padding, the ring little more than a sagging square of ropes and scuffed mats.

Bruce walked in first, his stride steady, contained. He took in the space the way a man trained to assess threats did: the exits, the men lounging near them, the ones who were pretending not to watch him. He was used to fight gyms, even brutal ones, but this place had a different pulse. It wasn’t built for athletes; it was built for aggression and survival.

Jason trailed a step behind, hood up, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The shift in him was almost imperceptible unless you knew what to look for: his shoulders had drawn tighter, chin dipping low, as if bracing for impact.

Cobblepott was already there, standing near the center with that smug, oily grin that made his cheeks shine under the fluorescent lights. His coat was too fine for the place, fur-collared, mismatched with the sweat-stained walls. His fingers glittered with rings that had never seen a real fight. The man’s cologne was thick enough to sting, barely masking the sour edge of tobacco. His grin was the kind that pretended at warmth while counting favors in the background.

“Well, well, well,” Cobblepott drawled, spreading his arms. “Mr. Wayne, back again. Didn’t think a man of your sort would waste daylight down here. The boy giving you your money’s worth?”

Bruce nodded. “He told me, he had a training fight.”

Cobblepott’s grin widened. “That he does. That he does.” His gaze cut toward Jason, traveling the length of him like a man appraising property. “Didn’t expect you to be the type to stick around for the show, though.“

Jason flinched. Bruce’s expression didn’t change, but something in the air around him sharpened.
“Where can I sit?” he asked simply.

Cobblepott laughed, as if delighted by his composure. “Right this way, Mr. Wayne. Front row, just for you.”

He waved a pudgy hand, and one of his men, a shady guy with a shaved head and a scar over his lip, dragged a folding chair to the side of the ring. The legs scraped over concrete, shrill and unpleasant.

Bruce sat. His posture stayed loose, unbothered, but his eyes tracked everything: the men lounging near the ropes, the half-broken punching bags duct-taped together. His gaze flicked to Jason, who‘d already shed his hoodie and was wrapping his hands in the corner.

One of Cobblepott’s trainers, a thickset man with faded tattoos crawling up his neck, barked something at him, voice sharp and crude. Jason obeyed instantly, forcing his body through a brutal warm-up that looked more like punishment than preparation.
They were burning his energy before the bell even rang.

Bruce’s gaze tracked every movement: the way Jason’s form was good but the guidance wrong. His strikes were clean, but the rhythm forced; the trainer’s “corrections” broke flow instead of building it. The man shoved him between drills, smacked the back of his head once when Jason hesitated. Bruce’s jaw tightened just slightly.

Cobblepott plopped into the seat beside Bruce, his rings clinking as he folded his hands over his belly.

“He’s a good earner, you know,” he said conversationally. “Got a mouth on him sometimes, but he’s tough. Took him a while to learn when to stop fighting me, but I fixed that.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Fixed?”
Cobblepott’s grin widened. “Some dogs only learn when you tug the leash.”

Bruce’s eyes shifted to him. Calm. Level. The kind of look that made men twice Cobblepott’s size rethink their tone. But Cobblepott just laughed, mistaking composure for permission.

“Gotta keep the kid sharp,” Cobblepott said, smirking as if explaining good business. “He’s got talent, learns quick when he’s got the right motivation, but he’s got that soft look sometimes. I tell him, you wanna survive, you gotta bleed for it.”

Bruce didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed on Jason, on the bruise under his ribs that hadn’t fully healed, on the way his trainer barked and grabbed his chin to correct his guard, on the faint tremor in Jason’s arm from overwork.

Cobblepott lightned another cigar with a small flourish.
“We’ve got a special one for your boy today. Thought I’d make it interesting.” He gestured toward the far end of the room.
The door there opened and the man stepping through was enormous: heavy shoulders, arms like cables, a solid thirty pounds heavier than Jason at least. His smile was all teeth.

Cobblepott’s grin turned slick. “Figured I’d pick someone closer to your weight class, Wayne. Since you’ve been, ah, training with the boy. Let’s see if some of your finesse rubbed off, yeah?”

The crowd, a handful of Cobblepott’s men, laughed. Bruce didn’t. His jaw flexed, but he said nothing. His hands folded loosely in his lap, though the knuckles whitened.

The bell rung and from his place ringside Bruce could already see it all. Jason looked tense and alert. There was nothing of the relaxed readiness Bruce was trying to teach him that morning, but a wired kind of focus, brittle around the edges. He didn’t move at first. The big man across from him - late twenties, maybe early thirties, thick arms, tattooed chest, nose crooked from too many breaks - grinned with the kind of confidence that came from hurting people for sport.

The first exchange was almost even. Jason ducked low and quick. His reflexes were clean. He was fast and he drove a jab into the man’s ribs. It connected, enough to make the bigger man grunt. But when the return swing came, it was like being hit by a moving wall. Jason’s arm blocked most of it, but the shock rattled him to the bone.

Cobblepott chuckled beside Bruce. “That one’s a natural-born scrapper. Give him a brick wall, he’ll try to fight it ‘til it breaks.”

Bruce didn’t answer. His eyes tracked Jason’s movement: the tight control, the small flinches when the pain under his ribs bit through. The kid was hurting, already worn down before he’d even really started.

The men in Jason’s corner barked orders. None of it helpful.
“Come on, you little runt!”
“Move your feet!”
“Hit him harder!”
It wasn’t strategy; it was noise. The kind that made you tense instead of focus.

Jason found rhythm anyway, circling, dodging. He used the ropes, slipped around the bigger man, got in another clean shot to the jaw. For a moment, the crowd hummed with surprise.

Then the bigger fighter got angry. The hit came too fast for Jason to dodge. A hook. Hard and low. It slammed into his side. Jason folded but didn’t fall. Instincts kicked in, muscle memory and sheer stubbornness. He swung back, caught the man on the chin. For a second, the world tilted but Jason was still in it.

Still Cobblepott’s fighter wasn’t some back-alley amateur. He waited for the opening, and when Jason came in again with a low hook toward the ribs, the man pivoted and drove an elbow into Jason’s guard. The sound was dull, meat and bone. Jason staggered.

He circled, eyes sharp despite the hit. He fainted right, landed a clean knee to the midsection, enough to make the bigger man grunt and drop guard. For a moment, the small crowd around shifted, sensing the possibility. Jason pressed forward, body moving like memory and Bruce could see the precision now, the pieces of training beginning to thread together.

Then the man caught him. It was one clean counter, a right hook that came from nowhere, a move built on reach and weight. Jason’s head snapped sideways, his feet slid out from under him. He hit the mat hard, rolled once, and pushed to his knees before the count even started.

“Get up, kid,” one of Cobblepott’s men barked from the corner. Jason did.

The air grew thicker. Shouts, laughter, the sharp smell of sweat and cheap liquor. Jason took another hit, this one to the side of his face. His head snapped back, a burst of red across his cheek. He staggered but didn’t go down. He blinked hard, teeth bared in something that looked halfway between a grin and a snarl.

The bell clanged and Jason half-tumbled, half-walked to his corner. He dropped onto the narrow stool, gloves resting on his knees, chest rising in ragged pulls. Someone shoved a water bottle into his hands and Jason tipped it up too fast, the water spilling down his neck, mixing with sweat and blood. The shock of cold jolted him awake for half a heartbeat.

His trainer loomed over him, voice cutting through the din. “Keep your damn hands up,” the man snapped. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint our special guest, huh?” He jerked his chin toward Bruce. Jason only nodded once, jaw tight, trying to force air back into his lungs before the bell sounded again.

Jason led with a jab, another, then a low kick meant to test distance. For a moment he found rhythm: pivot, counter, duck, but the other fighter absorbed it like stone. He was heavier, stronger, and each time Jason connected, the return hit landed twice as hard.

From his seat, Bruce’s jaw flexed. The technique was still there: the clean lines, the good instincts, but exhaustion had started to blur the edges. He could see it in the tremor that ran through Jason’s left leg when he pivoted, the split-second delay between decision and motion. He knew that kind of fatigue. It didn’t show until it was too late to correct.

Jason came in again, fists tight, chin tucked. The larger man waited, patient, then struck. A right hook, brutal and precise, split the skin just beneath Jason’s eye. Blood welled instantly, a dark streak down his cheek. Jason flinched back, one glove lifting to check the damage, but the other fighter didn’t pause. He followed through with a body blow, then another to the shoulder, each one driving Jason back until his spine hit the ropes.

Bruce’s seat scraped across the floor as he stood. Cobblepott’s smirk widened, as if he’d been waiting for that. “Easy, Mr. Wayne. It’s all part of the learning curve.”

Jason tried to rally. He threw a jab but it looked weak abd desperate and he took another hit for it. The cut over his cheekbone leaked thin lines of blood down his jaw. He blinked through it, teeth clenched. He swung again but missed.

The larger man planted a fist in Jason’s stomach. The sound tore through the room. Jason folded, air leaving his lungs in a broken gasp.

Bruce was already moving. Cobblepott lifted a hand lazily, like a man asking for calm. “Relax, Wayne,” he drawled. “He’s fine. Likes it rough.“

Jason wasn’t fine. He pushed up on his elbows, blinked once, then twice. His hand came away slick when he wiped at his cheek. The gash ran deep, bleeding freely.

Jason kneeled on the mat, breathing hard, vision flickering between Bruce and the men in his corner. The blood dripped down his chin, and still, Jason tried to stand. The bell clanged again, mercy more than timing.

The trainer didn’t move to help him. Just yelled for him to get up, voice full of irritation, not worry. Jason pushed off the mat on shaking arms.

Bruce’s voice cut through everything.
“Stay down, Jason.”
The words weren‘t loud, but they stopped the room cold. Bruce stepped past the ropes before Cobblepott could object, his coat brushing the rough canvas.

He knelt beside Jason, one hand hovering before it made contact, light, almost clinical, searching for fractures above his cheek bone.

Jason breathed hard, but he didn’t pull away. “M’fine,” he muttered, though his voice rasped through pain.

Bruce ignored the lie. He tilted Jason’s chin carefully, the pads of his fingers sure but gentle. The gash beneath Jason’s eye had opened wider now, raw, angry, bleeding down to his jaw.

Cobblepott blinked, then grinned slow, deliberate, a flash of gold tooth behind lips too thin for the shape of his face. “Now, now, Wayne,” he drawled, dragging the words like syrup. “We still got one round left. Can’t cut it short just because your pet’s leaking a little.”

Jason’s head jerked up at that. “I can… I can finish,” he rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove. His voice was raw, threaded through with exhaustion and pride, but steady enough to fool anyone who wasn’t looking closely.

“Fight’s over,” Bruce said, voice low but firm. “You need stitches.“

Jason froze for half a second, something flickering across his face. Maybe embarrassment, defintly resistance, maybe fear, before he shoved it down and straightened. “It’s fine,” he muttered, forcing air through his teeth. “Seriously, it’s nothing. I’ll just … I can just glue it.”

“You’re not gluing your face,” Bruce said, keeping his voice steady for Jason’s sake, but the incredulous edge still crept in. “We’re going to urgent care.”

That stopped Jason cold. The panic was immediate, bright behind Jasons eyes. “No,” he said quickly, trying to get rid of Bruces hand around his wrist. Bruce let him. “I can’t … I don’t have insurance, Bruce.”

Bruce’s eyes softened.
“I’ll take care of the cost,“ he offered but Jason just scooted back, shaking his head sharp and immediate.

“No,” he muttered, voice rough and quick. “No, I’m not … I’m not takin’ that. That’s …” He swallowed, jaw tightening. “That’s too much.”

Bruce didn’t interrupt but Jason rushed to fill the silence anyway, words tripping over themselves now. “That’s … that’s like … you don’t just … people don’t just do that.” His eyes flicked up then, sharp and almost angry. “I ain’t gonna owe you like that.”

Bruce felt something in his chest pull tight.
For a second, he considered pushing; explaining, insisting, overriding the logic Jason had built to survive. But he could see it clearly now: the exhaustion, the edge under Jason’s skin, the way even sitting here was costing him more than he’d admit.

Urgent care would mean bright lights. Questions and Paperwork. Waiting rooms. Strangers eyes on him. Just more and more pressure.

Bruce exhaled quietly, recalibrating. When he spoke again, his tone hadn’t changed, still calm, still patient, but something underneath it settled deeper. More certain. Less something Jason could argue against. “I know somewhere we can get you stitched up and checked,” he said. “It won’t cost anything.”

Jason didn’t answer. His throat worked once, twice, like he was trying to swallow something that wouldn‘t go down.

Cobblepott’s laugh split the space, loud and sharp. “You got a guy for everything, don’t you, Wayne?” he sneered, stepping closer, his cologne sour beneath the thick smell of sweat and old dust. “Take him for his little checkup. He’s yours ’til your twelve are up, remember?” His grin widened, vile and knowing. “Just don’t let him bleed on the seats, though. Be a shame to ruin that pretty car of yours.”

Bruce didn’t rise to it. He leaned close enough to Jason that the words barely carried beyond them. “Come on,” he said quietly. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Jason’s eyes flicked up to his, searching. Then he nodded, defeated, jaw tight.

Bruce’s hand settled against his bare shoulder as they stepped down from the ring. The touch was light, steady, guiding rather than leading. Jason’s steps were uneven, but he kept his head high, the exhaustion masked under muscle memory and pride.

Behind them, Cobblepott’s corner watched like jackals at the edge of a campfire: smirks, sideways whispers, bared teeth.
Cobblepott stayed at the edge of the ring, cigar smoke curling around his grin, a satisfied glint in his eye like he’d just won a game none of them had agreed to play.

Chapter Text

Outside, the air hit them cold. Evening had settled hard and fast, the horizon washed in that brief orange blaze before the light thinned to gray. The city hummed faintly around the warehouse. Distant engines, the hiss of passing tires on wet asphalt.

At the car, Jason hesitated. He had one hand braced on the open door, his reflection ghosted in the dark glass. He looked down at the upholstery, pale, immaculate leather, and retracted his hand like he’d almost touched a painting. “I’m good,” he muttered, the words slurring at the edges. “I’ll… stand a second.” His fingers hovered near the wound like he could somehow will it closed.

“You’ll sit,” Bruce said, gentle but immovable. Bruce exhaled softly through his nose, then walked to the back of the car. The trunk lifted on a muted hydraulic sigh.
Bruce lifted a low-profile kit from a recessed compartment, matte black, labeled with discreet white text.

“Here.” He stepped back to Jason and opened the sealed packet of sterile gauze. “Hold it firmly, not too hard.”

Jason’s hand shook, as he pressed the gauze against his wound. The blood was still warm, sticky against his fingers and he wasn‘t sure if the gauze alone would hold up long enough to protect the leather upholstery.

Bruce pulled a folded gray towel from the backseat. “Over the gauze,“ Bruce told him and handed it over. Jason hesistated, staring down at the towel. It was expensive, he could tell even from the texture, soft, dense cotton, not the cheap kind that lost its weave after a few washes. “I’ll ruin it,” he muttered, voice small.
Bruce’s tone didn’t change. “It’s a towel, Jason. Sit.”

Jason finally obeyed, lowering himself into the seat like it might bite him. The door thunked closed with a soft, expensive seal. He leaned his head back, knuckles white around the towel and gauze below. His pulse throbbed under the cut; the pressure steadied it.

Bruce rounded to the drivers side and started the engine, the cabin lights dimming as the dashboard came alive. The cold air that had clung to Jasons skin gave way to the car’s climate control, a low hum and a clean, faint scent.

With one hand on the wheel, Bruce tapped the console and the car chimed. “Call Alfred,” he said.
The line clicked open, then resolved into a voice like spun steel and dry tea leaves. “Master Bruce.”

“I’m bringing someone in. Facial laceration, likely subcutaneous. Bleeding controlled with pressure.“

A beat. Then, lightly, “Delightful. You do pick the most festive companions for supper.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Ten minutes,“ he said.
“Very good.“

The call clicked off with a polite chime. The car eased into the street, headlights cutting a clean path through the early dark. Jason kept the gauze in place, wrist steady now. Outside, neon bled into puddles and the city slid past in strips of black glass and sodium orange. Inside, the only sounds were the engine’s low murmur, the whisper of ventilation, and two people breathing, one measured, one stil catching up.

Jason leaned back, eyes half-closed, the towel still firm against his cheek. His breath came shallow and uneven, every inhale tight around the ribs. He felt stupid for bleeding in someone else’s car, stupid for losing, stupid for shaking now that it was all over. He tried to laugh once under his breath, but it came out brittle.

He swallowed, the words catching in his throat before they made it out. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, voice shaking. “For losing. For … bleeding all over your stuff.”

Bruce cut him off, quiet but firm. “Jason. Stop apologizing.”
Jason turned his head slightly, careful not to move the towel from his face. Bruce’s profile was cut clean in the passing streetlight, jaw set, hands loose on the wheel, eyes forward. He didn’t look angry.

“You didn’t lose. You lasted two rounds against someone who had fifty pounds on you. That’s a win in my book,“ Bruce said and glanced back at him, eyes flicking briefly from the road to the gauze pressed against Jason’s face. “And for the record: if that towels biggest problem today is a little blood, it’ll survive better than I did watching you take that last hit.”

Nobody talked to him like that. People told him what he owed, what he’d screwed up, what he had to fix. No one ever said he’d done well. And certainly not like it cost them something to watch him get hurt.

For a second, he couldn’t look away from Bruce, the calm of his hands on the wheel, the steady focus in his profile, the faint creases at the corner of his eyes. It hit him suddenly how safe the car felt, how the world outside blurred by but Bruce stayed constant, grounded. Like gravity.

The car rolled through the dimming streets, headlights carving long lines through the mist. Jason’s reflection flickered in the window, pale and bruised, towel pressed to his cheek, eyes half-lidded but awake. He wanted to speak again, to apologize or explain or maybe just fill the quiet and to hear more of Bruce‘s sweet bullshit, but the hum of the car and Bruce’s steady presence made the exhaustion heavier than words.

***

The drive back took less than fiveteen minutes, though Jason couldn’t have said how long it felt. He watched the city melt away into shadow, first the old warehouses, then the skeletal cranes, and finally the clean lines of the upper districts where the roads widened and the air somehow smelled newer.

The car purred through it all, soundless except for the steady hum of the engine and the faint hiss of Bruce’s coat sleeve when he shifted the wheel.
When the gate appeared, a tall stretch of wrought iron with lanterns on either side, Jason thought, no way this is real.

The gates opened soundlessly at their approach, and the car rolled down a long, tree-lined drive that curved toward a house that wasn’t really a house at all, but a mansion cut from dark stone and old money.

Light spilled from a few of the lower windows, warm, steady, impossibly domestic after the warehouse’s grime.

The car stopped in a courtyard of cobblestone so even it looked fake. Bruce cut the engine. “Come on,” he said quietly.
Jason hesitated. He was still barefoot, shirtless, the towel pressed against his face tacky with dried blood. His reflection in the dark glass looked feral against the mirrored luxury. “You sure I’m not gonna get arrested for walking in there like this?” he muttered.
“Only if you touch the wallpaper,” Bruce said dryly, and opened his door.

Inside, the first thing Jason noticed was the smell: clean linen, coffee, old wood. The ceilings were too high; the floor too polished. His footsteps sounded out of place.

Jason’s bare feet left faint dirty smudges as they walked. He rubbed at the towel on his cheek, suddenly aware of the bruises across his ribs, the mess he must look like in a place this clean.
“You sure it’s okay I’m …“ he started.
“It’s fine,” Bruce said simply. “Alfred’s waiting.”

Jason followed Bruce down a hallway that seemed to stretch forever until they reached a huge kitchen. Copper pans gleamed in orderly rows. A marble island dominated the center of the room, spotless except for the tray now waiting there: metal instruments neatly arranged on the counter.

The man standing beside it straightened when they entered. He was older, silver at the temples, his shirt sleeves rolled with military precision. He didn’t look surprised.

“Good evening, Master Bruce.” Alfred’s accent was clipped, but his voice carried an easy patience. His gaze slid from Bruce to Jason, assessing the towel, the bruises, the bare chest. “I see your evening’s gone as unpredictably as ever.”

“Kitchen, Alfred?” Bruce asked in leau of an answer, one brow raised.
“Ten minutes’ notice, Master Bruce,” Alfred replied smoothly. “The dining room’s carpet is antique.” His gaze shifted to Jason then. “I see your latest training partner has met the floor a little too closely.”

Jason froze, unsure what to do with himself. “Uh … hi. Sir. Sorry, I uh…“ Jason shifted his weight. “I didn’t mean to uh … bleed all over your house.”

The older man’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Sir, is it? Either you were raised exceptionally well or you’re terrified.“
Jason flushed. “Bit of both, maybe,“ he said after a moment of hesistation.

Alfred sighed, good-natured and gestured to the center island. “Relax, my boy. I’m not nearly as fearsome as I look. Now then: Up you go, please. I’ve sterilized it.”

Jason blinked. “You … you want me to sit there? On the counter?”
“Well, the dining table’s mahogany,” Alfred said dryly. “And I’m rather fond of it.”

A startled laugh escaped Jason before he could stop it, quick and hoarse. It hurt his cheek. He climbed awkwardly onto the marble, cool stone shocking against his bare skin.

Alfred snapped on a pair of gloves with a soft snap. He took the towel from Jasons hand with practiced gentleness. “Let’s have a look at the damage.”
Jason tried to keep still while Alfred peeled it away. The dried blood tugged, but Jason tried to remain still and quiet.

“Good lad,” Alfred murmured, trying to clean up the bloody mess on his face. “Not the worst cut I’ve seen in this room. A millimeter deeper, though, and you’d have a lovely new dimple,“ Alfred said conversationally as he dabbed at the cheek with antiseptic. His hands were steady, his tone almost soothing beneath the sarcasm.

“Now hold still, or we’ll both regret it,“ Alfred warned. The sting hit instantly, sharp enough to make Jason flinch. Alfred didn’t comment. He just steadied his chin with surprising gentleness.

The needle dipped and pulled, neat and exact. Jason’s world shrank to the sound of it, the soft metallic click of instruments, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the steady rhythm of Alfred’s measured breathing. Bruce stood just to his left, arms folded, his presence solid and grounding.

Jason watched the butler work, fascinated despite the ache. Every movement was sure, efficient, no hesitation, no wasted motion. He’d expected well, anything but not… this. The man moved like someone who’d seen real damage before and knew exactly how to fix it.

Bruce caught him watching and said quietly, “He used to be a field medic.”
“Among other things,” Alfred added, tied off the final knot and trimmed the thread, he stepped back, inspecting his work.

Jason swallowed, blinking through the haze of exhaustion. “Thanks,” he muttered.
Alfred stripped off his gloves and folded the used gauze into the towel Jason had carried in. “My pleasure. I do so love spontaneous surgery between supper courses.”

Something in Jason eased then, just a little. He glanced up, eyes flicking between the immaculate counter and Alfred’s expression. “Guess I owe you one.”

“You owe me nothing,” Alfred said, soft but firm. He began packing away the instruments with a rhythm that felt almost like ritual, metal on porcelain, water running, cloth folded just so. Every motion restored order, as if the act of tidying the space somehow steadied the people inside it.

Jason sat there a moment longer, shoulders hunched, the warmth of the room seeping into his skin. The fear that had followed him out of the warehouse - of Cobblepott, of failure, of being trouble - was still there, but quieter now, half-drowned out by the ordinary sounds of this impossible kitchen. He felt raw, awkward, and weirdly safe all at once.

“He’ll need something to eat, Master Bruce. Sugar’s dropping,” Alfred said without looking up.
“I’ll handle it,” Bruce answered, already moving toward the cabinets, just as Jason hopped down from the counter, bare feet silent against the polished floor.

“No need” Alfred corrected smoothly, not even glancing his way. Then, after a heartbeat, the faintest smile ghosted over his mouth. “I’ll handle it.”

Bruce accepted that with only a small sigh, a tilt of the head that meant he knew better than to argue. He turned toward the small round wooden table tucked into the corner of the kitchen. “Take a seat,” he offered gently.

Jason hesitated, half a second too long, before obeying. The wooden stool creaked faintly under him. He folded his arms across his chest on instinct, a makeshift shield, skin prickling with the self-conscious awareness that he was still bare from the waist up.

The house felt too clean for him, too proper; every reflection in the glass and marble caught flashes of old bruises and ribs that hadn’t filled out right. He tucked one foot behind the other beneath the stool, trying to make himself look less out of place, more dressed, smaller somehow.

Across the kitchen, Alfred moved with the kind of elegance that made every motion feel like part of a quiet ritual. The kettle went on, cups were set down in a perfect line, spoons resting precisely at their sides. Jason followed each movement with his eyes. The old man didn’t rush, didn’t hesitate. He worked like someone who’d done this a thousand times before, and maybe a thousand times for people who needed grounding more than tea.

“Now,” Alfred said at last, his voice calm as he adjusted the heat on the kettle, “tea in a moment. Do you prefer sweet or very sweet?”

Jason blinked, caught off guard by the question, unsure if it was a joke or a test. “Uh … whatever you think’s best?”

“Very sweet, then,” Alfred said smoothly, as if that had been the right answer all along. His tone was matter-of-fact, yet something in it softened; a glint of warmth under the British dryness. “You look like you could use a little kindness in your bloodstream.”

The kettle began to hum softly, the sound thin and steady as steam curled into the air. Jason stared down at his hands. His knuckles were split again, thin cracks where skin met bone, faint streaks of dried blood mapping the creases.

He turned one hand over, watching the dim kitchen light catch on the cuts. Everything about this place felt too quiet, too polished for someone built out of noise and motion. The scent of clean metal and sugar hung in the air. He didn’t belong in rooms with copper pans and china cups; it felt like sitting inside a life he was never meant to touch.

“Now then” Alfred said lightly, breaking the silence as if sensing Jasons unease. “Master Bruce, why don’t you fetch the young man something to wear before he catches his death and I have to add pneumonia to tonight’s duties?”

Bruce didn’t argue. He gave a small, quiet nod and left the room, his footsteps measured on the old stone floor.

The quiet he left behind filled the kitchen in waves, the low simmer of water, the faint pop of heat under copper, Alfred’s calm movements as he poured.

Jason didn’t realize how long he’d been staring until Alfred set a mug in front of him with gentle precision. The tea was dark, rich, and heavy with sugar. It was that kind of sweetness that lingered before you even tasted it.

The porcelain felt impossibly thin between his fingers, light in a way that made him nervous to hold it. He lifted it carefully, the warmth bleeding into his palms, and took a slow sip. The sugar hit first. It was warm, comforting, almost dizzying, followed by the sharp edge of the tea beneath.

“I hope the taste is to your liking?” Alfred asked after a moment, watching him with an expression that managed to balance scrutiny and care in equal measure.
Jason nodded, setting the mug back down carefully.

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”
Alfred hummed approvingly. “Good. I’ve found hot tea and sarcasm mend most wounds, if applied promptly.”

Jason, though sore and exhausted, couldn’t help smiling again. He couldn’t remember the last time an adult had made him feel safe like that in a matter of minutes.

Before Jason could dwell on that thought footsteps returned, and Bruce appeared again, carrying a folded black sweatshirt and a pair of thick socks. He set them on the table beside Jason without a word.

Jason pulled them on, slowly, awkwardly with fatigue. The sweatshirt was too big, still faintly warm from wherever it had been stored. He tugged it over his head carefully, the fabric slipping across sore shoulders and bruised ribs like a whisper. It smelled faintly of detergent and something else, something subtle and clean that he realized, a beat too late, was just Bruce.

He muttered, “Thanks,” then added to Alfred, “And, uh… thanks for fixing my face.”
“You are very welcome, lad,” Alfred said mildly, slicing a piece of leftover sponge cake and setting it beside the mug.

Jason drank slowly, the tea warm and heavy in his stomach, the sweetness settling somewhere deep. The sugar hit worked fast; his hands stopped shaking, his head cleared. His body still ached everywhere, but the tremors beneath his skin finally started to ease.

His eyes flicked toward Bruce, who’d taken a seat across from him now. The adrenaline had burned away, leaving something quieter; exhaustion, maybe. Or just the slow return to normal breath.

Jasona shifted his hands on the table, still hyper-aware of the faint tremor in them. His cheek throbbed where the stitches pulled, but it didn’t hurt as much as it had before. The house around him was so quiet he could hear the tick of the grandfather clock down the hall.

Jason picked up the fork finally, his hand still shaking slightly, breaking off a small bite. It was soft and sweet in a way that almost hurt, unfamiliar and gentle.

Bruce watched him from across the table, one elbow on the chairs armrest, chin propped on his hand. The small flicker of relief in his expression was subtle, but it was there.

Alfred poured the last of the tea, the kettle’s steam curling lazily into the air. The rich scent of black leaves softened the edges of the bright kitchen. Two cups of tea, two small plates of sponge cake. He set one in front of Bruce and took the other for himself before sitting down.

“Now,” Alfred said, easing into his chair. “Tell me, how did this fine evening come to end in sutures and spilled blood?”

Bruce stirred his tea once, the clink of metal on porcelain faint, before he said: „Cobblepott.“

“Cobblepott,” Alfred repeated, tone dry as dust. “That odious little man could curdle cream simply by entering a room.”
Jason, mid-sip, blinked and tried not to laugh. It came out a short, startled huff instead.
“Don’t encourage him, Jason,“ Bruce sighed.

Jason ducked his head, shoulders twitching in a half-smile. “Sorry.”
Alfred’s gaze flicked to them, sharp but kind.
“Don’t be,” the old man replied, tone softening. „I’ve an endless supply of opinions and precious few filters left.”

Bruce’s cup clinked lightly against its saucer as he set it down. “It wasn’t a fair match,” he said. “Too much weight difference, no regulation. He held his own longer than he should’ve.”

Alfred’s brows rose just slightly. “I see. And when you say ‘too much weight difference,’ I take it the other man resembled a small truck?”
Jason gave a small, self-conscious shrug. “Wasn’t that bad.”

Bruce looked at him, one brow lifting. Jason’s mouth twitched. “Okay, maybe a little bad,” he admitted quietly.

“I suppose, Master Bruce, you stepped in when things went south?” Alfred asked.
Bruce nodded. “The match wasn’t safe. He was injured. I ended it.”
“Of course you did,” Alfred murmured. He leaned back, eyes flicking toward Bruce again. A silent question threaded beneath the domestic calm. Bruce met it with a subtle shake of his head, the kind that said not now.

Alfred, of course, understood. He always did. The conversation pivoted easily, like changing stance mid-fight.
“So,” he said conversationally, “you’ve taken to training the lad yourself, then? How’s that coming along?”

Jason shifted slightly in his seat, his gaze on the table. Bruce glanced at him and changed the tone, the weight in his voice easing. “Fast. Jason is very talented. He learns quickly. Needs to unlearn bad habits, but he listens well and adapts.“
Alfred’s gaze flicked back to Jason, who was watching them through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Astonishing,” Alfred said mildly, “considering who’s teaching him.”
Jason blinked up at that, unsure if he was allowed to laugh. He risked a small smile instead.
“Mostly just try not to get yelled at,“ Jason said, voice slurred by fatigue.

“You’ll find we’re more fond of results than raised voices here,” Alfred said, tone mild.
Jason nodded faintly, though eyelids were starting to droop then, sugar and warmth and exhaustion working together to undo what adrenaline had held up. He blinked hard, trying to stay alert, but the table’s gentle rhythm, clink of spoons, the quiet voices, all that was lulling him under.

Alfred noticed first. “He’s fading,” he said, tone gentler now. “Good sign. Means the danger’s passed and body‘s decided to trust it.”
Bruce stood, stepping closer. “Come on,” he said softly to Jason. “Let’s get you a room. You need rest.”

Jason hesitated, glancing between them. “I don’t wanna … uh … mess anything up.”
“Mess what up?” Alfred asked, genuinely puzzled.
“This place,” Jason said. “It’s… you know. Fancy.”

Alfred tilted his head, eyes twinkling behind the dryness. “My dear boy, this house survived your mentor’s adolescence. You’d have to try very hard to outdo the chaos that produced.”
“For real?“ Jason breathed tiredly but curious.

Alfred nodded toward Bruce, eyes glinting. “Oh yes. Quite the terror, he was. And his sons have certainly done their part to keep the tradition alive. His eldest managed to track mud through my foyer and break a chandelier within the first 48 hours in our house.“

Jason huffed a small laugh. “Won‘t do anything like that … promise,“ he mumbled tiredly.

“Splendid,” Alfred said and Jason slid off the stool, wincing slightly when it jostled his ribs. Bruce steadied him with a hand at his shoulder, guiding him toward the hall.
Jason followed Bruce up the stairs, still half dazed, the scent of tea and antiseptic lingering in his head.

Chapter Text

Jason woke slow, breath catching on the tail end of a dream that scattered as soon as his eyes opened. The sheets were too warm and the world was quiet. That kind of deep, middle-of-the-night quiet that made sound itself feel intrusive.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, just the soft weight of sheets tangled around his legs, the cool brush of air against his face, and a ceiling that wasn’t cracked or water-stained. No traffic noise, no sirens in the distant.

A faint stripe of moonlight cut through the tall window, catching on the heavy drapes and spilling across the bed in pale silver. The rest of the space held a dim, amber shadow. The dark had shape here. Gentle edges.

Jason blinked, lifting his head slightly from the pillow. The room unfolded around him slowly, piece by piece, as his pulse steadied from the half-startled wakefulness.

The room itself was large, but not empty the way rich spaces usually were. The walls were paneled in dark wood that gleamed faintly where the moonlight reached through the heavy curtains.

There was a fireplace across from the bed, cold now but immaculate, a set of logs arranged like it was waiting to be used.
The sheets were soft, not silk, but heavy cotton, very warm against his skin. The smell of clean linen and cedar hung in the air, clean, but earthy, like something meant to calm nerves. It didn’t. It just made him more aware of how much this wasn’t his world.

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to chase the residual haze of sleep. The clock on the nightstand glowed faintly: 2:57 a.m. He’d gone down around eight, after Alfred had stiched him up, fed him tea and sponge cake, and Bruce gave him some pain pills before leaving this room. Jason slept almost seven hours straight, longer than he could remember doing in years.

He pushed himself up slowly. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet sinking into a rug that probably cost more than three months’ rent at the shitty flat he’d grown up in. The fabric muffled every sound he made. That bothered him. He liked noise, pipes groaning, neighbors fighting, cars outside. Noise meant life.

Jason sat there for a long minute, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed. His pulse had settled into a steady rhythm, but the rest of him hadn’t. His body ached in familiar ways: his ribs felt tight, his shoulder was stiff, the skin over his cheek was tugging where the stitches sat.

His gaze drifted over the furniture again, to the chair by the window, to the polished brass lamp on the desk. He drew in a slow breath and let it out, his chest tightening for no reason he could name.

It wasn’t just the sheer decadence of this place. The penthouse was pure luxury, but it felt different. That kind of wealth came with its own kind of distance: sleek lines, glass walls, money pretending to be intimacy. The manor was something else. It was lived-in, personal. Everything in here had weight, dark wood, thick curtains, the kind of furniture people bought once and expected to die with.

Maybe it was because of Alfred. Because there was nothing about that man that felt like staff. Jason had met plenty of household help, people paid to pretend they didn’t see things. But Alfred didn’t feel like that. He carried himself like someone who had built this place with his own hands and had long since stopped needing to prove it. The calm authority, the dry humor, the way he looked at Bruce: not like an employer, but like a son who still needed a father.

He wondered if Alfred knew.
If Bruce had told him anything about what kind of work Jason did when he wasn’t fighting. He doubted it. Alfred didn’t seem the type to approve of men paying for company, even if Bruce wasn’t after that in the usual way. And Jason wasn’t sure he wanted to know what the old man would think if he found out.

Would Alfred have been so gentle with him while cleaning his wound, handing him cake, calling him “dear boy”, if he’d known what kind of work Jason did? He doubted it.

Jason rubbed a hand over his face, groaning softly. It was to quiet, too still, the kind that made your mind itch and pressed down on you until you had to move. The stitches under his eye ached in time with his heartbeat. He flexed his fingers, the small cuts across his knuckles pale in the moonlight.

Jason stared at the door across the room.
He padded barefoot down the hall, the polished wood cold under his feet. The manor was vast and asleep. It was that kind of silence that carried its own weight, thick and old, pressing in around him. He didn’t know what woke him - a dream maybe, or the stillness itself - but now that he was up, sleep felt impossible.

At first, he thought he’d imagined the sound: a low, rhythmic hum somewhere down the corridor. But then he caught it again: the faint rise and fall of voices, tinny through speakers. A TV.

He hesitated at the corner, the light spilling faintly under a door at the far end of the hall. Maybe it was Bruce. Maybe Alfred. Either way, it couldn’t be too bad. If they didn’t want him there, he could just apologize and disappear back into the room until Bruce had a use for him again.

Jason followed the sound and the closer he got, the clearer it became: irregular bursts of gunfire and shouting, video game dialogue and the clicking of fingers on a controller.

The glow from the open doorway hit his face as he stepped closer: soft blues and whites, flickering against the hallway’s dark wood. The room inside was big, warmer than the rest of the house. A sitting room, maybe. Couches that looked like they’d been actually used. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with books and a few framed photos.

And on one of the couches, a three-seater, deep leather, facing the TV, sprawled out like he owned the place, was a kid. Or not a kid, exactly. A teenager. Maybe Jason’s age, maybe a year or two younger. In sweatpants and a hoodie, feet in slippers kicked up on the coffee table like he owned the damn place.

Controller in hand, focused expression that shifted between concentration and mild annoyance as his character on-screen took a hit. Jason froze in the doorway, unsure if he should back out again.

The kid didn’t look up right away. Then, sensing movement, he turned his head and blue eyes flicking over Jason with quick assessment before one eyebrow arched.
“So,” he said, voice smooth but edged. “You adopted already, or did he just pick you up on the way home?”
Jason blinked. “What?”

Tim smirked faintly. “Wouldn’t be the first time. My parents were gone a lot, archaeologists, the kind who think missing birthdays and well-child check ups builds character. When Bruce found out, I went from neighbor kid to resident in about a week.”

Jason stared for half a second, then huffed a dry laugh. “So you’re one of the kids, huh? Number one or number two?”
“Age-wise? Number two.” The boy leaned back, half-grinning now. “But he got me last. Guess that makes me number three in the collection. Name’s Tim,” the teenager said easily, eyes still sharp, still studying him. “And you are…?”

Jason shifted his stance, still half in the doorway. “Jason.”
Tim’s eyes narrowed slightly in recognition. “Jason,” he repeated, like testing the sound. “Okay. So how long have you been here, Jason?”
Jason’s mouth twitched. “Yesterday. But was at your dads penthouse for a couple days before.”
“Mm,” Tim hummed, thoughtful. “Right. And my dad didn’t mention that when I called.”

Jason’s mouth twitched, something like a smirk ghosting across it. “Yeah, maybe he’s just been… busy the last couple days.” His tone was casual, easy enough to sound normal, but there was a flicker in it, something careful, defensive. He didn’t want this kid knowing how Bruce had been busy.

Tim leaned his head back against the couch. “Busy getting you into school or fixing up your room?” he asked lightly, clearly guessing Jason was younger than he actually was - what the fuck?

Jason huffed something close to a laugh, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Don’t think I’m sticking around that long.”

That earned a glance, brief but assessing. Tim didn’t push it, just turned back toward the TV. “Well, if you’re not too busy not sticking around,” he said, grabbing a spare controller from the coffee table, “you play?”

Jason hesitated.
“Don’t worry,” Tim said, eyes still on the screen. “I won’t go easy on you just because you look like you got hit by a truck.”
Jason smirked, dropping down beside him. “Good. I hate pity points.”

The TV glow caught the bruise on his cheekbone, the faint split under his eye. If the kid noticed, he didn’t comment further, just scooted over a little on the couch to make room.

Jason sat uncertain at first, the controller awkward in his hands. But the warmth of the room, the easy click of buttons, and the faint sound of someone else being alive this late in the night, it all loosened something tight in his chest.

It wasn’t the kind of company he’d expected to find in this house. But maybe, for tonight, that was exactly what he needed.

The game’s glow painted their faces in flickering blue and gold as the two of them sank deeper into the couch, controllers in hand. For a while, it was mostly the sound of button mashing and Tims half-competitive muttering.

When the screen flashed Game Over for the third time, Jason leaned back with a low huff. “Your dad said you were off at college.”

Tim paused mid-restart, thumb hovering over the button. “Yeah. I am. Or was. Technically still am.” He glanced over with a crooked grin. “This is my spring break. I had awesome plans. You’re looking at a guy who was supposed to be living the farm life right now.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “The farm life?”
“Oh yeah,” Tim said, gesturing with the controller as if it helped. “So my roommate- well, best friend - Connor … he’s from Kansas. We were gonna go spend the week at his family’s farm.” Tim paused, then continued with the kind of enthusiasm that meant he was absolutely about to tell the whole thing. “You know, actual cows, real barns, terrifyingly fresh air. Just hang out, relax, eat our bodyweight in pie and s’mores and maybe get sunburned while pretending to do manual labor. But it all went to hell in a very wholesome way.”

Jason tilted his head, both skeptical and intrigued. “How does something go to hell in a wholesome way?”

Tim gave him a bright, dry smile. “By involving stomach flu and excessive empathy. So … Con’s adopted too. Kind of.” Tim began, gesturing with one hand as if the air itself needed diagrams to keep up. “Actually, not really. Not exactly like me , because he’s not really adopted, adopted. But when we are not in the dorms, he lives with his older brother, Clark, and Clark’s wife and their kid. Clark’s technically his half-brother. Same dad, different mom. But they didn’t even know about it until, like, a few years ago. Because Clark’s adopted, like officially, since he was a baby, right? You with me so far?”

Jason blinked slowly, trying not to grin. “Sure.”
“So, Con’s been growing up in one group home after the other, real shitty by the way - not to recommend. So when they found each other, Clark just went full big-brother mode and took him in. Total saint move.”

Jason smirked faintly. “Clark sounds like a real Boy Scout.”
“You have no idea. Anyway,” Tim continued, waving a hand, “Clark’s parents, you know, the Kents, they’re basically the sweetest people alive. So the plan was: we’d go visit them, ride tractors, eat pie, the whole shick. But then Clark and Lois and little Jon all came down with some nasty stomach bug, and Connor being Connor, decided he had to stay and take care of them.”

Jason leaned back, arms crossed loosely, watching him with that kind of lazy interest that masked how carefully he was listening. “So your best friend ditched you to take care of his brother’s family?”

“Yep,” Tim said with an exaggerated sigh. “And I drove him there because he doesn’t actually have a driver’s license, which is criminal, by the way, for a guy who can bench-press a car. And after dropping him off, I figured, well, no point spending spring break alone in a dorm room. So I came home. Thought maybe I could surprise dad and talk him into actually taking some of those vacation days his assistant keeps threatening to schedule for him.”

Jason’s mouth twitched. “Good luck with that.”
“Oh, trust me, I know. I’ve been waging that war since I was ten. Let me tell you, me and Dick we won that battle effortlessly, but since we both moved out, he practically hides behind his work desk.”

Jason hid his amusement behind a scoff, though he felt the quiet irony twist under his ribs, because Bruce had taken those days off. He’d spent them with Jason. Training, yes, but also talking. Sharing meals. Sleeping beside him, doing stuff they shouldn’t really talk with Bruce’s kids about. Jason swallowed and looked away from the thought before it could settle anywhere dangerous.

“And next week,” he continued, “Connor’s gonna come back to campus and, knowing him, he’ll catch the bug too, and guess who’s gonna be stuck taking care of him?”
Jason bit back a smile. “You?”

“Obviously me,” Tim said, as if the answer were obvious to anyone with sense. He leaned back, thumbs idly tapping the controller, eyes flicking toward the game but his mind clearly elsewhere. “It’s not like his folks won’t, but he’ll never tell them. He’s got this thing about not wanting them to worry. He’ll hole up in our dorm, miserable, pretending he’s fine.”

A faint, fond exasperation colored his voice. “He’s like that with everything, always putting everyone else first, never wanting to be a bother. Even though Clark and Lois and Jon would absolutely drop everything to take care of him. But no. He’ll sit there, suffering in silence, because he doesn’t want to ‘be a burden.’”
Tim huffed, shaking his head, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “So, yeah. I’ll be the one with the thermometer and a bottle of Gatorade.”

Jason couldn’t help it; he laughed, low and rough, the sound surprising even himself.
“Sounds like a handful.”
Tim huffed a laugh. “He really is. But, y’know… worth it.”

Oh yeah, Jason thought, you’ve got it bad, kid. He didn’t say it, though. Just smirked faintly and leaned back into the couch, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. He didn’t say anything after that. Didn’t need to. Tim filled the space without even trying, talking about his classes, about Connor’s ridiculous habit of burning toast, about dorm life and hacking university Wi-Fi just to fix the bandwidth throttling.

Jason listened, oddly at ease.
The kid was the same age as him, but with this open, earnest tangle of nerves and heart he felt somehow younger, brighter, untouched in ways Jason didn’t even remember being.

Between rounds, Tim leaned back, giving Jason a sidelong glance. “So,” he said lightly, “I gotta ask. You always look this roughed up, or was tonight special?”
Jason’s thumb hovered over the button for a second too long. “Just fighting,” he said, keeping his eyes on the screen.
“Like street fighting?” Tim prodded, tone easy but curious. „Or like Bruce in his prime?“

“A mix ot both?“ Jason said, voice vague enough to shut the door without slamming it. Tim caught the boundary immediately and held up a hand in surrender. “Cool. You don’t wanna talk about it, totally fine. We can just play. I over-share enough for both of us anyway.”

Jason’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, I noticed.”
Tim grinned at that, and the conversation shifted back to the game. Somewhere between the second and third round, Jason forgot to brace himself for every word, forgot to measure his tone. It felt… easy. Like for a couple of hours, he could just be some nineteen-year-old kid wasting the night with another.

Chapter Text

When the digital clock on the corner of the TV blinked close to six, Tim finally paused the game and yawned, stretching long and loose. “Okay, I need sugar and coffee or I’ll die,” he announced, tossing his controller onto the couch and heading for the door. “Kitchen run?”

The kitchen, when they reached it, was all soft light and quiet. Alfred wasn’t up yet or maybe he was, but mercifully not there to catch them. Tim moved with the ease of someone who’d grown up in the place, pulling open cupboards until he found what he wanted: cereal that could double as candy and cold milk.

He filled a second bowl and shoved it toward Jason.

It looked obscene against all the clean silver and polished surfaces.
Bruce would hate it. He was all about clean breakfast: smoothies, eggs, wholegreen, seeds and nuts. Jason could almost hear him now: Your body believes what you repeat. Let’s teach it good things.

He shouldn’t eat the cereal, he knew that. He’d been rented to be trained and used. He was supposed to stay sharp and lean.

He took another spoonful anyway, sweet and chemical and perfect. It was stupidly sweet, bright colors, fake fruit flavor, sugar sticking to the roof of his mouth but it was so good. Tim shoveled spoonfuls in like he hadn’t eaten in days, chatting between bites about something, classes, his roommate, some dumb prank at the dorms.

Jason listened, half-distracted by the cereal and half by guilt creeping in at the edges. He shouldn’t be here. Bruce’s kid was sitting across from him, laughing about nothing.

Jason had just started to relax again, cereal half gone, warmth in his chest that wasn’t fear for once, when a low, familiar voice came from the doorway.

“Tim?” Bruce said finally, voice low, calm but edged with fatigue. “I didn’t know you were home.”

Jason’s spoon froze midair. Tim looked up from his cereal, unbothered. “Yeah, surprise. The Kents got a stomach bug, so I figured I’d spend spring break here instead. Hi, Dad.”

Bruce stood there for a heartbeat, a rare flicker of surprise crossing his usually composed face. He was dressed like he’d been up for hours already, black longsleeve, dark slacks. His gaze moved from Tim to Jason, and for a split second something unreadable passed through it.

He’d probably expected another quiet morning. Maybe to check on Jason, make sure the swelling hadn’t worsened, have some healthy food for breakfast before going back to the penthouse and easing back into training. Not this: his son in pajama pants, and Jason, barefoot and bruised in a borrowed sweatshirt, sitting at his kitchen island like he belonged there, a bowl of neon-colored sugar in front of him.

Jason felt heat rise in his neck. He scrambled a little, spoon clattering into the bowl.
“Sorry … I didn’t think… we were just … I shouldn’t’ve”

Bruce blinked. “Jason…“

“Relax, dude. It’s just cereal. We keep, like, five boxes of this stuff because someone” he jabbed his spoon in Bruce’s direction “pretends he doesn’t eat sugar but still restocks it every time he’s at the store.”

“That’s because you and your brothers eat it like it’s oxygen,” Bruce said, walking toward the counter, pressing some buttons on the coffee maschine.

The smell hit almost instantly, dark roast, sharp and grounding. Bruce moved through the space like he always did: quiet, efficient, already in control.

“You’re both lucky Alfred’s not awake yet. He’d have an opinion about your breakfast choices.”
Tim grinned, leaning back on the stool. “Alfred always has an opinion. Usually about my lack of vegetables.”

The machine whirred and Bruce looked over his shoulder, tone even again. “Coffee?”
Tim percked up. “Always.”
Bruce’s gaze shifted to Jason, still half-curled over his bowl like he was waiting for a reprimand. “You?”

Jason hesitated, rubbing his thumb along the edge of his bowl. He didn’t drink coffee much, but the way Bruce asked, calm and steady made something inside him loosen just a fraction.
“Uh. Yeah. Sure,” he said, voice quiet.

Bruce nodded, turning back to the maschine. The rich smell of coffee filled the room, warm and grounding, and for a strange, fragile moment, the three of them just… were.

Tim eating sugar, Jason pretending not to look nervous, and Bruce, between them both, trying not to think about how terrifying easily his worlds were starting to blur.

***

Tim finished his coffee first, or rather, inhaled it, and was already leaning half across the table toward Jason, eyes bright in a way that reminded Jason of a kid with a new toy.
“So,” Tim said, drawing the word out like a challenge, “you doing anything today?”
Jason blinked, caught mid-sip. “Uh …”

“Perfect.” Tim clapped his hands together, the sound startling in the quiet kitchen. “I’ve got an empty schedule, a new game, and a shocking lack of competition now that my roommate bailed on me for the week. You’re recruited.”

Jason frowned slightly. “Recruited?”
“Yeah, you know, drafted into the sacred art of wasting a perfectly good day.” Tim grinned, already heading for the door. “You in, right? Please tell me you‘re in.”

Jason hesitated. His first thought was I should train. His ribs still ached, his cheek pulled when he smiled, but his time wasn’t his. It was Bruce’s. And Jason was supposed to be useful. He was supposed to be available.

He glanced toward Bruce automatically.
Bruce was leaning against the counter, mug in hand, watching them both. He caught Jason’s look and understood immediately , that nervous flicker of uncertainty. His voice was calm when he spoke.
“Go on,” he said.

Jason swallowed hard, unsure whether to feel relieved or off-balance. He nodded once, the motion quick. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” Bruce’s tone left no room for argument.
Tim was already halfway out the door. “Awesome.”

Jason followed him slowly, still half glancing back at Bruce.
Bruce watched them go, one hand still around his coffee mug. He didn’t stop them. Didn’t want to, really. Jason needed the break. Still, a quiet tension lingered under his calm, the hope that Jason would remember which parts of his life were better left unspoken.

***

For the next couple hours, they played. Jason found himself easing into the rhythm of button mashing, the trash talk, the way Tim got way too competitive. It felt good. Normal.

Every now and then, though, guilt pricked at him. Bruce hadn’t told Tim what he really was or what Bruce had bought him for. Jason knew he should be training, keeping himself sharp, or doing other things … keeping Bruce happy and satisfied and his dick wet, preferably. But Tim’s grin, the way he whooped when he landed a hit, it was disarming.

Still, Jason slipped out of the den just as Tim was loading another game, muttering something about needing the bathroom. Tim barely looked up from the screen, already clicking through the menu.

The house was quiet in that particular way expensive places were, still, controlled, the sound of his socked feet muted on the carpeted hall.

He found Bruce in a study near the end of the corridor. The door was half open, light spilling out onto the dark wood floor. Bruce sat behind a wide desk, glasses perched low on his nose, one hand on the mouse, the other wrapped around a mug of coffee. He looked up the instant Jason hovered in the doorway.

“Everything alright?”
Jason shifted his weight, eyes darting from the bookshelf-lined walls to the antique clock ticking somewhere near the window. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “I just … uh … needed to talk to you.”
Bruce leaned back, giving him his full attention.

Jason stepped in, hands stuffed in the pockets of the borrowed sweats. “I didn’t mean to … like … get dragged into all that with your kid,” he said. “The games and the cereal and all that. I know I’m not here for that stuff.”
Bruce’s brow furrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”

Jason’s throat worked. “I mean, I know why I’m here. What I’m supposed to be doing.” He gestured vaguely, eyes flicking down to the floor. “You don’t need to waste your time on me playing around. I should be training or…” he hesitated, the rest of the sentence dying in his throat, “…whatever else you want.”

Bruce was quiet for a moment, long enough that Jason’s shoulders started to tense again. Then he shook his head and set his mug down, the faint clink loud in the silence. “You’re hurt, Jason. You need to rest.”

“I can handle it,” Jason said quickly, looking up. “I’ve worked through worse.”
Bruce’s gaze softened, but his voice stayed firm. “You’re injured, exhausted, and running on fumes. Taking a day to rest isn’t going to ruin anything.”

Jason shook his head, frowning. “You paid for…“
“I know what I paid for,” Bruce cut in, gaze sharp on the half closed door to the hallway, his tone low but steady.

Jason dropped his eyes, shoulders curving in. “I just don’t want you thinking I’m slacking off or anything.”

“Trust me,” Bruce murmured, faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “that thought never crossed my mind.”

For a moment, the silence stretched. Then Jason shifted again, voice lower now, careful. “And… about your kid. Tim. He doesn’t know, right? About me?”

“Tim doesn’t know anything about our arrangement,” Bruce said. “And I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

Jason nodded slowly. “Yeah. I figured. He seems… like a good kid. Not the kind who’d…” He trailed off, trying to find a version of the truth that didn’t sting. “Not the kind who’d be cool with it.”

Bruce’s eyes stayed steady on him. “He wouldn’t. And he’d be right not to be.”
But Jason just shrugged, the movement small and defensive. “Sorry, man. Kids like him don’t mix with… people like me. I get it.”

Bruce’s voice softened again, careful. “It’s not about that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Jason gave a half-hearted huff, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. You want me to stay away from him?”

Bruce shook his head. “No. Do whatever you want today. Play video games with Tim. Sleep. Raid the kitchen or take a walk around the property, if you need some fresh air.”

Jason stood there a moment longer, not quite able to make himself move. His shoulders were curved in, like he was trying to take up less space, his voice almost lost to the quiet hum of the computer in the corner.

Bruce glanced back to the papers on his desk, but his tone was still soft when he said, “Go on, Jason. It’s alright.”

Jason gave a quick nod, turned, and slipped out. The door clicked shut behind him, muffled but final. He stood in the hallway for a second, staring at the intricate pattern on the carpet until it blurred. His heart beat a little too fast, not from fear exactly, just that strange mix of guilt and confusion that had been clinging to him since they’d come to the Manor.

Bruce’s words: „He’d be right not to be.“ echoed faintly in his head. He didn’t know why that line hit harder than the rest, but it did.

He dragged a hand through his hair, muttering to himself, “Yeah. Right.” And then, because he didn’t know what else to do, he went back the way he came.

***

Tim was still sprawled on the couch when Jason reappeared in the doorway, controller in hand, the TV screen flashing with a paused game menu.

“Dude,” Tim said without looking up, “you fall in?”
Jason managed a smirk. “Bathroom’s big enough to get lost in.”

Tim snorted and unpaused the game. “Fair point. You ready to lose again?”
Jason dropped onto the couch beside him. “You wish.”

They played. For the next stretch of time, the world narrowed down to color and motion and noise. The bright chaos of the screen, the button clicks, the occasional jab from Tim when Jason missed something obvious. It was easy to fall into that rhythm. Easy to pretend it was normal.

Tim talked like he couldn’t help it, about college, about his classes, his professors, a dog that apparently kept sneaking into their dorm, about Connor, about the Kents’ farm. Jason didn’t catch half of it, but the cadence of it was… comforting. Like a radio he didn’t want to turn off.

Every so often, Jason caught himself glancing at Tim out of the corner of his eye. It was weird, sitting there next to him, hearing him laugh and talk so easily, knowing what Bruce had said upstairs.

Tim doesn’t know anything about our arrangement. And I’d prefer to keep it that way.

Of course Tim didn’t. He wouldn’t look at Jason the same way if he did. He’d look at Jason with that very look - sharp, betrayed, righteous - the kind of anger that only people who’ve grown up sheltered could really afford.

Jason’s fingers tightened on the controller. Bruce was right to keep it quiet. Of course he was. The kid shouldn’t have to know what his father did for fun, what people he surrounded himself with, who he fucked, while his kid was off at college.

Jason wasn’t even mad about it. Not really.
He just couldn’t shake the thought that if Tim found out, it wouldn’t be Bruce he’d hate.

It made sense. He’d think Jason was after money, security, whatever crumbs might fall from the Wayne name. Jason could almost see it: Tim’s face twisting in disgust, asking what kind of person corrupted a good man like Bruce Wayne.

Jason knew the type. Boys like Tim, with soft hands and clean eyes. They looked at guys like Jason and saw someone who’d used what they had to get what they wanted.

Jason stared at the screen, watching his character get knocked flat before he even realized he’d stopped paying attention.

“Ha!” Tim crowed. “See? You blink, you lose.”
Jason huffed, leaning back, forcing a grin. “Guess I’m out of practice.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Tim teased, elbows jabbing lightly at him. “Bet you just can’t handle my superior skills.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “Yeah, that’s gotta be it.”

Tim laughed again, loud, bright and genuine. And for a second, Jason forgot to be on guard. He laughed too, quietly, his chest loosening just a little. It felt strange. Good, but strange. He shouldn’t get used to it.

They’d have to go back to the penthouse eventually. That’s where Bruce’s world with him belonged. Not here. Not with family pictures down the hallway, not with Tim asleep two doors over.

But Bruce wouldn’t ditch his kid to slum it with him in the city, some whore he’d picked up at Cobblepotts fight club, no matter how generous he’d been, no matter that Jason had tried to be good company or how much Jason might have satisfied some passing urge or curiosity. Not that Bruce had even wanted much, really. Just that first night, when he’d dropped to his knees and done what he was paid to do. And that kiss, two days ago. The one that still lingered on the tip of his tongue.

Jason adjusted his grip on the controller, jaw tight. It didn’t matter. None of it did. What mattered was that Bruce was probably already thinking of how to end this. He’d have to. He was too good, too careful, too damn clean to risk his son finding out the truth.

Bruce and him, they couldn’t really go back to the penthouse, not with Tim home for break. And Jason couldn’t stay here, either. Not under the same roof as Bruce’s son, with Alfred watching and all the polished dignity of the manor pressing down on him like a judgment.

Their cover story was weak to begin with; there was no way to stretch it to next weekend, no way to make it last until the fight.

So yeah. Bruce would void the deal early. It was clear. Painfully, humiliatingly clear, that it couldn’t continue. Not with Tim here. Not with that bright, quick kid home from college to spend time with his dad.

Jason just hoped Bruce would be fair about it. That Bruce would tell Cobblepott something polite and measured. Tell him, that something had come up, that he couldn’t continue the arrangement but appreciated Jason’s… services. That it wasn’t Jason’s fault and that he might want to book again. Cobblepott was a businessman. He’d sigh, mark it down, and refund part of the payment.

In those cases, Cobblepott usually gave back Jason’s share to the client, the small portion that was actually his, plus the percentage that went toward debt repayment. Twenty-five percent. Sometimes a little more if the client was valuable, just to keep them happy. It wasn’t much, but it kept the system turning.

That was actually the best-case scenario.

The worst one, that was the one that made Jason’s stomach knot even now, even in this soft-lit room that smelled faintly of coffee, old books and clean linen. If Bruce told Cobblepott that Jason was at fault; if he said the deal was void because Jason wasn’t what he’d paid for, if he implied he’d been difficult, uncooperative or unprofessional, then that was different. Then Cobblepott had to return a bigger cut. And that was when things got ugly.

Cobblepott hated losing money. Cobblepott would call him in late, after everyone else was gone, and have him stand there while he talked about value. About discipline. About how every mistakes cost him. And then he’d make sure Jason felt the cost. Until Jason remembered that he wasn’t a fighter, not really.

The first strike was never the worst one. It was the waiting between them, the anticipation that crawled under your skin until you didn’t know if you were shaking from fear, pain or from the need to get it over with.

Jason had spent nights afterward lying on his belly, back burning, wrists aching from the cuffs. Cobblepott called it “discipline.” Said it kept the boys efficient, reminded them not to waste his time. Jason had learned to stay quiet through it, to breathe evenly and not fight, because fighting only made him go longer.

So yeah. He really hoped Bruce wouldn’t go that route.

And Bruce wouldn’t. He wasn’t that kind of man. Jason knew that, even if it didn’t make sense, even if it scared him to believe it. Bruce would be fair. He’d tell the story clean. Say it wasn’t Jason’s fault. Maybe even say he’d like to book him again, sometime. He wouldn‘t. But Bruce didn‘t care about money. Not enough to lie to get a bigger refund.

The screen flashed bright and meaningless in front of him, but all he could think about was the weight of debt he couldn’t shake, the invisible line that tied him to a man who bled him dry every time someone else walked away.

Bruce wouldn’t blame him. He knew that.
But he’d still leave.

Jason swallowed hard, fingers pressing into the smooth plastic of the controller. The screen flashed red as his character died again, another messy blur of sound and motion.

Jason managed a low laugh, the sound shaky in his chest. He couldn’t explain any of this. Couldn’t tell Bruce what would happen if the deal ended early, couldn’t tell Tim how sitting here playing games made him feel both safe and sick at once.

Chapter Text

The dining room felt like something out of another world. It was all old wood and quiet formality, the kind of place where every scrape of silverware echoed. The long table gleamed under the afternoon light, polished to a mirror sheen, and the smell in the air was unreal: buttery, rich, laced with herbs Jason couldn’t name but wanted to memorize.

The china was white with delicate gold trim, the napkins folded into sharp triangles. A fire burned low in the hearth, more for comfort than heat, its slow crackle filling the spaces between conversation.

Alfred moved through the room with a kind of grace that made Jason straighten automatically, shoulders squared, elbows tucked close. Every of Alfreds gestures had purpose: the way he poured water, the slight incline of his head as he set down the dishes. He sat with them. Jason wasn‘t sure if that was normal for a butler but it definitly seemed normal for the Waynes.

The food looked like something from another life. Roast chicken, the skin crisp, golden, brushed with some sort of honey glaze. The chicken was surrounded by roasted vegetables and tiny potatoes that looked almost too perfect to eat. There was gravy too, smooth and dark, and when Jason tasted it he forgot, for a second, that he was supposed to eat carefully. It melted across his tongue, salty and rich in the way only food made by someone who cares ever is.

He looked up before he could stop himself.
“This is …“ He caught himself, unsure if he should even speak. “It’s… really good, sir. Like, unbelievably good.”

Alfred turned, one brow lifting in mild surprise. “Well, thank you. I do make an effort.”

Jason’s throat tightened. He could feel both Bruce and Tim glance at him, and he wished he could disappear into the chair. But the words were already out, so he forced himself to keep talking, voice low but earnest. “Yeah. I mean it. I’ve… never had food this good before.”

It sounded stupid, childish maybe but he meant every word. Not even the restaurant Bruce took him could compare in the slightest.
“I’m gratified to hear that,” Alfred said, the faintest quirk of amusement tugging at his mouth.

Jason could almost feel Tim’s grin before he saw it.
“Dude, you’re really laying it on thick, huh? You gunning for extra dessert or something?”

Jason froze halfway through cutting another piece of chicken. His stomach went tight.
He managed a quick, apologetic, polite smile “Wouldn’t dare.” His voice came out soft, even, the kind of answer that couldn’t offend anyone.

Alfred’s voice came smoothly, calm but edged with dry amusement. “Politeness, Master Timothy, is its own form of merit. You might consider trying it on occasion.”
Tim groaned. “Et tu, Alfred?”

Bruce glanced up briefly, his gaze steady but unreadable. Jason could feel it, the weight of it, even though Bruce said nothing.

Jason took another bite, slower this time, trying not to look greedy, trying to remember how his mother had taught him not to slouch at the table, how his father - before everything - had told him to say please and thank you. For a second, it almost made him ache.

Tim started talking about something else, some classmate or project, his words quick and easy, and Bruce followed with that quiet patience Jason had started to recognize as affection. Jason listened but didn’t join in.

Every time Alfred came near, Jason thanked him. Automatically. “Thank you, sir.” “Thanks.” “That’s great.” Too many times, probably. He heard himself doing it, again and again, too polite, too eager. That was exactly that kind of thing that marked you as someone used to earning your keep through good behavior. He tried to stop, but the words came out anyway, like muscle memory.

But Alfred never looked irritated. If anything, there was that same faint, amused patience in his eyes. That one older people sometimes had when they’d already decided you were trying your best.

Across the table, Bruce watched quietly, something flickering in his gaze that Jason couldn’t name. Pity, maybe. Or guilt. Or both.

When the plates cleared, Bruce leaned back slightly. “So,” he said, glancing toward Tim, “what do you have planned for the rest of the afternoon?”

Tim perked up immediately. “Actually. I’m meeting up with Steph. We’re catching that new IMAX thing at the theater downtown. It’s supposed to be insane.” He turned toward Jason, eyes bright. “You should come. You’ll love it.”
Jason blinked, caught between confusion and dread. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” Tim grinned, leaning forward on his elbows. “The monster design’s supposed to be unreal. Total nerd heaven.”

Jason hesitated, glancing at Bruce, a quiet, desperate look that said please get me out of this. Say no. Make up an excuse.

But Bruce, apparently, had lost all sense of self-preservation. He just looked between them, utterly unfazed, maybe even amused. “That sounds like a great idea,” he said warmly.

Maybe he was delusional. Maybe he thought control could fix everything. Or maybe he really believed his son wouldn’t notice that the guy he’d brought home “to train” had been bought by the hour.

Every extra second spent with Tim was a risk. Every joke and every glance was a chance for something to slip. The longer they pretended, the easier it would be for the truth to bleed through the cracks.

But Bruce was acting like the longer they played at normal, the safer it got. Like he could juggle decency and sin and still come out untarnished.

And before Jason could open his mouth,
Bruce was already reaching into the pocket of his slacks. He pulled out his wallet, thumbed through the bills, and handed Tim four crisp fifties.

“My treat,” Bruce said, tone gentle but deliberate, making it clear it was for both of them.

Jason stared at the bills too. His stomach knotted. Two hundred dollar. To Bruce, that was pocket change. Movie tickets and junk food money. It was more than double what Cobblepott paid him for a night.

It was more than a month’s worth of groceries if he budgeted right: rice, eggs, toast, some cheap ground beef when he got lucky. It was almost a week of rent. Or, for his mom, three perfect days of high and calm, before the shakes came and she needed more.

Tim gave a low whistle. “Jeez, Dad. You trying to buy the movie rights too?”
Bruce’s voice broke through, calm and measured. “Get dinner afterward, too. Burgers or whatever you kids like these days. And treat Stephanie, please.”

Tim grinned, recovering quickly. “You’re either trying to bribe us or finally feeling guilty for skipping family movie nights.”

Bruce’s mouth quirked. “Call it preventative damage control.”
Tim laughed, tucking the bills into his pocket before standing. Jason still hadn’t moved.

If the kid found out what Jason was, how his dad spent his nights when nobody was looking, it’d all go to hell. Tim would go after his dad, righteous and furious, because that’s what kids like him did when someone crossed a moral line. Bruce would take it. Because that was what men like him did. They took the hit and then fixed the mess with money.

He wouldn’t book Jasons nights again. Not even after time passed, not after the dust settled and life rearranged itself back into something neat and civilized. Not even when enough time had passed for everything to settle. Not after the gifts, the apologies, the quiet gestures to buy back his son’s affection.

The man could probably erase his guilt with a new car or a weeklong family trip, somewhere quiet and expensive, where everything could be forgotten under sunlight and the smell of sea air. That’s how rich guilt worked: burn cash until it stopped smelling like smoke.

And Bruce had the means. But he wouldn’t spend another dollar on Jason. Not even when the house was quiet again, when his kids were gone. Off to college, off to work, off to Dubai.

Jason didn’t just want the money - though God knew he needed that too - needed it bad. But it wasn’t only about that anymore. Somewhere in the quiet between conversations and training, between breakfast and bruises, he’d started craving something else. The steadiness in Bruce’s voice. The way he looked at him like he saw something in Jason, that everyone else was blind too.

That was what Jason wanted. Continuity. Kindness. Something that lasted more than a night. And Bruce was gambling it - all of it - on a stupid movie outing.

Across from him, Alfred poured more coffee into Bruce’s cup and said mildly, to Jason, “I suspect, young man, that you will find Master Timothy’s choice of film… educational, if nothing else.”

Tim made a face. “Educational? Alfred, it’s a monster movie.”
Alfred’s brow arched. “Indeed. And yet, one might learn much from what a young gentleman deems worth his time.”

Bruce hid a smirk behind his napkin. Jason ducked his head, cheeks warm, half-smiling before he realized it.

***

Tim’s car smelled faintly of coffee and clean leather - expensive, understated. The kind of scent that clung to things that had never been secondhand.

Alfred had appeared after lunch with a neat stack of clothes as if he’d been waiting for the request all along. Jeans, a pullover, a light jacket, even a still-sealed pack of socks and boxers. The jeans fit surprisingly well, a little loose around the waist, soft with wear. The pullover was thick, warm, something that didn’t itch or smell of smoke. The sneakers were Adidas, the kind of mid-range brand rich people wore when they wanted to look casual.

Jason had murmured his thanks, quiet and awkward, because what else could he say? Alfred just gave a small nod, like it was the most natural thing in the world to outfit someone who’d walked in the night before barefoot and bloodied.

Now, riding shotgun in Tim’s sleek, too-smooth car, Jason tried to look out the window instead of at the interior. All clean lines, soft upholstery, and quiet luxury. Even the way the doors closed sounded expensive. He didn’t belong in cars like this.

Cars like this belonged to people who had insurance and family vacations and plans for the summer. And somtimes car like those belonged to men with enough money to buy some hours of Jasons time.

Tim filled the silence easily, talking about professors, dorm life, movie franchises, the kind of things that didn’t need answers. Jason let him. The rhythm of Tim’s chatter was easy, warm in a way he wasn’t used to.
When they pulled into the theater parking lot, the noon sun glared off the car’s hood. Tim parked with practiced care.

Jason followed him toward the front, hands shoved in the borrowed jacket’s pockets.

The theater was already busy. The smell of buttered popcorn heavy in the air, sunlight glinting off the glass doors. Tim spotted her first. “Steph!”

She turned, smiled, quick and easy. But when her gaze landed on Jason, her eyes flicked over his face, almost searching.

Jason blinked, uneasy, trying to place her. Blond ponytail, denim jacket, smart eyes. Nothing. He’d never seen her before. He would’ve remembered.

Tim, oblivious, said, “This is Jason. He’s, uh, staying with us for a bit.”

Steph’s mouth twitched. The faintest pause, then the smile came back, practiced and light. “Hi, Jason. Nice to meet you.”

“Hey.” Jason said softly, forcing a nod. “You too.”

Her tone stayed friendly, but her eyes lingered. A little too long.

Tim didn’t notice, already launching into some story about the movie, tickets in hand. But Jason could feel Steph’s gaze flicking back to him once, twice, as they walked inside.

Something in Jason’s gut tightened. He didn’t know why, but he felt suddenly cold under his borrowed jacket, like she’d looked straight through him and found the truth buried under his silence.

***

The burger place had that polished, fake-rustic charm that rich kids and art students loved. Exposed brick, metal stools, a blackboard menu with ironic doodles of cows and fries and homemade lemonade in mason jar glasses. The air smelled like caramelized onions and charred meat, and Jason thought it was perfect.

He sat across from Tim and Steph, hands loose around his glass of lemonade, the condensation slick against his fingers.

Tim and Steph talked easily, bouncing from movies to professors to some story about a friend who’d dyed their hair green and regretted it instantly. Their voices were overlapping, easy and fast, full of shorthand and inside jokes Jason didn’t get but liked hearing anyway. He smiled sometimes, half a beat too late, more to blend in than to add anything.

The food was incredible. Grease slicked his fingers, the soft bun pressed warm against his palms, the fries were thick and salty and hot enough to sting his tongue.

The burger in front of him was almost obscene in size, double patty, melted cheese, sauce dripping onto the wax paper. He hadn’t eaten anything like it in months. Maybe years.

He took slow, deliberate bites, trying not to make a mess. It tasted like salt and fat and comfort. Like everything he’d learned to live without.

Tim finished his drink, stretched, and pushed back his chair. “I’m gonna hit the bathroom. Don’t eat my fries.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Steph said dryly.
Jason offered a small grin as Tim left, watching him weave through the tables before the bathroom door swung shut behind him. Then, for a moment, there was only the music playing low through the speakers.

Steph’s gaze slid back to him, sharper now, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her glass. “So,” she said, voice easy, like she was making conversation. “Tim said you’re staying at the manor.”
Jason nodded once, wary. “Yeah.”
“How long have you known them?”
“Couple days.”

She hummed. It was not surprise, not quite suspicion either. Just something thoughtful. Then her eyes locked on his, and her tone changed. Softer. Lower. “Did Tim buy your time?”

Jason froze, the last of his burger halfway back to the paper. The words landed like a punch.
He set the burger down carefully, wiped his hands on a napkin to give himself a second. “No,” he said finally. “Pretty sure he’s head over heels for that farm boy of his.” That part, at least, was true.

Steph didn’t smile. “Cute deflection. But that’s not what I asked.”
Jason’s jaw tightened. “You always ask strangers that kind of thing?”

“Only when people look like they’re hiding in plain sight,” Steph said.
Jason looked down at his plate, forcing a dry laugh that didn’t quite sound right. “You’ve got a hell of an imagination.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe I’m just good with faces.”
He felt something cold settle under his skin. “You don’t know me.”

Steph leaned back, unbothered. “You sure? Guys like you stand out.”
Jason’s stomach turned, but he kept his voice even. “Don’t know what that means.”

“I know you do.”

The silence stretched between them. Jason’s pulse thudded in his jaw, but he kept his voice level when he finally spoke again. “You know a lot for someone who just met me.”

Steph tilted her head, the corner of her mouth twitching in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“My mom works for Cobblepott.”
Jason went still.
“You know that name, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “That’s what I thought.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table now, lowering her voice.

Jason swallowed, his throat dry. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Steph’s gaze didn’t waver. “Don’t I?”
For a long moment, they just stared at each other, the air tight between them.

Jason exhaled slowly, eyes darting toward the hallway where Tim had disappeared. “Look,” he said finally, quieter. He focused on the fries instead, pushing them around the plate. “His dad is only training me. I’m fighting the cages for Cobblepott. Nothing more,” he added, the lie smooth now, practiced. Not all the way false, just bent into something easier to hold.

Steph hummed. “Training you, huh? That what we’re calling it?”
He looked up, startled. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means you’re lying.”

Jason blinked. “What’s your deal? You don’t even know me.”
“I know a lie when I hear one,” she said, calm but not unkind. “My mom lies for a living. I grew up listening to people spin crap so clean they almost believed it.”

Jason’s throat tightened. “You think you know something? You don’t know anything.”
Steph leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes steady. “Then tell me. What’s true?”

He opened his mouth but nothing came out. The silence stretched until it hurt.
Finally, he said softly. “I just… don’t want trouble, okay?”

Steph tilted her head, studying him. “You look like trouble finds you whether you want it or not.”

Jason’s hand stilled on the table. He didn’t look up. “His dad didn’t knew that Tim was coming home,” he said quietly. “He wouldn’t have brought me to the manor if he had.”
“Sure,” Steph said, dryly. “Who’d want their kid to know he was fucking a guy the same age as them.”

Jason flinched. A tiny, involuntary movement, but enough. “Come on…” he started, voice low, tired. “You don’t know…“
“I’m not gonna tell Tim,” she cut in, sharp but not loud.

Jason’s throat was dry. “Why wouldn’t you?”
Steph leaned back in her chair, arms crossing loosely, the easy posture not matching the tension in her voice. “Tim’s a good person,” she said finally. “The best I know.” She paused, eyes flicking toward the window before she met his gaze again.
“His bio-parents were assholes who bailed when he was little. Tim’s not losing his dad because Bruce Wayne can’t keep it in his pants.”

She let the words hang, her tone flat now. “Tim’s my best friend. If you screw with him…” Her voice dropped lower, almost conversational, but her eyes were hard. “Let’s just say my mom’s good at making people do what she wants.”

Jason went still, his knuckles white around the edge of the table.
“I mean it,” Steph said flatly. “If you screw Tim over - or his dad does - I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Jason’s brow furrowed, the words catching him off guard. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” she said, leaning forward, “my mom’s handles Cobblepotts girls, makes sure they don’t step out of line. If she tells him you made trouble, or lost him money…“ she shrugged lightly “who would he believe?”

Jason’s stomach went cold.
“Sure,” he said after a beat. “One rumor, and I’m his entertainment for the night.”
“I don’t want to get you hurt,” she said quietly, “but I will if you mess with Tim. Do you understand me?”
Jason swallowed, nodding once, barely. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Yeah, I get it.”
Steph leaned back, eyes unreadable. “Good.”

The tension lingered, a taut line between them. Then the bathroom door swung open, and Tim reappeared, grinning as he dropped into his seat again. “So what’d I miss?”
“Nothing,” Steph said smoothly, already reaching for a fry. “Just girl talk.”

Jason picked up his drink again, looking relaxed enough when he said it. “Yeah. She’s great.”
Tim grinned, totally missing it. “Knew you two would hit it off.”
“Yeah,” Jason said, tone flat. “Guess we did.”

Chapter Text

Jason waited. The manor had a certain hush at night, ancient wood and old secrets settled into the walls. Tim's door had been quiet for a while now, and Alfred, predictably, had retired early like the old did.

Jason listened for long minutes, motionless in the dim hallway, until he was sure there would be no interruptions.
He padded barefoot down the corridor, stopping in front of Bruce’s door.
He hesitated only a second before knocking, knuckles light on the thick, dark wood.
A quiet voice answered. “Come in.”

Jason pushed the door open and slipped inside.
The lighting was soft. Bruce sat in bed, propped up against pillows, Ipad in hand, a quiet domestic image that shouldn’t have done anything to Jason, but it did. Bruce looked up, met his gaze, and the stillness stretched between them.

"You’re up late," Bruce said evenly, setting the Ipad aside.
Jason shrugged, shutting the door behind him. "Couldn’t sleep."
A beat. Bruce tilted his head slightly, watching him like he always did, not with suspicion, but with an unreadable calculation. Like Jason was something he was still trying to understand.

Jason crossed the room slowly
"I’ve been thinking," he said, eyes flicking to Bruce’s, then away. "About… this. Us.“

He didn’t say Cobblepott, not yet. He wasn’t here to talk business. Not immediately.
Bruce studied him in silence, his gaze unreadable but not cold. Jason shifted closer, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.

“I know what I’m doing,” Jason continued, voice lower now, more controlled. “I know what this started as. But things change.”
He paused. His gaze moved over Bruce. Over the quiet steadiness in his face, the weariness in his shoulders.

Jason reached out, brushing his fingers along Bruce’s forearm. The gesture was gentle, testing the air between them.
Bruce went still, but he was not pulling away. He looked like a man who’d already had this argument with himself a dozen times and didn’t want to start another.

Jason hesitated, the words slipping out before he could swallow them back. “You don’t want me?”
Bruce’s eyes lifted to his, and the look there made Jason’s chest ache. “That’s not it,” Bruce said quietly. His voice was rough, low and too honest. “I don’t think this is fair to you.”

Jason almost laughed, but it came out thin. Fair. That was a new one. Nobody had ever used that word with him before, not when it came to touch. He shifted, searching Bruce’s face, trying to read what the man wasn’t saying.

Maybe it was the age thing. Or the whole mess of how they met, him being the kid Bruce bought time with. Or maybe Bruce just didn’t wanna be that guy. The kind who took what was right there, even if it was offered.

But when Jason really looked, it wasn’t disgust on Bruce’s face. Wasn’t pity either. It was want. Buried deep, under all that control he wore like armor.

If guilt was what was keeping Bruce from touching him, maybe Jason could fix that. Make it easy. Make it simple.

“You keep deciding what’s right for me, but you’re the only good thing I got right now. That’s not fair either.”

Jason didn’t say a word about his real plan. Not a word about convincing Bruce to not end the deal early, nothing about the penthouse, nothing about avoiding Tim and that terrifying blonde friend of his.

This wasn’t manipulation. Not exactly. It was… strategy. With benefits.
And if he had to show a good time, then so be it.

Jason leaned in, waiting for any sign that Bruce wanted him to stop. There wasn’t one.
Bruce’s eyes had softened instead. He didn’t need to say yes. Jason could feel the door opening.

Just the smallest breath, the smallest shift before threir mouths met, cautious at first, more question than demand. Bruce’s hand came up, fingers brushing Jason’s jaw, the touch so gentle it made his throat tighten.

Jason moved closer, his hand coming to rest on Bruce’s knee. He felt the warmth there, the slow tension in the muscles, and the stillness that came with restraint.

Jason leaned in and kissed him again, slow at first, not really testing boundaries anymore, but inviting them to shift. Bruce responded, with a kind of careful certainty. His hand came to Jason’s back, fingers spreading there as if grounding himself.
The kiss deepened, quiet and unhurried.
There was something different this time, something that hadn’t been there before.

Jason’s heart was pounding, but he didn’t let it show. He slid his hand over Bruce’s chest, fingers stroking the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth beneath and Bruce moaned into the kiss.

Jason moved to straddle Bruce’s lap, and they broke apart just enough for Jason to look down at him. “I want you,” he said, more vulnerable than he meant to sound.

Bruce searched his face. The silence felt thick, heavy, but not empty. But then Bruce kissed him again. He exhaled against Jasons mouth, a slow, quiet sound that Jason felt more than heard. Bruce‘s hands had moved too, resting on Jason’s hips, firm and steady. Grounding. Their mouths opened to each other again, the kiss turning exploratory now, slow and deep. Jason shifted in closer, knees brushing Bruce’s thigh where the blankets pooled.

His fingers went to the first button of Bruce’s shirt. The fabric was soft and crisp, still warm from his body. One by one, Jason slipped the buttons free, eyes following the slow reveal of skin beneath, toned, a tiny bit of hair on his chest, a scar here and there. Intimate in a way that was new.

Bruce didn’t speak. He just watched him, breath shallow, chest rising and falling. When the shirt was open, Jason leaned in and kissed the center of his chest.

His hands explored as he kissed, up Bruce’s chest, over his shoulders, then down again. Bruce let his head fall back for a moment, eyes fluttering shut, mouth slightly parted. His hands slid under Jason’s shirt, pushing it up, fingertips grazing bare skin with slow reverence.

They undressed each other like a ritual, not a race: shirts peeled away, pants, layers that fell away one after the other. The silence was full, of breath, of tension, of the kind of vulnerability that couldn’t exist outside the dark.

Jason lay back against the pillows, half-propped, eyes watching Bruce through a lazy, dark-lashed gaze that belied the heat rolling through him. His fingers skimmed up Bruce’s arm, tracing the curve of muscle, the tension barely held beneath it.
He wasn’t nervous. Not even close. Jason knew his body, what he could take. Hell, he had taken more than most. He was used to rough hands, used to being grabbed and used.

There was nothing fragile about him. And he didn’t expect that from Bruce, either. Not really.

Which is why the care caught him off guard.
Bruce hovered above him, gaze lingering, thoughtful. His hand stroked down Jason’s thigh slowly, deliberately. When Jason parted his legs in invitation, a faint smirk played at the corners of his mouth, like let’s not pretend this is delicate, but Bruce didn’t move fast. He reached for the small bottle in the drawer.

Bruce’s fingers brushed Jason’s hip, then lower, slow and respectful. He circled Jason with steady fingers slicked warm, not rushing, working him open with care. Jason let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold, not from pain, but from surprise. It didn’t feel clinical, or perfunctory. It felt like attention. Like Bruce was paying attention in a way no one else ever had.

Jason tilted his head back and let his eyes slip shut, arms draped loose at his sides. His body reacted easily, responsive, pliant. Still, Bruce moved like he had all the time in the world.

“You’re being soft,” Jason muttered, voice low and dry with amusement.
Bruce leaned down, pressed a kiss just below Jason’s jaw. “No one’s ever been soft with you?”

Jason huffed. “Not like this.”
Bruce didn’t answer with words. He kissed him again, deeper this time, while his fingers worked Jason open with such careful precision it was almost maddening.

He wasn’t treating Jason like glass. He knew Jason was strong, could take it, had taken worse, but he treated him like he mattered.
And that was worse. That was dangerous.

Jason held onto that kiss a second longer, not sure if he was trying to drown in it or climb out of himself for a moment. His body had long since adjusted, there was no discomfort, only tension building low and sharp, and Bruce hadn’t even …

Jason broke the kiss with a sigh, a breathless edge creeping into it. “You planning on easing me open for the next hour?”
“Maybe I do,” Bruce murmured against his throat.

Jason laughed, soft, surprised, too fond, and let his hand slide down Bruce’s back, urging him closer. “Just fuck me already.”

But when Bruce breached him, after rolling a condom over his large cock, he didn’t move at first. Even with Jason’s breath hot against his neck, even with the clear invitation in the press of Jason’s hips and the way his hand curled at the back of Bruce’s neck, drawing him in, Bruce stayed still, exhaling like he was centering himself.

Jason almost made a joke. Almost called him out for being reverent, like he was something sacred instead of someone very willing and very ready to be ruined. But he didn’t. There was something in the air between them too serious to cut, too honest to break.

When Bruce finally moved, it was slow. Measured. He guided himself carefully, his hands splayed wide on Jason’s hips, steadying him, grounding them both. Jason’s breath caught, his body tensing instinctively, but not from fear, more from the way Bruce felt. Big. Warming. Patient.
Too much in the best possible way.

Jason exhaled long and low through his nose, his hand gripping the sheet beside him. Bruce kissed his shoulder, murmured something soft Jason didn’t catch. Not because it wasn’t loud enough, but because his focus was narrowed to the deep stretch and the burn that came with it.

Bruce was slow. Incredibly so. Like he was giving Jason time to feel everything. Every inch. Every inch that made Jason curse softly into the crook of Bruce’s neck, not because he couldn’t take it - he could, easily - but because the care behind it was unnerving in a way nothing else was.

Jason wasn’t used to being cherished.
And that was the part that wrecked him more than anything.

“You’re okay?” Bruce asked, voice low and steady, his breath a warm rush across Jason’s skin.
Jason nodded, jaw tight. “I’m good.” A beat. “You’re just… a lot.”

Bruce didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. He kissed Jason’s temple and rocked in just a little deeper, slowly, as if he was working in layers of trust, not just movement.

Jason exhaled again, looser this time, the tension beginning to give way to something hotter and needier. His legs shifted, wrapping tighter around Bruce’s waist, drawing him in, inviting more. He pressed his mouth to Bruce’s collarbone and bit down lightly, a warning shot. Bruce got the message.

The next roll of his hips was deeper. Firmer. Still controlled, but less hesitant. Jason arched into it with a low, open-mouthed groan, his nails dragging lightly down Bruce’s back.
“Yeah,” Jason breathed, eyes half-lidded now, lips brushing the shell of Bruce’s ear. “Just like that. You can go harder.”

Bruce didn’t speak, but the rhythm changed, subtly at first. Less patience. More intention. His hands slid under Jason’s back, lifting him just slightly, anchoring him to the rhythm. The warmth built between them, sweat slicking skin, breath coming faster.
Jason’s head tilted back, exposing his throat.

But even as things got rougher, faster, there was still that maddening undercurrent of care in Bruce’s hands, in his touch, in the way he never lost that steady control.
It undid Jason more than the pace ever could.

Jason’s body arched into each thrust, meeting Bruce in perfect sync.
Bruce’s angle shifted, and Jason let out a gasp, sharp and almost shocked, when pressure landed on the spot that made everything below his waist tighten.

Jason moaned, low and earnest. Bruce responded by adjusting his grip, locking into the angle like muscle memory. And with each stroke, the tension in Jason’s body wound tighter, his fingers clutching at Bruce’s shoulders, nails dragging shallow lines across skin slick with heat.

When Bruce wrapped a hand around him, stroking in time, Jason choked out a sound that wasn’t even a word. He was close - too close - and Bruce seemed to know it. His rhythm didn’t falter, the friction building until Jason was gasping, forehead pressed to Bruce’s shoulder.

“Please … I’m…“ He broke off into a groan as Bruce stroked him just a little faster, just a little harder, every motion deliberate, relentless.

“Come for me, Jason,“ Bruce said softly, almost in his ear.

The way Bruce said his name, low, commanding and incredible steady, undid him completely.

Jason’s body locked up as he came, his voice breaking into something raw, open, utterly spent. His grip on Bruce tightened, then loosened as the waves crashed through him. He collapsed back into the bed, chest heaving, thighs trembling, his body hypersensitive all over. But Bruce didn’t stop. Not completely.

He slowed, noticeably, shifting his weight just enough to ease the pressure, no longer grinding against that sweet spot, just rolling into him gently, like he could tell every nerve in Jason’s body was lit up and unsteady. Jason let out a shaky exhale, arms falling back onto the sheets, muscles loose and limp.

Normally, he hated this part. The overstimulation. The way it always felt like too much, like anything after climax turned to discomfort or white noise.

But Bruce… didn’t push. He moved slowly, even sweetly, his hand resting over Jason’s side, lips brushing his temple in a gesture too quiet to be anything but real. He gave Jason space to recover even as he kept moving, slower, deeper.

And somewhere in the haze, Jason felt his body react again. That familiar stir of want building slowly back beneath the surface, surprising, but not unwelcome.

“You alright?” Bruce asked, voice low and breathless against his skin.
Jason nodded faintly, chest still rising and falling.

Bruce chuckled softly, barely there, and adjusted his angle again. The thrusts grew deeper now, more intense, the restraint beginning to fray around the edges.
Jason could feel it: the change in Bruce’s breathing, the tight grip at his waist, the way each movement carried a little more urgency. Bruce buried himself deeper, chasing something he was no longer holding back.

When he finally came, it was with a quiet, guttural sound. No theatrics, no wild thrusting, just a deep, full-body release that left him trembling above Jason, chest pressed to his.

Jason was still catching his breath, chest rising and falling beneath Bruce's, skin cooling but still humming with aftershocks.

Bruce shifted slightly, bracing himself on one elbow as he looked down at Jason, flushed, tousled, beautifully wrecked, but with a tension still coiled low in his frame. Bruce’s gaze dropped for only a second before he let his fingers trace a slow, thoughtful path down Jason’s chest.

“You’re not finished,” he said quietly, more observation than question.
Jason gave a half-smile, still catching his breath. “Apparently not. Perks of the young.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched. “So I’ve heard.”
His fingers drifted lower, but not urgently, just light, teasing contact.

Jason’s skin jumped beneath the touch, and Bruce grinned faintly at the reaction. Then, with no warning, he changed course entirely, brushing his thumb across one of Jason’s nipples, slow and deliberate. Jason’s breath hitched.

Bruce did it again, a little more firmly this time, watching Jason’s face as his body arched ever so slightly into the touch. His other hand followed suit, stroking lazily across Jason’s torso, coaxing instead of claiming. Jason squirmed beneath him, not in protest but in response.

“Sensitive,” Bruce murmured, brushing his thumb over the other nipple, then circling it with maddening patience.
“Mean,” Jason muttered, his voice low and ragged. “You’re being mean.”

Bruce chuckled softly, dipping down to press a kiss just below Jason’s collarbone. “You’re still hard,” he pointed out, as if it justified everything.
Jason bit down on a sound, half-laugh, half-moan, fingers twitching where they gripped the sheet. “Because you’re doing things to me.”

Bruce didn’t stop. His touches remained feather-light, almost playful, his thumbs flicking, circling, teasing but never giving Jason quite enough. Just enough to keep him burning.

Jason’s body shifted again, hips rising instinctively, when Bruces large hand wrapped around Jasons dick, strocking him. Jason breath came sharper now, a low moan.

When Bruce finally leaned in and lapped at his nipple, slow and deep, just the right amount of spit and teeth, Jason melted under it, letting the tension crest and spill out of him.

He came again with a low, stunned sound, muffled against Bruce’s shoulder, body curling inward slightly from the sensitivity, the sharp edge of overstimulation made bearable only by the warm weight of Bruce’s hand stroking through it.

This time, it was even gentler. Not raw, not explosive, just soothing him through it. Jason wasn’t used to feeling like this after getting fucked.

Chapter Text

The room had settled into a warm silence. The sheets were tangled around their legs, the air still thick with heat and the soft hum of what they'd just shared. Bruce was half-drifted, one hand resting on his own chest, his breathing even.

Jason shifted slightly, turning onto his side to face him, propping his head on one arm. He studied Bruce for a moment in the dim light, taking in the strong lines softened by dim glow of the nightlight.

Watching Bruces reluctance to fall asleep right next to Jason, meant Bruce’s mind was turning again, toward responsibility, toward the house outside this room.

Jason bit the inside of his cheek, then reached out and gently brushed his knuckles over Bruce’s biceps.
“So…” he started casually.

Bruce cracked one eye open. “So.”
Jason hesitated a beat, then dropped his voice into something lower.
“What if,” he murmured, “we took this whole thing back to the penthouse?”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. Jason traced a lazy line across Bruce’s chest, pretending not to care.
“I mean, think about it,” he continued, the puppy dog look fully in place now, eyes wide, voice soft, just this side of pleading. “Privacy. Actual space. Less emotionally unstable teenagers. And,” he added, a little smile pulling at his lips, “way more room for... training.”

Bruce raised a brow again. “Training.”
Jason nodded solemnly. “Intense. Physical. Very thorough. We could start early. Go all night. Lots of hands-on technique.”
Bruce stared at him, completely deadpan.
Jason pouted, hoping it would work on Bruce. “C’mon. You liked tonight.”
That earned the smallest, real smile from Bruce. Jason leaned closer, catching that shift in expression.

“I did,” Bruce admitted.
“So let’s do more of that. There. Just us.” Jason let his voice dip into something quieter. “No distractions.”

There was a flicker of something behind Bruce’s eyes. Thought, consideration, maybe even amusement.
He reached up and brushed his thumb along Jason’s jaw, a gesture so steady it felt like an answer in itself. “You really think no one would notice if I disappeared to the penthouse with you?”

There it was - the warning bell. The moment where Bruce would tell him that he was voiding the deal early. Why shouldn’t he. Jason might have been a good fuck but he wasn’t good enoigh for Bruce to stick with him and risk his kids finding out.

Jason could already see it playing out, if Bruce wouldn‘t bring him back to Cobblepott: Bruce spending long afternoons with the kid, forcing Jason to tag along, Tim getting curious and starting noticing the patterns. Jasons rough voice during breakfast, Bruce’s study door staying locked and Jason nowhere to find.

The kid would throw a tantrum and Steph would drop by to remind Jason that fucking hell awaited him once he came back to Cobblepotts.

Jason forced a grin. “I think if you don’t, someone’s going to notice a lot more around here.”

Bruce exhaled through his nose, the smallest sign he was tempted. Jason leaned in, brushing a kiss against his shoulder, casual but coaxing. He needed it to work.

Bruce didn’t answer right away. His hand came up to rest at the back of Jason’s neck, thumb tracing slow circles there.

“Good thing, then,” Bruce said quietly, voice low against the hush of the room. “Tim’s going on a last-minute trip with Steph. Florida. Something about visiting her dad, Universal Studios… tourist stuff.”

Bruce’s hand was still at the back of Jason’s neck, warm and steady, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against his skin. Jason leaned into it without thinking, letting his weight rest there. He could feel the strength in Bruce’s grip, solid and controlled, but it wasn’t rough. It was gentle in a way Jason wasn’t used to, a kind of touch that didn’t demand anything right away.

Jason blinked, head still tilted slightly into Bruce’s hand. “He’s leaving? When?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Bruce said. “They decided a few hours ago.”

Jason nodded slowly, the information sinking in like warmth spreading through his chest. “Guess that’s… convenient.”
Bruce’s hand shifted, his thumb brushing lightly under Jason’s jaw. “Convenient?”

Jason gave a small, crooked grin. “Just means I won’t be stepping on anyone’s toes, right? Less drama. Less… eyes around.”

Steph was sharp and loud and maybe a little scary, but she looked out for Tim in a way Jason understood. She was loyal, almost feral about it. Keeping Tim busy, keeping him happy. Keeping him far away from this. Whatever this was. From the sight of his dad tangled up with someone Tims own age.

Steph wasn’t protecting Bruce or Jason. She was protecting Tim. And somehow, Jason respected the hell out of that.

He turned his face into Bruce’s palm, pressing a faint kiss against the edge of his thumb before murmuring, “Seems like it’s just us again, then.”

Bruce’s fingers tightened, just a fraction. “Seems that way.”
Jason smiled faintly, eyes slipping half-closed. “Could be worse.”

He meant it, too. Back at the penthouse, there wouldn’t be any sharp-eyed butler noticing a damn thing, no curious kid hovering around corners, trying to rope Jason into being friends instead of doing his fucking job by pleasing the kids dad. And Jason could do that, be what Bruce needed, what Bruce had paid for - no strings, no guilt.

He felt Bruce’s thumb still, resting against his pulse. “Guess it’s good timing then,” he said softly.

They lay there for a while, neither saying much. Jason could still feel the ghost of Bruce’s touch against his neck.
After a minute, Jason cleared his throat. He wanted to ask before he lost his nerve. “So… when’re we heading out tomorrow?”

“After breakfast,” Bruce said, voice quiet but sure. “I want to see Tim off before we go.”
Jason nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Yeah. Makes sense.” He hesitated,
“Uh… would it be a problem if we stopped by my place first?”

Bruce’s brow shifted, not frowning, just paying attention. “Your place?”
“Yeah, uh…“ Jason’s tongue felt clumsy. “At my place. It’s been a bit since I … y’know.” He cleared his throat, scratching lightly at his arm. “Wanna make sure she’s got food and stuff. There’s a store right by the building. Wouldn’t take long. Ten minutes, tops.”

He could already picture it. Bruce sitting in his car out front, bored or annoyed, checking his watch while Jason ran up the cracked stairs of the building that still smelled like bleach and smoke. The flicker in the hallway light, his mom pretending she didn’t need any food, getting her to eat a bite, hoping for no vomit this time. It wouldn’t be ten minutes. It never was.

Jason tried to fill the silence before Bruce could say no. “I’ll be quick. Just… it’s been a while …and she doesn’t got anyone else to help with that stuff.”

He waited for the sigh, the look, the reminder that time was money.
Instead Bruce’s hand shifted, fingers brushing the back of Jason’s neck again, slow and grounding. “Jason,” he said, and there was something in his voice that made Jason’s chest tighten. “Of course we’ll stop.”

Jason blinked at him, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Yeah? You sure? You got better things to do than wait around outside my mom’s place.”

Jason couldn’t help doing the math. Bruce’s time had a number attached to it. Everything did when you’d spent long enough trying to survive by selling your own.

If Bruce had to sit in his car for thirty minutes, that was… what? Tens of thousands in lost deals? A board waiting for signatures?

Jason’s pulse ticked harder. He knew how much an hour of Bruce’s life cost. It was obscene. People like Bruce didn’t wait. They didn’t park on cracked curbs in neighborhoods that smelled like rain and fried food and exhaustion.

Bruce’s thumb moved in small, steady circles. “If it matters to you, it’s worth the time.”

Jason looked away, heat crawling up the back of his neck, stupid and teenage and exposed. “You say that now,” he muttered, trying to hide the way his throat felt tight. “Wait ‘til you’re stuck out there with some guy asking for spare change.”

Bruce actually smiled, small and quiet. “I can handle that.”
Jason huffed a laugh, mostly to cover how much that landed.

They stayed like that for another minute, Bruce’s thumb moved once against his skin, before he said: “Get some sleep. We’ll leave after breakfast.”

Jason managed a rough “Yeah,” before pulling back. He grabbed his shirt and pants off the floor, got dressed quickly and started for the door. He hesitated there, one hand on the frame, feeling the words sit in his throat like a bruise.
“Thanks,” he said finally, quiet. “Seriously.”

Bruce nodded. “Goodnight, Jason.”
Jason looked back, one hand on the handle, trying for a grin. “Night, Bruce.”

***

Alfred had already packed the car when they came downstairs, and the smell of coffee still clung to the hall. Tim stood by the door, backpack slung over one shoulder, Steph chattered easily about their flight, about Florida weather and the theme-park tickets she’d scored. Bruce listened, patient, even amused.

“Have fun,” he said, pressing a kiss to the side of his sons head like it was automatic. It was sweet, Jason thought, pushing the longing down.
“Call whenever you need something. Both of you.”

Tim rolled his eyes but smiled. “Yeah, yeah, I will.”
Steph rolled her eyes. “We’re going to Florida, not a war zone.”

Bruce’s hand stayed on Tim’s shoulder just a little longer, his thumb rubbing absently through the fabric like he couldn’t stop himself. Jason looked away, throat tight.

His own old man used to do that. A hand on Jasons shoulder, a ruffle of hair, just something to say you’re my kid. He’d shown up at parent-teacher meetings, brought Jason cheap little plastic cars, went with him to check out a ton of books every couple weeks at the library, told him he was smart.

But dad also got sad when he drank and angry when he felt cornered. Now he was rotting in Blackgate and Jason hadn’t visited him for more than half a year - Cobblepott only aranged it when Jason had been extra good and recently Jason hadn’t managed to earn that. Maybe after the weekend, after the fight, after earning Cobblepott a hefty sum through the gig with Wayne …

Jason missed his dad. Watching Bruce say goodbye to Tim, Jason felt a pulse of something sharp under his ribs. Loss, envy, maybe both.

He looked away again, tugging at the waistband of the borrowed jeans.

By the time Alfred drove off with Tim and Steph to get them to the airport, Bruce and Jason pulled away from the manor too. Jason’s chest felt hollow. He watched the trees roll past the window, the city slowly creeping back into view. Jason kept his eyes on the passing city, counting blocks until the streets grew familiar - cracked sidewalks, neon signs, people smoking on stoops. Home, kind of.

Bruce drove quiet, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the console. Jason could feel the weight of the silence between them, not bad, just thick.

They stopped in front of the corner store that sat crooked between a laundromat and a payday loan place, the shops window cluttered with sun-bleached advertisements. Bruce cut the engine.

Jason reached for the pocket of his borrowed jeans and froze. Empty. He checked the other one. Still nothing. Back pocket. Damn.

“Shit.”
Bruce looked over immediately. “What is it?”
Jason patted himself down, checking the borrowed jeans again, even though he already knew. He stared at the dashboard, heart already starting to kick. “My wallet’s still at the penthouse. Damn it.”

He didn’t move right away. His pulse was climbing too fast. His mom needed stuff. He’d promised himself he’d take care of it, and now he couldn’t even buy her bread. He couldn’t walk in there and ask for a tab; the owner had cut him off months ago. And Bruce …

Bruce was looking at him, waiting. Jason forced out a laugh that sounded wrong. “This is stupid, I just ...” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the glovebox like it might swallow him. “You think I could maybe borrow, like, a twenty? Just till we get back. I’ll pay you back right away. I swear.”

Bruce didn’t even blink. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, made of sleek, heavy leather, the kind that probably cost more than Jason’s whole wardrobe, and just handed it to him.

“Get whatever you need,” he said simply. Jason froze, the wallet solid in his hands, warmer than it should’ve been. For a second, he thought Bruce was joking, that he’d meant to pull out a bill, not the whole thing. But Bruce just looked at him, calm and steady, already turning his gaze back to the street like it wasn’t a big deal.

Jason stared down at it. The thing felt like a brick, thick with cards, folded cash, IDs, everything. “What, you’re just…” Jason stopped himself. “You’re serious?”

Bruce’s mouth curved, just slightly. “I trust you.”
Jason swallowed. “That’s kinda dumb,” he muttered, but his voice came out softer than he meant.

“Maybe,” Bruce said. “But it’s fine.”
Jason turned the wallet over in his hands, thumbs brushing the stitching. Most guys kept their hand on their cash the whole time they were near him, sure he’d grab a couple bills if he got the chance.

“Crazy rich guy,” Jason murmured under his breath, shaking his head. He pushed the door open, stepping out into the weak morning sunlight. The street smelled like coffee and car exhaust. He could still feel the weight of Bruce’s wallet in his hand, heavier than it should’ve been.

He shoved it into his back pocket and started toward the corner store. The jeans felt too tight at the knees, the waistband a little loose.

The bell over the door jingled when he pushed it open, and the familiar smell of cheap coffee, fryer oil and detergent hit him. The same corner store he’d known since he was a kid, same cracked linoleum, same old man behind the counter who didn’t bother looking up from his paper.

Jason took a plastic basket, handle tacky from years of use, and moved quickly down the aisles. The shelves were narrow and close together, stocked half-heartedly, but he knew what he was looking for. Things his mom could actually eat. Not cook, nothing much to prepare. Just open, bite, swallow.

She didn’t cook anymore. Not even water for instant coffee. The stove had gone cold months ago. When she was high, she didn’t remember to eat at all; when she was crashing, her hands shook too much to hold a pan steady.

Jason grabbed some bread first. The cheapest loaf he could find, soft enough to eat even when it turned stale in a couple days. Then bananas. She still liked those when she remembered to eat.

He passed the coffee aisle anyway, just out of habit. His hand hovered over a jar of instant mix before he pulled it back. No point, he thought. She wouldn’t use it unless he was there to make it for her. And he wasn’t.

He threw in a jar of peanut butter. Protein, shelf stable, something to spread on the bread if she remembered to. Some cheap crackers. Canned peaches, easy sugar. And mom liked them. He hesitated, then added another can. They’d last. He added some canned beans, she could eat them cold, but they‘d be good for her.

The weight of Bruce’s wallet pressed against his back pocket. Heavy. Solid. It felt like too much, like something he shouldn’t be trusted with. He’d never even held that much cash at once. There were credit cards in there too, maybe black ones. Things that could buy a damn car.

At the refrigerated section Jason paused, tapping his thumb against the handle of the basket. He grabbed some cheese strings, the off-brand ones.

Fruit Yogurt next, the big multipack of the cheap brand, and some small boxes of chocolate milk, both high in sugar, cheap calories and food dye, but his mom needed it. She was thinner every week and in the end calories where calories.

Jason scanned the shelves one last time, mentally adding the numbers and deciding against the bottle of juice. As it was, it would come in just under twenty.

At the register, the old man still didn’t look up, just rang up the items with slow, disinterested clicks. Jason stacked everything neatly, keeping his eyes on the worn linoleum while the cashier rang it up.

Pulling out Bruce’s wallet carefully, Jason opened it just enough to find a twenty, avoiding the neat stack of credit cards and crisp hundreds that might as well have been another currency. He handed the twenty, eyes fixed on the counter.

The cashier gave him his change, a plastic bag, and a distracted nod. Jason murmured thanks and turned toward the door. The bell jingled again as he stepped back into the sunlight.

Bruces car was still there, black paint gleaming against the gray curb, looking painfully out of place in this part of town. The kind of car you didn’t leave alone for long in this neighborhood.

Jason stared at it for a second, at the tinted glass, the man waiting inside, and then at the grocery bag with its cheap cans, off-brand sugsr and squashed bread. Two worlds, a single crosswalk apart.
He drew in a breath, squared his shoulders, and started toward the apartment.

The hallway smelled like piss and cold cigarettes, same as always. Paint peeling off the walls, light flickering like it was afraid to stay on too long. Jason took the steps two at a time, grocery bag tucked close, trying not to breathe too deep.

He was halfway to his mom’s door when a voice stopped him.
“Well, well. Look who decided to crawl back.”

Jason froze. He didn’t even have to turn around to know that voice, the low drawl, the amusement that always came with a hint of threat.

The man was leaning against the wall by Mrs. Kowalski’s busted door, track jacket half-zipped, grin all teeth. One of Cobblepott’s guys. He ran a couple of the smaller blocks, handled collections, passed out product. He was thick through the shoulders, the kind of solid that came from intomidating people for a living.

Jason kept his face blank. “Just checking on my mom.”
“Uh-huh.” The man’s gaze dropped to the grocery bag. “How domestic.” He took another drag and blew it out slow. “Boss said you were busy. Rented out, fancy gig and all.”

He pushed off the wall, closing the distance with a few lazy steps. “That so?” He tilted his head, mock thoughtful. “Didn’t take you for the disappearing type, though. Cobblepott doesn’t like when his boys run off mid-job.”

Jason’s pulse kicked up, but he kept his voice even. “Didn’t run. Wayne knows where I am.”

The guy’s arm shot out, pinning Jason back against the wall. The crack of shoulder against plaster echoed. Jason’s jaw tightened. It was not fear, not yet, but that reflex to keep still, not give the other man what he wanted.

“Funny,” the guy said, pressing just enough weight under Jason’s chin to make breathing harder. “Don’t look like you’re working right now. Looks like you ditched.”

Jason’s mind flicked through options. He could push back, duck under, crack him in the ribs and bolt, but then he caught something in the guy’s eyes. Testing him. Waiting to see if Jason would become feral.

“He’s downstairs,” Jason said instead.
The man blinked. “What?”
“Bruce Wayne’s downstairs,” he said. “In the car. You want to check?”

That gave the man pause. His gaze flicked toward the narrow hallway window. He shifted just enough to peer through the grime-smeared glass. A shiny black car sat at the curb, sunlight sliding off its hood like glass.

“Son of a…” The man let out a low whistle, half amusement, half disbelief. His arm eased away from Jason’s throat. “You weren’t kidding.”

Jason straightened slowly, rubbing his throat. The man smirked, eyes flicking from Jason’s borrowed jeans to the grocery bag dangling from his hand. “Don’t forget who you used to run with, huh? Some people might start thinking you’re too good for this place.”

Jason gave a dry laugh. “Good for nothing,” he mumbled.
“Good.” The man tapped two fingers against Jason’s cheek, mock-affectionate, like a cat pawing at a mouse, before he stepped back. “Be seeing you, Jaybird.”

Jason watched him saunter down the stairs, whistling as he went. He waited until the sound of boots faded before exhaling.

By the time Jason reached his mom’s door, his heartbeat had settled back into something steadier. He’d been cornered before. He knew how to breathe through it, knew when to talk and when to move.

Still, as he stood there outside the door, listening to the faint sound of the TV inside, he couldn’t shake the thought that Bruce’s car down there wasn’t just a car. It was the only thing that had kept the guy from going further. And Jason didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

The apartment smelled like stale smoke and rot. A sour, chemical edge lingered beneath it. It clung to walls and clothes and skin no matter how many windows you opened. Jason kicked the door shut with his heel, setting the grocery bag on the counter before he looked around.

The curtains were drawn, the single lamp in the corner flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to stay alive. The TV was on, some game show flickering in the background, volume low.

“Ma?”
A groggy sound came from the couch. She was half sitting, half lying across the cushions, one arm draped over her eyes. Her hair was greasy and limp, a patch of ash clinging to the front of her shirt. She reeked. But there was no time for Jason to go help her wash up. It had to wait until he was home again for a couple hours somewhat next week.

“Hey, baby,” she murmured, voice hoarse, smiling like she was relieved and confused at the same time. “You’re home.”
Jason swallowed and forced a smile. “Yeah. Brought you some stuff.”

She shifted again, propping herself on one elbow. “You weren’t here last night,” she said, blinking slow. “You said you’d be home. I waited.”

No, he hadn’t. Not last night. Not last week. But mom confused things like that. When she was high as a kite time was a funny concept.

“I’m sorry, mom,” he lied.
“Where you been?” she slurred.
Jason tried for a smile she wouldn’t notice anyway. “Training. Work stuff.”
She dropped her arm and squinted at him. “You weren’t home last night,” she reapeates, as if that thought was important enough. Jason wondered sometimes if she suspected anything about what he was doing to keep her and dad safe. He hoped not. Jason didn’t want to be the reason she worried more, took more to forget again what he was doing. Better she didn’t knew.

“Yeah, it was a camp thing,” he said easily, heading for the kitchen before she could press it. The fridge door squealed when he pulled it open. Inside was mostly empty. Half a glass of mustard, a shriveled apple, some milk that has gone bad.

He threw the apple away, poured the milk down the sink and started loading the new groceries: the yogurt, fresh bananas, the cheese strings, the jar of peanut butter. Bread and Crackers on top of the fridge where the mice wouldn’t get it. The rhythmic motion of stocking and sorting steadied him.

“Camp,” she repeated, voice drifting. “You never told me about no camp.”
Jason closed the fridge. “Didn’t have time.”
He crossed to the living room and started picking up the trash. Crumpled wrappers, a broken lighter, tissues, burnt foil, anything that could go. He worked fast, quietly, the rustle of plastic and the low hum of the TV filling the silence.

He tossed the bag near the door and turned back to her. “You ate anything today?”
She smiled vaguely. “Had some cigarettes.”
Jason’s throat tightened. “That’s not food, Ma.”

Jason grabbed a pack of crackers and a cheese string from the fridge and set them on the coffee table. “Eat something, okay? Just a little.”

She reached for the crackers with a shaky hand, the movement clumsy. “You’re a good boy,” she mumbled. “Just like your dad. He’d be proud.”

Jason froze halfway through wiping the table. He cleared his throat, pretending to focus on a sticky spot near the edge. “Yeah. Sure.”

She nodded off halfway through opening the packet, head lolling against the couch. Jason stood there for a long second, watching her breathe, shallow and uneven, before glancing at the clock. Shit. He was past twenty minutes now; Bruce would be wondering.

He glanced toward the window, then back at her. “I’m gonna leave some stuff. Yogurt, bread, fruit. Try to eat, Ma. Please.”
She smiled vaguely, the kind of smile that wasn’t really an answer.

Jason rubbed a hand over his face. He’d told Bruce twenty minutes tops, shopping included. Bruce probably thought he’d bolted.

He crouched to pick up a stray spoon from the floor, heart starting to beat faster again. He needed to go. He needed to …

A knock at the door. Every muscle went tight in an instant. For a second, he couldn’t breathe. His eyes darted toward the door, then toward his mom, still munching on a cracker.

It wasn’t a loud knock, just firm and controlled. But his body reacted before his brain could catch up.

He could still feel the pressure of that guy’s arm under his chin, the smell of sweat and cheap cologne. His heart jumped into his throat.

His mother stirred. “Who’s that?”
Jason lifted a hand. “Stay there.”
He moved quietly toward the door, pulse in his throat, every sound in the hallway suddenly louder.

Chapter Text

The knock came again, firmer this time.
Jason’s stomach dropped.

He crossed the room in two steps. Jason hesitated, then cracked the door open just enough to see …

Bruce.

Standing there, solid as ever, dressed down in dark jeans and a pullover but still looking completely out of place in this hallway that smelled like mildew and piss.

Jason’s heart stuttered. “Shit…uh…hey.”
Bruce didn’t look angry, exactly, but something about his stillness made Jason’s stomach twist.

“I… I’m sorry,” Jason blurted before Bruce could say anything. “I know I said twenty minutes. I lost track.” He stepped half-out into the hall as if he could physically keep Bruce from seeing inside. “I was just leaving.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked over his face, searching, calm but alert. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah … yeah sure. Sorry for taking so long.”
“I saw someone leaving the building. One of Cobblepott’s men.” Bruce’s voice was steady, not accusing, just quiet concern. “Thought I should check.”

Jason’s mouth went dry. “You saw…? Yeah, that was… he’s just… he knows my mom.”
“What did he want?” Bruce asked.
“He was just … it’s nothing. I’m sorry I made you wait. I didn’t mean…” Jason swallowed hard. “You didn’t have to come up. Place is a dump anyway.”

“Jason.” Bruce’s tone softened, a quiet interruption that stopped the spiral. “It’s okay.”
Jason swallowed, nodded again. “Right. Okay.”

Bruce didn’t say anything else. He just looked at him for a long moment with that same patient silence he always used when he wanted Jason to keep talking.

Jason sighed and stepped back instead, letting Bruce inside. Bruce entered carefully, the way people do when they know they’re intruding on something fragile. He didn’t look disgusted or out of place, though he obviously was. He simply took it in: the worn furniture, the small pile of groceries on the counter, moms equiptment on the side table, her blinking blearily from the couch.

“Jay?” she mumbled, trying to push herself upright. “Who’s your friend?”
Jason’s mind scrambled. He forced a laugh that sounded too thin. “Uh, this is my…trainer. From the gym. He gave me a ride.”

Bruce didn’t flinch at the lie. He inclined his head, voice warm but respectful. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”
She smiled vaguely, still struggling to focus.
“You’re a big one,” she said, voice slurring a little. “You are not to hard on him, no?”

Jason wanted the floor to swallow him whole. “Mom…”
Bruce, to his eternal credit, didn’t even blink. “He does good work,” he said softly. “He is very disciplined and comitted.”
There was a gentleness in it that made Jason’s chest ache.

His mom smiled at that, her eyes drifting shut again. “He always was a good boy,” she mumbled. “Good heart.”
Bruce’s gaze moved between them, quiet and steady. “I can see that,” he said softly.

Jason swallowed, throat tight. He turned away, pretending to straighten the groceries on the counter. The sound of her breathing evened out again, soft and shallow.

“She’s not usually…” Jason started, then trailed off. He didn’t even know how to finish that sentence.
Bruce’s voice was quiet behind him. “It’s fine, Jason.”

Jason looked up then, and the way Bruce was looking at him made his chest tighten. No judgment. No disgust. Just… quiet understanding.

Jason nodded once, because if he said anything, his voice might crack. “I’ll be ready in a sec.”
„Take all the time you need.“ Bruce glanced toward the door. “I’ll wait in the car.”

Bruce gave Jasons mother a polite nod before stepping back toward the door. “Take care, ma’am.”

Jason followed him to the threshold. “Hey,” he said, stopping him just before he stepped out. “Thanks. For… not saying anything. And uh … for being nice to my mom.“
Bruce looked back, meeting his eyes. “Of course.”

He watched Bruce head down the hall, the heavy quiet of the apartment swallowing him up again. He turned toward his mom, still half-curled on the couch, the food barely touches, and tried not to think too hard about the man waiting for him in a car worth more than this whole damn building.

***

By the time Jason made it back down, the air outside felt sharper and colder than before. He breathed it in anyway, trying to shake off the stale smell of cigarettes and rot that clung to him from upstairs. His hands were still a little shaky when he shoved them into the borrowed jeans pockets.

The black car waited at the curb, sleek and silent like something from another world. Bruce sat behind the wheel, phone in hand but not really looking at it, his head tilted slightly toward the window as if he’d been watching the door.

Jason took one last breath and climbed in, shutting the door carefully so it didn’t slam. The warmth inside hit him right away and that faint leather-and-aftershave scent that was starting to smell like safety did too.

“I’m really sorry I took so long,” Jason muttered, keeping his eyes on the dashboard.
Bruce turned toward him. “It’s truly alright.”

Jason nodded, jaw tight, as Bruce started the engine. The car filled with that soft hum of the heater. Bruce didn’t push, didn’t say anything about the elephant in the room.

Jason leaned his head back against the seat, staring out the window. The city outside looked like it always did: cracked sidewalks, boarded windows, the distant sound of someone yelling two streets over. Home.

He exhaled slowly. “I didn’t mean to make you wait so long. Just wanted to make sure she ate a bit, you know? I wasn’t trying to… waste your time or anything.”
Bruce gave a small shake of his head. “I’ve waited longer for less important reasons.”

Jason shrugged again, like it didn’t matter, but his throat felt tight. “Yeah, but you could’ve been doing something that actually mattered instead of sitting out here waiting for me. I wasn’t gonna run off or stay home.” His voice was quiet but sharp around the edges, defensive, the way it got when he felt small. “You paid a lot for me. I’m not stupid enough to mess that up.”

“I don’t think you are stupid at all. But I wasn’t leaving without you,” Bruce said simply. There wasn’t any edge in it, none of that authority Jason was used to. It wasn’t control. It sounded almost like care, and somehow that made it worse.

Jason looked out the window, watching the neighborhoods blur into cleaner ones, the cracked sidewalks giving way to trimmed hedges. The gap between worlds felt like a physical thing in his chest.

He swallowed, looking away again. “You really gotta stop saying stuff like that,” he muttered, voice low. “Makes it hard to remember what this is.”

Bruce’s tone softened, almost quiet enough to miss. “Then maybe it doesn’t have to be what you think it is.”
Jason turned his head slightly, but Bruce’s gaze was on the road, steady and unflinching. Something in Jason’s chest pulled tight, hope or anger, he couldn’t tell which.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The car hummed softly as they drove another few blocks. The streets grew wider, the buildings taller. Bruce reached out and rested a hand briefly on Jason’s leg, not forcing eye contact, just a steady weight.

“Hey,” he said, fishing in his pocket. “Here.” He pulled out Bruce’s wallet and held it out.
“Only took the twenty.” He hesitated, forcing the words out faster before Bruce could say anything. “And there’s some change in there, like twenty-eight cents. Plus the receipt.”

He reached into the other pocket, pulling out a crumpled receipt. “You can check. Just so you know I didn’t spend more.”
Bruce glanced at the wallet but didn’t take it right away. “You didn’t have to keep the receipt.”

“Yeah, I did,” Jason said, sharper than he meant to. He cleared his throat, trying again. “You gave me your whole wallet, man. You don’t do that unless you wanna get robbed.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile. “I trusted you.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a bad habit to keep,” Jason said, setting the wallet on the center console like he didn’t want to touch it anymore. “You don’t hand that kinda thing to people from my side of town unless you expect to lose it.”

Bruce gave a small, thoughtful sound. “And did I?”
Jason looked down at the wallet, at the scuffed leather and polished metal clasp. “No,” he said finally. “Guess not.”

Bruce nodded once, a quiet acknowledgment. They fell into silence again, but it wasn’t heavy this time. The car turned off the main street, heading toward the underground parking of the penthouse tower. Jason watched the concrete walls slide past the window, a faint vibration running through the frame as they descended. When Bruce finally parked, the low engine hum faded into stillness.

***

The elevator opened straight into the penthouse, and the first breath of clean, temperature-controlled air hit Jason like a wall. No cigarette smoke, no sour tang of rot, no spoons and syringes lying around. Just glass, light, and silence.

He hesitated a second in the doorway. From up here the city looked like a model. Neat, contained, distant. It didn’t even smell like the same place he’d just left. For a second he didn’t know what to do with his hand, then shoved them into his borrowed jeans like that could stop them from shaking.

Bruce stepped past him, hanging up his coat. “You’ve had a long morning,” he said, his tone gentle, not an order but an invitation. “The shower’s yours if you want it. Take your time.”

Jason nodded a little too fast. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He disappeared down the hall. The bathroom was exactly as he remembered: spacious, spotless, stocked with towels that were softer than anything he owned. He stripped off the borrowed jeans and shirt, folded them neatly, and hesitated before placing them next to the small hamper in the corner. Couldn’t just throw them in, like he expected Bruce to just wash them.

The water came on with a steady hiss. He stood under it until the ache in his chest eased and the stale smell of smoke finally washed off his skin. When he came out, hair damp and curling at the edges, he pulled on his own sweats and an old hoodie. It felt more like him, worn, soft, easy to disappear into.

When he came back out, Bruce was leaning against the kitchen island, mug in hand, scrolling through something on his tablet.
Jason ruffled his damp hair with a towel. “Didn’t know if you wanted those clothes in the wash or not. I folded them.”
Bruce looked up, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Thank you. I’ll have them taken care of.”

Bruce nodded toward the counter where a second mug waited, still steaming. “Coffee. Help yourself.”
Jason took it, savoring the warmth in his hands.

“You ate enough earlier?” Bruce asked as Jason dropped into the seat across from him.
“Yeah,” Jason muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m good.”

Bruce studied him for a moment before setting his mug down. “We could train before lunch,” he said. “Get the blood moving. Or after, if you want a break before.”

Jason hesitated, glancing toward the big windows that looked out over the city. “Whatever you want.”
“You know your limits better than I do,” Bruce said simply.
Jason smirked faintly. “That’s debatable.”
“Then we’ll find them together,” Bruce replied, with the faintest trace of dry humor.

“Hold on,” he muttered. He went to his duffel in the corner, crouched beside it, thumb waking up his phone first. No new messages. No missed calls. He felt the quiet settle in his chest again.

Jason dug out his wallet and walked back to the counter, pulled a folded twenty from the worn leather, and set it down between them.
“For the groceries. I said I wouldn’t forget.”

Bruce looked at the twenty, then at Jason. “You don’t have to. Call it my treat.”
Jason shook his head, quick, almost defensive. “Nah. That was for my mom.”
“It was twenty dollars, Jason,” Bruce said lightly. “I think I’ll survive.”

Bruce had more money than he could ever spend in three lifetimes. Twenty dollars was as meaningless as loose change under a couch cushion for someone like him. But that didn’t change a thing.

He pushed the bill across the counter again, the gesture small but stubborn. Bruce studied him for a moment, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth, not mocking him at all, just quietly understanding.

Bruce took a sip of his own coffee, then asked, almost casually, “Does she need anything else? Your mother.”
Jason hesitated, the sound of the question settling deep. “Nah. She’s got what she needs for a few days.”

“You want to check on her later?”
Jason shook his head. “She’s used to being on her own a bit. I usually stop by every few days. Make sure she eats, you know? She’s gonna be fine.”

Bruce’s voice softened, quieter now. “Jason… your mother is very sick.”
Jason blinked at him, a small crease forming between his brows. “You don’t gotta… feed into my story, okay? I know what I said before. About her being sick. Sorry I lied about that.”

”I’m not humoring you.” Bruce frowned slightly. “It is the truth.”
Jason’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Addiction is a sickness,” Bruce said gently.

Jason stared at him like he’d misheard. “You mean, like… really? That’s an actual thing?”
“Yes.” Bruce looked at him, no bullshit or anything. „Of course it is.“

Jason leaned back in the chair, eyes flicking toward the window. “I didn’t know that. I always thought it was just her… you know, choosing wrong. She wasn’t always like that.”
“No one ever is,” Bruce said quietly.

Jason rubbed his palms together, voice softening. “She used to sing, when I was little. My dad used to joke she could turn a dump into a castle with just a candle and some music.”

Bruce’s eyes softened. “Sounds like she loved you very much.”
“Guess so,” Jason said simply. “I keep thinking if I can just make things easier for her… buy food, make sure she’s got what she needs… then she’ll be okay. Sometimes she tries to quit. Gets all shaky, sick, but she always says she’ll try again.“

Bruce shook his head. “It changes the body. The mind. It’s not about willpower anymore. It’s pain. And chemistry. It takes professional help to get free.”

“Guess that’s another thing I gotta save up for then.” Jason said and finally nudged the twenty toward Bruce again, trying to smile. “Still paying you back, though.”
Bruce gave a quiet, amused sigh. “I know.”

Chapter Text

The gym lights were soft, pale morning light bleeding in through the tall glass panes. The air was cool and clean. This was exactly the kind of space built for focus. Jason padded across the mat barefoot, the surface familiar now after almost a week of training.

His body had started to memorize the place: the faint give of the flooring, the mirrored wall that reflected every imperfection in his stance, the low hum of the ventilation system that filled the silences between rounds.

Bruce was already there, wrapping his hands. His movements were unhurried, methodical, a ritual in themselves. He nodded when Jason approached. “Warm up,” he said. “Loosen your shoulders and hips.”

Jason obeyed without argument. He began his stretches quietly, matching his breathing to the rhythm of the motion. Inhale, twist, exhale, hold. He could feel the tension from the morning still tucked deep in his chest, but each stretch worked a little of it loose.

When he was ready, Bruce joined him on the mat. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The structure of the session was already understood: form first, then control, then contact.

Bruce corrected him gently. A hand at his elbow to remind him of alignment. Two fingers pressed briefly between his shoulder blades to reset his center of gravity. The feedback was small, exact, and Jason adjusted each time, nodding once in acknowledgment.

It reminded Jason of how Bruce touched him outside the ring: measured, never possessive, always deliberate.

They moved through combinations: jab-cross-hook, pivot, guard reset. Bruce’s movements were fluid and controlled. This was the efficiency of someone who had done this for decades.

Jason followed his rhythm, breathing through the sequence until it became muscle memory.
“Better,” Bruce murmured once, and that single word landed heavier than any lecture could have. Jason’s chest tightened in quiet pride.

They kept going, adding layers, footwork, counters, small shifts in angle. Jason didn’t chase power; he chased precision. He wanted to earn every nod, every quiet good from Bruce’s voice.

Bruce raised a hand, motioning for light sparring. Jason mirrored his stance automatically, setting his weight low, knees bent.

They began slow. Bruce testing range, Jason adapting. The rhythm found itself quickly: step, parry, block, breath. Jason wasn’t fighting him; he was learning him, mapping how Bruce moved, when he breathed, how he kept control without dominance.

Once, Bruce caught his wrist mid-swing, gentle but firm, and stepped in just enough to close the distance. “Don’t rush the punch,” he murmured. “You’re trying to finish before you’ve even started.”
Jason huffed a laugh, out of breath. “Story of my life.”

Bruce’s hand lingered a second longer, just enough pressure to make him aware of his pulse, of the steady rhythm of another person grounding him. Then Bruce let go.

They went again. And this time, it clicked. The strike landed clean, balanced, exactly how Bruce had shown him earlier in the week.

Bruce smiled faintly. “Good. That’s it.”
Jason’s throat tightened unexpectedly at the praise. No one praised him at Cobblepotts.

They kept at it for another twenty minutes, steady and focused, until Bruce finally called it. “That’s enough.”
Jason exhaled slowly, pushing sweat-damp hair back from his face. His heart was still beating fast, but it wasn’t the wild kind of adrenaline that came from fighting for survival.

He grabbed the towel from the bench, wiping his face, and glanced toward Bruce, who was rolling his shoulders out, expression unreadable but relaxed.
“Thank you,” Jason said quietly.

Bruce looked up. “For what?”
“For this. The training. The… structure.” Jason hesitated, searching for words that didn’t sound too raw. “It helps. Makes it easier to… keep my head straight.”
Bruce studied him for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Structure helps everyone,” he said. “Especially people who’ve never been given any.”
Jason nodded back. “Yeah. Guess you’re right.”

Bruce handed him a bottle of water. “You did well today, Jason.”
Jason accepted it with a faint, almost shy smile. He looked down at the bottle, twisting the cap open. The words settled deeper than they should have. He took a long drink, the water cool and clean on his tongue.

***

The sun had already started dipping by the time they showered and changed. The windows of the penthouse glowed gold for a while, then faded into the slow blue of evening. The city below was already glittering, streaks of headlights threading through the dark like veins of light.

The air carried that calm weight that comes after good work: muscles warm, bodies tired, minds quieter than they’d been all day.
Jason came out of the bathroom toweling his hair dry, dressed down again in sweats and an old T-shirt that felt soft from years of washing.

He caught the faint smell of coffee and paper from the kitchen. Bruce was already in there, sleeves rolled up, reading through a small folder of take-out menus that looked too ordinary for the polished marble counter they rested on. Usually, he just called the concierge and something fancy arrived on real plates twenty minutes later.

This time, though, he looked up and said, “Pick something. I was thinking pizza.”
Jason stopped halfway into the room, surprised. “Pizza?”
Bruce nodded. “I’d love something greasy tonight.”
That earned him a small, crooked grin. “Didn’t think you actually ate greasy.”
“Sometimes,” Bruce said, sliding the folder across the counter toward him. “Go on. Choose whatever you want.”

Jason hesitated, flipping the menus open. It was such a small thing, a pile of laminated paper with curling corners, but the gesture felt strange, almost intimate.

He thumbed through until he found a local place that did everything from deep dish to wings.

“Uh,” he started, glancing up, “you want me to get something low-carb? Since we’re training again? I can just do, I dunno, a salad or chicken.”

Bruce’s brows lifted, a trace of amusement under the steady tone. “You burn a lot of calories when we train. Why do you think you should get low-carb?”

Jason’s shoulders moved in a loose shrug. “Dunno. I ate real good the last few days. But I guess it wasn’t too healthy, not like the things you told me to eat the first couple days. Cobblepott’s gonna be pissed if I don’t make the weight cut.”

“Would you feel better if you weighed yourself?” Bruce asked.
Jason hesitated again, then nodded once, unsure why the question made something tight twist in his stomach. Bruce disappeared for a moment and came back with a digital scale, setting it down on the tile like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Jason stepped on. The small digital numbers blinked, then settled on 162.2
Six pounds up from the last fight, from the night he’d met Bruce, scraped raw and half-starved. The regular meals, the dessert and fast food he had in the last days at the manor, the steadiness: all of it was showing.

Bruce glanced at the display, then at him. “That’s good,” he said evenly. “You’re not cutting for a fight right now. Welterweight is one-seventy. You’re well within your range. Tomorrow we’ll go back to healthy but filling meals. And hopefully, ones you actually enjoy.”

Jason let out a small breath, almost a laugh. The tension in his shoulders eased a little, and a grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Guess I’ll take that as permission.”

Bruce’s voice softened. “You don’t need my permission to choose your own dinner.”
The words landed deeper than Bruce likely realized. Jason looked down quickly, pretending to focus on the menus again. His pulse was too loud in his ears. The warmth that crept into his chest made it hard to focus.

Jason remembered rare evenings when they had enough money to get a pizza to share. And “pizza-night” at home meant heat and noise and laughter, and Jason would pick the jalapeños off his father’s slice and steal them for himself, grinning through the burn.

“Um… could I … could I get pepperoni? And maybe some extra jalapeños?”
Bruce’s answer came without hesitation:
“Of course.”

The flicker of his smile crossing his face, as Bruce ordered his own pizza with anchovies and olives, Jason’s with extra jalapeños, and by the time the food arrived, the city outside had settled into its nighttime hum, lights blinking across the skyline like distant constellations.

The apartment smelled of melted cheese and oregano, of warmth and something homely that Jason hadn’t felt in years.

They ate on the couch, side by side, the city’s glow washing across the coffee table. Jason balanced his plate carefully, half-watching Bruce as he folded his first slice with practiced ease.

Jason’s eyes caught on the silvery strips glinting on Bruce’s pizza. “What’s that?”
“Anchovies,” Bruce said, glancing over. “You’ve never had them?”

Jason shook his head.
“Try one, if you want.”
He hesitated for a beat before reaching to take the smallest piece Bruce set aside for him. The salt hit first, sharp, briny, almost metallic. His face scrunched. “Ugh. That’s… wow. Salty.”

Bruce’s mouth curved, quiet amusement flickering there. “They’re an acquired taste.”
Jason huffed softly, wiping his fingers on a napkin before picking up his own slice again. “Guess I’ll stick to the normal kind.”

Bruce nodded. “That’s the point. You eat what you like.”
“I’m not picky,” Jason muttered but when Bruce reached over to take the half eaten slice of his pizza back from Jasons plate, the younger man grin was full of quiet relief.

Jason bit into his own pizza, the heat of the jalapeños blooming on his tongue. It burned a little, just the way he remembered.

The TV was on low, playing one of those cooking shows Bruce apparently liked, though Jason had never seen it before. Some guy running around saving failing restaurants, yelling about rotting food and bad service before fixing everything in a week.

Jason watched in fascination between bites. “This dude’s insane,” he said through a mouthful of noodles. “He just told that owner her lasagna tastes like ‘sadness and carpet.’”
Bruce huffed a quiet laugh. “He’s not wrong.”
“You watch this a lot?”
“Sometimes. It’s oddly satisfying.”
Jason tilted his head, squinting at the screen. “Guess it’s kind of like you.”

Bruce looked at him, puzzled. “How so?”
Jason shrugged. “You know. Going around, fixing broken things. Except you don’t yell as much.”
Bruce smiled faintly. “I’m not sure the comparison holds.”
Jason grinned, eyes flicking back to the TV. “Nah, I think it does.”

They fell into comfortable silence after that. Jason leaned back against the couch, one leg tucked under him, eating slower now. He wasn’t used to this kind of quiet, the good kind.

He finished the last of his food, still leaning back, letting the warmth settle in his stomach. The city glowed against the glass walls, reflections of moving traffic playing over the floor like waves.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The TV show played on in the backround, the light flickered, and the space between them stayed easy. It didn’t feel forced, not awkward at all, just quiet in a way Jason hadn’t realized he’d been craving.

He let himself breathe into it, the weight in his chest easing a little more with every minute. When the next episode started, Bruce didn’t change the channel. And Jason didn’t move away.

***

When that episode was over and the food long finished, Bruce was the first to stand. He offered a hand to Jason, not commanding, just there, a simple, open gesture. Jason hesitated only a second before taking it. Their fingers met, skin warm, and Bruce’s grip was steady, reassuring.

They crossed the short distance to the bedroom without a word. The light from the city spilled across the sheets, soft and pale, cutting faint gold lines over the floorboards.

Bruce turned down the lights until the room dimmed into a soft amber haze. Jason stood there for a moment and when Bruce stepped closer, the air seemed to shift. Jason looked up, and that was all it took, the small tilt of Bruce’s head, the brief pause for permission. Jason met him halfway.

The first kiss was slow, the kind that carried the memory of everything that had led up to it, the trust built one careful brick at a time. Bruce’s hand came up to Jason’s jaw, not guiding, just there, steady and grounding.
It wasn’t rushed. There was no performance this time, no edge of trying to prove or please. Just quiet, deliberate touch.

Bruce’s hand came up, brushing along Jason’s jaw, then to the back of his neck, drawing him closer. The second kiss was deeper, still slow but sure.
When they finally broke apart, Jason searched Bruce’s face, uncertain for the first time in a long time. Bruce didn’t speak, just held his gaze, waiting. Asking without words.
Jason nodded and they undressed each other, while kissing every now and then.

When they lay down, the world felt smaller. It was all shared breath and warmth, the soft rasp of skin against cotton. Bruce’s hands traced over Jason’s ribs, his shoulders, his back, not claiming, not demanding, just learning Jasons skin and edges. He pressed small, lingering kisses over the places he touched, slow enough that Jason could feel each one.

Jason’s heartbeat steadied beneath every kiss. The tension that usually lived in his body, the readiness, the guard all the same, melted by degrees until all that was left was quiet trust.

Bruce’s voice broke the silence only once, a low murmur against Jason’s skin: “Tell me if you need me to stop.”
Jason’s answer came as a breath against his ear.
”Okay.”

“Lie down on your stomach,” Bruce told him and his hands didn’t stop touching him, roaming across his skin, as Jason rolled over. Bruces fingers trailed down the skin over Jasons spine.

Jason felt Bruce kneel behind him. His powerful thighs pressing into the bed, his broad frame looming over Jason like a promise. The muscles in his arms flexed as he reached out, his large hands settling on Jason’s hips with possessive weight.

His fingers traced the curve of Jason’s ass, teasing the sensitive skin before dipping lower, brushing against his tight, puckered hole. Jason shivered, his breath hitching as Bruce’s thumb circled him, slow and deliberate, applying just enough pressure to make him squirm.

“Easy,” Bruce murmured, his voice a deep, velvety rumble that sent a fresh wave of heat through Jason’s body. His breath was hot against the back of Jason’s neck, his lips ghosting over the younger man’s shoulder before pressing a soft, lingering kiss there. Jason exhaled shakily, forcing his muscles to unclench.

“Relax,” Bruce ordered, slicking his fingers with lube, before his thumb pressed against the tight ring of muscle, teasing at the entrance. “Gonna open you up nice and slow.”

Jasons cock was leaking pre-cum onto the bed. He could feel Bruce’s hardness pressing against his thigh, thick and heavy, and the thought of it, of Bruce inside him, made his hole clench greedily around the invading finger.

Bruce groaned, his breath hitching, and Jason could hear how much the older man wanted him. Still Bruce didn’t rush. Jason wasn’t used to care like that. But that wasn’t what he wanted to be thinking about while Bruce worked him open with deliberate slowness. Bruces fingers sunk deeper, twisting slightly to loosen the tight heat. Jason’s breath hitched, a quiet whimper escaping his lips when Bruces nail scratched along his inner walls.

“More,” Jason gasped, pushing back against Bruce’s hand. “Please, I need…“
“I know,” Bruce murmured, his voice rough with desire. He added a second finger, stretching Jason wider, his touch unhurried but firm. The burn intensified, but so did the pleasure, coiling tight in Jason’s gut. His legs trembled, his ass lifting instinctively, offering himself up. Bruce’s fingers scissored inside him, loosening him. Jason moaned, his face pressing into the pillow.

Bruces fingers twisted, pressing against that sweet, sensitive spot inside Jason that made his vision white out for a second. Jason cried out, his cock throbbing, his balls drawing up tight.

A third finger joined the others, stretching him wider, and Jason groaned, his nails digging into the sheets.

“You are doing so good,” Bruce murmured, his fingers sinking deep before pulling back, then pushing in again, his rhythm slow and maddening.

Jason’s breath came in ragged gasps. He was so close already, his cock aching, his body trembling with the need to come. But he wouldn’t. Not yet. Not until Bruce told him he could. Jason knew how to behave himself.

Bruce’s fingers slid free, leaving Jason feeling hollow, empty. He whined in protest, but the sound died in his throat as Bruce’s hands gripped his hips, urging him up. “On your knees, beautiful,” Bruce commanded, his voice rough. “Ass up. Just like that.”

Jason obeyed without hesitation, pushing up onto his knees, his torso pressing into the mattress as he arched his back, presenting himself. The position made him feel exposed and vulnerable. But god, the way Bruce looked at him, made it worth it.

He heard the tear of the condom wrapper, the snap of the latex as Bruce rolled it on, and then the thick, blunt head of Bruce’s cock pressed against his hole.

“Ready?” Bruce asked, his voice a mix of tenderness and raw, barely leashed desire.
Jason nodded, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. “Yeah. Please. Please, Bruce fuck me.”

The condom was slick with lube, but even so, the stretch was immediate. He sank in inch by inch, his girth forcing Jason open, filling him completely.

He could feel every vein, every ridge of Bruce’s cock as it slid inside him, filling him up until he didn’t know where he ended and Bruce began.

“Oh god,” Jason moaned, his voice trembling. His cock throbbed against the mattress, leaking pre-cum like crazy, his body trembling with the effort of taking Bruce’s massive length while concentrating not to come.

Bruce groaned, his hips finally flush against Jason’s ass, his cock buried to the hilt. He held still, giving Jason a moment to adjust, his hands rubbing slow, soothing circles on Jason’s back. “So good,” he praised, his voice rough. “So perfect for me.”

Jason whimpered, his cock throbbing, his balls aching. He could feel Bruce’s cock pulsing inside him, thick and heavy, and the thought of it, of Bruce owning him like this, made his head spin. It should be scary, but somehow it really wasn’t.

Jason pushed back experimentally, testing the sensation, and Bruce hissed, his grip tightening on Jason’s hips.
He pulled back slowly, his cock dragging against Jason’s inner walls, before pushing in again, deeper this time.

“Feel that?” Bruce grunted, his hips snapping harder now, his balls slapping against Jason’s skin with each thrust. The sound was obscene, wet and heavy, filling the room.

He pulled back again, before pushing in. Jason cried out, his body clenching around Bruce, his cock leaking steadily onto the sheets below.

Bruce set a rhythm then, slow, deep thrusts that had Jason seeing stars. Every time Bruce bottomed out, his cock brushed against Jason’s prostate, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through his body. Jason’s moans grew louder, more desperate, his fingers clawing at the sheets as Bruce fucked him with deliberate, relentless strokes.

“Fuck, Bruce…” Jason gasped, his cock twitching, his orgasm building like a storm inside him. “I’m… I’m close… please … ah please…“

Bruce’s grip on his hips tightened, his thrusts growing sharper, more insistent. “I know,” he groaned, his voice rough. “I can feel you. So tight around me.”

Jason’s body trembled, his cock throbbing, his balls drawn up tight. He was right there, teetering on the edge, and then…

Bruce’s next thrust hit his prostate just right, and Bruce told him “Cum for me, Jason.” That was all the permission Jason needed. He came with a broken cry, his cock spurting thick ropes of cum onto the bed beneath him. His body clenched around Bruce’s cock, his hole milking him, and Bruce groaned, his pace faltering for just a second before he snapped his hips again, driving deeper.
“That’s it,” Bruce growled, his voice hoarse.

Jason was still riding the waves of his orgasm, his body oversensitive, his cock twitching with aftershocks, but Bruce wasn’t done. His thrusts slowed, grew more deliberate, his cock dragging against Jason’s prostate with every movement. Jason whined, his body trembling, his hole clenching around Bruce’s cock as his own dick was swelling again.
“Bruce … ” Jason gasped, his voice breaking.

Bruces hands slid up Jason’s back, pulling him up until Jason’s spine was flush against his chest. One arm banded around Jason’s waist, holding him close, while the other wrapped around his dick.
“Come whenever you need, Jason,“ Bruce whispered in his ear.

His hips rolled, his cock grinding against Jason’s prostate in the same rhythm as his hand was strocking him and after a few minutes of it, Jason shattered, his second orgasm ripping through him with a force that left him boneless, his cock spurting weak, desperate pulses of cum onto the bed and Bruces hand.

Bruce groaned, his own release crashing over him as Jason’s hole clenched around him, tight and greedy. “Jason” he growled, his hips snapping forward as he buried himself balls-deep, his cock pulsing as he came, filling the condom.

They collapsed together, Bruce’s weight pressing Jason into the mattress, mindful though of his injuries his breath hot against the younger man’s neck. Jason could feel Bruce’s cock still twitching inside him, his own body oversensitive and spent. He whimpered softly, his limbs trembling, but Bruce was there, his strong arms wrapping around him, holding him close.

Then, slowly, Bruce pulled out, his cock slipping free with a wet sound. Jason whined at the loss.

His chest heaved, the rhythm of his breathing slowly syncing back to normal as he lay across the expensive dark cotton sheets.

Bruce lay beside him, propped up on one elbow, exposing the defined ridges of his abdomen.

“Think you could go again?” He teased, his tone playful, but his eyes were warm, affectionate.

Bruce’s hand settled on Jason’s stomach, fingers tracing the ridges of his abs with a lazy, possessive rhythm. Jason hummed softly, his body buzzing with pleasure and exhaustion. He wanted to please Bruce. If Bruce wanted to play with him more, make him cum until pleasure turned to pain it wasn’t Jasons right to turn him down. The man had paid a fortune for him and now that he was finally making the most of his money Jason couldn’t chicken out but he never liked to come this often in such a short span of time.

He felt wrung out, his limbs heavy, his mind hazy with endorphins. Jason didn’t hesitate. "Yeah," he breathed out, the word leaving his lips before his mind could fully process the discomfort. He forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, I can go again."

But then Bruce’s hand drifted lower, bypassing the sticky mess on Jason’s abdomen to wrap gently around his softening cock and Jason just barely repressed a flinch.

Bruce, for once, didn‘t notice the little tell-tales that lived beneath Jasons skin. His large hand gave his flaccid lenghts a soft, experimental squeeze and even through Jason liked Bruce, he really did, it felt just as horrible as ever when he was overstimulated and his clients got off on making him come until his balls were empty. Every nerve ending felt exposed, too raw to be touched so soon, screaming for a reprieve that he knew he shouldn’t ask for.

But Bruce had been kind from the start. He‘d been patient and generous. He hadn't just used Jason and tossed him aside like a some back-alley whore. He had taken care of him. And Jason was desperate to keep that, terrified that if he wasn't good enough, if he wasn't willing enough and exiting, Bruce would lose interest quicker than Jason could shoot his damn load.

Bruce’s thumb stroked over the head of his dick, a slow, deliberate circle that made Jason’s hips jerk. It was too much. The sensation bordered on agonizing, a sharp, electric buzz that made his toes curl. But Jason swallowed the gasp rising in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on relaxing his muscles, willing his body to cooperate.

Memories of past clients flickered through his mind: rough hands, cruel demands, the way he had learned to dissociate when the pain got too bad. He thought of the ones who would have already grabbed a vibrator by now, pressing the buzzing, relentless plastic inside his hole to force a reaction. He remembered the way they laughed when he squirmed, the way they enjoyed watching him break apart under the forced stimulation, his body betraying him with dry orgasms and painful spasms. He had hated it. He had hated the way it burned.

But he knew how to do this. He knew how to take it. Acting as if it felt good while, in fact, he just wanted to turn around, curl in on himself and hide his junk from whatever hands kept trying to stroke and touch and play with it.

But he had taken it then. He could take it now. He knew how to make the right noises, how to breathe through the sharp oversensitive ache crawling under his skin.

Usually that was what clients liked most anyway. Watching him get all shaky and worn out, watching him keep going even when his cock twitched painfully from being handled too much. Some of them thought it was funny when he tried to squirm away from their hands. Some liked pinning his hips down and making him take more until he was so sensitive he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

Jason forced his breathing to steady, picturing Bruce’s smile, the sound of his praise. If he could just get hard, if he could just give Bruce what he wanted, everything would be okay.

He concentrated on the weight of Bruce’s hand, the calluses on his palm. He tried to summon arousal from the depths of his exhaustion, digging deep for a spark that wasn't there. His cock twitched weakly in Bruce’s grip, a traitorous response that was more reflex than desire, but it refused to fill.

Panic began to claw at the back of Jason’s throat. Why wasn't this working? He gritted his teeth, his jaw tightening as he tried to thrust his hips up into Bruce’s fist, to fake an enthusiasm he didn't feel. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

Bruce’s hand stilled. Jason froze, his breath hitching. He waited for the disappointment, for the cold dismissal. He braced himself for Bruce to pull away, to realize that Jason was just a worn-out kid from the wrong side of the tracks who couldn't even get it up on command.

"You don't have to do that," Bruce said firmly, his thumb stroking the high point of Jason’s cheekbone. "You’re shaking, Jason."

"I just... I wanted to…," Jason choked out, his voice cracking. "I can ... Just give me a minute."
But Bruce chuckled, shaking his head.
“Nah, you’ve had enough,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the corner of Jasons mouth, a lingering kiss that was sweet and undemanding.
“You did amazing, Jason,“ he said.

Jason’s heart swelled, a slow, warm smile spreading across his face as Bruce pulled him close, wrapping him in strong, protective arms. The sheets were a mess beneath them, sticky with sweat and cum, but Jason didn’t care. None of it mattered: not the exhaustion, not that he was paid for letting Bruce fuck him, not even the sweet lingering ache in his ass.

Bruces fingers were softly tracing idle patterns against Jason’s sweat-slicked skin.
Jason lay still with his head against Bruce’s chest, listening to the even beat of his heart.
For the first time in a long time, he felt safe.
And when Bruce’s hand came to rest at the back of Jason’s neck, gentle and protective, Jason finally let himself close his eyes.

Chapter Text

The dream came hard and fast, like a uppercut he hadn’t seen coming.

Jason jolted awake, heart hammering, the echo of shouting and sirens fading into silence. For a moment he didn’t know where he was. There was just the dark, the heat of another body beside him, the smell of skin and clean sheets. Then the room came into focus. Bruce’s room.

Bruce lay on his side, face turned toward Jason, eyes closed. Jason lay still, swallowing against the roughness in his throat. The echo of the dream clung to him, heavy and cold. He pushed back the covers, careful not to disturb the man beside him.

He didn’t bother turning on a light. He found his sweatpants by touch, pulling them on in the hallway, tugging his T-shirt over his head once he was outside the door. The night air hit him cool and sharp.

The terrace stretched out in glass and steel, too neat, too clean, like everything Bruce owned. Jason sank into one of the expensive lounge chairs and let the chill bite at his skin until his pulse slowed.

From here the city looked endless: ribbons of light and shadow stretching out to the horizon. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring down until the blur of movement below started to make sense again.

Somewhere down there, miles away but not far enough, was the block he’d grown up on. If he squinted, he could almost pretend to pick out the building, his mom’s window, the flicker of the old streetlight that never quite worked. From up here Crime Alley looked clean. Orderly. Like it could be saved, if someone took a chance on it.

He wondered if she was awake right now. If she was pacing, searching for the last of whatever she had left, or maybe sleeping it off, safe for the moment. He hoped she’d eaten something from the groceries he’d left. He hoped the dealer hadn’t come back.

He ran a hand over his face, exhaling hard. The dream hadn’t started as a nightmare.
It had began with something almost gentle. His mother sitting by the window, sunlight cutting through the grime on the glass, her hair brushed for once, humming some old pop song under her breath. His dad in the kitchen, hands calloused from work, pouring coffee into the chipped mug Jason had bought him for Father’s Day years ago.

Then the window light dimmed. The sound of humming thinned to a rasp. His mother’s head tilted back against the couch, eyes rolled up, lips gray. The coffee cup in his dad’s hand cracked, spilling black across the counter, running like oil toward the floor. Jason had been standing between them and feeling like he couldn’t reach any of them in time.

Jason pressed his palms to his face, breathing slow. The cool air stung, but it helped. Up here, at least, the noise was different. Softer.

But it was all still there, just waiting behind his ribs. The ache, the guilt, the kind of love that didn’t know how to die even when the people you loved weren’t the same anymore.

He sat like that for a long time, listening to the faint hum of traffic below, waiting for his heartbeat to find its way back to something steady.

The nightmare had been too vivid, too close. It wasn’t just the fear. It was possibility. Every time mom didn’t answer his calls, every time he missed a visit, this was the picture his mind painted for him.

His father’s situation wasn’t much better. Locked up, waiting on a release that kept getting postponed. The old man’s voice had grown softer the last time they’d talked a couple months ago, not weaker, but older. Like time was sanding him down.

He wondered if his dad was still alive tonight.

Jason pressed his palms together, elbows on his knees, letting the city wind move over him. He wasn’t crying. He’d learned a long time ago to swallow that back, but his throat ached like he was close.

Nineteen wasn’t supposed to feel this heavy.

Jason leaned back against the cold metal frame of the chair and looked out again. The skyline shimmered. For a moment he tried to imagine what it would feel like if all of this belonged to him: the penthouse, the safety, the distance from everything that could fall apart. But even thinking it felt like stealing something that wasn’t his. He rubbed at the back of his neck, jaw tight.

“She’s fine. He’s fine,” he whispered to himself, the lie practiced and almost convincing. “They’re both fine.”
Because the second he stopped believing it, the whole thing would come apart.

After a while, the wind got colder, the concrete under his bare feet started to sting, but he stayed there. The quiet was better than the dreams.

***

Jason didn’t hear the bedroom door open at first, since the terrace glass muted almost everything. He’d been staring out so long that the city lights had blurred into a wash of gold and gray.

When Bruce’s reflection appeared in the window, Jason flinched before he could help it.

“Sorry,” Jason said quickly, straightening, the automatic apology already ready on his tongue. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just… getting some air. I’ll head back in.”
Bruce shook his head, his voice low. “You don’t have to.”

He half-turned, expecting a frown, or worse, that distant look of disappointment he’d learned to read from clients who didn’t like being left alone. They want you where they put you.

Bruce didn’t look annoyed, but Jason still hesitated, caught between relief and confusion. That was the problem with Bruce. He didn’t act like other clients. He didn’t demand, didn’t fill the silence with money-shaped power. He just stood there for a moment, taking in the sight of Jason barefoot in one of his chairs, hunched against the wind. Then Bruce disappeared inside and returned with a blanket, the same gray wool one from the couch, draping it gently over Jason’s shoulders.
Jason sat very still. It wasn’t the touch itself that startled him, it was the care behind it.

Bruce took the seat beside him, not close enough to crowd, just close enough that Jason could feel the shared warmth. “I’m here to listen,” he said after a moment. “If you want to talk about it.”

Jason wasn’t sure if it meant the dream, or the reason he’d bolted out of bed, or the whole damn mess of his life. Either way, the words cracked something open.
He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the blanket. “Wasn’t really a dream. More like… a reminder. Of what could happen.”
Bruce waited.

“My mom,” Jason said after a beat. “She’s been using more again lately.”
Bruce’s tone stayed even, only gently curious. “How long has she been addicted?”
Jason shrugged one shoulder. “Few years now. “At first it was just pills. Stuff to help her sleep. But then some of Cobblepott’s people got her hooked. Guess it’s easier to keep me in line if I remember what I stand to lose if I screw up.”

The words came out rougher than he meant them to. He stared out at the skyline, blinking against the sting in his eyes.

“Where’s your father?”
“In prison,” Jason said. “Been there since I was, what, thirteen? Robbery. Dumb move, but he ain’t a bad guy. Never was.”
Bruce nodded slowly. “You still talk to him?”
Jason’s jaw tightened. “Not lately. Cobblepott doesn’t like it. Says visits mess with my focus.” He let out a humorless laugh. “There’d be hell to pay if I tried to set up a visit on my own. Don’t even know if it’d go through.“

Bruce was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his tone was quiet but sure. “That’s how people like Cobblepott keep control. They isolate. You, your mother, your father. He’s made sure none of you can reach each other without his say-so.”

Jason rubbed a hand over his face. “You make it sound like a strategy.”
“It is a strategy,” Bruce said, voice calm but firm. “It’s the same structure every trafficker uses. Dependence and isolation. Once you believe there’s no way out, you stop looking for one.”

Jason’s throat tightened. “Guess that’s working out pretty well for him.”
Bruce’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes darkened. No pity. Something more deliberate. He looked thoughtful. Jason noticed, misread it for frustration, and hurried to add, “Look, I know it’s messed up. You don’t gotta…“

“I’m not judging you,” Bruce interrupted gently. Jason stopped, blinking and then stared at him for a long moment. He wanted to say something, to make a joke, deflect, shift the weight off himself, but nothing came out. The words caught in his throat like gravel.

Bruce didn’t push. He just reached out, slow enough that Jason could pull away if he wanted, and set a hand over the blanket where it draped across Jason’s shoulder.

Jason’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move away. For once, the warmth that crept up his chest wasn’t panic. It was something else. Something dangerously close to comfort.

They sat like that, side by side, the night air biting against their faces. Down below, the city pulsed on. Neither spoke again for a long while.

Later, the wind lifted, cool and clean, rustling the blanket. Jason thoughts kept flickering: faces, places, things he couldn’t fix.

He didn’t realize Bruce was still sitting beside him until the older man spoke softly.
“Hey,” Bruce said, quiet enough that it didn’t startle. “You’re falling asleep out here.”

Jason mumbled something that might have been a protest, his eyes heavy. Bruce smiled and stood, keeping one hand on him as he coaxed him up. “Come on,” he said again, softer. “Inside.”
The warmth of the penthouse felt unreal after the chill of the terrace.

Bruce guided him toward the bedroom and Jason slid under the covers, curling instinctively toward the warmth. Bruce climbed in beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

Bruce’s voice was gentle. “Your parents … if they could truly see the kind of man you’re becoming, they’d be proud.”

Jason swallowed hard, the back of his throat burning. “You make everything sound better than it is.”
“No,” Bruce said, “I just see what you don’t let yourself see.”
He reached out then, the slow kind of gesture that gave Jason every chance to pull back, and brushed his thumb over Jason’s cheekbone. “You’re clever, Jason. You learn faster than anyone I’ve trained. You are resilient,” Bruce said. “You keep getting back up no matter how hard you’re hit. You’re nineteen and holding together a life most grown men couldn’t survive.”

Jason blinked at him for a long moment, something fragile flickering in his eyes. “You’re really gonna ruin me, you know that?”
Bruce raised a brow. “How so?”

“You don’t feel like a client anymore.”
Bruce turned his head toward him. “No?”
Jason’s mouth twitched in something between a smile and a grimace. “Nah. You’re… I don’t know. Different. Guess that’s dangerous. I sound like some lovesick idiot.” He gave a low, self-deprecating laugh. “Pretty pathetic, huh?”

Bruce shook his head. “You sound tired. And honest.”

That undid him more than anything else. Jason shifted closer, the movement clumsy but full of need, his forehead brushed Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce’s arm came around him with no hesitation, his hand starting to trace slow, absent patterns across Jasons back.

The silence between them stretched long enough that Jason thought Bruce had fallen asleep.
Then Bruce’s voice came, low and steady in the dark. “After the fight… I want to help you get out from under Cobblepott.”
Jason tensed, eyes still closed. “He won’t let me,” he said softly.

“You’re too good, too sharp, too kind to waste your life working for a man who feeds off fear,” Bruce said. “You’ve got more in you than that, Jason, so much grit, so much heart. Don’t let Cobblepott decide what you’re worth.”

The words hit deep, gentle and dangerous at the same time. Jason wanted to laugh, or argue, or tell Bruce he didn’t understand the way things worked, but he couldn’t. His throat felt tight and his chest hurt in that way that came right before tears.

Jason stared into the dark. He wanted to believe that. God, he wanted to. But he could still see Cobblepott’s men outside his mother’s building, still feel the leash of debt pulling at his throat. There was no walking away from that without someone getting hurt.

Still, the sound of Bruce’s voice wrapped around him, warm and certain, and for a moment the world stopped spinning so fast.

Bruce’s hand moved absently along his back, grounding him. “Tonight, you stay warm. You rest. Tomorrow, we talk about the next step.”

He turned his face into Bruce’s shoulder, voice muffled. “Yeah. Okay. That’d be nice.”
It was easier to let it be true in this quiet, this borrowed safety. To imagine a version of himself that wasn’t always scared, that didn’t owe anyone. Maybe he could be the kind of fighter Bruce saw in him.

He pictured mornings that didn’t start with pain and panic, if his parents where still alive; afternoons spent in a gym that smelled of chalk and eucalyptus instead of blood and sweat. Bruce’s voice calling corrections from across the mat. His laugh, rare but real.

Jason closed his eyes. He knew it was a dream, maybe even a lie, but it was a damn sweet one.

Chapter Text

Morning came in soft gray light, filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
For a while Jason just lay there, listening to the low hum of the city far below and the faint sounds from the kitchen: the scrape of a pan, the hum of that highenf mixer Bruce always used, the muted clink of dishes. The space beside him was already empty. The sheets still held a trace of Bruce’s warmth.

Jason rolled out of bed, still dressed in sweats and the same worn shirt as the day before. The penthouse felt almost too clean after a night like that. Even the air smelled new.

Bruce was at the stove, sleeves pushed up, a kitchen towel tucked over one shoulder. The scene looked wrong and right all at once. A man who could buy the whole building ten times over, quietly turning eggs in a pan.

Jason slid onto one of the stools at the counter, fingertips brushing the smooth marble. The kind of counter that never saw spilled beer or ashtrays or sticky rings from cheap liquor bottles. His thumb traced a little vein in the stone absently.

The smell hit him. Eggs and warm bread, something green and sharp from the blender. Jason smiled a little to himself.

Bruce set a glass in front of him, the color somewhere between grass and neon. “Morning fuel.”

Jason took it without protest this time, swirling it once before taking a long sip. He’d learned to expect it: the cold, creamy mix of banana and almond butter cutting through the bitterness of the greens. It still wasn’t exactly his idea of comfort food, but he didn’t hate it. It was healthy, vitamins and fiber and god knew what shit he needed to be fitter.

Bruce set down two plates on the counter next. Eggs, white cheese, sourdough bread. Then Bruce leaned against the counter beside him. “The concierge had the bread delivered this morning,” he said. “It is still warm.”

“Smells real good,” Jason told him as Bruce sat across, eating slowly. His calm wasn’t the same as silence. It filled the room like background music. After a while, Bruce said, quietly, “I meant what I said last night. There are ways out.”

Jason looked down at his plate. The fork hit the porcelain with a small sound.
“Yeah,” he said, not looking up. “You said that.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“Doesn’t matter what I believe, does it? World’s what it is.” Jason forced a half-smile that didn’t stick. “Still, thanks for that. I slept damn good listening to a fairytale like that as a bedtime story.”

Bruce didn’t rise to the sarcasm. “It’s not a fairy tale. It’s a plan.”
Jason’s laugh was soft, tired. “Cobblepott got strings everywhere: prison, our apartment complex, the fights, my mom. You can’t just cut one and walk away.”

Bruce studied him quietly. “Then we’ll cut them all.”
Jason shook his head, but the words hit somewhere tender anyway. They were ridiculous, impossible even and still, a small part of him wanted to hold on to them.

Jason looked out toward the city through the glass walls. The sun was rising, washing the skyline gold. From here, everything looked too far away to hurt him. He wanted to stay in that illusion a little longer.

***

After breakfast they changed and met in the private gym downstairs. The air was cooler there, faintly metallic with the scent of mats and disinfectant.

Bruce rolled his shoulders once, the motion easy but precise. “Start with form,” he said.
Jason mirrored him, dropping into stance. The first few drills were simple. Kicks, blocks, the flow of motion turning familiar. The sound of bare feet on mats filled the space, rhythmic, grounding.

Bruce watched for a short moment before stepping in behind Jason, quiet on the mats.
“Right foot’s drifting again,” Bruce murmured. He placed two fingers lightly against Jason’s hip and nudged it half an inch inward. “There. Better. Feel the balance shift?”

The correction clicked into his spine like a lock finding its catch.
“Yeah,” he said softly, more to himself.
“Good.”

They worked without much talk after that. The rhythm came back easily. The sharp smack of gloves on pads, the slide of bare feet.

Jason could feel sweat starting to bead at his temples. His muscles caught the rhythm. Strike, pivot, breathe. Bruce met his pace, fluid and unhurried, forcing him to match technique, not just speed.

“Keep your weight centered,” Bruce said after a while. His hand landed briefly at Jason’s back, steady pressure guiding his balance. “Don’t chase the hit. Make the hit come to you.”

Jason gritted his teeth, adjusted. The next round, he caught Bruce’s block clean. The sound of the impact cracked through the room. Bruce’s mouth twitched, the faintest ghost of approval.
“Good,” he said.

That single word did something to Jason’s chest he couldn’t quite name. He pushed harder. Minutes blurred into an hour, maybe more. Between rounds, Bruce handed him a towel and water. Jason wiped his face, gulped a mouthful, tried not to show how much it meant that Bruce took care of him like that.

“Good control,” Bruce said as they caught their breath. “You’re not overextending anymore.”
Jason looked away, muttering, “Guess I’m trainable after all.”
“I knew you were from the first time I saw you fight,” Bruce said, calm and even, like it wasn’t meant as comfort but truth.

They went another round, the rhythm slowly grew familiar: step, strike, parry, breathe.
And somewhere along the way Jason’s body kept moving while his mind slipped loose from it.

His bare feet skimmed against the mat, sweat cooling along the back of his neck while Bruce’s gloves cracked lightly against his guard. Left hook. Slip right. Pivot. Again.

But inside his head he was ten years old again, sitting cross-legged on the floor of their apartment while his mom stirred boxed mac and cheese at the stove because it was one of the few things everybody liked. The radiator had rattled loud enough to drown out half the city and his dad had come home smelling like oil and cigarette smoke and winter air, scooping Jason up under one arm while Mom laughed at both of them for tracking slush inside.

Then the memory twisted. Because wasn’t that what the good memories always did eventually?

Bills stacked crooked on the counter. Red notices shoved under the door. His dad getting picked up a couple years later in the gray light before sunrise while his mom cried on the curb in her house slippers, clutching her coat shut with shaking fingers.

“Be good for your ma, Jace,” Dad had said through the squad car window. “Take care of her a little while, yeah?”

A couple weeks later, his mom swearing she hadn’t touched the pain pills left over from when Willis wrecked his knee bad enough to need surgery they couldn’t afford.

Jason learning young that adults lied when they were scared and that sometimes loving somebody meant pretending to believe them.

His body kept moving automatically across the mat while his mind wandered through the years.

Jason thought about learning how to stretch twenty bucks across a week, even if that meant telling mom he‘d already eaten before coming home. Learning how to lie young and smile while doing it.

Bruce feinted left. Jason shifted, not able to block probably and choosing to dodge this one.

He remembered the first real punch his dad ever taught him. Not in a cage, not for money. Just in some tiny boxing gym that smelled like dust and leather and old sweat while his father laughed and corrected Jason’s stance with rough, grease-stained hands hands and patient pride.
“Keep your chin down, Jace. Ain’t gotta hit hardest if you think to long about it.”

Dad never let anybody rough Jason up there. The older guys would tousle his hair, call him “Little Todd,” sneak him sodas from the vending machine while Willis bragged about how fast his kid learned combinations. Back then fighting had still felt almost fun.

Bruce drove a strike toward Jason’s ribs and Jason was lucky Bruce stopped short before real contact, mindful of the bruising still healing there. Jason hadn’t even seen it coming in time to block properly.
Bruce stepped in closer, driving Jason backward a pace. “Guard up.”

Jason corrected automatically, lungs burning steady now. And then Cobblepot crawled into his thoughts like he always eventually did. Smooth and greasy as oil floating over dirty water. The Iceberg Lounge. Expensive cologne layered over old rot. Bleach trying to hide stains too deep in the floors to scrub out.

Trainers that worked Jason until he puked because better endurance meant longer fights and longer nights. Men who taught him pain was profit. Men who taught him how to stay standing after body shots because crowds liked resilience almost as much as blood.

Jason’s jaw tightened. And somehow Bruce had gotten tangled into all of it now too. Bruce with his expensive gym clothes and calm hands and stupidly healthy smoothies and the way he looked at Jason like there was still a person under all the damage. Bruce correcting his footing without humiliation. Praising him when he did well. Pushing him hard without trying to break him down first. Somewhere in the last few days training had started becoming almost fun again.

It made something ache in Jason’s chest so badly he almost missed Bruce shifting his weight.

Bruce circled him then, voice calm. “You’re thinking about what’s behind you. Stop. In a fight, there’s only this moment.”
Jason exhaled sharply. “Easy for you to say.”
“Not easy,” Bruce said. “Something I had to learn the hard way.”

They locked again, the contact sharper this time. Jason’s pulse hammered, sweat ran down his neck.

They went at it for a whiel longer and Jason tried to stay in the present, body and mind alike. He caught Bruce off guard once, barely, and saw a flicker of satisfaction in the older man’s eyes.
“Really good, Jason,” Bruce said.

They kept at it until the clock on the far wall hit nearly noon. When Bruce finally called it, Jason dropped to a crouch, forearms braced on his knees, breath sawing out of him. His shirt clung to his skin, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

Bruce handed him a fresh bottle of chilled water, his own breathing steady but deep. “You did good work today.”
Jason twisted off the cap, took a long drink. He sat down heavily on the mat, gulping air.

Bruce crouched nearby, one knee down, taking a long sip from his own bottle. “You kept your breathing steady all the way through,” he said. “You didn’t panic when you got cornered. That’s real good improvement.”

Jason laughed under his breath, the sound half exhaustion, half pride. He let his head hang between his arms, feeling the tremor in his legs. The room went quiet again except for their breathing and the faint hum of the air vents. Outside, the city burned in midday light, and for a moment Jason let himself believe that sweat and motion could wash everything else clean.

***

After a while they moved into after-training stretches without speaking, both still half-drenched in sweat. The mats were warm under them, the air thick with salt and breath and the faint sting of disinfectant.

Bruce sat cross-legged, spine straight, pulling one arm across his chest; Jason copied the motion beside him, every muscle in his shoulders humming.
“Breathe through it,” Bruce said. His voice was even, the kind that found the right volume for silence. “Let the tension go on the exhale.”

Jason did, air shuddering out of him. His body ached in a clean way, no stinging pain in his ribs, but his muscles and tendons definitly feeling the work-out he did.

He leaned forward to stretch his legs, forearms resting on his thighs. Bruce shifted closer, pressing a palm between Jason’s shoulder blades to deepen the reach. The touch was careful and professional. Nothing about it asked for anything.
“Your form’s improving fast,” Bruce said. “You’ve got a good sense of timing. Most fighters take months to feel that.”

Jason huffed out a breath that might’ve been pride, might’ve been disbelief. “Maybe I just had the right teacher this week.”
Bruce’s mouth curved faintly. “Maybe.”

They sat that way for a while, the silence companionable. The city light spilled across the floor, catching in the sweat on their skin.
Jason finally broke it. “What’s it mean to you, all this?” he asked. “Training. Fighting. You could’ve done anything.”

Bruce thought about it, gaze on the skyline. “You know it started as a way to raise my self-confidence,” he said. “Later, after my parents died, it was something I could control, while everything else was a big mess. Training was a way to keep my body steady when my mind wasn’t.”

Jason nodded slowly. “Yeah. Makes sense.” He rubbed a towel across his neck.

It sounded real good when Bruce said it like that. Like training could burn the noise outta your head until there was nothing left except movement and breath and muscle memory.

Jason wished it worked that way for him. For a second he thought about not saying it. About keeping it shoved down where most things belonged.

But the gym was quiet except for the hum of the ventilation and Bruce was sitting across from him loose and patient, waiting without pushing, and Jason was tired enough that the walls in his head didn’t feel screwed on quite as tight.

“Sometimes when I fight,” he said slowly, voice rough from exhaustion, “it’s like my body’s in the cage but my head ain’t.”

Jason shrugged one shoulder, eyes fixed on his hands. “Like—I’m moving, blocking, throwing combinations, all that shit…” He made a vague motion with one hand. “But upstairs my brain’s running through ten other things at the same time. Stuff from years ago. My dad. Mom. Cobblepot. Whatever.” His jaw shifted slightly.

“Cobblepot’s trainers always said thinking gets you beat,” Jason muttered. “Said if you’re tired enough your instincts take over.” He rubbed at the wrap around his wrist again. “Guess that’s why they liked running me into the ground.”

Something unreadable flickered across Bruce’s face at that.

“They trained you to override yourself,” he said after a moment. “There’s a difference between mental discipline and exhaustion.”

Jason shrugged. “Feels the same sometimes.”

“No,” Bruce said quietly. “One gives you control. The other takes it away. They didn’t want you to control anything, not even a fighg they put you up for. They just wanted you to survive damage.”

Jason frowned a little, turning that over in his head. Bruce continued calmly, technical now in that focused way Jason liked listening to. “You’ve got good instincts. Fast reactions. Better resilience than most professionals I’ve trained with.” His eyes flicked briefly toward Jason’s ribs. “But you’re used to bracing for impact before it even comes.”

Jason swallowed once. Because yeah. That landed. Bruce wasn’t only talking about fighting and they both knew it.

“You flinch before openings,” Bruce added eventually. “You expect punishment when you make mistakes, so you rush combinations trying to compensate before someone can capitalize.”

Jason barked out a tired laugh. “Shit. Put me in a textbook why don’t you.”
A faint smile tugged briefly at Bruce’s mouth. “You asked.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jason leaned back on his hands, stretching his sore legs out across the mat. His shoulders ached deep under the muscle now, warm and heavy from overwork. Somewhere above them the HVAC hummed steadily through the expensive building, white noise filling the pauses between breaths.

Chapter Text

Steam curled up from the stove, catching in the afternoon light. The penthouse smelled like seared tuna and lemon. The faint hiss of oil in the pan mixed with the low hum of the city beyond the glass walls. Jason sat at the kitchen counter, damp hair curling against his neck, wearing a black hoodie and the same worn sweatpants he had shed before training. He needed to wash his clothes. Maybe Bruce would let him run to a laundromat later today or tomorrow.

The leather bound notebook lay open in front of him, next to a bottle of expensive looking vitamin water. He rolled the pen between his fingers, glancing occasionally toward Bruce by the stove. Bruce moved with that quiet, unhurried precision Jason grew to like about him. A flick of the wrist, a turn of the pan, the sizzle of tuna steaks against cast iron. Beside him, broccoli steamed and quinoa simmered on low heat.

“Hydrate,” Bruce said without looking up.
Jason snorted and took a reluctant sip of the vitamin drink that probably cost more than their weekly water bill.

He stared down at the notebook again. The page was still half-blank. Training: intense sparring, endurance focus, worked on breathing again. Need to watch my right foot. Need to control the fight, not only survive damage. He tapped the pen against the counter. The writing itself wasn’t bad, but it felt small, too plain next to Bruce’s expectations.

“Don’t overthink it,” Bruce said, glancing over. “It’s not an essay. Just note what you learned.”

Jason huffed, a little embarrassed he’d been caught stalling. “Yeah, well, you say that like it’s easy. Some of us didn’t exactly graduate some fancy private school.”

Bruce turned off the burner, the scent of sesame oil briefly blooming in the air. “You don’t need a diploma to think critically,” he said mildly.

Jason shrugged, eyes on the page. “Yeah. But you kinda do to spell ‘cardiovascular endurance’ right.”
“Spell it wrong, then. The point isn’t perfection, but process.”

Jason let out a low laugh under his breath, then bent over the notebook again. The pen scratched softly as he wrote. Bruce plated their food in silence, the clink of cutlery and the soft hiss of cooling metal filling the space between them.

After a while, Bruce came over and set a plate beside Jason. Perfectly seared tuna, a scoop of quinoa, bright green broccoli. Jason looked up, blinking like he’d forgotten food existed.

“Eat,” Bruce said, sitting down across from him with his own plate. “We burned though lots of calories this morning.”
“This looks really good. Thanks.” Jason stabbed a piece of broccoli first.

It drew the smallest smile from Bruce, but his eyes flicked toward the notebook.

“What’d you put?”

Jason flipped the notebook around so Bruce could see, though his ears burned red doing it. His handwriting was uneven but he’d tried writing about the things he’s learned. Remembered Bruce words during training, his pointers and corrections. How his own body felt and how the movements were different after adjusting to what Bruce told him. So Jason had written about reflections on posture, timing, mistakes in footwork, even a short note about managing adrenaline mid-round and trying to keep his head on straight with the fight.

Bruce nodded, eyes still on the page. “That’s awareness, Jason. It’s the same skill that makes a good fighter. You see details others miss.”

Jason frowned at the compliment, unsure what to do with it. “I just pick up kinda fast, I guess.”
“You analyze,” Bruce said simply. “That’s intelligence.”

Jason huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, okay, sure. Real genius. High school dropout, works for a mobster, can spell ‘balance’ on a good day.”

Bruce leaned back slightly in his chair, one arm resting along the backrest while the other tapped once against the edge of Jason’s training journal.

“You notice patterns fast,” he said. “You adjust quickly when something doesn’t work. And you’re honest in your self-assessment instead of blaming bad luck or making excuses.” Bruce’s mouth curved faintly. “You’re observant. You remember details. You learn through repetition faster than a lot of people I’ve trained with.” He paused a beat. “And you ask good questions.”

Jason snorted. “That all sounds fake as hell.”
Bruce cut into his tuna steak. “It‘s not,“ he said.

Jason looked at him then and for a second the usual deflection didn’t come. The sarcasm, the self-protection, all of it went quiet.

“…You actually think I’m smart?”
Bruce’s answer came without hesitation. “I know you are.”

Jason looked down again, pretending to focus on his plate. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell Cobblepott. He likes me better dumb.”

That got the faintest twitch at Bruce’s jaw, something between anger and empathy, but he didn’t press.

Jason’s chest went tight at that. Something hopeful and painful all at once. He picked up the fork again, spearing up a piece of broccoli, pretending to be busy so Bruce wouldn’t see the way his hands trembled.

***

The rhythm of the meal shifted naturally into cleanup. It was an easy, wordless kind of teamwork that Jason realized he liked. Bruce rinsed the pans and plates, Jason wiped the counters, stacking utensils with that quiet precision Bruce had rubbed off on him over the week. The sound of running water, the faint clatter of dishes, the hum of the city behind the glass: it all felt strangely domestic.

Jason twisted the towel between his hands, feeling the soft weight of it. When Bruce shut off the faucet, Jason cleared his throat.
“Hey, quick question,” trying for casual but landing somewhere closer to hesitant, “would it be alright if I, uh… went out for a bit later?”

Bruce glanced over, drying his hands with a linen cloth, but before he could answer, Jason added, nervous enough to almost ramble: “There’s a laundromat not far from here. I’m about out of clean stuff and I figured I could just throw in a load or two. If that’s… okay with you.”

He said it like a question, not a plan, because it was one. Jason didn’t just go places. Bruce had bought his time, all of it. Which meant that if Bruce said no, that was that.

Bruce dried his hands and leaned against the counter, expression calm. “You don’t need to go anywhere for that,” he said. “The concierge can take care of laundry here.”

Jason blinked, a little thrown. “What, like a service?”
“Yes. They handle it for all residents. Bruce’s mouth quirked faintly. “Washed, pressed, folded. Usually within the day. I’ll call them up.”

Jason frowned. “You don’t gotta do that, Bruce. I can just… there’s a coin place two blocks down, I think. Won’t take long. I’ll be back before…”

“Jason.” Bruce’s tone was soft but final. “You don’t need to spend your time and money on that. Let them handle it.”
Jason hesitated, towel still twisted between his fingers. “My hoodies don’t exactly belong next to your designer shirts.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched in quiet amusement. “They’ll survive the proximity.”
Jason huffed out a reluctant laugh.
“…Yeah,” he said. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I am.” Bruce reached for his phone and tapped a quick message to the concierge. “They’ll be up in a few minutes.”

Jason busied himself by gathering up his duffle, folding his worn clothes neatly on the counter. Two hoodies, a handful of shirts, some sweats, his training clothes, two jeans and some underwear and socks. Nothing fancy. He stacked them like it mattered, like being tidy could make up for the fact that he owned so little.

Half an hour later, a polite knock sounded at the door. The concierge, immaculately dressed in the building’s black-and-silver uniform, stepped in with a practiced smile. Jason kept to the side, awkwardly polite while Bruce handled the exchange with quiet efficiency, handing over not just Jason’s things but a small bundle of his own.

The older man took the clothes without a blink, promised the return this evening, and was gone again before Jason had found the right thing to say.

When the door closed again, Jason exhaled, rubbing his hands together. “That’s… kinda insane, you know. Where I come from, you stand in line for twenty minutes just to find a dryer that doesn’t eat your quarters.”

Bruce leaned against the dresser in the hall, arms folded, his tone mild. “It’s convenient when I’m in the city.”

They stood there a moment, the light slanting through the windows and catching in the glass. The city outside was moving fast as always, but up here time felt slower, like it had decided to give them a breather.

“Alright,” Jason said after a while, half teasing. “What’s next on the schedule, coach?”
Bruce’s answering look held a trace of amusement, and something softer underneath.
“What do you like to do for fun?”

Jason froze. He glanced up, trying to read Bruce’s face. But Bruce was just… looking at him. Calm. Expectant. Like there was a right answer somewhere out there, waiting for him to find it.

Jason’s throat tightened. He didn’t know what Bruce wanted from him. What kind of fun was he talking about?

Usually it was code for what are you into, and he knew how to play that game. He could lean against the counter, tilt his head, let a half-smile flicker there and say something suggestive enough to shift the air between them. He liked being with Bruce; the sex was good, better than he’d ever thought it could be. Clean. Generous. He’d go there again in a heartbeat if that was what Bruce wanted.

“Fun, huh? You mean like… the kind we had last night?”
He meant it half as a tease, half as an offer, but it came out softer than he expected. There was truth in it; he had liked that night, the quiet heat, the way Bruce had made it feel like something more than work.

Bruce’s mouth curved slightly, but his gaze stayed steady. “That was good,” he said, “but that’s not what I meant.”

So maybe Bruce meant really something else entirely. Jason didn’t know what to say. Watching a game on TV. Going for a run. Something you said when your life wasn’t measured in bruises and nights sold to other people’s pleasure.

Jason’s heart thudded against his ribs. He looked away. The skyline shimmered behind, all glass and light and money. So different from where he’d come from it might as well have been another planet. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, feeling the ends of his hair brush against his skin.

Jason sighed. “I mean, I like training. Running. Sparring. Stuff that keeps my head quiet.” His voice tightened, trying to sound offhand. “Could do a round of yoga, even. If you’re into that.” A crooked grin, bait for approval.

Bruce didn’t fill the silence that followed. He just waited, the way he did sometimes, like he believed Jason would come up with an answer if he was given enough space.

Jason gave a small, embarrassed snort. “You’ll think it’s dumb.”
“Try me,” Bruce said quietly.
Jason hesitated. The words that came next felt stupid, too soft for the room they were in. “I used to read,” he muttered.

Bruce didn’t laugh. “What kind of books?”
Jason shrugged, defensive already. “Just… stuff. Old stuff mostly. Dickens. Dumas. Brontë, sometimes. As a kid I used to pick up books people threw out. Half the time the covers were missing, but if the pages weren’t too water-damaged I’d read ’em. Guess it stuck.”

Something in Bruce’s face softened. “Not dumb,” he said. “Good taste, actually.”
Jason snorted. “Yeah, right. ‘Good taste’ for a dropout who barely made it past ninth grade.”

“Good taste for anyone,” Bruce corrected.
Jason looked at him. “You read some of them?”
“I had to. Alfred made sure of it,” Bruce said, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at his mouth. “Private schools, endless reading lists. But some of it stayed with me. Les Misérables, Great Expectations… you could learn a lot about people from those stories.”

Jason’s shoulders eased a little. “Guess you just made me sound less weird for liking them.”
“You’re not weird for liking something beautiful,” Bruce said simply.
Jason ducked his head, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Next time you run out of books, I’ll find you more.”
That shut Jason up for a second. It was such an easy promise, but it landed deeper than he wanted it to. He swallowed, trying to play it off. “Careful, Wayne. You’re gonna spoil me.”
Bruce smiled faintly. “Maybe you deserve it.”

Jason stared at him for a beat, unsure how to answer that. The word deserve always tripped him up. It felt like it belonged to other people. Not kids from Crime Alley, not people who sold their time and bodies just to stay afloat.

“There’s a bookcase in my study,” Bruce said after a moment. “A few of my favorites. You’re welcome to look while I go through some mail.”
Jason blinked, unsure if he’d heard right. “You serious?”
Bruce’s mouth curved faintly. “Of course. Come on Jason.”

Bruce was already walking toward the hallway, and after a second, Jason followed.
Bruce crossed to the desk, sorting through a stack of letters and powering up his laptop. “Help yourself,” he said, glancing up once. “I’ll just be an hour or two.”

Jason nodded, still standing near the doorway. The shelves looked too neat, too curated to touch. But curiosity won out. He traced the rows with his eyes: Steinbeck, Baldwin, Camus, Morrison, Dumas. It wasn’t the kind of collection you built by accident.

He crouched a little, tracing the gold-stamped title on one of the older volumes. They were beautiful.

“The main library at the manor has the real collection,” Bruce said from the desk “Thousands of volumes.“
Jason froze, his thumb resting on the spine of Les Misérables. “No kidding.”

“My family’s been collecting for decades and Alfred keeps it in pristine conditions. We have first editions, some signed. Some dating back to the 1700s.”
Jason let out a low whistle. “That’s… damn. Should’ve asked to see that when I was there.”

It came out easy, casual, but something in his chest twisted. He imagined that library;?the smell of old paper, the dust motes floating in afternoon light, the quiet that must hang there like reverence. He tried to picture himself in it, tracing the spines, maybe pulling out something he’d only ever heard of in passing.

Yeah right, he thought. Like they’d let him even breathe too close to these shelves.
Guys like him didn’t belong near things like that. But maybe they’d have let him look once. Maybe. If he promised not to touch.

“Bet you got stuff in there no one else does, Jason said, awed despite himself.
Bruce looked up from his desk again, his expression softer. “You’d be welcome to see it someday.”
Jason’s fingers froze on the paper. For a second, he wasn’t sure how to respond. “You don’t gotta say that just to be nice,” he said, eyes still on the book.
“I’m not,” Bruce said. “Looks like you’d appreciate it more than most people do. I’m sorry I didn’t show you, when we were there.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Jason said. “Wouldn’t have wanted to bother Mr. Pennyworth with hanging around the library.”
“Bother him?”

Jason nodded. “He’s nice. Uh … way too nice, honestly. Guy’s got enough to deal with. House that size, kid home from college, me bleeding on the floor. Last thing he needed was me poking my head into his bookshelves.”

Bruce’s smile flickered; that quiet, knowing one Jason was starting to recognize. “He wouldn’t have minded. He likes polite young people in love with books.”

Jason shoved the thought away and pulled Victor Hugos Les Misérables from the shelf, flipping it open. The paper was soft, the edges rough-cut, the print small and dense. It smelled like age and quiet.

“This okay?” he asked, holding it up.
Bruce nodded, typing something on his laptop. “Good choice.”

Jason settled into the armchair near the window. He didn’t really mean to start reading, not seriously. He just wanted to flip through a few pages. But within minutes, the rest of the room dissolved into the rhythm of words, the measured weight of sentences that demanded patience and gave him peace in return.

Across the room, Bruce worked in silence, the faint click of keys the only sound. Every now and then Jason caught himself glancing up, half-expecting to be told to stop, to put the damn book back, to do something useful instead, another round of training, a few kilometers run to build up his endurance or to get down under the table and suck Bruce‘s dick while he went through his mail.

But Bruce didn’t say a thing. The city stretched below in wide streaks of light and shadow, and for the first time in a long while, the world around him went still.

Chapter Text

Bruce’s laptop finally went quiet. He sat back in his chair and looked over the rim of his glasses toward the armchair by the window. Jason was still there, book resting open in his lap.

He wasn’t skimming anymore. He was reading, eyes moving line by line, brow furrowed in quiet concentration. Every now and then his lips moved like he was mouthing a phrase under his breath, tasting it, testing the sound.

Bruce didn’t interrupt. There was something rare about seeing Jason that still. Like watching a restless animal finally relax because it forgot it was supposed to stay alert.

After another few minutes, Jason blinked, realizing Bruce was watching him. He straightened, snapping the book half-closed. “Sorry. You done working?”

“Don’t apologize,” Bruce said, his voice even. “It’s good to see you that focused.”

Jason rubbed the back of his neck, the old defensive shrug creeping in. “Yeah, well. Guess I got stuck. Hugo is kinda… uh…wordy. In a good way.”

Bruce smiled faintly. “Bet your English teacher loved you.”

Jason ducked his head again. “Yeah, well… didn’t really get far in school. Dropped out before we even hit Shakespeare.”

“You taught yourself,” Bruce said. “That takes discipline. Curiosity.”
Jason snorted softly. “Yeah, sure. Discipline’s not what people usually say about me.”

Bruce stood, coming around the desk and leaning against its edge. His tone didn’t change, but the words landed with quiet weight. “They haven’t been paying attention, then.”

The chime of the penthouse doorbell cut through the quiet. Bruce crossed the living room, his footsteps silent against the floor. A moment later, the concierge stepped in, arms full of folded laundry wrapped in crisp paper and plastic.

Jason didn’t know why the sight of clean clothes made him feel something tight behind his ribs; something halfway between relief and embarrassment.

When the concierge left, Bruce turned toward him. “Perfect timing,” he said. “Get dressed and ready, we’re going out for dinner tonight. There’s a place a few blocks down. Good food, quiet tables. We can walk there if you want to.”

Jason hesitated, his thumb worrying at the edge of his shirt. “Should I… uh, wear something? Like…” He stopped himself before the words came out wrong. “You want me to dress a certain way?

Bruce set the phone aside. “You asked me that last time too,” he said quietly. “Why?”
Jason froze, caught. “I…” He tried to shrug it off. “I just figured… you’d want me to look right. For you.”

“For me,” Bruce repeated, not unkindly.
Jason shifted his weight. “Clients…people…when they take you out, they’ve got an idea in their head. They like when you look a certain way. Something they can show off, or something that looks good next to them.”

The words hung there for a long moment, soft but raw. Bruce kept his voice calm, factual. “When we go out, it’s to eat. To get air. Spend time, enjoy each other. I want you to wear what you feel comfortable in.”

Jason nodded quickly, trying not to look too relieved, though a small part of him twisted inside. “Yeah. Okay. Jeans and a hoodie work?”

“Perfectly,” Bruce said. Then, after a beat, “But it’s cold out tonight. I noticed you don’t have a coat.”

Jason’s first instinct was to deny it, to say he’d be fine, it was spring at last, but Bruce was already opening the closet near the door. Neat rows of dark wool and cashmere, heavier fabrics hanging in clean lines, each one probably worth more than all his clothes combined.

“If you want to borrow one,” Bruce said, as though it were the simplest thing in the world, “take whichever fits best.”

Jason hesitated, brushed his hand along the sleeves until he found one that might fit.
Dark gray, fitted but not tight, the lining soft against his neck. It smelled faintly of Bruce’s cologne: clean, grounded, something expensive he couldn’t name.

It fit well enough that Jason’s reflection in the mirror startled him for a second. He looked… normal. Like some college kid about to go out for dinner, not a fighter with bruised knuckles or a boy people rented by the hour.

Bruce’s gaze met his in the mirror. “Looks good,” he said simply.
Jason’s pulse jumped, ridiculous and quick. “Yeah?”
Bruce nodded. “Yeah.”

Jason looked down, tucking his hands into the coat’s pockets so Bruce wouldn’t see them tremble.

***

When they left a few minutes later, after Jason dressed in jeans and a fresh shirt and a soft-washedhoodie, the night air hit sharp and clean. Jason zipped the coat higher, feeling the warmth settle around him, quiet and unfamiliar.

The restaurant was only a few blocks away, its glow visible even from across the street. Wayne-fancy, Jason thought automatically, though he could tell it was the kind of place Bruce picked for quiet rather than show. Warm lights, lot‘s of space between the tables, the scent of charred meat and butter drifting through the glass doors.

Every table gleamed, and every waiter looked like they’d been ironed into their uniforms.

The hostess smiled and greeted Bruce by name, and Jason watched her eyes flick briefly toward him before smoothing over again.

Tonight he might be Wayne’s date. Not his whore, but she didn’t know what was true, and Jason wasn’t sure which version hurt less.

The hostess nodded politely, smiled and made a discreet gesture toward a table set apart from the rest. Jason followed her and Bruce, shrugging out of the borrowed coat. The place was warm, humming with the low murmur of expensive conversation and the clink of silver.

They were seated near the window, the city stretched out below like another life. Bruce thanked the hostess and slid into his seat with practiced calm. Jason hesitated a second before doing the same, suddenly aware of his hoodie, his well-worn jeans. The clothes were clean and pressed, sure, but still his. Not polished, no brands. He wondered why Bruce hadn‘t told him to wear a damn dress shirt and slacks at least.

Jason caught their reflection in the dark window, the billionaire and the man he’d rented, and swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry.

When the waiter approached their table with a chilled carafe of water and two menus balanced neatly against one arm, Bruce looked up with the kind of effortless ease that made it obvious he belonged in places like this.

“Good evening, Mr. Wayne,” the waiter said smoothly as he filled their glasses. “Always a pleasure.”

“Good to see you again, Daniel,“ Bruce said with the easy confidence of someone who’d been in a thousand rooms like this. Jason kept his head down until the menus were set in front of them.

The pages were thick, the kind that felt too heavy for words about food. He scanned the list. Filets, ribeyes, cuts aged for weeks, and his stomach did a weird twist. The prices were there, small and clean and terrifying.

Bruce must’ve noticed the shift in his expression because he asked casually, “You like steak?”
Jason blinked up. “Uh, yeah.” He shrugged. “Who doesn’t?”

A faint smile tugged briefly at Bruce’s mouth before he glanced back at his menu. “How do you like your meat?”

Jason hesitated. Questions like that always made him feel vaguely trapped in places like this. Like there was a correct answer everybody else got handed at birth and Jason had missed the memo growing up in the gutters.

He cleared his throat. “Something not too pink?”
Bruce nodded, like that was an entirely reasonable thing to say. “Medium-well, then.”

Jason bit his tongue and looked back down quickly, heat prickling faintly behind his ears anyway. Clients liked testing him sometimes: seeing if the kid from Crime Alley knew how to behave in rich spaces. If he knew, which fork to use. Which wine to order. Whether he sounded dumb when he opened his mouth. Whether he embarrassed them. Wheter he could be a bit more than a dumb fuckboy.

Jason knew how to survive rich men.
That wasn’t the same thing as belonging around them. So he defaulted to the safest thing he knew.
“You can order for me,” he said carefully. “I’m not picky.”

Bruce’s eyes lifted from the menu again, steady and unreadable in the warm restaurant light.
“I could,” he said after a moment, “but I’d rather you tell me what you actually want.”

The answer landed softly somewhere under Jason’s ribs. Bruce, apparently noticing Jason still looked half-ready to bolt from the booth, tried to entertain Jasons nerves with conversation, “The ribeye here’s excellent. Sirloin too, if you want something leaner.” A brief pause. “And if you’re feeling adventurous, the Wagyu’s excellent.”

Jason’s eyes flicked immediately back to the number next to the Wagyu, easily three or four times as expensive as the normal cuts. Absolutely fucking not.

“The sirloin sounds really good,” Jason said quickly, before Bruce could possibly think he was considering the other option. “If that’s okay, I’d like that.”

It was one of the cheaper cuts on the page, but the description promised charred edges, herb butter, tender center. Sounded damn near heavenly anyway.

Bruce nodded once, easy. “Sure is, Jason.”
No weird pause over the price. Not anything and when the waiter returned, Bruce ordered a glass of red wine without even glancing at the list again. Confident. Familiar.

Jason tensed automatically, waiting for the follow-up invitation. Want something stronger? Relax a little.

“And for you, sir?” The waiter asked Jason politely. Jason glanced automatically toward Bruce.

“Whatever you want,” Bruce said easily. The simple answer loosened something tight in Jason’s chest. No pressure. No expectation.

“The water’s fine,” Jason said. Bruce ordered the Wagyu rare for himself and Jason’s sirloin medium-well, adding roasted potatoes and broccolini for the table.

Daniel collected the menus with another professional smile. “Excellent choices, gentlemen.”

Jason waited until the waiter disappeared fully before letting out a slow breath through his nose. Funny thing was, Bruce had never once pushed alcohol on him. Not the first night. Not after sex. Not now.

Most clients liked Jason easier to handle. They liked his body looser and his mind slower. Drunk meant less resistance. Less awareness.

Jason still remembered one guy at the Lounge laughing while Jason nearly threw up afterward because he’d mixed liquor too fast on an empty stomach. Remembered hands on him while the room tilted sideways and his body stopped feeling fully connected to his head. Bruce had never done that.

Jason rubbed his thumb against the side of the cold glass. “Thanks,” he muttered quietly.
Bruce glanced up. “For what?”
Jason shrugged one shoulder, not entirely sure how to explain it without explaining too much. “Just… y’know.” He nodded towards the bar.

Bruce studied him for half a second longer before seeming to understand at least part of it. “I’d rather know you actually want to be somewhere than wonder if alcohol’s doing the work for me,“ he said.

Jason’s fingers tightened faintly around his water glass. “Yeah,” he muttered, awed despite himself. “Okay.”

And it wasn’t just that Bruce wasn’t forcing any drinks on Jason. He was drinking mindfully too. He wasn’t getting wasted. Bruce drank like someone who actually enjoyed the taste, not like somebody trying to blur things out. Jason found himself weirdly grateful for that.

“You come here a lot?” he asked quietly, not wanting to awkwardly dwell on the whole damn thing about alcohol. It shouldn‘t even matter all that much. He wasn‘t a damn kid.

Bruce leaned back slightly in the booth. “Every couple months maybe. Mostly business dinners.”

Jason glanced around again. The candlelight, the quiet hum of conversations soft enough that nobody had to compete to be heard. Everybody here looked expensive in that effortless kind of way. Watches that probably cost more than a car. Dresses that fit too perfectly. Men with silver at their temples and easy confidence.

Everybody here looked polished in a way he couldn’t imagine ever being naturally. Like they’d all been born already knowing how to sit right and order wine and pronounce half the shit on the menu. None of them ever had to bes worried about eviction notices a day in their lives.

Jason tugged absently at the cuff of his dark hoodie. The same faded black one he’d worn a hundred times before Bruce’s concierge had apparently performed some kind of miracle on it. It smelled clean now instead of faintly like old detergent and city smoke, the fabric softened from proper washing and pressing.

Still his hoodie though. Still him. Which somehow made him feel both better and worse in a place like this.

Jason scratched lightly at the back of his neck. “You all probably got taught this stuff in kindergarten. Tiny little business babies learning which spoon’s for soup.”
That got a grin out of Bruce.

“I think you’re overestimating Gotham’s elite.”
“Nah,” Jason said, leaning back a little himself now. “I bet if I used the wrong fork somebody’d tackle me through the window.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched harder this time. “I promise no one here cares about your fork technique.”

“Easy for you to say. You probably came outta the womb knowing wine pairings and stock rates just the same.”
Bruce actually huffed a laugh at that.
“I absolutely did not.”

Jason pointed lightly across the table. “See? That right there? Rich people denial.”
Bruce shook his head, still faintly smiling now. “Most people are paying more attention to themselves than to you.”

Jason’s grin faded a little around the edges and he looked around again.
A waiter gliding between tables. A woman in diamonds laughing softly. Some older guy gesturing with a whiskey glass while talking too loud. Maybe Bruce was right.

Jason rubbed his thumb slowly against the cold side of his water glass. “Still feels like I’m one damn mistake away from embarrassing myself.”

Bruce shook his head. “You’re doing fine, Jason.” His eyes stayed on Jason a second longer than necessary, steady and warm enough to make Jason glance away first.
It did something weird to his chest, being looked at like that.

So he shifted the conversation before his brain could linger on it too long.
“I still can’t believe you have such an amazing library,” he said. Better think of something nice like this otherwordly library. “How do you even get such a collection?”

“A lot of auctions. Private collections. Estate sales.“ Bruce said. “My parents collected first editions, old atlases. Quite a few of them were gifted by the authors or their descendants. Alfred kept the collection alive. He’s still the only one who knows where everything is. I learned not to argue about his system after the dozenths time he caught me putting something back wrong.”

Jason laughed under his breath, the image sharp in his head: Bruce, Gotham’s richest man, getting scolded for shelving a book wrong. “Bet he still gives you hell for that.”

“He does,” Bruce said. “Alfred’s been in my life longer than anyone. He earned the right.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Jason said. “You talk about him like…” He hesitated, cutting at his napkin with the edge of his fingernail. Like Alfred raised him.
Bruce’s gaze softened in a way that made Jason’s chest feel too tight.

The food came before he could think of anything to say. The smell made his stomach twist: hunger and nerves and something that felt dangerously close to gratitude. The steak was perfect: seared outside, pink inside, with roasted potatoes and a pile of bright green broccolini.

Jason took a bite. It was tender, smoky, perfect, and he tried not to close his eyes at the taste. He didn’t realize Bruce was watching him until he looked up.

“I guess you like it,” Bruce said quietly, a little tilt to his lip.
Jason swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. It’s… yeah. Real good.”
“I’m glad.” Bruce’s smile flickered, small, real, gone too fast.

They ate for a while in silence, the steady rhythm of fork and knife between them. Jason kept expecting questions. About his mom, his training, about Cobblepott or Jasons work, anything really but Bruce didn’t push. The quiet wasn’t a trap, and that unnerved him more than anything.

After a few minutes, Bruce spoke, but it was anything Jason was worrying about. “The manor’s got some more strange rooms, too,“ Bruce told him. “A gallery, an old conservatory, even a small observatory my father liked to spend his time in.”

Jason’s head lifted, eyes bright with surprise. “You serious? Like … with a telescope and everything?”
“With a telescope and everything,” Bruce confirmed.

“Man. You got an actual stargazing room?” Jason asked, awed.
“I’ll show you,” Bruce said simply. “You’d like it there. There’s a kind of peace to it. Alfred says it’s the only room that feels timeless.”

Jason looked down at his plate, a small, shy curve at his mouth. “Maybe one day, then.”
“Maybe one day,” Bruce echoed.

The moment lingered quietly until Bruce picked up again, almost idly. “You’d like the greenhouse too.”
Jason looked up, brow raised. “You got a greenhouse?”

“My mother used to grow roses there; Alfred keeps the structure alive now. Fresh basil, rosemary, thyme. He uses them for cooking.” Bruce’s smile deepened. “He insists it tastes better that way.”
Jason leaned back in his seat. “Can’t argue there, I guess. Never saw fresh basil in my life before last week, so I’ll take his word for it.”

Bruce tilted his head and Jason saw the questions Bruce didn‘t ask. Jason shook his head, trying to make it sound like a joke. “My mom used dried stuff from a dollar store jar, and even that was a splurge. So yeah, born and raised in the alley: I’m new to the whole fresh anything thing.”

They sat in that silence for a while, the hum of the restaurant dim around them. The plates between them were nearly empty, the candles burned low. Jason had slowed his eating without realizing it, just letting himself breathe in the rare calm.

Bruce reached for his glass again, his voice lighter this time. “Alfred still feeds the foxes that sneak onto the back lawn.”
Jason blinked. “Foxes?”
Bruce nodded, amused. “They show up every few nights. He complains, pretends they’re a nuisance, then leaves scraps by the trees. He claims it’s coincidence and they stole it from the compost and bought it there.“

Jason leaned back, smiling into his glass. The image of some perfectly pressed old man sneaking leftovers to a bunch of foxes was weirdly… nice.
“You let wild animals hang around the house?” He still asked.

“Alfred lets them,” Bruce said. “I just get the lectures about tracking mud in through the garden.”

Jason grinned, shaking his head. “Can’t picture that. The great Bruce Wayne getting scolded for muddy shoes.”
“It happens more than you’d think,” Bruce said dryly.
Jason smirked. “You’re telling me the big bad billionaire gets bossed around by his butler?”

“Alfred’s never been just a butler,” Bruce said. “He’s… everything else, too. Cook. Medic. Antiquarian. Parent. And occasionally, fox wrangler.”

Bruce sat comfortably back in his chair, one hand still loosely around his glass, the other resting on the table. Jason leaned back in his chair, lazy from good food and quiet, though his eyes still flicked around the place like they hadn’t learned how to stop checking exits.

When the check came, Bruce took care of it without even glancing. Jason didn’t try to offer to pay for his own meal. He didn’t have the money for something expensive as the food he’d just eaten, let alone to treat someone else to a meal like that.

“Thanks for dinner,” he said after a beat, quiet, careful.
Bruce looked up, meeting his gaze without effort. “You’re welcome.”

That should’ve been the end of it, but Jason couldn’t stop his mouth. “You didn’t have to take me somewhere fancy like this, though. I really don’t expect this.”
“I know, Jason.”

They stepped out into the night air, cool enough that Jason was grateful for the coat Bruce had lent him. The city hummed around them. Distant sirens, the rhythmic pulse of traffic, a couple’s laughter spilling out from the corner bar.

They walked side by side without hurrying. Bruce had a steady stride, like every block was familiar territory. Jason fell into step easily, though his hands stayed deep in his pockets. He looked up at the skyline, sharp and silver-edged under the streetlights.
After a moment, he asked, “You walk like that often?”

“Sometimes,” Bruce said. “Reminds me that the city’s still alive after the boardrooms and meetings. Makes it real.”
Jason glanced at him sideways. “You say that like you forget sometimes.”
Bruce’s mouth curved slightly. “Sometimes I do.”

Jason thought about that, about what it must be like to have so much power that you had to go out of your way to feel real. He couldn’t imagine it. For him, life had always been too real. Too close.

They turned a corner, the glow from a shop sign casting stripes of gold across the sidewalk. Jason stopped walking for a second, looking up at it: a pawn shop with its shutters down, the kind of place that smelled like metal and desperation. He didn’t know why he stopped there, just that the contrast between that and the restaurant hit like a weight in his chest.

Bruce noticed, slowing beside him. “Something wrong?”
Jason hesitated, then said, “You ever feel like everyone else is moving in sync and you missed the rhythm?”

Bruce looked at him for a long moment before answering. “All the time.”
Jason let out a small laugh, one that sounded more like a sigh. “Didn’t think someone like you would get that.”
“Someone like me?”

“You know,” Jason said, gesturing vaguely. “Money. Name. You walk into any room, and people already listen.”
Bruce’s eyes softened. “That doesn’t mean they hear you.”

Jason stared at him, caught off guard by the honesty in his voice. Then he looked away, his throat tight. “Yeah. Guess I get that too.”

Chapter Text

The city lights outside the penthouse windows blurred into a soft, shimmering glow as Bruce and Jason stepped inside, the warm scent of the night mingling with the faint aftertaste of their steakhouse meal.

Bruce’s hand brushed against Jason’s as they stepped inside the sleek, quiet space of the penthouse.

Jason shrugged off the coat, hung it carefully by the door, and hesitated.

Bruce’s gaze softened. “Want to shower with me?“

Jason blinked, heart thudding like a drum in his chest. He had been through this before. Not with Bruce. But through the showering, the washing, the submission expected of him with others. But with Bruce, it might be different.

There was no cold command in his tone, no hunger that unsettled him. Instead, there was something steady, something safe. Something like trust, fragile and fierce all at once. He’d never felt this before, not with clients, not with anyone. Bruce’s presence was steady and solid. And damn, the man was good-looking. Better than any man Jason had ever been with.

Jason’s throat tightened, and a shy smile flickered on his lips. “Yeah,” he said softly, voice barely above the water’s distant drip from the kitchen sink. “I’d like that.”

Bruce’s smile deepened, warm and easy, and he reached out to gently take Jason’s hand.

Jason followed him down the hall. The lights dimmed automatically as they passed, leaving soft gold pools in their wake. He caught a glimpse of their reflection in the dark glass.

In the bathroom, Bruce slipped out of his dress shirt, revealing the strength beneath, the taut lines of muscle softened by the steam. Jason’s eyes roamed, drinking in the curve of Bruce’s shoulder, the way the light caught the faint scar near his collarbone. He felt a swelling ache in his chest. A mixture of admiration, longing, and a desperate hope for connection. Should he really feel like this for a client? He should be professional about it. Do his damn job. But that wasn‘t quite so essy with Bruce anymore.

Jason’s fingers itched to trace the lines of Bruces muscles, but he restrained himself, focusing instead on his own clothes.

Bruce slipped the shower door open. “After you.”

Jason stepped inside, the heat wrapping around him like a promise. Bruce followed close behind, hands gentle as they reached out, one to steady Jason’s shoulder, the other tracing a slow, tender line down his arm.

Jason’s breath hitched as Bruce leaned in, lips brushing softly against his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.

The warm water fell like a steady rain over them, steam curling thick and soft in the cramped shower stall.

Bruce’s hand came to rest at the back of Jason’s neck, thumb tracing the line of muscle there, grounding him. Jason leaned into it without thinking.

“Relax,” Bruce murmured, his voice barely audible over the water. Jason’s hands found Bruce’s waist, tentative at first, then sure, seeking, holding.

Bruce’s hands moved with deliberate care, fingers threading gently through Jason’s damp hair, massaging the scalp with slow, practiced strokes. The shampoo lathered in thick white clouds, mingling with the water and cascading down Jason’s shoulders.

Jason closed his eyes, his breath shallow, the sensation oddly grounding tp him.

When Bruce cupped Jason’s jaw, tilting his head up just enough for the water to rinse the soap away, Jason’s eyes fluttered open. For a moment, they just looked at each other, Jason’s gaze wary but curious, Bruce’s filled with gentle reassurance.

“This soap…smells good” Jason murmured. Like wood and something spicy. Some foreign herb.

Bruce nodded, rinsing the shampoo from Jason’s hair, the water washing away the suds in soft rivulets. “I like it. Reminds me of the woods when it rains.”

Jason smiled, lips twitching. “I don’t really get out much. Wandering the woods and stuff.”

Bruce chuckled quietly. “I’ll take you sometime. Maybe when the weather’s better.”

Jason’s hand slid up to Bruce’s chest, fingertips brushing along muscle and tendon beneath wet skin, tracing the lines of strength and warmth. His touch was light, exploring, feeling the steadiness beneath.

They moved closer, bodies touching under the stream of warm water, the surface of their skin slick and shining. Bruce’s hand cupped Jason’s face, thumb tracing a slow line across his cheekbone.

Their lips met then, soft and searching, tasting the faint taste of minerals and chalk of the shower water, mingled with the subtle scent of the soap.

Jason’s hands roamed too, tracing the curve of Bruce’s shoulders, feeling the taut power in the muscles beneath his touch.

Bruce shifted, bringing the soap between his hands, and with gentle care began washing Jason’s shoulders, working the suds in slow circles, careful not to rush. Jason returned the favor, the scent of soap mingling between them, their quiet murmurs filling the small space.

Jason’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Feels… nice.”

Bruce smiled, leaning in for another kiss. “It should.”

Bruces hands were gentle as they moved over Jason’s body, his fingers tracing the contours of his muscles with a familiarity that sent shivers down Jason’s spine. He caressed Jason’s shoulders, his chest, his abs, each touch deliberate, each stroke a promise. When his hands reached Jason’s nipples, he paused, circling them with his thumbs, watching as they hardened under his touch. Jason moaned softly, his head tilting back, water dripping down his face. He wasn‘t really sure how much of that were trained behaviour or a honest reaction.

Bruce’s fingers trailed lower, down Jason’s stomach. Jason’s breath hitched slightly, when Bruce started to wash his dick, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, Jasons hands dropped to the tiles, gripping the cool surface as Bruce’s fingers traced the vein on the underside of Jasons cock. For a long moment, the only sounds were the rush of water and Jason’s slow, uneven breathing, while Bruce jerked him off.

Jason came hard, coating Bruces hand just long enough for the water to rinse his seed away. He tried to catch his breath, while Bruce cleaned his dick with soft touches.

Bruce stood tall and proud, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his skin flushed from the heat of the shower. Jason slid down onto his knees beneath the spray, the slick tile cool beneath his skin despite the heat swirling around them. His eyes flicked up to Bruce, who watched him with a softness that made Jason’s heart beat faster.

Slowly, carefully, Jason reached for Bruce’s leg, cupping the calf with both hands. The muscle was hard beneath his palms, solid and warm, alive in the misty air. He worked the soap into thick, slick suds and began to wash, fingers tracing long, slow circles from ankle to knee, feeling the smooth power beneath the skin.

Bruce’s breath hitched softly as Jason brushed the sensitive spot behind Bruce’s knee, and Bruce’s hand came down to rest lightly on Jason’s shoulder, a grounding, tender touch.

Jason swallowed, his gaze flickering down to Bruce’s feet, wet and pale against the dark tile. His fingers moved carefully between each toe, massaging and washing, the delicate skin slippery and soft beneath his touch. Jason’s fingers lingered on Bruce’s Achilles tendon, feeling the taut strength there, the way the muscle flexed beneath his touch.

Jason leaned down and kissed the arch of Bruce’s foot, then trailing upward, planting gentle, reverent kisses along the curve of the calf, the heat of his lips sending shivers up Bruce’s leg. Most clients expected him to be worshipping under the shower spray, show them how georgeous their bodies where. They like when he kissed their skin, washed their feet, lingered on places other might not find attractive. BUt with Bruce it wasn‘t only duty. There was s certain thrill, to kiss up his knee, to linger there.

The water pattered softly over them, the scent of soap mingling with the faint musk of Bruce’s skin. Jason’s hands traced the lines of muscle, his thumbs working slow, steady circles along Bruce’s ankles and calves. The connection between them was quiet but electric, the kindling warmth spreading through Jason’s chest, kissing upward to the mans hip.

Bruce’s fingers tangled lightly in Jason’s damp hair. “You’re taking so good care of me,” he said softly, a note of awe threading through the words.

Jason looked up, eyes bright and almost earnest. Bruce’s eyes darkened, his lips parting as Jason leaned forward, his mouth opening to take Bruce’s cock in. The first touch of Jason’s tongue sent a jolt through Bruce’s body, his head falling back as a deep groan escaped his throat.

Jason sucked him deep, his lips tight around the shaft, his tongue swirling around the head, teasing the sensitive skin. Bruce’s hands tangled in Jason’s hair, guiding him as he bobbed his head, taking Bruce’s length inch by inch. The water cascaded over them, mixing with the sounds of their labored breathing and the slick, wet noises of Jason’s mouth.

Jason looked up at Bruce through wet lashes. Ther water hadn’t bothered him for years and Bruces shower was a beautiful version of rainshower, that felt almost nice against his cheek.

Bruce’s hips began to move, thrusting gently into Jason’s mouth, his body craving more. Jason hummed around him, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through Bruce’s core. Pre-cum dripped down Jason’s throat, salty and hot, as he deepthroated Bruce, his lips brushing the base of his cock. Bruce’s grip tightened, his voice hoarse as he whispered, “I’m close.”

Jason made a noise in the back of his throat as the hand that was rubbing idly at the base of Bruce’s cock moved to his balls, the pad of Jasons thumb rubbing slow, firm circles. 

The steam was hot and it feelt cramped despite the lavish size of the shower and there was water everywhere, beating into Jasons back, but it was still by far the nicest blow-job Jason had ever given while showering with a client. There was something about Bruce that just hit him different.

Jason swallowed around Bruce’s dick and Bruce gave into the sensation, coming down Jasons throat with a breathy groan.

Jason wiped his face and sunk forward, forehead pressed against the top of Bruces thigh.

Bruce helped Jason rise, their bodies slick and warm, pressing close once more beneath the spray. Jason wrapped his arms around Bruce’s waist, fingers exploring the hard planes of muscle and bone, while Bruce cupped Jason’s face, their lips meeting in a slow, lingering kiss. It was soft and sure and tasting faintly of Bruce’s cum.

The last of the steam drifted toward the ceiling as they stepped out of the shower. Water beaded down their skin, tracing quicksilver lines before dripping onto the tiles. Bruce reached for one of the thick towels stacked neatly nearby and wrapped it around his own hips with an absent motion. He reached for another towel. It was soft and thick, just the way Jason liked, and handed it to him with a small, knowing smile.

“Come here,” he said softly, as he began drying Jason off. His palms pressed gently against Jason’s skin, soaking up the water with tender care. Bruce’s fingers traced along Jason’s arms and shoulders, careful not to rush, as if memorizing every inch of him.

Jason shivered slightly under the cool air meeting his damp skin, but Bruce’s touch was warm, grounding. He dried Jason’s neck and face with a soft, practiced motion, brushing stray droplets of water from Jason’s hair.

“You up for a little more?” he asked quietly.

Jason grinned. “Yeah, absolutly,” he said bashfully. And it wasn‘t all a lie.

Bruce nodded once, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He turned to the wardrobe built into the wall, opened it, and pulled out two robes. Thick, dark cotton ones. He handed one over without comment.

Jason slipped it on, the weight of the fabric settling across his shoulders like calm itself. Bruce tied his own belt loosely and gestured toward the hallway. “Come on.”

The penthouse opened wide around them as they walked, the city spread in glass reflections beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Jason’s bare feet sank into the soft rug that stretched across half the living room floor.

Bruce crossed to the fireplace, a modern square inset into the wall, but with real wood stacked inside. He crouched to adjust a few pieces, struck a match, and watched the flame catch, slow and sure. The faint crackle of wood filled the quiet, a heartbeat of warmth in all that open space.

Jason hovered near the couch at first, unsure where to stand. Then Bruce settled down onto the floor, onto a wide lamb’s wool throw that was already there, one of those things that seemed like they were only there for decoration, too nice to actually sit on. Jason hesitated, then followed, sinking down beside him.

For a moment they just watched the flames build. The light flickered across Bruce’s face, softening the hard lines, painting gold into the shadows under his jaw. Jason rested his elbows on his knees, feeling the heat reach them in waves.

Bruce leaned back slightly, one arm resting over his knee. “This is the only part of the penthouse I insisted stay old-fashioned,” he said after a while. “I like the sound of real wood burning.”

Jason nodded, eyes still on the fire.

“It’s nice,” he murmured. “And warm.”

Bruce’s reply was barely more than a murmur. “It is.”

Jason leaned back, stretching his legs toward the warmth. The robe’s hem slipped open a little at his knees.

Bruce was sitting a little behind him, one hand propped on the rug for balance. When Jason shifted to glance over, their eyes met, close enough that he could see the faint reflection of the fire dancing in Bruce’s pupils.

Jason hesitated only a second before leaning in. The kiss started small, uncertain, like they were still testing the shape of this new thing between them. Bruce’s lips were warm and patient.

When they drew apart, Jason stayed close, forehead resting against Bruce’s temple. The rhythm of the fire filled the silence again, a slow heartbeat that made everything feel suspended.

Bruce shifted an arm around Jason’s shoulders, drawing him in. Jason didn’t fight it, he let himself lean, let his head rest against Bruce’s chest. The steady thrum of Bruce’s pulse beneath his ear was the kind of sound that quieted everything else.

Bruce’s hand brushed Jason’s shoulder as if to ask before acting.

“Let’s lay down,” Bruce murmured, voice low and calm.

Jason nodded stretched out on his back, the fur soft beneath him.

The sound of the fire filled the silence between them, broken only by Bruce moving, the faint rustle of his robe, the creak of the floor as he lay beside him.

Bruce’s hands were warm when they first touched Jason’s chest, his fingers tracing the lines of Jason’s body, teasing his nipples until they pebbled beneath his touch. Jason arched into the contact, a soft whimper escaping his lips as Bruce’s lips trailed down his neck, kissing and sucking, leaving marks that would linger long after the night was over. Bruce’s hands slipped lower, his fingers brushing Jason’s thigh before sliding between his cheeks, his touch deliberate, his intent clear.

“Do you want me, Jason?” He asked, his voice a low rumble against Jason’s skin. Jason nodded, his eyes fluttering closed as Bruce’s finger slipped inside, slow and steady, stretching him open, sliding a second one in, scissoring them apart, prepping Jason’s tight hole.

Jason whimpered, his hips rocking slightly, his cock twitching with need. Bruce’s fingers moved in and out, his touch firm yet gentle, his thumb brushing Jason’s perineum, sending shivers of pleasure through him. “Ready?” Bruce asked, his voice thick with desire.

Jason nodded, his eyes opening to meet Bruce’s, his lips parting in a silent plea.

The fire crackled in the hearth across the room, throwing gold and amber light across the penthouse. Jason could feel its warmth against his skin, but there was another heat sitting lower in his chest, stubborn and restless. Every time he thought he had a handle on it, it came back stronger.

It would've been easier if he didn't want this.

That was the damn problem.

For years he'd learned how to separate himself from it all. Clients wanted a fantasy, and Jason knew how to sell one. He knew how to flirt, how to smirk, how to look hungry even when he felt nothing. He knew every trick in the book.

But none of those tricks helped when the wanting was real. Bruce looked at him and Jason's stomach did stupid things. Bruce touched him and Jason found himself leaning closer before he'd even decided to.

It was ridiculous. Embarrassing, honestly.

Because Bruce was still a client and this was still his damn job.  Jason swallowed.

His pulse hammered in his throat. The truth was: He wanted Bruce. Not only because he had been told to. Not because he was supposed to. Not because someone expected a performance out of him. He wanted this.

Bruce rolled on a condom, his dick glistening in the firelight, thick and hard, pulsing with anticipation. He positioned himself at Jason’s entrance, his eyes locked on Jason’s, before thrusting in slowly, filling him up inch by inch. Jason gasped, his head falling back, his hands gripping the fur beneath him as Bruce’s cock stretched him, the sensation overwhelming.

Bruce held still for a moment, giving Jason time to adjust, his thumb brushing Jason’s cheek, his voice soft. “You okay?”

Jason nodded, his breath shaky as he whispered, “More.”

Bruce pulled out slightly before thrusting back in, his rhythm steady, his hips rolling as he began to fuck Jason, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the room. The fire crackled, the flames mirroring the heat building between them. Bruce leaned down, kissing Jason deeply, their tongues tangling as he fucked him harder, his thrusts becoming more urgent, more demanding.

Jason’s moans filled the room, his body arching into each thrust, his hole clenching around Bruce’s cock, milking him, drawing him deeper. Bruce’s hands gripped Jason’s hips, his fingers digging into the skin as he pounded into him.

The firelight cast shadows on the walls, the room alive with their passion, their desire.

Bruce’s breath came in ragged gasps, his body slick with sweat as he fucked Jason relentlessly, his cock throbbing with the need to come.

Jason’s eyes were closed, his face flushed, his body trembling as he teetered on the edge, his orgasm building, threatening to overwhelm him. Bruce’s lips brushed Jason’s ear, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Come for me, Jason. Let go.”

Jason’s body shattered, his cock twitching as he came, his cum spilling over his stomach, his hole clenching around Bruce’s dick, milking him, drawing his orgasm from him. Bruce groaned, his hips snapping forward as he slammed into Jason one last time, his cum shooting deep into the condom, his body trembling with the force of his release.

They stayed like that for a moment, breathless and spent, their bodies still joined, the fire crackling softly in the background. Bruce pulled out slowly, his hand reaching for a tissue to clean them up, his touch gentle as he wiped Jason’s stomach, his eyes never leaving his. They collapsed onto the furs, the warmth of the fire enveloping them, their hearts slowing, their breaths evening out.

Jason leaned into Bruce, his head resting on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. Bruce wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.

His hand stilled against Bruce's chest. To hell with it. Just a job, my ass. The thought was so ridiculous he almost laughed. Because jobs didn't make his chest ache like this.

Jobs didn't make him feel guilty every time he caught himself wanting another day. Another conversation. Another meal. Another quiet evening on the couch pretending not to enjoy some documentary. Jason pressed his forehead lightly against Bruce's shoulder.

Jason pressed his forehead lightly against Bruce's shoulder. He trusted him. That was the terrifying part. Not completely. Not blindly. The years he'd spent surviving taught him better. But enough. Enough to sleep next to him. Enough to be honest sometimes. Enough to show Bruce a bit of the real Jason.

The realization settled heavily in his stomach. How the hell was he supposed to recover from that? Bruce's fingers moved slowly through his hair, absent and gentle. Jason huffed a quiet laugh against his chest. Yeah.

He was completely, utterly fucked.

Chapter Text

The fire had burned low, the wood sighing softly as it settled into glowing coals. The room was steeped in warmth, the kind that sank into skin, quieting the air itself. Jason lay on his side beside Bruce, the heavy fur beneath them still holding the faint scent of woodsmoke and heat.

Every sound - the crackle of the embers, the subtle shift of fabric, Bruce breathing steady next to him - felt louder now that the rest of the world was silent.

Bruce’s arm rested loosely behind Jason, close enough that their shoulders brushed. That tiny point of contact felt grounding, like gravity had chosen him for once instead of pushing him away.

Jason’s eyes stayed on the ceiling, the pale lines of light flickering across it from the fire. His body felt oddly light and weighted at the same time. His mind, slower, as if the warmth had seeped into every thought and made it harder to keep his guard up.

He started tracing the edge of Bruce’s wrist with his thumb, following the faint lines of muscle and tendon. The skin was warm, smooth in some places, rough in others.. He liked that about Bruce. For all the polish, there were still signs of work in him, of effort.

Bruce’s voice broke the quiet, low and almost tentative. “You always this quiet after?”
Jason thought about that, lips quirking faintly. “Don’t know. Guess usually no one is truly interested in what I’ve got to say.” Or he was to busy licking his wounds without anyone noticing.

He kept his eyes on the fire, trying to breathe around it. “You ever think about how different our worlds are?”
“I think about it all the time,” Bruce said quietly.
Jason turned his head enough to look at him. “Yeah?”

Bruce nodded once. “It’s impossible not to.”
Jason let out a soft huff, unsure if it was amusement or embarrassment. He should probably make himself scarce instead of forcing cuddles and conversation on the guy, just because Bruce was nice to him, fucking him all sweetly and caring about if Jason came or if he was hurt during the act.

“Guess not,” Jason mumbled. He picked at the edge of the fur beneath them, twisting the soft fibers between his fingers.
Bruce’s gaze was steady, but there was no challenge in it. “That’s not what I meant.”

Jason frowned. “Then what did you mean?”
Bruce nodded, eyes still on the fire. “Every time I look at the city, I see how far apart people live without realizing they’re part of the same thing. I spent years writing checks, Jason. I funded schools, clinics, shelters, community programs. I thought if I threw enough money in the right direction, it would mean something.”

Jason stayed silent, but his jaw flexed once.
Bruce went on, voice steady but low. “And then I meet you. And I realize it didn’t reach far enough. Not nearly. Not to the ones who needed it before anyone else.” He looked at Jason then, steady, the weight of the words deliberate. “Families like yours.”

“Yeah, well,” Jason muttered after a moment. “Guess we weren’t exactly the kind that made for good PR.”

Bruce shook his head. “I don’t care about PR. I have people for that. But honestly, I didn’t know how deep the rot went until I met you.“ Jason’s head snapped toward him. “Me?”

“You,” Bruce said simply. “And there are probably many kids like you. The ones the city forgot, while people like Cobblepott and his network dug their claws in. I thought money and policy could fix it. Turns out I was wrong.”

Jason picked at a thread in the fur rug, twisting it around his finger. “You make it sound like one guy could fix all of Gotham.”

Bruce gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “No. One guy can’t fix Gotham.” He shifted slightly, the leather creaking beneath him. “But one guy can choose not to look away. Can choose to try, even when it feels like a drop in an ocean of neglect and corruption.”

Jason glanced at him, eyes sharp despite the quiet tone. “So why did it take you meeting me to see it? Why didn’t you notice before?”

Bruce’s jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration crossing his features. “Because it’s easy to get lost in the numbers. The grants approved, the programs funded, the press releases praising the progress. You see statistics, you see success. I spent years trying to build safety nets, without seeing that the holes weren’t woven tight enough. It tickled through. There are families crushed beneath policies that never reach them. I can‘t stop thinking that there are kids left to survive on scraps, hidden in the shadows of the city’s shiny exterior.“

Jason’s fingers stilled, the thread forgotten. “Like us.”
“Exactly like you.” Bruce’s voice was softer now, almost reverent. “You’re proof that people like Cobblepott will always find the ones my world overlooks. They thrive on what we ignore.”

Jason swallowed hard, his throat tight. “So what now?”
Bruce’s gaze lingered on the fire before answering. “Now I start doing what I should’ve done years ago. I’ll speak to the heads of my foundations, review every contract, every partner. I’ll find out where the money went, who it really helped, and who it didn’t. Make sure the programs I support aren’t just empty promises. And I need to start talking to the people who were supposed to benefit from it all.”

Jason tilted his head, his tone somewhere between disbelief and curiosity. “Why?
“Before I met you, I thought I understood Gotham. I knew its crime, its poverty, its corruption: but I didn’t feel it. Not the way you live it every day. You made it real for me in a way.”

Jason looked down at his hands, rough-knuckled and still marked with faint bruises from training. “Didn’t mean to,” he muttered.
“I know you didn’t.” Bruce’s voice softened further. “But you did anyway.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. The fire popped, a small burst of ember light catching on Bruce’s jaw, the dark curve of his shoulder. Jason watched it, half-lost in thought. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with a man like Bruce — someone who could mean every word and still live a life Jason couldn’t even imagine.

Jason let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Sounds like you’ve got a hell of a job ahead.”
„It’s long overdue,” Bruce said, voice full of conviction.

Jason huffed softly, eyes dropping to the space between them. “Yeah. Maybe. But you can afford to start over. Some folks don’t get that kind of luxury ever in their whole damn lives.”

Bruce turned his head then, studying him for a moment that stretched. “You think that’s all you are? Someone who doesn’t get another chance?”

Jason shrugged one shoulder. “I think people like me burn through chances faster than we get ‘em.” His laugh came out low, humorless. “You got every choice in the world, Bruce. I got debt and bruises. That’s the trade.”

Bruce didn’t flinch. “And heart,” he said quietly. “Loyalty. Instinct. The ability to keep getting up when no one would blame you for staying down. You care about your people. You keep showing up. That’s not something I could ever buy, or build, or fund. That’s just… you.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “I don’t know how you do that,” he muttered. “Make stuff sound like it matters.”

“Because it does,” Bruce said quietly.
Jason huffed, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “You’re gonna make me soft, Wayne.”

Bruce’s reply was calm, simple. “Is that really such a bad thing?“
That shut him up. Jason exhaled slowly, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. The fire crackled, the room dim except for the pulse of light that caught on Bruce’s profile.

Jason thought about that, about the idea of Bruce writing a check while a kid like him went hungry three blocks away. And somehow, the thought didn’t make him angry. It just made him tired.

He dropped his head against Bruce’s shoulder, not sure if it was comfort or curiosity drawing him in. “Guess you’re still learning too, huh?”

Bruce smiled faintly. “Every day.”
Jason’s lips curved, small and unguarded for once. “Yeah. Me too.”

And the silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore. It was soft, threaded with something that almost felt like understanding: the fragile kind, the real kind, the kind neither of them had found much of before.