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The Weight Of All Between Us	By : Dook Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 4832 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Batman series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The Weight Of All Between Us
- 1
The Weight of All Between Us

Timothy Drake is dreaming. Timothy Drake is having a nightmare.

When it began it had held a meaning and a kind of moral: it had been a dream of a different Gotham in a different time. Broader, taller, deeper - at once familiar and not. Absorbing in its own strangeness.

It almost glowed with it, this place that was Gotham and not-Gotham – it emitted its own dreary glow like a cheap lightbulb and Tim knew, then, that he was lost. After all, the Gotham he knew was always dark, and never this silent.

This, the dream was telling him, is a lesson in observation. This is the city you know, transformed, fucken packed with symbolism.
Straightforward enough; symbolism he could work with. At the end of the day it was just a bunch of codes to crack, and code-cracking? Tim was *good* with that, and Robin was even better.

It hadn’t been frightening at first. A picture of Gotham. A sketch, the merest tracings of skyscrapers and streetlights - black lines on static. And, inevitably, himself -looking up at all the windows and thinking about
( Bruce )
the blankness of the sky in the glass. Garbage spilled steadily out of the dumpsters and twitched its way across the wet black roads like something half-dead. The air was full with the hot stink of car exhaust and week-old milk, burning rubber and pizza houses.

Line by line, building by building it had grown; bloating outwards into its own bruised and swollen skies. It had refused to stay silent. The first sound had been the electric hum and stutter of a streetlight trying to shine. Against the silence it had sounded strange and emphatic like a declaration, like something vaguely ( hugely ) important.

It was a crack in a church window and more noise had rushed in after it: squealing brakes and the growl of the road like the lowest note on a piano. It had felt like chaos and it had amplified itself into a roar of too many sirens and a handful of shouting, indistinct voices: Gotham town is falling down.

Fearful. It had been too much. The buildings were leaning inwards and screaming in twists of metal and concrete, or maybe the city was just falling in on itself. Maybe the city was falling in on *Tim.* Time stretched and snapped; there was light and noise, lines, chaos and he couldn’t see the sky for all the garbage piling up.

~

He wakes to feel fear tripping over itself in the pit of his stomach. He is afraid that the dream has woken up with him; that it might be quietly playing itself over in his room, eating itself up and beginning again like a snake biting at it’s own tail. It is existing still in the cracks of his floorboards and in the angle where the wall meets the ceiling. It has something to do with the moonlight coming in through the window - the coldness of it - the grid of shadows it leaves on the floor. The quality – the absoluteness - of the silence around him.

It is neither rational nor comforting to stand out in the hall dressed in only his bat-print pyjama bottoms. He does it anyway, because the darkness out here is real in a way that the light through his window isn’t. He breathes in the dark, sifting air and is aware that the shadows hold the same shuddering, expectant quality that his dream had. It’s almost unbearable, like listening to a ticking bomb or pressing a pin to a balloon.

You know it was only a dream, he thinks, but can’t entirely believe that the roof won’t fold like a playing card. The whole place could crash down around him. He might still be dreaming. He walks.

He thinks: I am walking without particular purpose. Just walking so that I can drag my hand along the wood of the landing banister, and so that I can think and maybe so that I can put some distance between me and my bedroom door.

He thinks – he tells himself - a lot of things, but none of them make a difference when he’s actually at Bruce’s door and his fingertips are resting on the door handle.

Good, plausible excuses would just stack themselves up if he stood here long enough. A little longer and he would find something to say and if he actually opened the door then he might have a reason for Bruce to keep him there. It didn’t matter, when the only excuse he had was a handful of words about the loudness of sound. It would undoubtedly sound over-dramatic; pathetic, but that was, perhaps, what defined the worst of nightmares. Bruce had a lot of them.

It is difficult for Tim to determine how long he has been hesitating and how much longer he will continue to stand there. Just like this - his forehead resting against the door, the paleness of his own hand stretched in front of him. He can see himself reflected in the shine of the door-handle. He looks pale; skinny and kind of ridiculous like a mopey cartoon ghost.

The briefest of frowns before he opens the door and slips in. The darkness of Bruce’s room is denser, more perfect - almost solid. His eyes adjust slowly, until he can see the cufflinks on the dresser and the silver mirror hanging on the wall, and the bed - the duvet and it’s rivulets of creases.

“Tim. What is it?” Bruce asks. His voice is sleep-thick and a little irritated but his eyes are bright against the darkness. Calculating.

“Bruce-? I had a nightmare.” Tim says, and it comes out quieter than he intended. He touches his left wrist uncertainly and feels faintly out of place, like he’s doing something wrong. Like he has to explain himself more , so he pads over and reaches out, hesitates, says: “Could I …stay here tonight? Could I sleep here?”

The full weight of Bruce’s attention is focussed on him and he swallows hard because Bruce is sleeping shirtless as well. He wants to know, wants to –

He doesn’t want to stand barefoot in the darkness anymore.

“Yes,” Bruce says, only the tenseness of his shoulders is saying more than that, somehow. He stretches out to take hold of his wrist. Tim lets himself be pulled up onto the bed, and – it’s better . Bruce’s eyes are on the line of his legs as he crawls under the covers and settles on his side. The bed smells like him; aftershave and leather and sweat and sleep. Comforting.
“Was it bad?”
“It was bad.” says Tim, “It was… loud. ”
“You’re alright now.”
He watches Bruce watching him.
“Yes.”
The darkness has claimed and covered parts of Bruce’s face – the hollows around his eyes and his mouth. His forehead. It makes that expression is hard to place but his teeth are showing a little and he’s saying: “You’re cold.”

Evenly and pointedly, just like that, like it’s a fact. Tim looks at him carefully and tries to think that one through because…it’s really more of a suggestion than a piece of the truth. It’s more of an invitation . The first shock of a hand at the base of his spine makes him flinch, and when Bruce pulls him close he flushes and says “Oh. I-” Shuts up again.

Bruce is huge and his skin feels hot to the touch; rough with scarred muscle. If Tim could press himself closer than he would, because it’s pure Batman and something in his head is telling him that all he ever wanted was to be this close to him. He rests his head against Bruce’s collarbone. It feels safe and enduring, as if he could lie like this forever and not have to breathe.

Big, hard hands tracing over his hips, brushing over the black cotton of his waistband and pausing deliberately over the stupid printed bat-symbols. There’s an amused kind of thoughtfulness in his eyes that Tim doesn’t want to think too hard about. He says
“They-” and stops again because he shouldn’t have to defend himself. Bruce’s hands are on his bare skin again, sliding palm-down along his back and up to his shoulders.

The little voice of reason is back again, harder to hear over his own heartbeat and saying:

OK what’s this what’s going on here Tim

And he wonders if Bruce can hear how fast his heart is beating, or if he can feel it.

“That’s right,” he purrs; strokes Tim’s hair and *smiles,* this hungry, fucked up little tilt to the mouth that makes Tim’s mind crack at the edges. And Tim – doesn’t intend to say anything at all. Because he’s not sure how his voice will sound, or if he’ll make any sense.

Because there shouldn’t be anything he could say that would sound right at this point.

But he’s aching everywhere that Bruce isn’t touching him. It feels desperate and terrible and vast so he says “ More, ” and Bruce yanks his head back by a fistful of hair and kisses him. Hard.

It’s deep and wet and it’s quietly shocking even though Tim had asked for it.

It’s - Bruce’s tongue in his mouth, sliding against his own and making him shiver and lick. The moan is coaxed out of him along with most of the air in his lungs and it makes Bruce groan and hold him tight enough to bruise. He tastes faintly like coffee and music – a jazz piece, something dark and rolling with lots of minor keys. Saxophones and neon lights- he kisses Tim like he wants to taste every inch of him.

There’s a piece of the nightmare in this, too. The right piece – it has to be – because Tim is hard and shivering and Bruce is on top of him, holding him down. Leaning in to brush his lips against the curve of Tim’s ear. “How much more, Tim?”

And yeah, it’s phrased like a question but it doesn’t feel like one that he really needs answering. Bruce’s smile is dangerous.

“Bruce –“ Tim licks at his jaw, tastes salt and sleep. Squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers because familiar fingers are curling at the waistband of the pyjama bottoms and tugging them down. It’s… it’s personal. Frightening in its own raw truth. Polaroid instantaneous-

Don’t even think about going there now

-and there’s not enough time to fucking breathe because Bruce’s hand is wrapped around his dick. It burns him up. It feels like the end of everything. When Bruce finally starts jacking him hard and slow it’s the easiest thing in the world to fill up the silence with noises.

There aren’t as many thoughts in his head as there probably should be. The really important ones, the questions, have all been replaced with an electric-green flare of light and heat. It’s stunning, really, like a slow firework and he twists; mewls because it’s so good he can’t stand it. The voice in his head is, (very faintly now,) trying:

It could be a trap Tim what about that or a test he’s set up Tim you’d be failing it right about now…

He’s moaning and coming anyway, all over Bruce’s hand. It’s consuming and almost as terrible as ( Gotham
Town
is
falling
down ) as the way Bruce says “ not enough, ” and presses hard, sucking kisses at his throat. It’s going to leave marks. He knows that; and the implications behind it, the permanence of it makes him heat up all over.

“Batman-? I’m, god, sorry, I- Bruce - More than this, more than – as much as –“

“Turn over,” he murmurs into the skin of his throat. His voice sounds low and urgent, thick with hunger and fiercly, darkly happy. “And get on your hands and knees.”

This is Bruce getting what he wants.

This is you getting what you want.

He’s licking at the marks he’s made, and Tim swallows hard. Hesitates. There are definitely things to be worked out, here. This is the point at which Tim should stop and say something, because this is going to change a lot. It’s going to change everything and it’s happening all in one night and it’s not that he’s afraid, exactly, he’d just like a moment, a second to-

“Now, Tim.” And that’s different, because that’s the Batman voice. And that’s an order . Tim wants , blindly and desperately. He wants Bruce’s hands back on him and he wants that voice again, closer and darker and threading together all the fucked up pictures in his own mind. He wants to be held down in the shadows and bruised and kissed all over – he’d give that. Willingly . A breathless nod and he turns onto his stomach. He pushes himself up onto his hands and knees slowly, because he’s painfully aware of the comical desperation that accompanies haste. The loss of control is not what he wants, yet.

One rough, blunt finger trails chaos down his spine and lower, sliding down the cleft of his ass and searching. Pressing lightly – a promise, or a threat. He’s hard again, and can’t stop himself from pushing back to figure out what the hell it feels like, exactly.

“Tell me what you want.”

It’s another order, and it’s still the Batman voice - it makes his stomach twist and he can’t. It’s too much, too close to the truth, too much like giving in to something dark and traitorous inside of him, the bit that had known.

Bruce takes his hand away. There is a pause, a movement in the darkness and Tim feels his face getting hotter.

“ Tim. ”

A prompt. His finger comes back slicked and starts pushing in, slow and steady and hard.
“oh god Ba - Bruce, please – don’t stop, just that-”
It’s the ache of it that really gets him. The slow burn and the fullness and every last layer of wrongness; the Batman behind the smile and the voice. He groans and grabs a fistful of sheets. Silk ripples run from his fists and spread across the bed, each crease longer than the next. Like lines on a palmistry chart

Do you believe in fate, Tim?

Except there’s really nothing to be divined here, nothing that isn’t already in motion and perceivable in the white-knuckled hand gripping his hip. The feel of Bruce finger-fucking his way inside, the feel of his own dick driving against his stomach. Each thrust a little deeper, a little harder and Tim can feel himself giving in to it.

Two fingers. It feels fucked up enough for Tim to fall onto his elbows and clutch at his own head, fisting hair between his knuckles and breathing hard. He can’t keep quiet enough. The whimpers slip out between his teeth, high-pitched and desperate and it’s still not enough. He thought he had conditioned begging out of his system. He’d thought a lot of things, outside in that silent, shuddering corridor but nothing -

“ oh please- “

Nothing like this, nothing as realized and detailed as -

The first crook of fingers against his prostrate sends a wave of blank, crackling nothing right through him. It makes him want to scream – he’s trying not to, but –
he doesn’t really have a choice, and the most he can do is try to muffle the sounds when Bruce starts adding a twist to the thrusts. It’s perfect and destructive and just the right amount of wrong that he was looking for. He can pierce right through the fear with this, he can knock aside those nagging little thoughts and the outlines of skyscrapers and streetlights.

The laugh from behind him belongs to Batman and not to Bruce, short and amused and sharp like a sickle moon. A mouth pressed to his spine. He can feel the curve of a smile against his skin.

The fingers slip out

“ Please Batman –“

And his dick is right there, hot and slick, pressing up against his entrance and pushing in. He can’t get enough air to think. He tastes hysteria and he can feel Bruce right there, crumpling up the corners of his mind like it’s made of paper. This feels as if it’s the point and the purpose of everything. Tim being spread and fucked on his hands and knees – this moment had been waiting for them since the day they met. It has been lingering ahead of them, promising and unseen, filling up their silences and their heads. One of them just had to take it and of course it would have been Bruce, it was always going to be Bruce and his words and his messed up concepts of perfection.

The first thrust turns the world white and pushes Tim out of his own body. He floats for a second in a place he does not recognise with his ears ringing, before Bruce seizes his hips and pulls him back into the next thrust. It makes him scream and drag his nails down the bedsheets because Bruce doesn’t stop

( can’t stop)

And each thrust is closer to what he wants, deeper, more brutal, more here and now than anything he could have had in his own bedroom. Bruce panting in his ear and fucking him full of sweet, singing pain.

“Oh, Robin-”

It’s like a crack in a glass. It knocks the breath out of him for a second and Bruce reaches round and runs a finger up his cock from base to dripping tip in one lazy stroke. Thrusts in again. Again. Harder.

“Mine. ”

A crack in a glass and the words spill out of him like he’s been cut open.

( Batman what are you oh oh god don’t just don’t ever stop and this’ll make sense I swear it will )

He’s coming again, and this time it feels like he’s falling on fire. He feels Bruce groan and come too, inside him, and if he had enough breath left he’d be moaning at the feel of it. He closes his eyes and lets Bruce pull out and turn him over. Pepper his neck and collarbone with hot, fierce little kisses and pull him close again.
It feels good to fall asleep like that, Bruce’s chest hot against Tim’s back and his arms locked around him. He can feel every breath he takes and it’s right, like Bruce is holding in his soul and keeping him from losing himself.
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The Weight Of All Between Us