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Jason is upset when he storms up to his room, slamming the door as loudly as possible and throwing himself onto the bed.
It's stupid, and childish, and petulant, but it's not fair.
He’s been working his butt off, been doing everything he's supposed to!
All his homework is finished for next week. His grades are good. He aced his English project this morning. On top of which Jason has been doing extra chores. He helped Alfred prepare dinner tonight and cleaned up afterwards.
It's Friday night, so there's not even any school to worry about tomorrow.
And, after all that, Bruce had barely even looked at Jason when he announced that Robin wouldn't be needed on patrol tonight.
So, fuck him! If Bruce wants to treat Jason like some useless little kid, Jason is gonna act like one!
Maybe it's a little dramatic to bury his face in his pillow and scream out his frustrations, but who the hell is gonna stop him.
More annoyingly, it actually works.
Jason sprawls belly down on his mattress after the initial burn of frustration has ebbed, and he can feel the slowly creeping way his limbs go all heavy and tired as the anger drains from his body.
It makes him feel stupid – makes him feel young, like a toddler needing a nap after a tantrum.
But Jason is too stubborn to go back downstairs now. He's staying right where he is, and if Bruce wants to talk about it, he can come to Jason.
Maybe Bruce would stand awkwardly in the hallway for long minutes, trying to plan out the words for his apology. And when he finally got the courage to knock, it’d be a tentative tap on the door, and Jason would make Bruce wait just long enough for him to start walking away before he opened it.
Bruce would say, “Can we talk?” and Jason would say, “No.”
Bruce would say, “Could I come in, please?” and Jason would say, “I don’t think so.”
Bruce would say, “How can I convince you?” and Jason would crack the door a little wider and smile his most enticing smile, and—
Yeah, right.
Whatever cheap porno plot his brain is cooking up, Jason knows better than to let himself slip into those thoughts.
For all his other faults, Bruce isn’t that kind of broken. He could never want Jason like that.
No matter how much Jason wants him to.
It makes Jason’s insides twist uncomfortably to think about, so he does his best to push it aside.
He should get up. Should stop wallowing.
But the bedrooms at the Manor are always toasty warm, and the plush mattress and soft sheets cradle Jason’s lax body perfectly.
Moving seems like such a huge effort, so Jason doesn’t bother.
He lies in the cozy quiet of his room and lets himself doze.
Evening stretches the shadows across the carpet. Jason watches them for who knows how long, until his eyes drift closed and feel too heavy to open again.
It might be minutes or it might be hours before the bedroom door creaks on its hinges.
Jason blinks blearily into the darkness, eyelashes gummed up with sleep.
The door snicks shut again, leaving only the slightly darker outline of a figure with very familiar broad shoulders.
Bruce doesn't say anything. Just edges further into the room, silent and looming.
Jason’s brain feels lazy and slow. His mouth is dry, and he can’t quite make his tongue work enough to form words.
He manages to hum a question and is shushed for his effort. Through the fuzz in his head, Jason feels a vague spike of annoyance try to rise in him.
But then Bruce takes another step forward and rests one hand on Jason's back.
It's big and heavy, splayed fingers spanning right between the points of his shoulder blades.
The weirdly soothing weight of it forces Jason to keep his breathing deep and slow. He hovers on the edge of sleep, warm and comfortable and safe.
Bruce stands there for an indefinable stretch of time. Not moving, not speaking. He might not even be breathing, Jason can’t hear anything over the slow rhythmic thump of his own pulse in his ears.
Finally, just as Jason feels himself drifting off, Bruce’s fingers start to move.
A tentative sort of petting at first, building into gentle strokes, first down the line of one shoulder blade and then back up the other.
It’s nice.
Weird, but nice.
There’s… well. Between the work he did on the streets as Jason before and the work he does on the streets as Robin now, there’s not an awful lot of pleasant touch in Jason’s life.
The lingering thread of his awareness hones in on the sensation, amplifies every scratchy drag of Bruce’s callused fingertips catching on the worn fabric of Jason’s t-shirt.
God, Jason wishes he could feel those calluses on his skin.
Almost before the thought has fully formed, Bruce’s hand slides down to the small of his back, teasing at the hem of his shirt for a long second before pushing it up out of the way.
His thumbs press into the valley of Jason’s spine and ever-so-slowly trace the ridges up his back. Long fingers trace ticklishly up his sides, making Jason shiver.
Bruce’s strong, steady hands never falter in their repetitive motion, even as the mattress dips with his weight. He shuffles carefully forward on his knees, straddling Jason’s legs.
Occasionally in the early days of Jason’s training, after especially long or challenging sessions, Bruce had shown him how to use massage techniques to ease the deep ache in his overstretched limbs.
Under the bright floodlights of the Cave, with Bruce frowning in concentration as he worked his way down Jason’s calf and Jason feeling giddy with the post-workout rush, it had felt like one of those weirdly professional Bat things.
Now, in the hushed darkness of Jason’s bedroom… Bruce rubbing tight, firm little circles up the length of Jason’s bare back doesn’t feel anything less than intimate.
Not that— that’s not what this is.
It can't be.
Jason must be misinterpreting something here, must be getting his wires crossed in his half-asleep brain. He should say something, but…
If he says something, he'd make it weird.
If he says something, Bruce might stop.
And the small, selfish core of him doesn't want this to ever stop.
He lets his concerns slip away, lets himself go boneless.
It’s easy, with the warm, repetitive strokes of Bruce’s hands on him, for Jason to sink back down into the soft, warm, floaty feeling.
Bruce isn't like the johns on the street.
Bruce is safe.
Everything goes pleasantly hazy and slow.
Even the motions of the massage gradually ease off, until Bruce’s hands come to a stop, resting gently around Jason’s waist.
Nothing moves for a long beat.
Two. Three.
Jason waits for Bruce's fingers to start up their soothing rhythm again, but they don't.
Bruce just stays there, frozen. He’s half-curled over Jason’s body, heavy and warm and so, so close that Jason struggles not to squirm under him.
It takes tremendous effort to work his dry tongue enough to croak, “B?”
Barely more than a breath, but it jolts Bruce back into action.
He dips the last few inches to drop a soft, dry kiss to the exposed skin of Jason's back.
Jason’s breath stutters in his chest. His whole body tingles with anticipation.
This can't be happening.
Except that it is.
“Bruce?”
“Shh,” Bruce says again, rubbing the fresh tension from Jason’s spine before it can fully form.
Another press of soft lips, right between his shoulders. Bruce’s mouth drags across Jason’s skin, peppering tiny little kisses to the points of his shoulder blades, the ridges of his spine, the curve of his neck.
The warm puff of Bruce’s breath at his nape makes Jason shiver. Bruce’s hands pet soothingly down his sides, leaving goose-pimples in their wake.
They linger there, fingers curling around his waist again. Bruce's grip digs in more firmly as he shifts his weight just slightly and…
And that's his cock, hot and hard and heavy, dragging right over the curve of Jason's ass.
“Bruce.”
“I'm sorry,” Bruce murmurs, leaning down to rest his forehead on Jason's neck.
Jason can't think, can't breathe.
His body grinds forward on pure, mindless instinct, and Jason is almost surprised to find that he's hard too.
Bruce shakes his head without raising it, rubbing overheated skin to overheated skin. But when his hips shift again, it feels almost deliberate.
A strangled moan escapes Jason before he can even think about biting it back. Bruce gasps in response, a tiny, punched-out burst of damp air that makes Jason jerk back against him.
The hands on his waist tighten, and the next thrust is definitely deliberate.
Jason presses his face deeper into his pillow and tries to arch back against Bruce.
He doesn’t budge an inch, doesn’t let Jason budge an inch.
“I'm sorry,” Bruce says again, and Jason doesn't know what he's apologizing for but he doesn't want it to ever stop.
Bruce ruts against Jason’s ass again hard, forcing Jason’s pelvis against the bed.
His cock throbs, trapped in the tight, unforgiving cradle of the jeans he never took off. The rough drag of the fabric combined with the soft give of the plush mattress beneath sends sparks shooting through Jason's stomach.
With both of them still almost fully clothed, everything is overwhelmingly hot and sweaty.
Jason’s gasping mouth sticks to the spit-soaked cotton beneath his cheek. The leaking head of his cock catches on his damp boxers with every grind of Bruce’s hips.
“Bruce,” he moans, not even trying to hold it back anymore.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce pants, rubbing himself against Jason faster.
“Wha—”
“I’m sorry for dismissing you tonight.”
“Bruce—”
“I’m sorry for saying I didn’t need you.”
“I– ah.”
“I’m sorry,” Bruce grunts, clutching Jason’s waist tighter, grinding down against him harder, “for not appreciating how much effort you put into everything. How much effort you put in for me.”
Burning heat flushes through Jason’s body, and he barely smothers an unholy sound in his throat.
He feels his balls draw up, tight and heavy. He feels like all the blood in his body is pooled in his cock.
Then Bruce’s mouth closes on the side of Jason’s, a sudden scrape of teeth against sensitive skin, and Jason feels like his brain is melting.
“It’s okay,” Bruce says, right in his ear. “Be good for me, lad.”
And the building tension snaps like a lightning strike, arcing up Jason’s spine.
Jason jolts awake to a mortifying wetness seeping through his underwear and a firm knock on the door.
He scrambles up, blindly fumbling to pull his duvet over his lap to hide the evidence of his embarrassment, even though whoever is on the other side of the door obviously can’t see him.
“What?” he snaps, head too scattered to mind his manners.
“Jay,” Bruce says, quietly through the wood. “Can, uh.” He clears his throat. “Can we talk, lad?”
His words make Jason flush with shame – the way they’re so similar to Jason’s stupid fantasy, the soft earnestness of Bruce's voice, the dumb way his heart still sings at the nickname despite everything.
“No.”
The stilted silence that follows lasts long enough to make Jason feel very, very small.
“Alright,” Bruce says, finally. Formally. “Well. Goodnight.”
Jason waits until his footsteps have retreated down the hall before he buries his face in his pillow and groans as loud as he dares.
Jesus fuck, Jason needs to grow the hell up and put this stupid crush behind him before it gets him into some real trouble.