InsaneJournal

Current mood:	sore
Current music:	Outkast: "Call the Law"

What I'm working on at the moment.
The AU sequel to ending #2 of A way so familiar (16 K words and counting):

Bruce does not think of this part of the world as 'flyover country.' He is in America's breadbasket -- the heart of it, even -- and he is fully aware of just how quickly Gotham would starve itself down into chaos without a connection to this place, and others like it.

He is still uncomfortable here. Very uncomfortable, if he's to be honest with himself --

(Self-delusion is weakness.)

Yes, that.

There is, however, a measure of relief to the fact that he would not be here if Lex hadn't *wanted* him to be uncomfortable. There is pleasure in being contrary-minded, for all that it tends to make Alfred burn Bruce's coffee and freeze his toast.

Alfred is not here.

(Observe.)

Yes.

At the moment, Lex is leading him through the comfortingly grim underbelly of LuthorCorp Fertilizer Plant #31. It's not a tour so much as a walk punctuated by Lex's occasional speeches. They are not extemporaneous. Bruce knows, from experience and observation, that most people would consider them to be so, however.

They are neither of them sure why Bruce is here.

They --

"Brucie, darling, where did he *go*?"

"Home."

"And after that?"

"I don't know."

"Anything?"

"Our families... do not speak."

They'd had that conversation over a year ago now, when Tom had -- gone. Lex hadn't swallowed the official story, of course. Neither had Harvey -- though Harvey had needed only to meet Bruce's eyes to stop asking entirely.

Harvey...

Harvey is Bruce's lover, but he is neither Bruce's brother nor his partner. There are thus a seemingly infinite number of questions Bruce can never answer in Harvey's eyes, and --

Tom had tried to tell him. Tom had *used* their time --

Too *brief* --

(Observe.)

The Bat is quiet, cool, and calm. It has not shouted at him since the days after Dr. Fate had taken Tom. It does not need to.

Lex has stopped them at the edge of a truncated catwalk looking down on great vats full of things which could be formed into explosives without much effort whatsoever.

He will need better explosives when it's time --

"All right, Bruce. We're alone. All that noise will cover our conversation better than anything else I could come up with, and I..." Lex's laugh is more than half a sigh. He *starts* to run a hand -- broad and strong -- over his scalp, but stops before flesh touches flesh.

He is being honest. It's not a voice in Bruce's mind, but -- it still feels like Tom. Bruce listens, and meets Lex's eyes. "Do you think we're likely to be observed in other places?"

"I -- of *course* we are, Bruce. We're *us*, and this is *Smallville*."

"And your father's factory. Yes, I understand," Bruce says, and crosses his arms over his chest the way Harvey does when he wants to be both serious and *lightly* demanding. He raises an eyebrow, as well. "What do you want to ask me?"

Lex narrows his eyes and takes in Bruce's posture -- pose -- with a very *neat* glance. A suspicious one.

"Lex..."

"I could, quite easily, think of any *number* of things to ask you, Bruce."

He truly could. Bruce smiles like Tom --

And Lex takes a very quick breath. He does not blush. "Why are you here."

"You invited me --"

"Why. Are you *here*."

Tom would... what? "Is it time for interrogation, Lex? I could ask why you invited me --"

Lex cuts him off with a gesture. "We both know the answer to that, Bruce. Don't -- pretend with me right now. Please."

Tom had... cared for Lex. Enough that he had begun thinking about staying here, and there is a part of Bruce -- vast and hurting -- which only wishes Lex had had more time to be convincing. Bruce already knows that his own efforts could never have been enough. Bruce inclines his head. "I can't give you Tom."

"He's not even in the *country*, and I -- what in God's name possessed him to travel to the Amazon?"

Lex had, of course, studied the California Waynes just that closely... "I honestly couldn't say," and Bruce lets his expression be rueful. One of the curious things about interpersonal relationships Bruce has learned suggests that offers of emotional truth can be... distracting. "I miss him... I miss him more than I can entirely bear."

Lex blinks, rears back *slightly* -- swallows, and nods. "He told you the two of us were... involved."

"Yes."

"And the two of you...?"

Bruce smiles, and lets it be an honest one. A *distracting* one --

"Oh... Bruce. He let me believe that there was little more to you than what I had already seen. He was protecting you."

*Yes* -- "It's possible."

"Hm. You honestly don't believe he's coming back."

Not until I bring him back -- or give myself wholly to the unknown. Bruce closes his eyes and turns away.

"My God, I'm tempted to *comfort* you."

That -- Bruce knows that his laughs are rusty things, harsh and ill-put-together...

"Yes, yes, I won't strain myself. Answer the question, please, because... well."

Bruce turns back and raises his eyebrow again. "Do you really have to ask?"

Lex shows his teeth. Most of his usual -- lying -- smiles do a much better job of distracting from the shape of his elegant skull. "No, I don't have to ask. But I do need to hear it. Here, I'll start -- I need as much of him as I can get. Your turn."

"I need. I need as much of him as I can get," Bruce says, tilting his head back to look up --

They are, in fact, beyond the range of the only cameras.

"I asked him not to go to you."

Lex hums and crosses his own arms, rocking on his heels -- "I pretended not to care about his other conquests -- no. I pretended I didn't mind that he was lying to me daily. *Effortlessly*. He bought it about as much as you've bought *me*... since he's been gone."

Bruce nods. "He warned me about you. He never stopped believing that you were... dangerous."

"Mm. Which made his decision to take up with me that much more... yes, I think I see. All right, Bruce. What are we going to do about this?"

"We could consider enjoying our vacation together."

Another show of teeth. "Hm. There is that, I suppose. Are we going to be honest with each other?"

"I will never be more honest with anyone than I was with Tom," Bruce says, and has a moment to wonder if that is *too* honest, but --

Lex's look is measuring... and then relaxed.

He has painted himself as a romantic, rather than anything more suspicious. Let it be so.

(Yes.)

Bruce smiles ruefully again and offers his hand.

Lex takes it --

"I'm Bruce," he says, and smiles a little more widely. "It's wonderful to meet you."

Lex's soft-looking lips part -- "The pleasure is mine, Bruce," he says, crisp and even without a hint of the louche. "Please, join me for dinner."

*


The one with Roy in the middle (155 K words and counting):

It's not a good idea.

It is, in fact, a terrible idea.

It may be one of the worst ideas Tim has ever *had* -- but he's doing it, anyway.

Still, when life hands one assorted Bruce-related trauma --

When life forces one to come to terms with certain aspects of one's bleak, terrifying future --

When life does things like hand one the rope to hang oneself, tie the noose, and kick the *chair* --

All right, he's exaggerating *and* using fuzzy, self-serving logic. He had *chosen* this life -- with nothing like encouragement or manipulation from *anyone* -- and all Bruce had done, ultimately, was stick a full-length mirror in front of Tim and staple his eyes open --

It's possible that Tim is still angry about his birthday 'present.' At any other time, Tim would change that to 'probable,' but the fact is that he's spent the past two weeks performing at peak efficiency. His father and Dana believe him to be a reasonably cheerful teenager. Steph hasn't given him any worried looks. Alfred, while pointedly offering him alcoholic beverages *every* time he visits the Cave, is being far more apologetic than... mothering.

Bruce --

Bruce has been giving him those chill, precise nods of approval right and left, really, and while that *could* be a sign that he believes Tim is in *need* of that sort of thing -- no. Bruce keeps *smiling* at him. Not with teeth and barely with his mouth, but his pride and pleasure are obvious things.

Ergo, the anger is only a possible thing.

It's still a bad idea for him to be heading to Blüdhaven right now. While Dick has made it abundantly clear that he wants and *expects* Tim to come to him whenever he needs -- or wants -- to talk...

Tim had learned during the Fairchild debacle that attempting to have substantive conversations about Bruce with Dick... is a bad idea.

He's doing it anyway.

It's just --

He needs --

He could use some comforting. He never *had* spoken to Dick about Bruce's plans for his future -- or Tim's own failure to derail those plans. He wants someone to *speak* with about the gauntlet Bruce had had him run through every painful part of his own mind. He wants --

He wants.

*

He's not getting. And -- maybe this is a sign.

Breaking into Dick's apartment -- while as terrifyingly easy to do as ever -- has not led to him being slammed to the floor and pinned.

It has, in fact, led to him snagging an arrow out of the air and rolling through the streetlight-broken darkness until he can choose a 'safe' position -- based on the arrow's trajectory -- and pull a few batarangs. He listens.

He listens to silence, and calms his breathing, the beat of his heart -- movement, too fast and smooth to be human.

Tim aims his toss at the place where the movement had started --

Listens to the *particular* sound of arrow hitting batarang and getting snapped --

Rolls, twists -- wait. "Arsenal?" Tim scrambles again just to be sure -- but the arrow that seems to have been aimed at his *mouth*... is one with a suction cup. "Hn."

"Jesus, Short-Pants-the-Third. Warn a guy, will ya?" Roy (Tim has always, always thought of him as being Roy, rather than either of the code names he has used thus far. The perils of being *Dick's* 'little brother.') flips on the light.

Tim stands up with a rueful smile. "My fault. I wasn't expecting Dick to have guests."

Roy grins at him and moves into a controlled fall that leaves him leaning against the wall. "Yeah, he *does* keep forgetting to invite us elderly ex-Titans."

"I would assume you all had a *standing* invitation," and Tim raises an eyebrow.

Roy waves it off. "Not the same. Not for *us*, anyway. You should know that by now."

Tim raises his eyebrow a little higher... and nods. "Titans are different."

"Got it in one. Were *you* expecting Dick? I broke in two hours ago and I haven't seen any sign of him. Before you ask, I came in through the door. You didn't miss anything."

"Ah... thank you." The blush is unfortunate, but all too present. "I really do feel rather off my game."

Roy shrugs. "You never know what kind of weapons a bad guy will pick. Nobody *really* has a signature, anymore."

"Very true, and -- the last time I checked, this was supposed to be Dick's night off."

"Which means that he would've at least waited a little while before going out. Yeah, I hear you," Roy says, sighing and rolling his head on his neck. "Anything I can do for you?"

Tim knows the smile on his face is a tight one, but he doesn't really know what to do about that. "I'm afraid not. It's... a bat-problem."

Roy's own smile isn't tight, at all, and there's a light dancing in his eyes. "Isn't it always?"

Well... Tim scrubs a hand back through his hair, enjoying the familiar feel of hairs catching on the gauntlet's texturing. "All too often, anyway. One moment," and Tim pulls out his palm-top, using the stylus to switch the thing to a view of the family's tracers. "Dick's about three miles northwest of here and moving east."

"So much for nights off. Care to join me in hunting him down?"

He's never actually had a conversation with Roy that wasn't Mission-related. He's never done more with, for, or *about* Roy than begging Dick in increasingly abject ways not to go into *detail* --

Bruce's files on Roy Harper are more extensive than for any other member of the Titans. Tim has more than one theory about why that's so, and is confident enough to believe that all of them have at least a little objective truth.

And he needs to speak with Dick. Tim pulls on one of his better smiles --

"You get away with that one, little 'mano?"

"Little -- ah. As a matter of fact, I do," Tim says, and gives Roy a real smile.

Roy licks the edges of his teeth and nods. "That works. Especially since I'm guessing *that's* one of the smiles you were planning to give to Dickie, yeah?"

Hm. "How much do you *want* the things I planned to give to Dick?"

A brief widening of eyes which hardly show their green at all in this light -- and a smile which seems somewhat... wet.

That's a warning. That's --

"Well, I don't know, little 'mano," and Roy reaches down to stroke his own thigh. "What do you *usually* give your brother?"

Heh. "Headaches. And the opportunity to deal with a primate who doesn't often want to admit to that particular designation."

Roy raises his eyebrows in -- mild -- confusion, and -- yes, that was somewhat obscure.

Tim waves a hand. "It isn't important. Just -- it isn't important."

"If you say so --"

"Shall we?" Tim gestures to the window.

"Let's."

Roy lets Tim take point after Tim sets his radio to the Outsiders frequency --

"How many frequencies do you just kind of *know*, Robbie?"

"I... I've always been good with numbers."

Roy hums and follows Tim with a casually muscular grace, which makes Tim wonder how familiar Roy is with Blüdhaven. There's really no way to tell --

"Two o'clock, Robbie --"

"On it," Tim says, adjusting his flight --

There really aren't very many gangs worth the name in this city -- as opposed to petty little 'families' which have been trying and mostly failing to expand themselves since Rohrbach and Nightwing had cleared out the most *effective* of the criminal-minded officers of the BPD -- but there are clearly still enough young men with little enough to do with their nights.

This time, there are fifteen of them, a number of makeshift weapons, and just a few knives -- no, Roy's first arrow sends the only gun flying. Tim dives in and starts working, aware of Roy some eight feet away and doing the same. Shouts, curses --

One very *stupid* individual who drops his hands solely so he can *spit* at Tim --

Some interestingly meaty thuds from where Roy is working --

They're done in minutes, to the point where it takes longer for Tim to zip-strip everyone than the fight itself had taken. When it's all over but the *residual* cursing -- and shamelessly futile attempts to show defiance by flopping around like mildly electrocuted inchworms just to offer weak and poorly-aimed kicks --

Roy grins at him. "You know, your predecessors would've had at least a few things to say at this point."

Tim raises an eyebrow. "I suppose an earnestly passionate 'crime *doesn't* pay' wouldn't be enough?"

"Heh. Not even close, little 'mano. Got any extra zip-strips? I was planning to steal some from N."

"Of course," Tim says, handing them over and -- striking a pose. "This is what you *get* when you mess with *Robin*," he says, pitching his voice just a *little* higher...

Roy snorts. "No, no, do -- uh. The other one."

Tim shows his teeth. And strikes an entirely different pose. "What's that, tough guy? You got something *else* to say?"

The 'tough guy' in question actually pumps his hips -- "*Suck* it, fag."

Well. In for a penny --

And Tim's kick *doesn't* break the man's jaw, but *he* won't know that until after the jail doctors tell him so.

Roy whistles and claps.

Tim jerks his chin at him --

And Roy makes a *choked* noise and waves Tim off. "Okay, that was *too* good. Been studying that footage *extra* close, maybe...?"

Tim hums and lets himself slip out of character as he tracks down the one gun and kicks it into the light. "Everyone needs hobbies."

I make no promises that I'll finish either of these before I dash back over to orig. fic land -- I really am just *that* scattered, these days -- but I thought I'd just give y'all an update.

Happy hauntings!