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Jason sinks back against the wall, his palms flat against the rough brick. His eyelids flutter closed and his head tips back, exposing his throat.
Sometimes there's too much in his mind, in his veins. Too much swimming and building inside him. And sometimes he swears he feels the licking fingers of the Lazarus pit spreading inside him.
Sometimes, his memories feel real, like they're happening to him all over again.
He pushes away from the wall, makes a running leap for the end of the building, puts his all into it and makes the first jump, green flickering under his feet, up and up and up. He lands on the next building and clings to the intricate spire, getting his footing before he takes off around the side and finds his long-favorite hiding spot for when the world feels like it's spinning out of control.
Bruce knew it. Maybe Alfred even knew. He doesn't think the others are aware and tonight, he particularly hopes they don't come sniffing around. Not with everything rising up inside him.
Jason settles, crouches against the wall behind his favorite gargoyle and closes his eyes, letting himself slide into the past, uncertain where it's going to take him, but trusting that his gargoyle will protect him through it.
Outside of his body, Jason never notices the faint shimmer, the slightest shift in the gargoyle's position to keep a watchful eye on him. He never suspects that his faith in the stone beast is trust in a very real creature.
Within his mind, he sinks further and further into the past, until he's wrapped in the turmoil of a time where so little rarely goes right. Where sometimes he wonders if anything actually had at all.
The brick wall behind him becomes the press of a bookshelf against his back. The rooftop under his shoes becomes carpet beneath his booted feet. The pit in his veins mounts, sparks and grows back into what it once had been. He feels the breeze coming in through the open window, sees the shift of the gauzy curtains to his left. Most of all, he feels Bruce's presence, stock still and looming in front of him and he knows before he ever hears the growl of, "What is it that you actually want, Jason?" exactly where he is.
He lets go of the last strands of the outside world and falls into the past with a quiet sigh.
Jason squared his shoulders, ready for another fight. One of a thousand in the past few months since coming back. It was never intentional. The words he spoke weren't supposed to be the ones that left his mouth when he got riled up and he never meant the barbs for what they were. His fists were always supposed to be desperately open arms, hoping someone might actually see through to what it was he really needed.
No one ever did.
"I don't need shit from you, of all people, Bruce." The words ripped free and Jason felt himself leaning harder and harder toward anger. Felt the green sea inside him heaving, pitching, threatening to capsize his ship.
Today, something different simmered between them. Something a little left of usual. Like Bruce found some little island of specificity to temper his rebound anger. Because instead of the usual snarl and the fraying edges of a fight doomed to ruin yet another room in the manor, Bruce's fingers just slipped from his shoulder to the nape of his neck.
Something about it. About having the warmth of a hand there, cupping, gently squeezing, abated some of the stormy green sea inside Jason's soul.
"You do, or you wouldn't keep coming back. It's okay to need something." Bruce swallowed and Jason found himself caught, captivated by the way Bruce's Adam's apple bobbed. "I don't know how to fix this... to fix us. But whatever it is you need, I'll give it to you if I can."
Jason shifted his fingers onto the edge of the cabinet behind him and it takes so little to find himself squeezing it to the limits of the wood's allowance. Even he doesn't truly know why he's here. Doesn't quite understand the drive to return time and again to have the same argument, the same blame-filled face-off with his once mentor, once savior. And maybe it's that. Maybe it rubs and chafes that Bruce saved him once and failed to do it a second time.
He tipped his head back, focused on the pressure of Bruce's hand on the nape of his neck, the sensation of Bruce's breath across his face. He is no longer the scrawny child, now equal to Bruce's broad frame. He's all fire and burn-the-world-down and brawn and Bruce is playing at being the one with patience. Neither of them have ever been any good at this game.
Jason swallowed. Took a deep breath and plunged in head-first, heedless, as reckless as he'd ever been. "Fuck me."
He can't say he expected it to work. Still can't say he ever thought the next thing that would happen was Bruce's mouth hot against his own, his fingers moving over his body.
Minutes later, fingertips gripping the cushions of the antique couch, his leather bracelets catching against the embroidered fabric, ass in the air, he can't say he expected to be there either. Not with Bruce rough and hot behind him. Not with both of them cursing and panting. And certainly not with his running shorts down around his knees, draped undignified over the second oldest piece of furniture in this room.
He isn't entirely sure what he expected when he opened his mouth, but Bruce buying into it certainly wasn't it.
Still...
He finds himself, back arched, cock heavy between his legs, Bruce's hands wandering his skin like he's made of marble, a statue to be appreciated. Every self-conscious moment Jason's had since coming back so different than how he left the world gets faded to black. It's impossible under Bruce's steady hands to feel anxiousness as to who he is.
"I hear you, I hear what you really mean, Jason."
The words burn through him. Send white hot fire through his veins to chase away the lapping green. He's cumming before he can so much as realize it's about to happen.
Jason's snapped back to present, a rough gasp prying itself up from his throat. For a second, he swears there's a shimmering barrier in front of him, but a blink and it's gone.
Heart beating frantically in his chest, Jason stands. He swallows, throat feeling like sandpaper, and gives himself permission to remain there, eyes closed, fighting to calm himself down.
When he feels ready, he moves to crouch on the back of the gargoyle, his fingertips finding the same old places he always has, the same worn groves from his fingertips over all these years, and with a whisper of thanks, he makes the leap off into the night.
Rationality isn't exactly the key of the moment as Jason finds himself where he does, an hour later. His knuckles rapping against the door before he can talk himself out of it, before he finds himself two blocks away, a seething mess.
Basil answers the door, not even halfway keeping himself together, and Jason wonders if, perhaps, he's being an asshole, always ending up here, asking for what he does.
It doesn't stop him.
Stepping into the room, Jason closes the door and tips his head at Basil, mumbling, "Same thing as last time. Payment?"
With effort, Basil manages to summon up a likeness of Bruce's voice. "You know my payment, Hood."
It's a mess. A horrible fucked up mess.
Jason shrugs out of his jacket and hands it over, payment in the pocket where it always is. He unfastens his belt and unzips his jeans as he makes his way to the old couch in the corner. It's facing Basil's bookshelf, just how Jason likes for it to be. Pushing his pants down around his knees, Jason kneels, leaning against the back of the couch. His gaze flits over the titles as he waits.
Basil-Bruce's hands are careful, gentle over his skin. Almost reverent. Then he's behind him, more solid for the payment Jason brought him, and he feels for all the world like Bruce did all those years ago.
Jason knows behind him will be Batman, not Bruce. Basil only thinks he's got a thing for the long-unseen vigilante. He hasn't put two and two together. Jason doesn't have it in him to tell him. It'll come back to bite him in the ass, as all things are wont to do where he's concerned, he's certain.
He lets himself sink into a world where this isn't Basil and this isn't a ratty old couch. He's at the manor and this bookshelf is his own, the titles similar enough it works. He dangles his hands over the back of the couch and feels the leather of his cuffs catch as Bruce settles behind him.
He's grateful for his own foresight, because Bruce is needy tonight. He's all hands and heavy body against Jason's own, and then he's there, opening Jason on his cock, pushing in with a throaty groan that makes Jason answer with one of his own.
His fingers grasp at the fabric uselessly. His knees dig into the sofa and he has to work to fuck back on Bruce's cock. The fabric of his tank top pulls against his nipples, rubs in a way he knows will make them raw come morning. He doesn't care. Can't bring himself to care when he's finally getting what he wants.
Choking out, "Br-B-Batman," he has to mouth Bruce to himself to satiate the need burning inside him.
Bruce's fingers are tight on his hips, his cock is fat and perfect up inside Jason, splitting him open just how it did the first time. He almost sobs in relief when Bruce takes over, holding him with one hand against the sofa, panting as he rails him like it's been an eternity since he's had sex.
Bruce's low growl of, "Gorgeous... so gorgeous on my cock," makes Jason shiver. He bites the inside of his cheek. His breath hitches, giving him away, and Bruce nails him harder. The sofa creaks, groans, sounds like it's gonna be fucked apart under them. Jason clings to it for dear life.
Bruce's hand slides under him, grasps his cock, pumps it half a dozen times before he goes to grasp Jason's throat instead. He doesn't hold on tight enough to make it hard to breathe, just hard enough to make a point, and Jason bucks into it, presses harder himself, until his eyes roll back and he's left barely sucking in air past the pressure.
The fingers tighten for a moment and Bruce rumbles, "Yes, such a good boy. Perfect for me. Can you feel how much I want you?"
Jason manages to nod, croaks out something that vaguely sounds like, "Yes."
It takes a good half-dozen thrusts, but then Bruce's hand is gone, back around Jason's cock instead. His breath is hot against his ear, rough with need when he whispers, "Gonna cum for me, boy?" And fuck something about Bruce calling him boy ratchets everything up a notch. Jason's body jerks, his fingers dig in against the couch, and he strains for it, whimpers out, "Y-yes," just as he start to spurt.
He bucks and jerks and rides Bruce's cock as he empties himself all over the couch cushions. His entire body is fire. He's consumed by it, wrecked, ruined, spit out the other side only when Bruce's hips jerk violently behind him and a loud groan tells him Bruce is filling him up inside.
Jason hangs his head, sags there and pants as he comes back to today and reality and where he's actually at. Behind him, Basil-Bruce is murmuring how he's been a good boy, how he's so attractive, how he wants to fuck him more often.
Jason closes his eyes and tells himself Bruce might have told him these things. Tells himself if either of them had let go enough that, perhaps, a one-off wouldn't have been all there was.
It's with decided effort that Jason picks himself up off the couch, uses the wet wipes Basil has tossed on the cushion beside him to clean between his legs and then mop up the cushion he jizzed all over.
He tosses the wipes, fastens up his pants, checks his guns, and pulls his jacket back on. From his thigh pocket, he palms a second dose and hands it to Basil without a word. He pauses long enough to still see Batman in front of him, mumbles, "See ya around, B," and leaves before he breaks his own heart.
The world outside still crackles with the edges of the Lazarus pit seething within him. His fingertips still feel like they tingle with energy. But he's taken the edge off and that's all that matters.
Or at least he tells himself that that's the truth as he grapples to the nearest building and takes off into the night.
Maybe one day he'll believe himself.