This city built on rotten pillars
Title:This city built on rotten pillars
Author: creepylicious / alles_luege
Pairing: Bruce Wayne/John Blake
Rating: R
Summary: Prompt: On his first visit to the orphanage, Bruce is given an offer to "in appreciation of his very generous donation", pick a child to take home and use as he desires.
Bruce initially flares in righteous anger and threatens to expose the head of the orphanage. Then he catches sight of John, so angry and beautiful, and decides to take him home.
Pretty much that, except: There is no rape in this story and John is nearly sixteen.
“Money can't buy you love,” Wayne answers. Said like a real orphan, John thinks.
He shakes his head. Wayne had been loved. Is still loved. What a fool. “It gives you something better, though.”
“What could be more important than love?” Wayne asks. Maybe he's curious, maybe he's just playing with John. John doesn't care.
“Freedom.”
Warning(s): rape-references, off-screen child abuse, first time, underage character
Author’s Notes: My thanks to the awesome omletlove for the beta.
First written as a comment-fic for the tdkr_kink.
I'm dedicating this to my lovely stalker-ish anon-commenter, whoever you are.
Word Count: 6.508
Beta: omletlove
Disclaimer: Don’t know, don’t own, not real
~one~
John isn’t a pretty kid and he likes it that way. He always gets into fights with the other boys. On purpose. His face is messed up more often than not, cuts and bruises all over his body. It’s his armour; it keeps him safe. He would get into fights with adults too if it would do him any good - or if it would help the other boys, the smaller boys, the pretty boys.
It doesn’t. John picks his battles; he picks them to lose. He tries his best to make it all better, but this is his training for when he has to fend for himself. That day will come soon enough; everyone knows it.
So John is messed up and bloody and angry, but he doesn’t ever get picked by sleazy men as though it were some kind of gift, some kind of offering. And if one should try, John thinks, he would stab them with a butter knife, or bite their dick off. He would pay for it, sure, but he would be able to look at his face in the mirror the next day. Sometimes you have nothing left than your dignity and no one can take it away from you unless you let them.
John is holding on to his with tooth and nail.
~+~
John doesn’t envy the pretty kids. He isn’t angry when a family takes them in; he is glad. They all look so fragile to him, so lost, so broken. So used. They are probably stronger than John gives them credit for.
~+~
Sometimes he wonders how these people, these filthy rich people can sleep at night with all that they’ve done, all that they do.
Destroying innocent hearts and souls should make you rot from the inside. It would only be fair. But life isn’t fair, and John is certain they are sleeping soundly on their Egyptian cotton.
~+~
Sometimes John wishes he could make Batman stop these people, these “benefactors“, but Batman is fighting on the streets of Gotham, deep in the underbelly of the town and not in the suburbs where everything seems so normal, so whole.
No one looks twice, because no one cares. John doesn’t have anyone left to care for him, and none of the other boys have anyone left to care for them either, except each other.
The people who should care, who should protect them, don’t. Some of the other boys like to say that this is what needs to be done to keep the orphanage open, to keep it going. And it’s only a small price, after all.
The truth John sees is this: the city doesn’t care for lost children.
They are exchangeable, replaceable. If it isn’t ‘save the children of Gotham’ it’s ‘save the pets,’ ‘save the strays,’ ‘build a school in Africa, India, Taiwan.’ Charity for rich people is a one night only deal that involves gourmet food and champagne.
~+~
The visit of Bruce Wayne is unexpected; that’s why the bruises are healed, the cuts only faint scars, the band-aids ripped off. He is naked, practically.
His armour shed.
Everyone has heard about Wayne. An orphan like them, the boys say in the dorms. John knows better. Bruce Wayne is nothing like them. They are fighting for survival; he is filthy rich and has everything he can imagine. He is not one of them.
Wayne looks at the dorms, the kitchen, the grounds. He gets the full tour and then he disappears into the office like all the other men. Couples never disappear into the office on visit days. Couples never take boys home for a weekend to give them back on Monday broken and lost - sometimes bruised too.
The sight of these abused, pretty things always makes John want to scream. He balls his hands to fists instead and gets into fights.
~+~
Little Andy, a scruffy red-head, tells him that there is shouting coming from the office. There’s never shouting coming from the office.
Andy looks at him and the other boys too. John is nearly sixteen; he is one of the oldest. They look up to him. They want to know what the shouting is all about.
To be honest, John wants to know too.
He nods at the kids and creeps into the corridor to listen in or something when the door bangs open. It’s violent and Bruce Wayne looks furious. He looks like he wants to burn something down. No, not something, John thinks, someone.
“I will not stand for-“
“Mister Wayne!” the director interrupts and tries to catch Wayne’s arm.
Wayne looks disgusted and John thinks: good. Someone should.
And then while they’re still struggling Wayne turns suddenly sharply and he sees John standing there, watching, challenging, waiting. And Bruce Wayne stops. He takes a deep shuddering breath and he says: “Him.”
And the only thing John can think is: I know you.
~two~
John gets into the car silently. It’s a nice car, the leather soft and warm from the sun. He is very aware of the other boys looking, watching, wondering, probably, why he’s doing this.
John has no idea. He should be screaming and fighting this thing tooth and nail. He should run. He could run; he is fast.
But there was something final and desperate in Wayne’s voice when he said ‘him.’ There was a darkness inside Wayne John knew all too well. It called to him, and maybe his own darkness called to Wayne. Maybe that was the reason not a single one of the other men had ever tried to approach him.
Maybe he had been wrong about the nature of his armour.
John half expects for Wayne to turn the radio on to escape the silence, oppressive and heavy between them. He doesn’t.
Somehow that John can respect.
He sinks into the soft leather and closes his eyes, enjoys the wind and sun on his face. Who knows what a lonely rich boy has in store for someone like John? Someone who won’t be missed?
~+~
The house is huge, bigger than anything John has seen. They park and get out of the car in total silence.
“Master Wayne,” the butler says as he opens the front door. Silently too - like a magic trick. “You’re back early,” and then his gaze falls on John. “And you brought a guest.” He smiles at John and John smiles back, because he feels this is a good person. Good people deserve at least good manners.
“Alfred this is-“ Wayne stops and looks at John.
“J.,” John says, because no one needs to know his real name here. They probably don’t care either. At least Wayne wouldn’t. He’s here for Wayne’s entertainment. And he isn’t ten or twelve, he is nearly sixteen, he will take it better than one of the smaller, prettier, softer boys. John has the body of a survivor. John at least has good memories of kissing Linda Kay and touching her tits. He knows things. But then, the pretty boys in the orphanage know more about sex- no, John thinks, they do not. They know more about rape.
“J.,” Wayne repeats. “He will stay with us for the weekend.”
“I will prepare a room-“
“Close to yours,” Wayne cuts in.
John sneaks a glance. This is unexpected. If Alfred’s expression is anything to go by, he thinks that too.
~+~
Alfred talks to him the entire way to the room, and stops to point out a thing or two on the way; he never asks any too personal questions. Alfred knows how to talk to an angry orphan, John realises, because he raised one. He raised one with all the love he had to give that would be accepted. John wonders if Wayne has any idea how lucky he really is. Probably not.
Alfred is opening the door as John's stomach growls. He's missed breakfast.
“Master J.,” Alfred says and John cringes inwardly. It's so strange and he doesn't deserve that, he is not- whatever Alfred might think he is. “You should have said you're hungry.”
“I can wait.”
“Nonsense. I will be right up with something. Wishes?”
John has no idea. He hasn't been asked what he wants to eat since his mom died. “I-”
Alfred looks at him hard. “Maybe you would come with me into the kitchen and take a look at what we have? Make a sandwich?”
John nods relieved. Alfred is a good person.
~+~
He spends his time afterwards with Alfred in the kitchen, talking and listening and helping making dinner. Alfred likes to tell stories from the time Mister and Misses Wayne were still alive, when Bruce Wayne was still a baby boy. Bruce Wayne doesn't look like he had ever been a happy child. But then John probably doesn't either.
Fact of life is (and sometimes John thinks it's a really fucking big perversion), that even if the bad things, the hard times outbalance the good one to a million, you still have that one happy memory. That small sliver of hope, locked away and buried in a dark, warm place inside you.
He doesn't see Wayne until that evening when they sit down to eat.
Dinner is a very silent affair.
~three~
The house feels like a dead city, John thinks. There are all these things, but they are all dead. The only living thing is Alfred, because even Wayne looks like he isn't a real person.
John sits down with a book in one of the libraries, the one closest to the kitchen. He likes to know where Alfred is; it gives him a sense of safety that he shouldn't be feeling at all. He doesn't know why he's even here. Maybe Wayne doesn't either. But John had seen that look in Wayne's eyes for a second or two. Want. Pure and naked. He had seen it in other men too. Not often directed at him, but sometimes. It always made his skin crawl and his hands ball into fists, ready to give them a piece of his mind.
He still wonders why he didn't do that with Wayne.
~+~
John looks up before Wayne even steps into the room. His senses are fine-tuned.
“Didn't Alfred show you the TV? And video games?” he asks. His tone is casual, but John can detect curiosity too. It's a strong, but soft voice. Laced with controlled humour.
It's all an act.
“I like to read,” John says, because he does like to read and there aren't enough new books or enough time at the orphanage. If he could spend this weekend eating Alfred's cooking and reading every book that caught his eye he could put that memory into his locked box too.
“What kind of books?” Wayne asks, stepping inside the library and then sitting into the other very comfortable chair in the room. They are maybe two meters apart, with a small table between them. John put three other books on that table in hopes he can finish them this weekend.
“Everything. All of them. I don't have a preferred genre yet.”
“Or an author?” Wayne asks, taking one of the books from the table.
John shrugs. He had once found one small book of fables by Jean de la Fontaine lying around somewhere. He liked them. Wayne has a lot of la Fontaine's books. Anthologies and even Les amours de Psyché et de Cupidon . Not that John can read French. He took it down anyway.
“Do you understand French?” Wayne asks, turning the book over.
John laughs; it's not a nice sound, he knows. It always sounds bitter. He can't remember when was the last time he laughed because he felt happy. “You think the city spends its money teaching hopeless individuals like us French? We can be glad we know how to read in our own language, Wayne.”
“Why take it down then?”
“Because I can.”
“Alfred speaks French,” Wayne says.
“I bet you speak French too,” John answers, putting the anthology in his lap, page marked with a finger.
“People like to listen to it, it sounds melodic. It makes seduction easier.”
John files away the fact that Wayne said 'people' not women for later. “I don't think you need French for that,” he says instead.
“Money isn't everything in the world.”
John smiles. “It sure as hell seems to be from where I stand.”
“Money can't buy you love,” Wayne answers. Said like a real orphan, John thinks.
He shakes his head. Wayne had been loved. Is still loved. What a fool. “It gives you something better, though.”
“What could be more important than love?” Wayne asks. Maybe he's curious, maybe he's just playing with John. John doesn't care.
“Freedom.”
“There is an English copy on the opposite shelf. Filed away by mistake,” he says, getting up.
John nods and doesn't comment on Wayne taking the French one with him.
~+~
The house is silent too. John thought it would make him crazy, but it doesn't. He doesn't even miss the noises of the orphanage. He doesn't miss the other boys.
To be honest, being here gives John a little bit of freedom. Just a taste what it could be like to be alone. With no one to worry about, but himself.
“Master J.,” Alfred says quietly and John looks up from the English copy of Les amours de Psyché et de Cupidon. “Dinner is ready.”
John stretches and puts the book on the small table. It's getting dark outside and he didn't even notice. This is his second day. If he takes the book up to bed, he could finish it tonight. Start a new one tomorrow before he has to go back to his real life.
“Be right there.”
~four~
Last night John had been waiting in his room. He had been waiting and hating himself for it too. He hadn't been able to fall asleep for hours.
Wayne never came into the guest room. Sometimes the boys would talk about it in short, sharp sentences that should mask their horror, but didn't. Most of them didn't talk about it, and no one asked. Those who did talk, would tell John. Never any details, never about the pain.
John knows when he comes back on Monday, he won't be asked. He will be left alone for the first few days, too. He will be the outcast, the victim of something so horrible no one would even speak about it.
Thing is, John thinks, lying in the soft bed, reading an expensive, old book, he won't be like those boys. Wayne won't touch him; he hadn’t until now and time was running out. They aren't even alone in the same room most of the time, as though Wayne does everything he can to not do what he wanted to do when he saw John in that corridor of the orphanage.
Every time they eat together John can see Wayne's loneliness. It's a cultivated one. One that he learned not to acknowledge anymore.
And when Wayne gets up after, he can feel the man’s eyes on him. Darkness and desire held in check. John wonders for how long.
It makes John feel hot, that gaze. It makes John want things he didn't think he would ever want.
~+~
Saturday night he puts the book away after he finished it and gets out of bed. It's only eleven and he isn't really tired yet. He reasons he could go for a walk in the gardens, because they're there and he can. Opportunities don't come that often in John's experience. He learned to use every single one of them. And time is running out, slipping through his fingers. He knows Wayne won't take him home the next weekend, or that one after that. Wayne is regretting that he said 'him' in the first place. John knows Wayne is battling his own demons and John is (for weird reasons) a temptation. Maybe one that Wayne doesn't even understand.
~+~
He makes his way down silently and out of the house through the big glass doors.
The night is cooler than the day was, but still very warm. The plaster leading into the gardens is still warm under John's naked feet. It smells sweet and heady, but John has no clue about plants, so he doesn't know what kind of night-blooming flower it could be.
The stone under his feet gives way to damp grass and earth and John stops in the middle somewhere and buries his toes in it. He can hear water and listens for the direction. Wayne sure as hell has a fancy pool hidden somewhere. John just needs to find it. He could take a nice long swim.
~+~
The pool looks like a small lake. Water glistening and gently rippling with the warm breeze. John strips out of his shirt and after a short pause out of his boxers too. It's night; this is a private house with only three people residing in it now. No women. No one to find any kind of offence.
He sits down, dips his toes in and then glides smoothly into the water. It smells clean and earthy, not like chlorine. He dives under the surface and then just swims a few rounds before he lets the water carry him. He closes his eyes and lets his mind drift, listening to the darkness.
~+~
He notices the footsteps too late. He opens his eyes when a pebble makes the water ripple as it falls in.
“You should be sleeping,” he says swimming over to the stone lined edge of the lake/pool where Wayne is standing.
“I could give that back,” Wayne answers. He is wearing a lot of black. And he looks wide awake. There is a bandage peeking out of the short sleeve of his shirt.
“I can sleep when I'm back. Here I'm taking everything I can. And I haven’t had a swim in a while. It seems just the night for it.” He runs a hand over his wet hair to get it out of his face. It's getting too long, will be cut soon.
“Get out and to bed. It's two already.”
“Oh,” John says. “I didn't realise.”
“Clearly.”
John gets out of the pool and Wayne steps back to make room, but doesn't turn around. Doesn't look away. John is glad for the darkness that masks how hot his skin feels under that gaze. He doesn't hurry, but he doesn't take his time either getting dressed. This is not a game, not a seduction.
John thinks it's just a raging battle.
They walk back in silence.
~five~
Sunday morning John wakes up early. The curtains are drawn, but a bit of the early sunlight makes it through the gaps. John traces it on the soft pale sheets and thinks for the first time ever that he maybe could understand people who would do anything to have this kind of life.
Alfred offered on the first day to bring breakfast up to the room, because Master Wayne usually sleeps in. John had declined. He gets up now and opens the curtains to let the sun in fully, grabs his stuff and goes to the bathroom.
He's down in the kitchen some forty minutes later and only because he jerked off in the shower languidly. There is never so much privacy or time at the orphanage. Jerking off is less about elaborate fantasies and teasing your body into a frenzy heat and more about relieving stress and pent up energy.
“You're up early, Master J.,” Alfred says, shoving a mug of delicious tea in his direction. You can taste the difference, especially when it comes to tea. John will probably cry when he takes his first sip of the stuff they have at the orphanage. Maybe it would have been better to have never tasted that expensive rose tea. You can't miss what you never had.
“I want to finish the last La Fontaine anthology before Wayne sends me home,” John answers.
Alfred takes a deep breath and takes out plates. He doesn't say 'I wish you could stay,' but John can see it in the way he doesn't look at John for a few seconds, long enough to keep it in. As Alfred turns around with pristine white plates in his hands, John looks in his eyes and says: “I wish that too.” Because good people deserve to know these things.
Alfred nods handing one plate over to John, setting one for himself and one aside on a tray for Wayne. John doesn't ask where Wayne spends his nights. Or what he does during all these hours he's gone. Where he gets the cuts. Or why Alfred has a first aid kit in every room. John isn't stupid.
Darkness calls to darkness and the darkest thing in Gotham is the Batman.
~+~
John finishes the last La Fontaine book around noon. He puts it away and lies down on the hardwood floor of the library. The floor is warm, and the wood smells nice. Sunshine is streaming into the library through the big French windows. This might be John's favourite room in the whole house. It has a view of the gardens.
He knows Alfred is out doing something or other. He told John he would be back around two, ready to prepare something to eat for when Wayne comes down. Maybe. On Sundays he rarely comes down before four, Alfred said. John has at least two hours to himself. He thinks about starting a new book, but he wouldn't be able to finish it, so it would make no sense. He likes to finish what he starts.
John stretches in the warm patch of sunlight and his shirt rides up. Drags deliciously over his soft skin. Warm and inviting. Opportunities don't come often. This is two hours of silence and privacy. Even with Wayne in the house. It's a long way from Wayne's bedroom down here.
He runs a hand over the exposed patch of skin on his side and the curve of his hip and wonders what exactly Wayne had seen in him on that day. When John looks into the mirror he usually sees a stupid kid with too hard eyes, a fake smile and even faker calm, hair too long or too short and with too many bruises on his skin.
He is nothing to write home about.
Wayne, on the other hand. Every woman would probably sacrifice her first-born to be his wife. John wouldn't, but then John doesn't think Wayne could be with someone who willingly left their kid. And besides, he thinks amused, he wouldn't make a good wife anyway. He wouldn't even make a convincing whore. Submission and following the rules aren't any of his stronger traits.
He lets his hand slide over his skin and into his boxers, trying not to replay last night's events, but who is he kidding? Part of him wanted Wayne to touch him, run his hands over John's wet, cool skin. Part of him wants it still.
He comes with a muffled groan (years of being silent in a room full of boys) way too fast, thinking about Wayne's hands and voice and mouth.
~six~
By the time Alfred is back, John has been out for a swim again, has showered and put on new underwear.
Wayne doesn't come down to have dinner with John, but John isn't surprised. Alfred is. John is sure Alfred is giving Wayne a piece of his mind when he brings the food up. John eats in silence at the kitchen table. He likes the kitchen too. It's big but it still feels warm, lived in, homey. John would bet everything he has - and that isn't much - that Wayne and Alfred eat here most of the time. The dining room was probably only used for John's sake. As if John would care.
He gets another piece of pie and is pouring tea into his mug when Alfred comes down.
“He up yet?”
“He is working,” Alfred answers. He doesn't seem happy about it.
“He won't come to see me today, will he?” John asks.
“I don't know Master J.,” Alfred says.
It's probably a lie, but then if you have Batman for an employer it's hard to tell what he'll do or not do. John is sure that wasn't what Alfred was hoping for when he raised Wayne, but then children are bound to disappoint their guardians.
“I don't mind, you know? I mean, it's no big deal.”
“He's a busy man, I don't know why-” he stops shaking his head.
Yeah, John thinks, I have no clue either. Wayne could've just sent him back on Friday. John has felt he wanted to.
Maybe Wayne wanted for John to have this. These few days of being him and only him. John still hasn't made up his mind if being here would turn out to be a curse or a blessing in the end.
At least the books and food were worth it.
~+~
He spends the late afternoon playing cards with Alfred. Alfred is a pretty good player and John learns a few tricks.
“I don't encourage the art of deceiving as a rule,” Alfred says as he shows John another trick.
“I can hear a but,” John answers.
“Sometimes cheating at cards can mean having money for rent, Master J.,” Alfred answers calmly.
John swallows. Fuck, he thinks, fuck. Alfred cares.
~+~
John goes back to the library after supper with Alfred, and Wayne is suspiciously absent again. He curls up in one of the big, comfortable chairs, the leather so soft John could fall asleep in it. He dozes off for a while. But Wayne's light footsteps close by make his eyes fly open.
He blinks. “Were you watching me sleep?”
“ Why are you sleeping here?” Wayne asks, ignoring John's question.
“I like this room the most,” John says, shrugging and then stretching. He can feel Wayne's eyes taking in every move. Lingering on the sliver of exposed skin where the t-shirt rides up.
“I spent years here when I was younger,” Wayne answers.
John looks at him. His eyes and his mouth. His broad back, his arms and hands and thinks: he could just hold me down, he could probably kill me with his hands.
“Hey, Wayne?” John says and waits until he has Wayne's undivided attention. John won't tolerate Wayne's demons here right now. “Why did you bring me here?”
Wayne doesn't look away from John's eyes. “I have no idea.”
“Bullshit,” John says softly. “I know people, Wayne. You saw something you wanted and you took it because you could.”
“I saw something beautiful and angry,” Wayne says.
John shakes his head. “Angry, hell yes. Beautiful? Not so much, but then what do I know? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder after all. Still you brought me here, because you wanted me. I know you want to touch me like-”
“No,” Wayne says.
“Because I'm not even sixteen yet?” John asks and he isn't playing around, he is genuinely curious.
“Because you are in no position to say no,” Wayne answers.
It pisses John off. “I am in every position to say no!”
“I could hold you down and take you and no one would stop me. No one would even look at me the wrong way; you would be called a liar and probably a whore. They would kick you out of the orphanage too. You would be homeless.”
John nods. It's all true. “I am still in the position to say no,” John replies. “But I don't want to,” he adds softer, looking directly into Wayne's eyes.
“No,” Wayne says again.
“There are things people like you can have and shouldn't take. There are lines that shouldn’t be crossed, but are every day. I am probably one of the things you shouldn’t take. You're right.” John gets up and walks over to the door slowly. He'll just go to bed and then tomorrow he'll put this weekend in that locked box.
“Why?” Wayne asks and John turns.
“Because I want to. Because I was thinking about you when I jerked off. Because you won't, even I'm probably the only thing you really wanted in years for yourself. Because sometimes good people should be rewarded.”
“I am not a good person,” Wayne answers.
“Maybe not, but you are an honourable one.” He shrugs. “Good night Wayne.”
“Good night, John,” Wayne answers and John doesn't wonder how he knows. Clearly mister Wayne has means as well as vices.
~seven~
John wakes up before dawn. He gets out of bed, showers, puts on clothes, packs his stuff and then he goes down to the library. It's only five o'clock in the morning and he has no idea what he's even going to do with himself until Alfred gets up to prepare breakfast in two hours.
“Why aren't you still sleeping?” Wayne's voice comes out of the darkness.
“Why are you creeping around in the shadows?” John asks, trying to keep his heart beating at a normal pace.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Same here,” John says and then because this might be his last chance: “So I thought I'll jerk off in that comfy chair.”
Wayne makes a noise that is nearly a laugh. “You mean that.”
“Yeah,” he would do it too.
“What do you think about exactly when you think about me?” Wayne's voice is dark with something John doesn't want to think about too closely.
“Your hands and how they would feel on my body. Your mouth. I have five different fantasies involving this room and your mouth.”
“Only five?” Wayne asks.
“You know it better,” John answers.
“Come here,” he says and it sounds more like a question.
“Let me switch on the light first,” John answers.
“No.”
And okay, John can work with that. He makes his way over carefully, the curtains are heavy in here, blocking nearly all light coming from the windows. He stumbles and reaches out, Wayne grabs his hand out of nowhere to gently steady him. John takes a deep breath. He inches closer.
“I think about your cock too, you know? If you’ve been wondering.”
Wayne's fingers tighten around his wrist and he pulls John closer. “I wasn't.”
“Liar,” John answers and then he can feel Wayne's other hand against his face, dragging him closer until their mouths nearly meet. He can feel every in- and exhale Wayne takes. His breath smells like coffee. John is glad he brushed his teeth. Wayne is waiting and John doesn't get for what for a too long second and then he just presses forward so that they're kissing. He ends up in Wayne's lap, his fingers buried in Wayne's hair, biting and licking and kissing frantically. He doesn't ever want to stop doing this.
That is until Wayne shifts and reminds John of how hard he is already. He has no idea how far Wayne will be willing to go, but he takes his chances. He presses closer so that Wayne can feel the hard line of his cock.
“Did you?” Wayne asks, his breath is coming heavier now.
“No,” John says. “No one ever wanted me before.”
“I'm sure they were just scared.”
“You aren't,” John says.
“I am,” Wayne answers and kisses him again.
~+~
This, John thinks buried deep inside Wayne, was not what he expected. Maybe he should have, because Wayne has all kinds of morals and rules that only make sense to him.
John isn't small or scrawny, but Wayne is so much bigger, his muscles so much firmer. John can feel the scars on his chest under his fingertips. Everywhere he touches he finds one. John moves as Wayne makes a soft noise. He wants to make this good, he wants to last for an eternity, make Wayne hover on the edge, but he's a teenage boy and fucking inexperienced. He has no illusions.
“Should have fucked me,” John grits out. His arms are trembling, holding himself up.
“You’re doing fine,” Wayne answers and then: “Harder would be great, though.”
John laughs into his skin as he thrusts in with more force, a bit faster too. He can feel himself getting closer and Wayne's hand grabbing his own dick. John links their fingers, somehow. He has no idea how, because his whole fucking body is trembling with the effort.
“Don't,” he says, “I want to.”
~+~
John might not have much experience with fucking people, but he has a lot of experience touching dick. Mostly his own. He knows how to make it good, how to draw it out.
Wayne's cock is bigger and the angle is different, but it's still a cock; John doesn't need a manual to make it work. Judging by the noises Wayne makes, John is on to something here. He leans in out of curiosity and licks the head and Wayne says: “John.” urgently and John backs away just before Wayne comes all over John's hand.
~+~
“Go and shower before Alfred wakes up,” Wayne says with a soft kiss to John's palm.
John really doesn't want to, but this doesn't change anything. John will still have to go back.
“In a second.”
~eight~
Wayne doesn't come down for breakfast at seven thirty. Alfred looks up at the ceiling and sighs, but doesn't say anything. Alfred just deals. There is nothing else to do when you love someone, John thinks. Or when you feel responsibility. John never ever loved someone except his parents, but that love is washed thin. He can't remember the feeling; it’s faded to a thought.
“He should be here. It's your last day, after all Master J.,” Alfred says, setting a plate down in front of John. The expensive rose-tea is still too hot to drink, but John grabs the mug anyway.
“John,” John says.
Alfred smiles. “John.”
“I get it, he is a busy man. He has an important job.”
Alfred gives him a look, but doesn't comment. “He is just being lazy. He should take you back. He brought you here in the first place.”
“I can take the bus or something-”
“The bus! No, I will drive you back. And you do have school, don't you?”
John nods. Yeah. There is a public school all the boys are attending. “Yes. Starts at nine today.”
“We have a bit of time then. I will prepare lunch.”
“Alfred?” John says.
“Yes, Master John,” he answers.
“Can I have some of the rose-tea?”
Alfred looks at him and then nods. “You have excellent taste.”
“No one said that before,” John answers.
“Clearly you need to keep better company, Master John.”
John laughs, maybe he really should.
~+~
A part of John still waits for Wayne to show up as he's leaning against the big black Benz. It's not so flashy, but it says 'rich' nevertheless. He looks up and tries to find Wayne's bedroom-window, as he does he notices that the curtains are drawn.
“What a dick,” he mutters under his breath. John knows Wayne isn't asleep because they were kissing until they could hear Alfred coming down the stairs. John had waited for Alfred to disappear into the kitchen and then he dashed into one of the bathrooms downstairs to clean up.
“We can go now!” Alfred says coming closer with a pack of rose-tea he has forgotten when they first left the house.
“Yeah,” John takes a last look at the house and what he can see of the gardens. He will lock this away, all this and the sex in the library and he won't be thinking about it anymore until he's a grown up with a job that pays rent and dinners with a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Because apparently he is a 'seducing people' kind of guy now too.
Alfred waits him out. John sighs softly and gets in the car.
Alfred, like Wayne three days ago, doesn't turn on the radio.
The ride back is as silent as the ride here and John dreads getting to the destination too.
~+~
The boys in the orphanage are keeping their distance, but they don't avoid John. Maybe because he doesn't have this broken, betrayed look in his eyes when he comes back.
It's Andy who asks eventually.
“He didn't,” John says looking at them all. Every single one of the boys who sat down on the floor in the common room. “He didn’t,” he repeats.
They look relieved. John realises that he is glad not only for his own sake, but for theirs too. Bruce Wayne didn't, the world wasn't all bad. He knows he couldn’t have lied for their sake, but he could give them that. There were decent people around still.
There was hope.
~nine~
Three days after John is back at the orphanage the director is arrested. Some of the care-takers too.
They get a new director, a woman in her late forties. She isn't the cuddly type, but she seems fair enough, John thinks. John is sure there was a background check done with a fine comb on her and she came out of it pristine. She isn't alone either. There is a priest too. Probably to keep each other in check.
Andy asks one evening if John believes it was the Batman who tipped the cops off and John thinks about it for a second and then says: “I think it was Bruce Wayne.”
“Oh,” Andy answers wide-eyed and adoring. “Yeah. He's one of us.”
“Yeah,” John says, because somehow he is.
~+~
A month later the orphanage gets an anonymous donation of books.
Detective stories in which the good guys always win and adventure stories where the knights fight for honour and love. Fables by Jean de la Fontaine, John is sure no one except him would even pick up. But he does. Brushes a finger softly against the cover and reads it out loud to whoever sits down in the common room to listen.
~+~
With the books comes a French teacher. It is not mandatory, but John signs his name on the list anyway. He doesn't have much hope of mastering the language in the few years he has left at the orphanage, but he wants at least to know the basics.
When Andy asks why he wants to learn more, stuff he doesn't even need to do, John looks down at him and says: “You know French helps with picking up girls and besides have you seen Mademoiselle Roux? Her first name is Marlene.”
Andy isn't the only boy who signs up to learn French after he gets a good look at Mademoiselle Roux. John is sure Mademoiselle Roux is a very good friend of Bruce Wayne. He stomps on the jealousy that rises inside him, because he isn't stupid enough to think this meant something. Bruce Wayne isn't that person. Batman can't be that person, and John isn't even a real person in the eyes of society. But he will be.
Author: creepylicious / alles_luege
Pairing: Bruce Wayne/John Blake
Rating: R
Summary: Prompt: On his first visit to the orphanage, Bruce is given an offer to "in appreciation of his very generous donation", pick a child to take home and use as he desires.
Bruce initially flares in righteous anger and threatens to expose the head of the orphanage. Then he catches sight of John, so angry and beautiful, and decides to take him home.
Pretty much that, except: There is no rape in this story and John is nearly sixteen.
“Money can't buy you love,” Wayne answers. Said like a real orphan, John thinks.
He shakes his head. Wayne had been loved. Is still loved. What a fool. “It gives you something better, though.”
“What could be more important than love?” Wayne asks. Maybe he's curious, maybe he's just playing with John. John doesn't care.
“Freedom.”
Warning(s): rape-references, off-screen child abuse, first time, underage character
Author’s Notes: My thanks to the awesome omletlove for the beta.
First written as a comment-fic for the tdkr_kink.
I'm dedicating this to my lovely stalker-ish anon-commenter, whoever you are.
Word Count: 6.508
Beta: omletlove
Disclaimer: Don’t know, don’t own, not real
~one~
John isn’t a pretty kid and he likes it that way. He always gets into fights with the other boys. On purpose. His face is messed up more often than not, cuts and bruises all over his body. It’s his armour; it keeps him safe. He would get into fights with adults too if it would do him any good - or if it would help the other boys, the smaller boys, the pretty boys.
It doesn’t. John picks his battles; he picks them to lose. He tries his best to make it all better, but this is his training for when he has to fend for himself. That day will come soon enough; everyone knows it.
So John is messed up and bloody and angry, but he doesn’t ever get picked by sleazy men as though it were some kind of gift, some kind of offering. And if one should try, John thinks, he would stab them with a butter knife, or bite their dick off. He would pay for it, sure, but he would be able to look at his face in the mirror the next day. Sometimes you have nothing left than your dignity and no one can take it away from you unless you let them.
John is holding on to his with tooth and nail.
~+~
John doesn’t envy the pretty kids. He isn’t angry when a family takes them in; he is glad. They all look so fragile to him, so lost, so broken. So used. They are probably stronger than John gives them credit for.
~+~
Sometimes he wonders how these people, these filthy rich people can sleep at night with all that they’ve done, all that they do.
Destroying innocent hearts and souls should make you rot from the inside. It would only be fair. But life isn’t fair, and John is certain they are sleeping soundly on their Egyptian cotton.
~+~
Sometimes John wishes he could make Batman stop these people, these “benefactors“, but Batman is fighting on the streets of Gotham, deep in the underbelly of the town and not in the suburbs where everything seems so normal, so whole.
No one looks twice, because no one cares. John doesn’t have anyone left to care for him, and none of the other boys have anyone left to care for them either, except each other.
The people who should care, who should protect them, don’t. Some of the other boys like to say that this is what needs to be done to keep the orphanage open, to keep it going. And it’s only a small price, after all.
The truth John sees is this: the city doesn’t care for lost children.
They are exchangeable, replaceable. If it isn’t ‘save the children of Gotham’ it’s ‘save the pets,’ ‘save the strays,’ ‘build a school in Africa, India, Taiwan.’ Charity for rich people is a one night only deal that involves gourmet food and champagne.
~+~
The visit of Bruce Wayne is unexpected; that’s why the bruises are healed, the cuts only faint scars, the band-aids ripped off. He is naked, practically.
His armour shed.
Everyone has heard about Wayne. An orphan like them, the boys say in the dorms. John knows better. Bruce Wayne is nothing like them. They are fighting for survival; he is filthy rich and has everything he can imagine. He is not one of them.
Wayne looks at the dorms, the kitchen, the grounds. He gets the full tour and then he disappears into the office like all the other men. Couples never disappear into the office on visit days. Couples never take boys home for a weekend to give them back on Monday broken and lost - sometimes bruised too.
The sight of these abused, pretty things always makes John want to scream. He balls his hands to fists instead and gets into fights.
~+~
Little Andy, a scruffy red-head, tells him that there is shouting coming from the office. There’s never shouting coming from the office.
Andy looks at him and the other boys too. John is nearly sixteen; he is one of the oldest. They look up to him. They want to know what the shouting is all about.
To be honest, John wants to know too.
He nods at the kids and creeps into the corridor to listen in or something when the door bangs open. It’s violent and Bruce Wayne looks furious. He looks like he wants to burn something down. No, not something, John thinks, someone.
“I will not stand for-“
“Mister Wayne!” the director interrupts and tries to catch Wayne’s arm.
Wayne looks disgusted and John thinks: good. Someone should.
And then while they’re still struggling Wayne turns suddenly sharply and he sees John standing there, watching, challenging, waiting. And Bruce Wayne stops. He takes a deep shuddering breath and he says: “Him.”
And the only thing John can think is: I know you.
~two~
John gets into the car silently. It’s a nice car, the leather soft and warm from the sun. He is very aware of the other boys looking, watching, wondering, probably, why he’s doing this.
John has no idea. He should be screaming and fighting this thing tooth and nail. He should run. He could run; he is fast.
But there was something final and desperate in Wayne’s voice when he said ‘him.’ There was a darkness inside Wayne John knew all too well. It called to him, and maybe his own darkness called to Wayne. Maybe that was the reason not a single one of the other men had ever tried to approach him.
Maybe he had been wrong about the nature of his armour.
John half expects for Wayne to turn the radio on to escape the silence, oppressive and heavy between them. He doesn’t.
Somehow that John can respect.
He sinks into the soft leather and closes his eyes, enjoys the wind and sun on his face. Who knows what a lonely rich boy has in store for someone like John? Someone who won’t be missed?
~+~
The house is huge, bigger than anything John has seen. They park and get out of the car in total silence.
“Master Wayne,” the butler says as he opens the front door. Silently too - like a magic trick. “You’re back early,” and then his gaze falls on John. “And you brought a guest.” He smiles at John and John smiles back, because he feels this is a good person. Good people deserve at least good manners.
“Alfred this is-“ Wayne stops and looks at John.
“J.,” John says, because no one needs to know his real name here. They probably don’t care either. At least Wayne wouldn’t. He’s here for Wayne’s entertainment. And he isn’t ten or twelve, he is nearly sixteen, he will take it better than one of the smaller, prettier, softer boys. John has the body of a survivor. John at least has good memories of kissing Linda Kay and touching her tits. He knows things. But then, the pretty boys in the orphanage know more about sex- no, John thinks, they do not. They know more about rape.
“J.,” Wayne repeats. “He will stay with us for the weekend.”
“I will prepare a room-“
“Close to yours,” Wayne cuts in.
John sneaks a glance. This is unexpected. If Alfred’s expression is anything to go by, he thinks that too.
~+~
Alfred talks to him the entire way to the room, and stops to point out a thing or two on the way; he never asks any too personal questions. Alfred knows how to talk to an angry orphan, John realises, because he raised one. He raised one with all the love he had to give that would be accepted. John wonders if Wayne has any idea how lucky he really is. Probably not.
Alfred is opening the door as John's stomach growls. He's missed breakfast.
“Master J.,” Alfred says and John cringes inwardly. It's so strange and he doesn't deserve that, he is not- whatever Alfred might think he is. “You should have said you're hungry.”
“I can wait.”
“Nonsense. I will be right up with something. Wishes?”
John has no idea. He hasn't been asked what he wants to eat since his mom died. “I-”
Alfred looks at him hard. “Maybe you would come with me into the kitchen and take a look at what we have? Make a sandwich?”
John nods relieved. Alfred is a good person.
~+~
He spends his time afterwards with Alfred in the kitchen, talking and listening and helping making dinner. Alfred likes to tell stories from the time Mister and Misses Wayne were still alive, when Bruce Wayne was still a baby boy. Bruce Wayne doesn't look like he had ever been a happy child. But then John probably doesn't either.
Fact of life is (and sometimes John thinks it's a really fucking big perversion), that even if the bad things, the hard times outbalance the good one to a million, you still have that one happy memory. That small sliver of hope, locked away and buried in a dark, warm place inside you.
He doesn't see Wayne until that evening when they sit down to eat.
Dinner is a very silent affair.
~three~
The house feels like a dead city, John thinks. There are all these things, but they are all dead. The only living thing is Alfred, because even Wayne looks like he isn't a real person.
John sits down with a book in one of the libraries, the one closest to the kitchen. He likes to know where Alfred is; it gives him a sense of safety that he shouldn't be feeling at all. He doesn't know why he's even here. Maybe Wayne doesn't either. But John had seen that look in Wayne's eyes for a second or two. Want. Pure and naked. He had seen it in other men too. Not often directed at him, but sometimes. It always made his skin crawl and his hands ball into fists, ready to give them a piece of his mind.
He still wonders why he didn't do that with Wayne.
~+~
John looks up before Wayne even steps into the room. His senses are fine-tuned.
“Didn't Alfred show you the TV? And video games?” he asks. His tone is casual, but John can detect curiosity too. It's a strong, but soft voice. Laced with controlled humour.
It's all an act.
“I like to read,” John says, because he does like to read and there aren't enough new books or enough time at the orphanage. If he could spend this weekend eating Alfred's cooking and reading every book that caught his eye he could put that memory into his locked box too.
“What kind of books?” Wayne asks, stepping inside the library and then sitting into the other very comfortable chair in the room. They are maybe two meters apart, with a small table between them. John put three other books on that table in hopes he can finish them this weekend.
“Everything. All of them. I don't have a preferred genre yet.”
“Or an author?” Wayne asks, taking one of the books from the table.
John shrugs. He had once found one small book of fables by Jean de la Fontaine lying around somewhere. He liked them. Wayne has a lot of la Fontaine's books. Anthologies and even Les amours de Psyché et de Cupidon . Not that John can read French. He took it down anyway.
“Do you understand French?” Wayne asks, turning the book over.
John laughs; it's not a nice sound, he knows. It always sounds bitter. He can't remember when was the last time he laughed because he felt happy. “You think the city spends its money teaching hopeless individuals like us French? We can be glad we know how to read in our own language, Wayne.”
“Why take it down then?”
“Because I can.”
“Alfred speaks French,” Wayne says.
“I bet you speak French too,” John answers, putting the anthology in his lap, page marked with a finger.
“People like to listen to it, it sounds melodic. It makes seduction easier.”
John files away the fact that Wayne said 'people' not women for later. “I don't think you need French for that,” he says instead.
“Money isn't everything in the world.”
John smiles. “It sure as hell seems to be from where I stand.”
“Money can't buy you love,” Wayne answers. Said like a real orphan, John thinks.
He shakes his head. Wayne had been loved. Is still loved. What a fool. “It gives you something better, though.”
“What could be more important than love?” Wayne asks. Maybe he's curious, maybe he's just playing with John. John doesn't care.
“Freedom.”
“There is an English copy on the opposite shelf. Filed away by mistake,” he says, getting up.
John nods and doesn't comment on Wayne taking the French one with him.
~+~
The house is silent too. John thought it would make him crazy, but it doesn't. He doesn't even miss the noises of the orphanage. He doesn't miss the other boys.
To be honest, being here gives John a little bit of freedom. Just a taste what it could be like to be alone. With no one to worry about, but himself.
“Master J.,” Alfred says quietly and John looks up from the English copy of Les amours de Psyché et de Cupidon. “Dinner is ready.”
John stretches and puts the book on the small table. It's getting dark outside and he didn't even notice. This is his second day. If he takes the book up to bed, he could finish it tonight. Start a new one tomorrow before he has to go back to his real life.
“Be right there.”
~four~
Last night John had been waiting in his room. He had been waiting and hating himself for it too. He hadn't been able to fall asleep for hours.
Wayne never came into the guest room. Sometimes the boys would talk about it in short, sharp sentences that should mask their horror, but didn't. Most of them didn't talk about it, and no one asked. Those who did talk, would tell John. Never any details, never about the pain.
John knows when he comes back on Monday, he won't be asked. He will be left alone for the first few days, too. He will be the outcast, the victim of something so horrible no one would even speak about it.
Thing is, John thinks, lying in the soft bed, reading an expensive, old book, he won't be like those boys. Wayne won't touch him; he hadn’t until now and time was running out. They aren't even alone in the same room most of the time, as though Wayne does everything he can to not do what he wanted to do when he saw John in that corridor of the orphanage.
Every time they eat together John can see Wayne's loneliness. It's a cultivated one. One that he learned not to acknowledge anymore.
And when Wayne gets up after, he can feel the man’s eyes on him. Darkness and desire held in check. John wonders for how long.
It makes John feel hot, that gaze. It makes John want things he didn't think he would ever want.
~+~
Saturday night he puts the book away after he finished it and gets out of bed. It's only eleven and he isn't really tired yet. He reasons he could go for a walk in the gardens, because they're there and he can. Opportunities don't come that often in John's experience. He learned to use every single one of them. And time is running out, slipping through his fingers. He knows Wayne won't take him home the next weekend, or that one after that. Wayne is regretting that he said 'him' in the first place. John knows Wayne is battling his own demons and John is (for weird reasons) a temptation. Maybe one that Wayne doesn't even understand.
~+~
He makes his way down silently and out of the house through the big glass doors.
The night is cooler than the day was, but still very warm. The plaster leading into the gardens is still warm under John's naked feet. It smells sweet and heady, but John has no clue about plants, so he doesn't know what kind of night-blooming flower it could be.
The stone under his feet gives way to damp grass and earth and John stops in the middle somewhere and buries his toes in it. He can hear water and listens for the direction. Wayne sure as hell has a fancy pool hidden somewhere. John just needs to find it. He could take a nice long swim.
~+~
The pool looks like a small lake. Water glistening and gently rippling with the warm breeze. John strips out of his shirt and after a short pause out of his boxers too. It's night; this is a private house with only three people residing in it now. No women. No one to find any kind of offence.
He sits down, dips his toes in and then glides smoothly into the water. It smells clean and earthy, not like chlorine. He dives under the surface and then just swims a few rounds before he lets the water carry him. He closes his eyes and lets his mind drift, listening to the darkness.
~+~
He notices the footsteps too late. He opens his eyes when a pebble makes the water ripple as it falls in.
“You should be sleeping,” he says swimming over to the stone lined edge of the lake/pool where Wayne is standing.
“I could give that back,” Wayne answers. He is wearing a lot of black. And he looks wide awake. There is a bandage peeking out of the short sleeve of his shirt.
“I can sleep when I'm back. Here I'm taking everything I can. And I haven’t had a swim in a while. It seems just the night for it.” He runs a hand over his wet hair to get it out of his face. It's getting too long, will be cut soon.
“Get out and to bed. It's two already.”
“Oh,” John says. “I didn't realise.”
“Clearly.”
John gets out of the pool and Wayne steps back to make room, but doesn't turn around. Doesn't look away. John is glad for the darkness that masks how hot his skin feels under that gaze. He doesn't hurry, but he doesn't take his time either getting dressed. This is not a game, not a seduction.
John thinks it's just a raging battle.
They walk back in silence.
~five~
Sunday morning John wakes up early. The curtains are drawn, but a bit of the early sunlight makes it through the gaps. John traces it on the soft pale sheets and thinks for the first time ever that he maybe could understand people who would do anything to have this kind of life.
Alfred offered on the first day to bring breakfast up to the room, because Master Wayne usually sleeps in. John had declined. He gets up now and opens the curtains to let the sun in fully, grabs his stuff and goes to the bathroom.
He's down in the kitchen some forty minutes later and only because he jerked off in the shower languidly. There is never so much privacy or time at the orphanage. Jerking off is less about elaborate fantasies and teasing your body into a frenzy heat and more about relieving stress and pent up energy.
“You're up early, Master J.,” Alfred says, shoving a mug of delicious tea in his direction. You can taste the difference, especially when it comes to tea. John will probably cry when he takes his first sip of the stuff they have at the orphanage. Maybe it would have been better to have never tasted that expensive rose tea. You can't miss what you never had.
“I want to finish the last La Fontaine anthology before Wayne sends me home,” John answers.
Alfred takes a deep breath and takes out plates. He doesn't say 'I wish you could stay,' but John can see it in the way he doesn't look at John for a few seconds, long enough to keep it in. As Alfred turns around with pristine white plates in his hands, John looks in his eyes and says: “I wish that too.” Because good people deserve to know these things.
Alfred nods handing one plate over to John, setting one for himself and one aside on a tray for Wayne. John doesn't ask where Wayne spends his nights. Or what he does during all these hours he's gone. Where he gets the cuts. Or why Alfred has a first aid kit in every room. John isn't stupid.
Darkness calls to darkness and the darkest thing in Gotham is the Batman.
~+~
John finishes the last La Fontaine book around noon. He puts it away and lies down on the hardwood floor of the library. The floor is warm, and the wood smells nice. Sunshine is streaming into the library through the big French windows. This might be John's favourite room in the whole house. It has a view of the gardens.
He knows Alfred is out doing something or other. He told John he would be back around two, ready to prepare something to eat for when Wayne comes down. Maybe. On Sundays he rarely comes down before four, Alfred said. John has at least two hours to himself. He thinks about starting a new book, but he wouldn't be able to finish it, so it would make no sense. He likes to finish what he starts.
John stretches in the warm patch of sunlight and his shirt rides up. Drags deliciously over his soft skin. Warm and inviting. Opportunities don't come often. This is two hours of silence and privacy. Even with Wayne in the house. It's a long way from Wayne's bedroom down here.
He runs a hand over the exposed patch of skin on his side and the curve of his hip and wonders what exactly Wayne had seen in him on that day. When John looks into the mirror he usually sees a stupid kid with too hard eyes, a fake smile and even faker calm, hair too long or too short and with too many bruises on his skin.
He is nothing to write home about.
Wayne, on the other hand. Every woman would probably sacrifice her first-born to be his wife. John wouldn't, but then John doesn't think Wayne could be with someone who willingly left their kid. And besides, he thinks amused, he wouldn't make a good wife anyway. He wouldn't even make a convincing whore. Submission and following the rules aren't any of his stronger traits.
He lets his hand slide over his skin and into his boxers, trying not to replay last night's events, but who is he kidding? Part of him wanted Wayne to touch him, run his hands over John's wet, cool skin. Part of him wants it still.
He comes with a muffled groan (years of being silent in a room full of boys) way too fast, thinking about Wayne's hands and voice and mouth.
~six~
By the time Alfred is back, John has been out for a swim again, has showered and put on new underwear.
Wayne doesn't come down to have dinner with John, but John isn't surprised. Alfred is. John is sure Alfred is giving Wayne a piece of his mind when he brings the food up. John eats in silence at the kitchen table. He likes the kitchen too. It's big but it still feels warm, lived in, homey. John would bet everything he has - and that isn't much - that Wayne and Alfred eat here most of the time. The dining room was probably only used for John's sake. As if John would care.
He gets another piece of pie and is pouring tea into his mug when Alfred comes down.
“He up yet?”
“He is working,” Alfred answers. He doesn't seem happy about it.
“He won't come to see me today, will he?” John asks.
“I don't know Master J.,” Alfred says.
It's probably a lie, but then if you have Batman for an employer it's hard to tell what he'll do or not do. John is sure that wasn't what Alfred was hoping for when he raised Wayne, but then children are bound to disappoint their guardians.
“I don't mind, you know? I mean, it's no big deal.”
“He's a busy man, I don't know why-” he stops shaking his head.
Yeah, John thinks, I have no clue either. Wayne could've just sent him back on Friday. John has felt he wanted to.
Maybe Wayne wanted for John to have this. These few days of being him and only him. John still hasn't made up his mind if being here would turn out to be a curse or a blessing in the end.
At least the books and food were worth it.
~+~
He spends the late afternoon playing cards with Alfred. Alfred is a pretty good player and John learns a few tricks.
“I don't encourage the art of deceiving as a rule,” Alfred says as he shows John another trick.
“I can hear a but,” John answers.
“Sometimes cheating at cards can mean having money for rent, Master J.,” Alfred answers calmly.
John swallows. Fuck, he thinks, fuck. Alfred cares.
~+~
John goes back to the library after supper with Alfred, and Wayne is suspiciously absent again. He curls up in one of the big, comfortable chairs, the leather so soft John could fall asleep in it. He dozes off for a while. But Wayne's light footsteps close by make his eyes fly open.
He blinks. “Were you watching me sleep?”
“ Why are you sleeping here?” Wayne asks, ignoring John's question.
“I like this room the most,” John says, shrugging and then stretching. He can feel Wayne's eyes taking in every move. Lingering on the sliver of exposed skin where the t-shirt rides up.
“I spent years here when I was younger,” Wayne answers.
John looks at him. His eyes and his mouth. His broad back, his arms and hands and thinks: he could just hold me down, he could probably kill me with his hands.
“Hey, Wayne?” John says and waits until he has Wayne's undivided attention. John won't tolerate Wayne's demons here right now. “Why did you bring me here?”
Wayne doesn't look away from John's eyes. “I have no idea.”
“Bullshit,” John says softly. “I know people, Wayne. You saw something you wanted and you took it because you could.”
“I saw something beautiful and angry,” Wayne says.
John shakes his head. “Angry, hell yes. Beautiful? Not so much, but then what do I know? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder after all. Still you brought me here, because you wanted me. I know you want to touch me like-”
“No,” Wayne says.
“Because I'm not even sixteen yet?” John asks and he isn't playing around, he is genuinely curious.
“Because you are in no position to say no,” Wayne answers.
It pisses John off. “I am in every position to say no!”
“I could hold you down and take you and no one would stop me. No one would even look at me the wrong way; you would be called a liar and probably a whore. They would kick you out of the orphanage too. You would be homeless.”
John nods. It's all true. “I am still in the position to say no,” John replies. “But I don't want to,” he adds softer, looking directly into Wayne's eyes.
“No,” Wayne says again.
“There are things people like you can have and shouldn't take. There are lines that shouldn’t be crossed, but are every day. I am probably one of the things you shouldn’t take. You're right.” John gets up and walks over to the door slowly. He'll just go to bed and then tomorrow he'll put this weekend in that locked box.
“Why?” Wayne asks and John turns.
“Because I want to. Because I was thinking about you when I jerked off. Because you won't, even I'm probably the only thing you really wanted in years for yourself. Because sometimes good people should be rewarded.”
“I am not a good person,” Wayne answers.
“Maybe not, but you are an honourable one.” He shrugs. “Good night Wayne.”
“Good night, John,” Wayne answers and John doesn't wonder how he knows. Clearly mister Wayne has means as well as vices.
~seven~
John wakes up before dawn. He gets out of bed, showers, puts on clothes, packs his stuff and then he goes down to the library. It's only five o'clock in the morning and he has no idea what he's even going to do with himself until Alfred gets up to prepare breakfast in two hours.
“Why aren't you still sleeping?” Wayne's voice comes out of the darkness.
“Why are you creeping around in the shadows?” John asks, trying to keep his heart beating at a normal pace.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Same here,” John says and then because this might be his last chance: “So I thought I'll jerk off in that comfy chair.”
Wayne makes a noise that is nearly a laugh. “You mean that.”
“Yeah,” he would do it too.
“What do you think about exactly when you think about me?” Wayne's voice is dark with something John doesn't want to think about too closely.
“Your hands and how they would feel on my body. Your mouth. I have five different fantasies involving this room and your mouth.”
“Only five?” Wayne asks.
“You know it better,” John answers.
“Come here,” he says and it sounds more like a question.
“Let me switch on the light first,” John answers.
“No.”
And okay, John can work with that. He makes his way over carefully, the curtains are heavy in here, blocking nearly all light coming from the windows. He stumbles and reaches out, Wayne grabs his hand out of nowhere to gently steady him. John takes a deep breath. He inches closer.
“I think about your cock too, you know? If you’ve been wondering.”
Wayne's fingers tighten around his wrist and he pulls John closer. “I wasn't.”
“Liar,” John answers and then he can feel Wayne's other hand against his face, dragging him closer until their mouths nearly meet. He can feel every in- and exhale Wayne takes. His breath smells like coffee. John is glad he brushed his teeth. Wayne is waiting and John doesn't get for what for a too long second and then he just presses forward so that they're kissing. He ends up in Wayne's lap, his fingers buried in Wayne's hair, biting and licking and kissing frantically. He doesn't ever want to stop doing this.
That is until Wayne shifts and reminds John of how hard he is already. He has no idea how far Wayne will be willing to go, but he takes his chances. He presses closer so that Wayne can feel the hard line of his cock.
“Did you?” Wayne asks, his breath is coming heavier now.
“No,” John says. “No one ever wanted me before.”
“I'm sure they were just scared.”
“You aren't,” John says.
“I am,” Wayne answers and kisses him again.
~+~
This, John thinks buried deep inside Wayne, was not what he expected. Maybe he should have, because Wayne has all kinds of morals and rules that only make sense to him.
John isn't small or scrawny, but Wayne is so much bigger, his muscles so much firmer. John can feel the scars on his chest under his fingertips. Everywhere he touches he finds one. John moves as Wayne makes a soft noise. He wants to make this good, he wants to last for an eternity, make Wayne hover on the edge, but he's a teenage boy and fucking inexperienced. He has no illusions.
“Should have fucked me,” John grits out. His arms are trembling, holding himself up.
“You’re doing fine,” Wayne answers and then: “Harder would be great, though.”
John laughs into his skin as he thrusts in with more force, a bit faster too. He can feel himself getting closer and Wayne's hand grabbing his own dick. John links their fingers, somehow. He has no idea how, because his whole fucking body is trembling with the effort.
“Don't,” he says, “I want to.”
~+~
John might not have much experience with fucking people, but he has a lot of experience touching dick. Mostly his own. He knows how to make it good, how to draw it out.
Wayne's cock is bigger and the angle is different, but it's still a cock; John doesn't need a manual to make it work. Judging by the noises Wayne makes, John is on to something here. He leans in out of curiosity and licks the head and Wayne says: “John.” urgently and John backs away just before Wayne comes all over John's hand.
~+~
“Go and shower before Alfred wakes up,” Wayne says with a soft kiss to John's palm.
John really doesn't want to, but this doesn't change anything. John will still have to go back.
“In a second.”
~eight~
Wayne doesn't come down for breakfast at seven thirty. Alfred looks up at the ceiling and sighs, but doesn't say anything. Alfred just deals. There is nothing else to do when you love someone, John thinks. Or when you feel responsibility. John never ever loved someone except his parents, but that love is washed thin. He can't remember the feeling; it’s faded to a thought.
“He should be here. It's your last day, after all Master J.,” Alfred says, setting a plate down in front of John. The expensive rose-tea is still too hot to drink, but John grabs the mug anyway.
“John,” John says.
Alfred smiles. “John.”
“I get it, he is a busy man. He has an important job.”
Alfred gives him a look, but doesn't comment. “He is just being lazy. He should take you back. He brought you here in the first place.”
“I can take the bus or something-”
“The bus! No, I will drive you back. And you do have school, don't you?”
John nods. Yeah. There is a public school all the boys are attending. “Yes. Starts at nine today.”
“We have a bit of time then. I will prepare lunch.”
“Alfred?” John says.
“Yes, Master John,” he answers.
“Can I have some of the rose-tea?”
Alfred looks at him and then nods. “You have excellent taste.”
“No one said that before,” John answers.
“Clearly you need to keep better company, Master John.”
John laughs, maybe he really should.
~+~
A part of John still waits for Wayne to show up as he's leaning against the big black Benz. It's not so flashy, but it says 'rich' nevertheless. He looks up and tries to find Wayne's bedroom-window, as he does he notices that the curtains are drawn.
“What a dick,” he mutters under his breath. John knows Wayne isn't asleep because they were kissing until they could hear Alfred coming down the stairs. John had waited for Alfred to disappear into the kitchen and then he dashed into one of the bathrooms downstairs to clean up.
“We can go now!” Alfred says coming closer with a pack of rose-tea he has forgotten when they first left the house.
“Yeah,” John takes a last look at the house and what he can see of the gardens. He will lock this away, all this and the sex in the library and he won't be thinking about it anymore until he's a grown up with a job that pays rent and dinners with a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Because apparently he is a 'seducing people' kind of guy now too.
Alfred waits him out. John sighs softly and gets in the car.
Alfred, like Wayne three days ago, doesn't turn on the radio.
The ride back is as silent as the ride here and John dreads getting to the destination too.
~+~
The boys in the orphanage are keeping their distance, but they don't avoid John. Maybe because he doesn't have this broken, betrayed look in his eyes when he comes back.
It's Andy who asks eventually.
“He didn't,” John says looking at them all. Every single one of the boys who sat down on the floor in the common room. “He didn’t,” he repeats.
They look relieved. John realises that he is glad not only for his own sake, but for theirs too. Bruce Wayne didn't, the world wasn't all bad. He knows he couldn’t have lied for their sake, but he could give them that. There were decent people around still.
There was hope.
~nine~
Three days after John is back at the orphanage the director is arrested. Some of the care-takers too.
They get a new director, a woman in her late forties. She isn't the cuddly type, but she seems fair enough, John thinks. John is sure there was a background check done with a fine comb on her and she came out of it pristine. She isn't alone either. There is a priest too. Probably to keep each other in check.
Andy asks one evening if John believes it was the Batman who tipped the cops off and John thinks about it for a second and then says: “I think it was Bruce Wayne.”
“Oh,” Andy answers wide-eyed and adoring. “Yeah. He's one of us.”
“Yeah,” John says, because somehow he is.
~+~
A month later the orphanage gets an anonymous donation of books.
Detective stories in which the good guys always win and adventure stories where the knights fight for honour and love. Fables by Jean de la Fontaine, John is sure no one except him would even pick up. But he does. Brushes a finger softly against the cover and reads it out loud to whoever sits down in the common room to listen.
~+~
With the books comes a French teacher. It is not mandatory, but John signs his name on the list anyway. He doesn't have much hope of mastering the language in the few years he has left at the orphanage, but he wants at least to know the basics.
When Andy asks why he wants to learn more, stuff he doesn't even need to do, John looks down at him and says: “You know French helps with picking up girls and besides have you seen Mademoiselle Roux? Her first name is Marlene.”
Andy isn't the only boy who signs up to learn French after he gets a good look at Mademoiselle Roux. John is sure Mademoiselle Roux is a very good friend of Bruce Wayne. He stomps on the jealousy that rises inside him, because he isn't stupid enough to think this meant something. Bruce Wayne isn't that person. Batman can't be that person, and John isn't even a real person in the eyes of society. But he will be.