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Alfred’s etiquette lessons are going to waste.
That’s what he should be thinking as he watches Jason dig into his birthday cake with his hands.
But when Bruce looks at his 14 year old partner, the boy’s lips ruddy with the juice of strawberries, a dab of white pastry cream on his not-yet-stubbled chin, all he can wonder is if there’s any chance he can recreate that visual in private using less wholesome means.
He knows it's wrong, but that knowledge doesn't seem to be enough to keep him from imagining what Jason's lips would feel like wrapped around his cock anyway. He blinks a few times in the low light of the manor kitchen, watches Jason prod at the obscenely expensive cake on the counter, and tries desperately to banish the the thought from his mind. The accompanying self-hatred is welcome to stay, as always.
The cake was excessive, maybe, but the boy had been so good lately. He’d been following Bruce’s orders to a T out in the field, been putting his training to use in clever ways without prompting. Alfred had assured Bruce that Jason’s grades were excellent -- even better than Dick’s at that age, which probably shouldn't have come as a shock to him as much as it did. Jason had only mentioned that it was his birthday, that he was “becoming a man” (Jason’s words, not his) three times that week, an improvement from the year before. And Jason hadn’t tried to kiss him again, not since that fumbly night on the couch that had left Bruce feeling like the worst sort of person in the world.
So it was only natural that he do something special for the boy. Show him that he was proud of his work lately. Proud of his restraint. Proud of him.
When he’d seen the cake in a Parisian magazine he’d flipped through with pretend boredom during that afternoon’s board meeting, topped with vanilla cream and fresh strawberries and the darkest black cherries he’d ever seen, he’d known it would be perfect.
And when he’d called his secretary in and asked her to get him that cake, get him that very same exact cake, she had only looked at him a little oddly and mentioned how lucky the lady in his life was.
But that was then. And right now, the air in the kitchen is still hazy with smoke from blown out candles, Alfred is pulling out plates, Dick and Barbara are flirting with each off to the side in hushed tones, and Jason is blissfully picking the toppings off a cake that has crossed the Atlantic by private jet.
“Fuck, tha’s good,” Jason moans as he bites into another ripe cherry. He shoots Bruce an apologetic smile, juice dribbling down his chin. “Sorry, B.”
Bruce follows the trail of redness down the boy’s chin with his eyes, wants to reach out and wipe-- hell, lick away the stain before it threatens the bleach-bright collar of his shirt, but the sound of Alfred tutting behind him pulls him out of his reverie.
“Oops,” Jason smiles sheepishly, swiping at his chin. “I should prob’ly grab a fork or something, huh?”
“That would be a start, Master Jason,” Alfred says wryly as he approaches the counter and passes Jason the silverware in question. Bruce doesn’t miss the way the older man keeps his back turned to him, that it’s been at least three minutes since the candles were blown out and yet he’s the only person in the room to not yet be handed a plate.
Which means Alfred is upset, and Bruce wonders with a jolt if the man knows more than he lets on. Wonders if he sees the way Bruce stares at the boy sometimes, the way these days he has to set his lips firmly, resolutely, to avoid betraying his secrets in a too-genuine, unplanned smile whenever the boy's around.
But Jason is laughing at something as he hovers beside Alfred’s elbow, buzzing with fruit sugars and anticipation (and youth, Bruce thinks, feeling a little disgusted with himself), and the butler is smiling at he cuts the boy a slice of that well-traveled cake.
“Aw man, this has to be the best birthday ever. I mean, I get two cakes? How many kids you know get two whole cakes on their birthday?”
It takes Bruce a second to process what Jason means, and by the time he swings around in horror to look at Alfred, the man is already marching away to retrieve his own attempt at a birthday cake, nose in the air.
Bruce cringes, but before he can even get the apology out of his mouth, Jason has thrown himself at his chest. He wraps his arms tightly Bruce’s middle and pushes a still-soft cheek against the expensive broadcloth of his shirt.
“Thanks, old man,” the boy mumbles into his chest, and it’s all Bruce can do to not grip his fingers in the boy’s apple-scented locks, to pull him even closer and hold him there until he can verbalize some approximation of how he feels.
But Bruce doesn’t know if that’s the best idea. Not when he can’t even trust himself to not kiss a twisty-mouthed teenager back when he climbs over him in the middle of a movie. Not when he can’t pull himself away until a forgotten bowl of popcorn clatters to the ground.
He settles for running a paternal hand over the boy’s head and wills his fingers not to tangle themselves in the soft, dark strands. When Jason finally pulls away, Bruce catches the smallest smirk on his face before it melts into sweetness again, and represses a shudder. He shakes away the feeling of Jason’s fingers at his back and tells himself that there's no way the boy knows what he's thinking, that it's wholly unlikely that he felt the half-hard erection that's been slowly growing in his slacks over the last ten minutes.
He tells himself to wait, reminds himself that there will be time to bury his face in the boy’s hair when he’s older, to make him answer for his brazenness, to feel him come apart in his arms.
And everything’s alright.
And his secret is safe.
For now.