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The building's not tall enough to be a particularly good vantage point, but the rooftop is level and better-kept than usual for this part of the city, so Jason calls it good enough. He's never been much for the vigilance part of the job, but so long as he's working on the margins—no territory of his own, no allies, no nudge-and-a-wink understanding with the cops—he can suck it up. He knows better than a lot of people that when you turn your back on Gotham, someone will usually make you regret it.
And sometimes, under the violence and squalor, there's even a little something worth seeing.
He hears the expensive-sounding purr of the bike from a quarter-mile off, but it still surprises him when he sees who's turning the corner. It's not that he never sees Drake in this neighborhood, but it's not exactly the kind of place the family frequents as civilians. Probably up to something, if only because he always is, and it's been a slow night. Jason's feeling nosy.
He tails Drake from the rooftops for a few blocks, and they come to a stop on a half-lit side street.
ADULT ENTERTAINMENT, declares the blinking neon in the windows. BOOKS. DVDS. GIFTS AND NOVELTIES.
"Well, that was unexpected," Jason says to no one in particular, and drops to a crouch to wait.
***
"The kid who just left," he says, sliding a twenty across the scratched glass counter. "What was his haul?"
"What kid?" the clerk says, glancing down at the money with disinterest.
Jason narrows his eyes, spends a wistful moment thinking about punching the bored expression off the guy's face, and then pulls another twenty from his wallet.
***
Drake takes a split-second look at his bedroom curtains in the dim and drops his saddlebag, shifting effortlessly into a defensive position. "I'm really not in the mood," he says without moving from the doorway.
"Oh, I know exactly the mood you're in," Jason says, stepping out of the shadows with his palms showing.
The kid drops his weight back into a more belligerent stance. His fingers twitch like he's looking for the batarang Jason's honestly surprised he isn't carrying. "Hood."
"I've got a name, you know," Jason says."Stand down, kid, I just wanna talk."
"Fine." Drake flips on the overhead light and kicks the door closed. "Talk."
Jason takes a step forward and sets his back against one of the tall mahogany bedposts. "Let's start with why you're driving halfway across town to buy porn."
To his credit, Drake doesn't give anything away. No fidgeting, no glancing down at his bag; he just raises an eyebrow. "You expect me to believe that you broke into my room to ask me about my porn?"
"Nah," Jason says with a shrug. "That pretty much speaks for itself. These, on the other hand..." He dangles a set of tweezer clamps from his fingers, giving the chain a showy swing.
That gets a blink, but nothing beyond that. "Do you make a habit of rifling through other people's toyboxes?" Drake asks.
Jason grins. "Just yours, Timmy. Don't you feel special?"
"Don't you?" Drake returns. He scoops up his bag from the floor and sets it on his desk, deliberately not showing Jason his back. "Even Bruce hasn't—"
"Bruce has toys of his own," he says. "And trust me, his collection makes yours look like kids' stuff."
"Are you trying to intimidate me, or insult me?" Drake asks. "I can never tell."
Jason spreads his hands in feigned innocence. "All I did was share a tidbit about dear old Dad. How you choose to take that is all on you."
"How generous."
"Hey, I'm sure you've noticed how fond Selina is of that piece of hers," Jason says. "I know Bruce has."
Drake's jaw tightens minutely. "Catwoman is an ally, Hood."
"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Jason leers. "Too bad for you that she doesn't like 'em quite so young."
"That's her business."
"Bet you wish it was yours," Jason says, and purposefully winds the chain of the clamps between his fingers.
Drake's glance at Jason's hands lingers for just a bit too long. "What does it matter to you?" he asks.
"I'm just making friendly conversation, Timmy," Jason says. "Or don't you still want us to be friends?"
"We're not friends," Drake says.
"Well, not with that attitude." Jason makes a show of examining his fingernails. "Just don't hurt yourself, alright? It would make Bruce really uncomfortable." He looks up from under his lashes and gives Drake a mocking smile. "On second thought, please hurt yourself."
Drake bristles. "I know enough not to—" He cuts himself off, flattening his expression.
He knows he's given something away. Jason hides his smirk. "Big difference between knowing and doing, kid."
"Obviously," Drake says flatly. He's still scowling behind his eyes.
"You gonna tell me who's the lucky kinkster-of-indeterminate-gender?"
Unexpectedly—delightfully—Drake blushes.
Jason laughs, almost but not quite as mean as he sounds. "Oh, that's adorable," he says. "You bought all this stuff just for you?"
"I am not adorable."
"Not that I blame you, really. It's so hard to find someone—how do I put this—let's say unobjectionable, when you're in this kind of work. And then there's Bruce to contend with."
Drake keeps blushing, but he's not trying to rein in the scowl, now. "Fuck off, Todd."
"Hold on, I'm imagining you whacking on yourself with that pretty little riding crop hidden in the back of your sock drawer." He pauses. "Yeah, still adorable. Are these clamps tight enough to stay put for that?"
"Get out."
"But things are just getting interesting," Jason says. "Some of that shit you bought tonight is, like, master-class level—"
"Out," Drake demands, and they both know where he picked up that tone.
Jason sighs. "Fine," he says, dropping the clamps on the bed and pushing off the bedpost, giving Drake his back as he turns to the window again. "I'm sure you want to get on with your...impressively literal regimen of self-abuse."
Drake is silent for a moment "...Wait."
It's impossible to hide his smirk as he turns around. "Yeah?"
"You really know this scene?" Drake asks. "No bullshit?"
"I know some things," Jason says.
Drake tilts his head to the side, considering. "And what about doing?"
"Done more," he says. "Sometimes it was even for fun."
Making up his mind, Drake shrugs off his jacket and starts unbuttoning his shirt. "Show me," he says.
Jason grins, predatory. "You're going to have to be a little more specific, kid."
Drake finishes stripping off his shirt and goes to his dresser. "Is this specific enough?" he asks, offering Jason the crop handle-first.
He takes it. "Good start," he says. "But not really. You want it on your back?"
"Yes."
Jason flicks the crop towards the bedpost. "Grab on," he says.
Drake does it. Jason thinks he could get used to this.
He swings the crop a few times to learn its weight, letting the leather warm to his hand; it's a beautiful piece. He tests its bite on his thigh, sharp even through his jeans, and nods to himself. "Must be nice, always having the best toys," he says.
"I'll assume that was a compliment," Drake says, and doesn't flinch when Jason snaps the crop in another practice swing, on his arm this time.
"I'll assume I'm unobjectionable. Say 'red' or let go, and I stop, got it?"
At Drake's decisive nod, Jason lands the first stroke right under the point of his shoulder blade.
He drinks in Drake's sharp intake of breath and waits, giving him a chance to call it quits.
Drake says, "Again."
Jason doesn't take orders from anyone. He smiles sharply. "Since you asked so nicely."
He brings down the crop a few more times, rhythmic and slow, raising a row of superficial marks on Drake's shoulders, watching as he catches the tempo. He stops as soon as Drake settles into it, splaying his hand high up on Drake's back, and he feels Drake's quiet moan more than he hears it.
"That was the pre-show, kid," Jason says.
Drake's shoulders go tight and tense under his hand.
"This is what you wanted, right?"
Drake shudders. "Yes," he says. "Yes, Jason, more."
Something sparks inside him at the use of his name. "Good," he says, stroking his thumb over Drake's skin, and then raises the crop for another swing.
It's easy to catch the rhythm again. Drake marks up easy, too, welts coming up lurid and red almost as fast as Jason can decide where to put them. Skin like his always looks so good after a little punishment; he's lucky Jason knows how to be careful.
"You bruise this easy on the street?" he asks, mocking, and all he gets in reply is a wet gasp.
Since that first soft, barely-there moan, Drake has been almost unsettlingly quiet. Whether it's because he doesn't want to give Jason the satisfaction or out of simple force of habit, Jason doesn't know, but he flush spreading down his back—arousal, or embarrassment?—and his white-knuckled grip on the bedpost are a hell of a lot louder than any sound he's allowing himself to make. Bruce must be proud of the kid for developing that kind of control.
All Jason wants to do is shatter it.
He switches up his strokes a little, moves to the outside and nips Drake's ribs, and that gets him more of the reaction he was looking for. Drake jerks against the bedpost and makes a high, shocked sound.
Jason bares his teeth in a grin. "Thought you'd like that one," he says, and does it again.
Unexpectedly, Drake drops one hand from the bedpost. Moving fast and on instinct, Jason grabs for Drake's arm and circles his fingers around that skinny wrist.
Then he remembers the signal. "Are we done?" he asks, loosening his grip.
Drake twists his hand free with an inarticulate sound and reaches down to grip himself through his jeans. His hips roll forward as he moans, and if he's capable of giving some other answer, he's not showing it.
Jason blinks, then narrows his eyes. "Drake. Put your hand back."
The order takes a second to sink in. Drake makes a frustrated sound when it registers, but he slowly lifts his hand above his head, his grasp clumsy when it finds the wood again. "I can't—" he begins.
He breaks off in a whimper, and Jason crowds in close behind him, rubbing the fabric of his shirt against Drake's sensitized skin. "Can't what?"
Holding on for dear life, Drake bites back another moan. "Please," he gasps, and Jason drops the crop and wraps an arm around his waist.
He expects to find Drake hard when he reaches down to palm his cock, but is surprised by how wet he is, too, slick and ready enough to soak through his fly. Jason exhales in a rush that ruffles Drake's hair. "Okay," he says, easing down Drake's zipper and slipping a hand into his jeans. "It's okay, I've got you."
The kid's too far gone for teasing, throbbing and hot in Jason's hand. He shakes through the first few strokes, but all it takes is one encouraging nudge from Jason's hips for Drake to start pushing his cock into the circle of Jason's fingers. He isn't holding back his sounds anymore, either; he lets Jason have every wild, breathy moan he makes as he fucks Jason's fist, craning his neck to look back at him through glazed eyes.
"Jesus, that's pretty," Jason murmurs, pressing close enough to taste the sweat at Drake's temple, and then narrowly avoids a broken nose when Drake throws his head back, screams, and comes.
He practically crumples against Jason's chest, after, relaxing everything but the clutch of his hands around the bedpost. It would serve him right if Jason just dropped him, but instead he finds himself gently prying Drake's stiff fingers loose and manhandling him to the side of the bed before letting go.
Drake falls ungracefully onto the mattress, twisting to avoid a faceplant, and grabs for Jason's hand to pull him down alongside him.
Jason props himself up on one hand and watches, waiting to speak until Drake seems a little more capable of a reply.
"How high are you right now?" he asks.
"Hmm," Drake says, rolling the tension out of his shoulders and hissing at the rub of his sheets against his skin. He looks up at Jason through his lashes. "I don't know how to answer that."
"You sure you wanna be lying on your back?"
"No." Wriggling a little, Drake flips them over and settles astride Jason's legs. He doesn't seem to care that his jeans are still undone and riding low on his hips.
Jason thinks about fighting the pin, but he doesn't really see the point when the kid's so loose he's practically punch-drunk. He settles for shooting Drake a lazy smile instead. "Not bad."
"Shut up." Drake leans forward to steady himself, bracing his hands high on Jason's thighs, and Jason sucks in a breath through his teeth. He's hard enough to be obvious, but it's background noise, nothing he can't handle.
Then Drake's glance down at his hands turns into an assessing—speculative, even—look at Jason's cock, and the situation abruptly becomes much less manageable.
"Kid," Jason says and stops, waiting until Drake looks up again and meets his eyes. "Don't start anything you don't plan to finish."
Drake looks vaguely affronted. "Shut up," he says again, and goes for Jason's belt buckle.
"Okay, definitely not bad," Jason says, and then laughs at the warning scrape of Drake's teeth as he takes half of Jason's cock in an eager, sloppy suck.
Whatever his inexperience with recreational violence, this is something Drake obviously knows how to do. Jason hums with appreciation.
He digs his fingers into Drake's scalp trying to get deeper, more, and grins when he feels Drake shiver under his hands. "You can take more," he says, far from a question, and Drake cuts off his own moan when he swallows Jason down.
Jason spares a moment to wonder who's been fucking Robin on the DL, but the soft sounds of his cock moving in Drake's throat are more than enough to drown out his higher thought processes. He makes no conscious decision to tangle his hands in Drake's hair and fuck up into his mouth, but all the same, Drake is flushed dark from lack of air before Jason lets him go.
Chest heaving, he shoves against Jason's thighs, pulls back just enough to breathe, and stares. He looks startled and turned on and mortified, his lips red and obscene wrapped around Jason's dick. For a long, tense second Jason isn't sure whether Drake is going to break his hand or finish sucking him off.
"God, fuck—yes," Jason moans when Drake goes down again, and there's more than a little adrenaline fueling his quick, sharp strokes in and out of Drake's mouth. He yanks on Drake's hair, holding and holding on, and lets his body take what it wants.
He manages to moan a warning before he comes down Drake's throat, but only just.
Drake swallows hard but doesn't pull off until Jason stops twitching, even though he's still flushed and panting, even though his mouth looks raw with use.
"Shit," he gravels out, resting his forehead against Jason's hip as he tries to slow his breathing.
"Yeah," Jason says, panting himself. He can't believe he's still fully fucking dressed. "Yeah, that about covers it."
He gentles his hands on Drake's head, smoothing down the mess he made of his hair, and is surprised to find himself thinking that Drake rolls away too soon. He sighs to himself and shoves away He frowns as Drake fumbles his palmtop from a pocket of his discarded jacket and starts tapping away.
"What are you doing?"
"Deleting the surveillance footage," Drake says. "What else would I be doing?"
Jason can't decide whether to be amused or horrified that he's not kidding. "You need to get out more, kid."
"I'm touched by your concern."
"Well, what are friends for," Jason says, leaning on the word a little, but it feels less like a taunt than it should. "And—if you ever wanna try being touched somewhere less...supervised, I might know a place."
Drake looks up and gives him the smallest of smiles. "Improbable."
"I said unsupervised, not invisible." He comes to the startling realization that he's flirting with Tim Drake.
"That almost sounds like a challenge," Drake says.
A challenge, right. Much more acceptable than flirting. Jason raises an eyebrow. "Is it working?"
"I have school tomorrow, Jason."
"I don't," Jason says, realizing a second too late that that might have been a rebuke. "I hope you don't expect me to feel bad about—"
"Hardly." He spends another ten seconds poking at the computer and nods when it chimes. "You should be home Thursday afternoon."
"Didn't you just say something about challenges?"
"I did, yes."
They stare at one another, unblinking, for a moment, and then Jason shrugs. "Empty out that toybox, kid. Bring what you like best." He turns to leave, again, pulling his gloves on and going for the window, and feels Drake's eyes on his back.
"You don't—you could use the door, you know," Drake says.
Jason glances back over his shoulder. "Sure I could," he says, and steps out.