I own nothing. DC Comics own everything. Except Peregrine and Heller's. Dedicated to the memory of Cafe Graffiti. Soundtrack: Mr Scruff, Keep it Unreal.

The Club
Jay Tryfanstone

"Oracle."

"Batman."

"Did you manage to retrieve that Mans-Krieff data?"

"I downloaded it a couple of hours ago, Batman."

"What about the ownership of that warehouse?"

"Told Robin about it an hour ago, Batman. He said he'd tell you right away."

Silence.

"Busy night?"

"Not unusual."

"Nothing from the JLA?"

"Nothing you don't already know."

Silence.

"The Titans?"

Silence.

Then Oracle's voice, clearly exasperated despite the electronic disguise she used. "Why don't ask what you really want to?"

Click.

"Oracle?"

"Batman."

"That Mans-Krieff data."

"Yes."

Silence.

"Barbara -"

"Last time I heard from him, which was approximately three hours and twenty-three minutes ago, give or take a few seconds, he still all his limbs and brain cells intact. Which is more than I can say for you at the moment."

Silence.

"Thank you."

Click.

("Wingster, can't you keep the bat out of my hair? I run data, not dating."

"Sorry, Babs."

"It's been three weeks. 'Have I heard from the Titans?' 'No inter-stellar threats lately?' As if he wouldn't know. Can't you just give him a ring - you know, that terrestrial phone line? It's the funny shaped object hiding under the bike magazines on your living room table."

Nightwing sighs. "I'm not going to say what he did-"

"I don't think I want to know."

"But he's going to have to come to me on this one."

"This is Batman we're talking about, isn't it? Mr big, black, scary and non-communicative control freak? The one you've been dating for the past, what, nine months?"

"Yeah."

"Look, short-ass, I love you dearly, but I'm not going to hold out much longer."

"Do your best, beautiful."

"Humpf.")

"Bruce."

"Oracle?"

"This is not a social call, Bats. I'm not a message service any more than I'm a relative enquiry centre in Gotham Central. Nightwing says you owe him over whatever it is you've done this time. Pick up the phone, Bruce, send him flowers, buy him a Porsche - I don't care, just stop bugging me."

"Flowers?"

"Just fix it, Bruce."

*Ching.*

Startled, Nightwing looked up from the exercise machine. None of his exterior alarms had sounded, which probably meant the other kind of visitor. In the corner of the room, two screens showed pictures of an empty roof and an untenanted doorstep: he sighed, unfolded himself from the capricious embrace of the rowing machine -

*Ching.*

- and switched channels. And hissed in surprise. Seen from the head downwards, the large and elegant figure of, unmistakably, Bruce Wayne, stood leaning against the wall outside his flat. With a large cardboard box in his hands. As Nightwing watched, Bruce shifted the weight of the box a little: a gesture that in any other man would probably amount to the loosening of ties, collars and copious sweating, itching and twitching. The man was nervous.

'Well he might be.' Thought Nightwing, regarding the screen grimly.

Bruce looked up at the concealed camera. "Dick."

His mouth formed the word but did not speak.

Nightwing hit the speaker button. "Bruce."

"Can I come in for a minute?"

"Is there anything to say that can't be said in the hall?" Bruce glanced down at the box. "I've got some..equipment for you."

Well, that could be anything from the battered mp3 player Dick had left in the billiard room to an anti-matter shielding system from STAR labs.

"Okay, Bruce. But make quick, I'm busy."

Bruce glanced at the camera again, nodded. If Dick hadn't known him well, he would have said that the big man's expression hadn't changed. But there had been a swift lightening in that face, he was sure, and he sighed to himself again as he activated the internal security systems. Going out into the hall of his small flat, he made certain that all the doors were shut: the electrical connections that kept his sound and visual transmissions acquiescent had been developed by Waynetech, but Bruce would know what he'd done. He opened the front door.

"Dick."

"Come in."

Bruce stopped in the entrance. "What do I do-"

Dick pulled out the small side table, angling it between them. Looked Bruce in the eye. Waited. For a man whose toned, responsive and obedient body Dick knew as well as his own, Bruce was being remarkably clumsy. He dropped the box onto the table, opened it. Pulled out a small black object.

"Uh - you left this behind."

Dick waited.

Extracted a set of military-spec goggles.

"The new GPS infra-red glasses you asked about."

Four weeks ago.

Reached both hands into the box and pulled out a large plastic container.

"Er...cookies."

Dick fought an inopportune urge to laugh.

Looked again, took out a thick bundle of papers wrapped in clear plastic.

"Manuscript."

Dick quirked his eyebrows.

"Er..the new Harry Potter."

Now he was impressed.

"Season ticket. Gotham Knights."

Bruce rested his hands on the empty box, took a deep breath and looked Dick in the eye.

"I'm sorry."

"And?"

"It won't happen again."

"And?"

"I made cookies."

"You what?"

"I had supervision."

"I hope you did."

But to Bruce's anxious gaze, the corners of Dick's mouth were definitely quirking.

("Master Bruce! You cannot melt the fat in the microwave before you add the flour! It's supposed to be creamy, not cooked!"

"Hazelnuts are roasted in the oven, Master Bruce, not in front of the fire."

"Wouldn't it be easier if I-"

"No.")

"Well. Let's take a look, then."

Bruce took the lid off the box, noting that his hands were fumbling at the seal. The smell of hazelnuts and chocolate, a golden, rich aroma.

"Smells alright," Dick commented doubtfully. He prodded one misshapen cookie. "Doesn't look like Alfred's." Picked one up, with caution: bit gingerly into the very edge. "That's not bad." He bit again. "Mmm." Gestured at the box. "Don't you want one?"

Bruce raised his eyebrows hopefully. "Goes better with coffee."

"That's called bribing a Police Officer," Dick said, his mouth full of crumbs. Bruce waited.

"Joking apart, Bruce, I appreciate the cookies and stuff - and the apology. But unless you're actually prepared to talk about this I don't want you to stay."

"I wouldn't have come otherwise."

Dick's surprise was classic. "Has Babs been getting on your case?"

"A little. But...I missed you."

"You should have thought first."

"I'm thinking now."

The two men's eyes catch and meet for one charged second, before Dick breaks the gaze, turning away to press a button on the small panel by the door. He opens the door to the living room, walks through. "Bring the cookies," He says over his shoulder.

Sitting on Dick's couch and listening to the sound of a steaming cafitiere, Bruce's hands itch with nervousness. He glances round at the small apartment, looks at the untidy table. His hands are making neat piles of Harley-Owner and Fast Bike before he can think.

Dick's voice: "Leave those alone! I'm looking for the Pirelli advert! They're sorted!"

Looks at the bowl of fruit, checks the cookies. Settles for nibbling one.

Bruce will never tell Dick, but this is the fifth batch of chocolate and hazelnut biscuits the billionaire has baked. By now all three Manor residents are sick of them, and Bruce even caught Alfred feeding some to the squirrels. Given Alfred's views on vermin - not to be encouraged - the man must have been desperate.

Dick deposited a steaming mug in front of the big man, and Bruce seized it gratefully, watching Dick settle into the chair in front of him. He must have been working out: Bruce could smell the sharp, clean smell of his sweat, and the young man was wearing old sweat-pants and a ragged BHPD T-shirt. Bruce himself had dressed carefully, not the suit he would wear for business nor, indeed, the sharp formal shirt and chinos he would have worn for any other casual date. This was not casual. Bruce wore the black jeans Dick had persuaded him to buy, and a new silk and cashmere knit polo neck that came from Milan.

Dick picked up the mug of coffee, smelt it, looked at Bruce.

"Well?"

Bruce sighed.

"I'm sorry."

"So you said."

"I didn't mean to -"

"Bollocks. You knew perfectly well that the security guard was coming. If it'd been one of Blockbuster's men you'd never have left."

Bruce hesitated. "True."

"I know you undid the straps, but you didn't tell me."

"True."

"You meant him to come."

Bruce sighed. "I didn't mean him to come..quite that quickly."

"Hence the gag."

"Hm." Bruce's nod of assent, eyes averted.

Dick exhaled sharply through his nose, put the coffee cup down. "Bruce, I've no objection to having my sex a little kinky on occasion. But that was a bit much. You involved someone else."

"I didn't mean to."

"But nevertheless, you did. And you embarrassed me as a consequence."

"I'm sorry."

"So you keep saying. I don't think I've ever heard you apologise so much in my lifetime. Talk to me."

Bruce looked up. "You looked beautiful. The light...Your skin. I couldn't believe -"

"Yes?"

"That I had the right to do what I was doing."

"You did. But you also had responsibilities."

"I miscalculated."

"And now you're sorry."

"Yes."

Dick leaned forward. "Bruce - look at me."

Bruce does, is caught once again by the clear blue of Dick's eyes, the line of his cheekbones, a rush of sharp desire and love that he represses into the corner of his mind where he tries to keep these unwarranted emotions.

"I don't mind if you want to spend the rest of my life tying me into odd positions and fucking the hell out of me. I don't mind if you want to do it on a bed of oranges or listening to ZZ Top. But I do mind having my privacy disturbed, and I do mind you involving someone else. I want you to promise that it'll never happen again."

A lightening of the soul.

"So you do think -"

"Bruce."

"I promise. But -"

"Oh Bruce," Dick smiles, leans back. "For a man who's spent almost longer than I've been alive dating the cream of Gotham society - and I'm not saying anything about visiting suits - you seem awfully bad at indulging that bat you keep under your suit."

Silence. Bruce puts the coffee cup down.

"There's never been anyone else..for him."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Dick's answering smile has a gentleness that holds Bruce's heart. "If you want to let the Bat out to play, I'm more than happy to come too." Dick's mouth turns under in a suppressed smirk. "Just give me a bit of warning, next time, hmmm? You know, lock the doors, make sure all the bad guys are gone, check there's no cameras..."

Bruce shuts his eyes. He couldn't believe - a weakness -

"I checked," Dick said. "I would have told you when you started. When I worked out exactly what you were thinking with."

It was true. The world had narrowed to the taste of Dick's skin, the stretched play of muscle and ligament in the harsh light from that single spotlight, the rush of possessive love and desire that allowed him, for once, to take what he needed. And even in that extremity of need, Nightwing watching his back.

"Have I mentioned recently..." began Bruce.

"Yes?"

"Alfred misses seeing you around."

"We met for lunch on Tuesday."

"Tim-"

"Was over last night. Can't you buy him his own Tomb Raider DVD? That's the seventh time I've seen Angelina Jolie's pyjamas."

"Okay." Bruce holds his hands up, palms flat, in surrender. "I miss you. My bed is empty; I feel like I've lost part of my body I never knew I had. And everyone else is avoiding me."

"That's not news," muttered Dick, a comment echoed by Bruce's quickly squashed glare. "It must be love." He adds.

"Yeah. Thanks."

Dick sighs. "So you want to get hugging privileges again?"

That wasn't all he wanted. "Yes."

"You want to call me up to mess around with your baddies?"

"Yes."

"You want to fuck me across the Batmobile in Times Square?"

"Yes. No. Whatever you want."

"Oh, I like that." Dick taps his fingers on the table thoughtfully. "Bats, you got big-time reparations to pay."

*Cheep!*

"Damn." Dick says to himself cheerfully, with both hands wet and soapy and a writhing Bruce Wayne between his legs. One hand holding the shower head against Bruce's hair, he reaches-

*Cheep!*

-for the cordless phone beside the sink.

"Hello?"

"Dick?"

"Hi Babs! What's happening, beautiful?"

"Wondered if you wanted to head over for pizza tonight?"

"Sorry, Babs -" Between Dick's knees, Bruce made a compulsive grab for the shower head, his eyes blinded by soap. "For goodness sake," muttered Dick "keep your eyes shut!"

"Dick? What - or should I say who? Do I want to know?"

"Fancy doing something more exciting tonight, down in the `haven?"

"Does this involve gratuitous sex with strangers?" Barbara's tone is suspicious.

"I'm taking Bruce to Heller's."

"You are what !?!"

"Want to come too?"

"It's almost worth it." Barbara's tone is considering. "But I think I'll pass at the moment. Does this mean he finally got his head in gear, Boy Wonder?"

"Babs, at this very moment I have a contrite, naked Br-"

"Hold it right there, Boy Wonder. I've got enough nightmares already."

"I'm dyeing his hair." Said Dick, wounded.

"Did he have to be naked? Hang on, no, don't answer that. Dick. I'll pass on Heller's, edifying as I'm sure it would be to see Bruce encounter clubland. I've got a batch of databasing I'd like to do later."

"Come next time? Or make a date? Perry always asks after you."

"Say hi. Maybe next month."

"Promise?"

"Don't wheedle me, Wingster. Goodnight. Have fun. Sleep tight."

"`Night, Babs."

*Cheep*

"Coward," Dick says, affectionately, to the glistening, muscled back of his lover. "All done." He gets out of the bathtub, switching off the shower. Bruce shakes his head, stands: Dick is regarding him with amused interest, head cocked to one side.

"Suits you," he says.

Bruce splutters.

Thrusting a battered towel into Bruce's hands, Dick turns to go. As Bruce's vision clears, he sees Dick's back view, dressed in tight black cotton shorts that are now wet and clinging, each beautiful curve of his bottom outlined. Definite interest.

Dick reaches up to the top of the doorframe, performs a couple of chin lifts that stretch and form the dripping muscles of his back, tighten the perfect globes of his arse. Heat.

Dick turns round, stabs one accusing finger at the portion of Bruce's body that has started to take an interest in proceedings.

"You can just wait."

He vanishes.

Damn.

*Cheep.*

"Hello?"

"Dick, that you?"

"Last time I looked. You out tonight, Leo?"

"Heller's?"

"Yeah."

"Cool. Usual time, usual place?"

"Yep." Dick pauses. "Oh, er, Leo -"

"If it's about Johnny, no, I can't, he still hasn't got over that redhead you bought last time."

"Oh, I'm sure you can persuade him. I'm - er -"

"You've got a date!" Leo's voice spans shock and excitement. "Have I met it?"

"Him. Gotham, canal.."

"No!"

"Yep."

"I'm definitely bringing Johnny."

The tone goes dead.

Dry, dressing, Bruce cringes.

*Cheep*

"Hello?"

"Hey, Dick, Leo says we're out tonight. Thought I'd ask Jessy and the girls - okay by you?"

"Sure, Tams. You finished that paper yet?"

"This morning. Time to celebrate. Leo mentioned -"

Dick says nothing.

"I'll find out later, then. Chow!"

Bruce, searching for his belt in the mess of laundry on Dick's bedroom floor, wonders just what, why, how, he got himself into this.

*Bleep*

Ooops.

*Bleep*

"Nightwing."

"`Wing, I've had the oddest call from Oracle. She says you're up for a big night in Heller's."

"Yeah." Suspicion.

"Well, it's been a quiet night so far, and Raven says she'll mind the communication board..."

"Oh, Kon, you know what happened last time..."

"I'll be good."

"No floating across the dance floor. No laser vision. No superhero stuff at all."

"Promise..."

"See you there, then."

Damn.

*Cheep*

Silence.

*Cheep-cheep. Cheep-cheep*

Silence.

*Cheep-cheep-cheep-*

"Yes?"

"Babs...who did you call?"

"You did say you'd dyed his hair.."

"Who?"

"Er..Titan's Tower..."

"And who was there?"

"Kon...Jessie..."

"And?"

"Roy."

"Don't ever expect me to remember extra cheese again."

"It'll be worth it, FBW. Any chance of getting a visual in there?"

*Slam.*

"Clancy?" Shouted down the hall.

"Yes?"

"You seen my jacket?"

"Last seen hanging up in the laundry room. Going out.?"

"Heller's. Wanna come?"

"Might do. When you going?"

Dick glances at Bruce's tall figure. "Give us twenty minutes?"

"Twenty minutes? No way. I'll meet you there. Later."

"`kay."

"Right. Take a look." Bruce, guided to the bathroom mirror, firmly suppresses an errant trace of fear. Looks at his reflection. Looks again. Frowns.

"Looks good?"

"It's not me."

"Exactly. Now, sit down."

"What -"

Dick pushes Bruce down onto the edge of the bathtub, brings out the small pots he's been hiding behind his back. "Close your eyes."

Bruce smells..chemicals, a dry taste to the air. Feels Dick's fingers smooth cream under his cheekbone, a touch at the corners of his eyes. "Hold still. I won't take long." A renewed touch at the corner of his jawbone, and then the brief, welcome pressure of Dick's lips on his for a swift kiss.

"You can look now."

Opens his eyes. Dick, grinning, is holding up a shaving mirror. Bruce doesn't recognise himself. Dick has bleached out his hair and eyebrows to a silver white, his face subtlely altered by judicious make-up, his eyelashes sharp against that bleached out countenance. A trace of silver highlights the flat edge of cheekbone.

"Good?"

"I'm...impressed." Understatement. What Bruce thinks is unprintable.

"And unrecognisable." Dick smiles in satisfaction. "Come on, then."

Following his lover's leather clad back from the car park, Bruce remembers Disco, and shudders. He remembers too many nights watching reeling young men and girls home, brawls in the early hours of the morning. He remembers a young girl, vomiting, taken to Gotham Central: a brief note in the next day's paper. Across his inner vision, the unreeling sight of backstreet labs and bootleg alcohol. Even the set up is familiar: an untenanted district, a warehouse. What's unusual are the arc lights that illuminate serried cars and bikes: the patrolling, uniformed security guards. Someone has an informed sense of security..or safety.

Ahead of him Dick walked swiftly past a line of waiting guests. Bruce, following, notes a slightly older clientele than he expected: couples, college students, bright-faced and anticipatory. Many of them dressed with the exuberance that seemed to be de rigour these days: day-glo, gilded skin, neon lights in hair and ears. Amongst this crowd, his own exposed and whitened scalp seemed unremarkable. A breath of relief. In front of him, Dick smiles at the slight, tuxedo-clad, greying man who is greeting guests at the door.

"Dick!" The man's voice is dry, threaded with faint irony. "You on for monitor duty tonight? A lot of the regulars don't seem to be around ."

"There's a few due, Perry. If it's okay with you, I'd rather not tonight..." He pulls Bruce forward. "Meet Bruce."

A sharp regard from grey eyes that possess an intelligent clarity. A sense of being assessed, valued. The little man cocked his head on one side.

"No trouble in my club," he said sternly, looking at the muscles under Bruce's jacket.

"He's with me, Perry."

Suddenly the man's head snapped round. Bruce was reminded of the abrupt, spiky movements of a small bird.

"You!" One of the young men entering turned around. "Not in my club. Out."

"But I'm clean!" The young man protested arms out. "Search me!"

"I'm sure there's nothing on you. It's what's inside you I'm talking about."

The man flushed a little. "Aw.."

"Out."

The youngster glanced at the two bulky doormen that flanked the entrance. Turned away, left. Other guest stared at him: a distinct air of disapproval.

"Perry likes his space clean," Dick said, low-voiced, beside him. Bruce was surprised. He had noticed no trace of chemical excitement, the flush of ecstasy or the unnatural awareness of an upper. Experience, he guessed, but noted the man's excellent observation for later analysis.

"That Barbara coming?" asked Perry, his attention back on the pair.

"She says hello, but she's a bit busy."

"She works too hard. Tell her there's a table free for her anytime she wants."

"Will do. Are we clear for upstairs? There's going to be a few of us."

The small man cocks his head on one side. For an instant his eyes go blank, absent, and then clear. "The table at the end of the balcony's free, Dick. Just get me a couple of monitors, okay?"

"Sure thing, Perry." Dick heads into the club. Following, Bruce is arrested by the light, dry touch of Pop's hand on his arm. An instinctive twist to - halted. He turns his head.

"I mean it," Perry says, low, fierce. "No playing games in here. This is a free zone, Bruce. You understand?"

Something...odd. Bruce nods, slowly, in reply.

And follows Dick through the stark granite lobby to the capacious lift, the multi-coloured lights dancing on the stark stone. Going down in the lift, Bruce feels an infinitesimal shift in alignment. Almost - no. He dismisses the thought.

Noise. People. Another set of uniformed doormen. Dick's already moving, passing the clubbers gathered at the balcony edge with a couple of words and a swift smile, heading to the left. Bruce follows, checking the space, (vast), the rounded floor of the balcony, the dance floor below already dotted with dancers, the beat and curve of unintelligible music counterpointed by a woman's high, exact, beautiful voice. On his skin, the faint breath of air conditioning. He sees the careful placing of staff amongst the chatting guests, the long curve of lights over an elegant bar, the brightly illuminated exit signs. This is like no club he's ever been in before, whether as Bruce or Batman. Dick's still moving forward, as the music fades behind them, finally reaching a big table surrounded by comfortable leather banquettes. Here, set well back from the speakers, the music is muted, although the dance floor is clearly visible from the seats. Dick takes off his jacket, sits.

"Not quite what you expected?" he asks, his eyes crinkling.

"No," Bruce admits, sliding into the neighbouring seat.

Dick's fingers tap absently on the table, an acknowledgement of the repetitive beat of music that is felt as well as heard.

"Dick-"

Dick smiles, closes that hand for a second over Bruce's fingers. "It'll be fine."

A couple approaching, a tall man Bruce recognises and a lanky red head. The tall man's eyes bright with curiosity. "Yo, Dick."

"Leo." Dick smiles. "You've met Bruce."

"I have." Leo holds out his hand, his eyes bright with mischief, a look suppressed under Bruce's defensive, muted glare.

Leo clasps his hands to his heart, staggers back theatrically. "No, man, I know nothing, don't shoot!"

Dick cuffs Bruce, lightly, across the white and silver spikes of his hair. Disconcerted, Bruce starts to rise: the younger man pulls him down, one hand twisted in the black polo neck.

Leo is laughing, sits down. "Bruce, this is Johnny."

"Hello." The young man's smile is shy.

More people, a trio of laughing girls in bright, skimpy clothes with ribbons twisted into hair of astonishing colour. "Jessy, Tams, Corrie..Bruce." Smiles, laughter.

Tams slides into place beside Bruce." Dick mentioned you're interested in sustainable agriculture," she says.

('!')

"I've just been doing research in the everglades. Have you looked at Heaver's work outside Carol City?"

Bruce, whose company had partly funded the research project, allowed himself, with astonishment, to be familiar with the scientist's work.

"She's had some good ideas on pest control," Tams said. "Do you-"

An hour later, Bruce, leaning back against Dick's arm (which rests against his back even though that young man is deeply involved in a discussion about the possibility of starting a snail-racing track in Bludhaven) realises, with astonishment, that he is enjoying himself. The group of people around the table are a mixed bunch: Leo, in his thirties, a barman at one of Gotham's gay clubs: the three girls, students: Johnny seemed to have some kind of coaching job. Other people: an older man who was some kind of scientist, Clancy, laughing next to a skinny black man with spectacular dreads and a wonderfully dry sense of humour: Bruce had cracked at one of those pointed, whimsical asides, laughing in disbelief as much at his own humour as at the man's ironic jest. Other people who came and went from the dance floor: a tall waitress with a trail of sparkling blonde hair who took her break at their table, sliding in beside the scientist with a quick query about the paper on dark mass behaviour she was writing. It was not at all what he had expected.

Beside him, Dick looked up. Bruce felt the long, silent breath he took. Bustle.

"Hey, Roy."

The Speedster's hyperactive gaze spanned the table, returned. He held out his wrist. "Perry tagged me!"

Dick laughed. "Well, what did you expect? After last time-"

Laughter rippled round the table.

"Yeah," added Roy mournfully. "But this was after I volunteered for monitoring!"

Tams stood up, smiled. "If you're back to normal speed, this time," she said. "Let's have that dance we didn't have last time."

Roy's face brightens a murmur of agreement as around the table people rise, abandoning coats and bags. Dick's bright gaze meets Bruce's , who shakes his head.

"I can't dance to this."

"You'll get used to it."

"Maybe later. Don't you think someone ought to mind the stuff?"

Dick glances at the bags in mild surprise. "Oh -" He stops. "Okay, Bruce. See you in a bit?"

Bruce nods, smiling a little.

Left alone, he studies the dance floor, watching Dick's friends form a loose circle, moving easily to the beating music. Concentrating, Bruce follows the almost incomprehensible line of melody and sample: realises, to his astonishment, that it was structured...almost like Jazz. Now that he could understand.

The back of his mind unravelling bass and voice, Bruce allows his gaze to drift across the floor. A saturnine, powerful man, dancing close to a vivid blonde girl who looks faintly familiar, the pair exchanging smiles. A group of young men in wheelchairs spinning with spectacular speed on a slightly raised platform that bore an embossed access symbol. A golden blonde in a leather bustier - wait. That was Dinah Lance. Surprising. He had no idea she could dance like that. And what she was doing in a warehouse in Bludhaven...

A scarred, dark man, dancing cheek to cheek with one of the most beautiful men Bruce could remember seeing. A lithe, green -

A lithe, green costumed -

A lithe, green, furred -

He shook his head.

A lithe, green, furred creature with hooves. Hmm.

Dick smiling, moving like a dancer, the beautiful interplay of muscle under the wheeling lights. As Bruce watched, he looked up, raised one hand in casual acknowledgement, spun and shimmied for his lover. The familiar feeling of astonished disbelief and gratitude. ('Mine.' said the very deepest part of Bruce's mind. With satisfaction.)

A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye.

A flashing turn and close, the thin forearm held in an iron grasp, numbed fingers dropping the wallet that had been sliding out of Clancy's bag. Bruce looks up, holding steady against the choked gasp and convulsive pull for freedom.

A young girl, a thin face: pointed ears in a thatch of ragged hair. Blue eyes, looking up in fear, focused..

Behind him.

Keeping hold of her arm, he turns. To see two of the burly staff standing silent behind him. And behind them, Perry's slight figure. Frowning. He stabs one pointed finger at the girl. "I told you last time."

"But they're only..." The girl's voice is breathy, unexpectedly deep.

"I don't care. That's it for tonight, Ygraise."

She sighs, her arm going lax in Bruce's grasp. Perry looks at the big man. "And you can let her go."

Bruce loosens his fingers, watches the girl walk, straight-backed, to the exit, flanked by looming doormen. Perry sits down in the seat opposite Bruce.

"Free zone, huh?" Bruce says, his eyes on the dance floor.

"I don't like trouble in my club, Bruce."

"So I've gathered."

"How shall I put this?" Perry's thin fingers tap on an abandoned, half-empty glass. "That includes any kind of...vigilante...activity. My staff and I police this space."

Bruce's eyebrows arch, but he says nothing.

"Believe me, Bruce Wayne, there's very little we can't handle."

"Oh, I believe you." Bruce says.

Later, he dances with Dick, tracing heavy rhythm in the pounding music, an unexpected freedom, Dick laughing, his top gone, sweat lying lightly over his skin.

"You like this!" He says, in amused pleasure.

Bruce smiles.

Spun for one second behind the tall speakers, Dick flattens his body against Bruce's, against the speaker, the heavy bass thud resounding through both their skins. One snatched, hard kiss, one moment of leather against denim, sweat on muscle on silk, one hand spreading through the fall of loosened dark hair.

The taste of happiness.

Leaving, each muscle pleasantly stretched the chill of early morning air. Perry's bright eyes gleaming in farewell. The buzz of laughing voices, a silent drive to Dick's flat with Dick's thigh hard against his own in the dark. Peeling off sticky clothes, curling into the comfortable warmth of Dick's bed, a decision to ignore the itching crumb under his calf. The give of the mattress, Dick's weight against his own, the firm curve of his lovers' arm over his body, a slow, contented slide into sleep.

It seems important.

"I love you," Bruce whispers, to the sleeping black head cradled on his shoulder. And sleeps.

Fin.