Title: C'est la faute à Rousseau (2700 words) Authors: Betty and Petra Fandom: DCU (AU of 'Robin: A Hero Reborn' and 'Death in the Family') Summary: Part of Tim's training as Robin is with Lady Shiva, world-renowned assassin, but her history is shrouded. Some rumors say that she has a partner named The Fox. Others say she has a child named Jason. Rating: Adult content involving sex. Content some readers may find disturbing. Notes: Thanks to Zee for beta reading. After a couple of days of wandering around and getting really cold and uncomfortable, Tim manages to stake out a relatively decent corner in the lower Saint-Michel arrondissment, not too far from anything. The bag lady who sits in the much higher-rent doorway across the street thinks he's completely unable to speak, and the alcoholic on the other corner wrote him up a little sign: "Je ne peux pas parler. Secours, s'il vous plait." He knows just enough French to know it says, "I cannot speak. Please help me." Even if he could get away from his rather grimy benefactors, he couldn't phone home. The last time he did that, the Fox -- Jason, Tim's almost positive that's his name -- showed up and he got hopelessly lost in the catacombs for eight hours losing him. If he really did manage to lose him, and the Fox isn't following him now. Shiva knows where he is; she tossed him a franc the last time she stopped into the Herme Gastronomie and she could tip off the Fox if she wanted to. On the third afternoon, Shiva stops by and drops him a five-franc note. The bag lady buys him a loaf of bread with it, muttering to herself about "Pauvre petit" and similar pitying things. Tim tries to look like he doesn't understand a word she's saying; thankfully, it's almost true. He has lunch instead, and feels almost, sort of, human. And then someone drops a twenty-franc note in his little cup, and he looks up to see the Fox grinning at him. "You're really not very good at this. You could try a little harder." "Oh," Tim says. The alcoholic is coming over. It wouldn't be fair to make him be collateral damage, so Tim waves his hands and does his best angry-Dustin-Hoffman in-Rain Man impression. "Impressive," the Fox says. "Suive-moi, mon petit frère," he says, and suddenly Tim doesn't feel so bad about his crappy accent. Unfortunately, the Fox grabs his arm and drags him along before he can run. He won't have much time to work on the accent before he dies, anyway. "Do you have to do this?" Tim asks, and he's well aware that he sounds like a whiny brat. If it makes the Fox think of him as an unworthy opponent, so much the better. It doesn't seem to work. The Fox shrugs and drags him a few blocks, then into an alleyway. Tim's allies are a long way away. He's cold and he's wet to his shins, and he hasn't slept on anything but the ground in three weeks, so when the Fox pushes him against the brick wall, he just shivers and turns his head to one side. He can actually feel the heat of the Fox's body. Which is odd, to think that the Fox has body heat like any other human being. Tim won't, as soon as he's done. "This is too easy," the Fox says in disgust. Tim wants to mention all the times he's gotten away, but he's trying to plan, and it's not a good idea to enrage the boy assassin who's got you pinned anyway. He's not going to outrun the Fox, but maybe -- Tim can't quite manage a stance, but he can try to suggest one. If he puts up enough of a fight, maybe he can get away. "Well, how could I make it more interesting for you? I hate to be disappointing." "Interesting?" says the Fox. His grin makes Tim shiver. "Right here? Maybe we should find somewhere a little more private." "Oh," Tim says again. And he bites back, "That wasn't what I meant," because the longer he's not dead, the more chances he has to get away. "Sure." The Fox looks up the sides of the buildings. "Come on, then." He grins again. Tim wants to say "slyly" but "deadly" is more to the point. The Fox climbs up to a small attic, and then says, "Well?" Tim's not sure what to do next, so he goes with his first impulse, "Who -- who are you? What's this about?" The Fox frowns. "If you don't know that, you should have run away. I thought you were going to bargain for your life." "I -- no. I only said I'd try to be -- interesting." "You're not succeeding." The Fox taps his fingers on his thigh. "Try harder." Tim's throat is dry, and he swallows. "Well, I -- I don't know what would be interesting. To you. I --" He thinks about what Robin should say, what Dick would say, and how he would smile. The expression feels awkward and lopsided. "I guess I already showed you a good time on the town?" The Fox laughs, harsh and short. "Part of one, perhaps. A beginning." Tim spreads his hands. "I guess we didn't go up the Eiffel Tower yet." Tim can see his point, though. If this was a date, it's not the kind that ends with a kiss at the door. "You are courting death," the Fox says, and his voice is so cold that if he hadn't breathed on Tim's face, close enough and warm enough to feel it, he would seem inhuman. "I don't know what you want," Tim says, and it's true and not true at the same time. He can feel himself sweating and smell himself in the filthy clothes he's been wearing too long. The Fox can't possibly mean -- that -- but the way his eyes narrow suggests that, in fact, he does. "I can't fight well enough. And -- and you really shouldn't ask me to. To undress. Unless I can take a bath." The Fox is right in his personal space. And it doesn't help that the Fox is almost eight inches taller than him. But not as tall as Dick. He puts up his hand, and Tim tries not to flinch, because he knows it won't do any good. The Fox's hand is around his throat, thumb at his carotid. "I can feel your blood. Or stop it. That makes you mine, doesn't it?" "I -- wouldn't you rather -- Wouldn't it be better... after a shower?" Although there's probably no windows in the bathroom. The Fox grins in a way that makes his name feel very apt. "Good idea. Let's." Tim can feel himself pale under the dirt on his face. "Oh. I -- wouldn't you rather wait?" The Fox touches his lips with a slim finger and Tim jerks back, thinking poison and danger and fear. It makes the Fox laugh. "No. I don't want to wait." The Fox slides his hand down Tim's arm to his wrist, and clamps around it. He smiles at Tim with a raised eyebrow like a threat, until Tim hesitantly moves towards the door which can only lead to the bathroom. Tim calculates just how long it could potentially be between jerking away from the Fox and when the police find his body. When he sees the tiny shower stall and the inch of dust in it, he revises his estimate considerably. But the water's been dripping from the tap, because the dust isn't everywhere. He closes his eyes and tries to think about anything but the Fox's eyes on him, and unbuttons his shirt. Actually, the Fox, looks a little like-- God no. He's not going to do that. And the Fox's hands really don't feel like -- anyone else's at all. And nobody else, nobody else would touch his neck like that, with that tenderness that could be a nerve pinch in half a breath. The honest to god Vulcan death grip, and Tim freezes. "Keep going." Do foxes purr? This one's voice is rough and low, and his fingers feel like death and terror and desire on Tim's chest, pinching one of his nipples too hard, too fast. His hands clench on his shirt tails, and he doesn't know if -- if he can do this. Maybe he -- He carefully breathes out, and then in again. If he survives this, he'll be Robin. "What about your pants? You did say you wanted to be -- interesting." He knows how Bruce uses himself ruthlessly to be the Batman. This is just one more lesson. He can -- He needs to -- It's one of the hardest lessons yet. But he clears his mind -- what Fox? What shower? What dingy, forgotten attic? -- and unzips his pants, then unbuttons them. He was right before. He smells awful. And someone laughs and says, "Kick off your shoes," so he does, and there is hot water and soap. He can't move, but someone pushes him. And really, Bruce uses everyone ruthlessly, so maybe it's okay. Dick is in the shower with him, and he soaps himself with the knowledge that it's okay, Dick wants him. He tries to make it a tease for the -- For Dick. That isn't exactly how Dick laughs, usually. He's -- drunk, maybe. All right. Drunk. And if Tim were to kiss him, he'd have to tip his head back just that much, and Dick might, maybe, on the best possible day, kiss him gently -- or so hard and fast Tim can't breathe and can only cling to him. He's so strong and agile, so dangerous, no, no, so beautiful. And he laughs again. He's a little drunk. "Very interesting." That's no accent. That's a slur, from the alcohol. It hurts to hear Dick impaired, so Tim kisses him again. This is working, but he's not sure what to do -- what Dick wants next. But, well, he knows what he's wanted to do for Dick, since forever. So he sucks at Dick's chest, which he had thought was -- no, no, this is right, but it just tastes of chlorinated water, not Dick. And Dick chuckles, rich and low, and pets his hair. "You grow more intriguing by the moment." The hair petting is right, so he ignores the words, and slides his hand down to anchor himself at Dick's hip. Dick runs his thumb over Tim's lips and squeezes his shoulder. "Pretty boy." Which isn't the right words, but -- too much to drink. Tim lets himself kneel. Maybe with the right stimuli, Dick won't be quite so out of it. He's already laughing again, which -- maybe it's the shower. Tim sounds weird, so why wouldn't Dick? And if it is just alcohol, that would explain -- lower inhibitions, greater sexual response, for a while -- why Dick is running his fingers through Tim's hair and urging him forward. And it's Dick. So the plea, "Look at me," isn't an order. Dick needs to know he's loved. He's Dick. Of course Tim loves him. Almost enough to not meet -- the Fox's eyes. "You're terrified," the Fox says. He smiles a little, too narrowly for Tim to start pretending again yet. "I may let you live." "Please." Robin wouldn't sound that abject, but Tim's shivering under the hot water. "Show me why I should." The Fox tangles his fingers in Tim's hair again and pulls him forward. The pain is a reason to close his eyes, to be somewhere else, to make the salt and bitterness and thickness in his mouth belong to someone who deserves this. It's not-- It's not important, really, it's just-- Just something he's doing. A choice he's made. And really, a trip to the dentist, is objectively-- he wants to vomit, but he would choke. Dick, he tells himself again. It makes his throat seize up, and it's obviously not true. He wants to be anywhere else but where he is, with anyone else, and all he has is the feeble illusion. And when Dick says, "God, god!" and tosses his head back so it thunks against the tile of the shower, Tim's concerned for a moment, and then remembers that he's-- he's mad at Dick? He's-- So he scrapes his fingernails up the inside of Dick's thighs a little to see what happens. And when Dick's legs begin to tremble, Tim realizes that he can tease, so he-- But this isn't really Dick. "You bitch," groans the Fox, and Tim thinks he sounds pleased. And maybe Tim likes that. Tim fights his grip for a minute and takes a deep breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He says, "You wanted interesting," and makes himself grin. The Fox shivers. "Interesting, not tedious." "Sorry," Tim says, not meaning it even a little. It's almost a relief to have the Fox's hand on his head again. It means he doesn't have to think, and he's not choosing this. All he has to do is let it happen and not scream or pull away. He wants to pull away even more now because he can't find the illusion again. In its place is a panicky voice asking him if he knows what it is he's doing and how dangerous it is and how likely it is that he's going to die as soon as it's over. "Fuck yes," the Fox says as he comes, and Tim chokes and coughs and tries not to vomit. He's on his knees in the shower and coughing still when the Fox tangles his fingers in Tim's hair again and pulls him up. "You'll be okay," he says, grinning, and wipes Tim's mouth with his thumb. Tim shivers. He hasn't been warm since he first saw Shiva, and even the shower wasn't enough to take away the chill. "Why are you doing this?" The Fox tousles his hair even worse and lets him go, walking out of the bathroom. Tim hangs back until he says, "Oh, get in here." He's already dressed again, but his clothes were nothing like the wreck Tim's are. It isn't any warmer outside the bedroom, but the Fox has a blanket in his hand. He wraps it around Tim's shoulders, then drags Tim over to the bed. "Sit down. I'm not going to kill you with pneumonia. That would be inelegant." "Good to know." The blanket is scratchy wool, but it's better than nothing. The Fox laughs at him. "You're indestructible, aren't you?" He leans against the wall and takes out a packet of cigarettes, lighting one up. "You can take anything." Tim hasn't stopped shuddering yet. "I -- I don't have a choice." The Fox blows out a stream of smoke and smiles at him. "Sure you do. You should work for me." Tim gapes at him, trying to figure out what that means. He's been running and running and learning nothing. He knows he's lost weight, and he can't possibly be attractive to someone with the Fox's resources. "I -- I want to be Robin." The Fox laughs and says, "You should --" But he's interrupted by the crash of glass. Shiva dives in through the window, kicks the cigarette out of the Fox's mouth, and says something cold and sharp in a language Tim doesn't know -- Mandarin, maybe. It's more promising that she opens the door and points and says something else in that language, and the Fox goes out. He turns back in the hallway to blow Tim a kiss, and Shiva glares at him. Then she turns back to Tim and gives him a rueful look. "Little bird, I was mistaken. He is not ready for you." "What?" says Tim, feeling entirely at a loss. He's never going to be Robin at this rate. He wanted Shiva to teach him things he can't learn from anyone else, but he's spent all his time in France running away from the Fox. He can't blame her for not wasting her time with him when he's obviously about to die. She says, "I thought he could defeat you much more easily than this." It still doesn't make sense. "Um." Tim feels himself blush. "Oh." "We will find you new clothes. And you will train more." "I haven't been training for weeks," Tim admits, chagrined. He knows he should've been keeping up with the strength training, but on the street it was too hard. "I was staying away from the --" "My son," Shiva says, and presses her lips together. Tim tries to imagine what it would be like to have her for a mother and shivers. She knew he wanted to learn from her, and what he's learned so far is that he can't trust her. Shiva frowns. "You will have to teach him some techniques. And he will have much to show you, in turn." Tim pulls the blanket closer around himself and thinks longingly of going back to Gotham. But in Gotham, he can't learn from Shiva. Or from the Fox. "I'm sure he will." Title Reference: The song sung by Gavroche, an 11 year old boy dwelling in Paris, as he dodged bullets, in this chapter of Les Misérables. "I am not a notary, It's the fault of Voltaire. I am a little bird, It's the fault of Rousseau."
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