Work Text:
"Sweetheart–" Bruce called.
"Nope," Jason said curtly. He kept walking, stride brisk, his boots thudding against the sidewalk with every step. He wouldn't even look at Bruce, face forward and head held proud.
Bruce knew how he looked, with his car pulled to the side of the road, driving slowly enough to keep pace with Jason's steps as he pleaded with him. He looked like the undesirable ex from every romantic comedy. (Jason made him watch them, appalled that his media tastes were nearly a century out of date. All of Jason's favorites were twenty years old, though, which Bruce graciously neglected to mention.) Currently, Bruce was far beyond caring about his image.
"Please," he said. "I just want–"
Jason finally wheeled around, storming up to the open car window and sticking his finger in Bruce's face. "You want me to be your little kept boy, right? You want me under your thumb, 24/7 access, don't you?" Jason was gritting his teeth, voice low and furious. He spit, "Fuck!" and turned away, running a hand through his hair. "I knew better. I knew better than to trust some rich fuck not to screw me over, and I fell for it anyway, like an idiot." He laughed darkly, muttering, "Literally a vampire. Could not be a clearer metaphor for a parasitic drain on society, and yet–"
"Jason," Bruce pleaded, not really knowing how to feel beyond the ache in his chest. "I– I never meant–"
"Don't give me bull, Bruce," Jason interrupted.
Bruce had never imagined that offering Jason a condo would go this badly.
"You live in a bad part of town," he defended. "I worry about–"
"Go on," Jason said, ironically cutting him off again. "Insult my neighbors and clients, that's really going to help."
"…Your apartment is very small." The words came out weakly. It was all Bruce could say.
He couldn't express what he really wanted to. That Jason was beyond beautiful. That Bruce wanted to give him the world. That he should have every luxury, that he should be at the opera wearing diamonds and silk, that he should recline on red satin sheets and be adored by all who see him, that beyond anything else in the world Bruce needed to see him comfortable and safe and taken care of. That Bruce would hand-feed him strawberries and oysters and anything he wanted, even if Jason told him that Bruce's fangs weren't worthy to touch his skin and he never again tasted the sweet nectar of his blood, electrified by the magic in his veins.
"You don't have an ounce of respect for me as a person, do you?" Jason's anger had switched from hot to cold. Bruce's only solace was that he still wasn't walking away. "I thought– I thought you were different. My mistake, I guess."
"I'm sorry," Bruce said.
"For what?" Jason crossed his arms, not looking very optimistic about the potential answer.
Bruce took a moment, knowing how important this was. Jason deserved the truth from him. "I'm sorry that I don't understand," he finally said. "I'm sorry I wronged you so badly without even realizing. I know that my ignorance isn't an excuse, and I'm sorry that my apology lacks substance because of it."
Jason stared. Then he took a deep breath and let out a sigh more world-weary than the most jaded of immortals. "Stop driving on the wrong side of the fucking road," he said. "Turn around and put it in park."
Bruce had forgotten that he was acting as a road hazard. His only thought had been to not lose Jason, to keep close to him, so it was a good thing the traffic was sparse. He did as he was told and held his breath as Jason opened the passenger side door.
"You're taking me home," Jason said, then clarified, "To my actual home, that I worked my ass off to afford, because being self reliant fucking matters to me, okay?"
"Okay," Bruce answered, putting them back in drive.
For a few blocks they were silent. Bruce couldn't let this argument lie, though. There had to be something he could say, something that could start to fix this. Finally, he opened his mouth. "I didn't mean to insult you," he tried to explain. "I know that your work matters, and that you help people." Jason's craft was honestly amazing. Charms of protection that kept nighttime travelers safe. Amulets that glowed to warn women of the night when their potential clients had bad intentions. Coasters with wards that made it impossible to drug a drink. Draughts and poultices that kept the local free clinic from being overrun with desperate patients. Jason made a real difference in all of those people's lives. "I have no intention to– to take you away from that. I don't want to" –Bruce made a disturbed face at the road ahead at just the thought– "keep you. I appreciate your independent spirit." He regretted that last line the moment he said it, knowing that Jason would find it condescending, but he had to push forward and get out what he wanted to say. He admitted, "It's my vice, that I want so badly to spoil you. I can't help but think you deserve only the finest things."
Jason scoffed, and Bruce worried that he had utterly failed to salvage their relationship. The witch surprised him, though, by asking, "And what are these 'finest things?'" His tone was teasing. "Roast pheasant? I swear, you sound so regency sometimes."
Bruce gripped his steering wheel. "You like that," he pointed out, cautious, like approaching a wild animal.
But Jason chuckled. "Guilty," he said.
Bruce had a spark of inspiration. "I'll sell the condo," he said. "Or donate it, to the city unless you have a good recommendation for who may need it. But if, perhaps, I took you to a ball, would you let me buy you something to wear? And pamper you, let you feel special, just for a night?"
Jason took a moment to answer, and Bruce spiraled. But his voice cracked when he said, "You drive a hard bargain." He cleared his throat and muttered, "God. Lizzie Bennet, eat your heart out." Then he whipped around, staring at Bruce. "You aren't just saying that, right? You mean an actual, traditional style ball? Wouldn't the press be a problem?"
Bruce needed to remember this. Clearly he'd have to appeal to Jason's romantic side more often. "We could find a masquerade," he suggested, "so they wouldn't be able to identify you."
"Yeah, but they'd still be able to tell you were with a man," Jason argued.
Bruce glanced over at him, taking in his raised eyebrow. He was being serious. "Sweetheart, I don't care about that," Bruce stated plainly. "I thought you were concerned about your privacy, is all."
"Oh," Jason said. Then, "So what you're saying is that we've been avoiding public dates this entire time for literally no reason."
Bruce hummed. "It seems that way, yes."
"B, I need you to be so honest with me right now," Jason said, tone suddenly stern. "If I caused a scene at a high society event, would that be a problem for you?"
Bruce, who had been sure his dead heart would start beating again from the stress, was startled into a laugh. "What sort of scene?" he asked.
"Nothing major," Jason answered, and Bruce could hear the wicked smile on his face. "Maybe tell some fashion industry hacks that they're hacks to their face. Play up the alley drawl for fun, see how people react. Minor curses at worst, promise." The last word was sickly sweet and entirely false. Bruce would be surprised if no one's dress turned to snakes by the end of such a night.
"Jason," he said, "I would love nothing more."
Jason threw back his head as he laughed, and Bruce hoped he could hear a witch's cackle, just like that, every day for the rest of his long, long life.