"Sure thing, B," Dick said, hopping off of the couch. "Hey, let's have a little music, okay?"

Bruce made a noncommittal noise, but didn't look up from his paperwork.

Dick fiddled with the radio. Static and foreign voices and then… the dial found something familiar. "Stagger Lee".

Dick bobbed his shoulders to the tune, sang along for a few bars of the "Go, Stagger Lee" chorus.

"That's not a very wholesome song, Dick."

Dick grinned, rolled his eyes, changed the station and found "Peppermint Twist." He headed for the shower.

"Dick," Bruce said sharply as Dick passed him.

"Yeah?" He stopped, turned.

Bruce put his pen down. "Come here, please?"

Dick stepped closer to where Bruce was sitting on the edge of the small sofa. "Yes?"

"Let me see your thigh."

"What?"

"Let me see your thigh, please?" Bruce reached out, pushing aside the fabric of Dick's terrycloth robe to run his hand up Dick's left leg, toward a large, ugly bruise, mottled greens and purples blooming out from just under the edge of the boxers he'd slept in. Bruce looked up at Dick, question in his eyes.

"Oh." Dick shrugged. "Didn't you see it a minute ago?"

"Wasn't at eye level. And I was focused on a different set of data," Bruce said, defensive. "And your comfort."

"Yeah, Bruce." Dick rolled his eyes. "You're a real softie."

Bruce didn't respond, testing the greenish skin on the outer edges of the contusion, thoughtful, professional. Like they were in the cave after patrol, doing damage inventory.

"Bruce, it's no big deal."

Bruce slipped a finger under the hem of the blue-striped cotton boxers, pushing them up for a better look.

"Come on, Bruce." Dick sighed, put-upon. "My legs aren't going to be on display for this thing, are they?" He started to take a step back.

Bruce's other hand shot out to hold him in place, gripping his right leg just above the knee while he continued his appraisal. On the radio, a disc jockey spoke, then a new song, loud in the silence of the room, came through the speaker. "Fly Me to the Moon." In French. The bruise was purple at its center, blood pooled under the surface, a two-inch cut crowning the swollen surface. Bruce poked it.

"Ow, Bruce!"

"What's this from?"

"What does it look like? I took a hit."

"A particularly nasty hit, wasn't it?"

"Well I think it'll keep me out of any beauty contests for a week or two, yeah. It doesn't matter, Bru—"

"How did you get this?"

"How do you think?" Dick could hear a touch of sarcasm creeping into his voice. He tried to quell it. Bruce was just being himself, after all. "Patrol. A couple of nights ago."

"I thought you were with Superman." Bruce put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed once, then slowly swept his hand down Dick's side, from armpit to waist, feeling for damage. Watching Dick's face.

Dick knew he must have reacted, because Bruce rucked up his white T-shirt to look at the skin underneath, where another mark lurked. Bruce make a clucking sound of dismay, then pushed the boxers' elastic waistband down far enough to see the shape of this blemish, just at and above Dick's right hipbone.

"That one," Bruce's voice was quiet, dangerously low, "looks like a handprint."

"Look, Bruce—"

Bruce's eyes narrowed.

"He can't keep me from getting bruised, B. Especially in shorts. It's a hazard of the—I don't know, business. Costume. You know that, boss."

"Hmm." Bruce lowered the waistband an inch further, enough to trace the pale finger shapes. "Turn, please."

"Bruce!" Dick pushed his hand away. "Leave it alone."

Bruce steered Dick into a quarter turn himself, pulling the robe further aside to look more closely. His hand ghosted over the gray remnants of the—well, it was a handprint, after all—pressing around Dick's side to where the imprints of fingertips ended, near the bowl of his left hip.

Dick was annoyed, but wriggled a little, involuntary. "Bruce, that tickles!"

Bruce changed his touch, kneading the mark, thoughtful. Tilted his head, blue eyes boring into Dick's own.

Dick frowned back.

"Superman."

It wasn't a question, but Dick felt protective. "Who do you think, Bruce?"

"I see." Bruce's lips thinned.

"I hope so!"

"Care to elaborate?"

"On what?" Dick pointed to his thigh, exasperated. "Lex Luthor."

Bruce's eyebrow went higher, his eyes wider. "Do tell."

"Some kind of… weird new projectile he was trying out."

"I see." Bruce said again, his tone deadly. "A bullet."

"Not really, Bruce. A new kind of plastic alloy." He hesitated. "I think. I didn't finish the analysis yet."

"You didn't." Bruce said, his grip on Dick's waist getting tenser, harder. "Lex Luthor is using you for target practice, Superman is letting him, and you're the one bringing the evidence home to analyze," Bruce snapped. "Please tell me what's wrong with this scenario."

"Superman couldn't, okay!"

"Kryptonite." Bruce's voice was quiet but furious. And he was going to leave a bruise of his own if he didn't let go. "So you went to Metropolis?"

"Yeah, Bruce."

"Yes, please," Bruce corrected.

"Yes, Bruce." Dick shimmied his hips, loosening Bruce's grip on him. "For like, an hour. Once."

"And took a Kryptonite bullet for Superman."

Dick shrugged. "He'd do the same for me, Bru—"

"And this?" Bruce said, squeezing the handprint again before letting go.

"You know."

"Do I?"

"Yes!"

"Tell me more, Dick."

"To save me!" Dick crossed his arms, huffing. "Combat situation, Bruce."

"Does the Man of Steel no longer know his own strength?"

Dick just glared at him.

"Turn around." It was that voice, and Dick hated when Bruce used it against him this way, but he found himself turning all the same. His back to Bruce, he could see the lounge chairs on the terrace, buildings and trees and morning sunshine spilling across Paris. The radio station blared a commercial for Gitanes. "Like this?" Dick spat out, waiting. "You need to get a grip on—''

"On what?" Bruce said, intense, quiet, bitter. In one fluid motion, he stood, pulling the robe from Dick's shoulders, skinning it down his arms.

"What are you doing?" Dick snapped.

Bruce tossed the robe aside.

"Bruce, you have really, really got to get a workout in."

"Do I?"

"Yes!" He felt hands under the waistband of his boxers, yanking them lower. "You're strung—" A hand on his t-shirt, pushing it higher. "Strung way too tight, Bruce." The air on suddenly exposed skin, still warm from sleep, made him shiver. Dick fought to steady his voice, be himself. "How long has it been since you spent a little time with the punching bag, Bruce?"

Bruce found the matching mark on the other side of his lower back. He squeezed it, too hard.

"Ouch, Bruce!"

"I've never known Clark to bruise you before, Dick." Slowly, Bruce's fingers lined up with the pattern of the bruise, matching his own hand to the print Superman had left behind. Thumb pressing into lower back, fingers splayed as they curved around to grasp Dick's hips. First on the right side, then on the left, until Bruce was holding him, just as Superman had.

"I don't get the big deal about—"

Bruce, hands still in place, yanked him backwards, hard.

Dick landed with an 'oof' against Bruce's collarbone. He could smell Bruce's aftershave, feel the starched cotton of the Brooks Brothers shirt, rough against the bared skin of his back.

"Was it like this, Dick?" Bruce's voice was a whisper in his ear, cold and speculative.

"Bruce!" Dick gasped. Pushing away, he snatched his robe from the couch and slid into it, pulling the two sides close around him, covering. "I think he was just… was in a hurry." Dick knotted the robe's sash. "And shouldn't we be? Don't we have someplace we need to be?"

Bruce set his shoulders, then his jaw, tense. He sat back down on the couch. "I'm sure we'll manage."

Dick tried to process the tone. "My legs aren't going to show in this dress, right?"

"What?" Bruce looked scandalized. "It's a Dior, Dick. Of course not. Very tasteful." He reached out to flip back a corner of terrycloth. Poked Dick's thigh one more time for emphasis. "As long as your back and shoulders are unmarked…"

Dick rolled his eyes. "Fine then, B. Are we done here?"

"Hmm." Bruce slid his palm down the length of Dick's thigh, to his knee, then back up again, pushing the light hairs there against the grain.

"Bruce." Dick took a calming breath and bit his lip, squeezing his eyes closed as he wrapped his hand around Bruce's wrist, lifting Bruce's palm from where it was placed on his inner thigh. "You can't just go… doing that."

"Oh." And suddenly, it was just Bruce again. Bruce, who looked a bit odd but gave Dick his space, taking his hands away.

Dick closed his robe again. Stepped back. "Bruce, it's just that…"

"No, you're right," Bruce said, hurt.

Dick was embarrassed, angry at himself for making Bruce uncomfortable.

"I was only thinking of the mission." Bruce reached for something under the stacks of maps, brusque. "You will, I think, need to shave your legs."

"Oh no, Bruce."

"I'm afraid so," Bruce nodded. "It's not that you have much hair there, or anywhere, really—"

He stopped talking because of Dick's glare. And held up a small box. A small pink box. "I got this for y—" he stopped, corrected himself. "The occasion."

"Oh B, I don't want to…"

"It works with the currents here," Bruce continued, opening the case to display a small, ivory-colored electric razor. The thing was disc-shaped, round except for the one edge where the blades cut across the circle. He lifted it from its box. "It's fashioned to fit comfortably."

Decorated with gold curlicues and a pink jewel in the center, Dick felt his stomach flip. Lady Schick. "Oh, no Bruce."

"Mmm." Bruce flipped the thing over in his hand, tiny in his large palm.

"My legs will be hidden—"

"You need to play the part…"

"Nobody will know if I haven't shaved my legs, Bruce."

"You won't let anyone touch them, then?" Bruce put the thing back in its box, closing it with a loud snap.

"Anyone but you?"

"Hmph." Bruce snorted, reaching over to drop the pink case into the pocket of Dick's robe. Folding his arms, he leaned back on the couch. "Each piece is part of the whole when one is undercover, Dick. You know that." Adversarial, daring Dick to argue further. "Humor me. Your legs. The fuzz under your arms."

The song on the radio changed. Johnny Mathis singing some creepy song about love. Dick searched for patience.

"Maybe you can use it on your face, too. For these daily tonsorial needs you seem to have suddenly begun to develop.

"Bruce!" Dick fought the whine he could hear in his own voice. "I am shaving -…more often."

Bruce smiled, a little too bright and condescending. "Daily, weekly, monthly. It's fine, Dick. You're a virile young man. But do shave something besides your face before this evening." Bruce picked up his pen again, began filling an index card with small, meticulous notes.

"Fine," Dick snapped, whirling out of the room. He didn't miss the self-satisfied little crinkles that played for a moment around Bruce's eyes, even though the man didn't look up from his paperwork.