Title: Purple

Author: Ima Pseudonym

Pairing: Wayne/Crane

Rating: R

Summary: A prequel to my 'You'd Do Well To Remember My Name' drabble. When Jonathan and Bruce 'really' first met.

Notes: The first line is 'NOT' meant to offend anyone. I was just writing what I felt Crane's opinion on the matter would be. I wrote this because... I just wanted to write something, and this was the easiest, least-pressure story I had to continue. This wasn't so much written out of boredom, but from a supreme need to accomplish something. I think I may be disappointed with the results... But dammit. I finished.

Disclaimer: Warner Bros, not mine, blah blah...

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'Par-tay-ing' as it had been horrendously dubbed was as much a waste of time as being taught creationism alongside evolution during jr. high.

These students could kill brain cells as quickly as they pleased at night, and crawl to class the next morning, where they made excuses for their lack of progress. But Jonathan refused.

And so he was considered stuck-up. Condescending and unpleasant. Every bit as unpopular as he had been in high school. And why? For calling the cops at 2 AM, before a particularly important test, so he could get a few fucking hours of sleep. So one or two couples didn't finish having sex. So a few brain cells were saved.

Now they hissed at him as they passed him the hall. "Narc." they'd say, elbowing him roughly, as he rolled his eyes. It still beat high school. And when their Ivy League diplomas and 10th grade educations afforded them a middle-class lifestyle, he'd make sure they realized how far 'he' had come.

They'd be chugging beer at their brat's soccer game, while he sipped champagne with the most brilliant minds the country- no, the world! had to offer. Men and women who had suffered, and sacrificed as he had. Who had gone to school on their own merit. Paying for it through their own sweat and toil.

And if the label of 'narc' or 'loser' was acquired on the journey, so be it.

Which wasn't to say that there weren't hard-working students like him, there. Of course there were plenty. Only excessive money or considerable intelligence allowed one to a college such as his... But those students disliked him as much as the wealthy who could afford their four year education to stretch over a decade.

The main problem was being social, he'd decided. While Jonathan had no intention (or desire) of staying up until the wee hours, intoxicating himself to bad music when he could be in his room, reading a good book, or finishing a paper due in several weeks, he knew socializing was a necessity. Even on the smallest of scales. While he detested what he considered 'debasing' himself (which others listed as 'smiling some and not alienating everyone around'), he was forced to find a study group. And this group (considering themselves friends) attended 'social events'. Parties that began with wine and pretension, and ended with beer and sex. And bad music...

There was no calling the cops on these 'bright young minds', because he was expected to be there with them. "Jesus, Jonathan!" he'd been told. "It's just a little bit of fun. And it's Friday night. Live a little."

Boarding was another dilemma that Jonathan found taxing. Since he'd arrived at Princeton (some two months before) he'd gone through three roommates. Students who'd found him so loathsome, that they would rather stay down the hall with the suicidal Albanian boy. He went through his share of roommates, as well... But still ranked higher in the social scale than Jonathan.

Jonathan's current 'roomie' was a boy named Arthur. Who insisted he be called 'Art' and against all protestations nicknamed Jonathan 'Johnny'. Naturally they got along like a balloon in a needle factory. Though it would be difficult to say who the balloon was.

Jonathan made no secret of his dislike for the loud, and slovenly man he'd been forced to share close quarters with. And Art left no guesswork as to his opinions of his skinny and creepy roommate. All the while insulting Jonathan, and forcing them into an uneasy mutual arrangement.

Jonathan reminded Art of when his tests were scheduled, and which course exactly he was taking (as well as calling the RA if Art appeared to stop breathing after an all night bender), and Art dragged 'Johnny' kicking and screaming to a few social events. Rallies, football and basketball games. The odd mixer.

As a result, Art managed decent enough grades that his father was satisfied, and continued to pay the expenses, and Jonathan became slightly more popular than the suicidal Albanian.

One evening, in particular, irked Jonathan about his freshman year. It was nine in the evening, and he had just settled down in a dim corner of his room with a tome on existentialism, when Art burst in, cliched lampshade balanced on his head, and declared, in a slurred shout, that tonight was the night.

Jonathan never did determine what was so special about the night, but he hadn't yet received a coherent answer from his roommate when the man passed his four beer articulation limit, so he allowed himself to be manhandled from the room and down the stairs. After several turns, he found himself in one of the larger dorm rooms. Full of people. Drunken people. ...And bad music.

Jonathan made to turn around and slip out again, but Art was having none of it, pushing the other up to random people (whom neither of them knew) and introducing them incorrectly.

"Robert... I'd like you to meet Jacob. He's the 'MAN'" Jonathan felt his face flush in embarrassment.

"Jonathan." he said by way of correction, extending a hand to the other student. "Louise." the girl took his hand, face expressing pity... and amusement.

It was around the fourth person Jonathan was shoved into that another student approached 'them'.

"Art. Did you see who just walked in?" Jonathan glanced behind him. No one had just come in. But Art fell for it.

"Oh my God! I love that guy!" and he stumbled off to make a new friend. Jonathan, in the meanwhile, rubbed his sore arms (sure that Art-size bruises were hidden just beneath the thin fabric of his walmart-brand hoodie.) and looked up into the face of his savior.

"Thanks." he said, but there was little humor in his voice. Or relief. Just a weariness, and the underlying hostility that he'd never quite managed to lose throughout his adolescence.

"It's no problem..." the other student let his sentence linger, waiting for a name.

"Jon." Jonathan mumbled monosyllabically, checking over his shoulder to ensure that Art wasn't returning. But he was in a corner now, surrounded by admirers as he tackled a beer bong.

"Jon. I don't think I've seen you around, before. Did you just transfer?" Jonathan hated small talk, but acting rudely to someone who was obviously not intoxicated could ruin all the 'social work' that Jonathan had done since Art became his roommate.

"No. I've been here a few months. I just don't 'mix' often." he began to edge to the door.

"Wait, Jon. Can I get you a drink."

"Er... I don't drink often. Low tolerance." he lied.

"Oh, well I'd hate to be responsible for your lowered inhibitions." the student's grin entirely belied that response.

"I see..." Jonathan said, eyebrows arched, in what might have been disgust or intrigue.

"Bruce Wayne." the student offered his hand, as though Jonathan's remark had been a covert request to complete their introduction. He'd already known who the other was, anyway. Even creepy, loser, narc recluses like Jonathan knew who Bruce Wayne was. What he looked like. And every girl at Princeton he'd ever fucked.

Jonathan accepted the hand against his better judgement, unsurprised by the warmth, or strength of the grip.

"So..." Bruce continued, in almost a purr... For those who listened for such things.

"You're a freshman then? How are you liking Princeton."

"I'm liking it well enough. And if my college years can't lay claim to my actually learning anything because my nights were spent in forced inebriation, then there's always the endless number of intellectual giants I've met along the way." There was no need to look over his shoulder to know that Art had finished his bong. If the cheers were anything to go by. Bruce smiled. The million dollar smile of a man who had the money to back it.

Jonathan hesitated, having expected some surprisingly cunning remark at this. The lack of one was all the more surprising.

"I think I will have a drink." and he found himself smiling awkwardly. Smiles, to him, were unpleasant or fierce things, meant for when an enemy fell or an experiment went particularly well.

"What's your poison of choice?" Bruce queried. "We have beer or... beer."

"None of the above." Jonathan said, feeling lame for it. The other made a show of thinking about the problem, before he held up his finger in solution.

"I know. Follow me." Somehow Jonathan doubted that this hadn't been the plan, all along, as he was led out of the room, and down the hall. A key was fished from expensive trouser pockets, and another room (as large as the last, but darker and quieter) came into view.

"This defeats the point in getting wasted at a party." Jonathan said wryly, being so bold as to shut the door behind them. Even locking it.

Bruce had switched on a lamp somewhere towards the opposite wall, and a suddenly eerie grin glowed in the yellow light.

"We could always return, if you like?" Jonathan, actually, was feeling a bit uneasy now, but pride forbade any such cowardly action as leaving.

Having this sort of leverage over Bruce Wayne could prove very VERY useful to his career some day, and Jonathan intended on taking advantage of that. While Bruce's back was turned, as he rifled through a drawer, Jonathan toed off his shoes, and approached slowly, forcing himself to think that there was nothing wrong with his approach to the situation. He was quite sure that had any of the bimbos on the 'rich kid's arm thought of a long term (if not affectionate) connection with the man, they would act on it. Which didn't seem too likely, as men in Bruce's position were expected to bed many women. It was a fling with a man that could be detrimental to his reputation. Jonathan frowned at his train of thoughts. It wasn't entirely comforting, the thought of holding some sordid homosexual act over a stranger's head. But his mind had been made up.

When Bruce turned around, bottle of Bailies Irish Cream in hand, Jonathan slapped it aside, pushing the 'billionaire' (for Christsakes) against the wall. Standing on his toes, to attack a more than willing mouth.

To his pleasant surprise, Bruce took the immediate initiative, strong hands gripping Jonathan's hips, as he guided them backwards toward one of the room's twin beds. Two sets of hands pried at foreign clothing. Cheap and shabby, and unnecessarily expensive. The running commentary of comparisons in the younger student's mind stopped with Bruce's hands twined in his hair. And for a while Jonathan forgot about leverage, and allowed himself to enjoy the moment.

Hard mattress against his back. Remaining clothing being removed, high ceiling, and plain headboard...

Jonathan arched up against the equally unclothed man before him. Crying out loudly as calloused fingers dug into his hips... Moving him just a little more... a little faster... a little too much. To his later (much later) shame, Jonathan reached up to grip the solid oak of the headboard, further inflating Wayne's ego. And to cover the suddenly infuriating grin, he twisted up to draw the other into a kiss. Completely missing the impressed expression on Bruce's face at his flexibility.

After several minutes of aggressive rutting, covered in sweat that was his and his partners, Jonathan found his release with what he denied was an out and out scream. Never having been touched.

Blurred vision (where were his glasses, anyway?) could determine that Bruce was grinning again. Satisfied this time. A result of his own climax. After, Jonathan fell limp against the (seemingly) softer bed, listening in a detached way as Bruce removed the condom he couldn't quite recall him putting on, and puttered around the room for a while.

Annoyed at all the noise the other was making, and simply wanting to return to sleep, Jonathan managed to sit up blearily. Bruce walked over, handing him his glasses, which were gratefully accepted. And then, a little more rudely, his clothing was dropped on the bed at his feet. The message was clear. 'Bye bye.'

"You know you've got some set of lungs on you..." Bruce started, sounding close to laughing. It wasn't a cruel sort of amusement, per se. Not even patronizing, but aggravating, nonetheless.

"I beg your pardon?" Jonathan muttered, beyond irritated at this post-coital aftermath.

"It's just... I think you may've woken my neighbors up." If Jonathan had had feathers, they would've been ruffled.

"Well, excuse me." he huffed, stuffing his feet inside threadbare socks.

Bruce opened his mouth to reply (perhaps to apologize) but at that moment, a key rattled at the door, a moment before it swung open to reveal a girl and a boy, who stopped talking, mid-sentence to gape at the scene before them.

Bruce in boxers, and Jonathan perched on the bed, putting his shoes on.

"Whoa... Um... sorry." the male newcomer said, before shutting the door, again, leaving Jonathan and Bruce alone with their embarrassment.

"Well... Shit." Bruce broke the silence.

"I- ...Goodnight Bruce." Jonathan said, sure that his hair would soon catch fire, crushing the heel of his left shoe in an effort to escape more quickly.

"Yeah, goodnight, Jack." Bruce replied, to the other student's retreating back, as he flopped back on his bed, careless of the damp patches. Twenty minutes later, his roommate and his roommate's girlfriend reentered the room. Bruce was long asleep by then, thoughts a million miles from the boy he'd just fucked.

Jonathan returned to his dorm where Art lay, face down, on the floor, drooling and snoring. Stepping over the disgrace of a 'student' Jonathan began his nightly ritual. Shower, brush teeth, put on a t-shirt, and boxers to sleep in... Lay down. But sleep didn't come. An angry buzzing had settled about him. 'Goodnight Jack'. As though Jonathan had needed further humiliation. So he 'was' just like Bruce's other bimbos. Shame came in waves, interrupted only by Art's horrendous cacophony. So 'this' is what came of being social?

Jonathan pulled the covers up closer to his chin, feeling dirty despite his shower.

"Well... Shit."

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FIN