A/N: For the few of you that can't picture this, just imagine the Kevin Conroy/Justice League Batman and the Tom Kenny/Brave and the Bold Plastic Man.
There were many fine points of subtlety that Bruce had been known to abide by. He knew when to drop the right hint, how to coddle out the clues from the most tight-lipped, how to understand the deeper, more insinuating meaning between the lines he so often read, and how to comprehend even the most succinct, concealed emotions with the blink of an eye.
Eel O'Brien had obviously not received the memo, as he stared, almost adoringly, practically idolizing Bruce as he drove in the batmobile, the sleek machine of power and precision that purred down the empty street during patrol, at a nice, easy eighty, shining in the brief intervals of light from the lampposts at every street corner they passed.
Bruce was starting to feel increasingly uncomfortable with each moment that passed. O'Brien was clearly not noticing, as he continued to stare, his cheek cupped in his hand, resting comfortably on the plush armrest of his seat, immaculate leather that Alfred had just cleaned not a few hours ago.
He felt the uncontrollable desire to bring up conversation to distract himself from the discomfort he was experiencing, and managed a brief, sidelong glance at those large, opaque, white-rimmed glasses that were his friend's trademark item.
Along with, to Bruce's even greater agitation, the skintight, revealing red swimsuit of a costume.
"O'Brien." Bruce said, rounding a corner, the streetlight flashing upon the dashboard, a bright burst of sunspots, and then they plunged into the interval of darkness with the headlights cutting through like a hot knife through butter, punctuated by a customary screech of rubber on tar.
No response. Was he still staring at him? Bruce managed another look and found the answer to his great displeasure.
Was his mouth ajar? Something was not right. O'Brien had something on his mind.
"O'Brien." Bruce repeated.
Still no response. The aftereffects of a battle with a villain, possibly? Although he wasn't the kind to suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder, and well…he didn't exactly look stressed, or, for that, fact, alive in any way whatsoever.
"O'Brien."
"Huh?" the superhero known as Plastic Man, better known to Bruce as Eel O'Brien, reanimated and removed his head from the cup of his hand and looked at Bruce as if he was seeing him for the first time; it only made him feel more restless.
"Is there…something on your mind?"
As if Bruce had flicked a switch, he became overly-defensive, waving his hands back and forth to disregard such an idea as preposterous, so quickly and haphazardly that his wrists began to wriggle and sway like loose, uncontained rubber and he shook his head so quickly it turned like a corkscrew with his vehemence.
"No, no no no no, Bats, nothing's wrong at all! Nah, that's ridiculous, something wrong with me? I'm in tip-top shape, yesiree!" he grinned, and tried to look nonchalant as he leaned back in the leather-trimmed seat, propping his elbow on the head of the seat and leaning in, yet only succeeded in looking more obvious and unconvincing.
Bruce only twitched at the mention of the nickname 'Bats', his little problem with Wally wasn't exactly going away, he had suffered enough with his little tricks, which had only increased exponentially with his confidence, which seemed to be soaring since he assumed he was being oh-so-discreet.
"Nope, I'm fine, really, couldn't be better! Life's been good to me, yup, it has, and I really think the weather's nice, today, don't you? But it sure is hot in here, isn't it, although I wonder if there aren't some things in here that are hotter—"
Bruce had long ago learned to tune out O'Brien's babbling, and knew that it was beyond any sane mind to attempt to calm him down, and sought to change the subject, unaware of the last comment his companion had slyly added in.
"How is your girlfriend?" he found himself forcing the question through his teeth as he screeched down the street, finding idle conversation better than being stared at by a man that would only shiver like putty if Bruce punched him.
"Huh? Oh, her? Oh, we broke up, she didn't like how I was changing into her lingerie, although hey, can I help it if all she ever wore were red g-strings, no, I don't think so—"
"Explain to me how that was necessary for my well-bring, O'Brien."
"Uh. Is that a trick question?"
"Just shut up."
"Yes, sir, shutting up right away!" he saluted, like the obtuse idiot he was, chest literally swelling with pride, and relaxed into the seat, ready to assume his previous routine of staring as the shadows from the night curved around his face and were replaced by streetlight from the neon bar sign.
Bruce knew for a fact that O'Brien would never listen unless it was something serious, or there was a great matter at hand.
There was something up with this, and it probably had to do with the staring and his recent break-up, and knowing the man staring at him once more from the passenger seat, he knew he was going to have to solve the damn thing in one way or another to have some peace of mind (or sanity of mind, to be more exact) in his life.
A man suffering from a breakup with a woman he had pined over for so long (months, oh, Bruce considered multiple times to pick up a gun and shoot himself with it after hearing how lovingly O'Brien spoke of her), and, had he found another woman so quickly in the time being, certainly would be acting more immature and less, outright…creepy towards him.
He rounded on the corner sharply, jolting the two of them, as the screech of a burglar alarm a block away soared through the night.
But O'Brien had been complacent and obedient (by his standards, at least) and had reserved himself to staring, when he could have been doing something far worse (Bruce was still fuming over that incident with the wheels half a year ago), almost like the whipped, trained puppy persona he assumed around—
… The…women…he…loved.
Or, unfortunately for Bruce, now, men.
Bruce had never found himself happier for a bank robbery in all the waking moments of his life.