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DISCLAIMERS

Batman and the DC Universe are property of DC Comics. I'm not making any profit from this.

Ganymede (a.k.a. Wonderboy) and Skyboy are Original Character creation of their respective players. HyperMUX is not owned or operated by me. I only claim responsibility for Batman's role play.

HyperMUX can be found here: http://hypermux.spodzone.com/
Visit Ganymede's gallery: http://kiwihobbit.deviantart.com

This story is told from Batman's point of view.

Not Beta'd - if you feel the urge, I'd greatly appreciate it!

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Ganymede.

He's grace in human form.

But he's not human. No matter how much I want to convince myself otherwise, I will always know that he's not human. Sometimes I find myself pondering his bracelets, thinking of them as shackles and not badges of honor that define his Amazon heritage.

"Coming?" I ask, slipping between parked cars toward the door to the house. I know he'll follow. I want him to follow.

Alfred is waiting inside, a dutiful expression on his face. There's a mild hint of reproach in his gaze and I suddenly feel like a twelve year old boy caught climbing a tree in my Sunday best. I wince and hand him the bundle of clothing, a beat up pair of loafers and my toiletry bag. I'm not quite sure why he's giving me that look and, right now, I don't want to know.

Ganymede.

I don't need to look at him to be aware of that easy gait. With a careless gesture, he brushes his hair back. "I didn't mean to trigger your problems, however," he says, his soft-soled boots whispering over the marble floor.

"Will there be anything else, sir?" Alfred asks in his crisply accented voice. The butler to the rescue. His interjection saves me from another awkward moment. I can see a bit of sympathy in his eyes. Yes, he knows a lot more than he's saying. I know he'll get around to it eventually, though. The big question is, will I be ready for that conversation? Alfred is also a bit like an English Bulldog. Once he gets his teeth into something, he's quite tenacious about not letting it go.

I glance over at Ganymede, "Do you want anything? Drink? Bite to eat?" I've never actually seen him do either. Does he even need to eat and drink? That day we ran into each other and went out to lunch, I was called away before the salads arrived.

He shakes his head, frowning with a bit of uncertainty. I think Alfred has put him a bit on edge. "I'm fine, thank you." he murmurs, standing perhaps a little straighter, as if that were possible.

"That'll be all, Alfred. Thank you," I dismiss the butler for the night. Well, morning actually, considering I didn't get in until almost midnight. The warmth in my tone belies the words of a master to a servant. Alfred is far more than a servant to me. Surrogate father, friend, partner, confidant and so many other things that I can only sum up with a simple definition. Alfred is my family.

"Very good, sir," Alfred replies, still every bit the prim and proper Gentleman's Gentleman. Was that a hint of an eyelid drooping in a wink at Ganymede? The butler disappears down the corridor, leaving the two of us alone.

Ganymede.

He smiles, looking down the hall. His head is tilted a bit to one side. It's an adorable gesture. I'm trying not to stare. "Does he make everyone feel like they just got caught with a hand in the cookie jar?" he asks very softly, looking mildly abashed.

His question breaks the tension and I chuckle. "Careful, he might hear you," I tease, glancing down the hall. Mercifully, Alfred is no where in sight, but I wouldn't be surprised if he knew exactly what we were saying simply through his own deductive reasoning skills. "I think it's part of his training."

"I've faced gods, extra dimensional demons and irate fans. I think he may be more dangerous than all of them." A faint smile plays about his lips. He might be serious, though. The pause in our conversation is rapidly filling with awkward silence. "So," he begins hesitantly, "What happens now?"

I sigh and run a hand through my short hair. It's still slightly damp with sweat and probably sticking up in a dozen different directions. "I... really don't know," I admit, crestfallen. Does he realize what it means for me to make that statement? This is uncharted territory for me. If he was just a regular guest, I'd offer him the use of the guest suite for however long he intends to stay. If he was Dick or Tim, I'd just say goodnight and leave him to his own devices while retreating to the privacy of the master suite. If he was just another woman I'd brought home to maintain the illusion of Bruce Wayne, Billionaire Playboy, I'd probably have him in bed already.

Ganymede.

He's none of those things and, as much as I hate to admit it, it frightens me. Being curious is one thing, but having the potential to satisfy that curiosity standing right in front of me is quite another. It sends a thrill racing through me but it's also like ice freezing my heart. Will the reality be as satisfying as my fantasies?

My wandering gaze falls upon the latest edition of the Gotham Gazette laying on a three-legged table near the sweeping staircase. My expression sours as I take note of the picture of myself with a woman on my arm whose good looks could stop traffic. Sandra Symons spent the evening fawning all over me. I smiled, nodded and pretended to enjoy her vapid attentions. I think she was offended when I called for a limo to take her home instead of inviting her back here.

"Don't believe everything you read in the papers," I say in a weary voice.

"I avoid reading the papers," he murmurs, suddenly leaning against me, head resting against my chest. He seems quite happy with himself, too! "I just look at the pretty pictures." His tone is playful. I get the impression that he's content just to be near me.

I need a shower. It's a totally unromantic thought, but it's the truth. I've been on the road since early this morning. Dressed out in Levi 501's, a long-sleeve shirt and full riding leathers, I know I'm probably a bit ripe. I've also got an accumulation of several hundred miles of road on me that makes me want to strip and scrub until my skin tingles. But he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he snuggles closer, taking a deep breath as if trying to memorize my scent.

"Yeah, well, don't believe some of those either," I reply in a faintly resigned voice. For a moment my hands rest on his shoulders then my arms encircle the slender man. "Did you perm your hair or something?" I ask, running a hand through the silky locks.

He shrugs faintly. "I straighten my hair. It only lasts a few days at a time." He smiles, looking up at me. "If I don't, my hair gets more wild than Diana's in a hurricane." Now that is a sobering thought. Diana's hair is a bit wild under the best of conditions. It's also a bit humorous, but I resist the urge to laugh.

Ganymede.

He snuggles in closer and takes another deep breath. If he was a cat, he'd probably be purring. I keep my gaze fixed upon a potted palm and silently count its fronds, trying to distract myself from the electrifying feel of him in my arms. It's not like one of the brotherly embraces I've shared with Dick or Tim. For one thing, he's far more delicate than either of them. He's even more delicate than Selina. A lot of the women I've held in my arms have been celebrities of one sort of another. They've all had those carefully sculpted figures acquired through hours in the gym with a personal trainer and, for more than a few, hours spent on the operating table with a plastic surgeon. Aside from the lack of breasts, there's a hardness to his body that a woman doesn't have, but also a softness that most men lack. It's an unusual and, to me, breathtaking sensation.

"You thought things through?" he asks softly.

"I don't know," I say, toying with his hair. It's like warm silk. I suddenly wonder what it would feel like against my skin. And I don't just mean my hands. Focus... I have to focus. "The little bit of curl looks nice. I've done a lot of thinking." I'm good for rabid changes in conversational gears.

He smiles faintly and rises up on his tip toes, leaning against me to place a gentle kiss on my lips. "I have, too. Bruce, if you don't want this to continue, I won't hold it against you. I will keep your secret until the grave, and beyond, if you wish me to. You don't need to do anything to appease me..."

I cup his face in my hands. It's a startling contrast to me. His skin is so fine, like warm porcelain. My hands are large, a little bit darker in color and dirty from spending the day out on the Hog. "Right now, I'm not sure what I want," I say in a very serious tone. "I'm attracted to you, but I don't want another shallow relationship based on sex. I do want to get to know you better and I'm sorry for giving you mixed signals."

"I'm not. You confuse me... but I like it," he murmurs, smiling, though it's plain to me that he's also serious. "I will not lie. I am very attracted to you and sex is something I enjoy. I'm not a virgin. But it won't be... based on sex."

His assurances provide some comfort to me. I know he's not a virgin and the redundant statement is amusing, but I don't smile. I suppose I'm the shy virgin in this scenario. I'm no stranger to sex, but I've never had sex with another man. I'm not entirely ignorant about the technical details, but I am slightly apprehensive.

It's more than the fear of the unknown.

Ganymede.

How far do I want this to go? How far dare I let it go? People who get close to me get hurt. Nightmare images bubble up from the depths of my darkest memories. I suppress them and try to think of something else. My inherent desire for justice doesn't want this to become Bruce Wayne's dirty little secret. But can my public image weather the storm? Do I want to subject him to that kind of publicity? What will Alfred think? Dick and Tim? Clark and Lois? Even Diana?

"Hmph, I think I confuse myself sometimes," I reply in a self-deprecatory tone. "And maybe not for you, but I don't want it to be just sex on my part." I give the newspaper another foul look. "I get more than enough of that."

"Oh..." he smiles faintly, then, looking more serious, says, "Can... I stay here tonight? With you. Not in one of the guest rooms... In your room."

A frisson of mingled terror and desire curls in my belly. I know he's not asking for sex. He wants companionship. He told me how lonely he feels at times. I'm a bit baffled by it, but then again, I also understand his situation. It's somewhat like my own life, except he doesn't have a secret identity. He's also feared and adored by the masses, but never able to find a companion without suspecting an ulterior motive. Maybe we're not so different after all.

He wants more.