jamjar

Wayne Manor gets too hot in the summer and Bruce doesn't have air-conditioning. Terry's not sure if this is some kind of historical-building preservation thing or another sign of the old man's sadism, never very far from the surface, but he's leaning towards the latter. If he asks, Bruce shrugs and says that they don't need it.

"Open a window, McGinnis. The fresh air won't kill you."

"In this town, I'm not so sure."

Opening all the windows with their glass that's warped with age lets in the wind that's just a little too strong to leave papers lying about. It makes it less stuffy, but doesn't do anything to kill the heat that's got Terry wishing he could still get away with shorts and no shirt outside of the manor, without having to worry about bruises showing.

Here, he can wear them, even if it makes him feel like Terry-the-Poolboy against the old wood and warm leather of the Wayne Manor.

Bruce hasn't said anything about it, yet, which could mean he's saving the comments up. He watches Terry, or he watches the bruises, bandages and synskin bandaids and occasionally hands him a bottle of something to put on the worst or orders him to adjust one set of bandages around his ribs.

It's weird to be this undressed in front of him. It's not like the old guy hasn't seen him in less, hasn't seen him naked, but only when there was a reason for it. Changing into the suit, getting wounds checked. Work, mostly. It's different.

And he reminds Bruce of someone, though he's been careful not to ask who. He know that sometimes, when Bruce's eyes are on him, it's not exactly Terry he's seeing, that Terry will have to say something, move in just the wrong way, to get Bruce to actually *see* him.

He probably doesn't do that as much as he should.