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Every time they come together Bruce fears it will be the last.
Jim will come to his senses, perhaps, or else he’ll put two and two together. Work out who he is, beneath the masks and the bruises, and that will be the end of it.
Because it’s one thing, Bruce knows, to be with him in the shadows. To accept his touch – his kisses – when it can all be forgotten in the morning.
It’s another entirely to want him in the unforgiving daylight.
To want anything from a man who will linger afterwards, rather than disappear back into the darkness.
The problem is that Jim is far from stupid. Any slight mistake could prove his undoing.
So Bruce does his best not to speak during their trysts. Never allows himself to cling too close or beg, brokenly, for Jim to tell him that these moments mean something.
For Jim these encounters are stress relief. Something to take the edge off, he guesses, now that the divorce is final.
For him they are as much of Jim as he’s ever going to get.
He wishes it was enough to keep him satisfied.
That he wasn’t so greedy, so desperate, because too soon the inevitable is upon them and all he can do is tangle his gloved fingers in Jim’s hair, frantic.
Kiss the man until his lips are swollen, scraped raw against the moustache, and even then he can’t pull away, his pulse as quick as his breathing’s ragged.
This is the last chance he’ll ever have.
He prays that Jim won’t notice the dampness clinging to his lashes.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers – promises – finally, and curses himself for a coward even as he flees.
Even as he faces down forever without the support of the most honest cop in Gotham.
Because the letter is delivered to Jim’s desk, just as he was warned it would be, and though he continues his patrols, that night and the next and the one that follows, their rooftop remains shrouded in darkness.
It’s what he expected, everything he feared, and he doesn’t know what to do when Alfred summons him from his command centre that Saturday morning, the last of his make-up still smeared around his eyes.
Braces himself, for what must be coming, because he can’t imagine Jim being anything but angry at the deception.
Disgusted with the knowledge of who, exactly, he had granted such intimacy.
“I’ve sorted it,” is all Jim actually says, so handsome in the full light of day Bruce can scarcely bear to look at him, “it won’t go any further.”
The Batman would nod. Grunt his acknowledgement.
Bruce Wayne would joke. Act like he didn’t have a clue what Jim was talking about.
He hangs his head, hopeless, and chokes out an earnest thank you.
Ruthlessly swallows back the rest of it, the love confessions and the pleas for forgiveness, and waits for Jim to be done.
To walk away and leave him alone with the impossible task of getting over it.
“I thought – ,” Jim begins, before seemingly thinking better of it. Rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated, and tries again with, “I’ve been a coward. I didn’t want to risk making things too complicated.”
It makes no sense. He’s too on edge to go jumping to conclusions.
Jim sets his jaw, determined, and Bruce holds his ground when the man takes a step forward.
When Jim reaches for him, fingers tender at the side of his face, no cowl to dull the sensation.
“I knew. I’ve known for months now.”
Bruce closes his eyes. Attempts to centre himself.
“Nothing has to change,” he offers, words sounding strained to his own ears.
The truth is that he’ll take absolutely anything Jim is willing to give him.
It might not be much, might not make him anything but a mouth to fill or a thigh to rut against, but he’d still be grateful.
Would do his very best not to take it for granted.
Lips press against his cheek, warm and chapped and beyond perfect, so that Bruce has to blink Jim’s face into focus.
Lift a hand to hold Jim’s in place, heart hammering in his chest, and listen as Jim tells him with all the determined certainty that first enraptured him,
“Everything changes, Bruce. Sometimes it’s for the better.”