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It’s his first early night in months. Montoya practically shoved him out of the precinct the minute the clock hit eight. Dinner was a grease-laden, cholesterol-infused cheeseburger at the local diner, and then he wandered off home in a lost kind of way, where your job was your life and all that was ever waiting for you was an empty apartment.
(A year ago he would have come back to a warm smile, a warm hug, and a warm meal. A baby babbling in the cradle of his arms, big delighted eyes and tiny fingers tugging sharply at his moustache – ouch.)
(An empty apartment was all he deserved.)
Jim unspools his tie from his neck, toeing off his shoes and throwing his overcoat onto the overused futon. There’s an unmade bed waiting for him but the night is young; he might as well wash the grime off himself first. He turns the rusty knob to the tap, and hums to himself, unbuttoning his shirt as the small, clawfoot tub fills slowly with steaming water.
Last month he’d moved, found himself a smaller, cheaper place after Barbara’s visits grew sporadic.
(Chicago beckons her back to familiar streets. In Gotham, she clutches James close, clutches him tighter. In Gotham, every passing blonde brings a downturn to her lips. In Gotham, their bed is cold, two people with a gulf between them.)
It’s a dingy, ill-maintained part of town. A downgrade. Not the sort of neighbourhood you raise a family in. It serves him well enough. He hears more whispers in the alleyways, sees the web of Gotham’s underworld clearer than he ever did in the quieter parts of town.
It’s barely enough to fit a grown man, but it’s functional. Perfectly serviceable.
His glasses begin to fog with the steam, and they’re the next item to come off as he steps out of his trousers. Jim carefully does not look towards the mirror, setting his wireframe glasses on the sink basin. He catches a glimpse anyway – a man, with greying temples, wrinkles lining his forehead, frown-lines and tired blue full of regrets – as he takes off his ring, before the glass mercifully fogs up.
Jim turns the tap off, rusted little thing squealing in protest as he screws it the other direction, and sinks into the tub with a groan.
Stiff limbs warm so quickly that he shudders, the water is almost too hot, too much, and his skin grows pink and raw. Jim’s neck unclenches, shoulders going lax and he rests it on the back of the tub, closing his eyes and letting his creaky joints melt like candle wax under a flame.
One good thing about a bathroom most definitely not up to code – vents corroded and blocked by decades old debris – is that it stays unbearably warm, for a very uncomfortable length of time. It’s perfect for him now, on a brisk winter night, a balm to the dry, biting cold that descends on an already prickly, grey city that’s not very kind to his rapidly ageing bones.
It’s peaceful, the quiet trickle of ripping water lulling him into a half-sleep where thoughts swim in and out of focus, and some long neglected needs come rising to the surface.
Jim moans quietly, gasping softly as he takes himself in hand, a slow, sure grip as he fucks his slick fist. At first, he’s not really thinking about anything in particular. Smooth young skin, wavy locks of hair, lips, legs, memories and fantasies swirling into nameless, harmless images that make his breaths come faster.
A strange, familiar prickle of awareness in a foggy bathroom – he’s imagining it, surely – and then he is thinking of something – someone – very particular. A square jaw, a stern lip, unfathomable eyes and an inescapable presence.
Jim pants, breaths loud, but he’s alone– he’s alone, it’s okay, it doesn’t mean anything at all. His balls draw up tight, tighter and tighter as the images deepen, morph into tall, looming shadows, into broad palms and musculature he couldn’t hope to emulate even in his own heydays.
An “Ah–” rips out of his throat and then more sounds come tumbling out, the kind he’s never allowed himself to make in front of anyone. Not Sarah, not even Barb.
That crushing grip, gauntlets fisted in the shirt of an unlucky foe, what would they feel like on him? Jim screws his eyes tightly shut and moans sharply on the next twist of his own fist. One hand splashes the water as it comes out to clutch desperately at the rim of the tub, white-knuckled, fingers slipping on ceramic.
Would he touch Jim like this? Or would he press his entire weight onto him, put a thumb into his mouth – pry it open – put him on his knees until they ached for days? Would he thrust shallowly, or fuck his throat? Stretch his mouth wide until his jaw was sore and drool pooled in the corners of his lips?
He’s hot in the face, hair sticking wet to his forehead, skin growing more and more sensitive the longer he stays submerged in water that’s still somehow piping hot, nearly unbearable. Jim can’t seem to pull in a full breath, panting desperately as he chases the pleasure building in his core. He’s just wound so fucking tight.
A voice, like tires crunching over gravel. Husky, low, frightening—
“Commissioner.”
Jim comes into his fist violently, ears ringing and sparks exploding behind his eyes. He’s banged his foot on the other end of the tub, a loud clang that brings him out of it all long enough to realise–
“Batman?”
The yelp is loud, even louder is his heartbeat in his ears as he struggles with the shower curtain. Of all the times– Of all the times for that hulking dark figure in his bathroom– Of all the times–
“What the hell are you doing in here?! Get out!”
His skin is burning hot for entirely different reasons now. Jim curses himself, he hadn’t even put any soap in the tub. It was all too obvious what he was… It occurs to him like a slap, that it would have been obvious either way, with the sounds he’d barely restrained…
“I have information–”
“The information can wait until I’m clothed!” Jim barks, face burning hot.
He yanks at the bathrobe hooked on the wall, kicking the drain plug away with one smarting foot. The water draining is loud enough to cover his hissed profanities. Jim stares at the tall shadow behind the shower curtain as he knots the ties of his robe and wishes he could shove himself down the drain too.
There’s still come on his fist.
Jim bites his lip hard, quickly rinsing it off under the tap, and wipes a wet palm down his face. The Bat waits patiently, unmoving behind the curtain, as Jim catches his breath. His heart is like a drumbeat in his ears, and every limb is thrumming with the kind of energy he’s only experienced in the middle of a firefight.
One of these days, one of these days his heart is going to fail him.
“Could you please wait outside?”
Silence. The shadow doesn’t move.
“I just– I need a moment.”
A quiet “Hn,” and then the merciful click of a door closing.
Jim swallows thickly and stares at the last dregs of water still swirling down the shower drain. It would be too much to hope– Far too much, that he hadn’t seen – hadn’t heard – Jim. He hisses back another swear and gets out of the tub, splashing cold water onto his face until he thinks he can face the Bat hovering outside without wanting the earth to swallow him whole.
Because eventually, Jim does have to face him.
God help him, but he has a city to save.