Night Visit.

Jim likes the MCU offices after hours, when the only ones working are the night shift officers, and the majority of them is out on rounds and crime scenes, only the basic personnel manning the desks. He could have taken the office he was offered down at the city hall, but he took one look at it, and it still looked like Loeb's office, and would probably never be his own. This one is, for all the papers scattered across his desk that he's trying to make some sense of.

He wouldn't mind a new coffee maker, of course, but he supposes he'd have to do with the one in the hall, and his assistant. Who he have sent home, three hours ago. Just because he has a well developed sense of workaholism doesn't mean he promotes it in others.

Besides, she has a fiance to come back home to, and since Barbara packed her bags, and, more importantly, children's bags, a week ago... well, workaholism might not be a problem anymore, it's a haven.

He sighs, and glances at his watch, squinting at the small digits. Later than he thought, but then again, it always is. He stands up, his muscles protesting the sudden movement, and walks out of his office in search of Penny's stash of good coffee. He's pretty sure she hides it at her desk somewhere, she must, as he had tried the coffee that everyone else drinks and it's pretty much awful, whenever Penny makes him coffee, however, it's rather splendid.

He finally finds it behind a pink container of sharpened number two pencils, and measures out a generous dose, then breathes in happily as he makes his way back to the paperwork. Wind from the open window had made more mess than Jim had, and that's an achievement. He frowns, wondering if he left the window open himself, and concludes that no, he didn't. Someone else would probably be alarmed, especially considering the number of death threats reaching the commissioner's office on a weekly basis, but Jim's danger sense doesn't kick in, but instead he has a familiar feeling of being watched, and he nods, in no particular direction.

"One of these nights, you could call before breaking in," he offers dryly. It's a curious thing, how much being sneaked on regularly has heightened his sarcasm knee jerk.

"I'll try," Batman says, and the tone is wrong, not exactly amused, and if they're foregoing the repartee, then it's really bad.

"What is it?"

Batman shakes his head, or rather, moves it a fraction, which in translation, Jim learned, is pretty much like anyone else shaking their heads emphatically. "It's under control."

Like hell it is, Jim thinks, but he had long given up on questioning the man. Well, maybe not exactly, but he certainly had given up on expecting answers. "Why are you here, then?" he mutters, and turns to shut the window close, watching as the papers still on his desk, no longer carried every which way by the wind.

He feels, rather than hears, Batman move behind him, two, three steps forward, stopping inches away from Jim, displaying hesitation Jim had never suspected he could. "I don't know yet," Batman says, and Jim shivers, even before a gloved hand rests on his shoulder, pushing him lightly to turn him around, lips on his before he can protest, and that's a good thing, because he's not sure whether he wants to protest.

Batman pulls away, and it's apparently a day of firsts, because his eyes are uncertain, worried, and there used to be a time when Jim half wanted to see the man look anything else than cool and determined, but not anymore. "What the hell was that?" Jim asks, but his tone doesn't match the words, he's not angry, or even very surprised; he's just curious.

"Jim," Batman says, and it's a start of an answer that never comes, he stops abruptly, looking at Jim, and the attempt at answer becomes an almost desperate plea, and Jim no longer wants to know what brought this on, why tonight, what happened, what he does want is to make that look disappear, melt into the typical confidence and distance.

"Yes," is all he can say at this point, and even this comes out hoarse and breathless, but it's enough for the moment, and Batman swiftly moves to kiss him again, the hesitation gone, only the desperation remaining, Jim's back hitting the cold surface of the closed window, and he wishes he could at least feel hot skin pressed against his, but there's only kevlar and leather, cold and distant, but pulsing underneath, just like the city behind the glass, and maybe just the knowledge of this can be enough.

The cowl clinks against his glasses, and he reaches to pull them off, placing them haphazardly on top of the nearest file cabinet. They fall to the floor, but he doesn't care. Batman's teeth graze his neck, and Jim realises there's going to be signs of this tomorrow, but he files it under not caring as well, and groans quietly, an encouragement, if he is to give one.

"Jim," the Bat says again, his voice lower, but somehow Jim thinks it's more of his real one, whoever he is underneath, real, but clouded with need and desire and abandon.

"Yes," he answers, an echo, or a litany, a whisper on his lips, stirring something raw and primal underneath, and Batman moves, as if pulled by invisible strings, his body relaxing as he pulls Jim along with him, away from the window and the city, towards the desk.

"Turn around."

There it is, in the open between them, as clear and honest as it can be when one of them wears a mask. Jim hesitates, looking at Batman for a very long moment, and realises that the man half expects him to refuse, to stop it here and now, to turn away and decide that this is where it ends, the invisible line in the sand.

But they've been living in the middle of a storm for months now, and all the lines are gone, and so is the sand, and maybe, Jim thinks, maybe Batman isn't the only one who need this, the complete trust, and the complete surrender.

He turns around.

Batman's breath hitches, and there's a long silence before he moves at all, stepping forward, rustle of the cape as it falls to the floor, something clicking open; Jim wills himself to stare ahead, into the far wall, he knows the framed articles hanging there by heart, even if he can't make them out now, his vision blurrying by the second. He tries not to read too much into the sound, keep himself from guessing what falls onto the floor with a soft thud. Gloves? The cowl? He doesn't want to know, can't know.

"Jim," whispered into his ear, no longer a rasp, but a voice vaguely familiar yet still new and surprising. A body presses against his, still not skin, but not kevlar and not leather, he can feel the muscles even through the cloth, they're so close. Arms around him, molding his body into a perfect fit, and he relaxes as much as he can knowing where this is leading, pushes away any thoughts of consequences and all the ways this is a bad idea. It is a bad idea, yes, but he had worse, and it feels too right to end up in a total disaster.

"Yes," he whispers, and feels the answering tremor as strong as if it went through his own body, it's like an electric current, shooting through him with a surprising strength. "Please," he adds, and it's enough.

Hands on his belt, purposeful and steady, dealing with the offending barriers, pushing his pants down. Warm breath in his ear, mouth gently caressing his neck now, with something he might even mistake for an affection, if it was anyone else. He's pushed forward, gently, more of a question than an order, but he follows willingly. His palms rest on the surface, over the papers, steadying him, fingers lightly spread, and Batman's right hand covers his, and maybe he wasn't fooling himself, because the gentle caress as his fingers land right in between of Jim's is akin to a confession.

Then everything shifts, Batman moves away for too long a moment, but when his hands are back there's no hesitation any more when they push Jim's shirt up, fingers trailing his spine up and down with a surprising gentleness and something that feels almost like wonder. Jim closes his eyes, his cheek resting against the last financial report, and he waits for Batman's fingers to find their way to his cock, stroking him slowly to hardness, even though there's not much effort needed at this point.

He can feel Batman's dick straining against the material of his pants, pressed tightly against Jim, and he pushes lightly back on it, feeling intense satisfaction when Batman groans, surprised and aroused.

It moves almost too fast from there, and Jim becomes almost lost in sensations, Batman's hand on him, their bodies pressed almost too close, everything becoming almost too much, and just then, a press of a finger, pushing inside, and he moves abruptly, not sure if he wants to get closer or get away, but Batman holds him through this, greater weight pressing him down onto the desk, lips touching just the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. "It's okay, Jim," he says, and the tone resonates deep within him, calling up some very distant memory, but he can't make it out, not with the ringing in his ears, his blood rushing in his veins, burning.

He wants to say something, anything, but the words don't come, just a low, throaty moan, as the finger comes back, cold and slick, and panic races through Jim again; is that really what he wants? And the worst, best, the thing is, yes, it just might be, anything and everything, as long as it's Batman behind him, keeping him grounded and keeping him close, finding solace and comfort, and oh, god, pushing inside, and it hurts in such a good way Jim never thought possible.

The thrusts start slowly and carefully, timed with the lazy movement of Batman's fingers on Jim's dick, but soon Jim is voicing his encouragement, not so much in any actual words, his brain is too overheated for that, but in low groans originating somewhere in his throat, wanton and needy enough for him to probably be ashamed of them later, but frankly, right now he doesn't give a damn.

The desk shakes underneath them, its legs scratching against the floorboards, probably leaving skid marks the cleaning crew will complain about; a pile of papers landing on the floor, sending files scattered all over it. Batman's hand tightens, keeping Jim off the edge, infuriatingly so, and Jim bites his lower lip, hard enough to taste iron on his tongue. He feels around blindly, fingers grasping the edges of the desk , hard wood digging into his palms as he uses the leverage to push back, bring the Bat closer, drive him as insane with need as he is right now.

"Jim..."

Finally, a shudder behind him, and an entirely foreign sensation flooding him as Batman's hand moves faster, no finesse or design, just one purpose, and soon the darkness is exploding under Jim's eyelids, his muscles tensing and then going slack, whole body slumping forward, just as Batman's does, in complete stillness and contentment.

It may be seconds, or it may be minutes later that Batman moves, with one brief kiss to Jim's shoulder, and steps back, and as much as Jim was thinking of possibly not moving at all, ever, after this, he's spurred into action by the certainty that if the Bat gets any further away he will disappear into the shadows, the cold night, and when they meet again in few days this will be forgotten and not spoken of ever again, as if it was shameful and wrong, and for heaven's sake, it's not.

He moves to stand, his muscles protesting quite vehemently, and he turns, eyes shut closed so hard his brow furrows, but even like this, he can tell when Batman freezes in surprise and worry, and then relaxes at the sight. He could open his eyes, and for a brief second, he's tempted to do so, but the idea is gone as soon as it appeared; this is a part of them both, the trust, the certainty that in the midst of all that is uncertain and insane and wrong, this is safe.

Jim reaches out blindly, in the general direction he supposes Batman is standing, his fingers meeting the soft cloth of undershirt, and he lets them travel up, finding the collarbone, up the side of the man's neck, across his jaw, cupping the side of his face.

"You can open your eyes," Batman says, and it doesn't sound like him at all, the voice is clear and human, filled with wonder and softness, but Jim just shakes his head.

"I don't think I should," he says, shrugging lightly, knowing that a smile is tugging at his lips. He knows the value of this invitation, and all the implications it carries, but it's still not the time, not as long as the city needs Batman.

"Thank you," Batman bows his head, Jim's hand moving to rest at the back of his neck, pulling him close into a soft kiss, just their lips brushing, and it's completely different now, the desperation is all gone, just the need remaining, but now it tastes sweetly.

Jim nods, moving away, and really smiles this time. "It's late. I'm going home," he offers, and hopes the invitation carries through. "I'm pretty sure you can let yourself out," he adds, and adjusts his pants before turning to walk out. A hand on his shoulder stops him, his glasses pressed gently into his hand, a lingering touch before the Bat moves away.

"Just a thought," Jim says, his hand on the doorknob already. "If I leave the doors open, it's not technically breaking in."

A soft laugh follows him out.