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The DA’s office was lit by a banker’s lamp, illuminating the room with a soft green glow. It was late, too late for anyone reasonable to be working. Harvey Dent had been called a lot of things, and reasonable was usually one of them. He wasn’t working.
He had been working until there had been a light tap on the window. He turned and saw a shadow perched on the windowsill. Harvey opened the window and let the man climb in.
‘Quiet night?’
The masked man pulled off his cowl, revealing a shock of black hair and piercing blue eyes. He waited for Harvey to sit back down before he straddled him, enveloping them both with his heavy cape. The desk chair creaked under their combined weight.
‘Quiet night,’ Bruce agreed and kissed him.
It had been weeks since Harvey had learned of Bruce’s night-time habits, and it had broken something between them. Bruce hadn’t told him. Harvey had found out on his own and when he confronted him, Bruce hadn’t lied but had refused to apologise for the deception. The revelation spread like a sickness, infecting parts of their life together that had been fine before. When Harvey voiced his opinions on the crime rate in Gotham, Bruce hunched his shoulders like he was criticising him. When Bruce was late for dinner at the French corner café Harvey liked, it felt more like a slight than it had ever before. Frustrations turned to disagreements turned to fights. Harvey could see the rift deepening between them, even as they both pretended everything was fine.
Bruce kissed him differently when he wore the suit: urgently, hungrily, like kissing Harvey was a rare treat. Like he didn’t kiss Harvey goodbye before work almost every morning. Like he didn’t kiss Harvey as soon as they were alone every single time.
Harvey struggled to keep up under Bruce’s demanding mouth, his fingers not finding purchase, slipping along the suit material. Bruce had a hand in his hair, pulling his head back, and Bruce’s mouth left his and Harvey closed his eyes at Bruce’s lips and tongue and teeth on his throat.
‘Sugar – fuck – don’t bite there. Don’t bruise me.’
Hickeys were unbecoming and embarrassing, particularly since, as far as anyone else knew, Harvey was married to the job. Bruce chuckled, dark and low, and licked his way up Harvey’s jawline, biting hard at the spot under his ear. Harvey swore and Bruce lapped his tongue over the area, as though in apology.
‘Busy night?’ Bruce asked, and Harvey couldn’t get used to how his voice always seemed darker, more dangerous, when he wore the bat on his chest.
Bruce pulled back and trailed a hand down Harvey’s chest. His gloved fingers were cool against Harvey when he unzipped his slacks and reached in.
‘Not too busy.’ Harvey replied, his voice hitching when Bruce wrapped his fingers around him and lazily twisted his wrist.
Harvey let his head fall back. He didn’t like the gauntlets, the way they covered Bruce’s elegant fingers and hid his delicate wrists. Bruce stroked him with practised precision, his grip loose. He grinned at Harvey, as though they were co-conspirators, as though Bruce risking his life every night was fun. His pupils were blown, the same black as the soot he dappled around his eyes. Harvey wanted Bruce to take the suit off.
Peeling off Bruce’s expensive suits and shirts was always a pleasure, the material soft under his fingers, the exposed skin warm against his mouth. With each layer removed he became a little less like the man he pretended to be, and a little bit more like the man Harvey was in love with. The Batsuit afforded no such luxuries, the clasps locked with safeguards that Bruce refused to show him, trapping Bruce in a chastity belt of his own design.
‘Take off your fucking suit.’
‘Tut tut, Mr Dent.’ Nimbly, easily, he slid out of Harvey’s lap and wagged a finger. ‘Such language is not becoming for an upstanding member of society.’
‘Very funny.’
Harvey moved his hand to touch himself, the loss of Bruce’s fingers unwanted, even when they were gloved and cold. Bruce caught his hand, thumb pressed hard against the inside of his wrist.
‘Don’t touch yourself,’ Bruce said, and there was something in his eyes that made Harvey unable to even think about refusing. ‘Watch me.’
Bruce undid his gauntlets. Harvey loved Bruce’s hands. He loved the way Bruce touched him. He loved feeling his fingers against his lips, against his tongue. Next, those beautiful fingers released the cape and let it fall to the floor. Harvey kept his fingers curled around the armrests, watching Bruce disassemble himself with each removed piece of armour. Bruce moved slowly, intentionally, putting on a show. Harvey’s mouth felt drier with each piece of kevlar that dropped to the floor. Batman was disappearing, revealing the most beautiful man Harvey had ever seen. Bruce gave a sharp exhale when he freed himself from the restrictive cup. His thin undersuit was damp with sweat and precum, his erection straining against the fabric.
When his clothes were scattered across Harvey’s floor, Bruce returned. Cradled in Harvey’s lap, Bruce kissed his mouth and face and neck, keening into his helpless touches. Harvey ran his fingers down Bruce’s back, up Bruce’s chest. Every night, there was new evidence that proved that Batman was killing Bruce. Cuts that were sutured or done up with butterfly bandages, bruises that made Bruce hiss. At this point, Harvey didn’t know if it was in pain or pleasure.
Bruce took both of them in hand. Harvey shuddered and the chair made another ominous creak.
‘Come on, pretty boy.’ Harvey murmured against Bruce’s neck.
He wasn’t strong enough to lift Bruce, not really, but with an arm wrapped around his waist and with Bruce’s hands on his shoulders, Harvey hoisted him onto the edge of the desk. Bruce loosened Harvey’s tie and undid the top buttons of his shirt, biting and sucking at his collar bones. Harvey tried to clear the desk behind Bruce without letting anything heavy clatter to the ground. He didn’t want the patrolling security guard to open the door and ask if everything was alright, Mr Harvey.
When Harvey let go of his waist, Bruce took it as a sign to lie back, to lean on his elbows. He lay on Harvey’s desk, pink and wanting, his kohl-rimmed eyes dark and his mouth wet. He reached out with both hands and undid Harvey’s belt as he stroked him, slow teasing strokes that he had perfected since they first kissed. He pulled down Harvey’s slacks, pushing with his toes when his hands couldn’t reach. He lifted Harvey’s shirt and nosed along his stomach, licking a path, kissing the tip of his erection before reclining again.
Bruce looked up at Harvey with playboy eyes, the tongue between his lips wanton and inviting. Harvey looked at him and suddenly he thought of the Greek myths he had loved when young, the stories of the sirens whose otherworldly beauty drove men to madness, to death.
‘Fuck me like you pay me.’
Before Harvey learned the truth, Bruce would never have said something like that, crass and crude and whorish. Harvey wondered if it was intentional on his part, if Bruce was trying to see how far he could push the envelope, how far he could go before Harvey found him disgusting instead of arousing. Harvey wasn’t sure if too far existed.
‘I assume you have something in your belt?’ Harvey caught Bruce’s left leg and kissed him, the side of his knee, the inside of his thigh. Bruce sighed in satisfaction.
‘Mm, give it here.’
Without even looking, Bruce found the right pocket in his utility belt and pulled out a tube and two wrappers.
‘Why do you have condoms in your belt, Bruce?’ Harvey asked as he opened one of the wrappers and unrolled it over his fingers, uncapping the tube.
‘You wouldn’t believe’ – Bruce’s breath hitched when he felt Harvey’s first finger, testing, then pressing inside – ‘the number of stupid teens who are about to make terrible sexual decisions.’
Before he had known, Harvey had found it unbearably hot that Bruce was able to hold a measured conversation while getting fucked, that he could reiterate his concerns with the latest proposed tax hike with Harvey deep inside him, with his face pressed into the mattress. Now it just made him mad. That steady voice was Batman, not Bruce. He kissed Bruce to shut him up.
Perhaps he worked rougher and faster than he usually did, but Bruce’s gasps were appreciative, and Bruce’s ankles pressed against his sides were pulling him closer.
‘Please,’ Bruce keened against his mouth, ‘Harvey, please.’
He even begged pretty.
Harvey kissed him once more and straightened his back. He tossed the rubber in the trash and tore the second wrapper open with his teeth. Bruce, his head resting on the name plaque that read Harvey Dent, Gotham District Attorney, was watching him with hungry eyes. He always liked to watch Bruce’s face when he pushed inside, the open surprise on his face and the desperation when he didn’t push deeper. Harvey ran his fingers up Bruce’s chest, not bothering to stay clear of the bruises and cuts he’d sustained over the last few nights, dragging his nails over damaged skin. Bruce shivered when Harvey’s fingers curled over his jaw, Harvey’s palm over his throat.
Bruce’s eyes fluttered shut when Harvey began to fuck him.
‘Open your eyes. Look at me.’
Harvey heard the hurt in his own voice, the fury that he didn’t want to allow himself to feel. Bruce should be his. Bruce was choosing Gotham over him. It shouldn’t hurt, but it did. It hurt that it was ending.
Bruce had never backed down from a challenge. He kept his eyes trained on Harvey, the blue pale against the black. He gasped when Harvey bottomed out, pulled out, and pushed back inside. He hooked his ankles behind Harvey’s back and reached up, touching his hair.
‘Kiss me.’
Not even now, not even when Harvey could see the end like it was illuminated in neon, could he deny Bruce.
They kissed as he fucked him, a hand on his hip and Bruce’s hands tangled in his hair, keeping him close. Harvey felt Bruce’s cock between their stomachs, leaking and hot, and reached between them. He worked him with each thrust and Bruce’s kisses were interspersed with words of praise – yes; just like that; fuck, Harvey; harder; yes; harder – the words equally intoxicating and infuriating. Harvey bit Bruce’s lower lip and he felt the skin swell and burst under his teeth. He lapped the blood and Bruce kissed him, tasting his own blood, kissing him deeper.
Bruce came first and spilled over Harvey’s hand and both their chests, with a shudder and a groan and nails digging into Harvey’s scalp. In the direct aftermath, Bruce’s eyes were hazy and he whimpered in pleased overstimulation at each thrust. Harvey was getting closer, yet closer, and as he stumbled over that precipice, as he came deep inside Bruce, the words that he didn’t know if he could let himself say much longer tumbled out:
‘I love you.’
They stayed there, Bruce laying on the desk and Harvey leaning over him. Bruce still had his hands in Harvey’s hair. Harvey was still holding Bruce in place, hands on his hips. In the distance, he heard the wail of the GCPD sirens.
‘I should go out there,’ Bruce said, and there was nothing of an apology in his words.
Harvey closed his eyes against Bruce’s shoulder and breathed. He pulled away. He tied the condom and threw it in the trash, making a mental note to take the trash out himself so the cleaning staff wouldn’t start speculating. He pulled his pants back on and buckled his belt. He didn’t look at Bruce when he gingerly slid off the desk and began to encase himself in Batman again. He put his desk back in order as he heard Bruce secure clasps and the distant din of sirens.
‘Don’t come over tonight. I’ll be busy tomorrow morning.’ Harvey said. (He lied.)
He turned to look at Bruce. No – he was Batman, not Bruce, even though the cowl was still in his hands, his eyes unreadable even before he pulled on the cowl. His split lip was the only thing that made him look human.
‘Okay. I’ll see you later, then.’ Bruce said.
‘Yeah. Later.’ Harvey agreed.
A rustle of his cape, the sound of a window opened, and Bruce was gone. Harvey felt the rift between them grow and deepen, and he could see their ending in the distance, dark and inevitable. He buried his face in his hands and gave up on work for the night.