Disclaimers: Not even remotely mine.

Spoilers: The vaguest of all possible references to
the Murderer/Fugitive arc. Timeline -- takes place
in a vague sense of now.

Summary: Crispus Allen has a neatly organized life.
For the most part.

Ratings Note: NC-17.

Author's Note: I've been bouncing this around my
head since I read Broken City, but it didn't really
coalesce until Weirdness Magnet requested...
something that I'm reasonably sure wasn't this.
Er. I can try again?

Want to see Bruce and Crispus in action? Go
here.

Acknowledgments: To the #deliciouscrack crew
for audiencing, encouragement, and suggestions.

*

Crispus reaches for his gun when he feels the
shadow. Not because he doesn't know who it is --
no one throws a shadow like Batman -- but
because personal visits are both rare and a sign
of something that just might require the
application of deadly force.

He gets his feet on the floor. Three steps and
he's awake, and close enough to be annoyed
by the way Batman has found -- again -- the
one part of his bedroom the constant wash of
Gotham neon misses. He *ought* to just move
his bed over here.

"You'd miss the light," Batman says, and
Crispus scrubs the hand without the gun over
his face, not incidentally smoothing his beard
back into something close enough to perfection
for -- he checks -- four-seventeen a.m.

He isn't surprised that he'd spoken aloud. Still.
Business. "Well?"

"I don't think you need that."

Spoken flatly, evenly. No stress on any one word,
no shift of position to indicate anything in
particular. The amusement is palpable, just the
same. Crispus pops the clip again and tosses it
back in the open bedside drawer. "Information?"
He knows it isn't.

"No."

"'No.' On the surface, that's a clear enough
response. Direct. Pointed, you might say."

"I might." The only movement is what the breeze
from Crispus' open window gives to the cape.
Maybe.

"However, being as how that 'no' doesn't explain
why you're in my bedroom at four in the
morning, I find I need a little more."

"You could always look for subtext."

Crispus bites his tongue -- lightly -- to keep from
laughing. He knows the other man saw the
movement, and that he knows *precisely* what
it means, but... there's a principle to the thing.
A rhythm. He turns his back, deliberately, and
taps his chin with the unloaded gun. "'Subtext.'
Interesting." There's not enough room to pace,
not really. But he's used to the confines of the
box. So is 'Batman,' or Crispus isn't much of a
detective, at all. "Personally, I've always found
the study of subtextual cues only worthwhile on
the simplest levels."

The silence is as palpable as the amusement.
It's all right. He *is* awake.

"For example, I don't really care what the fact
that you're a taciturn sonofabitch may or may not
have to do with how long you were -- or were
*not* -- breastfed. However..." He pauses, on the
far side of the bed, and sets the unloaded gun on
the *other* table, absently placing the grip at
what will be the easiest angle to grab it later,
should he need to do so. He can feel the man's
gaze on his back and fights not to shift.

He isn't uncomfortable. He's lived in Gotham too
long for that. However, even now, there's
something about being in a room with the
Batman that makes a man want to make sure
his tie is straight and his holster is settled
comfortably.

Even when that tie is bagged for a trip to the
dry cleaner's, and that holster is hanging neatly
on its rack. The pause drags, hangs heavy in
the air like a bad writer's conception of a storm,
and he's only wearing boxer shorts.

Crispus looks back over his shoulder, eyes
adjusted enough to the gloom that he can pick
out the line of Batman's jaw, and the blank
even-ness of the cowl's eyeholes. "You're a patient
man."

"Not really."

Crispus raises an eyebrow. "All right." By the
rules of this particular game, that was, actually an
answer. "As I was saying, I'm not interested in
peeling back the layers of your non-communication
to get to the soft, tender center."

"Mm."

'Mm.' Jesus *fucking* Christ. He bites his tongue
again and turns completely, leaning against the
wall. "You're here to fuck."

"Was that a question?"

"No."

"Good," he says, and Crispus doesn't, actually,
have *enough* training for this. He can't keep
himself from flinching, a little, at just how *fast*
the man moves when he wants to.

The cape flares behind him when he jumps. One
step on the bed -- in his *boots* -- possibly, two,
and then he's there. Right there, with one cool,
slick glove cupping Crispus' jaw and the other
slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers.

Crispus doesn't gasp, but only because there isn't
time for that before Batman's tongue is in his
mouth. He tastes like coffee. Other things that
aren't immediately recognizable. Crispus doesn't
particularly want to know.

It's too easy as it is to imagine the man leading
a life parallel to his own. The little comments
thrown into conversation when he's -- *they've*
been working. The background noise in phone
calls, and the way he hasn't been able to force
himself not to pay attention.

The sound of something cooking, the sound of
the shower running, or a television. A familiar
news broadcaster, or a commercial Crispus has
seen before. Evidence. Pieces of a life.

The breath on his face, as opposed to the glove --
the *gauntlet* -- stroking its way down his shaft.
A certain degree of empathy, however artificial, is
both necessary to his work and unavoidable, given
the situation.

More than that, however...

Batman was kind enough to leave Crispus' arms
trapped between them, and he uses them, shoving
until Batman deigns to move.

The head-tilt is faintly precious, and Crispus is
entirely sure that it would be something more like
an eyebrow raise were it not for the cowl. He
likes the cowl precisely where it is.

"Bed," he says, and the gauntlet on his dick
moves away faster than the one on his face.
Batman's thumb pauses on Crispus' lower lip, and
his fingers span the breadth of his cheek and
brush his ear. It could be a gesture or a message.

He's reasonably sure it's both.

He raises his *own* eyebrow in lieu of actually
saying something snide about repeating himself.
The corner of Batman's mouth tightens into
something too wintry for Crispus to *want* to
define as a smile. It's in that treacherously
necessary middle ground, that grey area he had
to accept long before he'd ever seen the Batman
with his own eyes -- accept or move to some
other city's police department.

Batman moves, finally, stripping off the gauntlets,
and the complicated layers of armor and
everything else that makes up his not-ridiculous-
enough suit. The cape comes off, the cowl stays
on.

Crispus has a sudden, powerful sensory fantasy
of his hand buried in hair that would be... black,
considering everything he *has* seen. He shakes
it off internally and follows, swinging a leg over
Batman's waist and leaning in to take another
kiss.

Hard, fast ones. Fast because he doesn't want
to feel Batman breathing against his face, hard
because he can. Because he's hungry, and it
doesn't feel like four a.m. anymore. Cotton
boxer-briefs against his silk.

Heat, scars, the smell of sweat and body armor.
"Long night," he says, and doesn't especially
expect a response.

Batman's hard, long fingers curl against the back
of Crispus' scalp. The pull is implied. Batman likes
his mouth, or perhaps he just enjoys kissing.
The questions are inevitable: what are you
missing? What am I replacing?

The answers probably -- possibly -- shouldn't feel
as obvious as they do.

The number of 'shouldn'ts' in this situation is too
high to be anything but hysterically funny. He
gives himself another several seconds just to
watch -- the blankness of expression, the
controlled flex of the muscles in Batman's arm,
and the way the muscle movement is ruthlessly
checked before the pull can become *more* than
an implication -- and moves in for another kiss.

Batman's teeth close around his lower lip and
hold for what Crispus suspects is the precise
amount of time he'd spent watching, and then
that tongue slides right back into his mouth.

He considers and rejects biting it in turn, knowing
it will lead to the sort of one-upmanship that
had left his second-favorite suit ruined. Batman
has no compunction about the use of alleyways.

Crispus has never met anyone who hadn't taken
one look at him and assumed he *did*.

And assuming Batman simply doesn't care would
be dangerously simplistic. He sucks instead, slow
and rhythmic, and Batman's hand tightens on the
back of his head. His other slips beneath the
arm Crispus is bracing himself on and slides down
his back, affectionately possessive.

Appreciative.

Crispus catches it before it can get to his ass and
slams it back against the mattress, grinding down
with his hips and not in the least believing that
he's getting away with anything. Batman makes
a small, low sound into his mouth.

It's not about getting away with anything.

He closes his eyes and just feels it, starting to
sweat for the *feel* of it and starting to lose the
rhythm of his own breathing for the wrong and
the rush. Playing a boy's game with a man who
wants it just as much. He gets a better grip on
Batman's wrist and pulls out of the kiss,
wondering exactly how much he wants tonight.

Both of them.

Sense memory of teeth on his throat. Sense
memory of an armored thigh shoved between his
own, of a hot, slick tongue in his ear.

He thrusts, hard, and Batman arches up to meet
it, showing his teeth in nothing a sane person
would call a smile.

"You like... having someone to play with." He
needs to be able to breathe if he wants to talk.

"Who doesn't, Detective?"

Crispus slides his hand up the outside of Batman's
other arm until he reaches the wrist. Tugs. The
tip of Batman's tongue is visible between his
teeth, just for a moment, and then he lets
Crispus push his other arm against the bed. It
isn't an especially extreme position.

Nothing stretched, nothing...

Batman's body is the kind that sends football
players running for the steroids. Fighters. Hard
muscle, dark, thick hair on his chest broken with
scars. He...

"Stay there," Crispus says, and moves, letting
himself stroke Batman's chest once, twice,
fingers bumping against the cowl. In better
light, he'd be able to see the layers of different
armor along that edge. He can almost feel them
when he brushes it with his fingertips.

He's tempted to ask how many people have shot
the man in the head over the years, just to
comment, silently or no, on the difference it's
clearly made. Just to hear the man bat it right
back at him, perhaps with something about
Crispus' hat or habits. Another time, and it doesn't
feel *enough* like a promise. It's too simple,
too well-accepted.

He distracts himself with the taste of Batman's
skin. The sweat and scent of him. The man's
armor is different enough -- *better* enough --
than the police issue vests that there's no
familiarity beyond memories of more of the
same. It's comforting, and it doesn't last once
he's gotten the man's briefs down around his
thighs, once he licks his way up the shaft and
can taste nothing but male.

There are other things to focus on. The brief
stutter of Batman's breath before he regains
control again, the powerful flex of the thighs
under Crispus' hands.

I don't want you to be human, he doesn't say,
and whether or not it's heard just the same is
less than relevant once the man's dick in his
mouth. Hard, thick. He goes down as far as his
own fist and sucks.

Another kind of man would make a sound, a
gesture. Here, there's only the viciously
contained flex and roll of muscle. Crispus looks
up into the blank gleam of the lenses on the
cowl and starts to fuck his own face.

If he shifts his focus, he could see the way
Batman's mouth is moving, but he doesn't want
to. It isn't speech.

The rules of this game are vague, contradictory,
recklessly ill-defined. Crispus cleaves to them
just the same. His own dick is starting to ache,
and he allows himself to think, a little, of how
long he's been hard -- because it makes this
better, faster. Easier.

It must've been before he was fully awake, as
soon as some part of him had registered Batman's
presence, the danger that *could* have
precipitated a visit.

No one thinks of him that way, and he's been
careful about *keeping* it like that. He's going to
be brass one day, and the only hard and fast rule
of today's police infrastructure is that no one
promotes a daredevil. No one thinks of him that
way. *This* way.

Batman doesn't have to *think*.

He closes his eyes slowly, deliberately, and pulls
back until he's just toying with the head,
stabbing lightly with his tongue, sucking as
brutally as he can. Enjoying himself, and making
a point of it.

He can feel the man moving, again, but the touch
doesn't come.

Neither does the thrust... until he uses his teeth.

Crispus slides one hand up to Batman's hip and
squeezes, taking another thrust, and another,
and seriously considering just doing it *this* way.
It's something of an effort to pull off, and he
doesn't even bother trying not to lick his lips.
Batman's mouth is a flat, pale line. Pre-come
beads on the tip of his dick.

"There was an implication of 'don't move.'"

"You didn't say 'Simon Says.'"

Trying not to smile *this* time just makes it come
out slow and lazy and wide. "So I didn't." He
watches the twitch at the corner of the man's
mouth and rolls to the side, pushing his own
boxers down and off. When he looks up again,
Batman is holding the lubricant he keeps in the
clip drawer. There's a condom on the pillow.

Crispus doesn't bother with a comment, just takes
the lube. Or means to take it, but Batman grabs
his wrist and pulls him in for another kiss, licking
Crispus' tongue. It's a messy, wet, breathy kiss,
and he isn't -- entirely -- sure what the man is
trying to say.

He saves it to decidedly *not* think about later
and pulls back again, straightening the tube
absently before opening it. He still winds up with
more than he wanted on his hands, so he cups
Batman's balls first. Lets them slide around on
his palm, squeezes and watches the man's dick
twitch and licks his own lips.

A sore spot from that last bite. He may or may
not have questions to answer tomorrow,
depending on how many he can deflect with his
demeanor and focus on Montoya -- who will not,
of course, ask anything at all.

"Put it on."

Batman opens the package and pauses, just for
a moment. Reading him. When Crispus squeezes
the man's sac again he gets a quiet grunt, and
he feels sweat rolling down his scalp. The urge.
The need. Batman rolls the condom on himself
and hisses when Crispus slips his fist around
him. Pants, once, when Crispus starts to pump.

Crispus watches from behind narrowed eyes
and wonders. It's never been *precisely* like
this. Either the control is complete or it isn't.
There's a certain poetry to the rhythm and feel
of this shifting *now*, another thrilling little
trip into the grey area. It's just making him
harder.

"How," Batman grits, and it's a good question.
If he takes what he wants, he'll pay for it. Boys'
games.

But paying for it isn't new, either. "Just. Like this,"
and he shifts to straddle the man again, pushing.
Guiding --

"Detective Allen."

He laughs and pushes down. "Batman."

"I'd sincerely appreciate permission to move my
hands now."

"You moved them -- before."

"I assumed I'd receive a reprimand for that at
some point."

Down another inch and Crispus has to pant, a
little. "I'll work it in... to my busy schedule."

"You do that." If Crispus' eyes were open, no
amount of will would be able to keep him from
seeing the smile that's in the man's voice on his
*face*. "In the meantime --"

"Touch me."

The growl is quiet, brief, and sharp. Hard as the
hands on his hips, and Batman's thrust is too
soon and absolutely perfect.

Crispus grits his teeth and lets his head fall back,
bending over enough to stroke his way over
Batman's chest. One slick hand, one sweaty one,
and the image of himself in his own mind is
obscene and not quite believable. He's learning
the man by *touch*, distracting himself with the
feel of him.

Not doing it well enough. Doing it just as well as
he should. He can't decide. He rocks up on his
knees and Batman pulls him back down
immediately, shocking a groan out of him.

"Detective," Batman says, and the tone is entirely
different. Approving, openly ravenous. It makes him
want to tease himself. Want to... he can't decide
that either. He rocks up again, just a little. Down
again. Moving quickly. Short thrusts that make
him think of fire, or compulsive behavior.

It doesn't seem remotely strange to think of
fucking the Batman as an obsessive tic that could
lead to him being burnt to ash, and *this* is the
hard part. Swallowing back the delirium, the
*idiocy* of sex into something like control,
something that can't -- necessarily -- be read all
over him.

Crispus keeps his eyes closed and starts going for
longer thrusts. Not slower. He doesn't trust
Batman to allow either of them that. He doesn't
*trust* Batman as far as he can throw him. But
he can use him.

Take him.

*Enjoy* him, and feel himself getting dragged a
little deeper into Gotham. The real, bottomless
*pit* of Gotham, and Batman is its symbol and
undeniable truth. It's easier to listen to himself
babble silently than it is to hear his own quiet,
rhythmic moans, or to hear himself lose both
rhythm *and* quiet when Batman shifts to take
him in hand.

Batman's palm is rough, almost impossibly hard.
Another scrap of inhumanity to hold on to, if he
had anything like the capacity to do more than
love it, want it, buck into it and *take* it.
Crispus kneels up for better leverage and Batman
follows him, nuzzling gently and stroking hard.

He grabs at the cowl and holds on, pulling
Batman's head into a better position and fucking
his mouth with his tongue.

The moan he gets for it is low and not quiet at all,
desperate, and Batman is almost certainly going
to leave bruises on his hip and his thighs are going
to loathe him tomorrow.

"You like that?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"Detective --"

"*Say* it," and Crispus *grinds* down, biting
Batman's hard little mouth to keep from screaming.

Batman yanks his head back and away, and that
little mouth is just a little bloody. The smile makes
Crispus' dick twitch in Batman's hand, that hard
hand his entire body wants a piece of.

"Fuck, say it --"

"I *love* it," Batman says and *squeezes* him,
hip and dick, holding on tight and somehow,
*somehow* moving. Up onto his own knees, and
the shift in angle makes Crispus throw his head
back again.

And then Batman's biting his throat, sucking just
beneath the collar Crispus doesn't unbutton for
anything short of a redball, and he knows that.
Batman knows that, and quite possibly everything
else.

Just enough to make Crispus want to be one of
those people who've shot the sonofabitch in the
cowl, and just enough to make him come all
over that hand. Batman grunts and bites him
harder, thrusting short, sharp and ragged.

"*Fuck* --"

"Your language... is deteriorating."

Crispus blinks and chokes on a laugh, moans
on it. "Suck my *dick*."

Batman pulls away from Crispus' throat and
*grins* up at him, smug and terrifyingly *happy*.
"Absolutely."

Crispus feels his heart stutter in his chest and
hopes to God it's just an incipient coronary.
Batman's stamina *should* kill him, if his own
utter idiocy won't. He cups Batman's jaw and
squeezes to keep his hand from shaking.

"Detective, you --"

He shoves his thumb in Batman's mouth to keep
the man from saying anything else, fucks that hot,
wet mouth and gets bitten, sucked, *fucked*.

Men who wear masks can afford to say all *kinds*
of dangerous things. He, on the other hand, has
to deal with feeling it. All of it. The headboard
knocks against the wall. His dick twitches and
aches. The only reason he's upright is that
Batman's *holding* him, and Batman watches
him.

Watches and doesn't look away, even when he
groans around Crispus' thumb and shudders,
hard. And pulls back from Crispus' thumb and
buries his face against his throat again.

Sweaty, hot.

The thrusts slow to a halt.

The bruising grip on his hip relaxes. Gentles,
though Crispus can't quite believe in that word
for a hand like that. Or doesn't want to. They
stay like that for a while. Almost long enough
for Crispus to get *his* breath back, and he
isn't going to think about that, either.

Batman kisses his throat like he expects a
mouth to grow there, and Crispus closes his
eyes and takes that, too. Filing it away. And
then *pushes* Batman away.

He gets rolled, *manhandled* onto his back for
his trouble, but it comes off as more expedient
than anything else. Batman gets to his feet
immediately and starts to dress. Crispus takes
another moment to get his breathing back under
control, and then reaches into the gun drawer
for his cigarettes.

"That seems counterproductive."

Crispus blows smoke at him.

"Hm. I tend to break people's teeth for that."

Crispus takes a long, slow drag and bends one
knee up, reaching down to rub some of the
tightness out of his thigh. "You don't say."

"I do." And Batman's back on the bed just like
that, knocking Crispus' hand away and doing...
something.

He can't really think of anything as fast and
ruthlessly *efficient* as that as massage. The
gauntlets drag another moan out of him and he
coughs on the smoke.

"My point."

"Is made. You have your afterglow, I have mine."

Batman looks at him, and the complete lack of
expression doesn't hide the *feel* of it. For just
a moment, Crispus is absolutely *sure* there's
something in whatever kind of (blue) eyes are
behind those white-out lenses.

And then the feeling passes, and Batman slides
off the bed again, tapping Crispus' ankle once
before moving to the window.

"Detective," he says, curt and low. Most assuredly
a moment a man who *didn't* run around in a
Batsuit would use for 'good-night.'

"Batman," Crispus returns, and takes another drag.

He isn't going to get back to sleep, but he can rest
for a while longer before he has to shower.

The next time he speaks to Batman, it will be
about a case. And probably the next several times
after that.

Or it might not.

Crispus shifts on the bed and considers calling
Dore, but it's after five. It wouldn't be appreciated
even *without*... the subtext.

He snorts to himself and lights another cigarette,
instead.

And watches the neon flicker on the opposite
wall, luridly over his own skin.

end.