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The moment the bell rang to signal the end of fourth period English Bruce was off like a shot, threading through scraping chairs and arms groping for bags underfoot. It was just after 5 p.m. on a Friday, and he’d need to hurry in order to catch the last truckers entering Gotham before the long weekend. No time for a change of clothes. He’d plundered the textbooks and notes from his messenger bag at lunch, stashed it as a getaway bag with his wallet, toothbrush, headphones, and the hunting knife he kept under his pillow.
Seven cars and trucks passed him by before the eighth slowed to a squealing stop. Needed new brake fluid. Bruce wrenched open the cab door and climbed up into the cracked vinyl seat without a word, buckled up so the driver would know he was ready to go.
“Big night out?” The driver asked. He had two front teeth crowned and the logo of a Gotham sports team tattooed on his neck. His gaze lingered too long on Bruce’s face, or he might have just been making conversation. Bruce couldn’t tell.
“Yeah.” He asked to be let off a few blocks from the Iceberg Lounge, walked the rest of the way with his hands shoved into his blazer pockets. Glared up at the yellow lamplight and crumbling apartment buildings. He made an easy target like that, alone in his stupid uniform, though Alfred said it was more about how you carried yourself than what you looked like. Alfred had been showing him a few things too, real stuff, not just endless katas and the self-defense grabs he’d mastered in middle school.
Sure, I knew Thomas, Falcone had said in his genial rasp, and that was how it started. A boyhood compulsion to crack the ribs of anyone who’d known his father, suck down each pearly marrow glance of him. Carmine and Thomas had attended the same medical school, shared a practicum at Gotham General. Falcone had left to tend to the family business while Thomas went on to become a respected thoracic surgeon.
“You gotta be a little cold to make it as a bonesaw,” Falcone told Bruce with a liquor smile, leaning over to scope an angle on the green six ball. “Your daddy held lives in his hands. I respected that.”
“He wasn’t like that,” Bruce had said, hearing the child in his own voice. He still remembered his father coming home in the early morning after a difficult procedure, how the bottle shook as he poured out a ribbon of amber. Thomas’ head laid on Martha’s shoulder on the couch in his study, Bruce pressed warm and precious between them. His father’s hand still as he stroked Bruce’s hair slow.
“You right, kid.” A crack like a silenced gunshot; Falcone watched the billiards scatter, two balls sinking into their respective pockets. “Not cold enough.”
Falcone fucked him on that same table a few months after his eighteenth birthday, the lawn of worn and chalked felt a rugburn on Bruce’s cheek. A palm hot on the back of his neck trapping the breath in his chest. Beautiful, Falcone’s voice crooned above him as he pushed Bruce open. So fuckin’ beautiful. The sharp tearing pain at the first few thrusts dulled into the full throbbing ache of acceptance. Shame and arousal heating a painful friction in his core, leaking from his eyes. He wanted this. He’d always wanted this.
A firm hand was what everyone said he needed, and now that he had one, Bruce could see why. Falcone had never lost his surgeon’s hands, wielding his brutal scalpel to carve out his own corner of Gotham’s cancer. Never wavered, relentless in his service to a vast and meretricious beauty. My family came to this country for what it could give us, he said into moon-dipped sheets, holding Bruce’s body like it was wealth and fortune itself. Don’t you think I’ve done ‘em proud?
There was a short disagreement outside the back door of the club. “I’m here to see Carmine Falcone,” he announced, shoulders tossed back, and the men out back didn’t seem to know whether to land on suspicion or laughter. Finding the knife in his bag seemed to make up their minds, and then he was shoved against the brick with his arms twisted behind his back, thrashing like a panther cub. “Tell us your fucking name,” a man bellowed into his ear as another missed a shot to his kidneys. “Bruce Wayne!” he shouted back, and then it was all, sorry kid, lemme make a call. They didn’t let him keep his messenger bag.
Bruce passed through the upper level with his eyes on the floor and his palms plastered over his ears. The pounding music filled him up and shook him out, head and chest, set his teeth on edge. He hated the music, the hot stench of sweat and stickiness underfoot. It seemed to him like dancing in the churning bowels of a great beast.
A hostess let him in through the dressing room, a hive of hot buzzing lights and sweet-smelling makeup powders and hundreds of heat tools and brushes. Aerosol tickled his lungs. Women bustled past at breakneck speeds in their towering heels and sparkling dresses. A few smiled at him in their mirrors, thinking him adorable, and in return he managed not to sneeze. A girl with a wet-looking cascade of blonde hair and a gap between her front teeth insisted upon wiping the gravel from his cheek, fluffed his nose with a dollop of shiny powder.
“I’m looking for Carmine Falcone,” he said, and her glossy smile melted.
He found Falcone making his rounds in the main arena, a horseshoe of semi-private booths hugging around a crowded bar. Bruce heard him before he saw him, a great shout of hoarse laughter and the occasional broken-off word in his familiar rasp. Bruce squeezed between coats and dresses, ignoring the glances at his mussed hair and school uniform.
The great grin of surprise that broke on Falcone’s face seemed entirely genuine, though Bruce suspected he’d known from the moment Bruce showed at the door. “Bruce, angioletto. ” Arms spread wide; Bruce came to him at a too-eager trot. He hated hugs, but he buried himself in the thick wool suit coat, squeezed until he thought his ribs might give out.
Falcone laughed, raspy and genial, clapped an arm heavy over Bruce’s shoulders, gave his hand a python shake. “Bruce Wayne, huh. Didn’t think I’d see none of you until summer.” He gave Bruce’s shoulders a stern rattle. “You ain’t cuttin’ school to see me, are ya’?”
Bruce shook his head. His head swam with the low shifting lights, overwhelmed by the noise and bright gleaming bodies. He couldn’t quite focus on Falcone’s face. “Long weekend.”
“That right?” Falcone gave a passing man in an important-looking overcoat an amical wave. He nodded back with a smile, guided to a booth by the two women flanking him. Curious, Bruce craned his head to look, but Falcone turned his chin back. “Don’t be nosy, sweetheart,” he said, too easy to be admonishing. “Eyes up here, I’ll take care of ya’. Bring you round for introductions later.”
He led Bruce to a back-corner cove, a private booth recessed from the others. Showed him around along the way, picked out groups to stop and say, Bruce, this is the Governor’s boy. Running for Senate next year, ain’t that right? Bruce—yeah, Bruce Wayne. Grew up real good, ain’t he? Yeah, save the campaign speech, he ain’t even got a drink yet. Hey, give my regards to the old man. And so on.
In the back the noise was duller and Bruce sagged gratefully into the velvet seat. A woman in a shimmering dress came to the table with two heavy-cut tumblers like the ones from his father’s study, poured out two drinks. Bruce thanked her but she didn’t seem to hear.
“Don’t be shy, it’s not the good Macallan,” Falcone said, lighting up a cigarette with a glimmer of silver. Bruce took an obedient sip, barely holding back a face at the taste, then gulped it all down. Heat stretched from his throat to his stomach, knocking the world a few degrees unsteady. He must have stared at the cherry glow reflected on the tips of silver whiskers because Falcone pulled out the pack and lit a second, held it out for Bruce to try. Bruce took it in his mouth, lips wetting the paper, sucked in until his lungs constricted and he coughed it all up.
Falcone laughed, stubbed out the pristine length on the lacquered tabletop. “Good boy,” he said, and Bruce began to cough again.
Falcone told him a great many things, things Bruce wouldn’t learn at school. The use for cigars—a good one metabolized more nicotine than a whole pack of cigarettes—and how to discern their taste, the quality. Whose watch was fake, why no one cared about baseball, why girls were nicer if you were a little mean, how Ferrari limited certain models of cars. (The last one Bruce knew: he re-pinned a poster of the 365P Berlinetta Speciale in his new dormitory room each year). Nothing Bruce particularly cared about, but he liked to watch Falcone talk, carried along by the animation of his performance. The gleam a grin brought to his eyes. He did it well, better than Bruce thought he ever could. “Y’know why communism failed?”
“Greed?” Bruce suggested.
Uproarious laughter. “No, sweetheart.” He plucked a gold ring off his left index finger, threaded it onto Bruce’s right hand. It was surprisingly heavy and much too big for Bruce’s fingers, the metal still heated from his skin. Bruce curled his hand shut so he couldn’t lose it. “Austerity.” And he laughed again.
“You like cards?” Before Bruce could answer he’d already called for a deck, left Bruce to round up a tall balding man who’d apparently served on the House Judiciary Committee, and a round man in a cravat who apparently needed no specific introduction. Both men wrung Bruce’s hand and watched hungrily as glossy black-edged chips were portioned out to each of them. All four had retired to the privacy of Falcone’s personal lounge, and Bruce was happy enough at the quiet that he didn’t mind.
Alfred had taught him Rummy and Euchre as a boy, though both were just for two and Bruce suspected Alfred threw matches. The competitive configuration of numbers and rules had pleased him, and he’d made Alfred play game after game until he could reliably win three or four in succession. He knew the rules of poker from watching his parents and their friends play no-stakes games, not very well. He listened politely as Falcone explained the various hands for him, though he knew perfectly well Falcone wouldn’t suggest a game he didn’t know he’d win.
Bruce bet low and folded all three rounds. The other two weren’t as lucky, poured in all their chips and exchanged long hard glances with their cards, even bought in a few more stacks. Bruce shoved all his in at the end and put down a final losing hand, so no one could say he was stingy. Falcone claimed the pot with a four kind of sevens and a cool, rueful smile. Sorry, gents. Left the winnings on the lounge table for someone else to count.
“How much do I owe you?” Bruce asked as Falcone led him from the lounge to the security-gated back rooms of his penthouse suite, hoping the number was large.
Falcone laughed. The arm that had been slung companionably over Bruce’s shoulders the whole evening dropped warm and thrilling around his waist. “I don’t want no money.”
Bruce felt the thoroughbred pound of his own heartbeat on the breast of Falcone’s suit jacket. They were nearly the same height, though the needing thing that weakened his knees and excited his body to the touch it ordinarily shunned brought him down a few inches.
At last the hand on his waist pulled him in to claim a toothy, insistent kiss. Bruce was not a terribly good kisser, though he’d practiced nightly on the top of his arm for three months straight and had made decent progress. But it was easy to go soft and let Falcone make gentle use of him, exchanging languid tongue-touches of warm liquor aftertaste.
A warm thumb found Bruce’s cheek, like rubbing away a cut with a kiss. “Don’t worry, beautiful. You’ll pay me back for every penny.”
The cheap silk of his school tie dissolved first, dropped to the carpet. Falcone’s fingers fumbled the buttons of his dress shirt, peeling off his blazer and shucking the shirt from his shoulders like a candy wrapper. Bruce pressed up against him, too eager.
“Hey relax, sweetheart.” Another kiss. “I’m tryin’ to undress you here.”
Bruce unbuckled his belt, unzipped his trousers so they fell around his ankles. “Done,” he breathed, nipping for another greedy kiss. A hand weighed on his shoulder so he lowered himself to his knees, the hand-woven rug digging into his bare skin. Looked up open-mouthed as he fumbled with Falcone’s belt buckle.
A hand stilled his head. “Your shoes, tato .”
Bruce swallowed a sorry and bent to hide his embarrassment, untied his oxford dress shoes and kicked each off in turn. Peeled off sweaty socks, stood to step out of his freed pant-legs.
“Can’t fuck you with no boxers on,” Falcone said, in no hurry as he poured himself a second drink. Bruce pulled at the elastic waistband and bent to roll the tight black cotton down his thighs, feeling every bit the whore. Righted himself too quick when he caught Falcone watching. A tumbler found his lips and he drank, letting the bitterness of luxury soak into his tongue. Falcone finished it off, set the glass aside and pulled Bruce to the great armchair by the fireplace, tugged until he crawled onto his lap. Bruce settled so that his knees were folded into the corners of the seat, heels digging into his ass. Wiggled forward so that a body pressed between his legs.
“Don’t you look every dime of your daddy’s fortune,” Falcone breathed, and Bruce felt his ears and cheeks flame. He didn’t mind being naked in the shower or his bed, but perched a few inches above Falcone’s eyeline, his thighs sticking to the warm leather of the armchair, he felt the terrible need for a shirt or sheet to cover up. When he brought in arms to protect his core, like he was cold, Falcone took his wrists and pulled them back to his sides.
“I don’t normally settle debts in trade, but.” He gave a low whistle, sweeping up and down Bruce’s body. “You’re the real thing, huh? Fresh as a crisp dollar bill.”
Bruce swallowed. The words heated his face the way the scotch had, so that his pride went down easy. A hand stroked his waist and made sensitive flesh flinch.
“How about it, beautiful.” Bruce bit off a surprised sound when sharp whiskers scraped over his nipple with a lick of wet heat. “Make me a baby half as pretty as you and I’ll forget the fifty grand you blew at cards.”
“I can’t get pregnant,” Bruce pointed out, a little too sharply. He hadn’t had a cycle since he was thirteen, and had been on daily gel applications of testosterone longer than that. His blood work was run every month. It might have been theoretically possible without a hysterectomy, but the odds were infantisimile. Falcone was medically trained—he should know.
“Damn shame,” Falcone murmured, the cold tip of his nose trailing the warm, hard kisses he sucked down Bruce’s neck. Bruce shivered beneath the wiry scrape of his beard on sensitive skin, the hand claiming the small of his back. “Unless I keep you here. Fatten you up.”
A cold hand groped through Bruce’s gut, an edge of unfamiliar danger heating his skin. The excitement of being splayed on Falcone’s lap curdled; a kernel of panic was forming in his hindbrain. Distress must’ve tensed him up because Falcone pulled back, the warmth of his fingers cradling Bruce’s chin.
“Aww, I’m just playin’, sweetheart.” He lifted Bruce’s head, forcing him to look up. Brown eyes found his own, steady and serious. “You know I don’t mean nothing by it.”
Bruce nodded, though the flighty feeling of wanting to throw a punch hadn’t dissipated. He let Falcone press an apologetic kiss to his neck, right below his ear, though he turned away and valorantly didn’t make any sound. A shiver ran down his spine as Falcone gripped the nape of his neck. Bruce could smell the scotch and tobacco on his breath as he whispered, too soft, “You wouldn’t be my little boy no more.”
Bruce couldn’t hold back a whine. Pushed his hips closer, trying to get purchase on Falcone’s cock through fine wool trousers. His cunt had already slicked the fabric’s surface, wet on his inner thigh. The throb between his legs was traitorous and insistent, the shifting tease of Falcone’s crisp dress shirt on his bare chest too much to bear. He blurted out, “Would I be your bitch?”
The grip on his waist tightened and for a hot flash Bruce thought he’d said the wrong thing. Then he felt the leap of Falcone’s cock against his leg, the pinch of Falcone’s hand around Bruce’s jaw so he could press open his mouth. Bruce gave with barely a moan, breathing hard and fast. “Don’t tease me, kid,” Falcone replied, his voice hardly above a rasp. “Fuckin’ Christ.”
Bruce flexed his thighs around Falcone’s hips, taking the wet kiss with a slack jaw and open mouth. “Make me,” he breathed, his voice squeezing out thin and reedy. “Make me and I’ll take it.”
Falcone’s grip dug into his thighs, lifting him off the armchair with a creak of leather and setting him at the foot of the great California King bed. (Custom-made, with sheets hand-woven and dyed a deep purpled grey in Egypt). Bruce looked up, heart drumming staccato, trying not to look eager at the toothy purr of the zipper.
“Get that nice and wet for me, will ya’ sweetheart?”
Bruce dutifully dropped his jaw, carefully tucking his lip over his upper teeth and pushing out his tongue just enough to cover the bottom. His mouth watered at the sight of Falcone’s cock, flushed dusky red and already half-hard. He’d been good—a pearl of pre-come already dripped at the tip. Bruce leaned in and licked it up, metallic salt and the pleasant shape of the slit buzzing on his tongue. He pressed his lips to the tip, almost a kiss, worked his mouth over it in an eager rhythm.
“I said, don’t tease,” Falcone growled, grabbing a fistful of Bruce’s hair and dragging him deeper. Bruce groaned as vein-smooth skin slipped between his tongue and the roof of his mouth until the tip pressed the part where his throat tightened. He tugged his head forward, testing the spasming of his throat. He was wet on the coverlet—he loved sucking cock, being forced open and spit-slicked, the helpless invasion of Falcone fucking his throat.
Bruce moaned, easing past the tight sensitive entrance of his throat until he had Falcone fully sheathed inside him, drawing in harsh snuffling breaths through his nose. The deepest part of his throat spasmed weakly, trying to expel the pleasant intrusion, but Falcone had Bruce’s head cradled in his hands as he fucked him, trapping him on his cock. Hot spit ran down his chin, tears cooling in his lashes. All he could do was moan and try not to let the shuddering animal impulse inside him slip out.
“Fuck, kid.” Falcone pulled out with a filthy sound, spider-silk trails of heavy spit stringing from Bruce’s lips. He gasped for easy air, throat aching from the sudden emptiness.
Falcone pushed him up onto the mattress, on his hands and knees, tugged his spine upright with an arm hooked around his neck. His knees were balanced precariously on the edge of the mattress, ankles hanging in the air, his shoulders pulled to Falcone’s chest. The slick wet cock pressed against the small of his back. He whimpered as a hot palm squeezed the outer curve of his ass, a thick finger slipping between his cheeks to prod his hole. He yelped.
“Should I fuck you right here?” Falcone asked, his voice low and liquor-mean. “Bet you’d be so fuckin’ tight, beautiful, all screamin’ and hollerin’ for me.” The pressure on Bruce’s throat tightened and he grabbed onto Falcone’s forearm for stability. The finger pressed more insistently against the sensitive flat of his hole, rubbing over like playing with his clit.
Falcone breached him, just barely, and he gasped at the sharp expanding pain. “Don’t all you daddy’s boys want this?” He asked, his breath singing the shell of Bruce’s ear. “Or you want somethin’ else.” The sharpness withdrew, arm withdrawing to clamp over his hip, palm cupping between his legs to grope his cunt. “Jesus, you’re a goddamn waterfall. Excited for my cock, sweetheart? Need me that bad?”
Two fingers pushed inside him and Bruce groaned, clenching around them. His cunt pulsed, face burning. Falcone’s arm around his neck had him giddy and light-headed, keeping him from pushing his hips down. The wiry forearm was immovable as iron, and it occurred to Bruce then he’d surely headlocked men like this in an altogether different context. Panic bloomed and he jerked his shoulders and hips to get away, groaning as his struggle shoved Falcone’s hand deeper inside him. The fingers curled, tugging at a spot inside him, and he cried out at the bright throb of pleasure, his cunt coming to a life of its own around the touch.
“Ya sure are easy, kid,” Falcone said, pressing cruelly at the spot. “Sure you don’t want me to call in some of the boys? Show you a real good time.”
“No,” Bruce gasped, though the lone functioning logic module in his brain knew Falcone hated for anyone to lay a finger on him, or even look at him too long. Still, he liked to imagine it, let the danger and desperation run him through. Tug at Falcone’s wrist like he was scared. “Please, please no.”
A quick kiss to his ear, like a salve. Then the grip on his neck fell away, a shove between his shoulderblades knocking him onto his stomach. He made a soft whimpering sound as the fingers left him, just for himself. A mean smack to the back of his thigh drew another, sharper.
“Crawl up there for me, sweetheart,” Falcone said, so he did, still tingling inside and out. Knelt at the headboard like he was supposed to, head down, knees pushed apart.
The mattress dipped as Falcone mounted behind him, the flesh of his thighs shuddering as his woolen trousers brushed between them. His cunt gave a needy throb. A short tug at his right arm; Bruce dragged both elbows up around his ears to cross his arms neatly at the wrist. A whisper of silk as Falcone threaded his tie around one of the headboard bars, knotting the length hostage tight around Bruce’s wrists. He was breathing hard now, they both were. Bruce yanked at the bind but it held, pulling his wrists tighter.
“I ain’t using no wrapper,” Falcone murmured, right into Bruce’s ear as he aligned their hips. The tug in his shoulders had pulled his belly taut and vulnerable, hips canted up at an open angle. A tug at his waist; Bruce felt an angry needling sound slip between gritted teeth. “Fill up that fiery belly of yours. Need a baby to calm ya’ down, getcha good and happy.”
A sharp pain; Falcone thrust the tip inside him. It seemed impossible that he had ever fit, Bruce’s cunt stretched full, pain-heat radiating in blissful waves up his spine. He could have come on the spot if Falcone hadn’t thrust into him again, making him cry out. Shamelessly whimpering for more. Inch by inch, breathing hard and open-mouthed, tucking his head between his bicep and the pillow to muffle his moans.
“Jesus, kid, I ain’t even fucked you yet.” Falcone pushed an almost-soothing hand down the narrow strait of Bruce’s spine. “Tight as the day I popped ya’ cherry.”
Bruce hadn’t touched himself once in the four months since he’d seen Falcone last. Lay every night stiff in his dormitory bed, hormones a raging, itching inferno. Alone, because the school didn’t trust him around girls and were too concerned with his innocence to room him with other boys. Rubbed his chest on the sheets or clamped blankets between his legs, but never allowed himself the real thing, kept the bland silicone shaft he’d smuggled into school locked in the bottom drawer of his desk. Thought about how good it would be when he got fucked again.
Bruce glanced back over his shoulder, stomach turning at the sight of Falcone half-inside him. “I wanted it to be good,” he said, quietly.
“Sure thing, beautiful.” Falcone had pushed past the band of tightness and now slid inside with relative ease to seat himself in Bruce fully. Stirred his hips with a filthy wet sound, finally giving a low sound of his own. Set an easy self-pleasuring pace, though Bruce still groaned helplessly into the spit-wet pillow at every movement, the pure perfect drag inside him. He fucked Bruce like that for a while until his breathing grew rough and his grip bruised Bruce’s hips and every thrust was hard and greedy.
“On your back for me. That’s it, sweetheart.” Falcone pulled out so Bruce could roll over and re-arrange his legs. The tie around his wrists jerked and twisted, splaying him wide and vulnerable. Falcone’s hand was rough and sunburnt on Bruce’s pallid dark-haired belly, rubbing the softness that only summers training with Alfred burned away. “Wanna see what I’m fucking my baby into.”
On his back Bruce couldn’t hide the reflexive flinch at those words, the heat flushing from his cheeks down his chest. Sweat crawled down the sides of his stomach; he was pinned beneath Falcone’s gaze. He still wore his fucking sunglasses, which only made Bruce feel more naked. He wished he could kick the glasses off. He tried, but the angle was wrong and telegraphed too early. Falcone caught his ankle and shoved it aside, gave Bruce a slap. Not a hard one, but it still lit his cheek with tingling heat and set a low ring in his ear. Worth the turn of darkness behind the red shade.
“You a big man, huh?” Two fingers forced open his mouth, the other three curled around his chin, holding him in place. Blunt fingernails scraped Bruce’s tongue. He sucked, tasting salt. Falcone’s cock slid into him again with little resistance, pushing into him rough. “That why you takin’ my cock?”
Bruce moaned around Falcone’s fingers, mouth stretching as he took up to the knuckles, too. He couldn’t hold his jaw open enough and was sure his front teeth were digging in. His back arched as Falcone set a hard, quick punishing pace, edging between sheer painful pleasure and too much. Air came in harsh wet sounds; he could barely marshall his tongue to lap clumsily at the fingers in his mouth. Then the intrusion withdrew and he could breathe for a few blissful moments before the same hand settled at the sweaty base of his throat.
Falcone’s grip tightened. Fear shot him through as the blood-buzz swelled up in his head, the skin of his face too tight. He could breathe, but barely. Shadowed dots dimpled his vision like bullet points. Falcone’s lips had pulled back from his teeth either in a snarl or a smile, gleaming a dull white, a bit uneven.
Bruce moaned on every crest of pleasure, orgasm’s edge sharp and inevitable, a living thing being fucked out of him. His heels kicked into the mattress, wrists aching to the bone as he tried to yank free. Blood pounded in his ears in time with his rabbiting pulse. His impending orgasm had mounted to dizzy heights, a forced march up heaven’s steps. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, hot and helpless.
He came without warning, pleasure flooding inside him, his mouth flexed open on a wordless cry. Falcone kept his throat pinned as he gasped harshly through each unbearable wave of his orgasm, still fucking his pulsing, oversensitive cunt. Falcone came with a groan, his grip loosening from Bruce’s throat. Bruce gasped, the pure sweet rush of oxygen filling him with a second annihilating rush. White blasted the edges of his vision as his lungs filled and he panted and strained at nothing at all. Then the bonelessness claimed him and he lay slack and until his breathing slowed, his cunt still throbbing out the aftershocks. His head was pleasantly empty.
The tie pulled free from around his wrists, mangled with wrinkles, dangled and then dropped like a dead mouse in front of him. “That was five-hundred bucks.”
Bruce couldn’t help it, he laughed. Not out loud, just a shaking between his chest and belly. “Sorry.”
Falcone rolled off him with a grunt, sat on the edge of the mattress so that his back was between them. Bruce twisted over onto his stomach, too lazy to move the arm trapped beneath his torso. Tried not to think about the heat seeping out of him. Watched sleepily as Falcone righted his dress shirt and buckled up his belt and stood, like nothing had happened. He regarded Bruce for a long while, unreadable behind the red-glinting glasses, then dug a corner of the sheets free and pulled them halfway to cover Bruce’s body.
Bruce reached out weakly, managed to clasp a hand on his sleeve. Tugged, asking for him to stay. Falcone turned, hesitated, then doubled back and knelt over the bed, pressed a kiss to Bruce’s sweaty brow. Righted himself with the crack of a knee, like Alfred did, and didn’t turn off the lamplight as he left. Daddy, Bruce thought, though he couldn’t make himself say out out loud. The shaking thing had started up in him again, so he rolled over and pressed his cheek into the wet cooling pillow so he wouldn’t feel the need to cry.