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You kiss him and he disappear.
You get angry, thought you don't know if being angry at yourself or at him.
Look what happened. Bruce.
Controversy is a new word, ready to be added to your personal vocabulary.
Alfred doesn't say anything, he just holds back his breath and his tongue and looks at you walking past him, tired and beaten up, your cape is ripped in many, too many parts. He wonders and sighs.
All you've got is a city falling apart and an empty heart.
No, he doesn't open his mouth, he just looks at you and the way you like to trash your entire life.
Looking out for remedies. It hurts, he thinks but he lets you carry on with this parade of purple and red bruises, now decorating your skin. It hurts and stings. Maybe you like it. Maybe.
Until one fine morning, when he gets tired. Finally.
He sighs tired of trying to pull you out from your bed. Tired of reminding that you have your duties, that you will be late for your morning meeting at the Wayne Corp.
You open your eyes and meet his ones, he's staring at the way you like – sometimes – to reduce yourself. You would like to say something, but that's more Bruce Wayne than Batman.
You get up and he leaves you alone.
Alfred understood it. He knows you and later while driving you to work, he only says one tiny word. Tim.
You nod, answering at his silent question about what is tormenting you. He knows you, much better than Bruce Wayne or Batman.
For a long week he doesn't say anything until one night, when you decide to play stupid games with Poison Ivy. That's not you. Batman would never do that! You think while Alfred is trying to save your sorry ass. You can only scream and you aren't surprised that it's his name, Tim's name that you are screaming.
Another month goes by and one night, after billionaire Bruce Wayne gave the best of himself, you can proudly add the word stupidity to your magnificent vocabulary.
You stumble inside your bedroom and Alfred leaves you alone with your stupidity.
Tim is sitting on your bed. He looks up at you and the way you are feasting upon yourself.
You sigh and lean against the closed door. He stands up and walks toward you. He doesn't say anything. You let his warm fingers open few top buttons of your shirt and then he places his soft lips over one of your bruised collar bones.
"Kissing you, was both beautiful and sad." He whispers, his eyes meeting yours.
"I'm sorry." You say. You really are.
He goes back to sit on your bed, "explain me Bruce." He only asks. And you carry on his order.
What follows are only warm hands, moist kisses and wet sounds, feverish words and slow rhythmic movements. What follows are his teeth biting your fingers and his tongue caressing away their offence.
You are not Bruce Wayne. You are not Batman. You are only yourself sharing secrets with him. He takes them and then with the first lights of a new morning he casts them away. Miles away.
Alfred is waiting for you, standing beside the open car door and you slip inside, tightly holding your folders. Another boring meeting.
You can smell him before you can see him. You smile.
He looks down at your hands, pale against those bright and colourful folders, little bites and cuts are decorating your long fingers.
You sigh and say, "Bruce Wayne, bought a cat."
He smiles.