Disclaimer: All characters belong to their respective owners; I only borrowed them for my own personal amusement. No money was made.

Freefall

Diana scanned the crowded ballroom, picking out people she knew and glancing over those she did not. She had been here for hours now and while her feet didn't exactly ache, compliments of her gifts, they certainly weren't happy.

She was dressed in a sleek light grey dress, handmade on Themyscira and styled like a Grecian robe though with a distinctly more modern cut. She wore handmade sandals on her feet, the straps wrapping up and around her calves. Her thick, dark hair was piled up elaborately on her head, tresses spilling artfully down to frame her face. The only thing she wore that identified her as Wonder Woman was her bracelets, shining silver that reflected the dim lights of the room.

Of course everyone here knew that she was Wonder Woman, though tonight she was Princess Diana, Ambassador of the sovereign nation of Themyscira, and not a superhero.

Tonight she was alone, though she wasn't meant to be. She sighed, moving away from the wall she had been standing by, her flute of champagne in hand. She had already made several sweeps of the room, mingling with those that she needed to; greeting friends, colleagues, engaging in friendly debate with those that disagreed with her views, deflecting questions about her personal life, and placating worries that were brought to her. She had done this many times and it was an old game to her now, the faces may have changed over the years but the rules of the game hadn't.

"Madam Ambassador!"

"Ambassador."

She smiled and nodded, returning sentiments. She tipped the last dregs of champagne into her mouth and dropped her empty glass off on a passing waiter's tray.

It was a charity event, an auction that she had overseen in aid of the Wayne Foundation. The wealthiest of Gotham were all in attendance and decked out in their finest. Well, nearly all of Gotham's wealthiest, there was one notable absence.

"Diana! Darling!"

Diana paused and fixed a smile to her face before turning to face the speaker. Miriam Hill, the former wife of a former mayor of Gotham. She was old, overweight and decked in jewels like a crowded Christmas tree.

"Mrs Hill," Diana replied warmly. She didn't particularly like the woman but she wouldn't treat her with anything less than respect. "How are you? I trust your enjoying the evening."

"Yes, yes my dear, it's a fabulous affair." She gestured around the lavish room. "Opulent is the word I'm looking for."

"Hmm."

"But where is your husband, darling? Surely you didn't come alone."

Diana suppressed a sigh. "Bruce and I aren't married.

Miriam Hill looked confused. "You're not?"

"No, Mrs Hill," Diana said carefully. She had heard that Hill was often becoming confused these days and had no desire to make that worse for her.

"But I thought…"

"Bruce and I are together, but we never married."

She looked more confused than ever now. She frowned and her mouth worked, like she was chewing on the words she couldn't quite form. And then, like someone had flipped a switch in her head, Miriam Hill's eyes lit up.

"Why ever not, dear?"

"Marriage is not something we practice on Themyscira," Diana replied, smiling good naturedly. "And Bruce is hardly the marrying type."

Miriam snorted. "He hardly seemed the long relationship type either, and yet you've managed to keep him tied to you."

Diana's smile had become rigid, fixed upon her face and nearly painful to hold. "The benefit of being eternally young is that my partner need not look for a younger model to replace me with." It was a meant to be a joke, a sally at the absurd men who did indeed look to a younger woman in a vain attempt to recapture their youth and try to deny the inevitable ravage of time, but Diana's voice was bitter.

Fortunately Miriam either didn't hear the bitterness or chose to ignore it. She threw her head back and laughed a deep chesty chortle that made Diana wince as she heard the woman's lungs, abused by years of smoking, gurgle wetly. Sometimes enhanced senses worked against her.

"That is very true, my dear. Very true."

Diana's smiled was still rigidly fixed upon her face. She turned from Mrs Hill, seeking a reason to leave. Thankfully she spotted a friend across the room. You'll have to forgive me, Mrs Hill," she said, her smiled relaxing and becoming genuine. "I have just spotted Commissioner Gordon, and I have not yet had the chance to speak to him."

Miriam Hill's face lost all of its joy. She was no fan of James Gordon. Diana quickly made her good-byes and strode purposefully across the hall, cutting her way between the groups of people. She might have found most of the attendees to be useless spoiled rich brats who were barely worth the effort of wasting air on, but there were a few who she could happily spare hours, even days, of her life for.

Gordon turned just as she approached, a smile fixing on his face. "Madam Ambassador," he greeted.

"Commissioner," she returned the greeting, kissing him fondly on his wrinkled cheek. Once he hadn't been used to her presence, but after so many years he was well used to her and she considered him a great friend.

He looked past her, his smile slipping and concern flickering in his eyes. "Alone tonight?"

Diana pursed her lips. "I'm afraid so."

Gordon shrugged. "His loss." He held out his hand to her. "Would you care to dance?"

She smiled brightly and took his hand. "I would love to."

Diana let herself into Wayne manor through the old servants' entrance. She had a key for the main door as well, but the press were camped out in front of the gate and she didn't want to have to pass them. The old servants' entrance led into an equally old and unused pantry that eventually led into the kitchen. She followed the cold passageway to the kitchen and slipped inside. The lights were on and Alfred was waiting up for her.

"Good Evening, your Highness," the old butler greeted.

"Alfred," she replied smiling warmly. She crossed the kitchen and kissed him on his withered cheek. He did very little work around the manor these days, but refused to retire. "You should be getting some rest. It's very late."

"It is, but it would be improper for no one to wait for you to return."

She leaned back against the counter. She didn't really feel the cold, and she was wearing a thick warm coat, but still she felt chilled and shivered. "Bruce isn't here?"

"Master Bruce is here, but he decided to sequester himself in his study rather than attend tonight's event, or even to wait for you to return." Alfred looked slightly troubled, which was unusual. "Truthfully I do not even know if he realised that you had left."

"I see," Diana said. She pushed herself from the counter and crossed the kitchen. "I'll see if I can coax him from his study. Thank you for waiting up for me, Alfred. It was appreciated."

"My pleasure," he replied. "Oh, and Highness?"

She paused and poked her head back into the kitchen.

"I must warn you, he is in one of those moods."

"Thank you, Alfred." She left the kitchen and quickly made her way through the manor, up the stairs and towards the study. She wasn't angry with Bruce, though not pleased either. At least he hadn't gone out on patrol.

She made her way swiftly through the mansion, along corridors and up the grand staircase. Alfred had left the lights on for her, though they were dimmed. She didn't actually need them to be able to see, and he knew this, but the fact that he always did leave the lights on for her was a welcome gesture. It almost made the place feel like home.

The door to Bruce's study was closed. She grasped the ornate bronze door knob and entered, not bothering to knock. The room was huge; high ceilings, ornate wood panels on the wall, with elaborate furnishings to decorate it. Like so many old buildings it had a huge, grand fire place that currently smouldered with the embers of a fire that was in desperate need of stoking. She closed the door carefully behind her.

Bruce was stood at the far end of the room, his back to her. He was dressed smartly, as though he had meant to join her at the charity function but had lost heart. He turned slightly upon hearing her enter the room, though not far enough so that he was facing her. She could see that he was holding a book in his hands.

"How was it?" He asked. His voice had definitely taken on a more Batman quality over the years, his vocal cords damaged by years of growling. She found though that she didn't mind.

"Boring," she answered. He grunted, turning back to face the bookshelf completely. "Your absence was noted."

"You didn't need me to hold your hand, princess." He placed the book back on the shelf and made his way to his desk. She watched him limp, favouring his right leg. The cartilage in his left knee was ruined. One of the many injuries he had picked up over the years that were now slowing him down, though being the obstinate man that he was he tried to hide it.

She moved further into the room, feeling the warmth of the dying fire on her right side. She considered removing her coat but decided against it. The mood Bruce appeared to be in she might be leaving soon.

He picked up a glass from his desk and sipped the amber liquid contained within it. In the dim glow of the firelight she could see his silvery hair, so much more grey these days than the thick black that it was when he was young. The flickering light cast shadows across the contours of his face, he looked like he was carved from stone. The colour of his eyes had dimmed, more grey than blue, his lips were always pressed into a thin line, a look of quiet anger.

"Why didn't you come?" He didn't answer. Diana moved even further into the room, crossing over half way into it. "This isn't the first function you've missed. The police gala, charity events, even Zatanna's show, you've missed them all. Why? I know you're not going out on patrol."

"Do you, now?" He sounded amused. He sipped at his drink, his lips quirking into a slight smirk.

She frowned. Surely he was toying with her? He couldn't possibly be going out on patrol, not with his collection of injuries holding him back. It wasn't just his knee, his back was blown, his hands near crippled, and his heart.

His heart…

She didn't like to think of his heart. She could hear it now, the beat slightly, just oh-so slightly, irregular. Sometimes, when he was exerted, she could hear it struggle, hear the way it tried so hard to finish the pump of blood, the moment when it sounded like it might fail. She shuddered. She had thought that the strength of his heart was absolute. She had been wrong.

Bruce's lips twisted into a sneer, his eyes cold. He could see the sorrow in her eyes, and as usual he chose to mistake it for pity.

She forced her sadness back, and once more placed her indifferent mask in place. It was getting easier and easier to do this with him, to not let him see or know her emotions. She didn't let him see her concern, her frustration, her anger, or even her joy.

He turned to his desk and pulled over another glass. "Scotch?"

She recognised the offer for what it was. Bruce didn't want to fight tonight, and the scotch was an olive branch. She briefly toyed with the idea of not taking it, of huffing and storming off and leaving him to his brooding. But that would be petulant, and she had never once before refused his small peace offerings, it seemed odd to start here.

She crossed the rest of the room and took the offered glass from him, sipping the scotch and feeling the tingling burn of it on her lips.

"Did any one comment on my absence?" he asked.

"Yes, though not to my face." She took another sip and then placed the glass gently down on the desk, making sure it rested on a piece of paper rather than the wood. She turned to face Bruce. "They say that you've become a recluse. That you've finally gone crazy."

"Do they also say that I store my piss in empty milk bottles?"

"They don't think that you've sunk that far yet."

"And what do you think?"

She tilted her head and considered him. He was still handsome, though well-worn around the edges. There was still strength in eyes, a fierce pride that burned so brightly that sometimes she thought it hurt her own eyes to look at too long. His bearing was solid, and even if he was no longer as fast or strong or supple as he had once been, his soul was resilient and had weathered age and injury. His mind was still sharp, and his demeanour still black.

She smiled teasingly and replied, "I think that if I did not force my presence upon you then I would never see you again."

His answering smile was twisted, cold and mocking. "I dare say you're right"

She flinched like she had been slapped. She didn't know why she had expected anything different from him; they both knew that it was the truth. He was determined to be alone. For some reason, some stupid, childish reason, she had assumed, had hoped, that she would be an exception to his isolation. He would not even reach out to Kal though, why had she thought that just because she was sleeping with him that would make her a special case? Sometimes she was quite foolish.

Her cheeks burned with shame, with the anger that he would speak to her so, and that they both knew that she willingly debased herself to him.

She pushed herself from the desk, squaring her shoulders back. "If you do not want me, then I'll leave."

She made to go but he took hold of her arm. His grip was still strong, not like it had been when he was young and could dig his fingers into her flesh so hard that it felt like he might actually bruise her, but she still felt it through the thick material of her coat. She allowed him to stop her.

"I didn't say that." His voice was a quiet growl, like the gentle press of a boot on gravel. She shivered. He tugged her towards him, his face near hers, lips nearly brushing against the hinge of her jaw. His breath was warm on her skin as he spoke. "There is a difference between desiring your company and wanting you."

"I don't think there is."

"Of course you don't." He nuzzled closer, his lips brushing up her skin, smelling her hair.

Her skin flushed hot. He reached a hand up and pulled out the pins from her hair, sending it tumbling down about her face. He pressed her against the desk, moving to stand before her. His eyes flickered up to meet hers' and there was such an arrogant smug smile on his lips that she was tempted to slap it off of him. She didn't though. Instead she gripped the edge of the desk as he kissed along the line of her jaw and worked his way slowly down her neck.

Her stomach jumped and fluttered, the twinge of arousal already squirming between her legs. She should push him away, especially since he was clearly in one of his moods and just seemed determined to prove some kind of asinine point, as if the fact that she still desired him sexually meant that it was okay for him to forgo the more social and emotional aspects of their relationships.

Like too many men he thought sexual prowess equalled power, and that it gave him power over her.

She gasped as he undid the top few buttons on her coat, pushing it back to expose her chest, and he fixed his lips to the sensitive skin there along her collar bone. His fingers continued their work on her coat buttons. He stepped back and pushed it from her, the material sliding from her shoulders. He looked down, taking in her appearance with greedy eyes.

"You should have worn the black dress."

"I like this dress."

He trailed his finger from the hollow of her throat down to the swell of her breasts. Her breath stuttered though chattering teeth as he replaced his finger with his lips, pressing them firmly to the dip of her cleavage as he murmured, "I like the black dress."

"If you wanted me to wear the black dress then you should have escorted me to the auction."

He grunted at that. He gripped her hips, lifting her so that she sat on the edge of the desk. She took some of the weight from him, using her ability to fly surreptitiously, not quite sure if he was still strong enough to lift her like he used to. She suspected that he still could, but had no desire to shame him if he could not, nor to feel the shake of his arms as he made the attempt. She feared that if he could not, that if she felt the evidence of his age induced weakness, then she would pity him. Pity would be the death to her desire for him.

And she still desired him. She still wanted to feel his body against hers, his lips across her skin, and the feel of his firm, sure hands exploring every expanse of her. After so many years together he knew her so well, knew every way to make her hot, breathless and desperate for him.

But her desire was tempered by her need to have him in other ways; to have the reassurance of his voice, the strength of his mind and force of his personality. She missed him in so many ways, even though she had him here and now.

Here but not here. With him but not with him. He always made things so damned complicated. Once it had been part of the thrill of chasing him, a challenge that she could not pass up. Now it left her feeling tired.

Bruce had gone to his knees. His hands worked down her left leg, gripping her calve and sliding to her feet. Slowly he unwound the leather wraps of her sandals and removed it, pressing his lips to the sole of her bare foot.

She smiled. She had to bite her lip to stop a quick whispered giggle escaping her. It wasn't that she was ticklish but that it had been so long since he had done something, like this, something so sweet and just for fun; it reminded her of better times.

He did the same to her right foot, and then he worked his hands up her leg, his lips pressing soft, wet kisses to her skin. He pushed the length of her dress up as he ascended, bunching it around her thighs and pushing it higher still.

She should have stopped him. She was angry with him, but it seemed vague and distant and was lost to the building fire in her belly. So she wriggled, allowing the dress to be pushed up and under her butt, and out of the way of where he truly wanted to be.

He huffed out an exasperated breath. "You never wear underwear."

It sounded like a lamentation and she felt confused. "You've never complained before?" She remembered the opposite reaction from him decades ago when he had made this discovery, pulling her white dress over her head. She remembered the amazement in his eyes, the fire that blazed, and the passion that had resulted from such a simple thing. He had been uncontrollable in his lust for her, and she had loved every second of his wild frenzied love making.

He turned his head and pressed his lips to the inside of her thigh, mumbling, "Sometimes a man likes to remove panties. I could hook my finger in the band and…" he mimed the action, his finger curling near the top of her thigh, and he dragged it down her leg. "…I would pull them down your legs. Follow them with my mouth." He sighed and leaned his head against her leg.

She swallowed. "Would you like me to purchase some lingerie?"

He didn't answer her, at least not with words. He returned to his earlier task, his lips parted and his breath beating warm against the inside of her thigh. He pushed her legs apart, and she raised one, bending it and placing her heel on the desk.

They were going through motions. It was all so cold and detached, mechanical even. Her teeth chattered and her lip trembled and she wasn't sure if it was from desire or because she wanted to cry. There was a heaviness in her chest, a weight that was slowly suffocating her. She should stop him. She should walk away.

She could feel his breath on her sex, warm unlike the cool air of the room. He inhaled, taking in the smell of her arousal. She bit her lip to stop it from shaking.

His fingers were soft on her, parting her and seeking further within. She grunted softly when she felt his lips on her, felt his tongue probing gently at first and then more insistent. His lips moved, pulling gently at her folds, kissing and licking.

She gasped. Her mouth fell open and she placed a hand on his head. She watched him work; her eyes searching down her body and finding that his eyes were turned up towards her. They were so cold that she had to close her own.

It shouldn't be like this.

His tongue slid up, slick and warm, finding all those little places that made her shiver and shake, that made her moan and nearly forget all the problems between them.

She couldn't remember the last time they had made love. The last time he had held her close and gently, their movements easy and slow, their eyes locked on one another. If she cast her memory back far enough she could remember the last time they'd had sex, and she could easily remember the last time they had fucked, but she couldn't bring up the memory of love. Bruce probably didn't see a distinction between the three.

She did. And she had enjoyed all three, loving them equally until one had started to far outweigh the other two.

He pushed two fingers inside of her, they slipped in easily and he moved them steadily. He curled them and she felt the tips drag slowly down the roof of her vagina. His tongue swiped over her clitoris. She bucked her hips sharply and cried out. Encouraged he growled and threw her leg over his shoulder, pressing in closer, wrapping his free arm around her to hold her to him. His tongue was almost violent as it lashed across her clit.

She was panting. Her legs ached and there was tightness in her belly, a coil of pressure lower in her abdomen that screamed for release. His fingers moved quicker, harder within her. His mouth pressed so tight to her that she could feel the sharp press of his teeth against her soft flesh.

Her head fell back and when she came it was with a thin low wail. He was merciless. Not slowing for a second as she shook against him. He drew it out, taking everything from her and more still. Eventually it hurt and she pushed him away.

She kept her eyes closed and tried to get her breathing under control. Her heart was hammering so hard and loud that she couldn't hear his over it. Slowly, she regained some measure of control over her breathing and some of her composure. She risked opening her eyes.

Bruce had climbed to his feet and was standing over by the fire place, his back to her.

She slid from the desk and straightened out her dress. This wasn't an unusual encounter for them. She ached pleasantly between her legs, but knew that here was a certain amount of dissatisfaction to the pleasure he had just given her. She wanted more.

"Bruce," she spoke softly, moving towards him. She put her hand to his shoulder. Gently she turned him to face her. His eyes were hard, his lips pink and slightly swollen, wet still with her desire. She kissed him, tasting herself there; her tongue seeking his. He returned the kiss but much like his earlier ministrations it felt mechanical, like it was more habit than something he genuinely wanted.

She parted from him and rested her forehead against his, sighing softly. "I miss you."

"I'm right here," he replied.

She shook her head sadly. "No, no you're not." She put her hand over his heart and felt it beat. "You haven't been here for such a long time. You have gone somewhere else, somewhere dark, and I can't follow you there. I won't go there."

He stepped back from and stared, his eyes calculating. She could see that old cunning now, the way his mind worked through every possible situation, every possible conversation. She didn't like what she saw in his expression. She saw defeat.

"You're leaving." His voice was so practical he might as well have been commenting on the placement of the furniture.

The weight in her chest was becoming unbearable. She couldn't breathe. Her throat was constricted, it burned painfully and she desperately wanted to swallow but there was no moisture in her mouth.

He was right, she was leaving. It wasn't something she had planned, but now that she stood here before him she realised that it was the only thing she was certain about. She was going to leave him.

"Yes," she breathed. Her eyes prickled hot and she felt the first tears spill. Beneath the weight in her chest there was a deep ache that was steadily getting worse. "I love you, Bruce, but I can't keep doing this."

"Fine." He turned back to face the fire. It was nearly out, a dull orange glow buried beneath ash and charcoal.

That was it, he didn't even have an argument to try and convince her to stay. He wouldn't even fight for her. The ache in her chest was getting worse, it was like she was being split, a widening crack that ran right through her.

She moved from him, turning towards the door. That first step was probably the hardest step she had ever taken, the fall of her foot on the floor the loudest noise in the world. She paused and squared back her shoulders, taking a deep shaking breath. She wiped her tears away and then took another step, and then another. She crossed the room quickly, too quickly considering the enormity of her decision.

The large heavy door closed softly, an understated noise that was anticlimactic. It should have been a resounding bang, a crash or explosion. It should have been more dramatic. Didn't she deserve drama? Didn't she deserve a big fuss?

Her next step was a stagger and she fell, her hand going up against the opposite wall to stop herself from falling to the ground. She bowed her head and sucked in deep breaths. The pain in her chest was near unbearable but the weight... the weight had gone, and with it there was such a feeling of relief that she nearly laughed. She clapped her hand over her mouth stopping the noise.

Absurd. It was absurd that she was acting like this. Where was her pride that she was so known for? Her strength?

She straightened up, wiping away the last of her tears. She pushed the pain back; it was something she'd deal with later on her own time and in her own company.

She walked briskly from the study, along the landing, down the stairs and through the myriad of corridors that led to the kitchen. Alfred was still up, which didn't surprise her. He turned to her with sad knowing eyes. He knew what had happened, he always knew. And he looked older than ever for knowing.

She crossed the room and bowed down, pressing her lips again to his cheek. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently, "Thank you. For everything."

His hand covered hers for a moment, old, withered and spotted, nothing of the elegant deftness remained of what he had once been. He said nothing so she had nothing more to say. She moved from him and made for the pantry, intent on once more using the old servants' entrance to make her escape. She made it to the door when Alfred ended his silence.

"I had thought that you wouldn't give up on him."

She stumbled. It was as if she had been struck, the pain flashed hot white right through her core. The crack that had been running through her suddenly split right apart and it took every ounce of her will to not crumble and break. Why did Alfred's words hurt worse than anything Bruce had ever said or done?

She gripped the doorframe tightly, feeling the wood crack beneath her fingers. It was unfair, so unfair that he would ever say that to her. To say so would be childish, so she fought down the urge to burst into angry tears and to lash out at a man who was only trying to understand what was going on, who was only expressing his disappointment at the inevitable end of her and Bruce's relationship. She loved Alfred and he did not deserve her anger.

She turned her head and looked back at Alfred. He looked so small sitting at the table all alone.

"I didn't," she said. "He gave up on us years ago."

She didn't want to look at Alfred anymore, to hear his disappointment; she didn't want to spend another second longer in this house where she was no longer welcome. She had left her coat upstairs and she felt cold without it. She walked quickly, silently, up the narrow passage way, her hand trailing against the cold stone walls, and to the door that led outside.

The night air was cold on her skin, prickling, and she took off rocketing skywards, her dress fluttering wildly about her ankles. She headed for the stars, up and up and up. If she wanted she could go right through the atmosphere, spend minutes at the edge of the Earth touching the desolation of space, but she didn't. She stopped abruptly when she felt the air go so thin that she couldn't draw it into her lungs.

And she waited and she watched without seeing. There was nothing here, and that suited her just fine. She enjoyed the silence, sought comfort in it, but found none.

Nothing. Nothing Nothing.

She closed her eyes. She didn't want to feel anything and wanted to bring the nothingness into her, to drown out the turmoil of her heart and bury the pain that lanced through her. Still nothing.

It was time to go home. She didn't know how long she had been here but her lungs were starting to burn. She skimmed over the curve of the Earth, taking only minutes to find herself miles above New York.

She let herself fall. If she couldn't draw the nothingness into her to blot out the rage of emotions, then she would crush her pain, her anger, and her disappointment with noise; the rush of air as she fast approached terminal velocity, the roar in her ears that took away the sounds of the lives being lived below her. Her eyes teared up from the pressure. Her heart raced and beat against the pain, the ache being pushed back. Her blood pounded. This was a much better feeling.

She trusted herself to catch herself before she hit the ground. So she let go, she let go of her rigid self-control and she just fell.

It was such a liberating feeling. Letting go of her anger, her grief, her disappointment in herself and in Bruce. Just letting go.

Shame it was going to ruin her dress.

End

This didn't turn out how I originally envisioned it. My initial idea was just smut between an older Bruce with eternally young Diana, and maybe a look into the pressure of a relationship where they have to live with one of them being mortal. I have a bit of a thing for older Batman with forever young Wonder Woman, so you should probably expect a few more fics along these lines, though hopefully less depressing.

Thank you for reading. Reviews would be appreciated.