Snail

His blue eyes drop to yours, amusement flashes in them while you throw a tiny fit over all the time you'd apparently wasted.

"I told you I was paying."

"Then why didn't you remind me, Mr. Wayne?"

"I did," he counters, one brow lifting as that polished little playboy smile threatens at the corner of his mouth. "Twice, actually. You were too drunk to notice."

Which is exactly why the manor is off-limits. He doesn't trust himself enough with how pliant you become under the influence. How tempting you'd look sprawled across his bed with half-lidded eyes blinking up at him, letting him rearrange you however he pleased simply because your body feels heavier and softer with alcohol. A pretty lamb for the slaughter placed directly in front of a man who already struggles far too much with wanting to reach for it.

Picking you up is one thing. Having you folded against his side in the passenger seat while he drives you home is another.

You spend most of the ride leaning across the center console, cheek pressed against his arm while you ramble about workplace gossip Bruce only half understands. Someone stole someone else's lunch. Someone else heated tuna in the workroom, of all things. Apparently Deborah is still a "raging bitch and keeps calling you out in front of the team in this really passive-aggressive email chain," which you explain with all the seriousness you could muster while whining, loudly, against his shoulder. Bruce hums along, occasionally glancing down at you before returning his attention to the road. One large hand stays steady on the wheel, and the other rests loosely over the gearshift, mostly because you've decided his wrist makes an excellent anchor whenever the car turns.

Your fingers don't stay there long. They slide across his thigh instead, drawing slow little circles through the fabric of his trousers, then hearts, and Bruce's grip tightens around the gearshift before he can stop it.

Then your hand wanders higher.

Bruce's jaw tightens the second your palm settles over his lap and gives the hard outline beneath his trousers a firm little squeeze, his hips shifting before he can stop them.

It would be disgustingly easy to pull into the truck stop glowing ahead, put the car in park, kiss his way down your neck while you giggle beneath him and move you into the back seat just to show you exactly what all that touching gets you. Have you whining and clinging to those broad shoulders until you forget tonight entirely.

Bruce exhales slowly through his nose, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as his eyes stay stubbornly fixed on the road ahead.

No.

He knows better.

"Behave," he drawls, that low voice coming out a touch rougher than usual.

He's more annoyed with himself for reacting so easily than he is with you. His hand leaves the gearshift and closes gently around your wrist, his palm nearly engulfing it as he lifts your hand away from his lap and returns it to the safer territory of his thigh. You raise your head with a pout that borders dangerously close to a scowl, and Bruce dips his blue eyes toward you for half a second before returning them to the road.

You can be cute.

Occasionally.

"I am behaving," you mumble, immediately letting your hand creep right back.

Bruce feels your fingers brush over him again, only now you've graduated from tracing to slowly stroking him through his pants.

"I just wanna touch it," you whisper, words beginning to drag together as you pet the straining shape through the fabric. "Just for a little..."

He catches your hand before you can get any more ambitious.

"Of course you do."

Bruce raises your knuckles to his mouth and presses a slow kiss there, the faint scrape of evening stubble brushing your skin before he places your hand firmly back into your own lap. This time, he keeps his palm over it for several seconds, thumb sweeping once across your knuckles.

At red lights, though, he allows himself smaller indulgences. His hand slides beneath your chin, warm and rather large, the roughened pad of his thumb brushing slowly over your cheek. You've asked him before why a billionaire has hands like that. He never gives you a real answer. You turn toward him with that soft, unfocused smile you never give him sober.

"Kiss?"

He's teasing, mostly.

That doesn't stop him.

Normally, you'd humor him with a quick kiss on the cheek and leave him wanting more. Bruce has learned not to push his luck. Tonight, though, you lean in before he even finishes asking.

It's messy. Your nose bumps his and you miss his mouth entirely the first time, kissing the corner instead before dissolving into giggles against his cheek. Bruce's eyes close briefly as your laughter warms his skin, and the sound pulls a crooked smile from him before he can hide it

"Come here."

His fingers tighten lightly beneath your jaw and guide you back, your lips finding his properly this time. His thumb settles near your ear while the other four fingers curl along your neck. Even then, Bruce keeps it brief, indulging you for only a few seconds before pulling away when you chase his mouth again. Green light spills through the windshield, washing over the blue of his eyes when they open.

"Greedy."

Mostly to himself, but apparently you take it to heart by the way you pout quietly against his shoulder.

By the time he parks outside your building, you're halfway asleep against his arm. He switches off the engine and sits there for a moment, looking down at the weight of your head against him. Bruce looks at you for a second too long before getting out of the car.

"Come on."

You make a noise suggesting you have absolutely no intention of doing anything of the sort, so Bruce circles the car instead. The moment he opens your door and reaches for you, your body folds bonelessly toward him, and he barely gets one arm around your waist before you sag completely into his chest.

"Bruce."

"Mm?"

Your cheek squishes against the broad expanse of his chest as you blink miserably up at him.

"My legs stopped working."

Your statement is quickly answered in one swift movement. One arm hooks beneath your knees while the other braces around your back, and you make a tiny delighted sound when he lifts you. You're immediately curling into his chest while Bruce shoulders the car door shut, your heels dangling from two fingers of his free hand and clinking softly together beneath you.

Your head drops beneath his chin during the walk inside, his cologne faded enough that you mostly smell Bruce underneath it. By the time he reaches the elevator, you've already started sliding lower in his arms, so he adjusts you higher against his chest with a quiet sigh.

The elevator doors open to reveal a young couple already inside. Bruce steps in, presses your floor with one knuckle, and offers them the same polite nod he would anyone else while you softly sing something into his shirt. One of your heels slips against his knuckles, and he catches it before it falls, long fingers easily gathering both shoes again. The couple glance at him, then at you, then at him again.

"Is that Bruce Wayne?" one of them whispers.

Bruce stares ahead.

Thirty seconds.

He can survive thirty seconds.

You lift your head, blinking blearily at absolutely nothing before your gaze finally settles on the couple. Bruce leans closer, his mouth nearly brushing your ear.

"Give them a wave."

You brighten immediately, your hand emerging from beneath his coat to wave far too enthusiastically at them. Bruce has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his expression straight, but there's no hiding the faint crinkle beside his blue eyes.

It isn't fun playing the serious man all the time.

At your apartment, he shifts you higher against one hip and digs through your purse with his other hand.

"No snooping," you mumble. "I keep all my possessions in there."

"I bought you this purse and pay your rent. I'm allowed to snoop."

"Still, it's the principle."

Bruce simply nods, despite the smile gracing his face as he looks away.

"Understood."

The second your feet touch the apartment floor, you make for the fridge. Bruce catches the cheap bottle of wine before you do.

"One glass? Might as well since you're here, you know?" You bait.

"No."

"Half?"

Bruce removes his coat from around your shoulders and hangs it over the back of a chair, giving you one flat look over his shoulder.

"Water."

That shuts you up for approximately three seconds while he saunters off toward the bathroom to turn on the shower, knowing full well it'll take exactly eight minutes for the hot water to actually work.

The shower is cramped enough that Bruce has to turn sideways just to pull the curtain closed, his shoulders nearly brushing either wall as your shampoo bottles knock against his elbow when he reaches for one. He catches it before it tumbles and pours some into his palm.

"Turn."

You obey with surprising seriousness, and Bruce works the shampoo into your hair, thick fingers massaging slowly against your scalp while you continue talking about your friends, your job, a dog you saw earlier, and how unfairly handsome he is. You sway once, and his hand immediately catches your hip.

"Careful."

"I'm standing."

His eyes drop pointedly to your feet before lifting back to your face.

"Barely."

He guides you beneath the spray, one palm cupping the back of your head while the other shields your eyes from the suds. Water flattens his dark hair against his forehead, making the silver strands more obvious now.

You blink water from your lashes and squint up at him.

"You're really pretty."

His hands pause.

"Pretty?"

You reach up and poke the crease between his brows.

"You'd be prettier if you stopped doing that. You'll get wrinkles."

Bruce catches your hand before you can poke him again; he presses his mouth against the inside of your wrist. Once. Twice. Then a third little kiss because you're watching him with such open fondness that it makes his chest pull tight.

"Noted."

Your cheek finds his chest while Bruce rocks the two of you slowly side to side beneath the water, his chin briefly resting against the top of your head. Soap trails down between you until you eventually tilt your face up expectantly.

Bruce looks down.

One chaste kiss.

Then another against your forehead.

Afterward, Bruce wraps you in the largest towel you own. He guides you toward the closed toilet lid with both palms settled around your hips.

"Sit."

"I can stand."

You sway.

Bruce catches you under the arms before gravity can prove otherwise. His expression doesn't change.

"Sit."

You sit.

He crouches in front of you and dries your legs while you attempt to tell him something extremely important about your coworker's divorce. By the time you're in pajamas, you're brushing your teeth with one hand and pointing toward the kitchen with the other.

"I could still have wine."

Bruce watches toothpaste foam gather at the corner of your mouth.

"You could."

You brighten.

"You won't."

Your expression falls immediately.

You rinse your mouth, step out of the bathroom, and nearly walk directly into the doorframe. Bruce catches your elbow and redirects you without breaking stride.

"Convincing argument."

On the couch, he pours you water instead.

At first, you sit beside him. Then your legs creep across his lap. Five minutes later, you've somehow rotated sideways, and another five after that you're crawling completely on top of him, settling your entire weight against his chest like that had been the plan from the beginning. Bruce doesn't comment. He merely adjusts beneath you, one broad shoulder sinking deeper into the couch before his arm circles your waist and draws you securely against him, your cheek finding the hollow beneath his collarbone while your fingers occasionally play with the hairs on his chest.

Some movie you'd been talking about for weeks plays quietly across the room, although you spend most of it interrupting important scenes to explain things Bruce could have understood perfectly well himself. He doesn't stop you. He strokes his thumb slowly along your back instead, kisses your temple whenever you tilt your face toward him, and quietly takes the water glass from your hand when your fingers start going slack around it.

Bruce glances at the clock over your shoulder.

10:03.

Another twenty minutes and you'll be completely out. Plenty of time to get you into bed and still make patrol.

At 10:11, you're still explaining the movie. At 10:17, you stop halfway through a sentence.

Bruce looks down.

Your breathing has evened out, mouth slightly open against his skin, one fist loosely curled into the fabric of the blanket. His hand stills against your back. For a moment, Bruce just looks at you

Then they shift toward the window.

Toward the dark Gotham skyline beyond it. You need him, and so does she.

He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back. You stir when he lifts you, forehead bumping softly beneath his jaw.

"Bruce?"

His hold tightens instinctively.

"I'm here."

That seems to satisfy you, your head dropping back against his shoulder.

That's why he brings you here.

Not the manor. Definitely not his bedroom, where the bed is big enough for every bad decision Bruce spent the drive refusing to make.

Your apartment is much safer.

Mostly because he hates your mattress, a full-sized bed you'd somehow managed to cram into your one-bedroom apartment in downtown Gotham, where Bruce has to turn sideways just to maneuver around the bedroom and not end up bruised.

He lowers you carefully onto the patterned sheets, but your hand immediately catches his sleeve, causing him to stop for a beat. His eyes soften as he gently pries your fingers loose one at a time and tucks your hand beneath the blanket, then pulls the covers higher around your shoulders. His phone buzzes quietly in his pocket.

Patrol.

He checks the time, then sets an alarm.

3:00 a.m.

Enough time to finish what needs doing and return before you inevitably wake up needing to pee, throw up, drink half the sink, or start drunkenly wondering where he went.

Bruce bends down, one hand braced against the bed beside your head, and presses one kiss into your hair, then another against your forehead.

By morning, you'll be miserable.

Bruce already knows the routine. Water waiting on the nightstand. Painkillers beside it. Breakfast ordered before you're fully awake.

And when you finally crack one eye open and groan at the sunlight, he'll already be beside you again, hair slightly disheveled from patrol and brushing yours away from your face and kissing your forehead like he hadn't spent half the night questioning whether he should just offer to move you into his place.

It'd be less of a hassle.

But temptation all the same.