i’ve got a thing that the girls dont have —

bruce is spent after a long night of fighting small time crooks, the indentation of his cowl still resting over the skin of his cheeks. he’s halfway through taking his gloves off when you walk into the batcave, the robe he’d gifted you for your fourth anniversary looking far too nice on your figure for his current tired liking.

exhausted out of his mind, he seeks the comfort of your warmth, bringing you into the tightest hug he can muster when his muscles are strained and bones feel like they’ll pop out of their sockets. it’s a sign enough for you to help him undress.

he could take care of himself, but for goodness’s sake, he was an old man now! —- if salt-and-pepper hair deemed him as such. out of his late thirties with joint problems and the awful sting in the neck from a particular fight against bane years ago, getting the suit off could be troublesome.

you work the gloves off his fingers, a sigh of relief leaving bruce’s lips when the hot material slips from his aching skin. pressing kisses to the tips of every digit and then the palm, you move to the utility belt, shortly discarded on the nearby table along with the gloves.

“thank you, my dear,” he whispers, a rasp underlying in his words. you cup the side of his neck and kiss the edge of what seems like the pressure line of his cowl still marked near his jaw. his breath hitches, taken aback by the tenderness of your actions, although anything but unfamiliar.