Batman drove home as if in pursuit of the deadliest criminal, forcing the car to its outermost limits. As soon as the Batmobile skidded to a halt near the edge of the carport, he tossed his gloves onto the passenger seat, pushed back his mask and swung around the car to face a beaming Alfred. Standing next to him, as Bruce knew she would be, was Martha.
"You got him!" she cried and catapulted jubilantly into his arms.
He could feel her legs wrap around the middle of his thighs and her soft lips brush against his in what he realized later was meant to be a quick, celebratory kiss. As soon as she started to draw away, Bruce plunged his fingers through her hair and pulled her back, pushing his tongue hungrily into her mouth as Martha’s whimper of surprised desire obliterated what little control he had left.
Her fingers painted lines of pleasure though his hair and along the back of his neck and they exchanged tortured kisses until Bruce felt the heel of her sneaker slip against his upper knee. Without taking his mouth from hers, he spun her up against the side of the car. Martha tightened her arms around his neck and moaned again, letting her head fall back onto the roof of the Batmobile so he could run his lips along her neck. He pressed against her in frustration as the suit that had protected him against Sean Fray now prevented him from feeling the firm warmth of her body.
His fingertips skimmed up the length of her hip and slid under the hem of her blouse, tentatively stroking the hot bare skin of her rippled stomach. Martha gasped and brushed her lips against his ear.
“Take this off,” she whispered, tugging at his tunic.
Fighting suits did not slip off like T-shirts. He would have had to let her go to remove it and he was not willing to do that.
“Rip it off,” he breathed, kissing her again. She hesitated and Bruce knew she was remembering the months of labor he’d put into building the suit. But he didn’t need it anymore – he needed to touch Martha with more than just his mouth and his hands. He hooked her fingers into the mesh tunic and gave them a small tug upward, wordlessly urging her to use her super-strength to tear the garment away.
But just as her hands tightened around the dense material, a plaintive voice broke across the cave, jarring them from the sweet haven they had drawn around themselves.
“Is it terribly important Commissioner Reardon?” asked Alfred, sounding as unhappy as Bruce had ever heard him, As the old man tottered reluctantly toward them, Bruce eased Martha back onto the stone floor and mutely held out his hand.
“Yeah,” he said quietly into the phone he had not heard ringing. All three of them stared at the ground.
It was nothing urgent. Reardon apparently felt she had not congratulated Batman enough for capturing the city’s most widely sought mass murderer. She had a few technical questions, but they were plainly an excuse for a prolonged round of verbal applause.
Bruce barely heard her.
“OK,” he said finally, in the same quiet voice.
Alfred snatched the phone out of Bruce’s hand as soon as he closed it. “You will not be disturbed again,” the butler vowed passionately and came as close as a 92-year-old man was able to dashing out of the room.
Bruce could not look at Martha and he could not speak. Only the soft rustling of a settling bat broke the raw silence.
Finally, she said, “You’ve changed your mind.”
“We… can’t,” he said.
Martha’s eyes dropped back to the floor. She wrapped her arms across her chest. “Why not?”
He pressed a hand to his eyes. “So many reasons.”
“I think I need you to list them,” she said. Her voice shook a little.
“I’ll give you three,” Bruce said. He knew them by heart. “I’m too old for you.”
She said nothing, so he continued. “Your fath –”
“Don’t bring my father into this,” Martha warned.
“Not because of
me and your father,” Bruce said. “What would being with me do to his relationship with you? And your mother…” He exhaled, closing his eyes against the image of a livid Lois. “I won’t come between you and your family.”
Martha gave an incredulous laugh. “You think they’d disown me?”
“I don’t know,” said Bruce. As she shook her head, he added, “I’ve screwed up every relationship I’ve ever had.”
“
You haven’t screwed all of them up,” Martha said pointedly. Apparently Alfred’s stories had not been restricted to Bruce’s boyhood antics.
“I’ve brought the women in my life a lot of pain,” Bruce continued. “I
can’t do that to you.” His face was anything but impassive. “Please, Martha," he said. "I've never had anything like this friendship.”
"But you're willing to give it up,” she said tonelessly. “In order to protect me from you.”
"Yes," he said miserably.
Martha was still for a moment. Bruce’s eyes lingered anxiously over her conflicted face.
“OK,” she said finally, clearly not agreeing with him. Her face tilted up in a half-hearted smile. “So – how do you want to celebrate?”
For a moment, Bruce wasn’t sure what she meant, and then he realized Martha was referring to his conquest of Fray. His leaden soul lightened. She wasn’t going to leave.
A little embarrassed, he asked, “Do you mind if I take a shower? I want –” He indicated the disheveled battle suit. “– to get out of this and –”
Martha laughed softly. “You go ahead. I’ll meet you upstairs.” As an afterthought, she added, “I hope you have a lot of chocolate up there.”
—