Prompt: Gordon chastises Wayne for being an irresponsible playboy. It turns Bruce on.
Notes: I went with the first from the list of prompts, and it turned into a much longer story that I'm not going to manage to finish before the deadline. So, here's the first part (could be a stand-alone, but it's not going to be ;D), and I should be writing the rest soon. I really blame you, for another series on my hands. I also blame you for the fact that I intend to write most of the other prompts, too. I hope you're pleased. ;D Happy New Year :).
When he thinks about it later, he had acted irresponsibly, but probably not in the ways Gordon had meant when he said so, his voice quiet and yet angry. Probably not angry at Bruce, as such, you have to care to get angry, and up till this point his interactions with the new commissioner had been few and far between, if one didn't count Batman, and Gordon definitely didn't, for the simple reason of not knowing about Bruce being the masked vigilante.
Bruce can't tell for sure what brought this on, from Gordon's end of things, but he can guess, and guess pretty damn well. It's been a difficult few weeks at the police department, the administration hadn't yet recovered from Loeb's death, and Gordon was already making further changes, furiously reviewing every personnel file. Ramirez had been the first one fired, or maybe she had resigned, the office gossip wasn't sure about this one, and it's not exactly like Batman could ask Jim Gordon himself. Some things they didn't talk about, in fact, lots of things they didn't talk about. She had been the first, but she certainly wasn't the last. Batman did his part, making sure every scrap of information on possible illegal dealings of any member of the Gotham's finest made it way to Gordon.
It makes for a better PD Department, but it definitely doesn't improve Gordon's mood. The fact that his wife and kids go on extended winter holidays to Chicago probably doesn't either. Officially, neither Bruce nor Batman know about this last part. Officially, neither Bruce nor Batman know about a lot of things, but somehow, they do, he does.
He knows that Gordon kept the office at the MCU not only because, as he claims, the one in the city hall still makes him feel like he's waiting for his boss to tear him a new one, but because, at MCU, he can go upstairs whenever he wants, up the narrow staircase, to the roof with a now broken light, lean against the railing and watch the city, and then look up, to the sky not marred with any signs, just dark clouds. Batman hadn't showed up there for weeks, and he's not going to, but Gordon still waits up, even though they have other places to meet. None offers such a good view of the city, though.
The penthouse had an even better view, from much higher up, and a nice 360 degrees at that, and not even an hour ago he had been standing by the window, fixing up his tie, and reluctantly awaiting the arrival of the first guests. About five minutes later he was already in the garage, starting the ignition of the new Ferrari, bought to replace the damaged Lamborghini. Sometimes before that, Alfred had came in, worry on his face as he switched on the news for Bruce to see.
In hindsight, it would have been more logical to pause, change into the suit perhaps, but he had been wary of making the appearances as Batman, especially in places where so many cops could be found. In hindsight, he might have just left the matter alone; Gotham's police could probably deal with it well enough, but not without some casualties, and right now, casualties were unacceptable. He had vowed that no one else would die if he could help it in any way.
In hindsight, however, everything seems much simpler, that's mostly the point.
Ten minutes after the car rolled onto the street, and fifteen minutes after he had tried to smooth down his tie, he's sitting down on the concrete pavement, the wound on his head looked at by an ME, and he watches Gordon bark orders to the officers. Another car down, Alfred won't be pleased, but at least it had been the only casualty this evening. Of course, whatever he's going to hear from Alfred, it might be nothing compared to what Gordon would like to say, judging from the looks he keeps throwing Bruce.
"Thank you, you're a miracle worker," Bruce tells the ME, who blushes and walks away, shaking her head. Maybe the drawl and the leer was overdone, but he has a concussion, he thinks, and setting the playboy routine on just the right level proves to be challenging.
Gordon nods at Detective Stephens, apparently giving him the lead over the chaos that is the crime scene, and walks up to where Bruce is sitting. He doesn't look all that pleased, his mustache covering the tight set of his mouth, biting back the words he's dying to say.
"Come on, Mr Wayne, we should get you home before your guests start to worry," he says instead, managing to keep most of his irritation from colouring his voice, or showing up on his face, but Bruce had seen him go through almost all emotions, he can tell what he's feeling now. "We really need to stop meeting like this, too," he adds, as if he had prepared the line earlier, in an attempt to have something to say.
"You could always just show up at one of the fundraisers," Bruce says lightly. He knows damn well that Gordon was invited to the function tonight, and knows just as well that the man had no intention of attending.
"One of these days, Mr Wayne," Gordon lies, and waits until Bruce gets into the car before walking around it and getting in himself. Bruce wonders briefly why Gordon didn't order some unlucky rookie to drive him home in a squad car, but that's probably because Gordon doesn't trust him not to cause another accident tonight, even if all the accidents so far had been enormously helpful to the police.
Gordon's fingers close tightly around the wheel, enough for his knuckles to whiten. He's probably thinking he has better things to do than escorting home billionaires who had just crashed their second car this month. Something twists in Bruce's stomach, warm and surprising, and he can't identify the feeling, but it's not unpleasant. Surprising, yes, but not unpleasant.
"Can this car go any faster?" Bruce asks cheerfully, and honestly, he hadn't thought this through, which might be blamed on the concussion, or the fact that Gordon is driving at a snail's pace. Bruce wonders if this is really the same guy who drove the truck that Joker was shooting a bazooka at.
Gordon doesn't answer for a very long moment, but his mouth works under the mustache, as he bites his lower lip. It's kind of... no, Bruce hadn't thought about that, not at all. But the warm feeling in his stomach is back, and it's spreading lower, and his dick is starting to take notice. It's just wonderful, and he almost bangs his head against the window, but it wouldn't be helpful, considering the concussion, not helpful at all.
Really, if he got off on disapproval, he would be in great trouble with Alfred, and he's not even thinking about that one. Although, thinking about it does relieve the situation a bit, and he's mostly able to get his treacherous dick under some semblance of control.
Gordon still doesn't answer, but the car, almost imperceptibly, slows down even more, and Bruce bites back a scathing comment. Irritating the good commissioner even further could prove quite unhealthy, or at least, very stupid, judging from how, well, attractive the mild annoyance was. This really was most inconvenient. So instead of commenting, Bruce stares outside of the window, at the buildings they pass. Gordon isn't inclined to disrupt the silence either, and a good three minutes pass before Bruce realises that he's not upholding his public image at all, demonstrating that he can be quiet and considerate. This wouldn't do, not with someone as perceptive as Gordon.
"I really don't know what the fuss is all about, you know?" he drawls, leaning back in the seat, gesturing widely with his hand. Gordon doesn't even spare him a glance, but that doesn't matter. "I was just trying not to be late to my own party for once. Not my fault your people had all this blockade thing going on."
The car pulls into the underground garage of the apartment complex, and Gordon is still silent, even though he does get the look uncannily similar to the one Alfred gets when he's trying really hard not to say something, and usually ending up saying it anyway. It's not an attractive look by any means, but somehow it is on Gordon.
"Thank you for the ride, commissioner. Next time, we should put the light on, this would be hilarious," he winks in his well-practiced way, and reaches for the door handle, when a humorless snort from Gordon stops him.
"Is it all just fun to you, Wayne?" he asks, and Bruce turns, covering his surprise with a look of pleasant interest that he probably doesn't pull off all that well. He also wonders, briefly, where did 'Mr' go, but mostly, Gordon's tone, quiet and calm on the surface, hot and cold anger underneath, has him back to hard in the space of a second, and that's really, really not good. It shouldn't turn him on like this, the barely hidden disdain, but it means he got to Gordon, scratched something under his skin, and it's an intoxicating, heady feeling.
"What's the point of anything, if it's not fun?" he grins widely, shamelessly, and it only makes Gordon's eyes flash, more colour showing on his face, and Bruce is pretty damn sure that if he laid his fingers on the side of Gordon's neck, he would feel the blood racing in his veins, faintly visible under the skin.
"The blockade, Wayne, had been there for a reason, though I doubt you'd know this. It's a miracle you hadn't fucked the entire operation up, and made it out alive, but believe me when I tell you, this was not fun." His voice is almost shaking, the words come out jumbled, and Bruce thinks that the next step, if he says something foolish again, would be Gordon hitting him. This too shouldn't be tempting... He thinks of it briefly, Gordon's tight fist colliding with his jaw, leaving a mark for everyone to see.
He doesn't even notice when he moves, his lips covering Gordon's hungrily. Gordon's hand wanders to Bruce's shirt, tangling in the cloth, but before he pushes away, before he pulls away himself, anger turned into confusion, there's a moment where his lips soften, just briefly, but Bruce didn't imagine it, it was there. Interesting. And maddening, because then he does pull away, leaving Bruce panting, painfully straining against his pants.
"Better go to your guests, Mr Wayne."
'Mr' is back, and the anger is gone, and it's more of a disappointment than Bruce thought it would be. "You might be right, wouldn't want them to have too much fun without me," he says, shrugging, and gets out of the car, not looking back. Most inconvenient, and god, he really should stop by the bathroom before he actually joins his guests, because this might just be embarrassing.
The party, judging by the sounds, is in full swing, and hopefully Alfred had been distributing enough champagne to keep everyone cheerfully busy and away from the corridor leading to the bedroom. Bruce makes his way there, managing to avoid everyone but Alfred, who must have some sort of sixth sense or a weird sonar built in, because he emerges the moment Bruce steps out from the elevator, and gives him a disapproving look. And no, it doesn't have the same effect, thank heavens, so it's less of the disapproval thing, and more of a James Gordon thing. Which doesn't improve the situation much, but is a little bit less awkward than it would be otherwise.
He gives Alfred a 'not now' look and marches into his bedroom, closing the doors behind him, breathing out, back of his head banging against the solid wood of the doors. Probably not a good idea, adding to the concussion, but he really doesn't care. What he does care about is undoing his pants efficiently, taking out his cock and stroking fast, thinking of the way Gordon's fingers closed around the wheel, long fingers whitening, hands almost shaking from the tightness of the grasp.
He imagines these hands on his dick, hold almost as tight, as Gordon would lean closer, marking his throat with his teeth, grazing his jaw, hard enough to leave bruises for everyone to see, then finally moving to kiss Bruce, bite at his lower lip, maybe draw blood. He groans, working his cock faster, his whole body shaking from it, head once again falling against the door with a soft thud, everything going black for a long moment as he comes into his hand.
He washes his hands in the bathroom, and changes his pants. He spends few moments looking into the mirror, surveying the damage, the cut on his forehead, not as deep as it seemed before. His lips are swollen, he's not sure whether from the half-kiss with Gordon, or the way he bit them moments before, to keep himself from screaming as he came. His eyes are still wide and darkened, but that shouldn't matter, if anyone were to notice, they'd probably assume he was drunk or on drugs. Sometimes the reputation was slightly irritating but greatly useful. He runs his hand through his hair, it doesn't help much with their state, but the hellish mess is back in fashion, people pay fortunes to have them styled this way.
He ignores the look Alfred gives him as he joins the guests, smiling widely in greetings, not even bothering to excuse his late arrival. He says a few words about the cause and, mid-performance, snatches a glass of champagne from a passing tray, then joins the crowd as the music starts, twirling some blonde starlet around the floor a few times. On their second turn around the room he catches a surprising sight of one Jim Gordon, chatting comfortably with Mayor Garcia, and the sight literally stops him in his tracks.
"What is it?" Maria, or Mary, he's not sure, asks, and he shrugs, dropping an apologetic kiss on her cheek.
"There's someone I need to talk to, excuse me," he says, giving her one of the most winning smiles, and makes his way towards the commissioner, trying not to walk too fast. Gordon doesn't seem to even notice his presence, he continues telling Garcia of the pursuit of the evening, and why it would be good to have a few more cars at the PD disposal.
Somehow, with all the declined invitations, Bruce had assumed that Gordon would be uncomfortable at a party like this, but he doesn't seem to be. He has his work suit on, dark gray with a dark red tie, a stark contrast to all the tuxes and ball-gowns in the room, and yet he seems just as confident as on a crime scene, and this is most inconvenient, because Bruce thinks he could deal with a slightly uncomfortable Gordon, but right now his dick is once again taking notice, and that's, once more, not good.
"Ah, commissioner," he says pleasantly. "Now that's a surprise."
Gordon turns slowly, giving him a curious look, then shrugs, mostly for Garcia's sake, probably. "I've figured, if I was already here, I might just as well see what I've been missing."
"I'm sorry to hear about your car, Mr Wayne," Garcia says, trying to hide an amused smile, and Bruce is close to rolling his eyes. He's not entirely sure what Gordon had been telling him, probably the whole damn truth and nothing less. The crash was probably all over the news by now, but he could take whatever the reporters dished out, he wasn't sure if he was going to like the spin Gordon gave the entire thing.
"Oh, that," he says, waving his hand dismissively. "I needed an excuse to get a new one anyway," he adds, and Garcia laughs politely, because Bruce Wayne needing an excuse to buy a car is quite funny. Gordon doesn't even smile, just looks at Bruce for a long moment that seemed to stretch on forever.
Before anyone can say anything more, Garcia excuses himself, grimacing slightly as his wife signals him discreetly to come join her immediately. "Speaking of cars, commissioner," Bruce starts, calling up a polite guileless smile. "I have a few unjustified tickets that I wanted to talk to you about."
Gordon's look turns into slightly annoyed again, and has Bruce mentioned that this is highly inconvenient? Because, damn, it really is. "What are you playing at, Wayne?" he asks, and Bruce's breath catches in his throat, his mouth suddenly dry and lips parched. The 'Wayne' is back, low and almost growled, the annoyance is back with vengeance, aided by true anger. If Bruce thought Gordon had been angry before, now he's furious, his eyes cold and assessing, and it sends a fresh wave of desire straight to Bruce's groin.
"How about we talk outside?" he asks, gesturing at the balcony's doors with his champagne flute, and he can't keep the suggestive note from creeping into his voice. Bad choice. Gordon's eyes cloud a little bit more, darkening, his mouth setting into a tighter line.
"How about not," he suggests, far from pleasant. "I do not imagine what you're trying to achieve here, Wayne, but keep me out of it," he says, holding Bruce's eyes in warning gaze before turning and walking away, into the elevator, the button of which he pushes in with considerable force.
He apparently got what he came here for; telling Bruce to back the hell off. Which, apparently, had a rather opposite effect. Honestly, one of these days, Bruce swore, he was going to choose something that was easy and uncomplicated and good for his health. One of these days.
Now, he just stands there rather stupidly, the party going on behind him and without him, and he watches as Gordon tugs absently at his collar, watching the numbers on the elevator go up, before the doors swoosh open. Bruce moves fast, sliding into the elevator just as the doors close again, Gordon looking at him as if he was crazy. He probably is, so that's alright.
It's insane, he had seen Gordon angry before, he had even seen him angry at Bruce, well, Batman. For god's sake, he had Gordon pull a gun on him once, you didn't get angrier than that. But it wasn't this, not the chastisement and disapproval, not the stern tones and disappointed annoyance. It's more personal, hits close, gets under his skin and sends his pulse racing. It is rather insane, yes, but it feels quite fantastic.
"I'm not playing at anything," he says plainly, letting his defenses down enough to have his face speak for him, back up his words. "Fuck, I have no idea what I'm doing at all," he admits, laughing lightly at himself, and something shifts in Gordon's expression, changing into mild curiosity, a bit of wonder and confusion.
"What are you doing?" he asks, and Bruce shrugs, moving closer, this time taking a moment, just in case he was going to get punched after all. It doesn't happen, and few seconds later he's kissing Gordon again, fingers tangled in his air, making a mess of them. And the best part is, Gordon lets him, not yet responding, but the slight shift of his hips tells Bruce that this might be on the table yet, that this might happen. It's a tad terrifying, but in a rather good way.
"I think it's rather obvious what I'm doing," he mutters against Gordon's lips, and moves back into another kiss, but the doors are swinging open again, and when Bruce reaches to push the button that would close them again, Gordon still his hand, fingers tightening around his wrist, and fuck, that's good, too.
"You should get back to your guests," Gordon says, and steps out of the elevator, his serious expression completely disagreeing with the rather messy look he's sporting now, hair in mess and tie askew, but it doesn't lessen the conviction in his voice. It sounds final.
And Bruce would have probably bought it, if not for the fact that the condition of Gordon's pants was rather similar to the one he found himself in again; almost painfully hard. The doors closed again, and Bruce considered his options, and possible actions from this moment on. He had a rather sneaking suspicion that most of the plotting would have to wait until he had made another trip to the bathroom. Most inconvenient, Alfred will surely disapprove.