Notes: Quite possible the strongest actual porn that I've written in this pairing up till now. Which doesn't say much, but hey. Anxious to see what you guys think.
Two days after the coffee shop, and after the restroom, is the day of the grand fundraiser for the rebuilding of the Gotham General. Bruce almost doesn't go. He knows that Jim got roped into attending, the commissioner had muttered something about that to Batman, few nights ago, and Bruce doesn't know if it isn't too soon. Being accused of stalking would be the least of his problems, he's been accused of much worse.
But it's getting too complicated, even for him. He thinks too much about Jim, and the mere fact that he started slipping and calling him Jim in his thoughts confirms that he's in over his head.
But he had already confirmed his attendance, and, well, it's Gotham General. It would be different if he had an excuse of Batman being needed somewhere, but the city has been quiet for the last few days, and there's nothing urgent and pressing. Damn.
He ties and reties his bow-tie three times before he gets the knot even remotely correct, but the moment he emerges out of his bedroom, Alfred tuts quietly, and sets into redoing the knot himself, making a point of not saying anything. Bruce is pretty sure the butler guesses the cause of his anxiety, and really, really hopes that all he has is a general idea, and that his omniscience doesn't extend to the more sordid details of the entire thing. He's not comfortable with Alfred reading his mind and getting visuals from the bathroom. Or the car, or the elevator. Yes, it is worse than he thought, but then again, it usually is.
He gets into the party fashionably late without even trying, and the moment he enters his gaze immediately finds Gordon. He's talking to the new Assistant DA, probably discussing work, because he looks surprisingly comfortable and relaxed, even in the slightly ill-fitted tux. Bruce picks up a champagne glass from a passing tray, and lets himself be pulled into a conversation the Mayor, his wife, and few others, and tries his best not to cast glances into the general direction of the city's commissioner.
But casting glances or not, he can still see Jim out of the corner of his eye, and knows exactly when Gordon turns to look at him. He half expects the annoyance to make a grand come back, but there's no even a hint of it, Jim's face is completely calm and composed. The look he sports is oddly familiar, and only after a moment does Bruce place it, he had seen it before, but never as Bruce Wayne. It's the one from the crime scene and hostage situations when the risk has been assessed, and no matter how fucked up the situation is, at least Jim is ready for whatever it holds.
Bruce isn't sure what he classifies as, in this scheme, is he a suspect, or a puzzle, but the sensation of having that look concentrated on him is overwhelming.
Gordon holds his gaze for just a second longer than polite and necessary, then nods lightly, and turns back to his conversation.
The party drags for what seems like hours, but is probably just minutes. Bruce goes through the tedious small talk, dropping just enough of outrageous comments to cement his reputation, such as it is. Sometime at the end of his lengthy tirade about the speed limits and traffic lights, he's conscious of Gordon joining the group, nodding at Garcia and a few others. Bruce turns to him with a wide smile and a sweeping gesture of his hand.
"What do you think, commissioner, could something be done about the limits?" he asks cheerfully, and Jim puts on a decent show of frowning, his eyes serious and fixed on Bruce.
"If you're that tired of obeying traffic laws, I suggest you switch to some other means of transport. Could I suggest a chopper? Much less risk of crashing into somebody else," he adds pointedly, and draws a few polite laughs from those gathered around Bruce.
Bruce raises his champagne glass in a silent salute, and the liquid swirls in it, almost spilling. "It was just two cars, I don't see what the big deal is," he says defensively, and more people laugh, just as falsely. Gordon doesn't even smile, just keeps on watching Bruce, and one can almost see that brain working furiously, picking at the problem in front of him.
The conversation turns into the condition of the roads, and from there, somehow into stock prices, and Bruce doesn't pay much attention, except to offer a flippant comment or two. Gordon had excused himself to make a call, then never rejoined the group, getting pulled into another conversation in the far off corner. Bruce makes a point of not staring, and doesn't even look in Gordon's direction, but he's still constantly aware where Jim is and whom he's talking to.
He sort of hopes he's not imagining it, but Gordon seems similarly distracted, the slightly curious look on his face, like the ones he gets when he's staring at the evidence or crime scene reports well after hours. Not that Bruce was even looking in that direction.
Two hours into the party, which is much longer than Bruce thought Gordon would stand, and close to Bruce's own limit, he's coming out of the bathroom stall, adjusting his jacket, and Gordon is standing by the sink, washing his hands. Bruce thinks, a little smugly, that Gordon was talking to one of the city council members when Bruce left the ballroom, so at least this time he wasn't the one following people into elevators and bathrooms. He also thinks that they should stop meeting in elevators or bathrooms. Even the car was better.
"Mr. Wayne," Gordon acknowledges, and apparently they're back to pleasantries, which doesn't seem good. The honorific doesn't sound right at all either, and Bruce think he preferred the angry condescension of 'Wayne'.
"Jim," he shoots back cheerfully, reaching to push the soap dispenser, watching Gordon in the mirror. The casual use of the man's name makes him tense briefly, a flash of something that might be annoyance in his eyes, replaced quickly by a calm of figuring something out. It's all gone in an instant, but Bruce hadn't imagined it. He doesn't like it, thinks he had preferred the anger, as at least the anger leads somewhere highly pleasurable if just a tad dangerous.
For a while there's just the sound of running water as Bruce washes his hands, then dries them off. Jim is looking somewhere to the side, as if the delicate patterns on the wallpaper were the most interesting thing under the sun. Bruce is half tempted to just push him against the wall, have his turn in reducing Jim to a trembling mess, pushing into Bruce's hands, maybe his mouth, yes, that would do nicely. But a restroom of an expensive hotel hosting the Mayor's benefit isn't quite the same as a bathroom in a coffee shop, with its stained walls and graffiti.
"I was just going to get away from here," Jim says, his voice sounding surprisingly loud after the silence, and Bruce looks up sharply. He considers pretending to misunderstand, maybe getting a frustrated huff in return, but it would be counterproductive.
"I was thinking of doing the same, but I've sent my driver home," he lies, and the small smirk on Jim's face tells him that he's as transparent as he thought he was. "Could I trouble you for a ride home once again, commissioner?" he asks politely, and neither of them pretends to believe in that excuse.
Jim hesitates for a briefest of seconds, then nods his agreement. They leave in an almost companionable silence which sees them through to Gordon's car and then some time later, in spite of the slightly too loud engine. Gordon's driving faster than the last time Bruce had been in his car, though not by much; he stays well within the speed limits.
Bruce watches how Jim's fingers close around the wheel, pale against black, and thinks how surreal this is. It didn't feel that odd before, even though it probably should have, but then they were driven by adrenaline and frustration. It's different now. Jim's hand twitches slightly, moves down the side of the wheel as if in caress, and Bruce wills him to step on the gas, because they're not close enough to the penthouse yet.
Then, as he glances outside at the buildings they pass, he realises they're not going to the penthouse at all, but are already halfway to Jim's house. Bruce thinks of pointing it out, making a show out of questioning Gordon's intentions, but at this point he's not entirely sure Jim wouldn't just tell him to get out of the car and leave him on the side of the road. He still almost does question him, just to see the reaction.
And it at least saves him the pretending to ask Jim up for a cup of coffee, and the questions Alfred is bound not to ask.
"Come on, Wayne," Jim says, turning off the ignition, and he gives the name an almost playful tone, light and flippant, and Bruce thinks that it's just as it should sound.
"You know, Jim, I've never pegged you for an impatient type," he lies. He had seen Gordon on stakeouts and on the sidelines of hostage situation, the man fidgets and gets anxious if he can't do something about the situation, and fast.
Now, the moment the doors close behind them, Jim pushes him against the hall's wall, Bruce's head hitting the coat rack rather painfully. His fingers impatiently tug at Bruce's shirt, pulling it out of his pants. When his fists close on the material, pushing it up, the veins on the back of his hands become more visible under the skin.
Bruce bites at his lower lip, his tongue forcing Jim's mouth open, sneaking inside. Jim's hands rest on his sides, his whole body pressing against him. Two fingers trace a long scar right above Bruce's belt, but Jim doesn't pull back in surprise, doesn't look up questioningly, as Bruce expected him to. Maybe the heat of the moment finally took over the cop instincts, or maybe Jim just doesn't care what billionaire playboys do with their time that might cause injuries.
Somehow Bruce doesn't think it's that.
"Jim," he says, breathless, as Jim's mouth move along the side of his neck, leaving a wet trail, his mustache tickling the tense skin as Bruce's head falls back, eyes closing.
Jim doesn't answer, but his fingernail scratches at the scar, hard enough that Bruce groans, and bites at his own lip, tasting copper. His hips move on their own, thrusting into Jim, and a hand rests on his side, steadying him.
It would be easy to just stay like this, completely pliable as if his bones had turned into liquid, as Jim pushes his hand inside Bruce's pants, but Bruce figures it should be his turn now, that he owes Jim something for the bathroom. He pushes himself away from the wall, using the momentum to turn them around, to have Jim pressed against the door, the protesting moan indicating that his back had a rather unfortunate meeting with the doorknob.
"Wayne," Jim says, and it's both a warning and a plea, and Bruce ignores both, sinking to his knees, tugging at Jim's pants none too gently. Jim rests his hand on Bruce's head, seemingly for balance, then the hand slides lower, fingers tangling in the soft hair at the back of Bruce's neck, tilting his head up.
Jim's glasses are askew, and as he looks down over the rims, his eyes are unfocused and clouded. There's a wonder and recognition in his eyes as Bruce takes out his swelling cock, palm sliding across the heated skin.
"You've thought about this, haven't you?" he asks, and his voice comes out a little bit lower than intended, and Jim shudders, the tip of his dick pressing against Bruce's lips as he guides his head closer.
"Yes," he says, a flat-out admission that Bruce hadn't quite expected. He tugs off his glasses, haphazardly placing them on the hall table, and closing his eyes for a long moment, his breathing harsh and shallow, but when he opens his eyes again, they're clearer and fully fixed on Bruce. It's disconcerting, and incredibly hot. "Do you like the idea? Me getting off to the thought of your mouth on my cock?"
Bruce groans, and parts his lips finally, his tongue sliding across the tip, right before he takes Jim deep in, his dick heavy and perfect. Jim's fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, the start of what he was saying turning into a drawn out moan. Bruce looks up, watching Jim's face, the concentration as he tries to gather his thoughts, the intensity as he watches Bruce's mouth slide along his cock.
"Look at you," he says, his vowels carefully enunciated. His tone is warm and approving, and it goes straight to Bruce's dick, as if he wasn't hard enough. "Look at you take it."
Bruce groans around Jim's cock, reaching out to stop him from pulling away as he shudders and comes. Bruce moves away only then, licking his lips, and Jim keeps his eyes closed, palm flat on the wall for balance, head bowed as he tries to keep his breathing under control.
Bruce pulls himself up, using the pretense of regaining balance to place his hand on Jim's side, fingers lightly spread in the folds of his jacket.
"You could at least take that off," he suggests, smiling, and Jim looks at him in some surprise. Only when the line on his face smoothen, and his shoulders relax, is Bruce able to tell there was any sort of tension. Apparently he's not as good at reading the commissioner as he was thinking himself to be. "You have coffee?" he asks, stepping back, and Jim is rolling his eyes, and tucking his dick back in, which is a most interesting combination.
"Something might be found," Jim offers, and it's as much of an invitation as Bruce is going to get. He heads towards the kitchen, not waiting for Jim, who follows him, slightly bemused. Bruce finds the mugs and the coffee, and generously measures out the spoonfuls, watching as Jim walks in, taking off his jacket, hanging it over the back of the chair, along with his bow tie, which he eases off with a silky sound. With a rather relieved expression he unbuttons the top of his shirt. His movements are matter-of-fact and efficient, not designed to do anything but make him comfortable, and Bruce thinks he might be panting at the sight, almost tempted to forego the coffee.
But this feels good, too, the soft smile Jim sends him as he puts his glasses back on and runs his hand through his hair. Bruce can exercise a little patience, it's bound to pay off, soon.