A/N: Remember yesterday, when I said that the parts will be coming out less often? Clearly, I lied. *headdesks*
Bruce walks for three blocks before he signals a passing taxi, which is roughly the amount of time it takes him to get rid of the litany ringing in his ears: what the hell were you thinking? He wasn't, mostly.
But it's fine, he's fine, and by the time he gets to the penthouse, he's no longer thinking about Jim Gordon.
Alfred looks up when Bruce walks in, and draws himself up in that certain way that implies that Bruce is in serious trouble, but of course, Alfred won't even mention it. Well, not straightforwardly at least.
"At least I knew you weren't dead, newspapers would have reported that," he says dryly, and Bruce feels a pang of guilt that translates well into irritation.
"Just leave it. You're not my..." he pauses before he can finish, before Alfred's face can register any pain or disappointment. "I'm sorry. I should have called," he says quietly, and Alfred nods briskly.
"You should have, sir," and he leaves it at that. Or, doesn't leave it at that, because after a moment, a cup of steaming tea is placed by Bruce's elbow, along with a plateful of biscuits. It's a typical display of Alfred's comfort, and Bruce is strangely grateful for that, and for the lack of any subsequent questions. Especially since he doesn't even know why the hell he's so disappointed.
After all, he hadn't expected anything from this, whatever it was, beyond the obvious and pleasurable. Thinking about it leads nowhere, so he doesn't think about it all that much, apart from a passing thought when he's on the verge of falling asleep, and he remembers the way Jim's hand felt on his dick. Other than that, not all that much.
Days pass, as they're bound to, and he goes to the gala hosted to raise money to save the opera building or whatnot, he hadn't paid that much attention to the invitation, and wrote the suitable check not thinking much about it. Gordon doesn't show up, which is not surprising at all.
Bruce goes home with Amanda, who doesn't seem to have a last name, and is apparently one of those girls who are famous for being famous. She also gives one hell of a blowjob, smiling just a tad wickedly when her fingers slide lower, gently pressing inside him as she takes him deep into her mouth. He might have muttered the wrong name just then, before pulling her to her feet and fucking her hard against the wall, skirt hiked up around her waist.
She smiles at him after, and writes her private number on her business card, with a tired expression of someone going through the motions, knowing full well he wouldn't call. "But hey, if you have a moment at some shindig, I could use a photo opportunity. I'm trying to launch a clothing line," she tells him dryly, small smile tugging at her lips, and he laughs. Honesty, always unexpected, and always refreshing.
He can count the honest and the direct people in his life on the fingers of one hand, and still have enough fingers for a peace sign. If he was the type to show peace signs, which he's most certainly not. But counting them leads inevitably to thinking of Jim Gordon, and he's most certainly not thinking of him.
It gets a little more difficult to not think of Gordon two days later, when he sees the man face to face, or cowl to face. Jim comes into the room before any of his men, which is not a typical commissioner behaviour but is certainly a typical Jim Gordon behaviour. Upon seeing Batman he lowers his gun and reaches for the radio, signaling an all-clear and sending everyone to the other rooms.
"Found anything?" he asks Batman, placing his piece back in his holster, looking around searchingly.
Bruce shrugs, indicating the painting on the wall. It's an incredibly ugly painting, but what matters is the safe behind it. Jim hesitates before moving in its direction, watching Batman for a long moment.
"How you've been?" he asks finally, a smile pulling at his mouth, as if he recognises how ridiculous the question is.
The moment stretches as Bruce wonders if he should answer, knowing that Jim doesn't really expect it. "Fine," he says finally. "You shoulder?" he shoots back. He had seen the short scrap from the window, debating whether he should intervene, dozen or so SWAT officers be damned, but Jim pulled himself up quickly, punching the guy right out, leaving him behind for Stephens to handcuff.
"Fine," Jim says, and he might be laughing underneath that mustache, it's usually hard to tell. His radio perks up and he reaches for it, barking orders, and when he looks up, he shakes his head, staring at the place where Batman stood just seconds ago. "Typical," he says to himself, and Bruce stays just long enough to see him make his way to the painting, muttering something about the ugliness of it and the interior design habits of drug dealers not being what it used to be.
Later that night he walks the length of Jim's street three times before he climbs the stairs leading onto the porch. When Jim opens the doors, old t-shirt and slacks, holding an ice-pack to his shoulder, Bruce doesn't remember what he wanted to say, and wishes that he went with his first idea and actually rehearsed the opening line.
Jim, however, just moves to the side, inviting him in wordlessly. "Rough night?" he asks finally, indicating the slightly rumpled black tux and undone tie that Bruce is sporting. He had thankfully planned this far ahead, much to Alfred's silent amusement when Bruce ransacked the bags prepared for dry-cleaning. It might be overdoing it, but he's obviously not thinking very clearly, so he may just as well give in.
"You can say that," he offers, and looks pointedly at the ice pack Jim is holding. "As was yours, I see."
It wasn't intended to be funny, but Jim snorts, biting his lip as if reluctant to share the joke. "I hardly think our experiences would be comparable, Mr Wayne."
That's what he thinks, Bruce muses. "Oh, I don't know, some of the things that happened at the party, I'm pretty sure they're illegal in at least a few states."
"The important thing is, Mr Wayne, are they illegal in this state?"
"I wouldn't know," Bruce drawls, leaning back in his chair, and wondering what's the requisite amount of small talk he's supposed to go through before he can kiss Jim.
"I should probably offer you a cup of coffee," Jim says slowly, and doesn't move, just watches Bruce. "But I don't think you're here for that."
Of course he's not. He might not know exactly why he is here, but it's not for the coffee. He might be here because now even seeing commissioner Gordon on a crime scene, having the full benefit of the Batman persona to hide behind, makes him want to kiss Jim. It's well past getting it out of his system, and well into the territory of getting his fix whenever he can.
"Bruce?" Jim asks, interrupting his thoughts, and Bruce glances up, and from the look Jim gives him, surprised and breathless, he figures out that for a brief moment he might have forgotten to put up the defenses. "Come on, Bruce," Jim's voice is low, the use of Bruce's name wonderfully intimate, as he moves to stand up and reach out, pulling Bruce up.
They stand close enough for their breaths to mix, for Jim's mustache to tease Bruce's lips.
"Why am I here?" he asks, and he doesn't really expect an answer, not from Jim, and probably not from himself.
But he does get an answer of sorts, when Jim moves closer, the kiss he drags Bruce into, fingers on the back of his neck, completely different than all the kisses before. Softer, and slower, and not unlike an answer to a long riddle. It might not be a straight answer, but it's an invitation to find out, and Bruce returns the kiss hungrily.
Jim's fingers are cold from the ice pack he's been holding, sliding down Bruce's neck like a shiver. They get to the bedroom somehow, only crashing into the kitchen counter once on their way, leaving a trail of clothes like bread-crumbs, and somewhere between losing his shirt and his shoes, Bruce had lost the last of his coherent thoughts.
Jim takes his time, mapping Bruce's body intimately, his touch as different as the kiss was. As he slides lower, right before he takes Bruce's dick into his mouth, Bruce runs his fingers through Jim's hair, encouraging him to look up.
"Why am I here, Jim?" he asks, and he doesn't fucking care if he sounds insane, or needy, or whatever. There are some layers to the question even he doesn't quite comprehend.
"You tell me," Jim says quietly, warm air of his breath against Bruce's cock, a strange sensation but a welcome one. His fingernails dig into Bruce's thigh, leaving crescent marks behind. After that, it's just darkness, wet and warm, as Bruce's brain shuts up completely, as he pumps his hips up, steadied by Jim's hands.
"Have you figured it out yet?" Jim asks later, when they're laying side by side, breathing slowly subsiding.
Bruce watches the ceiling, the small crack that in time will spread. When he closes his eyes, after a long moment, he can still see the crack under his eyelids, like an echo. "Figured out what?" he asks, feigning ignorance, and willing Jim not to push. For heaven's sake, what you say when your dick is rock hard and you're about to get some shouldn't be discussed later, everybody knows that.
"Why you're here," Jim supplies, and sometimes, just sometimes, Bruce hates his tendency to treat any conversation as if it was an interrogation.
"No idea," he drawls cheerfully, and the wide smile that accompanies this statement physically hurts.
He doesn't even need to turn to look at Jim, from under his half-closed lids, glancing sideways, he can still see enough of the disappointment. He runs through the usual suspects of reasons: they shouldn't, it's better that way, it's safer, it's easier, it's safer. He still has time to back off and walk away unscathed.
"I think you should leave, then," Jim tells him, and he almost doesn't sound like he's angry. Surprisingly, the annoyance doesn't seem so attractive now.
"I guess I should," he says and moves to dress up, not looking back. "It's been great, we have to do that again sometime," he says, and it sounds like a line, and that's because it is, it's the same one Bruce Wayne had given Amanda, and Mary, and the girl from two weeks ago, whatshername.
When he steps out of the house, closing the doors behind him with care, the air is colder than he expected.