A/N: written for girl_on_moon's request for SWAT uniform sex. Went off in a totally different direction than intended, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
It's both surprising and really not unexpected, when Bruce Wayne shows up on Jim's doorstep.
He hadn't expected him so soon, that's true, and in any case, he thought it would be Batman in his office tomorrow, silent and distant even though the need for theatrics is gone. Not tonight, so soon that Jim had just got back himself, had done nothing but take off his overcoat and sit in the dark for just a moment before the knocking on the door interrupted his thoughts. Bruce looks worried, maybe even afraid, his skin tense around the eyes that Jim sees clearly for the first time, without the black paint, without the mask. Worried and anxious, as if he's expecting Jim to be angry or feel betrayed...
"Come on in," Jim says, moving aside, palm resting on the flat wooden surface as he holds the door ajar.
Surprise and shock now, and Jim feels no satisfaction on witnessing the emotions play across Bruce's face. He closes the door with exaggerated care, the soft click of the lock almost inaudible.
Bruce stands ind the corridor, wary and unsure, hands deep in his pockets, head bowed as if he found something really interesting on Jim's floor. He had time to change apparently, drive home and then again here in the same amount of time it took Jim to deal with the aftermath of the operation and then get home. Not entirely surprising, even with the long ride to the Wayne Manor, considering the way Batman usually drives. Or the way Bruce Wayne drives, for that matter.
Jim sighs and reaches to his collar, tugging to loosen it a little, but the uniform is unrelenting.
"Jim, I..." Bruce starts, not looking up, and Jim sighs again. It hits him suddenly, how tired he is, no longer driven by sheer adrenaline and panic, he feels exhausted. He doesn't feel like dealing with this now, preferably not ever. But he rarely really gets what he wants, and Bruce is still not looking up.
"Coffee?" Jim asks, passing him by on his way to the kitchen, catching the look of stunned disbelief Bruce sends him. He almost smiles, if they were keeping score it would be a point for him, but he's too tired and too disinterested to be counting.
"Are you serious?" Bruce asks, following him into the small kitchen, standing in the doorway as Jim puts the kettle on.
"I'm always serious about coffee," he says and turns back to face Bruce, leans against the counter, arms crossed. "Why are you here?" he asks, and it comes out more harsh than he intended, but did he mention he's tired?
"I wanted to apologise."
It's just what he expected, but not what he wanted. "You don't have to," he says, and almost laughs at himself, it's a poor rendition of something that meant much more than this.
"Yes, I do," Bruce looks straight at him, and it's clear he remembers too. "I should have told you a long time ago."
"I wouldn't know about that," Jim shrugs. It's not as if this was something one drops casually into a conversation, it's not like they had many quiet moments in the last, what was it, three years now? And he never asked, never tried to find out. There were hints and clues, admittedly not that many, but enough to piece this thing together if he bothered, if he wanted to. He knew all he wanted to know about Batman, knew he could trust the man with his life, but what was more than enough for him apparently didn't sit well with Bruce.
"I wanted to tell you," he adds, and he sounds almost desperate, enough for something to turn in Jim's stomach. He doesn't ask why didn't he, then. Wanting is enough, the guilt, plain and clear on Bruce's face is enough.
And it's not as if Bruce, or Batman, owed Jim anything, it's quite the opposite.
"Bruce, it's okay," he says, unconsciously stepping forward, his arm extended, hand reaching out to rest comfortingly on Bruce's shoulder. "It's okay."
It's like flicking a switch, the moment his fingers touch the material of Bruce's shirt. Guilt changes into longing, fear into wistfulness. Jim can't look away, realising how much of that play of emotions, how much of this openness he has been missing while it was hidden under the cowl. Bruce's tongue darts across his lips, a quick nervous flicker, and Jim has to stop himself from mirroring the gesture.
His hand moves on its own accord, but if he thought about it, he would probably still do the same thing; run his fingers up Bruce's neck, let them rest at the back of it, on the edge of soft, damp hair. They inch closer, like a collision course, with Bruce's palm now resting flatly on Jim's chest, fingers spread.
"Last year, Poison Ivy," Bruce says, voice low and hoarse. "The CPR. I always wished you were conscious for that."
Jim snorts, fingers tightening around Bruce's hair. "This would make the CPR unnecessary," he points out, but the last words in this sentence are sloppy and wet, his tongue already sliding across Bruce's lips. He feels the tension easing out from under his hands, and it just might be escaping through the electric current that goes through him when Bruce's lips part under his tongue.
The kiss is far from gentle, but it manages to be comforting, the way Bruce's body melts into his.
When they pull back, after what seems to be a very long while, hours even, Bruce's eyes are wide open, pleading. Guilt has been Jim's constant companion for some time now, he can recognise it all too easily, and it's still there, in the tight set of Bruce's mouth, in his eyes.
Jim's never been all that good in finding the right words, in situations like this all he has are cliches and platitudes, and that wouldn't do. He ends up not saying anything, just tugging at Bruce's hand as they silently make their way to the bedroom.
"You know how long I wanted..." Bruce starts and never finishes, teeth pulling at Jim's lower lip, hard enough for the metallic tang to spread across Jim's tongue. He wants to Bruce to finish the sentence, say that one last word, wants to ask and push for the answer, but instead he just pushes Bruce's shirt off his shoulders, roughly, buttons bursting undone.
Bruce kicks off his shoes and clumsily starts to undo his pants, his mouth still close enough to brush Jim's every few seconds, as if to assure himself that Jim would kiss him back every damn time. And only when Bruce pushes down his pants roughly along with the underwear, only when he kicks them away together with his socks, only then does Jim realise that he's still in the full SWAT uniform and that there's no way it wasn't deliberate on Bruce's side.
He looks up questioningly and Bruce shrugs, a hint of the tabloid smile playing on his lips, drawl thick in his voice. "Gotta love a man in a uniform."
The words are as fake as the smile he puts on, and Jim searches his face for a while, keeps the gaze fixed on Bruce until the smile melts away, until Bruce steps back, the back of his knees hitting the bed.
When he reaches out and lets his hands travel down Bruce's chest he can feel every scar and bruise under his fingertips, there's not a square inch that wouldn't be marked. And it hits him finally with full force, that the man before him is the Batman. Of course, he knew it before, but he didn't really understand, didn't comprehend.
After months, even years of hiding in the shadows, mysterious and always distant, here's Batman now, naked and vulnerable and giving himself freely, and it's almost too much to take.
"Bruce," he whispers, stepping closer, bodies pressed tightly together, Bruce's mouth seeking his, tasting his own name. And Jim discovers that knowing the secret is a heady feeling, rushing through his veins. There was a reason why he didn't want to know, he can see that now, because he's been in love with Batman for so long, seeing him so completely human now is undoing him.
"Yes," Bruce says plainly, and it's as much of an answer as it is an admission. Jim's hands travel down the other man's back, tracing patterns of old injuries, caressing each one. Bruce shifts closer, his cock pressing against Jim's hip, and the mood shifts, Jim's dick going from semi-hard to straining against his pants in a matter of seconds.
Jim steps back, just a fraction, his hand unconsciously reaching for his belt, and Bruce smirks.
"Let me guess, commissioner. Something came up."
He groans, and can't decide whether to roll his eyes or laugh. "Now that was awful," he says, bowing his head to kiss the trail down Bruce's neck, to where it meets his shoulder. Bruce Wayne, he thinks, around whom he once wrapped a coat, who wrecked his car to save a man who was willing to give up Batman's identity, Bruce Wayne who had been the bane of Jim's existence for the last year or so, always throwing out parties and benefits Jim was required to attend.
It makes almost too much sense now, and he's never going to be able to think of Batman, it's going to be Bruce every time, and it's wonderful and inconvenient.
They kiss again, Jim licking at the corner of Bruce's mouth. They fall onto the soft surface, Jim's knee spreading Bruce's legs, and Bruce's fingers tangle in the bedsheets. That's when Jim realises Bruce hadn't reached out to him since the beginning, only giving back whatever Jim offered, and that's...
"This isn't what I want, Bruce," he says quietly, and Bruce doesn't pretend to misunderstand, they're past that. That's not some proof of trust, or some kind of apology. It shouldn't be.
"No," Bruce shakes his head. "But it's what I need," he mutters, reaching up to touch Jim's jaw, his thumb running across Jim's lips, ever so lightly. Jim's tongue darts out to lick across the pad, and Bruce's eyes close, his body arching. He starts shifting as if trying to roll over onto his stomach, but Jim's fingers close around his shoulder, keeping him in place.
"And what I want," he mutters, words coming out a little too fast when Bruce reaches up to his belt, undoing it swiftly, "is to be able to see you."
It sounds cornier said out loud, but Bruce's breath hitches, and he pulls Jim down, kissing him hungrily, fingers tangling in Jim's hair, now messed up and damp with sweat.
"Jim, come on," Bruce says impatiently, lips brushing Jim's ear as he speaks, warm breath against his skin. It's the impatience, the slight annoyance in Bruce's voice that makes Jim smile, makes him move to reach for the drawer where he keeps the condoms, mostly because he's obsessive about being prepared for anything, and because hope springs eternal. Only condoms there, however, so he brings his fingers to Bruce's lips, his thumb sliding over them, until Bruce lets him in, pointed and clever tongue wetting them eagerly.
He wants to take his time, but then Bruce's teeth graze his skin, suck his thumb inside, and waiting becomes much more difficult. His fingers stretch Bruce open, run along the underside of his cock, stroking in a repetitive caress. Soon enough the sounds Bruce is making are enough to have him stroke his own dick, impatiently leaking precome.
"Stop fucking teasing, Jim," Bruce says finally, hips pushing up to meet him, and Jim laughs, strained and breathless.
"Language, Wayne," he warns, and whatever Bruce was going to say is drowned out in a long groan when Jim thrusts inside him.
"I'll show you language," Bruce mutters, the sentence taking forever to come out, punctuated by harsh breaths. Somehow, Jim doesn't think it's a threat.
"Promises, pro... oh my god," he moans as Bruce tightens around him and reaches out, pulling Jim closer.
"Fuck, Jim, harder. Give it to me harder." It's a demand, plain and simple, and Jim sinks into him completely, into the warmth all around him. He cries out and then swallows the sound, biting on his lip, and Bruce licks the drop of blood away.
The build-up isn't slow at all, and he's coming before Bruce begins, thrusting roughly and clumsily, hand sliding over Bruce's dick, and then Bruce is clutching at his shoulders and shuddering, the kiss they share dirty and sloppy.
"Jim," Bruce says quietly as Jim eases out of him, rolls softly to the side.
Jim mutters something, anything, because right now even keeping his eyes open is a serious task. He should move and at least take the uniform off, if not clean the mess up, sleeping in these clothes is going to hurt him in the morning.
Bruce sighs in response and shifts, moving to sit up, already half standing when Jim catches on.
"For god's sake," he says, suddenly wide awake, and propping himself up on his elbow. He looks up, searching Bruce's face, looking for the right words. He's bad at this, even when his thought processes are actually going on. "Come on, help me with this mess. And this shirt," he adds, tugging at his collar again.
Bruce turns to him, the slow smile almost invisible in the semidarkness. "I happen to like the uniform."
"Not exactly comfortable to sleep in," Jim points out. "Also, fair warning, I hog covers."
The smile is wider now, and this time it does reach Bruce's eyes. "Incidentally, so do I."
Jim laughs, shaking his head. "This is going to be interesting, then."