A/N: Back from having a social life :). Last part before the epilogue (which should be up tomorrow). I hope you'll enjoy it.
It's still the first date, and it feels like a very first, in many ways, not only in how all the excitement and anxiousness rolls into a ball deep down in his stomach. And getting into the penthouse feels like sneaking into the house late at night, past curfew.
But, as Bruce expected, the apartment is empty. Alfred announced he was going to use the time to check on the developments at the mansion since, as he said, chaperoning was not in his job description. Bruce was eager to point out that sarcasm wasn't either, but all it did was earn him a blank stare and a comment about sarcasm being a calling, not a job. Thankfully, it didn't stop Alfred from getting a dinner ready and setting the table. Unfortunately, it also meant that he apparently had bought out the entire city's candles' supply. Bruce is trying to rack his brain for anything he had done lately to piss Alfred off, and arrives at the conclusion that this must have been years in the making.
Gordon is laughing the moment they step out of the elevator, trying to cover it with a very unconvincing cough, his shoulders shaking. "The decor has changed, I see," he says, words slightly slurred together as he keeps the mirth at bay.
"Would you believe it an ironic statement?" Bruce asks, before sighing. "I think I'm firing Alfred for this. For at least two days."
Gordon shakes his head, the smile almost contained now, under false concern. "What I wonder is, how on earth did he think it was safe to leave you with all those candles, with your track record."
Bruce would really like to point out that the dry wit is definitely not helping in the fire hazard situation, but stops himself, because on Jim Gordon, it also happens to be amazingly attractive. "I'm going to ignore that comment," he says instead. "I hope that at least we're getting the pasta for dinner. That's about the only thing that would make up for the display."
Jim looks at him for a moment, smiling softly. "How does it taste reheated?"
"Even better," he says, wondering, just a little, and unable to keep himself from smiling back. "Why?"
"Just wondering," Jim shrugs, before making three steps towards Bruce, reaching to place his hand at the back of Bruce's neck, the gentle pressure of his fingers making his skin burn, ripples of heat spreading in circles. Somehow, the kiss is different than the ones they've shared before, and as much as Bruce loathes the cliche, it's the truth (there are cliches he enjoys, of course, as any masked vigilante would, but he prefers to keep them out of the more, ahem, private areas of his life). It's not softer, or harder, but there's an intent now, in the way Jim's tongue coaxes his lips open, fingers on his neck sliding gently lower and to the front, tugging at Bruce's tie.
"It tastes much better reheated," Bruce offers as casually as he can, his breath just a little bit shallow.
Jim laughs, the sound gently muffled, resonating against Bruce's throat, tickling just at the pulse point, and the sensation is followed by lips and tongue, tracing a wet line up Bruce's neck. "Good. A fair warning, though, if the candles are accompanied by rose petals in the bedroom, I'm walking out."
Bruce snorts a laugh, then frowns. They are talking about Alfred here. He wouldn't... He might. "There's a couch, here," he offers, and watches as a smirk appears on Jim's lips, and holds himself back from licking it off them.
"I'm way too old for couches," Gordon mutters, and eases Bruce's tie off completely, his fingers working on the shirt with skill belying his words about age.
"Table? Kitchen counter?" Bruce suggests pleasantly, realising he might as well start on taking off Jim's clothes as well. They wouldn't want one of them to have an unfair advantage, after all.
"Just lead the way to the bedroom, will you?" Jim huffs in exasperation.
Bruce snorts, Jim's tone is not dissimilar to the one he uses when talking of his paperwork, or black tie affairs he's required to attend. One might think he wasn't rock hard at the moment, something Bruce can feel very well, pressed against his thigh. "Yes, sir," he offers, and grins at the expected eyeroll.
He pulls at Jim's tie, getting a follow-up to the eyeroll, but followed by a smile, as they move towards the bedroom door, much slower than they would if they weren't stopping to kiss every second step.
"Wait," Bruce says, and opens the door just a little, to peek inside. No roses, thank god, no candles either.
"Is it safe?" Jim asks with an overdone worry, and Bruce nods, laughing, and pulls Jim inside, kicking the door closed behind them. "Good," Jim mutters, "I didn't bring my gun."
"Do I have to make the obvious joke now?" Bruce asks, his hand sliding down the front of Jim's pants, finger edging the line of the zipper.
"Please don't. In fact, you could stop talking in general," he suggests, his voice cracking a little at the end of the sentence, as Bruce move his hand to palm Jim's dick.
Bruce is smirking, his lips curling against Jim's neck, moments before he gently bites at the skin there, but enough to leave a small mark. "Are you suggesting I could employ my mouth otherwise?" he asks, causing Jim to groan, half in pleasure, half in exasperation. "Because I definitely could," he adds, tongue soothing the bite on Jim's neck.
"Bruce..." It's a plea, and Bruce isn't sure what for, but Jim probably doesn't know either. But the low, throaty sound he makes next, sends shivers down Bruce's spine, and sets him in motion, pushing Jim towards the bed.
He sinks to his knees in front of Jim, and tugs at his belt, then the zipper. His fingers shake just a little, from impatience, and from the way Jim sucks in his breath, as somehow that sound seems to resonate under Bruce's skin. "Would this be better than talking?"
Jim gives him a look that might mean 'are you fucking kidding me?' or just 'get along with it', Bruce isn't sure, but it's both annoyed and turned on, and on Jim Gordon, it's an irresistible combination, and he moves forward, taking Jim in in a one swift movement.
The annoyance is gone in an instant, and Gordon groans in a way Bruce has been wanting to hear for almost too long now, raw and unguarded. Bruce doesn't stop at his task until Jim's hand is in his hair, pushing him away, his eyes half-closed, and his breathing ragged as he tries to find his voice.
"Just come here," he mutters finally, and Bruce smiles, moving up onto the bed, tugging at Jim's tangled clothes, to get them off. His hands brush against Jim's, who's trying to do the same with him, and they keep on interrupting one another, but it doesn't really matter, as long as their breaths mix, their lips inches apart.
They shift closer, layers separating them gone, skin against skin now, and their hands meet between them, brushing against each other as their strokes much in perfect synchrony. Someone moans, and this close, Bruce isn't really sure who it is, and then Jim's mouth are on his, teeth grazing his lower lip, enough to bruise.
They stay like this for a long moment, in silence, fingertips brushing skin, warm breaths mixing with cold air, and Bruce could really move and turn the heating up, but for the life of him, he doesn't want to shift even an inch.
The lights flicker and go out, and they still don't move, Jim just raises his eyebrow at the darkness swallowing the buildings outside the window. "Scheduled maintenance," he mutters, as if remembering, and Bruce nods. "That would explain the candles."
Bruce smirks. "Alfred is not fired," he allows, and Jim laughs, his face hidden in Bruce's neck. It's a really fantastic sound.