Word count: 1284.
A/N: vanspock wanted something in between of Night Lights and Into Morning, containing Alfred, and embarrassed Jim. This is, quite probably, happening before Night Lights epilogue, however it can be read on it's own as well.
Jim wakes up to an uncomfortable feeling of someone moving across the room. His hand immediately travels to the night stand's drawer, to his piece, but his fingers bump against an unfamiliar lock, and he hisses lightly.
"Good morning, Commissioner," comes in crisp British tones from somewhere to his left, and he blinks, feeling blindly for his glasses on the night stand, knocking something over. "Please, sir, let me."
The glasses are handed to him, and he fumbled with them before looking up, finally with a clear vision, into a studiously polite face of Bruce Wayne's butler.
Not exactly a sight he expected to see first thing in the morning.
"Good morning," he chances, becoming painfully aware of a number of things. First, he is in Bruce's bedroom, and in Bruce's bed. This, he thinks, is not a bad thing, as such, and the way Bruce himself is sound asleep, face for once open and unguarded, is an extremely good thing, but...
Slowly, aiming for nonchalant, he pulls the covers up.
"I apologise for waking you, sir," Alfred says, and in Jim's humble opinion, he doesn't look apologetic at all.
"'t out," Bruce mutters into his pillow, and Alfred smiles slightly, just as Jim frowns, not entirely sure whom it was directed at.
Alfred, however, nods. "I'll have breakfast ready for when you decide to wake up, sir," he offers, and leaves with an undecipherable look at Jim.
As the doors close behind Alfred, Jim groans, and lets his head fall back onto the pillow, his glasses shifting, the world becoming blurry once again.
"Did he bring coffee?" Bruce asks, his voice still slightly muffled, and Jim looks around.
"I don't think so."
"Damn." Bruce rolls over to his side, and opens his eyes, looking up at Jim, surprisingly wide awaken for someone demanding coffee in sleepy tones. He sighs. "What is it, Jim?"
"Nothing," he says, and almost rolls eyes at himself, because honestly, after years on the force and thousands of interrogations, he should know better. "Really," he says, a little bit more honestly, and Bruce watches him for a long moment.
"If you say so," he mutters, unconvinced, and shifts lazily, placing a small kiss in the corner of Jim's mouth. "You sure Alfred didn't leave any coffee?"
"Are you always that single minded first thing in the morning?" he asks, greatly amused, and Bruce's expression changes, setting into something much more feral.
"I could be."
For a moment, Jim is sorely tempted, to reach out, lean in, and feel Bruce's hot skin on his again, but there's a nagging voice at the back of his mind reminding him, that those walls are not exactly soundproofed, and that there's a great chance that Alfred is in the living room, making breakfast, and able to tell exactly what they are getting up to here.
Much better than a cold shower, that.
"I'll get you that coffee," he mutters, standing up, looking around for his pants.
He finds them carefully folded on the chair, along with Bruce's shirt and both of their boxers, and that's definitely not how they left the clothes last night. He thinks he must be flushing bright red, the way his skin burns, his face, neck, quite probably down his chest. He can hear Bruce smirking, but doesn't deign it with a response, just walks out, to find his shirt and tie hanged on the doorknob. Honestly, the man must be enjoying this.
"Breakfast, Commissioner?" the man in question asks, and Jim shakes his head.
Alfred nods knowingly. "And for yourself?"
"A coffee wouldn't be a bad idea," he says, after a moment of thought, and sits on the stool by the counter, watching Alfred move around the immaculate kitchen. Once the water is on, and the cups ready and waiting, Alfred turns to look at him, and the familiar feeling crystalizes, and Jim recognizes the expression, it's the same, assessing one Barbara's father had after Jim picked her up at her house for the first time.
And for heaven's sake, it might be beyond ridiculous, but he still finds it deeply unsettling.
"I gather, Commissioner, that you are aware of Master Wayne's nightly activities?"
Jim stares, for a very long moment, not entirely sure if he hadn't stepped into a bizarre version of a candid camera, but then his brain kicks in, and processes the question, and realises some things he hadn't quite worked out consciously before. "Batman? Yes."
Alfred nods, just a fraction of a movement. "Sugar?"
"What?" Alfred rises a teaspoon, and Jim nods, his shoulders slumping. "No, thank you."
"Here you are, Commissioner," Alfred pushes two cups across the counter, and Jim nods, sighing.
"Jim would suffice."
"Of course, sir."
It's an impasse, Jim realizes, and he had seen enough of those to not say anything, just pick up the cups and stand up, and start turning to walk back into the bedroom, and quite possibly never walk out of there again, but then he catches a glimpse of something not quite hidden between the polished reserve in Alfred's eye, and hesitates.
"I don't know what you want to hear," he says, shrugging. He can't look very dignified, wrinkled pants and shirt with, he realizes now with mortified certainty, two buttons missing, a cup in each hand, but he keeps his voice as steady as while negotiating a hostage situation. "But I never cared for knowing Batman's identity. I still don't. I do care for what Bruce does, however."
It's possible that he's not making any sort of sense, all this double life thing has him confused, but Alfred just looks at him for a moment, expression unwavering.
"The coffee is getting cold, Master Gordon."
Jim looks at the steaming cups, then back at Alfred again, and nods, as the form of address registers with him. He really does need the coffee, he thinks, he's being awfully slow this morning.
"That it is," he says, nodding, and he could almost swear Alfred smiles slightly, before turning and busying himself with some pots and pans.
Jim makes his way back to the bedroom, his step a little lighter, and smiles when Bruce sits up almost immediately at the sound of the doors opening, reaching out eagerly.
"What took you so long?" he asks, and Jim laughs, watching him down the coffee cup in one hearty swallow.
"Really single minded," he mutters, and Bruce throws him a glare that turns into a speculative look.
"Is that yours?" he asks, gesturing at the cup Jim is still holding.
One of the greatest sights Jim had ever seen is Bruce Wayne attempting a pout, and he laughs, sitting down on the bed, leaning against the railing. "Nice try."
"I'll make it worth your while," Bruce offers, very pointedly, and Jim rolls his eyes, and hands him the cup, watching his Adam's apple move as he swallows, and his tongue lick the last drops of coffee from the corner of his mouth.
"I'm pretty sure you will find a way to do so," Jim agrees, smiling. He can see himself stocking up on coffee in the foreseeable future, if this is going to be a regular occurrence. Which, really, he rather hopes it's going to be.
"In fact," Bruce says slowly, placing the cup carefully on the night stand on his side, and turning back to Jim, "I think I do have some ideas on where I should start."