Word count: 2981.
A/N: cala_jane wanted sex in an alley. And considering she doesn't even read that much of Bruce/Gordon, I had to write it for her. I wanted sex pollen fic for ages. This might be it. gaudy_night made sure I had Montoya in my head for the last few days, demanding to be in a fic.
Later, he blames it all on Montoya.
It's actually a rather common occurrence, oh, not this, the entire thing was rather embarrassing, even though, yes, entertaining while it lasted, but the blaming things on Montoya part. They all do, whether it's the broken coffee maker, or Stephens losing the bet on when Jim is going to throw the first fit over having to deal with piles and piles of paperwork. She has a knack for getting under people's skin, which, frankly, makes her one of the best detectives Jim has, but also makes him want to strangle her, occasionally.
It starts innocently enough, if innocence can be accused of having anything to do with the whole business, with Renee getting a lead on the shipment of the recent rage in medical entertainment, a strange mixture of ecstasy and some mixture sexual enhancement drugs that the lab is still trying to figure out, and the last he heard, they were all too happy about the 'challenge'. Sometimes Jim does wonder about them.
The drug had been wrecking havoc among the clubbing scene, and Jim doesn't really enjoy having his cells filled up with sex-crazed teenagers, some of them sons and daughters of the Gotham's elite, and even the Mayor is pressuring him to finally solve the whole thing and put whoever is responsible for the whole mess behind bars, and so the moment Montoya reports the tip-off from one of her informers, he's gathering the task force with the speed of lightning.
And this could have been the end of it, upon arriving they would find the warehouse empty and all the perps gone, and all Jim would have to face would be a rather disappointed Mayor Garcia, which wasn't exactly a new thing, he was pretty much disappointed by pretty much everything every time Jim saw him, fringe benefits of being Gotham's Mayor. Sometimes he did wonder why on earth people actually campaigned for the office. This could have been the end of it, but of course, thanks to Montoya, it wasn't.
This, Jim thinks, is partly his fault. He could have given up on insisting to clear up Batman's name, if he have, he wouldn't have to bring people in on the secret, people including, of course, Montoya. She was, after all, trustworthy and capable, if occasionally a bit overenthusiastic. The unnecessary enthusiasm included arguing that Batman should be made aware of the bust, since, as she put it, extra backup that could swoop in through the roof like the damn air force was always welcome.
For the record, Jim was against it. Designer sex drugs weren't even close to Batman's usual jurisdiction, or interest, or whatever they were calling it these days, he lost track. Of course, claiming now that he was against it then seems rather like making up excuses, so he shuts up about it, especially within Montoya's earshot. Even though it's all her damn fault.
It went like this: they were too late, Batman wasn't. He had arrived ten minutes ahead, for a reason of his own that Jim hadn't asked about mostly because he didn't have time, or occasion, or, after the events of that day, courage to even mention it. The whole thing is considered as not having happened by everyone but Montoya, who should know better.
The moment they had arrived on the scene, all sirens on and lights up, there was an explosion inside, not a particularly large one, but an explosion nonetheless. After the initial blast, a cloud of wide powder remains, and Jim stops, yelling for everyone to move the hell back, secure the perimeter, arrest anyone trying to get out, and don't even try and go in.
Of course, the problem starts when out of the corner of his eye Jim catches a glimpse of one particular person getting out through the side window, coughing and sputtering. He looks around, but the only other person paying attention is Montoya, and she nods at him with understanding and jumps up, getting the officers' attention and commanding the set up of the perimeter. Sometimes he really is glad to have her around.
He tugs off his tie and covers his mouth with it, making his way towards the direction Batman made off into, and for once, the man hadn't gone far. Jim keeps his distance from the warehouse as much as he can, following the Bat into the side alley, dark as all the alleys in this district tend to be, even the streetlight on the corner broken.
Batman is leaning against the wall, cowled head bowed as he's breathing harshly, looking as if he's fighting to keep his head from spinning.
"Are you okay?" Jim asks, and that's pretty much all he manages to say before Batman's whole body moves suddenly, and his entire weight pushes against Jim, pressing him tightly against the wall. His wrists are quickly pinned on his sides, captured by the wrists, and he's almost too surprised to struggle. He shifts uncomfortably, but he doesn't regard the Bat as a threat, it doesn't warrant a fight unless he's persuaded otherwise.
"So, not exactly okay," he mutters at the lack of an answer, or rather, a verbal answer, because maybe he should consider the way Batman is moving against him, and if this is supposed to be an attack, martial arts sure got interesting lately.
"Gordon," Batman says, and it's almost too matter-of-fact given the circumstances. "Stop talking." Direct, to the point, pretty much the Batman Jim knows.
Of course, the Batman that Jim knows was as of yet to push him against the closest available vertical surface and start kissing his throat, hard enough to surely leave marks. Jim considers fighting, pushing him away, but he has to consider two major points here... First, he's not deluding himself, fighting Batman, even drugged out of his mind Batman is a little beyond Jim's capabilities. And second, a very important if somehow shameful second, the way Batman's lips are persistently moving down the line of Jim's throat is not entirely unpleasant.
Maybe a little more than that, actually, because not every not entirely unpleasant thing has Jim rock hard and pushing his hips shamelessly forward. He will blame the drug, when asked. He really will.
"We can't..." he starts, and he had really intended this sentence to go somewhere else than "not here."
And the thing about Batman is, Jim finds out, that his focus never wavers, no matter what he's single-mindedly concentrated on. He reaches for Jim's radio, and really, with one hand free Jim should now disentangle himself, but all he does is shiver when Batman's hand hovers briefly close to his dick. "Montoya?" Batman barks into the receiver, and waits for the careful affirmative. "Keep everyone out, me and the commissioner have things to take care of. I'll let you know when it's safe."
It's amazing, Jim thinks, how coherent and professional he can be even when his eyes are glazed over, his breathing is rough like after a long run, and yet his voice hadn't wavered. "We shouldn't," Jim starts again, but this time Batman just kisses him hard, silencing all protests, and, god help him, Jim is kissing him back, his free hand moving to tighten around Batman's arm, fingers digging into the leather.
"Yes," Batman mutters, close to a whisper now, cowl resting against Jim's forehead, their breaths mingling. "Don't fight it, Jim."
He wasn't, all that much, but with this, with what might be the first time Batman says his name, Jim's whole body relaxes as if someone had cut the strings, and he melts into Batman like warm clay, unfolding.
Later he'll wonder, how much of this was the drug, and how much was just the logical conclusion of this whole thing between them, the undeniable pleasure he had felt every time Batman appeared on his porch, or, less regularly now, on the roof; of the way Batman seemed to linger longer after each meeting, even after at least three good sentences in the middle of which he could have wandered off.
Later, Jim will wonder, now he just sighs as Batman takes off his glove, his hand pale and surprisingly vulnerable against the blackness of the suit. He reaches to undo Jim's belt, fumbling a little, the remnants of his concentration gone. His hand sneaks inside Jim's pants, and Jim arches, pushing into it, the first steady strokes quickly turning heated.
"Does it even come off?" Jim asks, clawing at the closest piece of the kevlar suit. Batman nods, and moves away just a fraction, and it looks complicated, the clasps and fastenings, but at least some of the front part is gone, and Jim can retaliate, work his hand inside Batman's pants, and the answering groan feels fantastic against his skin, but not as fantastic as Batman's hand again on his cock.
The world goes blurry after this, and it might be the fact that as Jim's head rolls forward before rolling back again and hitting the wall hard, his glasses fall to the ground with a soft crack; but it also might be the fact that he's coming as hard as anyone in a drug induced haze can. Which is pretty damn hard.
After his pulse calms down enough to not drown out the sound of his breathing, which is pretty damn loud, Jim shifts against the wall, wiping his hand against the asphalt onto which they had collapsed moments ago. It doesn't help the state of stickiness of his hand, and he grimaces, and cleans it off with his tie, which he promptly discards. Thankfully, he never really liked this tie; it had been a Christmas gift from Stephens, and Jim never really worked up to telling him the pattern was damn hideous. He wore it from time to time out of politeness.
"Are you okay?" Batman asks, and his own voice doesn't sound all that okay and even, but Jim doesn't point it out. He nods, and moves to stand up, reaching out with his left hand to steady himself against the brick wall.
God, was that a stupid thing to do, he thinks, and doesn't dare to look at Batman. "I'm fine," he offers, and looks out of the alley. The white cloud has subsided, and thankfully, he feels like the drug, or whatever it was, is gone from his system. Well, mostly. If that was even a drug. He's sure the lab technicians will have great fun with discovering what it is really. "I'll better go and deal with the whole thing. I gather you took care of everyone inside?"
Batman nods. "No sign of Ivy, of course."
"Of course," Jim sighs. He hadn't expected anything better. And, incidentally, he really should walk away right about now, because standing here with his pants still stained and discussing Poison Ivy and drugs is... well, not something he's enjoying all that much. "Keep me posted," he adds, and Batman nods. There's nothing more to do for Jim but to tighten his coat around himself and walk back into the place Montoya has set up the semi-command centre.
"Things taken care of, commish?" she asks, and he gives her a hard stare, but she looks unrepentant. He wonders briefly how much she knows and how much she's guessing, but it's Montoya, after all, it doesn't matter that much, she's sensible enough to keep it to herself. And of course, tease him mercilessly, but only when they're alone.
He glances around, and raises his eyebrows at the scene. "Why is officer Cuddy handcuffed to the squad car?"
Montoya doesn't even blink. "For his own good."
Jim waits, and of course is not disappointed. She continues, in a casual tone of someone who had been thinking of the phrasing for a while now. "He had tried to make out with me. This was the safest outcome for him, sir."
Jim nods, and doesn't let himself be baited. "Of course it was. Well done, detective." The conversation turns towards business after this, and later they even uncuff Cuddy, who looks at Montoya with something resembling a kicked puppy expression and keeps it up for the next few days. Which, Montoya tells Jim, is not unlike the one he is wearing himself, but he ignores her. It's all her damn fault anyway.
Batman doesn't show up for the following four days, even though a folder with an analysis of the drugs made by an independent forensic lab makes its way onto Jim's desk one night. If he was paranoid, he would think Batman is avoiding him. Oh, right, he is paranoid. That's why he's still alive, actually. And Batman is avoiding him.
Not that Jim is all that eager to see him, to be honest. Maybe the avoidance technique will work, and after a while, they won't have to talk about it, or acknowledge it in any manner. It's not like he wants to... acknowledge it.
This is not exactly a thought he'd be voicing any time soon, but thinks were a little bit simpler when he was on drugs.
Something clinks in the shadows next to the file cabinet, and Jim looks up sharply. "One of these days, you could knock, like a normal person." Batman waits through the inevitable conclusion, and Jim sighs. "Point," he mutters. "What brings you here?"
A slight pause, then Batman steps forward, photos landing on Jim's desk. Jim hesitates for a brief moment, he's all too familiar with this kind of situation, and chances are, when he looks up Batman will be gone. But the curiosity gets the best of him, and he pushes his glasses up his nose, flipping the photos. "Is that her?"
"I'm almost certain," Batman shrugs. "She covers her tracks well."
"Poison Ivy," Jim muses, squinting at one of the blurry pictures. It does look like her. "You know, I'm becoming tired of all the weirdness. Why the codenames and aliases, really? And why can't they be a little bit more traditional?"
"Don't look at me," Batman says, and Jim pauses before laughing out loud, shaking his head. After a moment, Batman smiles as well, or maybe grimaces, Jim can't tell, but his lip curls upwards, and his jaw loses its tightness for a while.
Jim pushes the photos across the table, leans back in his chair and waits, eyes firmly fixed on Batman. He'll be damned if he looks away and gives the man an easy way out to disappear in the shadows. If he wants, he may try it with Jim watching. That would be something to see, actually.
"Jim," Batman says, and apparently, drugged sex in a dark alley gets them onto the first name basis. Who would have guessed?
"I am not going to say 'Batman' in a flat way, you know," Jim offers pleasantly. He would have rolled eyes at himself, as he had thought the sarcasm knee jerk had been under control for a while now, but apparently, not so much. "Mind you, if you pick up a normal alias one of these days, let me know and I'll consider it."
"Jim," he repeats, and it sounds exasperated now, but with a hint of humour underneath, and for a brief moment Jim feels lightheaded, because Batman is clearly as embarrassed as he is, and that's funny, but what's important is that he's here, and they're almost having a conversation, and there is that look in his eyes, scared but hopeful, and it's pretty much just the way Jim feels right now, so maybe it will work out just fine.
"Fine," Jim sighs theatrically. "Batman," he intones, and it's overdone by a few miles, but it does get him a twitch of a smile. "Is this the part where you tell me it was an unfortunate incident under influence?" he pauses pointedly before continuing. "Or do you plan on inviting me out for a dinner, which, really, you should have done before you had your hand down my pants. It's only polite."
Batman gives him a long look, as if in this brief moment he was considering all the possible pros and cons, and Jim has an impression that this is not the first time he does that. But it's the first time Jim is aware of the dilemma, and can do something about it. He stands up, takes four steps that lead him around the desk and up to Batman. "What's the verdict?" he asks, standing close enough to feel Batman's breath on his lips.
Batman sighs, and it sends a gentle shiver down Jim's spine, something unraveling inside him, warm and fantastic.
"Are you free for dinner tomorrow, Jim?" Batman asks, and his voice sounds like he's trying not to laugh, and it sounds almost happy. It also doesn't sound anything like Batman's gravelly rasp, but, Jim thinks, there will be time to discover what it sounds like later.
"I think I am," he mutters, before leaning in to kiss Batman lightly, just a touch of lips to his, but it feels like a promise.
Fantastic, he thinks, now he'll have to buy Montoya a drink. She'll never stop gloating.