Word count: 2903.
A/N: Inspired by this request at Batman Kink Meme: Batman lets Gordon drive the Batmobile, and Gordon lets Batman take him for a test drive. ;). Not exactly as porny as kink meme request might suggest, but I go wherever Bruce and Gordon want me to go...
"So, what do you think?"
It took a long while to replace the car, every time Lucius Fox came up with the new design, Bruce thought up something new he wanted included. But the result was truly magnificent, slicker and smoother than the tank-like Tumbler, but still well armed and quite probably resistant to anything short of a nuke. Maybe a rocket launcher, but Bruce was looking into that.
"I'm not sure," Jim says, aiming for a casual tone, arriving somewhere at very excited, and Bruce smiles lightly.
Things hadn't changed all that much after Jim Gordon learned of Batman's identity. True, he wore an expression of complete disbelief for days afterwards, and Bruce was slightly worried he was going to get stuck that way, but it had passed, and soon enough Gordon was mostly pleased with a newfound easy way of contacting his ally, in terms of subterfuge cellphones beat floodlights any day.
And it was fantastic to finally have someone Bruce could call on when he needed to feel human, but in front of whom he wouldn't have to pretend to enjoy all the things tabloids claimed he did. Pretending to have fun was a hard job, and from time to time, he needed a night off. There was always Alfred for company, of course, but Alfred tended to encourage him to actually go out and meet people, which was in contradiction to the concept of a night off.
He might have overwhelmed Jim at the beginning, judging from the way the disbelief had turned into an utter confusion. Bruce hadn't figured out if Jim was more puzzled by Bruce Wayne demanding his time and attention, or Batman doing the same. He went with the flow, confusion slowly giving way to genuine pleasure at Bruce's company, and that was still a little bit amazing. And as an added value, bugged the hell out of all tabloid reporters, who had tried to guess as to why Bruce Wayne had taken to spending time in the company of the newly appointed police commissioner. Alfred, of course, entertained himself by inventing possible press statements, but Bruce would be damned if he gave any of them. Especially not the one about... nevermind.
"Is this a thinly veiled suggestion I can hear in your voice?" he asks, and Jim shrugs, and Bruce wonders again how is it possible that that man can actually successfully negotiate hostage situations with great ease. He has no poker face to spoke of, and can't bluff for peanuts. Simply amazing.
"Thinly veiled? I am offended you accuse me of being anything but upfront," Jim says and waits pointedly.
Bruce gives a rather good theatrical sigh, if he's any judge, and nods. "Fine," he says, and tosses Jim the keys, which Jim catches easily and with a big grin that he doesn't even bother to hide. "You scratch it, you buy it," he warns.
About a week after the whole identity revelation he strode into Gordon's office at the MCU, much to the surprise of the commissioner's secretary, and pretty much every officer on duty. Jim, however, just raised his eyebrows and closed the doors.
"Mr Wayne," he nodded. "May I offer you some coffee?"
"No, thank you." Bruce waited. Jim Gordon was not one to stand long silences, that much Batman had learned by now.
"We hadn't have any breaks in the Riddler case for the last week, I was wondering if you could try and look into it again." His voice was slightly absent, as if he wasn't entirely sure the conversation was real.
Bruce nodded. "Of course." He hesitated, looking at Jim for a moment, and then smiled. "Actually, I might want some coffee. I know a good place nearby."
That has been four months ago, and since then, gamble that it was, Bruce found out that Jim Gordon's company was something he really looked forward to. Maybe more than he should, recently, but this was neither here nor there, and he had all intentions of ignoring this particular feeling. No matter what Alfred and his imaginary press statements insisted on.
"Why is it always stick?" Jim asks, settling into the driver's seat, and Bruce bites back the first response. Really, this is not helping in the slightest.
"Manual transmission actually offers more direct control over the vehicle, especially on difficult surfaces," Bruce offers with dignity, and Jim throws him a look that plainly says he's not fooled in the slightest. "It's also much more economical," he adds.
"Yes, I thought this would be the reason," Jim says, rolling his eyes. "Forget I even asked." He starts the engine, and the hidden doors slide open silently, allowing them to pull into the country road nearby the Wayne Manor. The ride is smooth and uneventful for all grand ten seconds, until Jim floors the accelerator. Bruce is pretty damn sure that sparks fly from under the wheels.
"Are you even aware of things like speed limits?" he asks pleasantly, or as pleasantly as he can manage while gripping the edge of his seat. He has nothing against speed, per se, but he's usually the one driving. The smudges of the trees outside look very different from the passenger seat.
Jim shrugs, eyes firmly fixed on the road. "I've figured I don't need to worry about them. There's already a warrant out for your arrest, a few speeding tickets won't matter much."
"That wasn't exactly my point," Bruce mutters, but doesn't complain any more, and if he is to be honest, it's because Jim really seems to be enjoying himself for once, smile playing at his lips. He just grumbles a little at the next intersection.
"It was still yellow."
"Sure. If you are colorblind. You know, you won't get good eulogies if they find your body in Batman's car," Bruce says, looking to the side.
"Maybe I was kidnapped."
"And driving?" Bruce is laughing already, as he always is when the conversation turns to nonsensical. Of course, considering Jim's driving, it might not be as surreal as some others, but still, it's highly entertaining, which is not the case with most conversation he has. He makes a decision. "Fine, look here," he offers, flipping open a hidden panel. "Press this."
"What is it?" Jim asks, eyes shining, and Bruce smiles.
"The real accelerator."
They try out most of the improvements that are not actually weapons, and by the time they get back the excitement is enough to get drunk on. Jim gets out of the car, still laughing at something that wasn't even such a good joke on Bruce's part, and for the briefest of moments, Bruce considers the one thing he hadn't let himself to think about. He thinks about walking around the car and leaning in, hand resting flatly on the metal as he closes the distance between himself and Jim, and kisses him, and feels how that smile tastes on his lips.
It's a foolish thought, because if he had learned one thing about anything resembling relationships, it's to take what you get and be damn happy while it still lasts, but it's a thought he entertains for a long moment, long enough for Jim to turn and look at him quizzically.
"What is it?"
"Nothing," Bruce says, shaking his head, producing a self-depreciating smile he always has ready.
Jim rolls his eyes, shutting the car's doors. "Sure. Care to pull the other one? Bells and all."
This is the problem with cops, Bruce thinks, even though his experience with them is rather limited, down to one, actually. They always work out the clues at some point. He just hoped it will be later rather than sooner. Doesn't mean he won't try avoidance, of course. "Coffee? I think Alfred made the blueberry muffins, too."
At least he had tried to go down fighting. "Jim," he offers nonchalantly, and it does not help him in the slightest, as Jim walks around the car, leaning against the doors on the passenger's side, crossing his arms expectantly.
"Fine," Bruce says, and the fear in his voice sounds almost like anger. "Fine," he mutters through his teeth and moves forward, and kissing Jim is nothing like he imagined, except it is.
The most surprising thing is that Jim doesn't move away; he doesn't immediately relax into Bruce's body either, but that would probably be too much to ask. Jim waits, not moving at all, except for the part where his lips soften a little, and even if this is all he's getting, it's enough. Of course, he's lying about the 'enough' part.
"What was that?" Jim asks, and it's clear he's trying to keep his voice as casual as possible, not giving anything away.
"I think it could be classified as a kiss. I thought your investigative skills were much better, to be honest," Bruce offers matter-of-factly, overdoing the playboy act just a tad.
Jim nods and moves to walk past Bruce. "Blueberry muffins, you say? Any chance on some leftover lemon cake?"
There's an expression on his face, however briefly, that doesn't quite suit discussing desserts, even Alfred's lemon cake, which is nothing short of divine. For a moment, unless Bruce is imagining it but he doesn't really think so, Jim looks wistful, and then disappointed.
"Jim?" he asks, reaching to catch Jim's wrist, his fingers just skimming the sleeve. Jim stops, looks back, face now guarded, shaking his head as if to say 'nevermind'. "Jim." That gets through, the way his voice is steady and calm and yet it feels like breaking.
Jim turns and nods, hands falling to his sides, waiting. "I'm listening."
This really was always much easier in Bruce's head, in the rare moments he actually allowed himself to think of kissing Jim Gordon. Because then, when he did, there was no heavy silence, no tension stretched between them like a wire. And definitely no need for explanations and discussions.
"Still here," Jim prods, and Bruce realises he had been staring, lost in his thoughts. "You don't have to..." Jim adds, at the same moment Bruce starts:
"I don't know what this is." He runs his hand through his hair, and offers half a shrug. "Hell, I'm not even sure I know what I want," he admits, forcing a smile, and it feels like lying, somehow. "And believe me, this friendship means a lot to me," his voice is low now, turning into a whisper without his conscious thought, and how can he even begin to explain it all if the very beginning is so hard to voice? Jim's assessing stare is not helping, he looks too much like when he's negotiating hostage situations. "The last thing I want is to fuck it up."
"You won't," Jim says, and for a moment Bruce isn't quite sure if he really did say anything, his face doesn't change at all, eyes still fixed on Bruce.
Bruce smiles humorlessly. "You're sure of that?" He's got history, after all.
Jim looks at him, and then snorts. "I am not having this conversation in your secret garage. Come on," he mutters, and starts towards the elevator, expecting Bruce to follow. Which, of course, after a brief moment of confusion, Bruce does.
"Better venue?" he asks inside, and Jim shrugs, making his way into the kitchen, heading straight for the coffee stash, not surprisingly. The mugs clink against the counter, and Jim moves to put the kettle on, the almost ancient one that actually survived the fire unscathed. The conversation is not resumed until Jim fills the mugs with coffee, and places them on the counter, pushing the green one towards Bruce. "You're trying to turn me down gently, aren't you?" Bruce asks, forcing a cheerful smile, and taking a sip of coffee to mask his disappointment.
"Not really," Jim says matter-of-factly, and Bruce coughs, half from surprise, half from having burn his tongue with the hot liquid.
"So, not gently, then."
Jim throws him a long-suffering look. "You're really bent on making this as difficult as possible, aren't you?" he asks, and Bruce looks at him with some surprise.
"Me?" he asks pointedly, and Jim rolls his eyes.
"Fine," and the 'have it your way' is left unspoken but loud and clear. "You kissing me. What was that about?"
"I'm not sure I'm qualified to give you the birds and bees spiel, Jim. I can ask Alfred to have a talk with you," he proposes, and fine, the way Jim looks around for something to throw at him is entirely justified. "Sorry. It was about me wanting to kiss you for a while now. The impulse overwhelmed the fear of consequences there for a moment. Won't happen again."
"Damnit, Bruce." It comes out louder than Jim himself expected, judging by the flicker of surprise on his face.
For a long moment, he doesn't say anything, just watches Jim, finally really looking, searching his face. Jim Gordon never was very good at keeping up the poker face, and now, he's not even really trying. Bruce starts saying something, he's not sure himself what exactly, and rethinks. "It was about me wanting to kiss you."
"Why?" Jim asks simply, and Bruce wants to call him on the flippancy, but the look in his eyes belies it; it's almost soft, vulnerable, and that's not a look he often sees on Gordon. And for a brief surreal moment Bruce gets it, or thinks he does; it's too soon after the divorce, it's Batman, it's Bruce Wayne, and... and it's not about not wanting this, it's about wanting it too much, enough to scare you. Bruce can relate.
"Come on." It's Bruce's turn to mutter as he stands up, reaches out, hand extended in invitation, and Jim looks at it for a brief moment, squinting, brow furrowed, before he accepts and lets himself be pulled to his feet, and then closer, their bodies finally colliding. "Come on, Jim," he says, quiet and soft, almost inaudible under the sound of his heart racing as he takes off Jim's glasses and moves in for a kiss, a real one this time, with Jim fully participating, his tongue sliding across Bruce's lips.
They're halfway out of the kitchen before he even realises they moved, he's too busy finally tasting the sounds Jim makes when Bruce bites his neck, soothing it with his tongue, slick and wet trail down Jim's throat.
"Where do you think you're going?" Jim asks, but it doesn't sounds even half as stern as he probably intended, punctuated by at least two moans and one groan, and Bruce is damn proud of the count.
"Bedroom. Unless you prefer the kitchen counter, which is fine by me, but you're explaining the mess to Alfred," Bruce says, laughing, and really, the serious expression Jim is trying to call up would work so much better if he didn't have his hand halfway down the back of Bruce's pants already.
"You seem incredibly sure there will be any mess made," Jim points out, however unsuccessful the attempt may be. He's already done with unbuttoning Bruce's shirt completely, and halfway done with pushing it off Bruce's shoulder. Say what you want, Jim is nothing if not efficient. One of his better qualities, if you ask Bruce.
"The facts of life conversation offer is still standing. I'm quite sure Alfred would be happy to oblige," Bruce offers, and laughs at the look on Jim's face.
"Sometimes I really wonder why I socialise with you," Jim mutters, and Bruce shrugs, making sure to use the moment of contemplation to push Jim into the bedroom and shut the doors behind them.
"Because I'm charming, irresistible, and a joy to have around, clearly," he might be overdoing the dramatic flair a tad, but Jim just smiles, a warm, open smile. "And, of course, you're in it for the test drives."
That's the moment where Jim usually glares at him, but this time, his head just hits the doors softly as it rolls back, Bruce's hand starting to stroke his dick lazily. "I can't believe... you actually made that joke."
"Please. You've heard worse," Bruce points out.
"True," Jim opens his eyes a little, squinting at Bruce. "At least you hadn't made the driving stick remark."
"Yet," Bruce promises, his tone as lazy as his strokes, their bodies close together, skin slowly heating up.
He has time for this. He has time for pretty much everything now. It's an amazing feeling, and it almost comes close to the way his hearts beats faster when Jim runs his hands down the side of Bruce's neck, fingertips gently covering the pulse as if tracing something. It almost comes close.