Notes: second part of my nowweretwo secret santa fic, written for lettered. The entire fic, and specifically this chapter owes quite a bit to her brilliant Go Your Own Way and some of the thinky thoughts I had about Bruce and Jim after reading that one :D. I hope you enjoy it :)
In hindsight, Bruce can see how the next time he saw Gordon looked suspiciously as if he had planned it. He didn't, but explaining himself to anyone was pretty much pointless, and explaining himself to Gordon was very much so. Especially since it was entirely possible that he would have planned something very similar, given more time.
After the party he had arrived at two choices, ignore the sudden attraction to Gordon, or act on it and get it out of his system as soon as possible. The former could get very inconvenient at the most importune moments, the latter was almost certainly going to earn him a punch or two. He had tried the in-between option, and found the girl he had danced with before, whisked her away to the bedroom. It wasn't the same, clearly, softness where he wished for hardness, and compliance where he expected to be resisted, maybe fought, but with his eyes closed it was the next best thing.
He even managed to change the moaned 'Jim' into 'Jane' just in time; it wasn't the girl's name, of course, but she didn't mind, probably even expected it. He slipped out of the room soon after, and she didn't linger after the party; she was one of the smarter ones, who knew how the game went.
In the morning Alfred glared at him just a tad, but whether it was about the bra he found tangled in the sheets in master bedroom, or about the other part of the evening, Bruce wasn't sure. And if it was indeed about the jerking off, or about kissing Gordon in the elevator... he didn't want to know how Alfred learned about these things. He just did, somehow, always. It was better to simply ignore it, he had learned to do that by now.
What he had trouble ignoring, however, was the memory of Gordon's fingers closing on his wrists, of the way they tightly grasped the steering wheel before. It was bordering on insanity. He was going to have to do something about it, he just have no idea what exactly, yet. 'Yet' being the key word. Alfred had occasionally called him stubborn to a fault, Bruce preferred to think of himself as persistent, or determined, but arguing semantics never got you anywhere, and the point was, he was going to see this through, one way or the other.
But even before he could consciously form any sort of a plan, coincidence interfered, in a way that could be considered funny if you weren't actually involved in the entire thing.
Two days after the party and the car crash he's walking into a coffee shop in the midtown, the biggest sunglasses he could find perched on his nose, mess on his head that actually took ten minutes and some hair product to achieve. He left his tie in the car and purposefully messed up his shirt, too; no one would think twice about Bruce Wayne stopping for a cup of coffee on his way back from whatever party that lasted well into the morning, not even two suspects having a clandestine meeting in this very coffee shop. After all, who would take seriously an idea that Bruce Wayne of all people was pretty much stalking you?
Well, Jim Gordon, from the look of things, actually. But that would happen later.
When he enters the cafe, it's almost empty, a slow morning, a group of students in the corner, chatting aimlessly, a girl with big headphones and an even bigger book, a redheaded woman going through her purse with some irritation, and the suspect he's after, at the table in the back. Bruce sits down, keeps his sunglasses on, and puts a good show of being hung over, which doesn't stop him from flirting with the waitress, a nice blonde girl who doesn't seem all that impressed, but gives him her number anyway.
The relative calm lasts for about two minutes, because right about when he's getting his coffee, and the napkin with the waitress' number scribbled on, Jim Gordon comes out from the general direction of the restroom, and sits across the redheaded woman, whom Bruce can now recognise, and is surprised he hadn't done so earlier. Barbara Gordon, who was supposed to be in Chicago from what he heard, and who now was gathering her things from the table, a cellphone, a manilla folder that looked very official, putting them in her purse and fighting with its clasp. Gordon says something Bruce can't hear, and she shakes her head and forces a smile, then walks out, passing Bruce with just a quick curious glance.
Gordon's gaze follows her out, just slightly sad and distant, and Bruce can tell the exact moment when he notices him. Gordon is never going to be a great poker player, there's always a moment before he schools his expression down, a very short moment, but it's there if you look for it.
There's surprise, and then, just briefly, annoyance, and then all the emotion is gone, covered up, and all that's left is a searching steady look, fixed on Bruce. And Bruce is not a stranger to staring contests, and this time he even has the advantage of huge sunglasses, but then again, the staring contests he usually partakes in don't make him instantly hard.
What apparently does make him instantly hard is Jim Gordon looking at him as if he wondered what the fuck Bruce was doing there, and why the hell things like that happened to him. It was a new kind of look, not the one Bruce was used to getting, not as Bruce Wayne, and not even as Batman. At the sight of Batman most people looked scared, and Jim Gordon usually looked relieved and just a little, well, happy was possibly the right word. And that felt good at the time, someone looking forward to seeing him, someone he could rely on. Why it felt so much better to have the same man look at him with irritation and certain dislike, he couldn't tell. But it did.
He's vaguely aware that he's not the only one noticing Gordon, the suspect he had came here after looks a little nervous at the sight of Gotham's commissioner, and leaves the cafe promptly, already reaching for his cellphone. He is probably going to arrange for a new meeting place, and Bruce will have to get the location of that. It's inconvenient, but for the moment, he doesn't care.
He just looks back at Gordon, and, after few more seconds, reaches out to take his glasses off, folding them absently and placing them on the table. Gordon holds his gaze, eyebrows rising just a tiny fraction, his forehead furrowing. This is commissioner Gordon at work, Bruce thinks, trying to figure out the puzzle. It's not entirely comfortable, being the puzzle he's trying to work out, but at the same time it's a strangely good feeling, warm spreading throughout his body, pulsing under his skin. And it's not only going into his dick either, it's something more now. What, he can't tell yet, but it's not unpleasant. Slightly worrying, but not unpleasant.
Gordon stands up, eyes not leaving Bruce's, then turns on his heel and marches back into the restroom. It's not an invitation, as such, there's no come-hither look or knowing gaze. Bruce would actually pay good money to see a come-hither look on Jim Gordon, because that would be something, but what he gets now is simply Gordon knowing he'd follow, wanting to have the conversation, or the confrontation, somewhere that's not so public. And there will be a confrontation, he can tell that much from the tight set of Gordon's shoulders, the purpose in his steps.
He thinks he's looking forward to that.
Contrary to the popular belief and the latest story in one of Gotham's tabloids, he doesn't go to public restrooms with intentions of quite possibly pushing someone against the stall doors and having his way with them, but he's debating the idea of starting doing just that. Gordon is leaning against the sink, his arms crossed, half-defensive half-furious, and that's a surprisingly attractive look on him.
"You wanted to see me, commissioner?" he drawls, possibly overdoing it a little, but with the opinion Gordon has about him, he shouldn't worry.
"What the hell are you doing?" Gordon asks, voice quiet but heated with anger.
Well, if he puts it like that, there's only one way Bruce can answer. "Enjoying a great cup of coffee. See, I've been to this wild party last night, woke up in some girl's apartment, and, believe it or not, there was not one, not two, but..."
"Wayne," Gordon stops him, all but spitting out the name.
This probably should be the moment where he backs off, the moment he gives in. Especially on the morning when, from all he had seen, Gordon had just signed his divorce papers. It's not the right time, and certainly not the right place, and honestly, he doesn't give a fuck about that.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" he asks plainly, taking a step forward, and a brief look of understanding comes across Gordon's face, as if a piece of puzzle just fallen into place. It's not the right puzzle, probably, but it makes Gordon's eyes lose some of the coldness and anger, and his stance eases just a bit. That's not exactly what he wanted, he doesn't need the understanding or the gentle worry. "I would have thought your investigative skills were much better, commissioner. Or maybe that's why you needed an overgrown bat doing most of your work for you. Too bad how it turned out, eh?"
He should have bit the words back, it's not even picking at a fresh wound, this is more like stabbing exposed flesh, the words are spilling like poured acid but he can't hold them.
It does earn him a reaction he's been looking for, though. Gordon's fists tighten, and for a brief moment Bruce braces himself, prepares for the inevitable punch, but it doesn't come. He's oddly disappointed. He would have welcomed the skin on skin contact, however brief, and it would have closed the distance between them. But all that happens is all the colour draining from Gordon's face, his lips setting into a tight uncompromising line.
He should say something, he thinks, but isn't sure whether whatever would come out of his mouth at this moment would be an apology or an insult. He's not sure which he'd prefer. But before he can say anything, Gordon's whole body presses against him, pushing him towards the wall. It's not what he expected. It's rough and almost violent, but the fit is not quite like a one you'd get in a fight, it's closer and more personal, and Bruce's dick takes notice, and from the stirring against his hip, it seems like Gordon is in a similar situation himself.
Gordon's forearm presses against Bruce's neck, but it's more of a symbolic gesture than anything else, the hold is not strong enough to be intended as threatening.
"What do you want, Wayne?" The words are quiet, just a hint of a hidden intensity behind them. Gordon sounds really interested and just a little bit baffled by the entire thing, and even his own actions. His eyes are darkened, be it with anger or the surge of desire, Bruce doesn't care, as long as Gordon's breathing is harsh and shallow, as long as his dick is tightly pressed against Bruce's thigh, close enough to his own to make his world spin.
"This," he mutters, his head bowing forward, his lips an inch away from Gordon's. "I want this."
It's not exactly a specific request, but the gist of it is pretty clear, and Gordon doesn't back off when Bruce kisses him hungrily and messily, all teeth and tongue, but he doesn't really respond either. Bruce groans in frustration, and in response Gordon efficiently works his pants undone, sneaks his hand inside Bruce's boxers, palming his cock. His other hand rests on Bruce's hip, fingers digging into the flesh, hard enough to leave bruises for later, and it feels better than it probably should.
Bruce thrusts into Gordon's hand, his head rolling backwards, hitting the wall with a soft thud. He forces his eyes to stay open when he catches the sight in the mirror to their side and can't look away from it. Gordon's biting his lip in concentration, his hand working faster, fingers tightening as he moves closer, his mouth almost on Bruce's neck but not quite, hot breath against his skin, just there on the pulse point. As Gordon's hand moves to cup his balls, squeezing just hard enough, Bruce moans, low and needy. He's not sure what exactly he needs, but this is close enough that he can pretend it's right.
"Come on, Wayne," Gordon says, harsh and impatient, and it sends Bruce over the edge, and he spills into Gordon's hand, his body shuddering violently, only Gordon's weight tightly pressed against him keeping him in place against the wall.
After few seconds Gordon moves away, reaches out to tear a paper towel off a roll, wiping his hand in a matter-of-fact manner. He doesn't look up for a long moment, and it gives Bruce some time to get his breathing under control. He still doesn't move to clean himself up, but he's going to, any minute now, when his brain and his hands work properly again.
Gordon hesitates for a briefest of seconds, glancing at Bruce quickly, something unreadable in his face, but then just discards the towel into the waste bin and walks out, without as much as a backward glance.
Minutes later, when he's washing his face and looking up into the mirror, Bruce thinks this was a right moment to say something, maybe try and do something about the unmistakable hardness in Gordon's pants. He faintly regrets not having done so, but, he thinks there will be other occasions. After all, if he had any thoughts about getting this entire thing out of his system, over and done with, this hasn't helped, if anything, it might be getting worse.