A/N: I'm slightly busy with school and work at the moment, so the parts won't be posted as frequently, as, say, some of my November ficapalooza, but I'll try to have at least one or two parts up a week, if I can manage :).
Jim Gordon, Bruce discovers, can set records in drinking coffee agonizingly slowly. It's probably a force of habit, stemming from long nights on stake-out, or over the paperwork, the way he turns the cup in his hands, as if absorbing his warmth. It's also distracting like hell, the way his fingers close around the mug.
Bruce himself drinks the coffee fast enough to burn his lips and his tongue, and spends a very long time just watching as Jim lazily drinks his. They don't talk, and the silence is surprisingly comfortable. There is a vast number of topics Bruce could broach, but none of them is something Bruce Wayne would be interested in, or know anything about. Sometimes being Bruce Wayne gets a tad tiresome. Jim seems fine with no talking, however, he's deep in thought, eyes fixed on the steaming mug in his hands, watching the dark liquid swirl, obviously pondering something. Bruce really hopes he's not having second thoughts.
"So, how about you try and be a good host and show me around the place? Starting with your bedroom?" he asks, smiling hopefully.
"You could at least grant me this moment to recover and finish my coffee," Jim grumbles. "It might have escaped your notice, but I'm not that young anymore."
It hasn't, and that's mostly the point, Bruce thinks, but aloud, he just groans theatrically. "Is this what happens to people in their old age? So unfortunate."
Bruce had expected another eyeroll, maybe a glare, but Jim actually laughs, low and warm, and sends him a look that could be almost described as fond. "Asshole," he says, but it doesn't sting at all. Besides, that's kind of what Bruce had been aiming at, so it's good to know he still has it.
"Bedroom?" he repeats, and Jim stands up, pretending to be much more reluctant than he is, and he isn't reluctant at all.
"We might as well," he agrees, and reaches out, pulling at Bruce's arm, dragging him close, and they fumble into the bedroom as Jim is haphazardly pushing the jacket off Bruce's shoulders, and their lips lock hungrily.
The jacket lands somewhere in the middle of the corridor, along with Bruce's bow-tie. Jim is pulling at his shirt now, finishing what he started back in the hallway, tugging it out of his pants completely. The undershirt is next, and Bruce is about to protest, when Jim's fingers scratch across a long bruise at his side and all he does is groan, and shudder, and throw all the caution to the wind.
After all, if there's anyone he can trust, it's Jim Gordon.
Jim Gordon, who doesn't give the bruises a second glance, even after Bruce shrugs, and mutters something about playing polo. It's such a blatant lie it should cause at least a raised eyebrow; there's no chance in hell commissioner Jim Gordon wouldn't recognise a bullet wound, or a stab wound, or a burn... but either he really doesn't, or he doesn't care, and this is just a bit disappointing.
He doesn't dwell on that thought for long, because Jim is pushing him onto the bed, mouth on his neck and Jim's knee between his legs, hands roaming all over the exposed skin. Jim pulls away, his eyes fixed on Bruce, just slightly unfocussed without his glasses on. His face has, once more, that look of intense concentration that works wonders in making Bruce even harder, however impossible he thought that mere seconds ago. Bruce's pants are being pulled down now, with even more impatience in Jim's movements than before.
"Shoes," Bruce mutters, and Jim snorts, rolling his eyes at the apparent non sequitur.
"What about them?"
"It would be easier without them."
Jim doesn't even look away from Bruce's face, just reaches to dispose of Bruce's shoes, then his own, with enough force to have one of them slide out into the corridor. "There," he announces, and it's Bruce's turn to roll his eyes, but it doesn't last long, as Jim is tugging his pants off along with his boxers, and uses every chance to run his fingertips across Bruce's skin, his knee, his inner thigh. And he was going to mention socks, too, but there's no coherent thought in his head, at least not one he could voice at the moment.
Jim's fingers close around his cock, giving it a few slow strokes, and Bruce throws his head back, eyes closed, biting his lip hard enough to feel the metallic tang on his tongue. Jim's mouth move across his exposed neck, biting lightly, and then he's moving away, and Bruce gives a groan of protest.
"Patience, Wayne," Jim says a tad too smugly for Bruce's liking, and Bruce forces himself to open his eyes, pull himself up, resting on his elbows. Jim is rummaging through the sidetable's drawer, triumphantly pulling out a box and a small jar, and Bruce makes an effort of frowning suspiciously.
"Don't tell me. You used to be a Boy Scout, commissioner."
"I figured it was only a matter of time until..." he shrugs, placing the condoms and the lube on the bed beside them. This is the first time he seems at least a little bit unsure, and Bruce savors the moment.
"Until what, Jim?" he drawls, and Jim gives him a look, the one that plainly says 'asshole'. It's a pity he doesn't say it aloud, Bruce had a damn good comeback and an even better double entendre.
Instead, Jim reaches for the jar, and then pushes Bruce's legs further apart, his left hand taking over stroking Bruce's dick, while he generously coats his fingers in the slick substance.
He kisses Bruce again, lazy and lingering, as if he never intended to stop, certainly not when the tip of his finger presses against Bruce, and slowly pushes inside. His fingers work Bruce completely undone, skilled and efficient, and Bruce realises this is certainly something Jim has done before. It's rather obvious, yes, but it's not something he had thought of before, Jim with other men. The wave of heat that goes through him is both an arousal at the thought of this, and a slowly-spreading jealousy. He certainly hadn't expected that.
But, seconds and eternity later, as Jim thrusts into him, his low voice muttering something inaudible, Bruce thinks he should have, he had been on a slippery slope ever since the car, and probably longer before that.
"God, Jim," he groans when Jim speeds up, stroking Bruce again, out of any rhythm, his fingers tightening just a bit too hard, but Bruce welcomes that.
"Bruce," is all he says, and it's all he needs to say to have Bruce coming hard, Jim following close behind. The kiss they share then is hungry and painful, and their blood mixes on their lips.
A lot of time passes before the ringing in his ears stops, before Jim slowly eases out of him and rolls to the side. It's a long moment before either of them moves again, before they make some sort of effort to clean up the mess. Bruce hesitates, reaching for his pants, and Jim can apparently read the hesitation without even looking up.
"I hope you don't snore," he says, and that's as much of an invitation as Bruce is going to get.
"I hadn't any complaints," he offers, trying for an offended tone, and the look Jim gives him is full of mocking disbelief. "I hog the covers," he adds.
"Yes, that much I expected."
Bruce drifts off to sleep soon after that, and sleeps easier than he expected to. It might have something to do with being exhausted, when you think about it. When he wakes up, the sun is just barely up, first rays filtered through the drawn curtains.
The bed beside him is empty, but still warm. A scent of coffee wafts from the general direction of the kitchen, but Bruce doesn't move, because he can hear Jim talking, and he can't yet tell whom with. He closes his eyes and listens, and figures it to be a phone conversation, only Jim's voice, quiet and warm.
"Of course I'll be there," he's saying, and it sounds unlike anything Bruce heard in his voice before. He rather likes it. "Wouldn't miss it. Have you been practicing the throw I showed you? Yes. Good. Saturday, then. Can you put your mom back on?" he asks, and there's a long moment of silence, before Jim's voice comes back, a smile rather evident in it. "Yes, three o'clock, I know, Barbara. I'll be there. Yes." Another pause, shorter, and then "yes, me too," a soft admission that sends a shiver down Bruce's spine.
It feels wrong now that he listened to that, as if trespassing on something. He takes his time getting dressed, and only when he's sure Jim has finished the conversation does he make his way to the kitchen.
"Coffee?" Jim asks, not looking up, and Bruce accepts the cup and turns it in his hands for a long moment. "Something wrong?" Jim glances up now, frowning slightly, and Bruce almost sighs. He didn't use to be so easily read.
"No, I just remembered I need to be at the office this morning. Those meetings are so boring I can sometimes feel my brain leaking out through my ears, but Fox insists," he says lightly, taking a gulp of coffee, the mug covering whatever expression could give him away.
"I bet," Jim says, and whether he refers to boring meetings or Lucius' insistence is anybody's guess, but his voice is light and easy, as when he's bluffing. And Bruce has no idea what this might be about now.
"So, I should get going," he adds, and Jim nods.
"I guess you should."
And that's pretty much that. Bruce can't pinpoint where exactly it went wrong, but the sound of the door closing behind him seems final, depressingly so.