Pairing: Jim/Bruce, eventually.
Rating: PG-13 for now.
Word count: 1133
Jim Gordon has had his share of sleepless nights, long weeks of exhaustion, and of sharp sound of the phone ringing in the middle of the night. It had ensured that he slept soundly and dreamlessly whenever he actually slept, and that he went from dead to the world to wide awake in the space of few seconds once awoken.
There was no morning confusion now either, he was perfectly aware of both his surroundings and the last night’s events, and so he kept his eyes firmly shut just in case, even though he was pretty sure Batman was already gone.
He didn’t have much experience with one night stands (and to be honest, he didn’t think that’s what it was), but he was pretty sure that mornings were enough of an awkward ordeal without the added complications of learning a wanted vigilante’s secret identity. Batman’s leaving was a preferable alternative, no matter what the brief cold feeling in his stomach implied.
It still felt surreal, but this feeling was going to pass once he moved on from thinking of it as a night spent with the city’s most wanted, and concentrated more on it being a man he respected and trusted. The ‘man’ part of the situation was adding to the strangeness; it hadn’t been the first time, but it’s been a long while, and of course, it has been a long while since anyone but Barbara, since anything but familiar and comfortable.
And on that subject; not Barbara, he wasn’t going to think of her now; but speaking of familiar and comfortable, he was pretty sure he could feel something, which, in a few moments it took for him to get to the kitchen, turned out to be the smell of a freshly brewed pot of coffee.
Batman taking time to make it was firmly in the realm of surreal, but it also made Jim shake his head and smile like a lunatic, so that was alright.
Especially since the rest of his morning and all of the afternoon turned out to have very little to smile about. Zsasz wasn’t talking, much as Montoya said he wasn’t. He was incredibly forthcoming on all the gruesome details of the murders, but he was not giving up his source. Jim really didn’t expect him to, but sometimes it would be nice to be wrong about those things.
“I don’t envy whoever is going to be writing the report from the interrogations,” Montoya announced mournfully, downing her cup of mediocre office coffee.
“Your case, Montoya,” Gordon pointed out and she scowled, much to everyone’s amusement. One of the rookies snorted loudly, the one who had been looking slightly nauseated for a good few hours now, ever since Zsasz started talking about his handiwork. Montoya sent him a mock glare, and then winked at Jim cheerfully.
Sometimes she was quicker than anyone in reading the mood of the precinct, and right now, everyone wasn’t in the best form, even not knowing of the leak, but picking up on the moods of Gordon, Stephens and Bullock. Montoya had been the only one to keep her general displeasure completely under wraps, but then again, she was the one with the best poker face, useful both on the job and dodging Bullock’s questions on her love life.
“Too late to pawn the case off on Harvey?” she asked dryly, then shrugged. “Thought so. In the meantime, I’ll be down at the lab, Sparks wanted to talk to me about something,” she added. “And then I’m going home to change, and when I come back, some people better be in their tux and ready to take me out,” she said to Gordon, narrowing her eyes menacingly.
“What?” Bullock asked, a little bit too loud, his head turning so fast it was bound to make him dizzy. “Don’t tell me that Jim is that mystery boyfriend of yours.”
Jim was grateful that he wasn’t taking a sip of his coffee at this moment. Stephens was, however, and he spit it out, coughing madly. Montoya rolled her eyes. “There’s no boyfriend, and if there was, it certainly wouldn’t be commish. No offence,” she told Gordon, and he held back a smirk.
“None taken,” he assured her.
Bullock didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he turned back to his screen, throwing Jim an occasional suspicious glance.
Jim left the office in the late afternoon to go home and change, but not before a lengthy and unpleasant phone conversation with the Mayor, who had apparently decided Jim had enough time to settle back into the job and that it was high time to discuss budget cuts. In theory, he understood that the financial crisis was going to affect the city budget, but he failed to see why his department was to be the one to suffer. Garcia, of course, had a different opinion. Which made for over an hour of restraining himself from telling his de facto boss off for being an idiot.
To add insult to the injury, Garcia finished the conversation by telling Jim they’d see each other at Bruce Wayne’s party, which was just one more argument for ditching the thing altogether. He would have, if not for the fact that Montoya would shoot him, and then get Sparks to dispose of his body. He supposed he needed to make more friends at the CSU, just in case.
But there was at least one positive aspect of the entire thing, which was the reaction of everyone in the office, and especially Bullock, to Montoya’s dress.
“I don’t want to know where you hid your gun,” Bullock muttered, shaking his head, just slightly flustered.
“You don’t want to know,” Montoya agreed happily. At Jim’s look, she shrugged. “What, like you’re not taking your piece. At Wayne’s parties, I hear that’s a necessity.”
It was an exaggeration, of course, but there was a rumour that one in three parties thrown by Bruce Wayne had ended with a police being called in, and not because of the noise. Jim had checked the reports and the dispatch logs, and it was sheer rubbish, but there still was an unusually high number of interventions.
He was almost hoping this would be one of those times, just so he could get out of talking budget with Garcia. Not anything major or life-threatening, but a jewelry theft could do nicely. There were recent casess of a cat burglar hitting the residences of the rich and famous, was it that much to ask for the perp to choose this evening and this house?