Fic for batfan_sarah's birthday: Getting Close
Title: Getting Close
Pairing: Bruce Wayne/Jim Gordon
Disclaimer: Batman belongs to DC. Jim Gordon belongs to the ages.
Notes:
batfan_sarah asked for some Jim/Bruce for her birthday, and I was all too ready to oblige, since this bunny's been chewing on its leash for a while.
Rating: R
Summary: Jim Gordon doesn't know how he ended up with a playboy billionaire for a lover, and he tries to keep it that way.
Word Count: 720
Papers go flying. The entire Maroni file scattered on the floor--it's going to take Jim Gordon forever to put it back together correctly. He probably should care more about that, but he's a lot more interested in the exact texture of Bruce Wayne's hair beneath his hands, coarser than you'd think from looking at it, dark as the night. He's a lot more intrigued by the exact taste of the other man's lips, his gently exploring tongue, mint and something stronger underneath, like brandy, or lust. He's much more interested in the hands roaming down his body, slipping into the spaces between buttons and the gaps between shirt and pants, cool on his skin.
Jim opens his eyes a moment to stare at his lover, sitting on his desk among the paper clips and post-it notes like some exotic animal, impeccably groomed, impossibly elegant. As always, the question comes to Jim's mind: Why me? But even as he asks it, the question seems ridiculous. From the moment they had met at some charity function or other, they had been unable to stay away from each other. Jim remembers little of the polite small talk they exhanged. What he remembers are Bruce's eyes on him, hungry, almost familiar, watching him with an intensity that jars with the chatter. He remembers how Bruce had followed him to the restroom, how they had stared at each other, Bruce's deep blue eyes dark with desire and something closer to fear. How Jim had finally had to be the one to step forward, bridge the distance between them, push the playboy against the mirrored wall and kiss him, reflections and echoes wavering around them.
Reflections and echoes of everything that Jim Gordon will never say to his lover.
They don't speak to each other much. They have little in common, little to say to each other.
There are many rules that neither of them have to say. Many questions never asked. Many moments not looked at too closely.
One of the rules is that Bruce Wayne stays clothed. Jim's hands are not to explore beneath his clothing, not to touch his skin. Pleasure will be found in other ways.
So now, when Jim goes to grip his lover's waist and finds his hands accidentally brushing skin, he recoils as though at a nightmare. "Sorry," he mumbles, looking away, not meeting those eyes that are sometimes so much more than they should be.
Strong hands on his. Then, very slowly, Bruce puts Jim's hands back on his waist. On his bare skin. Slides them upward in silence.
Jim feels the scars.
Both his fingers and his breath catch, tracing them, the filagreed finish on his sheathed steel blade of a lover. He keeps his fingers as light and gentle as possible. One ridge leads almost to a nipple, and he lets his hand float there a moment, caressing. Bruce's eyes are closed, his breath fast. "Jim," he says hoarsely, his voice lower than it should be. "God. Jim."
Bare skin under his hands and Jim Gordon is closer to perfection than he's ever been in his life.
: : :
Three hours later he's on the rooftop in a fine drizzle, hunching his shoulders against the cold and rain, the beacon gleaming through the mist. A flutter of silken wings and Batman stands beside him, his face unreadable as it always is.
"Good work on that drug bust," Jim notes.
A shrug. "Joker's escaped from Arkham."
"I'd heard, yes. Any guesses on where he's gone to ground?"
They talk for a while, trading information. Their conversations lately have been, if still terse, somehow more leisurely. Neither is anxious to go anywhere, despite the cold drizzle.
As he turns to go, Jim stops. He shouldn't, he shouldn't... "They must ache in this weather," he hears himself say. "The scars."
Batman's eyes are steady and unmoved. "I don't have scars." The Dark Knight backs toward the edge of the building; he knows where it is by heart now, he doesn't have to look. He keeps looking at Jim. "I don't let anyone get that close."
A pivot and he's gone, a darker shadow against the darkness.
Jim Gordon watches him go, the memory of pain-etched skin still warm against his hands.
Pairing: Bruce Wayne/Jim Gordon
Disclaimer: Batman belongs to DC. Jim Gordon belongs to the ages.
Notes:
batfan_sarah asked for some Jim/Bruce for her birthday, and I was all too ready to oblige, since this bunny's been chewing on its leash for a while.
Rating: R
Summary: Jim Gordon doesn't know how he ended up with a playboy billionaire for a lover, and he tries to keep it that way.
Word Count: 720
Papers go flying. The entire Maroni file scattered on the floor--it's going to take Jim Gordon forever to put it back together correctly. He probably should care more about that, but he's a lot more interested in the exact texture of Bruce Wayne's hair beneath his hands, coarser than you'd think from looking at it, dark as the night. He's a lot more intrigued by the exact taste of the other man's lips, his gently exploring tongue, mint and something stronger underneath, like brandy, or lust. He's much more interested in the hands roaming down his body, slipping into the spaces between buttons and the gaps between shirt and pants, cool on his skin.
Jim opens his eyes a moment to stare at his lover, sitting on his desk among the paper clips and post-it notes like some exotic animal, impeccably groomed, impossibly elegant. As always, the question comes to Jim's mind: Why me? But even as he asks it, the question seems ridiculous. From the moment they had met at some charity function or other, they had been unable to stay away from each other. Jim remembers little of the polite small talk they exhanged. What he remembers are Bruce's eyes on him, hungry, almost familiar, watching him with an intensity that jars with the chatter. He remembers how Bruce had followed him to the restroom, how they had stared at each other, Bruce's deep blue eyes dark with desire and something closer to fear. How Jim had finally had to be the one to step forward, bridge the distance between them, push the playboy against the mirrored wall and kiss him, reflections and echoes wavering around them.
Reflections and echoes of everything that Jim Gordon will never say to his lover.
They don't speak to each other much. They have little in common, little to say to each other.
There are many rules that neither of them have to say. Many questions never asked. Many moments not looked at too closely.
One of the rules is that Bruce Wayne stays clothed. Jim's hands are not to explore beneath his clothing, not to touch his skin. Pleasure will be found in other ways.
So now, when Jim goes to grip his lover's waist and finds his hands accidentally brushing skin, he recoils as though at a nightmare. "Sorry," he mumbles, looking away, not meeting those eyes that are sometimes so much more than they should be.
Strong hands on his. Then, very slowly, Bruce puts Jim's hands back on his waist. On his bare skin. Slides them upward in silence.
Jim feels the scars.
Both his fingers and his breath catch, tracing them, the filagreed finish on his sheathed steel blade of a lover. He keeps his fingers as light and gentle as possible. One ridge leads almost to a nipple, and he lets his hand float there a moment, caressing. Bruce's eyes are closed, his breath fast. "Jim," he says hoarsely, his voice lower than it should be. "God. Jim."
Bare skin under his hands and Jim Gordon is closer to perfection than he's ever been in his life.
: : :
Three hours later he's on the rooftop in a fine drizzle, hunching his shoulders against the cold and rain, the beacon gleaming through the mist. A flutter of silken wings and Batman stands beside him, his face unreadable as it always is.
"Good work on that drug bust," Jim notes.
A shrug. "Joker's escaped from Arkham."
"I'd heard, yes. Any guesses on where he's gone to ground?"
They talk for a while, trading information. Their conversations lately have been, if still terse, somehow more leisurely. Neither is anxious to go anywhere, despite the cold drizzle.
As he turns to go, Jim stops. He shouldn't, he shouldn't... "They must ache in this weather," he hears himself say. "The scars."
Batman's eyes are steady and unmoved. "I don't have scars." The Dark Knight backs toward the edge of the building; he knows where it is by heart now, he doesn't have to look. He keeps looking at Jim. "I don't let anyone get that close."
A pivot and he's gone, a darker shadow against the darkness.
Jim Gordon watches him go, the memory of pain-etched skin still warm against his hands.