FIC: Go Your Own Way (2/12)
Title: Go Your Own Way
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Lots of dirty talk, the word "daddy", and kink. Not really that much plot.
Summary: Bruce Wayne spends time on Jim Gordon's side of the tracks, as it were.
A/N: Story is finished. Please mind warnings.
Forgot to mention last time, the chrome and trailer hitch line is from Electric Horseman.
Previous: Chapter One
Go Your Own Way, chapter 2
They did not have sex that night.
The thought didn’t cross Gordon’s mind, despite Wayne inviting himself to go home with him so late in the evening. Gordon had been too tired to really assess Wayne’s motives, and he’d thought Wayne was drunk. It didn’t occur to him until the next morning, when he walked from the rail station to the MCU and saw the Ferrari parked along the street. It wasn’t every day the sort of people who drove Ferraris visited the precinct, or this block. It had to be Wayne’s.
Of course Bruce Wayne didn’t go around riding the rail home, even if his father had built it. Wayne had driven the Ferrari to the MCU, but left it for an excuse to go home with Gordon. It was just the sort of lie you used to get laid, even though driving someone home in a Ferrari was more of an excuse and less of a lie, and probably ended up in more of a lay, if you were the type to get turned on by riches or fast cars. Which Gordon wasn’t-though maybe Wayne guessed that, straight-laced as Gordon was.
Though he couldn’t think he was that straight, considering.
Gordon could see the Ferrari from his office. Despite all the work he had to do accounting for the evidence Batman had delivered the night before, Gordon kept an eye on the car when he could-cop’s instinct, maybe, or curiosity. He didn’t expect to know what went on in the brains of the likes of Wayne anyway, but deserting your Ferrari in this part of town, even within sight of the precinct, was more of a mystery than even Wayne should account for.
Late in the afternoon-Wayne was probably just waking up, and Gordon happened to have a spare moment in his office-a Bentley pulled up beside the Ferrari. Wayne got out, and that should have been that, except once the Bentley drove off Wayne came up to the building instead of his car.
Several minutes later, Wayne was in Gordon’s office in a white linen suit and dark sunglasses, probably to evade his own personal paparazzi. He made Gordon tired, all that luxury and ease, the way he looked like a long, tall glass of liquid you could throw back and just keep drinking, if you didn’t choke on how smooth it went down. It made Gordon want to sigh and throw up his hands, to give up or ask, What do you want?
Instead he said-stiffly, because thinking all that about the liquid and giving up had made Gordon realize the answer was simple, and Occam’s Razor suggested Wayne was looking for a fuck-“How can I help you, Mr. Wayne?”
“Bruce.” Wayne flashed teeth and took off his sunglasses. “I had some ideas. About last night.”
Gordon bet he did, until he realized Wayne was at least ostensibly referring to the grant project he’d been babbling about. “I’m glad to hear it,” Gordon said prefunctorily.
“I thought we could talk about them. Want another coffee?”
For a moment, Gordon actually considered the offer. All of it. “I can’t,” he said, not really regretting it, but kind because he couldn’t be any other way. “I have a lot of work today.”
Despite being disappointed, Wayne managed to not to look put off at all. “I hope it’s not bad news?”
“No. New evidence . . . turned up. We’ll use it to . . . put away bad guys, like you said.”
“Great,” Wayne said, not sounding concerned in the least. “Maybe I’ll bring the plans by later in the week?”
“Fine,” Gordon said. “Don’t forget your Ferrari this time.”
“I didn’t forget, Commissioner,” Wayne said, and smiled such a smile that Gordon was fairly sure he’d been right as to a large part of Wayne’s motives.
* * *
When it happened, it was a week later. By then it was early autumn. It was only eight thirty, already dark. Still, it was surprisingly early for Gordon to be home, which made him wonder how Wayne knew he would be, since he’d been at the MCU until nearly three that night a week ago. Wayne knocked when Gordon was in the middle of dinner, which was the usual: a box of noodles. Wayne started talking about the grant and some kind of nonprofit, which sounded hardly feasible. Gordon went on eating noodles from the pan, admittedly not listening very closely.
“What is that?” Wayne said finally, looking at Gordon’s noodles.
Gordon blinked. “Pasta Roni.”
“Smells delicious.”
Gordon believed that about as much as he believed the rest, but to be polite, he said, “Want some? I was going to put the rest in a tupper ware.”
“Yeah,” Wayne said, and took the pan, and his fork.
Gordon watched him wolf it down in under two minutes with some measure of incredulity.
“What?” Wayne said, seeing the way Gordon was looking at him.
“You eat that same way you drink shitty coffee.”
“How’s that?” Wayne set down the pan and cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand.
Gordon shrugged. “With gusto, I guess.”
Wayne laughed. “What can I say? I’m an enthusiastic guy. About the foundation,” he went on, going over plans he had for the grant.
Gordon wasn’t paying particular attention. Instead he was thinking about why the hell Bruce Wayne was appearing at his apartment at odd hours, and that the man must be having a strange bout of non-midlife crisis that involved working through daddy issues and sussing out his “inner puer”, like Loeb used to say. Loeb had always been full of maxims and pretension, the odd academic phrase here he’d heard somewhere, the reference to classic literature there. He often imparted said insight in his crude, amiable way, and always managed to include scotch, cards, or cigars in his conventional wisdom.
Loeb had been fond of comparing the higher ups, government and bureaucracy in general to the Greek gods. “They were immortal,” he’d say. “They haven’t got anything serious to worry about, because the most serious thing can never happen. They’re jealous of us, who can really feel, who can really act, because we’re mortal. So they just play petty games with us. They’re just having fun.”
When Loeb had been made Commissioner, someone had reminded him of that. “It’s absolutely true,” he’d said, and pulled a bottle of bourbon from under his desk. “Care for some nectar of the gods?”
Gordon had never held with that line of thinking. He didn’t know about Greek gods, but he’d never met an immortal. Still, he thought of Loeb when Wayne was talking; he thought a lot of what Wayne was doing was more to amuse himself than anything else. It was inevitable he would get distracted by something else he found shiny soon enough, and forget his well-meaning plans. Gordon didn’t expect anything to come of it.
Then again, he’d never expected to sleep with him, either.
Gordon hadn’t really given what he’d thought about the Ferrari a second thought until now. He’d been busy using the evidence Batman had given them to get the D.A. to process the necessary people. There’d been bureacracy and red tape to sort through, and the new D.A. wasn’t half what Harvey Dent had been even if Dent had . . . done what he had done.
The rest of the time, Gordon had been working closely with Batman on tracking down a suspect in the drug ring case. It necessitated secrecy and lots of lying, while still trying to make use of what Batman could give him . . . It had been a hard week, and this was Gordon’s first night off, and here was Bruce Wayne stealing his noodles.
That was probably why Gordon was thinking of Loeb, and the games people play when they don’t have more important things to worry them, and why he finally did say what he’d thought about saying earlier that week, which was, “What do you want?
“What do I want?” Wayne repeated.
Gordon had just taken the pan to the kitchen, and had come back to find Bruce not looking over his oh-so-important papers, but the picture of Babs and James on the coffee table. When Gordon spoke, Wayne turned to him. He looked so casual there, on Gordon’s couch, arm on the back of it, legs splayed in their studiously faded designer jeans.
“You need to talk to our grant writer if you want to make a donation,” Gordon said. “Not me. So why are you here?”
“You don’t want to hear my ideas?” Wayne’s voice was carefully blank.
“I don’t understand what you get out of it,” Gordon said. “Do you want me to say it’s a good thing, if you donate the grant money? You already know that. Do you want someone’s approval? Because it shouldn’t be mine.”
“What if you are, Jim?” Gordon had never asked him to use his first name the way Wayne had, and it should have made everything more clear, except it didn’t. Wayne was still using that strangely neutral, flat voice. “What if you’re what I need?”
“Trust me, son,” Gordon said. “I’m not.”
At that, Wayne stood-swiftly, fluid. It made detached bitterness well in Gordon. He looked at men, but often it was as much clinical assessment as any messing around he’d done before Barbara. A body that sleek and lithe should be on the force; they needed more physically fit men. Or at least a body like that should be donating to the department its retinue of personal trainers, gym memberships, and hours of free time spent honing commercially perfect muscles.
“I trust you,” Wayne said, and came toward him.
Before Wayne could grab him, Gordon stopped him. It made the first touch his-important, since Wayne did grab him. “I won’t tell you you’ve been a good boy, after,” Gordon said in warning.
“I don’t want to be a good boy,” Wayne said. Then he moved his lips to Gordon’s.
There hadn’t been anyone since Barbara. It was less that thought, though, and more the thought that it had only been Barbara, for the longest time, and now there would never be Barbara again, that made Gordon kiss back. Wayne’s mouth was warm. His lips were strong and soft. Gordon really didn’t know why not, so he did.
Wayne pushed his tongue in Gordon’s mouth and tried to rip off his glasses. Gordon closed a firm hand over the spectacles and put them carefully on the counter; meanwhile, Wayne had already started in on Gordon’s shirt instead. He got it open to the collarbone, enough to suck on Gordon’s neck. Gordon tipped his head back, mustache brushing Wayne’s temple, thinking how odd it was that Wayne’s chin scraped where it touched his skin.
It had been a long time since before Barbara, since men, since anyone but her, since this.
Wayne’s chest would take getting used to again, too. Gordon started unbuttoning the other man’s shirt, but suddenly Wayne’s hands were gripping his wrists tight, like iron, jerking them away from the buttons, above Gordon’s head, against the wall. Gordon had cuffed too many criminals, told too many suspects to stop and hold their hands just such a way, for it to be comfortable at all. And it may have been a long time before Barbara, but Gordon still remembered how some people thought they could control you, even in this, especially in this.
Wayne was sleek and lithe and commercially perfect, but his grip was textbook, and easing as his lips found Gordon’s again. Gordon had spent more than half his life a cop; it was easy to twist, push Wayne back, and trap him against the wall.
Wayne just kept kissing him, straining against the forearm Gordon had pressed against his neck. Gordon dared him, just dared him to try to tear his hand away again when the one not holding him in place dropped down to work open Wayne’s jeans. Wayne just tilted his hips so Gordon could jerk the zipper down more easily.
Still holding Wayne against the wall with his forearm, Gordon licked his other palm, pushed it down into Wayne’s boxers. Kissed Wayne, measured and languid, so down lower he could feel Wayne’s cock jump in his hand like something trained to his touch, obedient. “Good,” Gordon murmured.
“Thought you said you wouldn’t say that,” Wayne said.
He didn’t look near dazed enough with lust, considering the hardness of his cock in Gordon’s hand. Gordon said shut up and squeezed, and the haze came over Wayne’s eyes as though it had been ordered. “Shh,” Gordon said, “that’s right.” He thought maybe the words came from realizing he knew what to do with a man, remembered how to hold the reverse of himself and pull him off, but maybe it was something else entirely.
Gordon still held Wayne against the wall. Wayne didn’t fight it, stood there restrained, jerking into Gordon’s hand with Gordon saying, “like that, just like that,” against his jaw. Still, it was when Gordon’s arm finally loosened, free hand finally locking around Wayne’s neck and pulling him down for another kiss, Wayne came.
“Good,” Gordon told him again, and Wayne didn’t talk back this time, just took Gordon’s hand, covered in come, and brought it to his mouth. Licked his palm, sucked come from his fingers long and slow, which Gordon guessed was only fitting. If you were going to bring off someone against a wall who wasn’t your wife, you might as well make it as dirty as possible.
Maybe Wayne sensed his thoughts, but more probably he had his own issues, with the way he slipped to his knees with the ease of someone who’d been pushed down. He deftly opened Gordon’s pants, took out his cock, and began to suck.
It was the first time Gordon found him beautiful.
He’d known it before, of course, but abstractly. He’d been aware that Wayne could have been a model, a movie star, that he was the sort of man women looked at and gay men got hard over, but Gordon had never felt it, personally, intimately, deep down. He only felt it now, looking at Wayne on his knees with lips wrapped around his cock.
Maybe it was the fact that this, too, was dirty, getting sucked off in your kitchen by someone you really only barely knew. The fact that it was so completely abstract, that Gordon didn’t know why Wayne was doing this, why he’d picked Gordon-didn’t know anything that went on beyond that pretty face-that reduced everything it was to just that face and nothing more. It was just another body, its beauty and its warmth, one other person with you in the world.
Gordon’s apartment was usually empty; friends he knew outside of work were all couples and families and felt awkward inviting him without Barbara. From his department, he had to hide, keep the truth. Criminals sometimes felt closer.
But there was Batman, so Gordon wasn’t completely alone.
As if Batman wasn’t coldest of all, the secret Gordon had to keep, the one person who stood with him and yet had to stay farther apart than the rest. More distant than this beautiful boy with his red mouth around his cock could ever be, and yet, still what Gordon thought of when he knew he was going to come.
Gordon pulled on Wayne’s head to draw him back, but Wayne must have had further issues still because he stayed and swallowed. Gordon grunted and pet that thick hair, murmured, “That’s right, good,” even though Wayne was done, putting him neatly back into his pants.
Then Wayne stood, and at last, Gordon felt awkward. He was shorter than Wayne, and his shirt was hanging open, and he just might be too old for this. He needed a cigarette.
Once he had one and was sitting at the table by the window he’d opened, Wayne stole one of his cigarettes and lit up as well. He made it look like he smoked regularly, though Gordon was fairly certain he didn’t. One of those after-sex smokers then, and after-sex talkers, too, because he started talking, like nothing much had happened.
Maybe nothing much had. This probably happened every other day for Wayne; he was that rich, and handsome, and caught in a web of fame. Sex was like a handshake for him, and he didn’t know the difference, or did and didn’t care.
Gordon exhaled cigarette smoke, and inhaled the night air.
Wayne was talking about one of his famous global jaunts dealing with Russian ballerinas, or screwing Morraccan princesses, or renting out the Taj Mahal for a rave, who knew. This time it was Mongolia somewhere, or Tibet, Gordon wasn’t paying much attention; maybe he was talking about buying Malaysia.
“There were these flowers; they did things to your brain. Best drugs I ever got. You can’t do a thing about it, Commissioner; this was way outside your jurisdiction,” Wayne said, though Gordon hadn’t raised a brow, was trying to smoke his cigarette in peace. “And this one guy, Henri Ducard-rich, good-looking, powerful, whatever else you can think of, and goddamn, but he was twisted. Fucked like an animal, too. We could go at it all night long. He was your age.”
Gordon didn’t bother apologizing that he wasn’t Ducard, just kept smoking.
“He owned a mountain, the whole thing. There was this resort at the top,” Wayne went on. “Everybody who worked there was his. I’m telling you, he was filthy powerful. Used to throw the most wicked parties. Got out of hand sometimes.”
“I don’t have any condoms,” Gordon said, and stubbed out his cigarette.
“I come prepared,” Wayne said, and tossed three packets and lube onto the table. “You heard about the one where it got a little rowdy, few too many drinks, ended up burning down Wayne Manor? Crazy night-in Gotham, too. That was the kind of party Henri threw.” Wayne stubbed out his cigarette as well. “Ready for another fuck?”
Wayne didn’t wait for an answer, moved in to kiss Gordon, hauling him up and against the wall as he did. Wayne’s jeans were still open. He’d never fastened them, and with one hand he was somehow able to open the lube, spread it on his hand, and finger himself, all while still kissing Gordon. When he started opening a condom one handed, too, Gordon told him not to be an ass and took it from him.
“Fine,” Wayne said, and brought Gordon’s arm around his neck, the way it had been before, forearm to his own throat, and then he faced the wall. That left Gordon himself to put the condom on one-handed, trapped against Wayne, though Wayne was the one face up against the wall. It had been a long, long time, and it took a while, but finally Gordon had it on and was pushing into Wayne.
Gordon wasn’t quite tall enough, but with his arm braced against Wayne the way it was, every time Wayne’s hips jerked against the wall, it pulled him to the balls of his feet and pushed him deeper. He wasn’t sure why Wayne would choose to be the one facing the wall, except that he guessed billionaire playboys might have any number of weird kinks. And Wayne had a measure of control this way, even while getting fucked from behind. Gordon guessed it was good that it was different, strange. He just didn’t want to think about Barbara.
So he said, “That’s it; take it.”
“More,” Wayne grunted. “Harder.”
“Be patient,” Gordon told him. “Be good.”
“Fuck,” Wayne said, and rolled his hips in such a way that it lifted Gordon to his toes.
Wayne shouldn’t be so strong, or flexible-so young, Gordon thought. So very wrong, but that was good, too. “That’s right,” he said, because it was wrong. “Just like that.”
“Tell me,” Wayne told the wall.
Gordon did understand, after all-not all of it, but enough-why Wayne was the one asking for it, open for it, against the wall for it. “It’s alright,” Gordon said, pushing into that warmth and almost believing it himself. “Everything’s going to be fine. You’re good; you’re doing so good-” The things Gordon had said he wouldn’t say.
Wayne’s hips were rolling steadily now, his shoulders slamming against the wall, only his own hand working his own cock. “More,” he said, and Gordon did.
“Everything’s fine. Tight, and warm, and good-you’re so goddamn good-proud, I’m proud of you, doing the right thing.” Gordon was so glad he didn’t have to see Wayne’s face, just had to feel the heat and comfort of his body, so for a moment, these things could actually be true. “You’re doing so good,” Gordon told him. “It’s going to be okay, son.”
Wayne came in a short series of steady grunts, almost grim somehow, but the sudden clenching brought Gordon to it, too, pushing a lax Wayne into the wall and spending himself until he was done.
Then there was a moment Gordon was too tired and too disgusted with himself, the things he had just said and done. But it passed quickly, because Wayne turned and pulled up his jeans, which had only dropped halfway down his thighs. When that was done he kissed Gordon, soft and sloppy, but short as well. He pulled away, said, “Nice,” and flashed a TV smile.
Gordon went to throw the condom away, fastened his pants, and looked for his glasses.
Wayne handed them to him, still smiling. “Maybe you should get to bed,” he joked.
Gordon swallowed a sigh. “Maybe you should go home,” he said.
“At this hour?” Wayne scoffed. “You’ve got to be kidding. There’s a runway show at the Grand, and at least three after-parties. Have you seen the line-up for this year?” Then he was talking about some women Gordon didn’t know, presumably models, European or something.
“Maybe you should go to your parties,” Gordon amended, without a change of inflection.
“Right. Have a nice evening.” Wayne went for the door. “Maybe I’ll see you,” he tossed back, but didn’t bother turning around, and then he was gone, and that was that.
Chapter Three
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Lots of dirty talk, the word "daddy", and kink. Not really that much plot.
Summary: Bruce Wayne spends time on Jim Gordon's side of the tracks, as it were.
A/N: Story is finished. Please mind warnings.
Forgot to mention last time, the chrome and trailer hitch line is from Electric Horseman.
Previous: Chapter One
Go Your Own Way, chapter 2
They did not have sex that night.
The thought didn’t cross Gordon’s mind, despite Wayne inviting himself to go home with him so late in the evening. Gordon had been too tired to really assess Wayne’s motives, and he’d thought Wayne was drunk. It didn’t occur to him until the next morning, when he walked from the rail station to the MCU and saw the Ferrari parked along the street. It wasn’t every day the sort of people who drove Ferraris visited the precinct, or this block. It had to be Wayne’s.
Of course Bruce Wayne didn’t go around riding the rail home, even if his father had built it. Wayne had driven the Ferrari to the MCU, but left it for an excuse to go home with Gordon. It was just the sort of lie you used to get laid, even though driving someone home in a Ferrari was more of an excuse and less of a lie, and probably ended up in more of a lay, if you were the type to get turned on by riches or fast cars. Which Gordon wasn’t-though maybe Wayne guessed that, straight-laced as Gordon was.
Though he couldn’t think he was that straight, considering.
Gordon could see the Ferrari from his office. Despite all the work he had to do accounting for the evidence Batman had delivered the night before, Gordon kept an eye on the car when he could-cop’s instinct, maybe, or curiosity. He didn’t expect to know what went on in the brains of the likes of Wayne anyway, but deserting your Ferrari in this part of town, even within sight of the precinct, was more of a mystery than even Wayne should account for.
Late in the afternoon-Wayne was probably just waking up, and Gordon happened to have a spare moment in his office-a Bentley pulled up beside the Ferrari. Wayne got out, and that should have been that, except once the Bentley drove off Wayne came up to the building instead of his car.
Several minutes later, Wayne was in Gordon’s office in a white linen suit and dark sunglasses, probably to evade his own personal paparazzi. He made Gordon tired, all that luxury and ease, the way he looked like a long, tall glass of liquid you could throw back and just keep drinking, if you didn’t choke on how smooth it went down. It made Gordon want to sigh and throw up his hands, to give up or ask, What do you want?
Instead he said-stiffly, because thinking all that about the liquid and giving up had made Gordon realize the answer was simple, and Occam’s Razor suggested Wayne was looking for a fuck-“How can I help you, Mr. Wayne?”
“Bruce.” Wayne flashed teeth and took off his sunglasses. “I had some ideas. About last night.”
Gordon bet he did, until he realized Wayne was at least ostensibly referring to the grant project he’d been babbling about. “I’m glad to hear it,” Gordon said prefunctorily.
“I thought we could talk about them. Want another coffee?”
For a moment, Gordon actually considered the offer. All of it. “I can’t,” he said, not really regretting it, but kind because he couldn’t be any other way. “I have a lot of work today.”
Despite being disappointed, Wayne managed to not to look put off at all. “I hope it’s not bad news?”
“No. New evidence . . . turned up. We’ll use it to . . . put away bad guys, like you said.”
“Great,” Wayne said, not sounding concerned in the least. “Maybe I’ll bring the plans by later in the week?”
“Fine,” Gordon said. “Don’t forget your Ferrari this time.”
“I didn’t forget, Commissioner,” Wayne said, and smiled such a smile that Gordon was fairly sure he’d been right as to a large part of Wayne’s motives.
* * *
When it happened, it was a week later. By then it was early autumn. It was only eight thirty, already dark. Still, it was surprisingly early for Gordon to be home, which made him wonder how Wayne knew he would be, since he’d been at the MCU until nearly three that night a week ago. Wayne knocked when Gordon was in the middle of dinner, which was the usual: a box of noodles. Wayne started talking about the grant and some kind of nonprofit, which sounded hardly feasible. Gordon went on eating noodles from the pan, admittedly not listening very closely.
“What is that?” Wayne said finally, looking at Gordon’s noodles.
Gordon blinked. “Pasta Roni.”
“Smells delicious.”
Gordon believed that about as much as he believed the rest, but to be polite, he said, “Want some? I was going to put the rest in a tupper ware.”
“Yeah,” Wayne said, and took the pan, and his fork.
Gordon watched him wolf it down in under two minutes with some measure of incredulity.
“What?” Wayne said, seeing the way Gordon was looking at him.
“You eat that same way you drink shitty coffee.”
“How’s that?” Wayne set down the pan and cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand.
Gordon shrugged. “With gusto, I guess.”
Wayne laughed. “What can I say? I’m an enthusiastic guy. About the foundation,” he went on, going over plans he had for the grant.
Gordon wasn’t paying particular attention. Instead he was thinking about why the hell Bruce Wayne was appearing at his apartment at odd hours, and that the man must be having a strange bout of non-midlife crisis that involved working through daddy issues and sussing out his “inner puer”, like Loeb used to say. Loeb had always been full of maxims and pretension, the odd academic phrase here he’d heard somewhere, the reference to classic literature there. He often imparted said insight in his crude, amiable way, and always managed to include scotch, cards, or cigars in his conventional wisdom.
Loeb had been fond of comparing the higher ups, government and bureaucracy in general to the Greek gods. “They were immortal,” he’d say. “They haven’t got anything serious to worry about, because the most serious thing can never happen. They’re jealous of us, who can really feel, who can really act, because we’re mortal. So they just play petty games with us. They’re just having fun.”
When Loeb had been made Commissioner, someone had reminded him of that. “It’s absolutely true,” he’d said, and pulled a bottle of bourbon from under his desk. “Care for some nectar of the gods?”
Gordon had never held with that line of thinking. He didn’t know about Greek gods, but he’d never met an immortal. Still, he thought of Loeb when Wayne was talking; he thought a lot of what Wayne was doing was more to amuse himself than anything else. It was inevitable he would get distracted by something else he found shiny soon enough, and forget his well-meaning plans. Gordon didn’t expect anything to come of it.
Then again, he’d never expected to sleep with him, either.
Gordon hadn’t really given what he’d thought about the Ferrari a second thought until now. He’d been busy using the evidence Batman had given them to get the D.A. to process the necessary people. There’d been bureacracy and red tape to sort through, and the new D.A. wasn’t half what Harvey Dent had been even if Dent had . . . done what he had done.
The rest of the time, Gordon had been working closely with Batman on tracking down a suspect in the drug ring case. It necessitated secrecy and lots of lying, while still trying to make use of what Batman could give him . . . It had been a hard week, and this was Gordon’s first night off, and here was Bruce Wayne stealing his noodles.
That was probably why Gordon was thinking of Loeb, and the games people play when they don’t have more important things to worry them, and why he finally did say what he’d thought about saying earlier that week, which was, “What do you want?
“What do I want?” Wayne repeated.
Gordon had just taken the pan to the kitchen, and had come back to find Bruce not looking over his oh-so-important papers, but the picture of Babs and James on the coffee table. When Gordon spoke, Wayne turned to him. He looked so casual there, on Gordon’s couch, arm on the back of it, legs splayed in their studiously faded designer jeans.
“You need to talk to our grant writer if you want to make a donation,” Gordon said. “Not me. So why are you here?”
“You don’t want to hear my ideas?” Wayne’s voice was carefully blank.
“I don’t understand what you get out of it,” Gordon said. “Do you want me to say it’s a good thing, if you donate the grant money? You already know that. Do you want someone’s approval? Because it shouldn’t be mine.”
“What if you are, Jim?” Gordon had never asked him to use his first name the way Wayne had, and it should have made everything more clear, except it didn’t. Wayne was still using that strangely neutral, flat voice. “What if you’re what I need?”
“Trust me, son,” Gordon said. “I’m not.”
At that, Wayne stood-swiftly, fluid. It made detached bitterness well in Gordon. He looked at men, but often it was as much clinical assessment as any messing around he’d done before Barbara. A body that sleek and lithe should be on the force; they needed more physically fit men. Or at least a body like that should be donating to the department its retinue of personal trainers, gym memberships, and hours of free time spent honing commercially perfect muscles.
“I trust you,” Wayne said, and came toward him.
Before Wayne could grab him, Gordon stopped him. It made the first touch his-important, since Wayne did grab him. “I won’t tell you you’ve been a good boy, after,” Gordon said in warning.
“I don’t want to be a good boy,” Wayne said. Then he moved his lips to Gordon’s.
There hadn’t been anyone since Barbara. It was less that thought, though, and more the thought that it had only been Barbara, for the longest time, and now there would never be Barbara again, that made Gordon kiss back. Wayne’s mouth was warm. His lips were strong and soft. Gordon really didn’t know why not, so he did.
Wayne pushed his tongue in Gordon’s mouth and tried to rip off his glasses. Gordon closed a firm hand over the spectacles and put them carefully on the counter; meanwhile, Wayne had already started in on Gordon’s shirt instead. He got it open to the collarbone, enough to suck on Gordon’s neck. Gordon tipped his head back, mustache brushing Wayne’s temple, thinking how odd it was that Wayne’s chin scraped where it touched his skin.
It had been a long time since before Barbara, since men, since anyone but her, since this.
Wayne’s chest would take getting used to again, too. Gordon started unbuttoning the other man’s shirt, but suddenly Wayne’s hands were gripping his wrists tight, like iron, jerking them away from the buttons, above Gordon’s head, against the wall. Gordon had cuffed too many criminals, told too many suspects to stop and hold their hands just such a way, for it to be comfortable at all. And it may have been a long time before Barbara, but Gordon still remembered how some people thought they could control you, even in this, especially in this.
Wayne was sleek and lithe and commercially perfect, but his grip was textbook, and easing as his lips found Gordon’s again. Gordon had spent more than half his life a cop; it was easy to twist, push Wayne back, and trap him against the wall.
Wayne just kept kissing him, straining against the forearm Gordon had pressed against his neck. Gordon dared him, just dared him to try to tear his hand away again when the one not holding him in place dropped down to work open Wayne’s jeans. Wayne just tilted his hips so Gordon could jerk the zipper down more easily.
Still holding Wayne against the wall with his forearm, Gordon licked his other palm, pushed it down into Wayne’s boxers. Kissed Wayne, measured and languid, so down lower he could feel Wayne’s cock jump in his hand like something trained to his touch, obedient. “Good,” Gordon murmured.
“Thought you said you wouldn’t say that,” Wayne said.
He didn’t look near dazed enough with lust, considering the hardness of his cock in Gordon’s hand. Gordon said shut up and squeezed, and the haze came over Wayne’s eyes as though it had been ordered. “Shh,” Gordon said, “that’s right.” He thought maybe the words came from realizing he knew what to do with a man, remembered how to hold the reverse of himself and pull him off, but maybe it was something else entirely.
Gordon still held Wayne against the wall. Wayne didn’t fight it, stood there restrained, jerking into Gordon’s hand with Gordon saying, “like that, just like that,” against his jaw. Still, it was when Gordon’s arm finally loosened, free hand finally locking around Wayne’s neck and pulling him down for another kiss, Wayne came.
“Good,” Gordon told him again, and Wayne didn’t talk back this time, just took Gordon’s hand, covered in come, and brought it to his mouth. Licked his palm, sucked come from his fingers long and slow, which Gordon guessed was only fitting. If you were going to bring off someone against a wall who wasn’t your wife, you might as well make it as dirty as possible.
Maybe Wayne sensed his thoughts, but more probably he had his own issues, with the way he slipped to his knees with the ease of someone who’d been pushed down. He deftly opened Gordon’s pants, took out his cock, and began to suck.
It was the first time Gordon found him beautiful.
He’d known it before, of course, but abstractly. He’d been aware that Wayne could have been a model, a movie star, that he was the sort of man women looked at and gay men got hard over, but Gordon had never felt it, personally, intimately, deep down. He only felt it now, looking at Wayne on his knees with lips wrapped around his cock.
Maybe it was the fact that this, too, was dirty, getting sucked off in your kitchen by someone you really only barely knew. The fact that it was so completely abstract, that Gordon didn’t know why Wayne was doing this, why he’d picked Gordon-didn’t know anything that went on beyond that pretty face-that reduced everything it was to just that face and nothing more. It was just another body, its beauty and its warmth, one other person with you in the world.
Gordon’s apartment was usually empty; friends he knew outside of work were all couples and families and felt awkward inviting him without Barbara. From his department, he had to hide, keep the truth. Criminals sometimes felt closer.
But there was Batman, so Gordon wasn’t completely alone.
As if Batman wasn’t coldest of all, the secret Gordon had to keep, the one person who stood with him and yet had to stay farther apart than the rest. More distant than this beautiful boy with his red mouth around his cock could ever be, and yet, still what Gordon thought of when he knew he was going to come.
Gordon pulled on Wayne’s head to draw him back, but Wayne must have had further issues still because he stayed and swallowed. Gordon grunted and pet that thick hair, murmured, “That’s right, good,” even though Wayne was done, putting him neatly back into his pants.
Then Wayne stood, and at last, Gordon felt awkward. He was shorter than Wayne, and his shirt was hanging open, and he just might be too old for this. He needed a cigarette.
Once he had one and was sitting at the table by the window he’d opened, Wayne stole one of his cigarettes and lit up as well. He made it look like he smoked regularly, though Gordon was fairly certain he didn’t. One of those after-sex smokers then, and after-sex talkers, too, because he started talking, like nothing much had happened.
Maybe nothing much had. This probably happened every other day for Wayne; he was that rich, and handsome, and caught in a web of fame. Sex was like a handshake for him, and he didn’t know the difference, or did and didn’t care.
Gordon exhaled cigarette smoke, and inhaled the night air.
Wayne was talking about one of his famous global jaunts dealing with Russian ballerinas, or screwing Morraccan princesses, or renting out the Taj Mahal for a rave, who knew. This time it was Mongolia somewhere, or Tibet, Gordon wasn’t paying much attention; maybe he was talking about buying Malaysia.
“There were these flowers; they did things to your brain. Best drugs I ever got. You can’t do a thing about it, Commissioner; this was way outside your jurisdiction,” Wayne said, though Gordon hadn’t raised a brow, was trying to smoke his cigarette in peace. “And this one guy, Henri Ducard-rich, good-looking, powerful, whatever else you can think of, and goddamn, but he was twisted. Fucked like an animal, too. We could go at it all night long. He was your age.”
Gordon didn’t bother apologizing that he wasn’t Ducard, just kept smoking.
“He owned a mountain, the whole thing. There was this resort at the top,” Wayne went on. “Everybody who worked there was his. I’m telling you, he was filthy powerful. Used to throw the most wicked parties. Got out of hand sometimes.”
“I don’t have any condoms,” Gordon said, and stubbed out his cigarette.
“I come prepared,” Wayne said, and tossed three packets and lube onto the table. “You heard about the one where it got a little rowdy, few too many drinks, ended up burning down Wayne Manor? Crazy night-in Gotham, too. That was the kind of party Henri threw.” Wayne stubbed out his cigarette as well. “Ready for another fuck?”
Wayne didn’t wait for an answer, moved in to kiss Gordon, hauling him up and against the wall as he did. Wayne’s jeans were still open. He’d never fastened them, and with one hand he was somehow able to open the lube, spread it on his hand, and finger himself, all while still kissing Gordon. When he started opening a condom one handed, too, Gordon told him not to be an ass and took it from him.
“Fine,” Wayne said, and brought Gordon’s arm around his neck, the way it had been before, forearm to his own throat, and then he faced the wall. That left Gordon himself to put the condom on one-handed, trapped against Wayne, though Wayne was the one face up against the wall. It had been a long, long time, and it took a while, but finally Gordon had it on and was pushing into Wayne.
Gordon wasn’t quite tall enough, but with his arm braced against Wayne the way it was, every time Wayne’s hips jerked against the wall, it pulled him to the balls of his feet and pushed him deeper. He wasn’t sure why Wayne would choose to be the one facing the wall, except that he guessed billionaire playboys might have any number of weird kinks. And Wayne had a measure of control this way, even while getting fucked from behind. Gordon guessed it was good that it was different, strange. He just didn’t want to think about Barbara.
So he said, “That’s it; take it.”
“More,” Wayne grunted. “Harder.”
“Be patient,” Gordon told him. “Be good.”
“Fuck,” Wayne said, and rolled his hips in such a way that it lifted Gordon to his toes.
Wayne shouldn’t be so strong, or flexible-so young, Gordon thought. So very wrong, but that was good, too. “That’s right,” he said, because it was wrong. “Just like that.”
“Tell me,” Wayne told the wall.
Gordon did understand, after all-not all of it, but enough-why Wayne was the one asking for it, open for it, against the wall for it. “It’s alright,” Gordon said, pushing into that warmth and almost believing it himself. “Everything’s going to be fine. You’re good; you’re doing so good-” The things Gordon had said he wouldn’t say.
Wayne’s hips were rolling steadily now, his shoulders slamming against the wall, only his own hand working his own cock. “More,” he said, and Gordon did.
“Everything’s fine. Tight, and warm, and good-you’re so goddamn good-proud, I’m proud of you, doing the right thing.” Gordon was so glad he didn’t have to see Wayne’s face, just had to feel the heat and comfort of his body, so for a moment, these things could actually be true. “You’re doing so good,” Gordon told him. “It’s going to be okay, son.”
Wayne came in a short series of steady grunts, almost grim somehow, but the sudden clenching brought Gordon to it, too, pushing a lax Wayne into the wall and spending himself until he was done.
Then there was a moment Gordon was too tired and too disgusted with himself, the things he had just said and done. But it passed quickly, because Wayne turned and pulled up his jeans, which had only dropped halfway down his thighs. When that was done he kissed Gordon, soft and sloppy, but short as well. He pulled away, said, “Nice,” and flashed a TV smile.
Gordon went to throw the condom away, fastened his pants, and looked for his glasses.
Wayne handed them to him, still smiling. “Maybe you should get to bed,” he joked.
Gordon swallowed a sigh. “Maybe you should go home,” he said.
“At this hour?” Wayne scoffed. “You’ve got to be kidding. There’s a runway show at the Grand, and at least three after-parties. Have you seen the line-up for this year?” Then he was talking about some women Gordon didn’t know, presumably models, European or something.
“Maybe you should go to your parties,” Gordon amended, without a change of inflection.
“Right. Have a nice evening.” Wayne went for the door. “Maybe I’ll see you,” he tossed back, but didn’t bother turning around, and then he was gone, and that was that.
Chapter Three