Fic: Nonsense (Crane/Wayne; NC-17)
Title: Nonsense
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jonathan Crane/Bruce Wayne (and yes, the positioning of that slash is important. Heed my warning and prevent brain-scarring trauma-by-fic).
Notes: This is sort of a sequel or at least a companion piece to my fic Truce, though I suppose it could be read as a standalone. This one's Crane's POV, since mneiai asked for it - this is the best I could do. And there's possibly going to be a third one of these, in case anyone's interested. Also, inspired by udontknoowme's request for in-Bruce's-office fic. Oh and please excuse any hideous typos - I have no Word and my self-editing sucks muchly.
Summary: Bruce has an unexpected visitor.
***
Jonathan, as usual, isn't thinking straight. It's something that he finds is often the case, and more often than not he'll find himself knowing precisely what he should do and yet actually doing the exact polar opposite, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. He'd like to put it down to his essentially contrary nature or perhaps even to his evidently too-close study of the absolutely fascinating psychoses of Gotham's own Harvey Dent, but he'll admit that either scenario would be pushing it just a little bit. After all, he does understand that he's completely out of his mind.
Still, it's because of all this, he thinks - because of the fact that he's clearly not thinking straight - that he finds himself here. He looks around, not sure if he's impressed or merely indifferent though there's a world of difference between the two, not sure if it counts if he's more impressed by his own skill in getting inside without being seen. Of course, in the strictest sense, he cheated; he did promise Batman when they called this truce that he wouldn't drug anyone for the whole duration. But he's only knocked them unconscious so surely that's not really breaking the rules... the guards'll wake up in a couple of hours with a bit of a headache and one of them might have the imprint of his keyboard on his forehead but as far as Jonathan knows, that's not exactly fatal.
It's going to look shifty, of course, when they play back the security tapes - the guards pass out, in swans the Scarecrow, then the cameras turn off. "And what exactly did he go there for?" they'll ask. They won't find anything missing, unless he's suddenly struck by the urge to raid the office supplies and he could probably do with a new biro now he thinks about it - he dropped his favourite pen into a large container of something warm and toxic a couple of weeks ago and it hasn't been quite the same since. He's sure that'd make a great story for the Gotham Times: Arch-criminal in Wayne Tower Ballpen Raid! And he's starting to feel a strange compulsion to break into the filing cabinets and swap things around, hide the staplers and seal all the envelopes just for the sheer amusement value of the confusion he'd cause. But he decides he doesn't have the time - after all, he didn't come here to play the prankster. That's more the Joker's style.
Of course, he thinks as he steps into the elevator at the end of the lobby, the reason he's here is just as ridiculous. It's a bad idea. Makes no sense. Is obviously the product of an irrational mind but considering the fact that he's already tried to kill Batman twice today and it's only 7pm, the night's still young and all of that, and considering the fact that he finds this perfectly acceptable business practice between two admittedly temporary allies, though he's also aware that it's, well, not, he can't go around calling himself the most rational mind on the planet. Or even in Gotham, which he suspects isn't exactly the playground of the world's mentally stable. Especially when the first two associations that outsiders make with it are a bored billionaire playboy with one too many flashy cars and a vigilante dressed as a bat. And that without mentioning the motley crew currently populating Arkham Asylum.
He presses the button for the correct floor though he's not entirely sure how he knows which is the correct floor, and he leans back to wait. He pulls off his mask and straightens his hair with his fingers, pulls his glasses from his breast pocket and slips them on. He pushes them a little further up on the bridge of his nose and then crosses his arms over his chest, toying with his lapels as he eyes the numbers flashing by on the elevator's digital display. He's anxious, though this is hardly news as he's anxious all the time, usually for no specific reason, and he'll be caught from time to time with an expression that Bruce has come to refer to as his gas-left-on-at-home face. Then he worries that he has left the gas on at home. Still, he's anxious now and though that's for many various reasons - what happens if the drug he used on the guards wears off early? What if the cameras aren't really turned off? What if the elevator breaks down between floors? What if the cable snaps? What if he's caught? What if there's terrorists or an earthquake or a hurricane or a guard with a tazer and what if he did leave the gas on at home? - there is a specific reason. All the rest of it just buzzes around in the back of his head but there's one thing that really does worry him, even if it's not exactly major: what if this is a mistake?
The elevator stops and he gets out into the strangely darkened corridor. Not that it's actually strange that it's dark since it is after hours and it is dark outside since it's winter, even if it's only a few minutes past seven. But still, the place looks sort of eerie, and of course this is a mistake, he knows that, knew that when he decided to come here - still, knowing that and being able to stop himself from coming in spite of it are apparently two very different things. And he's here now, he might as well make the most of it. So he saunters down the corridor in his usual manner, the way that says he's not afraid of anything even if he's currently concerned about the stability of Wayne Tower's ceilings and floors and the possibility that he might choke on a fish bone as he almost did last night, though fortunately Bruce knows the Heimlich Manoeuvre and where exactly does he think he's going to come across fish bones walking down a corridor in a city centre skyscraper? It's admittedly unlikely that even should security wake and discover him, they'll sit him down and force-feed him halibut. But apparently that's the way his mind works these days. It's surprising he has the energy to threaten Batman's life on a thrice-daily basis with all the baseless worrying he does.
He comes to the door that he's looking for, noting that so far he hasn't choked, fallen, tripped, suffered cardiac arrest or been mauled by tigers, and he hasn't even inadvertently tripped a fire alarm though unless he were the Human Torch he guesses that's not exactly likely. Cautiously, he turns the handle. It's unlocked. He lets himself in; Bruce looks up from his desk.
Of course, in the short time since Jonathan left the manor to come here, he's been through all the possible worst case scenarios in his head. They vary from Bruce just plain not being there to him making out with his secretary - he doesn't know that he has a secretary - to armed robbers and kidnappers and Bruce dancing disco. He is, however, just sitting there at his desk looking fairly exhausted, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, cufflinks that are actually Jonathan's sitting on the desktop. He's clearly working, pen in hand poised over a legal pad, face bathed in the somewhat eerie glow of his laptop monitor, but he looks up a couple of seconds after the door opens.
"If you get caught," he says, "I'm not going to bail you out."
Jonathan shrugs, not at all surprised by the greeting or the sentiment, especially as there's the very tiniest hint of a smile quirking the corners of Bruce's mouth.
"I'd be disappointed if you did," he replies after a moment, lounging against the door frame. Because he would be disappointed; he'd like to think that Bruce is essentially a good man despite his money and occasionally rather suspect moral values, not the least of which includes the admittedly generous though thoroughly baffling decision to let a madman loose in his house. And it's not actually himself that he's thinking of, though that would also be rather apt. He sometimes wonders how Bruce and Batman were introduced, though he hasn't asked. He suspects the butler did it. He finds Alfred a terribly shifty character.
Bruce leans back, looking vaguely amused if somewhat confused in his high-backed leather desk chair that Jonathan has a bizarre urge put push and watch it spin. "Is there something I can do for you, Jonathan?" he asks. "Because I've almost finished here and if you'd waited at the house, I'd have been home in an hour. Now I'm going to be late."
Jonathan shrugs again and steps into the office. He's not been here before and he has to admit that it's not bad as far as offices go, even if it looks more like a film set than somewhere that someone actually spends any time. Still, he's been thinking the same thing about Wayne Manor since he arrived there. He remembers how sceptical he was when Batman mentioned it but his hideout tends to be a little draughty at the best of times, let alone in the middle of a Gotham City winter. He decided, much against his better judgement, which just so happens to be the remnants of his saner judgement, that even if it was some sort of plot and he ended up in a cell in Arkham, it'd probably be a better place to spend the winter. He could always break out in the spring, probably taking a few good friends with him. That, of course, assuming that he had friends.
"Perhaps I didn't want to wait." He closes the door, turns the lock though that's more for Bruce's benefit than his own, and then leans back on his hands against the pristine wood. "Are you going to send me away?"
Bruce appears to think about this for a moment and for that moment Jonathan almost believes that he'll do it. He doesn't know why this occurs to him since he knows it's not a possibility, knows Bruce is just toying with him, but he thinks it anyway until Bruce shakes his head.
"No, I'm not," he says. "But I have to finish this tonight. Take a seat, Jonathan, I'll just be a minute."
He looks at Bruce then for a second, trying to figure out if he's being serious or not, and he really does look it. So he frowns and he sighs and he doesn't quite pout though in his current state he feels like it, and he sits himself down in a chair by the window; he crosses his legs at the knee and adjusts his tie, realises that he's sitting on his mask and shifts to pull it out, set it down on his lap. He sits there and toys with the seams, picking idly at the stitching as he watches Bruce. He's writing with possibly the most expensive-looking pen Jonathan's ever seen, somehow looking vaguely dignified even hunched over his desk, even in the low light since apparently he's turned off the bright fluorescent overheads in favour of a desk lamp. The light from the computer washes out the colour from his face, makes him a stark white with black hair and black eyes and for a moment Jonathan's reminded of someone or something and it's jarring, unsettling, but he doesn't know who or what it is. He just feels his heart race and his palms sweat so he rubs his hands over his thighs, confused but not trying to figure this out. It's something he feels a lot and not just about Bruce, something that'll keep him occupied for hours if he lets it, so maybe it's just more of his incessant paranoia. It wouldn't exactly be surprising to him.
And then it hits him.
"You're not actually doing anything, are you," he says.
Bruce looks up and quirks a brow. "What makes you say that?"
Jonathan resists the urge to sprawl victoriously in the chair he's taken as he responds. "The fact that you don't work, Bruce. You have an impersonal office and you read a few proposals and your company is ridiculously solvent but..." and he lifts his eyebrows, crossing his arms over his chest, "you don't actually do anything here. For all I know, you're writing a list of new cars you want to buy or penning the Great American Novel." He shakes his head. "Well, perhaps not, but you're not working, either."
He can tell by the way Bruce slips the cap back onto his pen that he's conceding the point. He puts it down on top of his notebook and closes his laptop then folds his hands over the desk in a rather serious, businesslike manner that's so obviously and unashamedly false that it almost makes Jonathan want to laugh.
"Did I actually say I was working?" Bruce asks.
Jonathan shakes his head as it lies against the back of the chair. "No, you didn't."
"I didn't think so." He leans back, toying with his pen again. The playfulness is sort of unlike him but Jonathan can't say that it's totally unwelcome. "So, what do you want?"
He shrugs. He seems to be making something of a habit of it. "I want your attention."
"You have it. You're difficult to ignore, in case you didn't know this." Jonathan does know this. "So, what do you really want?"
Jonathan smiles what he hopes is an enigmatic smile and he stands; he steps forward over the rather insipid-coloured office carpet and toward Bruce's desk. "I'm not here to rob you, kidnap you or kill you, if that's what you're asking."
Bruce comes up with an impressive smirk-smile, leaning back and shaking his head. "That's reassuring but it's not what I was asking."
"I'm here to see you." He stops, leaning down slightly now he's reached the front of the desk, palms flat to the top. "Is it necessary that I have an ulterior motive?"
Bruce gives him the look of I-can't-believe-you-said-that. "Jonathan, with you there's always an ulterior motive. I think it's written into your contract."
He considers this briefly and realises that Bruce is actually right; he's not sure if this is more annoying or amusing, and decides it doesn't matter which it is. "Perhaps I just wanted to see where you... don't work." He gestures around the office and then moves again, his eyes on Bruce and Bruce's on him as he rounds the desk and then Bruce isn't looking because he can't - Jonathan's behind his chair, leaning there with his arms crossed over the top of the backrest, breathing in a scent that's leather and coffee and that expensive body wash that Bruce seems to like. It's cold there for some reason - he glances around and finds that one of the windows is slightly ajar - but he can feel the warmth of Bruce's rather large body in front of him and then Bruce turns, twisting and looking up at him at an almost impossible angle.
"You didn't come here to get acquainted with my desk chair," he says, and Jonathan shakes his head. "We shouldn't do this in public." Jonathan gives him a look that plainly says 'you call this public?' And then Bruce stands.
Jonathan stumbles as the chair moves but Bruce steadies him with one large hand and Jonathan knows he was thinking the words 'I wondered if you'd like to bend me over your desk' but he isn't sure if he said them or not. He gets that a lot. It's starting to get confusing, much like everything else in his life, and he doesn't think this is necessarily the sort of thing you can ask - "I'm sorry, Bruce, I can't remember... did I just proposition you?" It's not quite as witty as he'd like and in the end it doesn't really matter if he said it or not because Bruce pushes the desk chair out of the way and they both watch it wheel straight across the room, knocking a big chunk of beige paint off the window sill. Then they turn back to one another and the next thing Jonathan knows he's got Bruce pushed back against the desk, the back of his thighs against the hard edge.
He doesn't complain. He stands there with a surprisingly placid look on his face and he pops open the lowest button of Jonathan's jacket, slips his forefingers into his belt loops and pulls him in even closer. Jonathan's slim fingers are tangled in Bruce's hair and he's confused again, is always confused, lives in this weird state between madness and sanity where everything makes sense and nothing does. This does and it doesn't because he didn't expect this, the way Bruce is looking down at him with eyes darker than he remembers, as if he's just waiting for the next move, waiting to see what Jonathan has planned. But this wasn't planned. So all he can do is lean up and kiss him.
This isn't the way that they usually kiss. Of course, Jonathan thinks, there's nothing usual about this relationship - he's a wanted criminal who'll probably end up in Blackgate or Arkham, which would be oddly ironic, and Bruce is probably just bored of his usual company of blonde, leggy supermodels. He doesn't know if there's any real attachment on either side, either, except that he finds Bruce's presence oddly calming... though maybe all this is just his cynicism talking. He's always had more than enough of that. But this isn't the way that they kiss. Somewhere in the past few weeks - oh God, has it been over a month already? - it's been mutually, silently, tacitly agreed that when they kiss it's something slow, casual, mostly mid- or post-coital. That's why this is different - it's all teeth and tongues and nails on skin, Jonathan's glasses caught between them painfully, Bruce's hands snaking up into Jonathan's hair. He catches Bruce's lower lip between his teeth and rakes them over it before Bruce practically crushes his mouth against his own, pressing tight against him. Jonathan feels his pulse racing and it's not all from fear but from this, from the way he drops his hands to clutch at Bruce's shoulders and his arms, pressing in closer until he's sure he can feel Bruce's pulse, too. It's insane. It's too hot, too hard, it's fucking insane, but strangely that makes sense. He shouldn't be surprised.
Then Bruce pulls back. It can't be easy when he's still standing there with his thighs pressed to his desk but he does it, gasps in a huge, deep breath that Jonathan mirrors and then they're both left there breathing hard against each other, flushed and sort of awkward. Bruce shifts slightly until he's basically perching on the edge of the desk and Jonathan's looking him straight in the eye, standing there between his parted thighs. Bruce has his fingers clutching at the back of Jonathan's blue sweater-vest, the one he bought from one of those expensive stores that Bruce likes and that makes him look paler than he actually is; Jonathan's still holding on to Bruce's shoulders and feeling faintly terrified though that's nothing new. And then Bruce slips his hands from around Jonathan's waist and pushes the jacket from his shoulders. Jonathan lets him do it.
He has an urge to say something witty or sarcastic then but all he can do is stand there as his jacket falls to the floor. Then Bruce loosens his tie - he just loosens it but doesn't take it off, lets it hang there as he undoes the top button of Jonathan's shirt with this look on his face as if he's not entirely sure he can believe what he's doing. Jonathan's not sure he can either. Then he fumbles with his own tie and Jonathan watches, still pressed against him, leaning just far enough back to see him in focus while his cheeks fairly burn and his arousal grows. It's almost mortifying, he thinks, the only reason he can bear it being that Bruce is hard against him too and he's moving his hands again, slipping one between them, cupping the front of his trousers with a surprisingly sure hand. He strokes him firmly and Jonathan shivers, not sure if that's because of the contact or the cool air from the open window brushing the back of his neck.
This is a bad idea. More to the point, this is his bad idea. If he were even remotely sensible he'd be back at the manor reading one of those psychology journals he found waiting for him one morning in the downstairs sitting room, on the table where he'd left his glasses. In fact, if he had any common sense in the slightest he wouldn't be staying at the manor at all, he'd be freezing his ass off in his dank little hideaway where his clothes are starting to smell of mildew. This truce he has with Batman has a lot to answer for, he thinks, from Bruce and the huge, draughty manor that's an obvious step up from his small, draughty room, to, well... this. He's not sure he's complaining though he has a feeling that he should.
Then Bruce's hand is at his zipper. He looks at him what he hopes is pointedly but is probably, in fact, closer to 'stop now and I'll break your arm,' and Bruce looks back as he lowers it, slips his hand inside. Jonathan takes a short, sharp breath, almost a hiss though his teeth, as he feels Bruce's slightly cool hand against him, albeit though a layer of underwear; his thumb quickly locates the head of his cock over the cotton and strokes against it purposefully, eyes still on him. Jonathan feels his cheeks drain, and probably because the blood's rushing to other areas, but Bruce pulls back his hand. Jonathan frowns but it's only for a moment because Bruce's fingers find the slit in the front of his boxers and tease against his heated skin, coaxing until he feels cool air against his erection and the tip of it brush against Bruce's suit. The friction's maddening.
It's an odd moment as he stands there, cock peeking from his trousers, Bruce's fingers wrapped around it. He feels strangely ridiculous and yet... not, until Bruce's hands leave him and push him back just a couple of steps. Jonathan gives him a questioning look, bringing his hands to his hips, but Bruce doesn't give him any reply that's in any way vocal - he just leans there and unbuckles his belt, unzips his trousers and then stands up straight with what's somewhere between a resolute and awkward look on his rather flushed face. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and he turns, leans forward slightly as he pushes them down, legs parted enough to stop them mid-thigh. Jonathan doesn't know what to think for a moment but just for a moment before Bruce leans down, forearms against the desk, and looks back at him over his shoulder.
"Don't tell me you came without lubricant," he says with a tone that's somewhere between mock-stern and embarrassed, and Jonathan shakes his head, trying to look composed though he's actually anything but. He pats at his pocket and brings out a tube, and Bruce nods, turns away again with a little smirk. "You might want to do it before I change my mind." Though his tone says he won't change his mind.
Jonathan steps up. He pops open the tube and coats his fingers and he doesn't bother to ask if Bruce means it, isn't going to go through the clichéd motions of first time sex because given the situation it seems highly inappropriate and he's not sure it ever really is appropriate. He doesn't want to ask if Bruce has done this before, doesn't even really care why right now though he's sure he'll be giving this plenty of thought, later on. After. The thought almost makes him tingle with anticipation as he slips his fingers against Bruce's opening, as he presses them inside and Bruce makes a sound that's not quite a gasp, tensing against him. He doesn't ask if he wants to stop because he knows Bruce would tell him if he did - he just shifts his fingers slightly, cursorily, cheeks flushing again as he pulls back and slicks himself quickly. He can see their reflections quite clearly in the windows off to one side as he presses up against him, watches himself as he enters him slowly and Bruce does gasp this time. It's amazing. It's ridiculous.
Then, after one long moment sunk right down inside him, he starts to move and basically loses his mind. It's a metaphor, of course, because his mind's already off the GPS, probably sipping daiquiris somewhere in Barbados, but that's how it feels for that first second as he moves. Maybe it's the feeling of being inside him that does it, how tight and hot he is and how he shifts back stubbornly against him like he's attempting to keep control even in this; maybe it's the nagging suspicion he has that Batman's going to swan on in through that open window as he moves inside him, fingers tracing the lines of the bruises on Bruce's back that he probably got yachting or climbing or base jumping. The scars, too - Jonathan finds them all strangely attractive, but then he is insane. Right now he couldn't possibly deny that because his world spins and then rights itself in an instant and he's fucking him harder, as hard as that kiss, fingers pressing against Bruce's hips and the billionaire he's fucking loves it just as much as he does. It's the friction of it, the lack of preparation that neither of them seemed to want and obviously their instincts were right about that. It's just hard and fast with Jonathan's muscles straining, pulled tight as he leans down and grips the edge of the desk instead, with his tie hanging against Bruce's back, palms slippery, Bruce's hips an angry red that'll bother neither of them later.
And it can't last long, Not that either of them really wants it to, not that it should when it's this raw and heated and quite possibly bruising but fucking delicious, that tingling feeling warm inside him as he shifts his hips in a haphazard rhythm that he can't keep up much longer. And definitely not when Bruce is so tight around him, so hot as his hand snakes down to his own cock and he jerks himself roughly, his head hanging forward, sweat standing out against his shirt against his back. Jonathan finishes first, coming hard with his eyes closed and his fingers gripping harder. Bruce isn't long after, muffling a groan by biting at his lip. Jonathan sees that in their reflection. He almost can't tear his eyes away.
So then it's over, just like that. It's disconcerting. Jonathan pulls out slowly and Bruce rests there for a moment before he pulls up his trousers, turning to him as he fastens his zip. They're flushed, breathing a little too hard and attempting to rearrange themselves in their sticky mess of strangely-placed clothing and Bruce actually looks amused. He tucks in his shirt and fastens his belt as Jonathan pulls up his zipper and reaches for his jacket, and they both look thoroughly dishevelled and slightly debauched but that actually was the plan. And so, in a funny sort of way, Jonathan guesses this is a success. Just not in the way he'd imagined. And, fortunately, there wasn't even a hint of Batman around. Maybe. Perhaps.
"We should go before those guards wake up," Bruce says, looking faintly disapproving though it's hard to take him seriously when he's so completely untidy. "They can't stay unconscious forever." And he doesn't ask how he knows about that, just agrees and picks up his mask from the chair. Bruce finds his jacket and his briefcase and a huge and expensive overcoat that he folds over his arm and they leave, turning off the lamp and heading for the elevator. He's still breathless as Bruce hits the button for the lobby; there's this amused little smile on Bruce's face as he leans back against the side of the car and he rakes back his hair. It won't sit straight and he's obviously trying not to chuckle. They're leaving together.
It's a match made in some crazy place, probably resembling the intricacies of Jonathan's mind rather closely - it's insane, makes no sense. They ride down toward the lobby and they're just looking at each other, Jonathan's glasses slipping on his nose, Bruce's sleeves still rolled up and Jonathan guesses that means that his cufflinks are still on the desk, sitting there, lodged in Bruce's life for another night at least. And that's odd, nonsensical when he thinks about it. They're not meant to be together. But everything makes sense to him these days, and nothing does.
So maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all. Maybe it wasn't such a mistake. He pushes up his glasses and he crosses his arms over his chest, looking over at Bruce who looks right back at him. He still smells of him and they'll go home and they'll shower or maybe that'll wait until the morning, and this wasn't a bad idea even if he's not been thinking clearly. Not a bad idea at all. It's just a pity it can't last.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jonathan Crane/Bruce Wayne (and yes, the positioning of that slash is important. Heed my warning and prevent brain-scarring trauma-by-fic).
Notes: This is sort of a sequel or at least a companion piece to my fic Truce, though I suppose it could be read as a standalone. This one's Crane's POV, since mneiai asked for it - this is the best I could do. And there's possibly going to be a third one of these, in case anyone's interested. Also, inspired by udontknoowme's request for in-Bruce's-office fic. Oh and please excuse any hideous typos - I have no Word and my self-editing sucks muchly.
Summary: Bruce has an unexpected visitor.
***
Jonathan, as usual, isn't thinking straight. It's something that he finds is often the case, and more often than not he'll find himself knowing precisely what he should do and yet actually doing the exact polar opposite, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. He'd like to put it down to his essentially contrary nature or perhaps even to his evidently too-close study of the absolutely fascinating psychoses of Gotham's own Harvey Dent, but he'll admit that either scenario would be pushing it just a little bit. After all, he does understand that he's completely out of his mind.
Still, it's because of all this, he thinks - because of the fact that he's clearly not thinking straight - that he finds himself here. He looks around, not sure if he's impressed or merely indifferent though there's a world of difference between the two, not sure if it counts if he's more impressed by his own skill in getting inside without being seen. Of course, in the strictest sense, he cheated; he did promise Batman when they called this truce that he wouldn't drug anyone for the whole duration. But he's only knocked them unconscious so surely that's not really breaking the rules... the guards'll wake up in a couple of hours with a bit of a headache and one of them might have the imprint of his keyboard on his forehead but as far as Jonathan knows, that's not exactly fatal.
It's going to look shifty, of course, when they play back the security tapes - the guards pass out, in swans the Scarecrow, then the cameras turn off. "And what exactly did he go there for?" they'll ask. They won't find anything missing, unless he's suddenly struck by the urge to raid the office supplies and he could probably do with a new biro now he thinks about it - he dropped his favourite pen into a large container of something warm and toxic a couple of weeks ago and it hasn't been quite the same since. He's sure that'd make a great story for the Gotham Times: Arch-criminal in Wayne Tower Ballpen Raid! And he's starting to feel a strange compulsion to break into the filing cabinets and swap things around, hide the staplers and seal all the envelopes just for the sheer amusement value of the confusion he'd cause. But he decides he doesn't have the time - after all, he didn't come here to play the prankster. That's more the Joker's style.
Of course, he thinks as he steps into the elevator at the end of the lobby, the reason he's here is just as ridiculous. It's a bad idea. Makes no sense. Is obviously the product of an irrational mind but considering the fact that he's already tried to kill Batman twice today and it's only 7pm, the night's still young and all of that, and considering the fact that he finds this perfectly acceptable business practice between two admittedly temporary allies, though he's also aware that it's, well, not, he can't go around calling himself the most rational mind on the planet. Or even in Gotham, which he suspects isn't exactly the playground of the world's mentally stable. Especially when the first two associations that outsiders make with it are a bored billionaire playboy with one too many flashy cars and a vigilante dressed as a bat. And that without mentioning the motley crew currently populating Arkham Asylum.
He presses the button for the correct floor though he's not entirely sure how he knows which is the correct floor, and he leans back to wait. He pulls off his mask and straightens his hair with his fingers, pulls his glasses from his breast pocket and slips them on. He pushes them a little further up on the bridge of his nose and then crosses his arms over his chest, toying with his lapels as he eyes the numbers flashing by on the elevator's digital display. He's anxious, though this is hardly news as he's anxious all the time, usually for no specific reason, and he'll be caught from time to time with an expression that Bruce has come to refer to as his gas-left-on-at-home face. Then he worries that he has left the gas on at home. Still, he's anxious now and though that's for many various reasons - what happens if the drug he used on the guards wears off early? What if the cameras aren't really turned off? What if the elevator breaks down between floors? What if the cable snaps? What if he's caught? What if there's terrorists or an earthquake or a hurricane or a guard with a tazer and what if he did leave the gas on at home? - there is a specific reason. All the rest of it just buzzes around in the back of his head but there's one thing that really does worry him, even if it's not exactly major: what if this is a mistake?
The elevator stops and he gets out into the strangely darkened corridor. Not that it's actually strange that it's dark since it is after hours and it is dark outside since it's winter, even if it's only a few minutes past seven. But still, the place looks sort of eerie, and of course this is a mistake, he knows that, knew that when he decided to come here - still, knowing that and being able to stop himself from coming in spite of it are apparently two very different things. And he's here now, he might as well make the most of it. So he saunters down the corridor in his usual manner, the way that says he's not afraid of anything even if he's currently concerned about the stability of Wayne Tower's ceilings and floors and the possibility that he might choke on a fish bone as he almost did last night, though fortunately Bruce knows the Heimlich Manoeuvre and where exactly does he think he's going to come across fish bones walking down a corridor in a city centre skyscraper? It's admittedly unlikely that even should security wake and discover him, they'll sit him down and force-feed him halibut. But apparently that's the way his mind works these days. It's surprising he has the energy to threaten Batman's life on a thrice-daily basis with all the baseless worrying he does.
He comes to the door that he's looking for, noting that so far he hasn't choked, fallen, tripped, suffered cardiac arrest or been mauled by tigers, and he hasn't even inadvertently tripped a fire alarm though unless he were the Human Torch he guesses that's not exactly likely. Cautiously, he turns the handle. It's unlocked. He lets himself in; Bruce looks up from his desk.
Of course, in the short time since Jonathan left the manor to come here, he's been through all the possible worst case scenarios in his head. They vary from Bruce just plain not being there to him making out with his secretary - he doesn't know that he has a secretary - to armed robbers and kidnappers and Bruce dancing disco. He is, however, just sitting there at his desk looking fairly exhausted, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, cufflinks that are actually Jonathan's sitting on the desktop. He's clearly working, pen in hand poised over a legal pad, face bathed in the somewhat eerie glow of his laptop monitor, but he looks up a couple of seconds after the door opens.
"If you get caught," he says, "I'm not going to bail you out."
Jonathan shrugs, not at all surprised by the greeting or the sentiment, especially as there's the very tiniest hint of a smile quirking the corners of Bruce's mouth.
"I'd be disappointed if you did," he replies after a moment, lounging against the door frame. Because he would be disappointed; he'd like to think that Bruce is essentially a good man despite his money and occasionally rather suspect moral values, not the least of which includes the admittedly generous though thoroughly baffling decision to let a madman loose in his house. And it's not actually himself that he's thinking of, though that would also be rather apt. He sometimes wonders how Bruce and Batman were introduced, though he hasn't asked. He suspects the butler did it. He finds Alfred a terribly shifty character.
Bruce leans back, looking vaguely amused if somewhat confused in his high-backed leather desk chair that Jonathan has a bizarre urge put push and watch it spin. "Is there something I can do for you, Jonathan?" he asks. "Because I've almost finished here and if you'd waited at the house, I'd have been home in an hour. Now I'm going to be late."
Jonathan shrugs again and steps into the office. He's not been here before and he has to admit that it's not bad as far as offices go, even if it looks more like a film set than somewhere that someone actually spends any time. Still, he's been thinking the same thing about Wayne Manor since he arrived there. He remembers how sceptical he was when Batman mentioned it but his hideout tends to be a little draughty at the best of times, let alone in the middle of a Gotham City winter. He decided, much against his better judgement, which just so happens to be the remnants of his saner judgement, that even if it was some sort of plot and he ended up in a cell in Arkham, it'd probably be a better place to spend the winter. He could always break out in the spring, probably taking a few good friends with him. That, of course, assuming that he had friends.
"Perhaps I didn't want to wait." He closes the door, turns the lock though that's more for Bruce's benefit than his own, and then leans back on his hands against the pristine wood. "Are you going to send me away?"
Bruce appears to think about this for a moment and for that moment Jonathan almost believes that he'll do it. He doesn't know why this occurs to him since he knows it's not a possibility, knows Bruce is just toying with him, but he thinks it anyway until Bruce shakes his head.
"No, I'm not," he says. "But I have to finish this tonight. Take a seat, Jonathan, I'll just be a minute."
He looks at Bruce then for a second, trying to figure out if he's being serious or not, and he really does look it. So he frowns and he sighs and he doesn't quite pout though in his current state he feels like it, and he sits himself down in a chair by the window; he crosses his legs at the knee and adjusts his tie, realises that he's sitting on his mask and shifts to pull it out, set it down on his lap. He sits there and toys with the seams, picking idly at the stitching as he watches Bruce. He's writing with possibly the most expensive-looking pen Jonathan's ever seen, somehow looking vaguely dignified even hunched over his desk, even in the low light since apparently he's turned off the bright fluorescent overheads in favour of a desk lamp. The light from the computer washes out the colour from his face, makes him a stark white with black hair and black eyes and for a moment Jonathan's reminded of someone or something and it's jarring, unsettling, but he doesn't know who or what it is. He just feels his heart race and his palms sweat so he rubs his hands over his thighs, confused but not trying to figure this out. It's something he feels a lot and not just about Bruce, something that'll keep him occupied for hours if he lets it, so maybe it's just more of his incessant paranoia. It wouldn't exactly be surprising to him.
And then it hits him.
"You're not actually doing anything, are you," he says.
Bruce looks up and quirks a brow. "What makes you say that?"
Jonathan resists the urge to sprawl victoriously in the chair he's taken as he responds. "The fact that you don't work, Bruce. You have an impersonal office and you read a few proposals and your company is ridiculously solvent but..." and he lifts his eyebrows, crossing his arms over his chest, "you don't actually do anything here. For all I know, you're writing a list of new cars you want to buy or penning the Great American Novel." He shakes his head. "Well, perhaps not, but you're not working, either."
He can tell by the way Bruce slips the cap back onto his pen that he's conceding the point. He puts it down on top of his notebook and closes his laptop then folds his hands over the desk in a rather serious, businesslike manner that's so obviously and unashamedly false that it almost makes Jonathan want to laugh.
"Did I actually say I was working?" Bruce asks.
Jonathan shakes his head as it lies against the back of the chair. "No, you didn't."
"I didn't think so." He leans back, toying with his pen again. The playfulness is sort of unlike him but Jonathan can't say that it's totally unwelcome. "So, what do you want?"
He shrugs. He seems to be making something of a habit of it. "I want your attention."
"You have it. You're difficult to ignore, in case you didn't know this." Jonathan does know this. "So, what do you really want?"
Jonathan smiles what he hopes is an enigmatic smile and he stands; he steps forward over the rather insipid-coloured office carpet and toward Bruce's desk. "I'm not here to rob you, kidnap you or kill you, if that's what you're asking."
Bruce comes up with an impressive smirk-smile, leaning back and shaking his head. "That's reassuring but it's not what I was asking."
"I'm here to see you." He stops, leaning down slightly now he's reached the front of the desk, palms flat to the top. "Is it necessary that I have an ulterior motive?"
Bruce gives him the look of I-can't-believe-you-said-that. "Jonathan, with you there's always an ulterior motive. I think it's written into your contract."
He considers this briefly and realises that Bruce is actually right; he's not sure if this is more annoying or amusing, and decides it doesn't matter which it is. "Perhaps I just wanted to see where you... don't work." He gestures around the office and then moves again, his eyes on Bruce and Bruce's on him as he rounds the desk and then Bruce isn't looking because he can't - Jonathan's behind his chair, leaning there with his arms crossed over the top of the backrest, breathing in a scent that's leather and coffee and that expensive body wash that Bruce seems to like. It's cold there for some reason - he glances around and finds that one of the windows is slightly ajar - but he can feel the warmth of Bruce's rather large body in front of him and then Bruce turns, twisting and looking up at him at an almost impossible angle.
"You didn't come here to get acquainted with my desk chair," he says, and Jonathan shakes his head. "We shouldn't do this in public." Jonathan gives him a look that plainly says 'you call this public?' And then Bruce stands.
Jonathan stumbles as the chair moves but Bruce steadies him with one large hand and Jonathan knows he was thinking the words 'I wondered if you'd like to bend me over your desk' but he isn't sure if he said them or not. He gets that a lot. It's starting to get confusing, much like everything else in his life, and he doesn't think this is necessarily the sort of thing you can ask - "I'm sorry, Bruce, I can't remember... did I just proposition you?" It's not quite as witty as he'd like and in the end it doesn't really matter if he said it or not because Bruce pushes the desk chair out of the way and they both watch it wheel straight across the room, knocking a big chunk of beige paint off the window sill. Then they turn back to one another and the next thing Jonathan knows he's got Bruce pushed back against the desk, the back of his thighs against the hard edge.
He doesn't complain. He stands there with a surprisingly placid look on his face and he pops open the lowest button of Jonathan's jacket, slips his forefingers into his belt loops and pulls him in even closer. Jonathan's slim fingers are tangled in Bruce's hair and he's confused again, is always confused, lives in this weird state between madness and sanity where everything makes sense and nothing does. This does and it doesn't because he didn't expect this, the way Bruce is looking down at him with eyes darker than he remembers, as if he's just waiting for the next move, waiting to see what Jonathan has planned. But this wasn't planned. So all he can do is lean up and kiss him.
This isn't the way that they usually kiss. Of course, Jonathan thinks, there's nothing usual about this relationship - he's a wanted criminal who'll probably end up in Blackgate or Arkham, which would be oddly ironic, and Bruce is probably just bored of his usual company of blonde, leggy supermodels. He doesn't know if there's any real attachment on either side, either, except that he finds Bruce's presence oddly calming... though maybe all this is just his cynicism talking. He's always had more than enough of that. But this isn't the way that they kiss. Somewhere in the past few weeks - oh God, has it been over a month already? - it's been mutually, silently, tacitly agreed that when they kiss it's something slow, casual, mostly mid- or post-coital. That's why this is different - it's all teeth and tongues and nails on skin, Jonathan's glasses caught between them painfully, Bruce's hands snaking up into Jonathan's hair. He catches Bruce's lower lip between his teeth and rakes them over it before Bruce practically crushes his mouth against his own, pressing tight against him. Jonathan feels his pulse racing and it's not all from fear but from this, from the way he drops his hands to clutch at Bruce's shoulders and his arms, pressing in closer until he's sure he can feel Bruce's pulse, too. It's insane. It's too hot, too hard, it's fucking insane, but strangely that makes sense. He shouldn't be surprised.
Then Bruce pulls back. It can't be easy when he's still standing there with his thighs pressed to his desk but he does it, gasps in a huge, deep breath that Jonathan mirrors and then they're both left there breathing hard against each other, flushed and sort of awkward. Bruce shifts slightly until he's basically perching on the edge of the desk and Jonathan's looking him straight in the eye, standing there between his parted thighs. Bruce has his fingers clutching at the back of Jonathan's blue sweater-vest, the one he bought from one of those expensive stores that Bruce likes and that makes him look paler than he actually is; Jonathan's still holding on to Bruce's shoulders and feeling faintly terrified though that's nothing new. And then Bruce slips his hands from around Jonathan's waist and pushes the jacket from his shoulders. Jonathan lets him do it.
He has an urge to say something witty or sarcastic then but all he can do is stand there as his jacket falls to the floor. Then Bruce loosens his tie - he just loosens it but doesn't take it off, lets it hang there as he undoes the top button of Jonathan's shirt with this look on his face as if he's not entirely sure he can believe what he's doing. Jonathan's not sure he can either. Then he fumbles with his own tie and Jonathan watches, still pressed against him, leaning just far enough back to see him in focus while his cheeks fairly burn and his arousal grows. It's almost mortifying, he thinks, the only reason he can bear it being that Bruce is hard against him too and he's moving his hands again, slipping one between them, cupping the front of his trousers with a surprisingly sure hand. He strokes him firmly and Jonathan shivers, not sure if that's because of the contact or the cool air from the open window brushing the back of his neck.
This is a bad idea. More to the point, this is his bad idea. If he were even remotely sensible he'd be back at the manor reading one of those psychology journals he found waiting for him one morning in the downstairs sitting room, on the table where he'd left his glasses. In fact, if he had any common sense in the slightest he wouldn't be staying at the manor at all, he'd be freezing his ass off in his dank little hideaway where his clothes are starting to smell of mildew. This truce he has with Batman has a lot to answer for, he thinks, from Bruce and the huge, draughty manor that's an obvious step up from his small, draughty room, to, well... this. He's not sure he's complaining though he has a feeling that he should.
Then Bruce's hand is at his zipper. He looks at him what he hopes is pointedly but is probably, in fact, closer to 'stop now and I'll break your arm,' and Bruce looks back as he lowers it, slips his hand inside. Jonathan takes a short, sharp breath, almost a hiss though his teeth, as he feels Bruce's slightly cool hand against him, albeit though a layer of underwear; his thumb quickly locates the head of his cock over the cotton and strokes against it purposefully, eyes still on him. Jonathan feels his cheeks drain, and probably because the blood's rushing to other areas, but Bruce pulls back his hand. Jonathan frowns but it's only for a moment because Bruce's fingers find the slit in the front of his boxers and tease against his heated skin, coaxing until he feels cool air against his erection and the tip of it brush against Bruce's suit. The friction's maddening.
It's an odd moment as he stands there, cock peeking from his trousers, Bruce's fingers wrapped around it. He feels strangely ridiculous and yet... not, until Bruce's hands leave him and push him back just a couple of steps. Jonathan gives him a questioning look, bringing his hands to his hips, but Bruce doesn't give him any reply that's in any way vocal - he just leans there and unbuckles his belt, unzips his trousers and then stands up straight with what's somewhere between a resolute and awkward look on his rather flushed face. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and he turns, leans forward slightly as he pushes them down, legs parted enough to stop them mid-thigh. Jonathan doesn't know what to think for a moment but just for a moment before Bruce leans down, forearms against the desk, and looks back at him over his shoulder.
"Don't tell me you came without lubricant," he says with a tone that's somewhere between mock-stern and embarrassed, and Jonathan shakes his head, trying to look composed though he's actually anything but. He pats at his pocket and brings out a tube, and Bruce nods, turns away again with a little smirk. "You might want to do it before I change my mind." Though his tone says he won't change his mind.
Jonathan steps up. He pops open the tube and coats his fingers and he doesn't bother to ask if Bruce means it, isn't going to go through the clichéd motions of first time sex because given the situation it seems highly inappropriate and he's not sure it ever really is appropriate. He doesn't want to ask if Bruce has done this before, doesn't even really care why right now though he's sure he'll be giving this plenty of thought, later on. After. The thought almost makes him tingle with anticipation as he slips his fingers against Bruce's opening, as he presses them inside and Bruce makes a sound that's not quite a gasp, tensing against him. He doesn't ask if he wants to stop because he knows Bruce would tell him if he did - he just shifts his fingers slightly, cursorily, cheeks flushing again as he pulls back and slicks himself quickly. He can see their reflections quite clearly in the windows off to one side as he presses up against him, watches himself as he enters him slowly and Bruce does gasp this time. It's amazing. It's ridiculous.
Then, after one long moment sunk right down inside him, he starts to move and basically loses his mind. It's a metaphor, of course, because his mind's already off the GPS, probably sipping daiquiris somewhere in Barbados, but that's how it feels for that first second as he moves. Maybe it's the feeling of being inside him that does it, how tight and hot he is and how he shifts back stubbornly against him like he's attempting to keep control even in this; maybe it's the nagging suspicion he has that Batman's going to swan on in through that open window as he moves inside him, fingers tracing the lines of the bruises on Bruce's back that he probably got yachting or climbing or base jumping. The scars, too - Jonathan finds them all strangely attractive, but then he is insane. Right now he couldn't possibly deny that because his world spins and then rights itself in an instant and he's fucking him harder, as hard as that kiss, fingers pressing against Bruce's hips and the billionaire he's fucking loves it just as much as he does. It's the friction of it, the lack of preparation that neither of them seemed to want and obviously their instincts were right about that. It's just hard and fast with Jonathan's muscles straining, pulled tight as he leans down and grips the edge of the desk instead, with his tie hanging against Bruce's back, palms slippery, Bruce's hips an angry red that'll bother neither of them later.
And it can't last long, Not that either of them really wants it to, not that it should when it's this raw and heated and quite possibly bruising but fucking delicious, that tingling feeling warm inside him as he shifts his hips in a haphazard rhythm that he can't keep up much longer. And definitely not when Bruce is so tight around him, so hot as his hand snakes down to his own cock and he jerks himself roughly, his head hanging forward, sweat standing out against his shirt against his back. Jonathan finishes first, coming hard with his eyes closed and his fingers gripping harder. Bruce isn't long after, muffling a groan by biting at his lip. Jonathan sees that in their reflection. He almost can't tear his eyes away.
So then it's over, just like that. It's disconcerting. Jonathan pulls out slowly and Bruce rests there for a moment before he pulls up his trousers, turning to him as he fastens his zip. They're flushed, breathing a little too hard and attempting to rearrange themselves in their sticky mess of strangely-placed clothing and Bruce actually looks amused. He tucks in his shirt and fastens his belt as Jonathan pulls up his zipper and reaches for his jacket, and they both look thoroughly dishevelled and slightly debauched but that actually was the plan. And so, in a funny sort of way, Jonathan guesses this is a success. Just not in the way he'd imagined. And, fortunately, there wasn't even a hint of Batman around. Maybe. Perhaps.
"We should go before those guards wake up," Bruce says, looking faintly disapproving though it's hard to take him seriously when he's so completely untidy. "They can't stay unconscious forever." And he doesn't ask how he knows about that, just agrees and picks up his mask from the chair. Bruce finds his jacket and his briefcase and a huge and expensive overcoat that he folds over his arm and they leave, turning off the lamp and heading for the elevator. He's still breathless as Bruce hits the button for the lobby; there's this amused little smile on Bruce's face as he leans back against the side of the car and he rakes back his hair. It won't sit straight and he's obviously trying not to chuckle. They're leaving together.
It's a match made in some crazy place, probably resembling the intricacies of Jonathan's mind rather closely - it's insane, makes no sense. They ride down toward the lobby and they're just looking at each other, Jonathan's glasses slipping on his nose, Bruce's sleeves still rolled up and Jonathan guesses that means that his cufflinks are still on the desk, sitting there, lodged in Bruce's life for another night at least. And that's odd, nonsensical when he thinks about it. They're not meant to be together. But everything makes sense to him these days, and nothing does.
So maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all. Maybe it wasn't such a mistake. He pushes up his glasses and he crosses his arms over his chest, looking over at Bruce who looks right back at him. He still smells of him and they'll go home and they'll shower or maybe that'll wait until the morning, and this wasn't a bad idea even if he's not been thinking clearly. Not a bad idea at all. It's just a pity it can't last.